5 Off-the-Beaten-Path Things to Do in Skopje: Discover the Hidden Soul of North Macedonia
When you think of Skopje, North Macedonia’s capital, you might picture the iconic Stone Bridge, the towering statue of Alexander the Great, or the eclectic mix of neoclassical and Ottoman architecture. But beyond the postcard-perfect landmarks lies a lesser-known side of Skopje—quiet alleyways, artistic havens, and authentic local experiences that most tourists miss. If you’re craving something deeper than the typical itinerary, lace up your walking shoes and step off the beaten path. Here are five unique and local-favourite things to do in Skopje that will give you a genuine taste of the city’s soul.
1. Roam the Artist’s Quarter in Čair’s Hidden Courtyards
Tucked away in the bustling Čair neighbourhood—a mosaic of cultures and communities—you’ll find Skopje’s underground art scene thriving in unexpected places. Move past the main streets and into the quiet, ivy-covered courtyards where local artists convert old Ottoman-era houses into studios, galleries, and impromptu exhibition spaces.
Visit during the Čair Fest (if your trip aligns in summer) or simply wander during daylight hours. Knock gently—many artists welcome curious visitors with a warm Zdravo and a cup of Turkish coffee. These intimate encounters offer a refreshing contrast to commercial galleries and reveal the creative heartbeat of the city.
Pro Tip: Bring cash—many artworks are for sale at surprisingly reasonable prices.
2. Hike to Kale Fortress at Sunrise (and Skip the Crowds)
While the medieval Kale Fortress is a popular attraction, most tourists visit midday when the heat and crowds peak. Instead, set your alarm and hike up from the Old Bazaar at sunrise. The path is steep but short, and as you climb through dew-kissed cobblestones, you’ll likely have the ancient ramparts all to yourself.
Watching the city slowly awaken from this vantage point—mist rising off the Vardar River, minarets silhouetted against a peach-colored sky—is pure magic. Plus, you’ll spot resident cats napping in sunlit nooks and hear only birdsong and the occasional call to prayer.
Bonus: Bring a thermos of strong Macedonian coffee and enjoy a quiet moment in history.
3. Discover the Forgotten Macedonian Railway Museum
Tucked behind the main train station and often overlooked, this modest museum is a goldmine for history buffs and train enthusiasts. Inside a converted 1920s depot, vintage locomotives, archival photographs, and meticulously restored railcars tell the story of Balkan railway development.
Curator Ljubčo, a retired engineer with decades of experience, often volunteers his time—and his stories. He’ll regale you with tales of cross-border journeys during Yugoslavia, smuggled contraband, and the secret role trains played during political upheavals.
Why it’s special: It’s personal, unpolished, and deeply nostalgic—no admission fee, just gratitude.
4. Sip Mint Tea in a Hidden Hammam Garden
Tucked behind a plain doorway near the Old Bazaar, Čarši Hamam—once a bustling Ottoman bath—now hosts a tranquil tea garden few know about. While the structure remains unrestored, locals and expats have claimed the inner courtyard as a peaceful retreat.
Pull up a wooden stool, order a glass of warm mint tea or rakija infused with quince, and listen to live acoustic music on weekend evenings. The crumbling tile walls, dappled sunlight, and scent of rosewater create an atmosphere that feels centuries old and refreshingly current.
Insider detail: The entrance is easy to miss—look for a faded green archway between two spice stalls.
5. Take a Ferry to the “Island” (Gazi Baba’s Secret Retreat)
Just a short bus ride from the city centre, the Vardar River widens into a calm stretch dotted with a little-known artificial island known locally as “Ostrvo” (The Island). Locals flock here on weekends to escape the urban buzz, lounging on grassy banks, grilling pljeskavica, or swimming cautiously in calmer eddies.
For a unique experience, hop on a hand-rowed wooden ferry operated by a retired fisherman named Tome. For just 50 denars (less than $1), he’ll ferry you across, offering a quick history lesson en route. Once there, enjoy fresh kiselo mleko (yogurt drink) from a pop-up stand and watch local fishermen mend their nets.
Best time to go: Late afternoon on a weekday—fewer people, golden light, unforgettable views.
Final Thoughts: Skopje Rewritten
Scopje is often misunderstood—a city caught between epochs, aesthetics, and identities. But for those willing to wander beyond the curated city centre, it reveals itself in murmurs: a poet reading in a courtyard, a whiff of rose oil from an open window, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer.
These five experiences aren’t just “things to do”—they’re invitations to connect. To slow down. To listen. To become part of Skopje’s quiet, unfolding story.
So next time you’re in town, skip the statue selfies (at least for a morning) and let the city surprise you. The road less travelled in Skopje isn’t just scenic—it’s soul-stirring.
Have you discovered your own hidden gem in Skopje? Share your offbeat adventures in the comments below!
Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.
We met the Blaines at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaines frequently visited and had recommended.
Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’. It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.
It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over. It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.
Aside from the half-frown, half-smile, Alison was looking stunning. It had been months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary. On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to. She had adored it and me, for a week or so after.
For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.
She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars get on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds of silence, and many more gasps.
I even had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room. Once more, I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me. Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others out there who were more appealing.
Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight. She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.
More than once, I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”
Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together. It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement. Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.
The battle lines were drawn.
Jimmy was looking fashionable, with a permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and a designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it. Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.
The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out, she had straightened it. And took the moment to look deeply into my soul. It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.
Then it was gone.
I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me. A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.
When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.” It was not a question, but a statement.
I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’, but I accepted it with good grace. Sometimes, Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand. I guessed she was talking about the new job. “It was supposed to be a secret.”
She smiled widely. “There are no secrets between Al and me, are there, Al?”
I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.
I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al. I tried it once and was admonished. But it was interesting that her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not. It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.
Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil. As I understood it, the Blaines were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in. I didn’t ask if the Blaines thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.
And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realised I was looking at both of them. I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand. And yet, apparently, Alison did. I must have missed the memo.
“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”
No secrets. Her look conveyed something else entirely.
The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us. It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me. We were going to need it.
Then, a toast.
To a new job and a new life.
“When did you decide?” Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.
Alison had a strange expression on her face. It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind. Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.
Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realised it would be churlish, even silly, if I made a scene. I knew what I wanted to say. I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine or upsetting Alison. This was not the time or the place. Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.
Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing. If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decided there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control. “It’s the little things. They all add up until one day …” I shrugged. “I guess that one day was today.”
I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real? Or, I told you he’d come around.
I had no idea the two were so close.
“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me. I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points. It was all I could come up with at short notice.
“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted. “Alison was off to get some studying in with one of her friends.”
“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up and immediately got the ‘shut up, you fool’ look that cut that line of conversation dead. Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.
It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose. Care to join me, Al?”
A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend. “Yes.”
I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation. I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.
I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.
There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show. I was quite literally gob-smacked.
I drained my champagne glass, gathering some courage and turned to him. “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up. You know Alison is doing her law degree.”
He looked startled when he realised I had spoken. He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed. Or perhaps it was deliberate. She’d definitely had some enhancements done.
He dragged his eyes back to me. “Yes. Elaine said something or other about it. But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week. Perhaps I got it wrong. I usually do.”
“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.” I shrugged as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again. “This week or next, what does it matter?”
Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart. It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; she might have been telling me lies. If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?
We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”
“Trouble, I suspect. Definitely more money, but less time at home.”
“Oh,” raised eyebrows. Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details. “You sure you want to do that?”
At last, the voice of reason. “Me? No.”
“Yet you accepted the job.”
I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him. Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him. “Jimmy, between you and me, I haven’t as yet decided one way or another. To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”
“Barclay?”
“My boss.”
“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay who recently moved into the tower a block down from us. I thought I recognised the name.”
“How did Elaine get the job?”
“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”
“When?”
“A couple of months ago. Why?”
I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker. I felt sick, faint, and wanted to die all at the same moment. “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time. Too busy with work, I expect. I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”
I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted, and I knew I had to keep it together. I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down. I sucked in some deep breaths and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.
And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown. Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”
Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth. It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction. It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.
When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and me. I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, but it didn’t matter. If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact that I took over the dining engagement did. She knew well enough that the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket. She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.
But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points. Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine. She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.
Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly. I chose to ignore her and pretend nothing had happened, rather than tell her how much I was enjoying the evening.
She had her ‘secrets’. I had mine.
At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent-up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me. It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, that Jimmy came looking for me. I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse. When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was, but neither made any comment.
It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which, to a large degree, it was for the other three. But I had achieved what I set out to do: to play them at their own game, watching the deception once I knew there was one, as warily as a cat watches its prey.
I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree. It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.
We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaines back to the Upper West Side. But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer. She showed concern for my health and asked me what was wrong. It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.
She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it. Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.
And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.
It left me confused and lost.
I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.
And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.
“I Swallowed the World and It Came Out as Words”: The Immortal Legacy of Martha Gellhorn
There are writers who sit in quiet rooms, crafting worlds from the safety of imagination. And then there are writers like Martha Gellhorn.
To read Gellhorn is to understand that writing, at its absolute best, is not merely an art form—it is an act of digestion and survival. Famously reflecting on her life as one of the twentieth century’s greatest war correspondents, she once wrote: “I swallowed the world and it came out as words.”
It is a staggering metaphor. It suggests a writer who didn’t just observe history from a distance; she consumed it, absorbed its toxic realities, felt its crushing weight, and then metabolised it onto the page.
In this post, we’re going to explore the profound meaning behind Gellhorn’s iconic quote, look at her extraordinary life on the front lines, and discover what modern writers and seekers can learn from her voracious appetite for truth.
The Appetite of a Witness: What It Means to “Swallow the World”
Most people spend their lives trying to filter out the harshness of the world. We look away from conflict, sanitise our news feeds, and build comfortable cocoons.
Martha Gellhorn did the exact opposite. With a fierce, unblinking gaze, she threw herself directly into the maw of global catastrophe.
When Gellhorn said she swallowed the world, she was describing radical empathy paired with relentless curiosity. She didn’t parachute into a war zone to file a quick story and catch the next flight out. She lived with the refugees, shivered in the trenches, smelled the cordite, and witnessed the devastation wrought on ordinary human beings.
Spain (1937): She covered the Spanish Civil War alongside Ernest Hemingway (her future husband), focusing not on the grand strategy of generals, but on the terror of civilians cowering under fascist bombing raids.
Normandy (1944): Denied press accreditation as a woman, she smuggled herself onto a hospital ship on D-Day, locking herself in a bathroom until she could step ashore as a stretcher-bearer to witness the carnage firsthand.
Dachau (1945): She was among the first journalists to enter the Dachau concentration camp, producing dispatches that captured the silent, skeletal horror of the Holocaust with devastating clarity.
To swallow the world means to refuse numbness. It means taking in the suffering, the beauty, the politics, and the paradoxes of the human experience without spitting out the bitter parts.
The Alchemical Process: When It “Came Out as Words”
Swallowing the world is only the first half of the equation. The true alchemy lies in the second: “…and it came out as words.”
For Gellhorn, writing was not about ego or personal branding. It was a moral imperative. The things she ingested—the injustice, the bravery, the institutional failures—had to be transformed into language, or they would tear her apart from the inside.
Her prose style was the direct result of this digestion process:
Relentlessly Direct: She had no patience for flowery adjectives or intellectual posturing. When you are writing from the ruins of Madrid or the liberated ashes of Europe, fluff is a luxury you cannot afford.
Deeply Human-Centric: While male contemporaries often focused on hardware, tactics, and troop movements, Gellhorn focused on the cook, the mother, the child, and the soldier. Her words gave faces to statistics.
Unapologetically Outspoken: Gellhorn believed that “objectivity” was often a coward’s excuse for neutrality in the face of evil. Her words always took a side—the side of the victim, the oppressed, and the truth.
Her writing wasn’t manufactured in a vacuum; it was forced out of her by the sheer gravity of what she had witnessed.
Why Gellhorn’s Legacy Matters Today
In our modern digital landscape, we are constantly “swallowing the world.” Through smartphones, social media algorithms, and 24-hour news cycles, we ingest a firehose of global trauma, outrage, and information every single day.
Yet, much of this digital consumption leaves us feeling hollow, paralysed, and cynical. Why? Because we consume without metabolising. We scroll, but we do not create; we react, but we rarely reflect.
Martha Gellhorn’s legacy offers a powerful antidote to modern burnout and information fatigue:
Be Present: You cannot write about—or understand—the world if you view it only through a screen. Engage with reality directly, deeply, and without filters.
Find Your Purpose: Gellhorn didn’t write to be famous; she wrote because bearing witness was her duty. Anchor your creative output in something larger than yourself.
Honor the Truth: In an era of misinformation and spin, Gellhorn’s uncompromising commitment to factual, boots-on-the-ground reality is a masterclass for journalists and content creators alike.
Final Thoughts: What Have You Swallowed Today?
Martha Gellhorn lived a life that was staggering in its scope, courage, and output. She didn’t just report on history; she ingested it, digested it, and left behind a body of work that continues to challenge and inspire.
Her famous quote leaves us with a lingering, provocative question as writers, creators, and human beings:
What kind of world are you swallowing—and what are your words doing with it?
If we dare to open our eyes and truly take in the reality around us, our words, too, might carry the weight, the passion, and the undeniable truth of a life fully lived.
Did this quote by Martha Gellhorn resonate with you? Who are your favourite literary war correspondents or truth-tellers? Let us know in the comments below!
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 them.
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!
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…
——
A second report from Blinky’s surveillance of the castle had Leonardo on the move, and a second shadowy person following them.
It had to be Jackerby, Atherton thought. Jackerby would be the only one who didn’t trust anyone, or, perhaps, he had more murderous intentions. Maybe he had worked out that Leonardo was rapidly becoming a liability.
Or he had some other agenda.
“How many of resistance are waiting at the barn?” Atherton asked the soldier.
“Four. The fifth went to find them.”
“OK. Carlo, take some of the soldiers and stop them.”
He grinned. At last.
“I’ll deal with the other man.” I whistled and Jack came over. “We have a job to do, Jack.” He had no idea what I was saying, but his enthusiasm was obvious.
“Taking any prisoners,” Blinky asked.
“If the situation warrants it, but if the fire on us, we fire back.”
“And, once that’s done?”
“We retake the castle.”
“Sounds a bit like a story out of a Boys Own annual.”
“It does. It’ll certainly make a good story to tell your grandchildren one day.”
“If we make it back.”
“We will. If we’re careful and don’t take unnecessary risks. I won’t be bringing a prisoner back. If it’s Jackerby, I have a score to settle with him.”
“Don’t let revenge cloud your judgment.”
“I won’t. See you soon.”
When we reached the woods, on the opposite side of the castle, I planned to come at Jackaby from an angle he would not be expecting anyone.
From the moment we entered the woods, Jack went into what I would call stealth mode as if he was hunting. In a sense he was, and perhaps he knew instinctively what we were looking for.
It took about a half-hourof carefully moving through the woods to get to a point where I could just see Jackerby, sitting beside a tree, watching the barn. I moved a little closer, and the change of angle brought Leonardo and two other men of the resistance, sitting behind the barn, and one of sentry duty, waiting for the fifth to return.
I turned back to see where Jack was, but he had gone off. A rabbit perhaps, or something else.
I moved closer; Jackerby’s attention was fully on the resistance members, so he would not hear me coming.
What was he doing? He was taking an enormous risk coming out of the castle alone or did he think that if I was clever enough to have the castle under surveillance, he could assume I might be stupid enough to follow him.
It was an interesting thought, broken by the sudden rustling through the undergrowth, and then a yelp, as Jack launched himself at Jackerby, taking him completely by surprise, then, when Jackeby tried to get a gun in hand, Jack attacked that hand.
Long enough for me to get there, gun in hand. “Stop resisting, or I’m sure Jack will do some serious damage to that hand.”
It looked serious enough to me.
“So, this is where you’re hiding?”
“Enough, Jack.”
Curiously, the dog stopped, but remained menacingly close, growling.
“I should have shot that dog when I had the chance.”
Jack moved forward and growled in his face, baring his teeth, and Jackerby shrank back.
“Don’t upset him. He obviously doesn’t like you.”
Our attention was interrupted by gunfire, and a glance over to the barn saw two men with their hands up against the wall, and the two on the ground, including Leonardo. Carlo was in the process of ‘interrogating’ the other two.
“Carlo is not a happy man, Jackerby. And I promised him five minutes alone with you.”
Another glance over at the barn, Carlo was kicking one of the men who had fallen on the ground, with enthusiasm. I didn’t rate the man’s chances of surviving. “You really shouldn’t have let Leonardo mistreat Chiara or Martina, wherever you’ve got her.”
“She is still alive. We can do a deal here, Atherton.”
“The trouble I have with anything you say is that I can’t believe you. I’m sure you’d say or do anything to stay alive and renege the moment you got back to the castle.”
“I give you my word as an officer. We are, like you, men of honor.”
I shook my head. “You’re Gestapo, or worse, Jackerby. And they, as far as I’m concerned, are the lowest of the low, little more than murderous thugs. No.”
I aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.
The only way Jackerby was leaving the woods was as dead weight.
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 that I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment, was the fact that 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. Other 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 that if he were, 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 it. “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 that 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.”
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.
…
Aside from working on what I was going to tell my mother, and Boggs for that matter, where I’d been all night, the last thing I could say was that I spent the night with Nadia.
It had a curious ring to it when I said to myself, I slept with Nadia. Most people would take it the wrong way, but, by a quirk of fate, it was true. I guess that little gem of truth would have to stay locked away in my head.
One the other hand, if I told my mother I was out doing reconnaissance work for Boggs, she would get very angry, messing around in Boggs’ fantasies. She had no time for people who didn’t want to get a job, and work hard for a living.
At least I’d gone up in her estimation when I started working for the Benderby’s.
But the reconnaissance line would work with Boggs, and all I had to do was come up with a plausible set of circumstances he would believe. At the moment, all I had was Alex going to the mall, and that I waited to see when he came out. The question I would pose, what was he doing in there for four or five hours.
All I had to do was hope Alex had been out of town and Boggs hadn’t seen him. Always a chance of coming unstuck. Perhaps I should just not volunteer anything.
As for my mother, I couldn’t say I was working overtime for Benderby. She was likely to call him and tell him off for making me work so hard.
I was still no further advanced on that point when I got to the library.
It was a familiar place for me, and I had spent a lot of my time there escaping the real world, and of course, being able to keep away from Alex and Vince.
The librarian, Gwen, had been there for a hundred years or more, or so they said, and she should have retired about 20 years ago.
Pity the poor mayor who got the job of telling her to leave. Three had tried, and three had failed. The current incumbent was smarter than that. He just hired an assistant and told her that she had no problems handing over the reins when she was ready.
That woman, Winifred Pankhurst, no relation to the suffragette, was quiet, polite but firm in doing her duties and dealing with the public. She and I had butted heads a few times, especially when Gwen wasn’t in, but today was not going to be one of those days.
I could see Gwen in her office, and headed straight there, under Winnie’s watchful eye. And no, I didn’t dare call her Winnie. Her name, she said, was Miss Pankhurst thank you very much.
Gwen looked up as I knocked on the door, and she smiled.
“Long time no see.”
It had been several weeks. The job and everything else had made it less of a priority to get there,
“New job, crazy hours. Never thought I’d become a working stiff.”
“About time. All that talent being wasted.”
I came in and sat down opposite her.
“How are you?”
“Getting old.”
For her to admit that was a worry. She was, last time I checked, somewhere between 93 and 95. She never quite told anyone her actual date of birth, not even the Mayor’s office who employed her. And she didn’t look a day over 80. Good, clean living she said.
“Isn’t that inevitable?”
“For some of us. Now, enough of being maudlin, what can I do for you?”
“What makes you think I want something?”
“That expression. A cat’s curiosity.”
She could still see through me. The only other people who could was my English teacher in the final year at school and my mother.
“What do you know about the Ormiston’s.”
A change in expression on her face told me it was not a surprise I was asking. Alex’s thug had been here earlier, had someone else?
“They’re popular this week. Young Elmer was in here a few days ago asking the same question. I suspect he was working for Alex Benderby.”
The way she said his name, it was with the usual venom used for him. She had a run in with Benderby a long time ago, and she’d never forgotten. Or ever will. That’s why Alex would never get anything from her about anything.
“He was.”
“Is this in relation to the treasure you and that lad Boggs are searching for?”
Of course, she’d know who and what was going on in this town. No one could keep a secret from her. Or her extensive network of old ladies in the knitting club.
“Boggs seems to think he had some idea of where it might be, though I’m not so sure. I just go along for the ride, it balances out the depressive life we have to live living here.”
“Oh, come now. It’s not all that bad.”
“Perhaps not, now that I have a job. What can you tell me, if there’s anything to tell?”
“Ormiston was as bad if not worse than the Boggs, father and son alike. He had the treasure bug too. Obsessed. In the end drove away his wife and family, eventually ran out of money after mounting six different search operations, and then, when that happened, sold the land to the Navy. Quite an extensive area, about 100 square miles or so, from the coast back to the fault line. Used to be a lake, once, now it’s just a dustbowl.”
A fault line? This was something Boggs didn’t know about, and it could be significant. But just how significant?
Is that depression speaking, or am I just tired from all the late nights?
Unlike most writers, authors and bloggers I don’t have a day job. You could say it’s one of the benefits of getting old, this retirement thing, but after a while, not having a reason to get out of bed starts working on your subconscious.
The idea of having a job, and going to work, is a good reason to drag yourself out of bed every morning. And because of this, the idea of sleeping in takes on a whole new meaning.
You know, I’ll just lie here for a few more minutes, and then I’ll get up. Having turned off the alarm, the eyelids flutter, and before you know it, half an hour had passed, and you wake up in fright, knowing you’re going to be late.
In retirement, that doesn’t happen. There is no alarm, there is no guilty pleasure in spending those extra minutes in bed.
Of course, this tardiness, or lack of desire could be because I find I do my best writing in the dead of night, often not getting to bed before 2 a.m. Last night it was a little later because of a story I’m working on came to life with a new idea.
It had been stagnating because it’s part two and whilst I had an idea about where it was going to go, in the end, we’re off in a different direction, and the words flowed. You just don’t stop writing when you hit a vein.
But this isn’t always the case. This morning I have an excuse to stay in bed, but most others I don’t.
Perhaps I should find something else to do, something that will give me that same reason I used to have to get up every morning.
Or maybe I should be more organized in my retirement life, you know, set a schedule and do things according to a timetable. I was never one for being organized, but perhaps it’s time to start.
Just let me lie here for a few more minutes and think about that.
The Tricksy Zero Draft: Taming the Beast of Writer’s Block
Writer’s block – that mythical monster that lurks in the deepest recesses of our minds, waiting to pounce and paralyse our creative output. Many a writer has fallen prey to its insidious grasp, staring blankly at a blinking cursor or a stack of pristine paper, unable to conjure even a single inspired sentence.
Among the most formidable foes in this battle is the Zero Draft. This elusive entity is the antithesis of progress, a paltry, unformed mass that masquerades as a first draft. It’s the when-in-Rome, throw-every-idea-against-the-wall, see-what-sticks approach that can leave even the most seasoned writers floundering in a sea of confusion and self-doubt.
So, how do you vanquish this devious demon and finally break free from its stranglehold on your writing muse? Here are a few battle-tested strategies to help you rise triumphant over the Zero Draft:
Lower Your Expectations: Recognise that your first pass at a piece of writing will rarely, if ever, be perfect. It’s the rough blueprint, the scaffolding upon which you’ll build something more substantial later on. Don’t expect to craft a masterpiece in a single, inspired burst; instead, focus on getting words on the page, no matter how messy or imperfect they may be.
Set a Timer and Write Drunk: Inspired by the famous Ernest Hemingway anecdote, this technique involves setting a timer for a fixed interval (20-30 minutes works well) and writing as freely and uninhibitedly as possible during that time. The resulting output may be chaotic, but it’s often a rich source of raw material to mine for later polishing and refinement.
Change Your Environment: Sometimes, a change of scenery can work wonders for sparking creativity and banishing the Zero Draft. Try writing in a different location, or at a different time of day. Even a simple rearrangement of your usual writing space can help jumpstart your imagination.
Collaborate with a Writing Buddy: The old adage “misery loves company” holds true when it comes to writer’s block. Having a fellow writer to share the struggle with can provide a much-needed motivational boost. Set a regular writing schedule with your partner and hold each other accountable for making progress, no matter how small.
Reward Progress, Not Perfection: Give yourself small rewards for reaching certain milestones, even if your writing is still far from polished. This could be something as simple as a favourite meal, a walk in the park, or an extra hour of reading time. By focusing on the journey rather than the destination, you can maintain a sense of momentum and purpose even when the words aren’t flowing as freely as you’d like.
In the end, the Zero Draft is merely a challenge to be overcome, a hurdle on the path to crafting something truly remarkable. By adopting these strategies and maintaining a stubborn commitment to the writing process, even the most intractable blocks can be breached
Trouble rarely knocks on the front door and announces itself. It always comes disguised as something else.
I learned this first-hand early one morning when my older brother, Joey, knocked on the front door at 2:30 am, something he had never done before, and when I opened the door, he fell down and said four words: “it wasn’t my fault,” then bled to death on the doorstep before I could get an ambulance.
What wasn’t his fault?
That I learned about ten minutes after I called emergency services. A police car and a black sedan arrived out the front of our house.
I’d seen enough police TV shows to realise the black car was most likely the FBI, and my brother had been into some serious crime.
Or my father had finally stepped over that invisible line, but what did that have to do with Joey?
In Joey’s case, he had always maintained no one was getting hurt; it was just the redistribution of wealth. He was dumb enough to believe what he was told.
I thought it was too good to be true.
After calling 000, I went next door to Dr Rogers’ house and pounded on the door. He was used to people in our neighbourhood doing that because he took only a minute to answer.
Now it would be to tend a dead brother lying lifeless half in and out of the doorway. And that I was home alone.
We could hear the sirens on the cold night air. All he said was, “Where is he?”
It was not the first time I had to call on him for my brother.
“I think he’s dead.”
He reached back to get his bag, and we walked quickly to our. He shook his head when he saw the body and that it was not moving.
The harsh orange coloured light from the overhead porch light cast an ethereal glow over what could be described as a macabre scene out of a horror movie.
He checked the usual places for a pulse and then saw the bullet wounds in his back. “He’s lucky he made it to here. You didn’t hear any gunshots”?
It sounded matter-of-fact, but I knew it was hurting him. He had delivered all of us children and had watched us grow up.
“I only heard the pounding in the door.”
The doctor stood and looked at the decking around the body, and then followed a trail of blood coming from the street. I followed the doc.
He stopped by the pole that had a street light barely illuminating the ground below. Pooled blood. Someone had brought him home and helped him to the door.
Then left him to die. Someone who Joey had called a friend, who he believed had his back.
The doc muttered to himself. We could see the police car coming towards us, siren blaring and lights flashing. We made it back to the porch just as the cars screeched to a halt.
Two officers and two men in suits.
Another police car arrived; officers jumped out and began securing the scene, pushing the growing group of onlookers back.
People had started to wake up and either come out the front and stand on their verandas or peer through the front windows.
For some it was an event to watch, others the culmination of a series of violent events that had taken over their street, and sadly our house was the epicentre.
This was not going to help me.
Not any more. My parents had resisted the courts dragging me off to child welfare after Joey’s last arrest, saying my house was not a suitable environment because of my brother’s criminal activities, and the fact my father wasn’t quite operating a legitimate business.
My mother was at her wits’ end, having finally issued an ultimatum to her husband and her two eldest sons. My sister, Anna, had been sent to her grandmother’s two states away.
Perhaps I might share the same fate.
There was only one certainty in all of this: the fact that my mother was not a criminal, and to keep her reputation, if not her sanity, she would have to leave. She had threatened it, and I knew it would happen.
If she was here now, she would have broken down and cried.
The second police car had the sergeant who had last visited, and had reluctantly left me in situ based on now broken promises.
There was not going to be negotiations this time.
..
I think that Sergeant Donovan was glad to see that the doc was with me. He wasn’t going to ask a question he knew I would have to lie about.
He knew my mother was at the hospital, on night shift because it paid more and kept us afloat. My father gave money when she nagged enough, but it was never enough, and if it wasn’t for her mother, we would not be living in the house.
We lived rent- and utility bills free. We had to find the rest.
Alex, my other brother, was out; where I didn’t know and didn’t ask. He was slowly worming his way into Joey’s organisation, against all advice. For all I knew, he could be lying dead in a back alley somewhere.
I had no inclination to join, or associate with them, as much as they tried intimidation. The leader was a boy not much older than Joey’s, tougher, meaner and street-savvy. But, after all said and done, just a boy, out of his depth.
The Sergeant knew who he was and with this development, hell was about to rain down on him and his neighbourhood gang cohorts.
The two FBI guys had stood back until her arrived. He looked at the body, then the doctor who shook his head, then looked at me.
“What happened?”
I looked at the body, which was once my brother. It was the precise moment tears came as the full weight of what happened hit me.
“He’s dead.”
An ambulance, lights flashing but no siren, arrived, and the paramedics came, walking quickly.
“Who’s inside?”
I think he knew. “Just me. Mom’s at work, and Alex is- I don’t know where.”
He shook his head, refraining from saying what he thought. Instead, “Have you told your mother?”
That’s when I realised I hadn’t, too wrapped up in the horror of it all.
Perhaps the Sarge realised that it was all too much for me because he put a hand on my shoulder and said, “None of this is your fault. If you have your mother’s phone number, I’ll call her.”
I went inside and got the cell phone she had left for emergencies. I guess this qualified. It was the only number available. I gave it to him.
The paramedics were checking Joey and talking to the doc. There was nothing they could do for him. One of the two remained with the body; the doc was taken aside for an interview. The other paramedics took me to the ambulance and checked.
I watched the sergeant animatedly talking to my mother, though I suspect he would not be making any headway. Being told your eldest son had been found shot dead and lying on your doorstep would have a profound effect on you.
A new truck had arrived with crime scene investigators who were getting dressed and propping before examining the crime scene, even if the crime had been perpetrated elsewhere.
…
An hour had passed, the doc had gone home, the paramedics had gone, and the coroner had replaced them. Forensics had collected everything they considered relevant, and then the body was removed, and would be taken to the morgue for a post-mortem, and my mother would have to go there and verify it was her son.
That was going to be brutal, but at least he didn’t die in front of her. That image was going to live with me for a long time.
The sergeant had come over after the call to my mother saying she would be coming home as soon as she could.
I had no phone number for my father, and had found it easier to deal with his absence from our house by pretending he didn’t exist
Alex still hadn’t come home, but if I knew him, seeing all the flashing lights and police, he would be, more likely than not, in hiding somewhere near.
The Sergeant had held off questioning me until my mother arrived. In the meantime, Mrs Quick, who lived on the other side, had come over and identified herself as a family friend and stayed with me.
When we were alone, she asked, “What happened?”
“Joey is dead.”
She knew someone had died on the doorstep, but she didn’t know it was Joey. She was visibly shocked and took a moment before asking the next question. “How did he die?”
“The police say from multiple gunshot wounds. I could see he had been shot in the back.”
“Was he dead when you found him?”
“No. Doc thinks he was helped to the front door, they left, and he knocked on the door. I opened it, and he collapsed, and died a few seconds later.”
“Did he say who killed him?”
I thought about it, but no one other than the police needed to know what he said, not that it was much and certainly not the name of his killer.
My best guess was that he and his fellow criminals were caught in the act of robbing someone or some place and the owner or night-watchman shot at them.
Eight times was a little excessive, and once might indicate there was a group to shoot at. Eight bullets meant he was alone or there were two of them. Alex…
My mother arrived in a police car. She was in tears, and came over straight to Mrs Quick and me.
There was wariness because Mrs Quick, though kind-hearted and helpful, could be a little judgemental. My mother thanked her, then hugged me.
The sergeant gave her some time, then came over. The two men in suits were not FBI but Detectives, one of whom came with him.
It was question time, and I would have to think about the answers I gave them. My father always said never to offer information, and to answer the questions with short, truthful answers, or as close to the truth as possible.
This was simply because he said liars needed to have good memories, and the police were prone to asking the same question seven different ways. I figured he may have been referring to his own experience with police interrogations.
The detective covered the usual ground, but added more. “How did your brother get to the door?”
“The doctor had worked out they arrived by car, he was helped to the door, and whoever helped him left.”
“Any idea who these others were?”
I got a very strange look from my mother. Perhaps she knew something I didn’t.
“No. I was inside, upstairs and was alerted by someone knocking on the door. My room is at the back of the house, not the front, so I didn’t see who dropped him off.”
“Who was he out with tonight?”
“Couldn’t tell you. He was not in the habit of telling me anything, perhaps to stop me from getting involved. I know my brother ran with one of the local gangs. He told me which one, but I didn’t listen because I preferred not to know. They actively try to recruit me, but I wasn’t interested. I know Alex was interested and went off with them more than once. And no, I don’t know where he is.”
It was clear then to them I was not going to be of much use, except from the time of the door knock till he dropped dead. I didn’t tell them what he said.
I think the detectives knew who my brother was, what he had been doing and who he ran with before they came. Neither seemed either surprised or moved that he was dead. One said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss ‘, but I don’t think he meant it.
They switched to my mother, and she seemed to know who he was involved with, and hoped they caught up with them.
Another hour after that, the Sargent left. Nothing more could be done until the morning. He had asked if we could stay somewhere else, but that was impossible at four or five in the morning.
So was sleep, though both of us tried.
Alex, however, was still missing.
…
I never got that night out of my head for a long, long time. I think in the end I finished up hating Joey for ruining everything.
Alex didn’t come home that night.
A week later, the Sergeant came back and filled us in on what had happened.
The next morning there was a police report of a robbery at a 24-hour mini mart not far from our place. There were three masked robbers: a man and two boys. The man had a gun, so it became armed robbery.
The mini mart owner had been robbed before, and after the last time got himself a gun. He put a sign in the front windows that said robbers would be shot.
Shoot them he did. He killed the man, in the process getting shot himself. The two kids with the man turned and ran at the first shot. The mini mart owner continued shooting indiscriminately at the two fleeing.
He thought he hit them but wasn’t sure. By that time he was losing blood and called emergency services. He just managed to see them jump in a vehicle and drive off. No idea what sort of car, but it was driven by someone other than the two.
That was the extent of his statement. Nothing was stolen.
Another report was of a car speeding and crashing into another car parked on the street not far from the minimart. One passenger got out and ran. The car kept going, presumably to drop Joey off.
It was seen leaving our house, and twenty minutes later was cleaned up by a garbage truck when the driver ran a red light.
The passenger who ran got three blocks away before he collapsed, and after discovery the next morning, seeming asleep on a stoop, was discovered to be dead. One of the stray bullets hit him in the leg, and he bled to death.
It was Alex.
The man was one of the gang leaders, and the two who died in the getaway car were kids younger than Alex.
It was a tragedy.
I didn’t know how to process that information, so I just put it out of my mind until the funerals. My mother and I went to her mother’s place, and we stayed there until the police finished with it.
We didn’t go back. Grandma sold it, and we lived with her. My mother tried to get on with her life, but after the funeral of her two sons she seemed to lose interest in everything.
To see half your family wiped out by senseless violent gad to leave a very large scar. The lesson I learned from it: keep on the straight and narrow.
Or do what we did. Sell up and go and live on the other side of the country where no one knew who we were.
