I go missing for a day, and…

It’s like dying a literary death.

The silence is deafening.

It seems, after a lot of trial and error, trying this that and the other, I’ve discovered that you only get out of social media what you put into it.

And it means that unless you are on it 24 hours a day, every day, spruiking, or whatever it is we writers are supposed to do promoting ourselves and our work, nothing happens.

Don’t get me wrong, there are those who are raging successes, and I am happy for them.

But for us living on the fringe, and there is quite a lot of us, trying valiantly to reach the public eyes, the battle is just that, a battle.

When do you get time to write?

Is it a choice between writing, or trying to garner support and a following?

The authors who are published by the large publishers will tell you that it is the only way to become an author, where all of the marketing is done by the publisher and all they have to do is put in an appearance and pocket the royalties.

I don’t think that’s necessarily true.

But when I find that happy medium between marketing and writing, I’ll let you know.

Until then, I guess there will be more days like today, and that battle going on in your head that is telling you to give up, it’s never going to get any better.

Maybe not.

But give up? Not today, nor tomorrow.

After all, we live in a world where anything is possible.

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 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, they 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 realized she’d spoken it out loud, had 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 civilization, 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 realized 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 observance, 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 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, 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 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, 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 off-hand 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, and 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 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.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

lovecoverfinal1

Searching for locations: Oreti Village, New Zealand – No two sunrises are the same – 1

Oreti village, Pukawa Bay, North Island, New Zealand

On the southern tip of Lake Taupo

Our first morning there, a Saturday.  Winter.  Cold.  And a beautiful sunrise.

20180812_073230

This was taken from the balcony, overlooking the lake.

The sun is just creeping up over the horizon

20180812_073241

It gradually gets lighter, and then the sun breaks free of the low cloud

It lights up the balcony

20180811_074651

And the trees just beyond, a cascade of colorful ferns.

20180811_074622

It looks like its going to be a fine day, our first for this trip, and we will be heading to the mountains to see snow, for the first time for two of our granddaughters.

“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 discovers 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

Writing a book in 365 days – 209

Day 209

Put it in your own words

…

What exactly does that mean these days?

Perhaps before the advent of computers and spell checkers and grammar checkers, and the vast array of writing helpers available, our writing was our own.

You know, getting sheets of paper, drawing lines on them, filling up the ink well and having a supply of ink available, then with your feather, or purposely made pen and nib, got stuck in.

What came out of your head went down on paper, the nib scratching its way along the lines, and thoughts tumbled out.

It may not have made any sense, but it was your own.

Except, of course, you decided deliberately or otherwise that you would copy someone else’s wprl either verbatim or very thinly disguised.  Yes, there have always been lazy cheats.

I like to think that it was the exception rather than the rule.

Nowadays, you don’t ever have to write at all.  Just a few plot points, and the story is written for you.

No effort, no putting it in your own words.  And unfortunately, it is probably eminently readable.

What is the point?

I will never surrender to AI.  I use spell checkers, but they have very strange ideas sometimes.  It simply means you need to know how to spell.  It can’t be that hard.  We all went to school and learned the rudiments of our language.

Or maybe not. Not if the rumours about students and teachers’ abilities are remotely credible.  I mean, spend half an hour in a crowded pub after the end of the word day, and the conversational language used is terrible.

It seems no one can string a sentence together without at least three or four profanities.  And our regard for others? 

Perhaps a story about ordinary people would be very uninteresting, and we would all have to migrate to a fictional world where respect and conversation without profanities still exist.

So much for the modern youth writing in their own words.

But I digress…

I’m sure that on some level, we all like the idea of picking up a book or reading one using an e-reader that doesn’t have that language or disrespect.

After all, books are what take us into a different world than our own, into the imagination of the writer who has, hopefully, toiled long and hard to put his or her masterpiece down on paper in their own words. 

PI Walthenson’s second case – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’.

Known only to a few, there is a legend that a ship named the ‘Flying Dutchman’ left Nazi Germany in the last weeks of the war and set sail for America, escorted by U-boats, under a different name. Aboard was a trove of treasure and gold worth a ‘king’s ransom’.

It was said that it had been sent to a group of American Nazis to create the Fourth Reich at an appropriate time. Over the years since many expeditions off the coast had searched, but found no trace of the vessel or the treasure.

In other words, it was just a legend created to boost tourism.

…

Fast forward to 2024. Our intrepid private detective, Harry Walthenson, overhears a conversation at Grand Central Station. It was the oddness of the message that caught his attention. An investigation turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and he thinks no more about it.

Then Harry is kidnapped, interrogated, and asked questions over and over about a date and a place, why he went there, and when he could not give satisfactory answers, he was beaten half to death and left for dead on a rubbish heap. He was lucky that it was a living space for homeless men; otherwise, he would have died.

In the aftermath, he once again gives it no more thought.

…

After resolving his first case successfully, there’s no rest. Harry’s angry mother comes to his office and demands that he find out where his father has gone. She believes he has run off with a mistress, not for the first time.

Perhaps it was not the wisest decision she has made, because Harry promises to investigate, and adds that she might not like what he finds.

He soon discovered he does not like what he finds, that his father’s friends, a cabal formed at University, have two who are his mother’s current lovers, and another, a criminal blackmailing his father.

Felicity, now his partner, working on a different case, and trying to get answers, uncovers a crime family involved in guarding a disused warehouse on the docks, where she believes Harry had been taken for interrogation, and subsequently dumped nearby to die.

Why are they up to? What is so important that the empty warehouse needs guarding? Who is employing them?

Harry, following up on the death of the blackmailer, traces his death back to an enforcer employed by his grandfather. His mother’s grandfather was a pre-war industrialist who made his fortune in war munitions and shipbuilding.

He was also a member of the American Nazi party.

When Harry also discovers a logbook belonging to a so-called wartime Liberty ship the “Paul Revere” in brackets ‘Freiheitskämpfer’, hidden by his father, and written in a code that is not readily identifiable.

It is no longer a matter of a father who has run off with his mistress; it is a very frightened man in fear of his life, running from a group who will stop at nothing to get the logbook back. And when Harry discovers a family connection to the group, it becomes a race against time to decode the log and find his father before his grandfather does.

…

Coming soon: Harry Walthenson’s new adventure – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’

In a word: Over

It’s over!  What is?  Well, almost anything.

A relationship, a bad day, a friendship, a long, monotonous lecture, and dinner.

It’s basically the light at the end of the tunnel, when it’s not the 6:32 express from Clapton, entering the other end of that same tunnel.

You could go over the top, which means, in one sense, over and above the expected, or way beyond the expected but not in a good way.

You could go over the waterfall in a leaky boat.  Not advisable, but sometimes a possibility, if someone fails to tell you at the end of the rapids there is a waterfall.  Just make sure it’s not the same as Niagara falls.

Still, someone has gone over Niagara in a barrel.

Then we could say that my lodging is over the garage, which simply means someone built it on top of the garage.

Branches of trees quite ofter grow over the roofs of houses, until a severe storm brings them down and suddenly they are in your house, no longer over it.

You can have editorial control over a newspaper

In a fight, the combatants are equally trying to shout over the top of each other

And sometimes, when trying to paint a different picture to what is real, you could say the temperature is sometimes over 40 degrees centigrade when you know for a fact it is usually 56 degrees centigrade.  No need for the literal truth here or no one will come.

Then you could say I came over land, assuming that you took a car, or walked when in actual fact you came by plane.  And yes, the whole flight was, truthfully, over land.

I don’t accept my lot in fife, nor do I want a small lot on which to build my mansion!

But the oddest use of the word over is when we describe, in cricket, the delivery of 6 balls.

I’ve listened to cricket commentary, and aside from trying to pronounce the names of the players, if you were unfamiliar with the game, being told this ball was outside leg stump, one of  several deliveries, the last of which was the end of the over.  If the delivery hit the stumps, it is then a wicket, and the batsman is out.

Wow!

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 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 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 recognize was murder. The photo of the man up 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 at 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 realize 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, 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

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 5

Five

The main door to the warehouse opened and we drove in. 

The look on Latanzio’s face was one of surprise, but also knowing.  He didn’t say anything yet.

Once inside and the roller door lowered, gradually immersing us into a murky half-darkness, the van stopped.  I thought I heard a collective sigh of relief just before everyone started to move.

Latanzio’s chains connecting his feet, and the one from his feet to his hands were removed, but not the cuffs and I dragged him out of the van, closing the door with an emphatic bang reverberating in the empty space.

The whole operation took just over a minute.  The guards got back in the van without saying a word, their role over.  Just as the engine started the door started going back up, and before it reached the top they had driven out and roared off.  I waited until the door had closed again.

That was when he spoke for the first time.  “You can remove the cuffs now.”  I had deliberately left the hand cuffs on, and although it limited his movements, he had an opportunity to escape, if he wanted to get shot in the back, because if he tried I would have no hesitation in shooting him.

I hadn’t seen anyone else about when we first arrived, but then, up on the mezzanine I could just see several guards with rifles stationed in the shadows.  If anyone had tried to force their way in behind us, they would not have lasted very long.

I didn’t speak, just dragged him up the passage towards the room where I thought Amy would be waiting.

He stopped, once, halfway up the passage, and tried to shrug me off.  “What the hell is going on here.  Where are my people?”

I gave him what I thought was one of my death stares before saying, rather savagely, “We can do this the hard way or the easy way.  The hard way, I shoot you and drag you up the passage.  One way or the other we’ll get to our destination.  It’s up to you how you arrive.”

“Just who the hell are you?”

“If you keep talking, maybe the last person you’ll see alive.  Move.  Now.”

He was wise enough not to argue just then.  He had been liberated from police custody, he had to accept for the moment it was best to follow instructions, something I guess he wasn’t used to.

We went through the large steel-clad door that separated the building we arrived in with the one next door.  If anyone came looking for us, they would only get as far as a door that would be locked on the other side and look as though it hadn’t been opened since the dawn of time. 

As soon as I slammed it shut and rammed home the bolts, a team on the other side were doing their job as set decorators.

They didn’t have very long, perhaps 10 minutes, 20 at most before everyone discovered Latanzio was missing.

As soon as we were on the other side, Amy appeared with a gun in hand.  It was not aimed at him but held loosely at her side.  A room had been set up as a sound studio, and we had four cameras on us, recording everything.

“Who are you?” Latanzio asked her abruptly.

“The person who orchestrated your escape from custody.  You don’t look very grateful though?”

“Believe me I am, except for this bozo.  Where did you find him?  And how about taking off these cuffs?”

We were in a large room, where Amy had put a chair in the middle.  On the opposite side to where we were standing there was another door.  That led to several other rooms where Amy said there were surprise guests waiting.

“First, you have to sit down.  We have a few issues to sort out.”

He looked confused, but again, he was free, so it was probably a small inconvenience.  After all, he had a lot of money that could smooth over any problem.  Or so he believed.

He sat.

There were two other chairs for both Amy and I, and we sat down opposite him.

He started.  “Whatever the problem is, I’m sure we can sort it out.  What is it you want?”

“Money.  And a lot of it.  It isn’t going to be cheap getting you and your family to a safe haven.”

“Who said I wanted to leave.  I can beat this rap.  You heard the news; this so-called witness is missing.  That means he’s either dead or didn’t exist in the first place.  Either way, the DA’s got nothing.”

All true, if the witness was missing.  And still he was not giving anything away.

“Then the question remains, why did a squad of anonymous men hit the hotel where alleged witness was staying, if you are saying there isn’t one?”

“I know nothing about that.  What other people do, and their reasons for doing so, is their business, not mine.”

“Then why were we asked to break you out if you’re not guilty and can beat this charge.  Seems logical, on what you’re saying, we should take you back.  I’ve haven’t been paid yet, and this seems to be a colossal waste of my time.  I need to have a discussion.”

She stood and started walking towards the other door.

“Who are you going to talk to if not me.”

She stopped and partially turned.

“You are just the subject; my business is with the people who employed me to free you.”

“Who are they?”

“Oddly enough, I don’t really know, and for that matter, I don’t really care.  But what I am sure of, it’s none of your business.”

I saw her motion to someone lurking in the shadows, and not one but two men came out into the open where we could see them.  Armed with shotguns and surly expressions.

“Take him and put him in the room with his wife and children.”

“Angelina is here?” he said, somewhat surprised.

“Yes.  Any your mistress, Gianna. It’s going to be interesting if they meet.”

He looked at me just as the two men arrived, each standing on one side of him.

“What the hell is going on here?  This is not what I asked for.  I was supposed to be rescued and taken to a safehouse.  There were no orders involving family or anyone else.”  There was just a slight note of fear in hos tone.

Amy had said that if Angelina’s father had found out he was having an affair, he was as good as a dead man.  Her father took marriage very seriously.

It was clear Latanzio didn’t.

I shrugged.  “I just do as I’m told.  Best not to annoy her.  She has a really bad temper, and I don’t think she likes you.”

I nodded, and the two men took him away.

Phase one was complete; put the fear God into him.

Five

The main door to the warehouse opened and we drove in. 

The look on Latanzio’s face was one of surprise, but also knowing.  He didn’t say anything yet.

Once inside and the roller door lowered, gradually immersing us into a murky half-darkness, the van stopped.  I thought I heard a collective sigh of relief just before everyone started to move.

Latanzio’s chains connecting his feet, and the one from his feet to his hands were removed, but not the cuffs and I dragged him out of the van, closing the door with an emphatic bang reverberating in the empty space.

The whole operation took just over a minute.  The guards got back in the van without saying a word, their role over.  Just as the engine started the door started going back up, and before it reached the top they had driven out and roared off.  I waited until the door had closed again.

That was when he spoke for the first time.  “You can remove the cuffs now.”  I had deliberately left the hand cuffs on, and although it limited his movements, he had an opportunity to escape, if he wanted to get shot in the back, because if he tried I would have no hesitation in shooting him.

I hadn’t seen anyone else about when we first arrived, but then, up on the mezzanine I could just see several guards with rifles stationed in the shadows.  If anyone had tried to force their way in behind us, they would not have lasted very long.

I didn’t speak, just dragged him up the passage towards the room where I thought Amy would be waiting.

He stopped, once, halfway up the passage, and tried to shrug me off.  “What the hell is going on here.  Where are my people?”

I gave him what I thought was one of my death stares before saying, rather savagely, “We can do this the hard way or the easy way.  The hard way, I shoot you and drag you up the passage.  One way or the other we’ll get to our destination.  It’s up to you how you arrive.”

“Just who the hell are you?”

“If you keep talking, maybe the last person you’ll see alive.  Move.  Now.”

He was wise enough not to argue just then.  He had been liberated from police custody, he had to accept for the moment it was best to follow instructions, something I guess he wasn’t used to.

We went through the large steel-clad door that separated the building we arrived in with the one next door.  If anyone came looking for us, they would only get as far as a door that would be locked on the other side and look as though it hadn’t been opened since the dawn of time. 

As soon as I slammed it shut and rammed home the bolts, a team on the other side were doing their job as set decorators.

They didn’t have very long, perhaps 10 minutes, 20 at most before everyone discovered Latanzio was missing.

As soon as we were on the other side, Amy appeared with a gun in hand.  It was not aimed at him but held loosely at her side.  A room had been set up as a sound studio, and we had four cameras on us, recording everything.

“Who are you?” Latanzio asked her abruptly.

“The person who orchestrated your escape from custody.  You don’t look very grateful though?”

“Believe me I am, except for this bozo.  Where did you find him?  And how about taking off these cuffs?”

We were in a large room, where Amy had put a chair in the middle.  On the opposite side to where we were standing there was another door.  That led to several other rooms where Amy said there were surprise guests waiting.

“First, you have to sit down.  We have a few issues to sort out.”

He looked confused, but again, he was free, so it was probably a small inconvenience.  After all, he had a lot of money that could smooth over any problem.  Or so he believed.

He sat.

There were two other chairs for both Amy and I, and we sat down opposite him.

He started.  “Whatever the problem is, I’m sure we can sort it out.  What is it you want?”

“Money.  And a lot of it.  It isn’t going to be cheap getting you and your family to a safe haven.”

“Who said I wanted to leave.  I can beat this rap.  You heard the news; this so-called witness is missing.  That means he’s either dead or didn’t exist in the first place.  Either way, the DA’s got nothing.”

All true, if the witness was missing.  And still he was not giving anything away.

“Then the question remains, why did a squad of anonymous men hit the hotel where alleged witness was staying, if you are saying there isn’t one?”

“I know nothing about that.  What other people do, and their reasons for doing so, is their business, not mine.”

“Then why were we asked to break you out if you’re not guilty and can beat this charge.  Seems logical, on what you’re saying, we should take you back.  I’ve haven’t been paid yet, and this seems to be a colossal waste of my time.  I need to have a discussion.”

She stood and started walking towards the other door.

“Who are you going to talk to if not me.”

She stopped and partially turned.

“You are just the subject; my business is with the people who employed me to free you.”

“Who are they?”

“Oddly enough, I don’t really know, and for that matter, I don’t really care.  But what I am sure of, it’s none of your business.”

I saw her motion to someone lurking in the shadows, and not one but two men came out into the open where we could see them.  Armed with shotguns and surly expressions.

“Take him and put him in the room with his wife and children.”

“Angelina is here?” he said, somewhat surprised.

“Yes.  Any your mistress, Gianna. It’s going to be interesting if they meet.”

He looked at me just as the two men arrived, each standing on one side of him.

“What the hell is going on here?  This is not what I asked for.  I was supposed to be rescued and taken to a safehouse.  There were no orders involving family or anyone else.”  There was just a slight note of fear in hos tone.

Amy had said that if Angelina’s father had found out he was having an affair, he was as good as a dead man.  Her father took marriage very seriously.

It was clear Latanzio didn’t.

I shrugged.  “I just do as I’m told.  Best not to annoy her.  She has a really bad temper, and I don’t think she likes you.”

I nodded, and the two men took him away.

Phase one was complete; put the fear God into him.

Five

The main door to the warehouse opened and we drove in. 

The look on Latanzio’s face was one of surprise, but also knowing.  He didn’t say anything yet.

Once inside and the roller door lowered, gradually immersing us into a murky half-darkness, the van stopped.  I thought I heard a collective sigh of relief just before everyone started to move.

Latanzio’s chains connecting his feet, and the one from his feet to his hands were removed, but not the cuffs and I dragged him out of the van, closing the door with an emphatic bang reverberating in the empty space.

The whole operation took just over a minute.  The guards got back in the van without saying a word, their role over.  Just as the engine started the door started going back up, and before it reached the top they had driven out and roared off.  I waited until the door had closed again.

That was when he spoke for the first time.  “You can remove the cuffs now.”  I had deliberately left the handcuffs on, and although it limited his movements, he had an opportunity to escape, if he wanted to get shot in the back, because if he tried I would have no hesitation in shooting him.

I hadn’t seen anyone else about when we first arrived, but then, up on the mezzanine I could just see several guards with rifles stationed in the shadows.  If anyone had tried to force their way in behind us, they would not have lasted very long.

I didn’t speak, just dragged him up the passage towards the room where I thought Amy would be waiting.

He stopped, once, halfway up the passage, and tried to shrug me off.  “What the hell is going on here.  Where are my people?”

I gave him what I thought was one of my death stares before saying, rather savagely, “We can do this the hard way or the easy way.  The hard way, I shoot you and drag you up the passage.  One way or the other we’ll get to our destination.  It’s up to you how you arrive.”

“Just who the hell are you?”

“If you keep talking, maybe the last person you’ll see alive.  Move.  Now.”

He was wise enough not to argue just then.  He had been liberated from police custody, he had to accept for the moment it was best to follow instructions, something I guess he wasn’t used to.

We went through the large steel-clad door that separated the building we arrived in with the one next door.  If anyone came looking for us, they would only get as far as a door that would be locked on the other side and look as though it hadn’t been opened since the dawn of time. 

As soon as I slammed it shut and rammed home the bolts, a team on the other side were doing their job as set decorators.

They didn’t have very long, perhaps 10 minutes, 20 at most before everyone discovered Latanzio was missing.

As soon as we were on the other side, Amy appeared with a gun in hand.  It was not aimed at him but held loosely at her side.  A room had been set up as a sound studio, and we had four cameras on us, recording everything.

“Who are you?” Latanzio asked her abruptly.

“The person who orchestrated your escape from custody.  You don’t look very grateful though?”

“Believe me I am, except for this bozo.  Where did you find him?  And how about taking off these cuffs?”

We were in a large room, where Amy had put a chair in the middle.  On the opposite side to where we were standing, there was another door.  That led to several other rooms where Amy said there were surprise guests waiting.

“First, you have to sit down.  We have a few issues to sort out.”

He looked confused, but again, he was free, so it was probably a small inconvenience.  After all, he had a lot of money that could smooth over any problem.  Or so he believed.

He sat.

There were two other chairs for Amy and me, and we sat opposite him.

He started, “Whatever the problem is, I’m sure we can sort it out. What do you want?”

“Money.  And a lot of it.  It isn’t going to be cheap getting you and your family to a safe haven.”

“Who said I wanted to leave.  I can beat this rap.  You heard the news; this so-called witness is missing.  That means he’s either dead or didn’t exist in the first place.  Either way, the DA’s got nothing.”

All true, if the witness was missing.  And still, he was not giving anything away.

“Then the question remains, why did a squad of anonymous men hit the hotel where the alleged witness was staying, if you are saying there isn’t one?”

“I know nothing about that.  What other people do, and their reasons for doing so, is their business, not mine.”

“Then why were we asked to break you out if you’re not guilty and can beat this charge.  Seems logical, on what you’re saying, we should take you back.  I’ve haven’t been paid yet, and this seems to be a colossal waste of my time.  I need to have a discussion.”

She stood and started walking towards the other door.

“Who are you going to talk to if not me.”

She stopped and partially turned.

“You are just the subject; my business is with the people who employed me to free you.”

“Who are they?”

“Oddly enough, I don’t really know, and for that matter, I don’t really care.  But what I am sure of, it’s none of your business.”

I saw her motion to someone lurking in the shadows, and not one but two men came out into the open where we could see them.  Armed with shotguns and surly expressions.

“Take him and put him in the room with his wife and children.”

“Angelina is here?” he said, somewhat surprised.

“Yes.  Any your mistress, Gianna. It’s going to be interesting if they meet.”

He looked at me just as the two men arrived, each standing on one side of him.

“What the hell is going on here?  This is not what I asked for.  I was supposed to be rescued and taken to a safe house.  There were no orders involving family or anyone else.”  There was just a slight note of fear in his tone.

Amy had said that if Angelina’s father had found out he was having an affair, he was as good as a dead man.  Her father took marriage very seriously.

It was clear Latanzio didn’t.

I shrugged.  “I just do as I’m told.  Best not to annoy her.  She has a really bad temper, and I don’t think she likes you.”

I nodded, and the two men took him away.

Phase one was complete; put the fear God into him.

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 45

As some may be aware, but many are not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mouse catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years ago.

Recently, I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits, I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

20151129_000912

This is Chester.  We’ve been getting quite a few scam calls lately.

Like today, the caller said they were a technician from Telstra, our leading telecommunications company in this country.

The scammers think that most if not all people are with Telstra.  The problem is, it’s a lot less than they think.

Hence getting the phone slammed down in their ear, because nearly everyone knows they’re scammers.

So, Chester gives me the death stare after today’s effort.  it’s not the first time, and the banging noise startles him if he’s asleep.

That’s enough yelling and banging the phone, he says.

Then you answer the phone and sort them out.

You know I can’t do that.

Well, you should I say.  They always ask for the owner of the house, and that’s you isn’t it?

No, I just live here.

I snort this time.

I make your bed, get you foot, clean the little, put up with your cantankerous ways.  If you’re going to behave like that, then you have to start taking responsibility.

He gives me that condescending look reserved for the servants.

The phone rings.

Funny, Chester just disappeared.