Holiday? What holiday?

There’s a reason why I can’t have a holiday.

You might think it’s because of the COVID 19 virus, and, probably that’s a good reason because it hasn’t gone away just yet, but I could just move into the motel down the road for a few days.

You know, a change is as good as a holiday!

But the real reason is right in front of me.

I’m sitting at my desk surrounded by any number of scraps of paper with more storylines, written excerpts, parts of stories, and a number of chapters of a work in progress.

Does this happen to anyone else?

The business of writing requires a talent to keep focused on one project, and silence all the other screaming voices in your head, pouring out their side of the story.

But it’s not working.

I try to be determined in my efforts to edit my current completed novel, after letting it ‘rest’ in my head for a few months.

I planned to have some time off, but all of those prisoners in my head started clamouring for attention.

On top of all of that, a story I started some time ago needs revising, another story I wrote this year of NANOWRIMO has come back to haunt me, and characters, well, they’re out in the waiting room, pacing up and down, ready to tell me their life stories.

And the real reason, that cursed A to Z story thing.  26 stories in 30 days, OMG!  Why did I choose to write stories and not another simple 26 word definitions?

Just as well I don’t have a day job, or nothing would get done.

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 1

As some may be aware, but many may not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mouse catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away more than 10 years ago, and I still miss him.

This is my way of remembering him.

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…

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This is Chester.

Don’t be fooled by the benign expression, I’m getting the ‘your conversation better improve, and quickly’ look.

I guess it’s the talkative Tonkinese in him, tempered by the crabby Siamese part.

But …

We were talking about the state of the world, and he agrees it isn’t looking good, especially for travelers in Europe.  Of course, he is averse to either of us leaving him alone for any length of time, so he would say it was unsafe and we’d better stay at home.hat

I suppose that selfish part comes from the Burmese in him.

However …

I have scratched Germany, Austria, France and England off the list for the time being and consider it’s time to see a lot more of Italy.

We’ve been there several times, to Rome, in summer, to look at the Ancient ruins (Chester was rather impressed when I showed him a picture of the Collosseum), to Florence several times, just for the ambiance, and to Venice simply because we love it.

Then, we have also spent a few days in Tuscany, in an apartment very close to the town center of Greve in Chianti.

Chester, of course, was dismissive, but, he says, if we agree to take him with us …

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 57

What story does it inspire?

…

…

There is always a place for a romantic walk along the beach on a hot summer night.

At least we all like to think that. Usually, we are competing with hundreds of others and their dogs, some of whom seem to snarl at you, the dogs I mean, not their owners.

Hardly romantic, as it is in the movies. After all, they get the beach cleared of everyone and then it feels like you have the place to yourself.

But, is the beach the place for such a stroll. At night perhaps, or early morning.

I would prefer to go for a stroll in a park, like Central Park in New York, just large enough that you can get enough space to yourself, as well as walk for a long distance, and have a hope that you might see a movie star walking their dog, or just taking in the sunshine.

Unlike, if you were in London, hoping it would not be raining, or snowing, or both, or just simply freezing cold. That, of course, might be Hyde Park, a stroll around the Serpentine, but to be honest I would prefer going to Kew Gardens.

That’s the notion from seeing that photo of dusk at the beach, so many ideas, and not all of them about the sand, the sea, people, dogs, or conversation.

Then, perhaps there is another thought … a sea-based invasion, and just happening to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Just a thought…

Writing a book in 365 days – 164

Day 164

Writing exercise – who, what, where, when, and why?

…

There’s the hell of it. When the planets line up, it’s easy, but like mathematical equations, when you’re missing one basic element, a solution can be as far away as the moon, or, in this case, Pluto.

It was how this story stacked up, in the end, because it was not so much the clues, but those interpreting the clues and a very clever criminal that no one would ever have picked on first sight.

So much so that even when the perpetrator confessed, nobody believed them.

But…

I’m getting ahead of myself.

The day started like any other, sitting in the middle of the bull pen with twenty other journalists looking for that story that was going to win them a Pulitzer prize.

Of course, my chances were less than zero.  I’d let the story of the century slip through my fingers because I took a humanitarian stand to save the victim.  Someone else broke the story, and it was given a lecture and one more chance.

Then…

Like all investigations, great or small, it starts with the boss coming out of his office and yelling out a name.

“Curruthers?”

It was usually a raised voice so it could pierce through the hubbub of the pit, sometimes quiet because of the lack of participants, but today it was a full house, making it impossible to hear yourself think.

Today, he yelled, and instantly, the noise stopped.

Someone was for it, and that someone was Curruthers.

That someone was me.

I stood, but being five feet, something didn’t make much difference.

“Sir?”

“My office, now.”

Never keep an angry man waiting.  Since the boss was always angry, I all but ran.

“Shut the door.”

There was a difference between it and really for it.  The closed door…

I waited for the bollocking. I could see he was trying to find the words…

“The Spenser Building, a body in the penthouse, found by the Russian maid, stabbed a dozen, maybe more times, cops haven’t ruled out the lover, still there, blood on his hands, fresh, she was still alive when the maid found her, now deceased.  This has got sensation written all over it.  Daniels is the detective. You and her…get on it now.”

“Sir.”

I was going to say Detective Louisa Daniels and I had split up a year ago, but that would have ensured someone else got the story.  This was too good to pass up.

I was out the door before he could change his mind.

…

I arrived breathlessly at the front entrance to the Spenser Building at the same time as Detective Louisa Daniels, with her usual partner in crime, Detective Burns.  He had a first name, Oliver, but no one used it.

She was walking towards the front entrance where Gary, the front doorman, was stationed.  Ropes had been erected, and the police were there keeping the public back.

I was the public, in that moment, until Gary saw me arguing with a police officer and came over.  It stopped Louisa, who also turned to see what the commotion was about.

“He lives here, officer.”

The officer let it go and went back to his station.

I thanked him, and we headed back to the door.  Louisa stepped in front of me.  “Joseph.  I forgot you live here.”

“You’re here for the Eleanor Spencer murder.”

“Yes.”

Detective Burns came over. “Joseph? What are you doing here?”

“The editor sent me over to cover the story.”

“There’s nothing to cover.  We just got here,” he said.

“You can’t be here, Joe,” Louisa said.  “I thought you were covering the obits.  You certainly added a bit of life to their stories.”

She never did give me much credit as a journalist, even when I did as she’d asked and all but ruined my career.  It was basically the reason we broke up.

“I can help with this case.”

Detective Burns didn’t like me.  He had never liked me and had warned Louisa that I would betray her confidence.  I didn’t, but I suspected he had to another reporter, a rival reporter working for another newspaper.  He glared at me, “You’re a hack, Bateman.”

I wondered if Louisa remembered what I had told her about why I was living in the Spenser Building.  It was a long time ago, and she had always been preoccupied with becoming the best detective in the police department.

A measure of that was proved by her assignment to such a high-profile case.

She turned to Burns, “You go up and find out where forensics are, and if the medical examiner is on site.”

“You don’t think this fool knows anything?”

“Go.  I’ll be there directly.”  Back to me, she said, as we watched him go through the front entrance, “He thinks you told another reporter, but I knew Jaimie was playing him.  I think you did, too, but I didn’t believe for a minute it was you. There was nothing I could do.  I’m sorry.  In more ways than one.  Walk with me.”

We went into the building, heading for the elevator lobby.

If I remember correctly, and it was a moment when we were both a lot tipsy, a woman came to the front door, invited you to a gallery showing or some such, and when I asked who it was, you said it was your mother.”

“I might have said something silly like that.”

“I also remember seeing her in a magazine a week later with you in the background, and it was our victim, Mrs Spenser.  I also dismissed what you said because your name was Bateman, not Spenser.”

“That is true.”

“If you are who you say you are, then how did you get the name Bateman?”

“My adoptive parents, the Batemans.

“But if you are her child, how?”

“Born to a mother who got pregnant a year before her first marriage, out of wedlock, and sent to a foster home.  She is my mother.  Later, she spent a fortune to find me, then kept our secret.  However, that’s just grist to the mill.  You need to know that I was one of three people to see her alive.  There was a dinner party with eight guests, and when I left, there was only one other person, the lover.  I have information and want to help.”

“Is your apartment the same as before?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will look at the crime scene and then come and see you.  It will be strictly off the record.  OK. Oh, and if you killed her, you will feel the full weight of my wrath.”

“Fine.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Searching for locations: New York, USA, to Vancouver, Canada

The flight from Newark via Air Canada to Vancouver is about 5:30pm so we are slated to be picked up by the limousine at about 2:30.

We have to be out of our room by 11am so we decided the day before that on our last day in New York we’d go to the Times Square red lobster. It gives us about three hours to get there, eat, and get back.

It’s always fun packing bags the day you leave, so most of the hard work was done earlier. This time it’s particularly a trial because we have so much stuff to fit into a small space, and weight considerations are always paramount because of the 23kg limit.

Outside is has gone from minus four to minus two in the two hours before we leave the hotel at 11:30, but that’s not so much of a problem because we have a long walk from 56th street to 41st street to warm us up.

At least today it’s not as cold, as it has been previously.

At Red Lobster it’s not difficult to make a decision on what to have, the mix-and-match special, with Lobster alfredo, filet mignon, and parrot island coconut shrimp, with Walt’s special, though what that will remain a surprise until it is served.

To drink, it was the Blue moon beer, wheat type.

For appetizers, we had scones that are supposedly bread but to me are dipped in garlic butter and baked like a scone. Australian style. They are absolutely delicious.

There is an expression a one-drink screamer and we’ve got one, but the truth is the drinks are very lethal. Pure alcohol and ice with a touch of soda.

The meals at this Red Lobster are definitely better than those we had in Vancouver, except for the pasta with lobster I had which was little more than a tasteless congealed mess after it reached the table. This did not detract from the deliciously cooked and served seafood that accompanied it.

All in all, after such a great lunch and the thought of having to walk ten blocks the decision was unanimous to get a cab which took us back to the hotel by a rather interesting, if not exactly the most direct, route. I think the driver guessed we were tourists.

We are picked up at the hotel by a driver in a large Toyota which had enough space for 3 passengers and all our bags. The driver was chatty and being foreign, preferred soccer to the other traditional American sport. Don’t ask me how the conversation turned to sports, but we may have mentioned we went to the ice hockey.

At Newark airport, all I have room for is a glass of burned beer, whatever that means, though it has an odd taste, and a Samuel Adams 76 special which was rather tasty.

Today we are flying in a Boeing 787-9 Dreamliner with a maximum of 298 passengers in three classes.

It looks very new even though it is about 6 months old. It has seating of 3 x 3 x 3, and we are in row 19, just behind the premium economy cabin, and the closest to the front of the plane of all the Air Canada flights.

Engine startup is loud at the lower revolutions with the vibration going through the airframe. Like all planes, the flaps being extended, it is very noisy. All of the vibrations go away when the engines are up to speed. On take off the engines at max are not as noisy as other planes and are relatively quiet. It will be interesting to see what the landing is like.

In-flight when not experiencing turbulence the ride is very smooth and reasonably quiet which is better than the other planes with seeming continuous engine whining and the flow of air past the fuselage.

The seats are comfortable but still just a little small and the middle passenger can be tightly squeezed in if the two on either side are larger than normal. The seats fully recline but the seatback is not completely in your face, and bearable when you recline your own seat.

There are several seats by the toilets that would be terrible on a long-distance flight because the passenger inevitably comes very close to the seat when entering and leaving. As for the toilets, they are larger than any of the other aeroplanes, and so too, coincidentally, are the windows.

The plane also makes the same amount of noise when it lands so I’m failing to see what’s so good about it. I’ve also been in an Airbus A350 and those planes are nothing to write home about either.

I suspect the only advantage of having planes is for airlines. Fewer costs and more sardined passengers.

It’s something else I can write off my bucket list.

When we arrive back in Vancouver it’s the same reasonably simple process to get through immigration.

Outside our driver is waiting and this time we have an Escalade picking us up. A very large SUV that fits us all and our luggage.

But…

We were lucky because we were supposed to be picked up in a sedan and the baggage would not have fitted which would have involved one of us taking a cab with the extra luggage.

He was in the neighbourhood and picked up the call. His advice, called the service and request a bigger car and pay the difference. We did. It was going to cost another 20 dollars.

As for the hotel, what is it with hotels and late-night arrivals? We get in, the check-in was smooth, we get to the room. Very large with a separate bedroom. But only a sofa bed.

It was not a desirable option, not before 24 hours in relatively squashed plane seats, so it necessitated a change of rooms to one a bit smaller, but a corner room with a reasonable view, and two proper beds.

Late night, need rest, but we have free breakfast so there will be no tarrying the next morning. We have to be down by 9am being Sunday.

Besides, we have a mission. There is a toys-are-us nearby and it does have the toy we want. All we need to find is a cab.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 60

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

Three a.m. is meant to be so quiet; you could hear your heart beating.

Ten to, all hell had broken loose when one of the conveyor belts broke, and a replacement was needed, and the engineers were on the clock.

Ten past, the hullabaloo had died down, and back at the desk, I was contemplating a long scotch to calm the nerves.  Drinking on the job was not condoned, but not unheard of.  I opened the drawer and looked at the bottle, then thought the better of it.

And, when I looked up, Nadia was standing in front of the desk.

She was as quiet as a ninja, and just as dangerous.

“Never a dull moment,” she said, dragging a chair over and sitting down.  “I got here a half hour ago and all hell was breaking loose.”

“Conveyor broke.  No one wants to see production stop or slide.  Too many questions.”

“Fixed?”

“Of course.”  I made a note to order a replacement.  Better to have two in store, just in case.

“How did you get in?”

Security was tight, not like it used to be, especially after what happened to me.

“I know the guards, they know I’m not a threat.”

I could beg to differ, but I was glad to see her.  “Did you know Alex was a caver?”

“A what?”

“One of those people who go scrambling through caves.”

“I doubt it.”

“He used the word spelunking.”

“Which is?”

“Exploring caves.”

“He’s no explorer, I bet he’s looking for the treasure.”

“And so has a million others before him.  I seriously doubt the treasure will be in a cave in the hills, which is where all the known caves are.  Of course, that doesn’t necessarily include the so-called underground river under the mall, but apparently isn’t.”

“You heard?”

“That the flooding was not necessarily the result of a flood of water from the mountains, yes.  A problem with the foundations, it has been suggested.”

“A fact Benderby is working overtime to cover up.”

Nadia seemed well informed.  I was guessing the Cossatino’s could see an opportunity to blackmail Benderby, if they had proof.  I wouldn’t put anything past them.

“You know something I don’t?”

“We always know something others don’t.”

“Have I got a dark secret?”

“That depends.” 

She smiled, and it worried me.

“Your mother and Joshua Benderby used to be very good friends when they were at school.”

Old news, well, not so old news, but if I hadn’t seen the flowers…

“What are you insinuating?”

“They had a fling before your mother realized what sort of a man he really was and picked your father instead.  But, from what I’m told, they were close, and there wasn’t a lot of time between the breakup and you coming along.”

Odd, but that was just the thought that entered my mind at the exact instant she said it.

“But, I look nothing like the Benderby’s.”

“Benderby didn’t look anything like his parents either, it’s a generational thing, so you might want to find a photo of his father and mother, you know, just to settle the nerves.  Or a DNA test.”

It was the last thing on my mind.  Imagine being a stepbrother to Alex.  Wouldn’t that get his nose out of joint, going from the only son and heir to sharing the mantle?  I was older than him, too, which gave me more of a claim on the fortune.

No.  Not a chance in the world.  There wouldn’t be enough money to assuage the horrors of that family.  It would be bad enough if they got together now, which wasn’t as unlikely as it sounded.  His wife had died, and he hadn’t remarried, or, for that matter, found someone else.  Yet.

“Have you come with any other news?”

“No.  Just a picnic basket.  I thought you might want a late, late supper.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Searching for locations: New York from a different perspective

It is an amazing coincidence that both times we have flown into New York, it is the day after the worst snow storms.

The first time, we were delayed out of Los Angeles and waited for hours before the plane left.  We had a free lunch and our first introduction to American hamburgers and chips.  Wow!

I had thought we had left enough time with connections to make it in time for New Year’s Eve, like four to five hours before.  As it turned out, we arrived in New York at 10:30, and thanks to continual updating with our limousine service, he was there to take us to the hotel.

The landing was rough, the plane swaying all over the place and many of the passengers were sick.  Blankets were in short supply!

We made it to the hotel, despite snow, traffic, and the inevitable problems associated with NYE in New York, with enough time to throw our baggage in the room, put on our anti cold clothes, and get out onto the streets.

We could not go to Times Square but finished up at Central Park with thousands of others, in time to see the ball drop on a big screen, exchange new year’s greetings, and see the fireworks.

Then, as luck would have it, we were able to get an authentic New York hotdog, just before the police moved the vendor on, and our night was complete.

The second time we were the last plane out of Los Angeles to New York.  After waiting and waiting, we boarded, and then started circling the airport waiting for takeoff permission.  We stopped once to refuel, and then the pilot decided we were leaving.

This time we took our eldest granddaughter, who was 9 at the time, and she thought it was an adventure.  It was.

When we landed, we were directed to an older part of the airport, a disused terminal.  We were not the only plane to land, at about one in the morning, but one of about four.  The terminal building filled very quickly, and we were all waiting for baggage.  The baggage belts broke so there were a lot of porters bring the baggage in by hand.

One part of the terminal was just a sea of bags.  To find ours our granddaughter, who, while waiting, sat on top of the cabin baggage playing her DSI until the announcement our bags were available, walked across the top of the bags till she found them.  Thankfully no one was really looking in her direction.

Once again we kept our limousine service updated, and, once we knew what terminal we were at, he came to pick us up.  This time we arrived some days before NYE, so there was not so much of a rush.  We got to the hotel about 3:30 in the morning, checked in, and then went over the road to an all-night diner where we ordered hamburgers and chips.

And a Dr. Pepper.

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.

I remembered the car slewing sideways.

I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.

Or I could be underwater.

Everything was blurred.

I tried to focus but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.

What happened?

Why was I lying down?

Where was I?

I cast my mind back, trying to remember.

It was a blank.

What, when, who, why and where, are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.

I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.

I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.

“My God! What happened?”

I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.

I was blind. Everything was black.

“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”

Was I that poor bastard?

“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.

“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”

“What isn’t broken?”

“His neck.”

“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”

I heard the shuffling of pages.

“OR1 ready?”

“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”

“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”

Magic.

It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.

Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.

Or somewhere.

I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.

Was it night or was it day?

Was it hot, or was it cold?

Where was I?

Around me, it felt cool.

It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence.  And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.

I didn’t try to move.

Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.

A previous unpleasant experience?

I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.

My grandfather.

He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way, down the same path. I could smell the smoke.

I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.

I couldn’t.

I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later the clicking of a pen, then writing.

“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk, or move, all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She had a very soothing voice.

Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.

“Everything is fine.”

Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.

“Just count backwards from 10.”

Why?

I didn’t reach seven.

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.

It rose above the disinfectant.

She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.

It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.

The next morning, she was back.

“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”

More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.

The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face, and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”

Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.

How could that happen?

That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment was the fact I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.

But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised, I could not remember my name.

I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.

I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.

Sleep was a blessed relief.

The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?

Now I knew Winifred the nurse was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat, and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”

So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.

But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.

This time I was left awake for an hour before she returned.

This time sleep was restless.

Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Others, people I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.

Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

The morning the bandages were to come off she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.

“This morning the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”

I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.

I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.

I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.

I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.

I felt the bandage being removed, and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.

Then a moment when nothing happened.

Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.

Nothing.

I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.

“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.

Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.

She wiped my eyes again.

I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.

I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.

Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.

I nodded.

“You can see?”

I nodded again.

“Clearly?”

I nodded.

“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”

I couldn’t wait.

When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring, there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.

I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.

They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.

Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.

I found it hard to believe, if he were, that he would be at a small country hospital.

“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”

Warning enough.

The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.

Then it was done.

The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with his work. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.

I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate he was available. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

She showed me.

I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.

And I still could not talk. There was a reason, he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.

“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”

A new face?

I could not remember the old one.

My memory still hadn’t returned.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

Writing a book in 365 days – 164

Day 164

Writing exercise – who, what, where, when, and why?

…

There’s the hell of it. When the planets line up, it’s easy, but like mathematical equations, when you’re missing one basic element, a solution can be as far away as the moon, or, in this case, Pluto.

It was how this story stacked up, in the end, because it was not so much the clues, but those interpreting the clues and a very clever criminal that no one would ever have picked on first sight.

So much so that even when the perpetrator confessed, nobody believed them.

But…

I’m getting ahead of myself.

The day started like any other, sitting in the middle of the bull pen with twenty other journalists looking for that story that was going to win them a Pulitzer prize.

Of course, my chances were less than zero.  I’d let the story of the century slip through my fingers because I took a humanitarian stand to save the victim.  Someone else broke the story, and it was given a lecture and one more chance.

Then…

Like all investigations, great or small, it starts with the boss coming out of his office and yelling out a name.

“Curruthers?”

It was usually a raised voice so it could pierce through the hubbub of the pit, sometimes quiet because of the lack of participants, but today it was a full house, making it impossible to hear yourself think.

Today, he yelled, and instantly, the noise stopped.

Someone was for it, and that someone was Curruthers.

That someone was me.

I stood, but being five feet, something didn’t make much difference.

“Sir?”

“My office, now.”

Never keep an angry man waiting.  Since the boss was always angry, I all but ran.

“Shut the door.”

There was a difference between it and really for it.  The closed door…

I waited for the bollocking. I could see he was trying to find the words…

“The Spenser Building, a body in the penthouse, found by the Russian maid, stabbed a dozen, maybe more times, cops haven’t ruled out the lover, still there, blood on his hands, fresh, she was still alive when the maid found her, now deceased.  This has got sensation written all over it.  Daniels is the detective. You and her…get on it now.”

“Sir.”

I was going to say Detective Louisa Daniels and I had split up a year ago, but that would have ensured someone else got the story.  This was too good to pass up.

I was out the door before he could change his mind.

…

I arrived breathlessly at the front entrance to the Spenser Building at the same time as Detective Louisa Daniels, with her usual partner in crime, Detective Burns.  He had a first name, Oliver, but no one used it.

She was walking towards the front entrance where Gary, the front doorman, was stationed.  Ropes had been erected, and the police were there keeping the public back.

I was the public, in that moment, until Gary saw me arguing with a police officer and came over.  It stopped Louisa, who also turned to see what the commotion was about.

“He lives here, officer.”

The officer let it go and went back to his station.

I thanked him, and we headed back to the door.  Louisa stepped in front of me.  “Joseph.  I forgot you live here.”

“You’re here for the Eleanor Spencer murder.”

“Yes.”

Detective Burns came over. “Joseph? What are you doing here?”

“The editor sent me over to cover the story.”

“There’s nothing to cover.  We just got here,” he said.

“You can’t be here, Joe,” Louisa said.  “I thought you were covering the obits.  You certainly added a bit of life to their stories.”

She never did give me much credit as a journalist, even when I did as she’d asked and all but ruined my career.  It was basically the reason we broke up.

“I can help with this case.”

Detective Burns didn’t like me.  He had never liked me and had warned Louisa that I would betray her confidence.  I didn’t, but I suspected he had to another reporter, a rival reporter working for another newspaper.  He glared at me, “You’re a hack, Bateman.”

I wondered if Louisa remembered what I had told her about why I was living in the Spenser Building.  It was a long time ago, and she had always been preoccupied with becoming the best detective in the police department.

A measure of that was proved by her assignment to such a high-profile case.

She turned to Burns, “You go up and find out where forensics are, and if the medical examiner is on site.”

“You don’t think this fool knows anything?”

“Go.  I’ll be there directly.”  Back to me, she said, as we watched him go through the front entrance, “He thinks you told another reporter, but I knew Jaimie was playing him.  I think you did, too, but I didn’t believe for a minute it was you. There was nothing I could do.  I’m sorry.  In more ways than one.  Walk with me.”

We went into the building, heading for the elevator lobby.

If I remember correctly, and it was a moment when we were both a lot tipsy, a woman came to the front door, invited you to a gallery showing or some such, and when I asked who it was, you said it was your mother.”

“I might have said something silly like that.”

“I also remember seeing her in a magazine a week later with you in the background, and it was our victim, Mrs Spenser.  I also dismissed what you said because your name was Bateman, not Spenser.”

“That is true.”

“If you are who you say you are, then how did you get the name Bateman?”

“My adoptive parents, the Batemans.

“But if you are her child, how?”

“Born to a mother who got pregnant a year before her first marriage, out of wedlock, and sent to a foster home.  She is my mother.  Later, she spent a fortune to find me, then kept our secret.  However, that’s just grist to the mill.  You need to know that I was one of three people to see her alive.  There was a dinner party with eight guests, and when I left, there was only one other person, the lover.  I have information and want to help.”

“Is your apartment the same as before?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will look at the crime scene and then come and see you.  It will be strictly off the record.  OK. Oh, and if you killed her, you will feel the full weight of my wrath.”

“Fine.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025