An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying.  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humour failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

lovecoverfinal1

The 2am Rant: That moment when you discover you are human after all.

It’s not quite a revelation to discover once you turn 70 that your health and well being decreases, sometimes dramatically.

Perhaps someone should write a manual that should be supplied from the moment we can read to tell us what’s going to happen.

And it’s going to happen whether you like it or not; no one is immune.  People try to stay young, change diet, regimen, start exercising, rue the day they took up smoking and then rue waiting so long to stop.

If only we had our time over…

Doesn’t work like that.  It’s inevitable, sooner or later, it’s going to happen.  The aches and pains, not wanting to get out of bed in the morning, everything taking longer to do…

The aging process catches up with you, and not to put too fine a point to it, like a car or appliance, things start to wear out.

It starts with organs like kidneys, livers, hearts, lungs, you know, those organs you kind of need to keep living.  When you’re young, you don’t think about it, and throw caution and common sense to the seven winds.

After all, who wants to live a boring life?  And we have to try everything at least once.  After all, what doesn’t kill you…

Well, if only we had that manual, with that one word that no one wants to see, consequences, in very large red letters.

So…

Here we are.

Over 70, and the only way is down.

I have psoriasis and psoriatic arthritis.  It took several specialists to get to the right treatment, the first more interested in stringing me along and charging exorbitant fees, to a doctor who took basically one visit to find and start fixing the problem.

It shattered my belief in the medical profession to the point where I don’t and never will fully trust any specialist.

But aside from that, I have the miracle drug Humira that has made my life so much better, but inevitably, drugs can only do so much, and the symptoms are sneaking back.

That’s expected.

It’s the other problems that are making an audience of themselves, such as the back pain, which is not operable, it will only make it worse, joint pains, which pain killers alleviate to the point of bearability.

The cramps and the side effects from other pills like methotrexate and nerve pain remedies, which I now realise I can’t take, at least not with the hallucinations.

I can live with all of that.

But then, out of left field comes the big one.

It’s the new problem, the one all men will suffer at some point.

That pesky thing called a prostate.

It’s not true, no matter how you look at it, that it sneaks up on you.  There are symptoms, plain as day, but these you tend to overlook, because you don’t want to think that something is wrong.

We blame old age; we tell ourselves that it’s just part of the process.

Then my older brother rings and tells me he has stage one prostate cancer.

Just the sort of news you need to start your day.

He’s three years older than I am.

Then, in the same week, your younger brother, 6 years younger, is messaging that he had an enlarged prostate.

What the hell does that mean?

In reality, it means run like hell to your doctor and admit the probabilities of you having a similar problem are very high.

I ran.

So this is how it unfolds…

A urine and PSA test.  The PSA tests are basically a crap shoot, but it’s a start.  Bad news, the PSA level is high.

Enough together me kicked to a specialist.

The anti-specialist fears kick in, and now I have to worry not only about the disease but also the medical profession.

I get an appointment, and just for the first consultation, the fee is eye-watering, with little recompense from the medical insurance.

You can see me drawing similarities with previous experience, seeing a cashed-up retired person willing to spend any amount to survive an extra week.

You read about old people being ripped off every day.  Why should the medical profession be any different, with such a large, largely untapped gold mine called gullible old people?

So… 

A brief consultation that leads to an MRI.  It’s free on the back of two PSA tests showing high numbers within a certain period.  I have to wait a few weeks to fulfil the criteria.

I get the MRI.

The scans show a shadow on film, telling us that something ‘suspicious’ needed to be checked, so the next step is a TP biopsy.

Not good news.  Not a fun time at the hospital.

And before you can say abracadabra its arranged.  Hospital, day surgery, doctor, anaesthetist, and a sheet that tells you about everything that can go wrong.

At least it was not on the back of another huge consultation fee, and the necessity to mortgage the house.

But there are non-refundable fees for the doctor, the hospital, and the anesthesiologist, with no change out of a thousand dollars.  For someone like me, that’s a lot of money just to get a possible death sentence, or worse, a lead in to a treatment that may or may not work, one that will destroy us financially.

Is it worth it?

In my opinion, no.   Others have differing opinions, but that has a lot to do with the idea of having to live without someone you’ve spent most of your life with.

Cancer, if it is, and aggressive as they all seem to be these days, is a sentence, not a word, with far-reaching and devastating consequences.

It’s not going to be an easy subject to discuss, and the anticipation is almost as bad as getting the news, good or bad.

But I’ll know next Monday, one way or another.

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

In a word: Choice

We are often told that it’s the choices we make that shape our lives.

It’s true.

What distinguishes the basis of those choices is the circumstances of the individual.

What a lot of people don’t realize is the diversity of backgrounds of everyone, and that in a minority of cases, the few that really have no choices at all.

Yes, there are those who have no control over their circumstances, and therefore no choice whatsoever.

Inevitably, the people who are first to criticize those who apparently made the wrong choice, are those that have never found themselves in similar circumstances.

And probably never will.

This perhaps is the biggest problem with governments who are staffed with advisors who do not understand the plight of the common man.

I never had the same opportunities as those who could afford a university education.  My family were working class and were relatively poor.  Had I not hot a scholarship who knows what sort of education I would have got, if any.

Certainly, my father never got an opportunity to get a good education, but, at the time, during the great depression, his choices were limited, whereas those with any sort of wealth it was a different story.

And his lack of choices reflected on us, and that lack of opportunity haunted all of us as time passed.

It was always a case of the haves and the have not’s.

Yes, we all have choices, but sometimes it really is the lesser of two evils, and not whether we will have the fillet or the rib eye steak.

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 22

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 in 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…

 

When we arrived back at the underground site Martina was waiting, and it was clear she was extremely annoyed.  Word, somehow, had filtered back of what just happened.

“Are you totally mad?” she snarled.  “You know what’s going to happen now?”

I had a good idea but chose not to speak.

“They got what they deserved,” Carlo said.  “They found the missing man that you left on the side of the road, by the way, and it was lucky we were there when they found him.  Whether they believed it was an accident or not, they were heading to Chiara’s, and we had to do something about that.”

“And you didn’t think that might have consequences?”

I think all of us had considered what would happen as a result of what could only be described as an ambush.  And, while I thought, as no doubt the others had also, it might lead to retribution killings, it might not.  Wallace could not afford to be seen acting like the Germans, who certainly would have lined up a dozen villagers and shot them and might not do anything.

But, when he realised I was involved, and that the so-called remnants of the resistance could and were willing to cause him trouble, he would have to do something about it.  Especially with a high-value defector coming his way.

“Wallace certainly can’t do anything about it, other than come and ask questions.  He can’t afford to be seen acting as anything but a British officer.”

“But he could get Leonardo and his men to do it for him.”

“Surely he wouldn’t kill the same people he’s lived with all his life.”

“Leonardo’s allegiance’s go to anyone who hands him a free meal ticket.  Until the so-called British arrived at the castle, it was fine to be the resistance because he was being paid handsomely for his help.  When the Germans left the castle, he considered his job was over, and we all went our different ways, hoping the war was over for us.  Of course, that was only wishful thinking.  Even when the British turned up at the castle, with the express intention of capturing and repatriating to England any Germans who wanted to defect, his advice was to let them do what they want.”

“What changed?”

“The man in charge, Wallace you call him, sent out a message for those who had been in the resistance to come up to the castle to talk.  Leonardo thought it might be an opportunity to get back on the payroll.  Carlo and I and several others didn’t go.  There they were told they would be paid for each defector they collected and brought to the castle.”

“Didn’t he think that might be a little suspicious since it was just as easy for Wallace to send his own people to collect them, and not have to pay anything?”

“Now that we know they are Germans masquerading as British, it makes sense.  But Leonardo is little more than a fool and greedy.  He doesn’t care who pays so long as they pay.  I suspect he has no idea who he’s working for, or what happens to the people he collects.  Anyone who opted out of the new arrangement seems to have disappeared.”

“Many?”

“Three that we know of.  They’re probably locked in the dungeons with the others you saw there.”

“How come he hasn’t come after you?”

“Too much trouble, and possibly because it’s a fight he can’t necessarily win.”

“He might not have a choice now.  Wallace is going to have to do something about us, simply because he can’t let the defectors fall into our hands, and especially now that we know that’s why he’s here.”

“Then if it’s a fight he’s looking for, then we’ll have to give him one.”

“On that, I just had a thought on how we might be able to even up the odds a little, but I have to give it a bit more thought.”  

An idea came to me, one that might just work because I was counting on the fact Wallace would have to do something and depending on… “In the meantime, we have to do something about the rest of the villagers, just in case I’m wrong about Wallace.  How many people are left in the village?”

“About twenty.  All the rest scattered when the Germans came the first time, and half of those that remained were killed for one reason or another.  The previous commander of the castle frequently lost it when any of us refused to co-operate.”

“Then send Carlo out to round them up and put them somewhere safe.”

“There are no safe places anymore,” Carlo said, “None that they don’t know about.”

“What about here?”

“It’s the only place we have left that no one knows about.”

“Well, you don’t have much of a choice.”

Martina was not happy.  Her isolated resistance effort was steadily becoming a large-scale attack, not the sort of operation she had intended.  But I don’t think it would have stayed that way for very long, given Carlo’s actions.

She turned to Carlo.  “Go and round them up and bring them here.”

“And if they refuse?”

“Then we’ve done all we can for them.  But tell them that it’s a distinct possibility they will die if they stay where they are.  Take Chiara, and hurry.  I doubt it will be very long before the castle finds out what happened to their men.”

Carlo and Chiara grabbed a weapon each and left.  When they returned, it would be to formulate a plan to take down Wallace and the others at the castle, hopefully before the defector arrived.

That plan that was evolving in my mind didn’t exactly involve the villagers, but the three or four remaining members I was now working.  Leonardo might not know of all of them, or even if he did, one of them would be Wallace’s first calling point.  It just depended on who he sent.

And if I was a betting man, and if he knew that one of his men was ‘seeing’ Chiara, then that’s where they would go.

The only question to be asked at this point, would we be too late to take advantage of an opportunity to reduce the odds?

© Charles Heath 2019

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

Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just who the hell are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you?” Latanzio asked her abruptly.

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

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

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

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

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

He sat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stood and started walking towards the other door.

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

She stopped and partially turned.

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

“Who are they?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was clear Latanzio didn’t.

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

I nodded, and the two men took him away.

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

Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just who the hell are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you?” Latanzio asked her abruptly.

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

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

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

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

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

He sat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stood and started walking towards the other door.

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

She stopped and partially turned.

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

“Who are they?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was clear Latanzio didn’t.

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

I nodded, and the two men took him away.

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

Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just who the hell are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you?” Latanzio asked her abruptly.

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

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

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

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

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

He sat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stood and started walking towards the other door.

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

She stopped and partially turned.

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

“Who are they?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was clear Latanzio didn’t.

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

I nodded, and the two men took him away.

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

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job? – Episode 5

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Is it going to be revenge or just plain bewilderment?

 

There were protocols to handle every situation.  It’s why I was stuck in a room with a dozen others for nearly six months, learning the ropes.

That’s what Alex called it.  He’d also said it was a waste of time because by the time we made it out into the field all the bad guys would be locked up.  Patience wasn’t one of his virtues.

That’s why Alex didn’t make it through the first cut.

It had been a long six months but it had been worth it when ten of us out of the original intake of 24 made it.  I considered myself lucky.

Now three of those men were missing, and I believed they were dead, or if not dead, incapacitated.  This was our first live mission.  We had been excited but held that in check.  We could celebrate our first mission together, and then if it was a success.

At this moment, in my mind, it was anything but a success.

And my anger was building.  I kept the target in sight, and once or twice he nearly slipped away, but I knew the area having studied the maps the day before.  I liked to know what it was like on the ground, and if it was the target’s home turf, then I didn’t want him to have the advantage.

It was those little things, our instructor said, that could make a difference.

It did.

I knew or thought I knew where he was going.

At some point, I was going to have to take a chance, and head him off.  It also meant I might lose him, but I had a point on the map where I believed if he didn’t go where I was anticipating, he’d still be within range to find him again.

Time.

He went right, I went straight ahead.

His most likely destination, the train station.  His training wasn’t much different from mine.  After a calamity, look to make an unexpected exit.  There were buses, but they led basically to the same place.

Five minutes, and I’d know.

I came out on the main street that ran alongside the train tracks, the station was behind me, and he would have to pass me to get there.

There was also a dead end lane between him and me, and that was where I would corral him.

Almost a minute passed, and it was too long.  Two.  The thought of possibly being wrong leapt into my mind, along with the sickening feeling in my stomach of failure.

Two and a half.  I took several steps in his possible direction, then I saw him turn the corner.  I stepped back and out of sight.  I needed him to get to the lane entrance before I made a move.

He was wary and looking around.  He knew I was on his tail.

As he approached the laneway, I stepped out and started walking slowly towards him.  It took a few steps before he realised it was me, and stopped.  Was he surprised at my enterprise, or shocked.

Predictably he turned into the lane.

I ran.

At the entrance to the lane, I stopped and saw him reach the dead end.  There was no climbing over the fence at the end,. Nor were there any ladders or climbable points either side.

He would have to get past me.

I had him, and he knew it.

 

© Charles Heath 2018-2019

Writing a book in 365 days – 365

Day 365

The influence of a writer’s memory

…

The Hidden Muse: How a Writer’s Memories Shape Their Stories

Have you ever wondered where a writer’s ideas come from? While imagination often takes centre stage, the quiet, unsung hero of storytelling is memory. A writer’s recollections—of joy, heartbreak, childhood summers, or quiet moments—act as a wellspring of authenticity, emotion, and cultural depth. Whether conscious or unconscious, memories weave themselves into narratives, transforming personal history into universal art. Let’s explore how memories influence the craft of storytelling and why they’re indispensable to a writer’s voice.

1. Personal Experiences: The Raw Material of Stories

Every life is a tapestry of moments, and for writers, these experiences become raw material. A hike through a forest, a tense argument, or the scent of rain on old pavement can evolve into a pivotal scene or atmosphere in a story. For instance, J.K. Rowling’s childhood fascination with folklore and her own struggles with depression subtly seep into the emotional landscapes of her Harry Potter characters.

Memories act as a “treasure chest” of sensory details—textures, sounds, and smells—that bring fictional worlds to life. A writer might rework a family vacation into a fantastical quest or recast a schoolyard rivalry as a fictional feud. The result? Stories grounded in realism, even when the plot is pure fiction.

Exercise for Writers: Keep a memory journal. Note fleeting recollections, no matter how small. Years later, you’ll discover how these fragments can be reshaped into compelling narrative fuel.

2. Emotional Authenticity: Memory as a Resonance Chamber

Memories are steeped in emotion, and emotions are the lifeblood of storytelling. When a writer draws from their past, their words gain a visceral truth that readers can’t help but feel. A breakup you lived through will carry nuances—lingering anger, bittersweet nostalgia—that you can’t fully invent without personal experience.

Maya Angelou once said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” By channelling their memories, writers give voice to their innermost truths, creating characters and conflicts that resonate on a deeply human level. Think of a mother’s recollection of a child’s first steps becoming the poignant backstory of a character’s protective instincts or a survivor’s trauma morphing into a symbol of resilience.

3. Cultural and Familial Narratives: The Stories We Inherit

Our memories aren’t just individual; they’re shaped by the stories we inherit. Family legends, cultural traditions, and historical contexts form a collective memory that writers often mine for themes. A grandmother’s tales of immigration, a holiday ritual, or a national tragedy becomes part of a writer’s lens, enriching their work with cultural specificity and depth.

For example, Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude is steeped in the myths and history of his Colombian upbringing, while Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah explores the duality of identity through her own experiences as a Nigerian in the West. These stories don’t just entertain—they preserve heritage and spark cross-cultural understanding.

4. Transforming Pain into Art: The Alchemy of Memory

Not all memories are easy to confront, but they often yield the most powerful stories. Writers frequently rework pain—grief, injustice, or personal failure—into fiction, offering both catharsis and connection. Consider how Colson Whitehead reimagined his family’s history of slavery in The Nickel Boys, or how Sylvia Plath’s confessional poetry transformed private anguish into poetry that speaks to millions.

This process isn’t about reliving trauma but about distilling it into something universal. By fictionalising painful memories, writers can explore complex emotions with nuance, giving readers a safe space to reflect on their own struggles.

5. The Creative Process: Mining Memory for Detail

Memory is a writer’s secret tool in the creative process. When crafting dialogue, setting, or character motivations, recollections provide a blueprint. A childhood friend’s lisp, a grandparent’s philosophical musings, or the ache of a long-gone summer home can become the DNA of a fictional character or location.

But memory isn’t just about fact—it’s about mood. A forgotten alleyway lit by sunset or the taste of your first love’s coffee might never happen in real life again, but in a story, they become immortal.

Conclusion: Your Memories Are Your Superpower

Next time you pick up a pen—or a laptop—remind yourself that your past is a universe waiting to be explored. Memories are not just relics of the past; they’re the tools that make stories real. They allow writers to breathe life into characters, build worlds with texture, and speak truths that transcend time.

So, ask yourself: What hidden gems lie in your own memories? What stories are begging to be reborn? The next great novel, poem, or script might be hiding in the quiet corners of your past.

Final Challenge: Pull out an old photo, a birthday card, or a childhood diary entry. Let the memories spark a scene, a character, or a theme. You never know where it might lead.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Asuncion

For a road less travelled, explore some of Asunción’s hidden gems and unique local experiences beyond the main tourist routes:

Nature & Wildlife Experiences

  • Go birding or take a river boat tour: Instead of just strolling the Costanera, take a Paraguay River Nature and Wildlife Boat Tour from Asunción. This allows you to explore wetlands and riverbanks and spot abundant bird species and capuchin monkeys in the nearby Botanical Garden’s forest remnant.
  • Hike to Salto Cristal (Crystal Waterfall): Venture on a day trip to Salto Cristal, a lesser-known, nearly untouched waterfall with natural pools for swimming. It involves a scenic journey and a descent through the jungle, offering a serene nature experience away from the city. 

Unique Cultural Immersion

  • Explore the Cementerio de la Recoleta: Known for its elaborate mausoleums and beautifully designed tombs, this cemetery offers a fascinating glimpse into the city’s history and the wealth of its elite, providing a unique architectural and cultural experience.
  • Visit a local town like Areguá or Luque: Take a short trip to nearby towns like Areguá (known as the “City of Strawberries and Art”) to see artisan markets and pottery workshops, or Luque (the “Capital of Filigree”) to watch local craftspeople work. These trips provide a genuine taste of local life outside the capital’s centre.
  • Attend a local football match: Experience the passion of Paraguayan culture firsthand by attending a match at one of Asunción’s stadiums, such as Estadio Defensores del Chaco. The lively atmosphere and local traditions (like enjoying chipa and a drink) offer a non-touristy immersion into local life.