Searching for locations: The Pagoda Forest, near Zhengzhou City, Henan Province, China

The pagoda forest

After another exhausting walk, by now the heat was beginning to take its toll on everyone, we arrived at the pagoda forest.

A little history first:

The pagoda forest is located west of the Shaolin Temple and the foot of a hill.  As the largest pagoda forest in China, it covers approximately 20,000 square meters and has about 230 pagodas build from the Tang Dynasty (618-907) to the Qing Dynasty (1644-1911).

Each pagoda is the tomb of an eminent monk from the Shaolin Temple.  Graceful and exquisite, they belong to different eras and constructed in different styles.  The first pagoda was thought to be built in 791.

It is now a world heritage site.

No, it’s not a forest with trees it’s a collection of over 200 pagodas, each a tribute to a head monk at the temple and it goes back a long time.  The tribute can have one, three, five, or a maximum of seven layers.  The ashes of the individual are buried under the base of the pagoda.

The size, height, and story of the pagoda indicate its accomplishments, prestige, merits, and virtues. Each pagoda was carved with the exact date of construction and brief inscriptions and has its own style with various shapes such as a polygonal, cylindrical, vase, conical and monolithic.

This is one of the more recently constructed pagodas

There are pagodas for eminent foreign monks also in the forest.

From there we get a ride back on the back of a large electric wagon

to the front entrance courtyard where drinks and ice creams can be bought, and a visit to the all-important happy place.

Then it’s back to the hotel.

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet them 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 that, 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 who look like someone we knew and make the mistake of approaching them like a long-lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away from what they perceive as a stalker, or worse.

And then sometimes it 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 newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognise was murder. The photo of the man on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a 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 by what 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 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 peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realise what had happened. The hotel staff 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 thought 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, had 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 several other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with several 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, bulletproof 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 and 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 would still be 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 to 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 and 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 me 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 another visitor. He is from the British Embassy, I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realised 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 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 that you were shot had made it an all-around embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologising?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted on speaking with you first.  I have come, basically, to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us 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 that 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, 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, who had announced herself as 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 that 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 several 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 notebook 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 apologise 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 realised 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 realised we had made a mistake and reviewed the closed-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 officers’ 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 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 wrongdoing?”

“I have apologised. 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 cooperation, Mr Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 122/123

Days 122 and 123 – Writing Exercise

…

Create and explore a character and put it in a situation

…

I should have known that something was afoot.

Sunday lunch was abuzz with the upcoming presentation for a multi-million dollar housing and parkland project on land that the city had no idea what to do with

My father, the owner of Davidson and Sons Realty and Investment Corporation, was transitioning from small-time to the major leagues.

He had thrown me a plan of the land and told me to turn it into something he could sell.  At the time I thought about it, wondering why he didn’t give it to the wunderkind son, Theodore Davidson III, the Harvard MBA graduate that could do no wrong.

Oh, and at his graduation party in the swankiest restaurant in town, with people whose names were whispered in the corridors of power, my father said he was going to take us into the statisphere.

He took himself, my sister Eileen, and my parents.

Number three son was staying firmly planted on the ground.

I took the plan and figured this was my chance to prove to him that I was everything but as good as my brother.

Of course, I was kidding myself.

I was never going to reach that stratosphere my brother lived in.  The fifteen-million-dollar penthouse apartment, the top-of-the-range sports car that was more expensive than my modest apartment, and suits that cost more than my car.

I didn’t have the same qualifications.  I went to college and studied architecture and art.  I was more interested in art and then artefacts, enough to add archaeology to the list of degrees.

No point having a graduation party for me.

Eileen graduated at the bottom of her law degree class and got celebrated like she had come first.  I guess I wasn’t one of the beautiful people.

My mom said it was a pity I hadn’t been blessed with good looks, though I would not have called myself ugly.  I chose to dress down and had this University professor thing going.

Dad said I could be the back room genius.  Yes, had used those exact words.

But he had promised that when I handed him the final plans and ran through the presentation for the next week’s meeting with the city representatives, I could present it.  He even sent me to the tailors for a proper suit.

Until…

Eileen said what I knew she was going to say.  “I think you’re making a mistake letting Richard do the presentation.  We need someone who represents who we are, and who’s going to take us forward.

I’d heard Theo and her talking about a strategy.

It had to be about one thing only.

“Dad promised.  If I did the work, I’d get the presentation.”

We all look at him.

“I did.  And as you know, my word is my bond.”

I sat back and relaxed.  Just a little.  I knew my brother and sister far better than they thought I did.  They had taken it too calmly. 

…

I had a Monday morning visit with my grandmother at her house, a hundred-mile drive up into the hills.

It was a fabulous old house with twenty-five bedrooms, servants, a twelve-car garage with vintage cars, and a ballroom that hadn’t been used in years

She came from a family that had money, but over time, successive men had lost it one way or another.
My mother had married into a wealthy family based on that fortune, and it had created the first of many problems.

I was too young, being the last of the children, but as far as I knew, the marriage had survived, but there was something about the house that no one wanted me to know about.

For years, I put it down to big people stuff.

I would have liked to stay, but there was a presentation tomorrow.

After I arrived, we had tea on the back patio.  It overlooked a garden that was rumoured to be originally designed by Capability Brown.

My grandmother looked particularly unhappy.  I would not have said I was her favourite, but she had spent the most time with me when I was younger.

She said I was like a stray dog.  I never understood why.

After the usual health and weather questions, she asked, “How successful will this presentation be?”

It was odd that she was interested in anything my father did.  She did not like him, and at times barely tolerated him.  Or Theo.  But Theo was an ass.

Eileen rarely came.

“It sells itself.  It ticks all the boxes.  Why?  You rarely want to know what the business is about.”

“There was an article in a magazine.  When people start using words like stratosphere, though wonder if they can’t see past the glossy cover and see what’s underneath.”

” I don’t have a glossy cover.”

“But the rest of them do.  I look at your father and Theo, and I wouldn’t trust them at all.  Your Aunt Matilda hated him.  She has more class in her little finger than he ever will.”

That was vicious, but I’d come to realise, in the case of being overlooked and undervalued, even being treated with contempt by my own family, she was right.

But saying this to me was a risk.  If I were to repeat it, there would be consequences.  I’d heard the muted discussion coming from Dad’s study.  Turning the old girl’s shack into a mountain resort.  It was worth billions if it was done right.

The only lament, she could not be moved.  Or would not be swayed into selling her heritage.

“I would never sell this place, Gran.  Never.  This is the very personification of my heritage.  I love this place.  You know,” I said, without realising I was sounding and acting silly, “I would love to hold a ball in the ballroom.”

When I realised I was being silly, I looked over and saw her eyes were watering.

I asked, concerned, “Are you alright?”

“I am.”  She dabbed at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief.  “It’s what I have wanted, but I don’t have the energy to make it happen.”

We had this conversation once.  A few months back.  When she told me, Dad was trying to convince her to let him use the property as collateral for a project.  It was just dead money, he said.

She had refused.

It was why he had been angry for a while now.  And Theo.  Plans, no doubt, to make themselves rich at the expense of a relative.  I didn’t want to believe it of them, or that mom would let them, but she never seemed to put up a fight about anything, including protecting me.

Gran had asked me to draw up a plan that would turn the property into a resort, a different resort, one that had an equestrian centre at its heart.

My grandmother loved horses, had a few, and had taught me to ride practically before I could walk.  It was she who convinced me to play polo, and we had the makings of a polo field in the west paddock.

She remembered. “Did you get those plans we discussed drawn up?”

“I did.  I went to see Westerby at the equestrian centre, and he was very excited about the prospect.  Just the other week, he said the powers that be were looking at where they could set up a centre to start training Olympic hopefuls, and if we can put something together…”

“Good.  I’ll have a talk with him soon.  After you sort out this new development.”

My phone dinged.  A message.  From Daisy, my assistant back at the office.

A URL.

I selected it, and it took me to a news page where my father and Theodore, beaming from ear to ear, the city representatives behind them were making an announcement.  Smiles all round.

I listened to the speech for about a minute, then cut it off.

“What is it?”  She asked.

I guess my disappointed expression gave it away.

They had deliberately moved the presentation ahead so Theodore could take the honours.  I just noticed in the background, still on the screen, he had rebranded the whole project as his, with no mention of me.

No wonder no one said boo when Dad said I was still doing the presentation.  They were all in on it.

“Theo just stole my thunder and my job.  He’s going to be the project manager.”

“What about you?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “Now I have the time to devote myself to your equestrian centre.”

“Won’t you have to continue working on the reclamation?”

“Apparently not.  Theo obviously has it all under control.”

I opened my phone and went to a specific email sitting in the drafts folder.  I had hoped that I would never have to send it, but I’d finally had enough of being taken for granted.

I dated the documents and sent them to HR.  Effective immediately, I had resigned.

“Can I stay here.  I don’t think I’m going to be very welcome at home.”

“Of course.  I have a few friends coming for dinner, and Father Giles can be, well, you know him as well as I do.”

…

I left my cell phone in my room, and had a long and convivial dinner with old friends that I had known from my childhood days, when I was a far more frequent and regular guest.

It was better than sitting at a table where there were four people on the same page and a ghost sitting in isolation.  As the years passed, I felt less like a member of that exclusive club and more like a visitor on the outside looking in.

Except…

When I went back to the room, I could see my cell phone beaming like a beacon in the night, and dinging about once every twenty seconds.

The first message was from Theo. I’d say, when they asked the first question, one of many he couldn’t answer.  He hadn’t spent the time with me in the development phase, as he was supposed to, and didn’t bother prepping before the presentation.

There were seven hefty binders or accompanying documents that needed to be read and understood before giving the presentation.  It was slides and talking points, and using big words that covered trends and projections, and buzz talk.

The devil was in the details.

Theo was never interested in details, just concepts.

My guess, he would have told them any questions would be answered by the technical lead.  Me.  If only I could be found.

Fourty four messages before one from my father.

“Where are you?”

I might have been at work if they had not moved the presentation and told me.  Or not, if this was what they’d planned all along.

I was not being vindictive; I was just going about my business, which they were fully aware of.

There were missed calls from each of them, mother included.  I had heard Grans’ cell phone ringing, and the house phone, but she had seemed unperturbed.

I went to sleep with a clear conscience

..

When I went downstairs for breakfast, out on the patio, Gran was sitting looking out over the lawns, down to the fountain where I used to make wishes.

None ever came true.

Sitting beside her was Susannah, a neighbour’s daughter who used to be as frequent a visitor as I had been a long time ago.

She had also been Eileen’s best friend until Eileen betrayed her.  It ruined any chance I had with her.

About a week ago, she had sent me an email asking if I was the Richard she used to know once upon a time.  I had replied yesterday and said I would be visiting Gran this week.  She had not replied.  Perhaps the old wounds had not healed.

Or they had.

She had the gift of never aging.  I wished I were a more attractive proposition, but we can’t have everything.

“Susannah?”  I sounded surprised.  I was.

“Rich.  What a pleasant surprise.”  She got out of her chair, came over and gave me a hug like she actually cared about me.

Then she stepped back.  “Martha tells me your family finally showed their true colours.”

That was a step and a half for Gran.  She had never publicly or privately called them out. 

“It’s my misguided attempt to try and get some recognition from them, and not getting past the wunderkind Theo.  I work hard, and can’t get any traction.”

“Martha says you quit.”

“Perhaps it’s the only way.”

“What did your father say?”

“Haven’t gone home and haven’t answered any calls, texts or emails.  Not ready yet.”

“I’m staying for a few days.  You can talk to me about anything.  You know that?”

“Thank you.”

The serving girl brought over a cup of coffee and put it on the table.

Then we heard a booming voice coming towards us.  “I’ll have one of those “

I yelled back, “Get it yourself, Theo.  She’s not your slave.”

She looked at him, then me.  “He’ll get it himself.”

Martha nodded, and the girl left.

He shook his head.  The privilege oozed out of him.  I’d seen him deal with waiters and waitresses.  Someone needed to teach him some manners.

“Any reason you’re here, Theo.  Shouldn’t you be working with the new clients?”

He’d completely ignored Susannah.  She seemed amused, with no intention of going anywhere.

“We need you back in the office.  The family is taking a break to celebrate the successful conclusion.  I closed the deal, Richard.  You would have made a mess of it.”

“And yet you seem to think I won’t now?”

“Don’t be a pompous twit.  You know everything there is to know about it.  You’re just not fit to run it.  Or anything.”

As insulting as ever. Had he tempered his approach, I might have thought twice about not going. Not now.

He looked around, perhaps expecting a cup of coffee to magically turn up.

“I resigned, Theo.  Effective 10am yesterday.  The project is yours.”

“Dad says you can’t resign.”

“Tell him to read my contract.”

“What contract?”

“The one he forced on me and got your daft sister to draw up.  I was the only one of us he insisted sign.  I added a few clauses in the revised draft, and she signed it without reading it.  Both of you were painted with the same brush.  Stupid is as stupid does, Theo.”

“Rubbish.  You’re not that clever.”

I smiled.  “Then take me to court.  Goodbye Theo.  Go sort out the mess your father and sister created.”

He jumped up and pulled out his cell, and a few minutes later, we could hear him yelling at Eileen.

Both Gran and Susannah had watched the exchange with half smiles.  His badgering and bullying had no effect, but then, he hadn’t realised just how much trouble they were in.

“You didn’t deliberately set them up?” Susannah asked.

“No.  All the information is there.  Everything that was discussed, the planning, the requirements, the costings and a project plan.  They just have to know where to look and how to interpret it.  I told them that if I were the project manager, it would all work like clockwork.  They didn’t listen.  Appearances mean more than practicality.  I don’t think Theo’s ego could stand letting me run such a large project.”

Theo came back and thrust his cell phone in my face.

“Dad wants a word.”

I could imagine.

I didn’t need to put it to my ear. “You cannot resign.  Your family.  You’re in charge of the office while we’re gone.  Now get back here.  You have meetings to prepare for.”

I took a deep breath. “I resigned.  I do not work for you or anyone.  Maybe I’ll pursue a career in pizza making.  Pizzas can’t stab you in the back or lie to your face.  It’s time to see how far into the stratosphere Theo can take you, Dad.  You don’t need me.  You never have.  Have a nice day.”

I held out the phone for Theo to take it back.  I think he finally realised I was not coming back.

“Look, Richard.  This is not my fault.  Dad did this.”

“No, you did this.  You could have told him this was my turn.  But no, your ego couldn’t have that.  Well, here’s your chance to show Dad just how good you are.  You’ve never needed me, Theo.  No one in that family has.”

“Screw you, Rich.  You’ll be back, and then we’ll see what’s what.”

He snatched up his phone and stomped off.

He didn’t get that cup of coffee

…

Daisy was kept on, transitioning from my assistant to being the custodian of the documentation. Dad had the sense to realise she was the only one who knew where everything was. At least he promoted her and doubled her salary, though I don’t think he did it without a push.

Dad had to hire four new planners, architects and an engineer that were not in the original budget, and would make a hefty dent in the profit margin.

He had asked, politely, once more that I should return, given a title and double the salary, but not as project manager.

I refused.

Then he offered me the project manager position. It was too late. I wasn’t going back.  I didn’t want the hassle of listening to my brother whining the whole time.

The Davidson and Sons Realty and Investment Corporation very subtly changed to the Davidson and Son Realty and Investment Corporation.

I didn’t care.

I left the city and went to live with Gran, taking on the project of turning the family estate into a special resort for Equestrians, and becoming the perfect training establishment for future Olympians and polo players.

The family thrived without me.

I thrived without them.

About a year after the parting, a newspaper headline broke the story that my mother had had an affair and that I had been the result of it.

Dad had been caught unawares in the middle of a big and delicate negotiation, and the story blew his opportunity out of the water.

The thing was, he knew.  So did Theo and Eileen.  Mom had believed they didn’t, but I could see it had been the case.  They had always treated me as different.

It wasn’t much later that Dad was caught cheating himself, and not just with one woman, but several.  The difference between us and the rest of the new wealthy, Susannah said, was that they could keep their dirty linen in the linen basket.

Mom got divorced and came home.

Theo and Eileen stayed with Dad.

I got married to Susannah.  It seemed inevitable.  She had never really held Eileen’s pettiness against me.  She was just waiting for the day that payback became a bitch.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Coming soon – “Strangers We’ve Become”, the sequel to “What Sets Us Apart”

Stranger’s We’ve Become, a sequel to What Sets Us Apart.

The blurb:

Is she or isn’t she, that is the question!

Susan has returned to David, but he is having difficulty dealing with the changes. Her time in captivity has changed her markedly, so much so that David decides to give her some time and space to re-adjust back into normal life.

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remain.

In the meantime, David has to deal with Susan’s new security chief, the discovery of her rebuilding a palace in Russia, evidence of an affair, and several attempts on his life. And, once again, David is drawn into another of Predergast’s games, one that could ultimately prove fatal.

From being reunited with the enigmatic Alisha, a strange visit to Susan’s country estate, to Russia and back, to a rescue mission in Nigeria, David soon discovers those whom he thought he could trust each has their own agenda, one that apparently doesn’t include him.

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon

 

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 14

It’s still a battle of wits, but our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because the enemy if it is the enemy, doesn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

 

It was the smell, all hospitals seemed to smell the same.  Antiseptic.

And the first face I saw was Breeman’s.

How?

If  I could speak, which for some reason I knew I couldn’t, the first question would be, ‘Where am I?’

“Welcome back,” Breeman said.  “You gave us a few days of grave concern at the crash.  You’re in the base hospital, and lucky to be alive.”

OK, a few days missing, but lucky to survive?  I got out without a scratch, or did I?

I looked sideways and down.  Nothing but bandages, and, yes, plaster.  Broken bones?

“How you survived being thrown from the wreckage is anyone’s guess.  A search party found you last night, almost dead.  Broken legs, shattered shoulder, ribs, even a skull fracture.  The doctors are astonished.  So am I.”

She was holding my hand, a very unlike commanding officer thing to so, and it looked like a tear in her eye.  Perhaps our so-called casual fling was a little more than that.

“But you rest.  I’ll come back later when you’re better.”

Last I remember, except for some sore ribs, I’d been intact, and unharmed from the jump out of the helicopter.

Now, it appeared, I was the very epitome of a crash victim.  What the hell had happened to me from the time I was in the cell, getting that injection, and now?

Clearly, the people in the other camp didn’t want me to die.  But, surely they realized I would tell Breeman about my experiences at the camp.

Or not.  If anything, what I would have to tell them would be considered the ramblings of someone in very bad condition, mind wandering in the desert while fighting for his life, and then on return, ramblings fuelled by very high doses of painkillers.

And the fact none of it could be corroborated.  It was unlikely any flyover would locate the base if anyone was foolish enough to fly in the no-fly zone.

And, pushing the paranoia limits, I guessed that they would have someone in the base who was feeding them information, that’s how they knew so much about what was going on here.

I would have to lie low and choose my friends carefully.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live.”

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

…

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 36

Juliet has a secret identity

…

It bothered me that Juliet was not quite as fazed about being shot at as she should be.  Ordinarily, being shot at would bring on a bout of hysterics at the very least, but she was unmoved.

Was that because, after being coerced into criminal activity by the likes of Larry, and possibly others, she had been expecting something to happen, just not when.  Or did she know that it was quite possibly her mother that was gunning for her?

To me, I would take a less active approach and try to come to some arrangement with the possible heir to a very large estate.  There was no possible way her mother could get it, other than to marry and then kill, Alessandro, after taking care of the countess.  Or gain favour with her daughter and split the proceeds, after killing the other parties.

It seemed a lot of work, to me, and with no guarantees she could remain anonymous.  After all, we knew about her, how many others did?  I was still thinking about how quickly she had recovered from the attack.  I know my heart was still beating quite fast.

“After what happened back at the conference centre, do you think it’s possible we might be gunned down in the street?”

I had been thinking that exact same thought, not moments before, and it would be so easy, without the possibility of being caught.  I had been looking around to make sure there was no one, or anything, suspicious.

We had almost reached the underground station to take us to Russell Square, near where her apartment was.  I was hoping there would be a nearby restaurant where we could get dinner.

“Do you want to be a victim of a possible drive-by shooting?”

“No, but it is possible.  It’s the sort of thing that happens to other people, isn’t it, like real criminals.”

“That only happens to people who double cross or snitch on their bosses or fellow gang members.  Unless you are part of a gang, or thinking of ratting someone out, I’d say that was a result of reading too many crime novels.  I doubt you could classify yourself as a real criminal.”

“Perhaps not anymore, but you know that I was caught up in something I had no control over, at least not the last time.  I can promise you I don’t do stuff like that anymore.  I have a legitimate job, and a lot of respect from my fellow coroners.”

“Then why are you sounding concerned?  What is more concerning is why this isn’t bothering you?”

“Perhaps it’s because as much as I don’t want it to be, it seems that stuff like this happens to me.”

OK, what did she mean by that?  “Has it happened before?”

“Three times in the last month, if I let my imagination run wild.  Two weeks ago, a car came up on the footpath and I thought it was because the driver was trying to avoid a dog.  Very nearly ran me over.  Last week, another car didn’t stop at a pedestrian crossing, an old man, I thought it might be a medical incident.  Today just put those incidents into another perspective.  I’m sure you’ll tell me why eventually.”

I chose not to speak any more about the subject and got her to tell me about the presentation at the conference if only to take her mind off working on a barrage of difficult questions.

That consumed the train trip and the walk to an Italian Restaurant a block from her apartment.  It was reasonably empty before the later dinner rush which suited me; we could sit where I could keep an eye on everything.  I didn’t expect trouble in the restaurant, but maybe later when we left.

If they, whoever they were, knew where she lived.  I still hadn’t seen anyone following us, but it was London, and there were a lot of people about.  And I was still a little rusty.

After we ordered I could see she had been patient enough.  “So, tell me, why are you here?”

I shrugged.  There was no simple way around asking.  “What can you tell me about your mother?”

“My birth mother or my adoptive mother?”

If she was trying to surprise me, it didn’t work.  That she decided to be truthful did.  Given that I had seen the photo of her with Vittoria when she was about thirteen at Sorrento, how did that fit into the two-mother thing?  I guess it was just another question among many.

“Birth mother to begin with.”

“Not as much as I would like.”

“As in you’ve never known, no one told you, or you didn’t want to know?”

“As in I was never told her name, just that she lived in a large house in Italy, and that my father had been someone very important.  It was a condition that I should not be told because she didn’t want me to know.”

“A condition imposed on your adoptive mother?”

“Yes.  She was an Englishwoman who had been a servant in that large house in Italy, a friend of my mother.  My adoptive mother had found me in her room one morning, with a letter, telling her that I would be better off in her care.”

“Did you see your real mother again?”

“Yes.  Once.  When I was a teenager, we were holidaying in Italy.  We went to the large castle or chateau near Sorrento, and I met her and no one else, though my adoptive mother didn’t tell me it was her until after we left.  I have a photograph, the only thing I have of her.”

“Have you ever wanted to find out who she is?”

“Of course, I’ve been to Italy many times, even staked out the house, but I never saw her again.  You said it was possible I could inherit a lot of money.  It is from those people in that house?”

“Do you know who they are?”

“A family called Burkehardt I think.  Are you telling me I’m one of them?”

© Charles Heath 2023

The 2am Rant: There are days when everything annoys you

I wanted to write a bit about how my day was going, and then I got angry.  It was a slow fuse because most of what I was angry about I’d been reading this morning.

And, yes, it’s about political leaders, those in power and those in opposition, and how inept they are in a crisis.

Listening to our opposition leader, briefly before I turned him off to watch a rerun of McHale’s Navy, it annoyed me that he had no answers to offer, only criticism.

Unfortunately, he’s not alone in the world.

Political leaders tended to blame everyone else for problems of their own making, whether it was when they were once in power, which happens a lot, or once they’re in opposition, conveniently forgetting they, too, hoped that by ignoring the problem, it might go away.

Or that the long-suffering public will have forgotten.  That’s why we have pugnacious journalists who remember for us.

The incompetence of the people who are supposedly in charge beggars belief.

Oh, God, I’m back on my soapbox.

Forgive me.

I’ll shut up about it now.

I’m trying to imagine what it’s like in the cold because it’s the height of summer here.  It’s not helping my imagination,  so let’s try…

It’s cold today, about 14 degrees Celsius, when it’s usually 27 degrees Celsius.  The sun is letting us down, and I suppose I should be grateful that we are not suffering from an ice age.

To be honest, I was seriously considering lighting the log fire.  Instead, we have reverse cycle air-conditioning, which is probably, in the long run, cheaper.

Have you seen how much it costs to buy wood?

But…

That could have made it difficult to write.

Not to come up with inspiration, but literally write, because my office is colder than a chiller room.  My beer in storage out here is colder than it is in the fridge.  Well, that sounded better in my head than on paper, but you get what I mean.

So, instead of writing, I sat down and binge-watched Sweet Magnolias, a light-hearted series from Netflix, which is of the same vein as Chesapeake Shores, etc, and more the sort of program I’d expect from Hallmark.

It was good.  It hooked me.

Three sets of lives intertwined in a large town in middle America perhaps.  I heard Charleston mentioned so perhaps it was in South Carolina.

The good thing about it?  Not one mention of political stupidity.

Just good old-fashioned heartache and trials and tribulations of trying to live your life, bumping up against the obstacles life throws up at you.

The town was called Serenity, so there’s a pun in there somewhere.

Maybe I’ll get some writing done tomorrow.

What I learned about writing – Inspiration can strike you anywhere, even on a bus…

It’s amazing how quickly you discover the imperfections of road makers.

As odd as that sounds, a recent trip on a bus, actually earlier today in fact, got me thinking about just how bad some of our roads really are.

Why?  Because an idea just came to mind and I have a note-taking app on my phone…

But, as you know, it’s difficult at the best of times to get your fingers to move over the keyboard except…

As any writer will tell you, that half an hour or so on the trip to work or home is just waiting for a few lines to be written on your phone or on your tablet.  I venture to suggest a laptop computer just might be a little difficult, and prone to stray eyes from the people sitting or standing near you.

And the tightness of the space available to you.  I know, I’ve tried.

Of course, the alternative is a pen and a notepad, not a large one, but adequate.  First, the pen had run out of ink or was on its last three words, so take a pencil, but make sure it’s not one where the lead can break easily.  Then try writing on a bus.  Ugh!

But, if you’re not in the mood to research, I did a little of that too, by the way, the desire to write is tempered by the movement of the bus and your ability to type coherent words on a small keyboard in a very large, rocking, metal thing.

I have to say I have a large streak of jealousy for those people who can hammer out large texts to their friends while riding the bus, and in the most awkward of conditions, using both thumbs, and carrying 26 bags of groceries and dry cleaning, as well as having a full-on political discussion with the person sitting/standing next to them.

Even when the bus hits a pothole, it does a sudden lurch that sends the unsuspecting sprawling.

With my interactive word completer turned on, it is astonishing what words finish up in my small attempt at writing as my fingers fail to find the right letters and create what can only be described as the ramblings of a madman.

Perhaps I might have better luck tomorrow.

Or better still, the idea will wait until I get off the bus.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My Second Story 17

More about my second novel

…

There’s a certain air of inevitability in the air that the bad guys are going to succeed in tracking down Zoe, using the very person who wants to keep her safe.

It’s not exactly the result of a sneaky plan using lies and deception to get what Worthington wants; it’s more a fact that the woman he is about to use had already made a bed for herself that others would hardly want to lie in.

Arabella was not a woman who understood or practised monogamy.  She was always a rebel, always had more than one man on the go, and had only married for the convenience, the money and the lifestyle that went with it.

Having children had been a bore, and once they were delivered, they were someone else’s problem.  She was then able to go back to her jet-set lifestyle, touring and cruising the world.

It was also a world in which Worthington and his brother had moved in, and Worthington had been and still was, one of her lovers.  It was what made it so easy for him to enlist her, though she was not really interested in what her son John was up to.  He was too much like his father, and she needed little reminder of him.

For Worthington, he could not believe his luck, for a second time.  It was as if the Gods were lining up the ducks all in a row for him.

But she agreed to a weekend in the best hotel, eating the best food and going to a very exclusive concert, where they would be mingling with ‘almost’ royalty.  She loved to drop names.

However, the secret was not a secret the moment she was seen with Worthington by Sebastian, all be it by chance.  Sebastian would have to find John and alert him to the dangers that were about to present themselves in the benign form of his mother.

Could things get any more complicated?