A story inspired by Castello di Briolio – Episode 48

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

——

One of the sentries came running into the church, out of breath and clearly agitated.

Blinky looked at him.  “What is it, man?”

“The reinforcements, sir.”

“Theirs or ours?”

“German.  Staff car, a panzer, and two trucks with soldiers.

He looked at me.  “That’s a little over the top, or have you been more of a pest than usual?”  He sighed.  “How many men are in the castle”

“Twenty-plus, but this is not unexpected, just a little sooner than I was told it might happen.  it simply means they know Meyer is coming.”

“This adds what, another twenty or thirty, and a tank.  I mean, seriously, a tank.  Why?”

“I think the target that we’re here to rescue is far more important than we’re being told.  If he’s part of the V2 rocket program or just rockets in general, what does that suggest to you?”

I had an idea, but I hadn’t really thought too much about it.  But somewhere in my subconscious there had been a movie, rather far-fetched when I saw it, Flash Gordon, a man who flies a rocket into outer space.

No one really believed it was possible, that it was akin to a modern-day fairy tale.  Could it be possible that this one man, Meyer, could make that fairy tale become true?

Was Hitler’s eventual plan to send rockets into space?  He had a chap called Von Braun, why would it matter about Meyer?  Perhaps he wasn’t willing to share this fantastic knowledge.

“You’re talking impossible stuff.  I’m guessing he knows where the rocket factories are, so we can bomb them.  I’d want to stop someone with that knowledge, at any cost.  I guess we’re now going to take out a panzer and kill a few more enemy soldiers.  It might be why we came with explosive.”

Why did it not surprise me that someone knew more than they were letting on?

“Where are they headed, Sarge?”

“The castle.”

“Then we’re going to have to move on them before they get out and about.  A panzer can do some serious damage.  They’ll no doubt park it in the castle walls, so we’re going to need a way in, and out.”

“Got just the man.  In the meantime, Sarge, follow them just to make sure they are going to the castle.”

“Sir.”

…

I searched the compound for Carlo but he had gone missing.  It didn’t take much to guess where he had gone.  I didn’t think he believed he could take on the whole German army on his own, but he would have heard about the new arrivals and gone to have a look where they ended up himself.

Since he knew the other entrances to the castle that none of us did. He would have much better access to the inside than any of us, and no doubt without the fear of being caught.

He was nowhere to be found, though one of Blinky’s soldiers said that he had seen Carlo leaving and thought it wise not to ask him where he was going.

It wasn’t until several hours later, as darkness fell, that both he and the soldier sent to follow the new arrivals, returned together.

Blinky called a conference, it was time to make a plan of attack.

The soldier reported the new arrivals had gone to the castle, in the main gate, and where to beyond that he couldn’t tell.  They closed the gate, and he wasn’t following them in.

Carlo had more information because he had managed to get inside.

He’d even drawn a rough map of the castle and surrounding grounds.  There were a series of lines drawn on that map, and it turned out, Carlo said, these were the drainage tunnels under the castle.

I was surprised to see that the tunnel I had tried to escape in however many days ago that was, was part of that drainage system.

As much as I was equally surprised that the drainage tunnels were big enough to have men walking in, and that they were a much more efficient manner to travel within the castle, via under the castle, useful no doubt in times of battles between the warring Italian cities.

The map also showed four underground entrances, three of which I knew about, the other I should have guessed because they would not have left one direction without an exit.  The reason why no one knew about it was because it looked like the tunnel had collapsed and blocked the way.

That, Carlo said, was just an illusion.

That was going t be our way in.

Our force was small, five soldiers, myself, Enrico and Carlo, and two Resistance defectors.  10 against fifty battle-hardened soldiers.  Of course, Carlo being Carlo said that would not be a problem,. A statement I took with a grain of salt until he said, “We have the means to even the odds.”

He had our undivided attention.

“We use the drains to create a diversion.  The fools have parked their tank and trucks over the drains.  You have brought explosives with timers?”  Carlo looked at Blinky.

“We did.  It was an afterthought.  Thompson thought you might find a use for them.”

“Good.  You have an expert?”

One of the soldiers, Corporal Spellman, put his hand up.  “Tell me where to put them and I’ll make them go boom.”

“You come with me now,” Carlo said to Spellman. “We come back in an hour, maybe a little more, so be ready to leave.”

——-

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

A to Z Blog Challenge – April 2025 – W

…

W is for – Where it all began

…

The view from inside the small room was of four off white walls, a stained ceiling with a small camera and blinking red light in one corner, and the green metal door with a hatch and small closed window.

I was lucky to have a bunk with a thin vinyl cover to lie on so I could spend the time alternating between staring at the roof, the door, and the walls.  Time now to contemplate my fate, a fate no one was sharing with me, at least not yet.

There were two thoughts uppermost in my mind right then.

The first, that cryptic phone call from an anonymous caller, no number displayed, no clue who it was, other than it was female, though these days even that could be manufactured, saying, “They’re coming for you.  Run.”

That was it.  Nothing about who was coming or why.  My life up to that point had been probably the most boring on the planet.  Janet had made that perfectly clear three years before when she left.  And took every cent of our life savings, and sold everything else.

Everything.

So, having nothing, being that boring person, who on earth would want to come for me?

The second, the only question I was asked by the interrogator, and middle-aged, well-dressed man who had secret service written into his DNA, after my ‘arrest’ and the silence from all those involved, following the recitation of my so-called rights to the seat in the interrogation room.

I watched him come into the room, glance up at the blinking red light, probably a feature in every room in that complex, then sit down.

He glared at me in his most intimidating manner, which almost made me laugh, then asked, in a voice that sounded like the result of a fifty-cigarette-a-day habit, “Where is it?”

Of course, the only answer to that question was, “Where is what?”

Another minute of intimidating looks, he shook his head, stood, and left the room.  Three minutes later, two big men came in and escorted me to my current residence, one ‘helping’ me through the door with a hefty shove.

So, I had two pieces of information relating to my fate.  One, I had obviously, to someone at least, done something worthy of needing to escape, and having not heeded the warning, done something worthy of being arrested, imprisoned, and interrogated.

Something that no one was willing to share with me.

That meant I had to go over everything that had happened, at least since Janet left, because before that, I doubt the life of a lowly untended university tutor whose subject was eighteenth-century social history would interest anyone other than a Jane Austen enthusiast.

Perhaps the first day of the rest of my life was when I decided to go to see the pyramids in Egypt.  That wasn’t a reason or anything significant in itself. It was just one of those things that happened on the spur of the moment.

It had been the usual scenario, I thought Janet, the love of my life, had suggested dinner, over which she was going to tell me some great news.

Being the eternal optimist, I thought she was going to formalise our relationship, but instead she said she had been offered a job in the United States, more money, more responsibility, and what’s more there was room for me.

It sounded like an afterthought, and as much as it sounded great, it wasn’t.  She packed, gave me the option, I declined, and she left.

Relationship over.

Two days later, I was on a plane heading for Egypt, oddly enough, anything but heartbroken.  It was like Janet never existed.

But…

I was staring at the slowly rotating fan regurgitating the already hot air in the room, and every movement made me feel hotter and more languid.

It was the fourth day of a five-day tour, with a group of twelve ancient Egyptian enthusiasts, on a lesser-known and cheaper tour.  Cheap meant no air conditioning and enough time to regret not putting more thought into who I selected.

I’d seen as much of the pyramids as anyone could want, realising the reality was not quite on display in the tour brochures, and the heat, dust, and crowds were the final straw.

I had the airline page up on my cell phone and in the middle of checking the flights and costs involved in changing the dates, when there was a knock on the door.

Not being a five-star hotel, perhaps stretching the three-star self-rating, and the only other time was a concierge delivering a carafe of iced cold water and a glass that had seen better days.

Perhaps one of the hotel’s benefits was ice-cold water every four days.  I dragged myself off the bed and over to the door.  It didn’t have one of those spy viewers in the door, so it could be kidnappers, not unheard of, and one of the warnings given to us by the guide on day one

By that point, being kidnapped might have been a welcome distraction.

It was, unfortunately, an American girl, Mary Anne.  I say unfortunately, because we had all had the benefit of her mother’s opinions, often loud and brash, and who took particular delight in humiliating her daughter.

Like a scene out of an Agatha Christie murder mystery film, one of the other tourists said, failing to realise we all fit that description. All we lacked was the murder, though several had expressed their desire to murder Mrs Murgatroyd.

She smiled wanly, a prelude to an impossible request.  “Mother is ill today and won’t be going.  May I come with you? I do not wish to find my way to the office by myself.”

I should have noticed the less apprehensive expression.  I had to say the request surprised me, and she had been cultivating a friendship of sorts with another single male passenger who was more her type.

“I was seriously considering staying in the hotel myself.  I’ve seen enough pyramids, sand, and people, and the thought of going to the museum would only be to take in the air-conditioning.”

“Oh.”

She seemed disappointed, though I was surprised that anyone would be, but that might have had more to do with Janet’s rather abrupt departure, and if viewed very bluntly, abandonment.

“But in this case, I think I can make an exception.  It’s the last day, and it would be a tragedy not to take in the last of the sights.”

“I don’t want to be an imposition.”

“Don’t take any notice of my disposition.  It hasn’t been a great few weeks, and I’m not handling it very well.  Just give me a few minutes to get ready, and I’ll see you down in the restaurant.”

That imaginary fan was still rotating in my mind, and those thoughts of Mary Anne had resurfaced, not because they were memorable, but because they were a catalyst for getting me out of the sea of self-pity I’d been unconsciously sinking into at the time.

She was the sort of girl no one would notice, not exactly a plain Jane but the sort who didn’t put herself out there, dressed unglamorous and didn’t follow fashion or makeup trends, not like Janet.

In fact, she was a polar opposite.

Perhaps that’s why she came back now.  Once I dug deeper into those memories, I could see that she was, under that carefully constructed exterior for the rest of the world to see, she was very beautiful.

I’d not thought about that at the time, and now it was only because I was looking for answers.  Surely, she was not part of the current predicament because our interactions were fleeting and insignificant.  Perhaps, like any man, I was momentarily flattered by the attention of a woman.

Beyond that trip to Egypt, there had been little excitement in my life, just the usual stream of students looking to bolster their grades and the occasional cross-examination by a budding author who wanted background for their eighteenth-century romance novel.

There were no other romantic attachments, several dates set up by a dating app and those were monumental failures, leading to a somewhat half-considered study into becoming a monk at a remote monastery, and vacations at obscure and remote seaside towns out of season, where I was lucky to meet anyone else.

And yet I obviously had, whether consciously or otherwise, or was so forgettable that I could not remember them.

All this driving into the past had given me a headache, and I tried to get some rest.  It was clear I was not going to be leaving my cell or the facility anytime soon.

Someone once told me there was little difference between a dream and a nightmare, only the outcome was different.  You could wake up happy or scared half to death.

Others said that one or the other could be the result of a past experience, whether conscious or not, something that happened to you that you were unaware of at the time, or spooking a premonition of what might happen in the future.

On rare occasions, it might be the resort of a desire, like getting to be with the woman of your dreams, that was quite often totally unavailable.

I wish that were the case.

It was not.  I woke, now screaming, but covered in sweat and yet cold as ice, absolutely terrified.

I was lying on a gurney in a very brightly lit room with two figures, dressed completely in green, faces covered by surgical masks and goggles, one of whom was standing over me, asking over and over, “Where is it?”

And it was very, very real.

Not a premonition, I had a feeling it had happened recently, and I could not remember anything about it.

It was then I realised what my mind had conveniently shovelled into the ‘I don’t want yo remember that experience’ basket.  Three weeks ago, after going out for a drink with work colleagues, I woke up two days later in a hotelbroom, by myself, with no memory of anything that had happened, and when I asked my colleagues they simply said I’d had too much to drink, and one had helped me back to the hotel where I said od booked a room.

Why was I remembering this now?

Why hadn’t I thought more about it at the time?

Who was the colleague who helped me?

Suddenly, it felt like the walls in that small room were closing in on me.  Then I could see someone was in the room, dressed in green, and I began to panic.

I could just hear a voice in the background or perhaps just above me.

“Hurry.  He’s going into cardiac arrest.”

I think that’s where I lost consciousness.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 100

Day 100

Writing Exercise

You need a good first line, one that grabs your attention and makes you want to read on…

…

I woke up that morning believing it would be the first day of the rest of my life.

I stretched and luxuriated in the comfort and warmth of the bed, after a dozen years of suffering a very hard, uncomfortable, and cold cot, if it could be called that.

Prison life had been harsh. Being unjustly imprisoned had been harsher, and the years of battling to have the evidence that finally exonerated me finally paid off.

Release.

Perhaps it was not a coincidence that the day I stepped out of the prison was the day the snow started, the first of the season, bringing with it the winter chill. I would not have survived another winter in that prison.

Perhaps it was also not a coincidence that the ex-girlfriend of the man I had supposedly murdered in a jealous rage arrived on my doorstep the same day I was released. It was her evidence, circumstantial at best, but convincingly relayed in the courtroom, a performance even the newspapers said was worthy of an Academy Award.

She still firmly believed I was guilty, evidence or not, and that I would be damned to hell.

That might be true, but not from the so-called murder of her ex-boyfriend, but the deeds I had to do to survive in what could only be described as hell on earth. I tried to tell her that I’d paid my dues, as unjust as they were, and that was the end of it. She had got her pound of flesh.

The parents of the ex-boyfriend were not as unforgiving and wished me well. They had never believed that I was guilty, no surprises because their son and I had been the best of friends from a very early age, when they moved into the house next door.

Those years were gone, as was the house, and everything else. It had been burned to the ground by a bunch of vigilantes riled up by Samantha, who marched on the house just before my arrest. Nobody was blamed for the deaths of my parents, caught in the fire, but the judge did admonish Samantha, in a monologue that all but handed the blame to her. It was, he said, going to be a battle for her conscience.

Now I had nothing.

My lawyer said it was a clean slate, and to put what I needed into a backpack, and get on the first train out of town. There was nothing for me, no reason to stay.

The very thought in my mind when I woke and looked out at the sea of white, and the steady downfall of snow drifting down from the sky. The forecast was snow for a day or so, then clearing. It would halt the trains, so I would be here for at least another day.

Enough time for Samantha to round up another mob and come burn down the hotel.

That was reason enough not to get out of bed.

Except…

The phone beside the bed rang, one that had a shrill insistence about it.

I slipped out from under the covers, shivered slightly in the cool morning air then picke dup the receiver.

“Yes?”

“There’s a Miss Andrews here to see you.”

Miss Andrews. It was a name that lurked on the fringe of my memory, in the life before prison section, and was not quite coming to me.

“Did she state her business?” I assumed it was a reporter here to get my story, one that they were hoping, no doubt, I would be suing the state for false imprisonment.

“No, but she is insistent she sees you.”

“OK. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”

…

During the time it took to throw on some warm clothes, I ran the name through my recollection of people I’d met, and her name didn’t come up. I expect she was a reporter, or perhaps a junior from a law practice looking to get me to hire them for the law case against the state.

I took the stairs, it was only two flights of stairs, and I needed to warm up. For some reason, the passageways and then the foyer felt cold. The front desk clerk saw me step off the last stair and nodded over towards the fireplace, where some large logs were burning.

Sitting on one of the chairs was a woman, about my age, who looked like someone’s mother. I had no doubt she would appear to be disarming and polite, but then strike like a cobra. IT was how I came to view both Lawyers and reporters.

She had seen me coming from the stairs and stood as I approached.

“Mr Peverell?”

“You could hardly mistake me for anyone else.” Maybe not the first words I would have said, but I was tired, and steeling myself for a pitch.

I saw her mentally brush aside my attitude and smile. “How are you this morning, not that the weather is being polite.” I saw her glance outside through the large panoramic windows. The carpark was slowly disappearing.

“Not the sort of day to be out on a whim,” I said. I still couldn’t place her.

“No, indeed. Please,” she motioned to a chair by the fire, two together.

I sat. She sat, then arranged the layers. It had to be quite warm with the coat she was wearing. She had removed the fake fur hat. It actually looked good on her.

“What is so pressing that you had to see me?”

“I need your help.”

“How could I possibly help you or anyone with anything. You do realise I have just spent twelve years locked away from the real world. I’m lucky to remember my name, let alone anything else.”

Yes, the warden and his officers had tried very hard to take everything from me and all the other prisoners, some of whom would never get out of that prison.

“Of course. But left me to introduce myself. My name is Bettina Whales. I’m a private investigator, and I have been commissioned to find out who murdered David Lloyd-Smythe.”

Odd, but then, it just occurred to me that now I was exonerated, the real killer was still out there. It had been on my mind briefly the day before, but I decided I was over it. The murder had robbed me of 12 years of my life. Enough was enough.

But there was an element of curiosity. “By who?”

“Your wife, of course.”

I shook my head. She had dumped me so fast once I was arrested, it made my head spin. Of course, her parents had probably kidnapped her and kept her prisoner from the day she was arrested until yesterday, but I thought if there was a way she could just tell me why she had abandoned me, it might have been tolerable, but she didn’t.

I had decided long ago that she was gone and I would never see her again.

I shook my head. “I don’t believe you. You are here for some other reason, one I’m not going to like.”

She smiled. “She said you’d say that. And I’ll admit when she explained why you would, I had to say I agreed with you. But she can tell you herself. She’s right over there, coming in the door.”

I stood, faced her, and watched mesmerised. Twelve years had not aged her, not like they had me, and she still had that ability to take my breath away. And she still could command a room simply by walking through it. All eyes, and particularly the men, were on her.

Then she was in front of me. That loose way of standing, the smile, the disarming manner.

“You thought I had forgotten you?”

“I didn;t know what to think, other than a part of me had died.”

“And I am sorry about that, but you know my parents. I had to disappear, lest shame be brought upon the family. Been in Europe, in a castle no less. It took me an age to find the people running your case to get out, and then I had to surrupticiously hire an army of lawyers. The lady behind is the one who found the evidence that got you off. She’s the best of the best. Now we’re going after the person that put you there, the real killer.”

Just like in the old days, the take-charge girl, even if you didn’t want to do anything. She, like her father, had no ‘off’ button.

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Don’t be silly, Pev.” She looked at the private investigator. “Get yourself a room if you haven’t already. Pev and I had things to talk about.” She looked back at me. “I can see you threw something on, so we can go back to your room and talk. Or whatever.” She took my hand. “We have twelve years to catch up. Then we’re going to hunt down the bastard that took you away from me. Miss me?”

I gave her hand a squeeze. “I did.”

She smiled. “Good. I hope you have a good room.”

…

© Charles Heath  2025

Searching for locations: Gollums Pool, New Zealand

Tawhai Falls is a 13-meter high waterfall located in Tongariro National Park.

It is located about 4 km from the Tongariro National Park Visitor Centre, on State Highway 48.

An easy walk takes just 10-15 minutes to reach the waterfall’s lookout.

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The top of the falls.  There was not much water coming down the river to feed the falls when we were there in May

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Tawhai Falls is also the filming location of Gollum’s pool where Faramir and his archers are watching Gollum fish.

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It’s a rocky walk once you are down at ground level, and it may be not possible to walk along the side of the stream if the falls have more water coming down the river from the mountain.

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NANOWRIMO – April 2025 – Day 26

…

The Fourth Son

…

Speaking of old feelings

There is no doubt in the new King’s mind that Ruth is the one, but all the old feelings are being stirred up now that he is back home, and it’s not just being home again.

In a castle that he grew up in, there is a memory both good and bad in every corner, every nook and cranny, in the paintings on the walls, in the rooms he used to play, weather, lounge, and entertainment in, and the people.

Talking about the summer palace long since shuttered, though no reason was ever given, was the place he stole his first kiss, with a girl he was soon to meet again.

She was as horrible to him as she was nice, and it was a short period that he could never reconcile in his mind and had never left but remained in the depths, waiting for the opportunity to resurface.

He was hoping it wouldn’t.

He’d got past Eleanor.

Now he had to get past Isobel.  Standing in the green room because of the green tapestries depicting the valley before the castle, when there were no village roads or farms, quite literally a sea of green.

The green room was the private reception room where the king met privately with other very senior dignitaries, and the first would be Queen Isobel of the other principality.

Isobel was a mystery to him and quite unlike any girl and later woman he ever met, and he put that down to the eccentricities of Royal blood.

He is both excited and filled with dread.

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

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

The blurb:

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

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

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remain.

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

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

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon

 

Searching for locations: Kaikoura, New Zealand, and, of course, the whales

I’m sure a lot of people have considered the prospect of whale watching.  I’m not sure how the subject came up on one of our visits to New Zealand, but I suspect it was one of those tourist activity leaflets you find in the foyer of motels, hotels, and guesthouses.

Needless to say, it was only a short detour to go to Kaikoura and check out the prospect.

Yes, the ocean at the time seemed manageable.  My wife has a bad time with sea sickness, but she was prepared to make the trip, after some necessary preparations.  Seasickness tablets and special bands to wear on her wrist were recommended and used.

The boat was large and had two decks, and mostly enclosed.  There were a lot of people on board, and we sat inside for the beginning of the voyage.  The sea wasn’t rough, but there was about a meter and a half swell, easily managed by the boat while it was moving.

It took about a half hour or so to reach the spot where the boat stopped and a member of the crew used a listening device to see if there were any whales.

That led to the first wave of sickness.

We stopped for about ten minutes, and the boat moved up and down on the waves.  It was enough to start the queasy stomachs of a number of passengers.  Myself, it was a matter of going out on deck and taking in the sea air.  Fortunately, I don’t get seasick.

Another longish journey to the next prospective site settled a number of the queasy stomachs, but when we stopped again, the swell had increased, along with the boat’s motion.  Seasick bags were made available for the few that had succumbed.

By the time we reached the site where there was a whale, over half the passengers had been sick, and I was hoping they had enough seasick bags, and then enough bin space for them.

The whale, of course, put on a show for us, and those that could went out on deck to get their photos.

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By the end of the voyage, nearly everyone on board was sick, and I was helping to hand out seasick bags.

Despite the anti sickness preparations, my wife had also succumbed.  When we returned and she was asked if the device had worked, she said no.

But perhaps it had because within half an hour we were at a cafe eating lunch, fish and chips of course.

This activity has been crossed off the bucket list, and there’s no more whale watching in our traveling future.  Nor, it seems, will we be going of ocean liners.

Perhaps a cruise down the Rhine might be on the cards.  I don’t think that river, wide as it is in places, will ever have any sort of swell.

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

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Writing a book in 365 days – 100

Day 100

Writing Exercise

You need a good first line, one that grabs your attention and makes you want to read on…

…

I woke up that morning believing it would be the first day of the rest of my life.

I stretched and luxuriated in the comfort and warmth of the bed, after a dozen years of suffering a very hard, uncomfortable, and cold cot, if it could be called that.

Prison life had been harsh. Being unjustly imprisoned had been harsher, and the years of battling to have the evidence that finally exonerated me finally paid off.

Release.

Perhaps it was not a coincidence that the day I stepped out of the prison was the day the snow started, the first of the season, bringing with it the winter chill. I would not have survived another winter in that prison.

Perhaps it was also not a coincidence that the ex-girlfriend of the man I had supposedly murdered in a jealous rage arrived on my doorstep the same day I was released. It was her evidence, circumstantial at best, but convincingly relayed in the courtroom, a performance even the newspapers said was worthy of an Academy Award.

She still firmly believed I was guilty, evidence or not, and that I would be damned to hell.

That might be true, but not from the so-called murder of her ex-boyfriend, but the deeds I had to do to survive in what could only be described as hell on earth. I tried to tell her that I’d paid my dues, as unjust as they were, and that was the end of it. She had got her pound of flesh.

The parents of the ex-boyfriend were not as unforgiving and wished me well. They had never believed that I was guilty, no surprises because their son and I had been the best of friends from a very early age, when they moved into the house next door.

Those years were gone, as was the house, and everything else. It had been burned to the ground by a bunch of vigilantes riled up by Samantha, who marched on the house just before my arrest. Nobody was blamed for the deaths of my parents, caught in the fire, but the judge did admonish Samantha, in a monologue that all but handed the blame to her. It was, he said, going to be a battle for her conscience.

Now I had nothing.

My lawyer said it was a clean slate, and to put what I needed into a backpack, and get on the first train out of town. There was nothing for me, no reason to stay.

The very thought in my mind when I woke and looked out at the sea of white, and the steady downfall of snow drifting down from the sky. The forecast was snow for a day or so, then clearing. It would halt the trains, so I would be here for at least another day.

Enough time for Samantha to round up another mob and come burn down the hotel.

That was reason enough not to get out of bed.

Except…

The phone beside the bed rang, one that had a shrill insistence about it.

I slipped out from under the covers, shivered slightly in the cool morning air then picke dup the receiver.

“Yes?”

“There’s a Miss Andrews here to see you.”

Miss Andrews. It was a name that lurked on the fringe of my memory, in the life before prison section, and was not quite coming to me.

“Did she state her business?” I assumed it was a reporter here to get my story, one that they were hoping, no doubt, I would be suing the state for false imprisonment.

“No, but she is insistent she sees you.”

“OK. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”

…

During the time it took to throw on some warm clothes, I ran the name through my recollection of people I’d met, and her name didn’t come up. I expect she was a reporter, or perhaps a junior from a law practice looking to get me to hire them for the law case against the state.

I took the stairs, it was only two flights of stairs, and I needed to warm up. For some reason, the passageways and then the foyer felt cold. The front desk clerk saw me step off the last stair and nodded over towards the fireplace, where some large logs were burning.

Sitting on one of the chairs was a woman, about my age, who looked like someone’s mother. I had no doubt she would appear to be disarming and polite, but then strike like a cobra. IT was how I came to view both Lawyers and reporters.

She had seen me coming from the stairs and stood as I approached.

“Mr Peverell?”

“You could hardly mistake me for anyone else.” Maybe not the first words I would have said, but I was tired, and steeling myself for a pitch.

I saw her mentally brush aside my attitude and smile. “How are you this morning, not that the weather is being polite.” I saw her glance outside through the large panoramic windows. The carpark was slowly disappearing.

“Not the sort of day to be out on a whim,” I said. I still couldn’t place her.

“No, indeed. Please,” she motioned to a chair by the fire, two together.

I sat. She sat, then arranged the layers. It had to be quite warm with the coat she was wearing. She had removed the fake fur hat. It actually looked good on her.

“What is so pressing that you had to see me?”

“I need your help.”

“How could I possibly help you or anyone with anything. You do realise I have just spent twelve years locked away from the real world. I’m lucky to remember my name, let alone anything else.”

Yes, the warden and his officers had tried very hard to take everything from me and all the other prisoners, some of whom would never get out of that prison.

“Of course. But left me to introduce myself. My name is Bettina Whales. I’m a private investigator, and I have been commissioned to find out who murdered David Lloyd-Smythe.”

Odd, but then, it just occurred to me that now I was exonerated, the real killer was still out there. It had been on my mind briefly the day before, but I decided I was over it. The murder had robbed me of 12 years of my life. Enough was enough.

But there was an element of curiosity. “By who?”

“Your wife, of course.”

I shook my head. She had dumped me so fast once I was arrested, it made my head spin. Of course, her parents had probably kidnapped her and kept her prisoner from the day she was arrested until yesterday, but I thought if there was a way she could just tell me why she had abandoned me, it might have been tolerable, but she didn’t.

I had decided long ago that she was gone and I would never see her again.

I shook my head. “I don’t believe you. You are here for some other reason, one I’m not going to like.”

She smiled. “She said you’d say that. And I’ll admit when she explained why you would, I had to say I agreed with you. But she can tell you herself. She’s right over there, coming in the door.”

I stood, faced her, and watched mesmerised. Twelve years had not aged her, not like they had me, and she still had that ability to take my breath away. And she still could command a room simply by walking through it. All eyes, and particularly the men, were on her.

Then she was in front of me. That loose way of standing, the smile, the disarming manner.

“You thought I had forgotten you?”

“I didn;t know what to think, other than a part of me had died.”

“And I am sorry about that, but you know my parents. I had to disappear, lest shame be brought upon the family. Been in Europe, in a castle no less. It took me an age to find the people running your case to get out, and then I had to surrupticiously hire an army of lawyers. The lady behind is the one who found the evidence that got you off. She’s the best of the best. Now we’re going after the person that put you there, the real killer.”

Just like in the old days, the take-charge girl, even if you didn’t want to do anything. She, like her father, had no ‘off’ button.

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Don’t be silly, Pev.” She looked at the private investigator. “Get yourself a room if you haven’t already. Pev and I had things to talk about.” She looked back at me. “I can see you threw something on, so we can go back to your room and talk. Or whatever.” She took my hand. “We have twelve years to catch up. Then we’re going to hunt down the bastard that took you away from me. Miss me?”

I gave her hand a squeeze. “I did.”

She smiled. “Good. I hope you have a good room.”

…

© Charles Heath  2025

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024