…

Sometimes, you don’t realise how fortunate you are until you make the mistake of taking it all for granted.

That, of course, begged the question of how dangerous it might be if you were to simply ask, what if….

My problem was that everything came too easy, not that I’m complaining, but it seemed to me that those who struggled were better equipped to deal with problems.

Again, I’m not complaining, but…

It was just a statement in the middle of an innocuous conversation with my sister, who had what seemed to be the perfect life

A husband she had known since middle school, the perfect 2.4 children, the perfect job, and the perfect life.

I, on the other hand, never found the right girl, relationships would last about a year, sometimes longer, then peter out, and there was no likelihood of children, but I did have the perfect job, running my own bookstore

It was all I ever wanted to do.

Oh, sorry, and write.  But although I could sell books, and I always had a million ideas for writing a book, I could never sit down in front of a blank page and put those million ideas down on paper.

And until I could, I would never be happy.

“And that’s why you’re a hopeless case,” Jenny said, smiling at me over the table.  “Now, pass me the salt.”

Sunday evening dinner at her apartment, with the perfect partner and perfect children, eating dinner prepared by the perfect cook.

I had just lamented again my inability to find the right one and be able to return the dining favour.

“I should learn to cook myself.”

“The day that happens, Jay is the date the works as we know it will end.  You need to get a hobby, play a sport, or go to places where you might find that special someone.  It is clear dating sites and singles bars are not the way to find Miss Right.”

I was beginning to wish that I hadn’t told her about my last disaster.

“Perhaps the girl of your dreams will walk into your bookstore and sweep you off your feet.”

Larry, the perfect husband, had that ingratiating manner of making a perfectly normal comment sound like a sarcastic retort.

To counter his thrust, I parried with, “Well, there was this dreamy young lady who came in the other day and had the most exquisite accent.  She was probably a Russian spy,”

Jenny shook her head.  “How is the next best-selling spy thriller going?”

“The same as usual.  Can’t put words on paper.”

“Perhaps you should try and act it out in real-time.  Some places can fulfil a wish, up to a certain point, for a price.”  Larry was also full of good ideas, just never remembered where he got them from.

“There you go,” Jenny said.  “Problem solved.  Now, who wants my famous Apple pie?”

It was an interesting notion that Larry raised, and one I thought about, on the way back to my apartment.  It did make me wonder how the perfect husband knew about what was essentially a fantasy-fulfilling business.

And when I searched high and low on the internet for it, or anything like it, I couldn’t find anything.  Except when I used the actual words fantasy fulfilment and came back with two women who were quite literally mind-boggling.

That I didn’t need.

That notion of acting out my story stayed in my mind and was the last thought I had before dropping into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning was the same as any other.  I got up, dressed, and went down to the cafe next to the bookstore and got a coffee and croissant.  And said hello to my sister who owned the cafe.

The two shops were part of the building that housed the shops, our apartments, and five other businesses, left to us by our parents as our inheritance.  Our little slice of New York in Brooklyn.

“How’s that search for a fantasy going?” She asked as she handed me the coffee.

“How did you.. “

“Your eyes lit up.  I could tell it made its mark.”

“I didn’t find anything.  I looked.  How does Larry know about it?”

“He knows lots of stuff about lots of stuff.  You’ll find it.  You’re just not using the right search words.  Now, be off with you. This is the rush hour, you know.”

I took the croissant from another girl and nodded, but she was already onto the best three customers, the line out the door.  Three years on a tow shed won the best cafe in the neighbourhood.

I went next door and opened the door.  I was not expecting a lot of customers because these days most people buy their books online.

My store had lots of obscure titles, out of print and first editions.  People only came. I’d they were specifically looking for something rare or hard to find.  I also sold books written by my favourite fiction authors and one day hoped to have a book signing.

That was a hope that would have less chance than my desire to write a book.

Three customers, three books each sought out at this particular obscure bookshop.  Three more five-star reviews on the internet, which probably wouldn’t mean anything in the greater scheme of things.

I didn’t need to work. The way my father had structured our inheritance gave us both a very adequate income, but Henny had insisted we didn’t become idle.  She wasn’t going to stop working, as much as Larry wanted her to because she wanted somewhere to go and something to do other than being a mother.

I liked the idea of having somewhere to go, I had several assistants who came and spent their days rearranging the shelves and keeping the dust at bay.  There were not a lot of sakes, but they didn’t care.  They had the same reverence for books as I had. We were all fighting the digital revolution in our own way.

Perry, a kid who tried to steal a book on his first visit, came from out back with a laptop in his hand.  “Found a place.”

It didn’t take long to find out he needed money for his family, so I offered him a job.  He said he knew nothing about books, I said I didn’t either when I started.

I’d told him what I was looking for and he said to leave it with him.

“Just what are you looking for.  If it’s a woman, I know if a few places, if it’s something else, there are places you just don’t want to go.”

Unlike Larry, I knew Perry knew what he was talking about.  “I have no idea what I want or what I would like.  I was hoping they might set up a few scenarios so I can do some writing.

He shrugged, then left the laptop on the desk and went back to the shelves.

Another customer came in and interrupted my search, and it took some time before we found the book he was seeking, filed in the wrong spot.  It was, I thought, an attempt by the universe to distract me from finally finding a way to start writing.

It didn’t.

I went through the list that Perry had made, and there was one place that seemed familiar, a name had heard once before in a conversation, the one time I went to the local writing group gathering at a nearby Cafe, one that wasn’t Jenny’s.

I called them.

It was an odd conversation because I had expected the person who answered the phone to announce the name of the company.  Instead, it was a simple “Hello.”.

Which left me asking if I was speaking to a representative of the StoryTime organisation.

The answer was a tentative yes as if the person on the other end of the phone wasn’t quite sure who they were working for, or it was one of the answering services who answered for a dozen different places.

Then she asked for my name and phone number and the times I would be available to talk. I gave her the information and hung up, not expecting to hear from them again.

At the end of the day, I locked the door and went up to my apartment.  Jenny had long since shut the door and had gone to collect her children from the friend who collected them from school.

Larry rarely got home before six at night, if he was not working back.

I had a container with leftover dinner from Jenny who knew I didn’t cook, often ate takeout, which was not very healthy, and insisted I eat with them most nights.  Tonight, it was chicken something.

As I got another Budweiser from the fridge, my phone buzzed, and it was an incoming message from StoryTime.  A list and a short description of the ‘products’ they were offering.

One, the romance package, where the customer meets up with a prospective target in an unusual manner, and then plays out any one of a dozen different scenarios.  Each of the scenarios will be provided, but it doesn’t necessarily need to run to the script.

Two, the romance with adventure package, where there is danger involved, and similar to the adventure package, there are a dozen different scenarios that can play out.

Three, the thriller package, is not for the faint-hearted or those with heart conditions.  Some hard work and full-on exercise will be needed.  There can be a romantic element to this, too.

A questionnaire is attached which you will be required to fill in as much as possible so we can have a good idea of what to set up as a mission biography and parameters.

It was strictly prohibited once the mission started for it to stop except for very exceptional reasons.  To date, no mission has been terminated mid-way through.  Our actors are also using these experiences to enhance their talents and sign on for the duration.

The fee paid is not refundable and covers all costs, including any necessary paperwork such as identity information required to participate.

Then it stated the price, and I nearly fell off my chair.  But if I wanted the experience, it would be worth it, or at least I hope it would be.

A quick scan of the multipage questionnaire that set the parameters of the adventure showed the level if detail they required, but not only that, was basically the level of planning I needed to do for writing the book.

Perhaps by the end of filling it out, I wouldn’t need to participate, I would have the plan I’d need meaning to do for a long time.

Of course, I picked the thriller with a touch of romance.  Running through my head at the time were the countless noir Hollywood movies of the 30s, 49s and 50s, about hardnosed private detectives like Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe, and a hankering to recreate that era, but in this day and age it was not possible

I had to pick a name and that had never been a problem, the first name of a great, great grandfather, and the last name of my mother, Alphonse Burgoine, and the theme, the search for a missing person, which I would leave to them to decide who it would be.

Various other details made up the character, a series of ticks in boxes, the most interesting, languages spoken, of which I could speak French and German like my mother who ensured I was fluent in both, and a smattering of Russian and Spanish, after my father who preferred only English to be spoken.

Other than that, It took three days to fill out that form and another seven before I sent it back and paid the fee.

The next day, I received an email that simply said,

‘Your fantasy is being constructed.  The next email will be the first instructions when you assume your character, and from then on, immerse yourself completely.

‘Everyone else associated with this construct will be in character and will ignore any comment or behaviour outside the construct.

‘You will be observed, and if there are more than three infractions, the fantasy will end.  At times, various parts of the fantasy may seem real, but they are not.  Also, always remember that other people are playing roles, and their words and actions are not to be mistaken as real.

It is important to remember that you requested this and that you should make the most of the opportunity.’

Like a Hollywood movie, I thought.

I heard nothing for a month.  I was beginning to think that it was all an elaborate scam when a new message arrived.

‘Pack for a week.’

It gave an address, the office of Bellevue Investigations, and the apartment above the office where I would be staying.  Everything I would need was there.  There were other pieces of information like the names of several others participating.

I told Perry he was in charge.  It was not for the first time.  I told Jenny the people had called and told me my adventure was about to start and packed for the week.

With no idea what was about to happen, I took a long look at the apartment, took a deep breath, stepped outside, and locked the door.

The next time I stepped through that door, I hoped I had a story to write, and not that I should have been content with what I had, and let the proverbial sleeping dogs lie.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

The trouble with being told to ‘keep it to yourself’ I’d that quite often, later, and unexpectedly, it comes back to bite you.

I was put in that position, once, by my younger sister Josephine when she started dating this charismatic older boy she met when he came to her college as a substitute teacher.

I met him once and I didn’t like him.  He was the sort of person that you just know is bad, if not evil.  I told her so, but that didn’t seem to have any effect.  Perhaps it was only men who saw it because all her friends agreed with her; he was dreamy.

It was not as if we had any idea she would do anything silly, because at college she was away, and very lax at reporting back that everything was fine, so as far as we knew it was.  Our parents had cut her some slack after she complained they were smothering her.

I thought there was a good reason for that, but she persuaded them, like she always did, to loosen the shackles as she called them.  It seemed to work, six months passed, and everything was fine.

Until…

I was going home, and I had to pass the college so thought I would surprise her with a visit.  I went to the cafeteria where she and her friends spent every waking moment only to find two of the girls she was studying with.

Jo was not there.  Two of her friends were Debbie and Anne.  I’d met them once before when I’d dropped in.  “How is she doing?” I asked, not what I was going to ask, which was, where was she?

“Oh,” Debbie said hesitantly, “I thought you knew.  She dropped out and said she was going home.  Didn’t she tell you?”

She knew I wasn’t at home and was not as regular at communicating as I should be.  It also appeared to me she knew more but was reluctant to say more.

“No.  But I’m always the last to know.  I’ll call home and talk to her.”  I knew Jo’s aversion to cell phones, so I couldn’t call her directly.  “But she did say the last time I was here, she was losing interest.  Thanks anyway.”

Walking from the cafeteria to the car park, I had a thought and made a slight detour via the main office.

There was no one at the counter, so I pressed the button on the counter and heard a distant buzzing sound.  Three or four minutes later an elderly lady shuffled out from behind a half-closed door.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes.  I’m looking for my cousin, Albert Dmitri, he’s a teacher here.”

Her facial expression told me that she recognised the name, but her manner suggested that she didn’t like him.  She looked me up and down as people do when making an assessment.

“He no longer works here.”

The way she said it told me that there would be no further discussion, and that told me everything I needed to know, and probably not what I wanted to hear.  And the look she gave me, that being ‘tarred with the same brush’ made me shiver.

My initial assessment of him was right.

“Thank you for your help, ma’am.”

I don’t think I needed to ask any more questions.  I made it to the car and was just about to get in when I heard a voice calling my name.

I looked over the car roof to see Anne walking quickly towards me.  I waited until she arrived, slightly out of breath.

She took several deep breaths before saying, “She didn’t go home, not directly.  She had told me a week before she left that Albert had invited her to stay for a few days at his chalet in Banff.  She didn’t mention it again, just told me she didn’t like school anymore and was going home.  Nothing about Albert, which made me think she went.  She did say before she left that if anyone asked about Albert and her, I should keep it to myself, that it was nothing but a flirtation.”

‘You think it was more?”

“He was obsessed with her.  Certainly, he didn’t respect the boundaries between a student and a responsible adult, and she was not the only one.  I personally now think he’s a creepy guy.  You say you haven’t heard from her?”

“I haven’t, no, which is not exactly a red flag.  I’ll get home and see if she is there.  She probably is because our parents haven’t said anything otherwise.”

“I hope so. She hasn’t called or texted or written, which considering our friendship is unusual.  Let me know when you find out.  I’d hate anything to happen to her.  I told her once she was too trusting.”

“I’m sure everything will be alright.  And thanks. “

I always felt a sense of well-being the moment I walked in the front door of what I had always called home.  It was a house that had been handed down through the generations, and one day, it would be mine.

We had never known any other address, and I had grown up here, went to grade and middle school here, and had all my friends here, and family too.

Josephine and I were the only two who had strayed from town, seeking lives elsewhere as a part of the process of living our lives, but there was never any doubt we would come home.  Our brothers had always been content to stay, aspiring only to learn or work on the ranch, marry local girls, and start families.  My turn would come, one day.

The outside world, my father said, was just a distraction.  Everything we really needed was here.  I was inclined to agree with him.

Andy Barnes, one of the farm hands, was outside tending the kitchen garden.  Coincidentally, he was Josephine’s first love, and she had promised him that when she returned, they would be married.

He would wait until the end of the world, which was how much he loved her, but with this new fellow she was smitten with, I was not sure where that plan was. I wondered if she had said anything but wasn’t going to bring it up unless he did.

He didn’t, just waving and getting back to work.

I dropped my bag in the front hall and went through to the back of the house where my mother would be, or should I say where she usually was.

On the way, I steeled myself for the expected barrage of questions, mostly centred around why I had not found a nice woman I would want to marry and start a family, and my mother was not the only one to get on that horse.

So much for the surprise, she was not there.  But there was bread in the oven, and jam bubbling on the cooktop.  She wasn’t very far away.

I went over to the jam pot and had a peek.

“Ah, there you are.”  My mother had come inside from the back doorway with a basket of vegetables.  “Andy said you had arrived.  Did you see Jo on the way?”

I had told her I would drop in.  Perhaps I should have kept that to myself and made a mental note for the next time.  “I did, and she wasn’t there.  I spoke to her friends.  Busy, busy, busy.”

“Then you didn’t find out if she was coming home for Christmas.”

“I didn’t see her, remember.  Maybe I’ll be luckier when I return.  I’ll call her but you know what she’s like.”

She looked me up and down as mothers do, checking to see if I was taller, heavier, lighter, or stressed.  Everything was stressful on the roads these days.

“I’ll leave that in your hands.  You haven’t changed.”  She said the final verdict.  “Are you still working at that dreadful place?”

I’d taken on employment in a private detective agency that seemed to only deal with divorces and scandalous affairs.  I was getting quite adept at covert surveillance.

“It’s just a job,”

“You should be doing more with your life with those three degrees and such.”

She dropped the vegetable basket on the kitchen bench and stirred the jam, then gave me a welcome hug.

The bread had a short time to go.  Fresh bread and jam were looking good.

It seemed that Jo had not told our parents anything, so she could be anywhere, but my best guess was that she had gone with Albert Dmitri.  The only lead was Banff.  I would stay a day or two, then go find her, before our parents found out what she’d done.

Before I left home, I called my boss at the investigation agency and told him my suspicions, and he agreed to do a search on Dmitri.  I had a photograph of him with Jo taken when he didn’t know I had.  The first time I tried, he got very defensive, and that was one of the red flags that started to bother me.

He said I could do it when I returned, but I told him I was in the Banff area where Dmitri had a cabin, and if that was the case, I would go there.

He asked if I needed help from one of their enforcers, men who did the hard tasks like bodyguard, or backup in certain investigations when they were dealing with violent targets.

I thought it would be a good idea.  I had no idea what to expect.  He would meet me in Banff.

I think by the time I left home, sooner than I intended, and no matter how hard I tried to hide it, my mother knew something was wrong and that it involved Jo.

She gave me one of those looks, the one that said I know you’re not telling me something, gave me a hug, and said, call me when you see Jo, and let her know we love her.

“I think she already knows that.”

“Maybe so, but since you’ve both grown up, we don’t say it often enough.”

“Then I will.  I’ll get her to call you.”

What I received in my email several hours into the trip to Banff didn’t fill me with confidence.

From the photographs, the investigation of his case uncovered four different names and employment in various provincial universities or tertiary education institutions where there were missing girls.

We might have uncovered a serial killer, or at the very least predator.

The investigation into relatives and property was ongoing, but they needed to find out his real name because all they had so far were aliases.

The Banff police had been notified of the investigation, and I was told to visit an RCMP officer who had been working on the theory that the university disappearances were connected.  He was very interested in speaking to me and was laying the necessary groundwork to make Jo an official missing person, though I had to ask him to hold off until we had more on Dmitri because we had the advantage of knowing about him and he not knowing we had that information.  Publishing it would spook him, and he would disappear.

There was more available when I arrived at the Banff police station, I had Dmitri’s real name, and the fact his father, now deceased, owned a cabin in Canmore near the Palliser Trail.  That was conveyed to me but the company agent that had been sent to help me, and we agreed not to tell the police yet.  The agent, Phillip Rogers, was going to conduct discreet surveillance on the cabin and see if he was there or anyone else.  At the very least, he was hoping to thoroughly check the cabin itself while I was talking to the Police.

The officer’s name was Hercule Benoit and was a specialist in finding missing persons.  He’d been working on what he called the university disappearances for two years and had uncovered 13 cases, some of whom simply left, for various reasons, without telling anyone, and later found alive.  Two were dead, not necessarily murdered, but there were six missing possibly dead.  For us to eliminate you from our enquiries, we will require you to tell us where you were for five specific periods in the past seven years.

Jo was one he didn’t have on his list, simply because she left after telling those closest to her what seemed to be the truth, and everyone took it for granted.  Other cases in his book had done the same, suggesting a pattern.

And yes, each could be assumed to be connected with the departure some weeks later of a teacher, young, and able, though the descriptions were different, the base details were the same, height, weight, and mannerisms.  The differencing details were hair colour and length, beard, moustache, eye colour, glasses, dress style, and speech patterns or language.

Dmitri spoke like a refined Russian immigrant.  Another had a French accent, and one had none.  To my mind, Dmitri had theatrical training and could disguise himself, and I suspect the girls he took with him altered their appearance too. I was expecting Jo to look very different.

The question would be whether she was under his spell or if she was coerced or threatened.

It was Benoit’s plan to visit the cabin where I believed we would find Dmitri.  I was not going to tell him and take Rogers with me, but I had second thoughts because it might prejudice any chance of getting the truth, or later justice if we made a mistake.

There was also the possibility that Dmitri would run once alerted we were on to him, and we’d never find him, or Jo, though right now I was more hoping that believing she would be unharmed.

So, the new plan Benoit and I would visit, and Rogers, whom I had not told Benoit about, would maintain surveillance, and if Dmitri tried to run, he would stop him.  I didn’t ask him how he would do it. It was best not to know.

Then, suddenly, we had stopped outside the cabin, next to a RAM 2500, which Rogers had texted belonged to the man in the photograph he had sent me, a man who looked like Dmitri but was externally different.

This time, he had very short blonde hair and was wearing thick glasses accentuating blindness and was about 20 to 30 pounds lighter.  Out of the business suit and dressed like a lumberjack, unless you could be positive, he was hardly recognisable.

That same man answered the door, taking in the police vehicle, the RMCP officer in uniform, which was quite daunting even for me, and then he looked at me, squinting through those glasses.

Perhaps he hoped that flicker of recognition would be hidden behind the layers of glass, but it was not.  I glared at him until she turned back to Benoit.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

“There might not be.  Do you mind if we come in, Mr Francois?”

The office had discovered that the photo of Dmitri was that of Antoine Francoise, originally from Montreal and the grandson of Albert Francoise, the heir to a fortune the family had made from the Railways and shipping.

Dmitri or Antoine didn’t need to work, and it appeared kidnapping and murdering college girls was his hobby.  Perhaps he had the belief that being rich, the laws didn’t apply to him.

“Not unless you have a warrant or evidence, I’ve done anything wrong.”

And the arrogance to go with it.  I saw Benoit’s expression change and not for the better.

“If that’s the way you want this to go, Mr Francois, so be it.” He pulled out his cell phone and started dialling a number.

Perhaps the notion of giving a dozen police crawling all over his property changed his mind.  “I’m sorry.  I can be a little prickly in the morning.  By all means, come in.” He stepped to one side, and we went in.

“Good choice.”

The cabin looked to have a main room with a kitchen, a dinner table, set for one, a fireplace and two chairs, one looking very used, the other less so, and a bedroom, door open, bed unmade, what one might expect of a single man living on his own.

“What’s this about?”

“A man with similar features to you has been identified as a suspect in a kidnapping case, well, more than one.  You are one of three men picked out of a set of photographs of male teachers who worked at various colleges and universities where girls have disappeared or been found dead.  For us to eliminate you from our enquiries, you will need to tell us where you were for five specific periods over the last seven years.”

I was watching Antoine carefully, and he was good, showing no emotional response to what was tantamount to an outright accusation.  Didn’t bat an eyelid, as the saying goes.

“That’s a particularly tall order, as you can imagine.  But, I’m sure you are well aware of who I am, and as it turns out, a philanthropist with an office and a gaggle of assistants running it, shouldn’t be too hard.  I will make a call and have that information on your desk tomorrow morning.  Is that all?”

“We’d like to have a look around?”

I watched Antoine very carefully as Benoit asked the question, and had I not been carefully watching his eyes, which flicked to a carpet square under the dining table for a fraction of a second, I would have missed it.

“Here?  There’s only two rooms, what you see is all there is.”

Benoit shrugged and perhaps conveyed the fact a demolition team could beg to differ in his expression because a moment later Antoine waved his hand, “Search away.”

Benoit missed the inference, but I didn’t.  Why use the word search when there was no reason for us to, if he was not guilty.  I would mention it to Benoit after we left.

The search took all of a minute.  There was nothing to confirm anyone, but Antione lived there, and then only temporarily.  There was a half-filled suitcase on a corner and a few items hanging in a closet.  He had not been there long nor apparently staying.

“Thank you, Mr Francois.  I will be expecting your communication tomorrow.  We will speak further on this.”

Antoine was eager to get us out the door, but she didn’t push it.  He was, in my opinion, slightly agitated and definitely guilty of something.

Of course, it might be my imagination, or simply that I wanted it to be him, inventing in my mind those two tells, but it felt like it was him because I had that creepily feeling when I saw him after opening the door, and initially reactions were usually right.

He remained on the doorstep watching us leave.  I watched him watch us.

“It’s him,” I said. “I’m sure of it.  Innocent people don’t ask for search warrants.”

“You’d be surprised. If it is, he’s long practised at being what I would call detached.  And he’s had a string of assault charges, all dismissed.  Money talks, especially lots of it.”

“What’s the next step?”

“Wait for his alibi.  He’ll already have one for each of the dates with photographic evidence.  Mark my words.  People like him have alibis before they need them.  The thing about that cabin is that it’s a manufactured scene, everything in its place, and a place for everything.  In other words, staged.  He knew we were coming.”

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

…

…

I stood on the edge of the cliff and took in the view, which on any given day could be either magnificent or the equivalent of Dante’s inferno.

Today, while being majestic, it was also like being in hell.

It was day 37.  I didn’t think I’d last the first week, yet here I was, having survived the worst that could be thrown at me.  I was one of six out of the original intake of fifty.

People who were stronger than me, smarter than me, better educated, better physically, full of confidence, and some full of themselves, unexpectedly failed.  As they fell, one by one, all shocked at being cut, and as each day passed, I was always last to go look at the list of survivors.

Every time I expected to see my name and surprised, like many others, that I was not on the list.

They wanted four, there were six of us left.  The odds were not good, not after one of the instructors told me I had to up my game, that I’d barely made the last cut.

“Hell is on earth they said,” a voice in my head, or…

I turned, Kerrilyn O’Connor.

She was my choice to succeed.  I selected her on day one as the most likely to succeed.  She looked ordinary, but under that banal exterior was the fire and brimstone, the guts and determination needed to succeed.

“Been there already, and compared to this place, it was like Shangri-La.  No, it’s what you make it.  I came with no expectations, I’ll leave with no regrets.”

“You sound like you’ve given up?”

“I’ve been paired with Wally in the final test.  We’re the two bottom candidates, and I suspect they want us to fail.”

She smiled.  It was an ongoing subject of discussion, how Wally made it past day one, let alone to the final six.  Popular belief was that he was related to some director. Yes, that was how bad he was.

“You haven’t been to the notice board, have you?”

“Is there any reason to?  I was told yesterday what my fate would be.”

“Then I suggest you pay a visit.  You might be surprised.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

There might have been more, but relationships with other candidates were strictly forbidden.  It still didn’t stop the more adventurous from trying, and over the weeks, I guess some didn’t handle the isolation very well, nor the penalty for breaking the rules.

An island you couldn’t get off.  Fifty candidates and twenty staff, and a very long swim if you wanted to escape.  The only communication was a boat, every night at six, to take away the candidates who failed.

Kerrilyn and I had an on-off thing, and if it happened, it happened.  Other than that, I was under no illusion it was anything other than dalliance.  Once she became an agent, there would be no room in her life for relationships.  Mine, either if I managed to get through.

I wasn’t going to look, but something dragged me to the noticeboard, perhaps an unconscious death wish.  It explained the odd look on her face when she said I should.  The pairings had changed, and now I was with her.

I shrugged.  I just hoped I didn’t drag her down with me.

Sitting in the briefing room, once bustling with a lot of eagerness, some over-eager recruits, waiting to learn what the task was for the day or days, there was only silence.  It was not a companionable one. If anyone could read our minds, it would be to learn that we were taking a good, long, hard look at our competition and going over their strengths and weaknesses. We all knew this was it, the end of the line.  Fail this, and you were out

We had been paired with all of them several times, times we had been told if we cared to listen, to learn everything we needed to know about them because one day we would be pitted against each other.

Today was the time to put what we learned from the instructors and what learned about each other into practice.

Three days.  It was going to be the longest test we had participated in.  We would be taken to different parts of the island, and working as a team, we had to capture the other two teams.  By any and all means at our disposal.

One pair would be safe if they fulfilled mission parameters.  It was a big island, and there was not a lot of time, as we were told; in real life, the time we had now was a luxury.

No one asked what would happen if no one succeeded.

We were blindfolded and given noise-cancelling headphones, so trying to determine where we were being taken was almost impossible.

The helicopter landed and we were hustled out, the camp commander jumping out too.  He went with us to the point beyond the rotating propeller, the stop being brief.  We didn’t know if we were first, or last.

He pointed in a particular direction and then had to yell to be heard about the helicopter’s engine.  “One mile in that direction.”

“What’s there?” I asked.

“A boat.  You get on it and don’t look back.”

“Have we washed out, sir?”  Kerrilyn knew the value of respect, unlike some of the others.

“No.  You two are the best recruits we’ve had in years.  The assessment is that you’re ready, so we’re giving you a fortnight to get over whatever it is you’re doing and report to GHQ at 06:00 on the 21st.  Congratulations.”

He shook each of our hands and then went back to the helicopter.   A minute later it was lifting off, and after three more, it was gone.

I looked at her.  “What was that about?”

“You don’t believe him?”

“That we’re the best, yes, that we’re leaving this place, no.”

“A test?”

“After 38 days I think you have the same deep-seated distrust of anyone on this island.  What was the first lesson we learned?”

“Trust no one, and let your paranoia guide you.  He said gut, but to me, it could only be one thing.  The might be a boat waiting, but we have to get to it first, and I suspect four very willing candidates will do nothing to stop us.”

“That’s a bit cynical.  Why?”

“Because they can’t make up their minds who the other two are, and they’ve left it for us.”

She shrugged.  In time she’d come around.  in the meantime, we had a boat to find.  “OK.”

Before we’d taken three steps, four bullets had thwacked into trees near us.  It was clear they’d dropped the other four near our location, and, interesting development, they were using live ammunition.  Clearly, this was a do-or-die mission, a true simulation of what it was like in the field. 

“Bastard,” she muttered.  “But if that’s the way they want to play it, it’s game on.”

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

…

…

You know how you see these people on the street selling raffle tickets for unbelievable prizes?  The ones that you decide are a scam because the prizes quite simply are unbelievable or because the person looks suspect.

Or you know that it’s an email address gathering exercise, but still, everyone gets sucked into it because of the unbelievable prizes, only realising later that the people will sell the address a hundred times over, which is why you should give them a throwaway email address.

And then you make that decision that, what the heck, the person might be getting something out of it, and you’re feeling charitable that morning.

After all, what is $5 these days in the greater scheme of things?

Then, instead of throwing the ticket away, you put it in a dark corner of your wallet, thinking the next time you see it, years will have passed.

It was Wednesday morning, the train arrived on time, and I was feeling charitable.

It wasn’t a year. It was a few months.  An email arrived in my inbox, one of which was a few of very few because it was the throwaway email that usually was filled with scams.

It was from the name of the charity.  I’d pulled out the ticket when I saw the email and checked.

The subject line said, “You are a winner.”

There was the first red flag.  I never won anything.

On the back of the ticket was the list of prizes.  The first prize was a holiday house in the Caribbean, worth $500,000.  I doubted you could get a house in the Caribbean worth that unless it was a shack.

At the other end of the scale, 100 prizes of a ticket in the next raffle.  That was more my speed.

So, I opened the rest of the email.  I read and read until I got to the bottom where it said, your prize.  ‘Congratulations, you are the lucky winner of the Caribbean holiday house’.

That’s when I decided it was a scam, particularly after it said that I would soon receive an email telling me how to claim the prize.  No doubt it would end up with me paying a large sum of money to secure the prize.

Me and about a hundred others.

The next day, the second email arrived from the charity, and it was a debate whether I bothered.  I left the inbox on the screen, and the message was left unread while I had a cup of coffee.

Then, curiosity got the better of me.

The email was simple.  Attached was a boarding pass and a voucher for a 3-day hotel stay in Kingston Jamaica.  The plane was leaving in three days.

I went onto the airline site and, using the booking code, checked to see if it was real.

It was.

I also checked the hotel and called them.

It, too, was real.

It simply made me very wary.  In three days, when I turned up at the airport, I fully expected to be told it had been cancelled.

When I handed over the boarding pass document, the lady behind the counter gave me one of those looks, the sort that told me she knew what this was about.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re a prize winner.  There are a few this morning.  You’re going to be surprised, and then you’re not.”

“Can you tell me if this is a scam or not?  It’s not much point going if it’s a scam.”

“Go for the three-day stay in a great hotel.”

“Were you a winner?”

“No.  But I know someone who was.  Go, lap up the stay.  It’ll be worth the $5 you paid for the ticket.”

That’s all she would say.

At the gate waiting for boarding, I wondered if there were any other ‘winners’ in the hundreds waiting to get on the plane.  That conversation with the boarding clerk had not filled me with confidence, and more than once, I almost got up and walked away.

But when the boarding call was announced, I joined the queue to get on the plane, and when I reached the gate, I got the first surprise.

“You do realise you’re travelling business class and didn’t have to wait in this queue.”

I said I didn’t, that I didn’t fly very often, and certainly not business class.  I was usually down the back of the place with the families with miscreant children.

This would make a pleasant journey.

When I reached the plane, I was directed in the opposite direction, to a cabin where there was plenty of space and a bright welcoming smile.  I could get used to travelling in business class.

Could.  I shuddered to think what it was costing.

I sat in my seat, in what was like my only little world.  Yes, there was another passenger next to me, but she was behind a wall that made her appear as though we were completely independent.

Or would be when the plane took off.

In the meantime, she looked up as I flopped into the seat and gave me a cursory glance, one that told me I was a pretender and didn’t belong there, which was probably true.

And then, if I thought I was going to ignore her, I was wrong.

“It’s rather good up this end of the plane, don’t you think?”

“What makes you think…”

She smiled.  “The look on your face.  Don’t worry, I had the same gobsmacked look when I got here.”

The steward offered me a drink, either of water, orange juice, or champagne.  It wasn’t a hard choice.

“See,” she said, after the steward moved on, “the pretenders always go for the champagne.  I’ve been on long enough to realise the real people drink orange juice.”

I shrugged.  It was French champagne, not the bubbly I usually had.  I knew the difference, as I also knew I could not afford it.

She left me alone to savour the drink and settle.  The rest of the cabin filled up, and then, with everyone on board, the main door was closed.

There was time for one more drink, and the glasses were collected.

Once the plane was in the air, I noticed from time to time that she glanced sideways at me while I was immersed in the entertainment system.  When the plane had levelled out, the steward was asking for lunch orders.

It was a hard choice.  Usually, I avoided airline food like the plague, but the choices in this class were interesting enough to want to try them.

When he moved on, she took a moment to ask, “What are you having?”

I looked over to her side of the seating.  Her cubicle was a mess.  And now I took the time to look she had messy hair, and rather interesting if not matching clothes, though that might have been a trend I missed.

“Fish.”

“Me too.  Safest option.  I’ve never travelled in this class, and I guess it shows.  Even the posh kids give me funny looks. “

“Then they’ll grow up missing out on discovering what wonderful and diverse people there are out there.”

She smiled again, and it made a difference.  “Wow.  No one has called me wonderful, let alone diverse.  My name is Judy, by the way.”

She held out her hand, and I shook it.  I hope she was not expecting anything else.

“Ian.”

“Going to Jamaica for a holiday?”

“A three-day adventure.  Perhaps.”

“So am I.  In a manner of speaking.  I won a raffle, a holiday house, but my dad says it’s a con and I should’ve stayed home.  He’s fretting that I’m going to be kidnapped or worse.”

Another winner.  There couldn’t be more holiday houses than one, so it was a scam.

“As it happens, so am I.  I don’t believe it either, but three days in a posh hotel and this flight.  I nearly didn’t come.”

“Neither did I, but you’re right about the hotel.  Post isn’t the word.  Perhaps you and I should stick together until we find out what this is about.  More people are so-called winners on this flight.  I heard them talking back in the lounge.  I didn’t see you in the lounge.”

“Didn’t know about it.  I don’t fly business class, or very often at all, and when I do, it’s down the other end.”

“We must have that sort of face.  It’s where I end up with the naughty children.”

The steward arrived with the food, brought individually to us and not on a trolley or with the possibility our choice was no longer available.  ‘If I were rich, this would definitely be the way I would travel.

They just managed to clear away the dishes when it was time for the plane to come in for a landing.  It was a relatively short flight, and time seemed to pass very quickly.  Judy had something to do with that.

We didn’t say much after lunch was served.  I got the impression she might have decided talking to strangers on planes was a possible health hazard, and I didn’t push it.  After all, the notion we would find out about the scam together made sense, but then how did I know if she was an axe murderer or not?

She smiled at me before joining the queue to get off the plane.  Being in first and business, we were first off before the others, but when I came out into the terminal heading for immigration and customs, I couldn’t see her.  I decided against buying some duty-free alcohol on the way past. It would be too much to carry.

I thought I saw her at the head of the immigration line but was probably mistaken.  Then it was my turn, a pleasant welcoming expression from the officer and the return of my travel documents.  Then it was straight to customs because everything I needed was in my backpack, which I had brought on the plane with me.  A few minutes while an officer decided to search my bag, I didn’t ask why, just waited patiently until it was done, and they sent me on my way.

It was, in a way, far smoother and less painful than arriving back at JFK.  Fewer people, I suppose.  I wandered out of the terminal building in search of a bus that would take me to the hotel. 

I heard my name, probably for someone else with my name, but I turned anyway.  Judy.

How did she, with a suitcase, get through immigration and customs so fast? 

She caught up.  “Sorry, I had to see a man about getting immigration sorted.  My dad knows people everywhere.  I’m sorry I didn’t wait, but I didn’t want the guy telling my dad I was with a guy off the plane.  And that sounds as bad out loud as it did in my head.”

“I get it.  My mother, on the other hand, would be astonished if I got off a plane with a girl, so I guess that makes us even.”

She used her smile to smooth the waters.  She seemed very happy to be here.  “Share a taxi?  My Dad hates buses.”

I shrugged.  Why not?  “OK.”

The taxi ride took about half an hour, and I think we got the almost grand tour getting there.  Again, Judy thought it was our faces that got us into trouble.  I could also see that her father had weighed her down with endless instructions on what and what not to do, and it wasn’t going to be fun.

The hotel was the Terra Nova, and I had been reading up about it.  Old world charm, which to me, made it more interesting than staying in the concrete and glass Hilton or Marriot.  I’d also see several of the reviews that said to get as far away from the nightclub as possible.  Somehow, I got the impression that would be high on Judy’s to-do list.

When we arrived, there was no one from the plane, and I suspect we managed to get there before the others.  We gave our names, and then spent ten minutes convincing the desk clerk that we were not together, and eventually got our rooms, as it turned out, next to each other. 

When the porter tried to wrest the case from her, she resisted.  Another of her father’s rules is never to let your case out of your sight.

She went to her door, I went to mine, and we disappeared into our rooms at the same time.

The hotel did not disappoint, nor did the room as it was in a remote place from the nightclub.  I had three days of this, after whatever was going to happen tomorrow, and, of course, so long as my continued stay wasn’t dependent on having to spend wads of money for something that was supposed to be a prize.

I guess I’d find out in the morning.

An hour passed before two things happened.  The first, an envelope appeared from under the door from an invisible delivery boy, or girl, because when I opened the door just after it appeared, there was no one in the passage.  The second, ten minutes later, Judy knocked on my door rather than using the bell.

She ignored my greeting, walked over to the bed, and sat cross-legged on the end, almost as if it was her room, not mine.

She had brought the envelope with her, but hers was open.  Mine was still sitting on the bench.

“You got anything in the bar?”

I shrugged.  I hadn’t looked.  She got off the bed, opened the door, pulled out a bottle of beer, and after removing the lid went back to the bed.

Thanks for the offer of one of the others I thought.

“It’s a fucking timeshare.”

I knew she would tell me what she had on her mind, eventually.  I’d heard of them but hadn’t quite put two and two together.  Perhaps by morning, I would have.  I also wondered if she had realised she swore.  Perhaps, because it seemed to roll naturally off a lot of younger people’s tongues.

“Damn,” I said, after a minute.  “Here I was thinking it was a ticket to a portal to another world.”

She looked long and hard at me, perhaps to see if I was joking or telling the truth.  People told me I had a warped sense of humour, and it wasn’t a good thing.

She looked at me oddly, then curiously.  “You a science fiction freak?”

“Not sure about the freak part, but I do like a good story with a scientific background.  Mostly though I just wish I could step through a portal to a better place.”

She got off the bed, went to the bar, took out another bottle of beer, took the lid off it and handed it to me.  “Sorry.  I can be a little self-absorbed.  And it is your beer, I should have asked.”

“I should be flattered that you would feel safe enough to come into a room with a man you’ve never met before and feel that comfortable as to sit on his bed and drink his beer.  Just exactly who are you?”

That look of curiosity just got a little more wide-eyed and elicited another smile.  “I can be a little too forward, my father says.  You seem a nice guy.  Besides, we’ve got a situation.”

“Not really.  I’ll admit it’s an odd way to get customers to look at a timeshare, but I’m guessing if the people who brought us here get a ten per cent hit rate, then it pays for the airfares and accommodation, and they get the ongoing benefits.”

“You know about timeshares?”

“I went to a hotel once, and it was a timeshare.  When you check in they try to stitch you up for a permanent week, and use of the resort facilities for an annual fee.  It can be quite expensive, but I’m guessing some of the resorts might be quite exotic.  This is the Caribbean so it might be quite good.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“Neither can I, which means you and I might be out on our asses this time tomorrow.  Or not.  Maybe if we can pretend that we’re interested until the three days have passed…”

“And act like we’re a couple, then we’d only have to listen to one pitch.  We could act all bratty and ask ridiculous questions.  I mean you just about told me everything that was in the envelope, which is not bad since yours is still sealed.  It didn’t have a fee, but it did say I would get a week which I could use at this resort, or another anywhere in the world, once a year.  it’s at Montego Bay and sounds impressive.  We’ll know tomorrow.  Tonight, there’s a bar downstairs, and interesting cocktails to be had.  I don’t want to go on my own, so if you have nothing else to do…”

How could I refuse after being asked so nicely?

If I was one of those people who attached labels to their fellow humans, I would have called Judy crazy.  More than once in the ensuing five hours I was with her, she showed plenty of signs that she could be trouble and could also be very easily misunderstood.

She drank too much and got tipsy, but not drunk.  Although it was not my problem, I thought it was a good thing to keep a close eye on her in case she got into trouble.  She liked talking about herself, and several of her friends, who, if the truth was known, were not friends as such.  She didn’t travel much outside her hometown and was not inclined to live in a big city. 

She said her mother left when she was younger, she had two sisters, older and restrictive, and a father who tried to let her live her own life.  It was no surprise to learn her father was a policeman.

I tried not to tell her about my non-existent life, the boring job I had, or the miserable circumstances of where I lived.  Better she just thought I was a nice guy.  I bought her drinks and watched her dance, and once or twice tried not to make a fool of myself.  The noise was very loud and followed us along the passageways on our way back to our rooms at an ungodly hour of the morning.

At the door to her room, she kissed me on the cheek, told me I was nice to make sure she was safe and then disappeared.

I shrugged.  It was easy to be with her, better than any other girl I’d known and remembered that come the end of the three days she would be gone, and life would go back to the way it was.

…

…

Childhood romances are often seen as incredibly romantic when others look back on how you met and how the relationship evolved, and then when that final leap into the unknown is taken.

It also makes a great conversational piece when talking to others particularly if it is for the first time or on your typical holiday when talking to the person next to you on a plane, or you are on a two-week cruise with nowhere to hide and nothing else to talk about.

The only downside is that you have to listen to their story, and it’s never as exciting as yours.

But as the years go by, it’s where you begin to finish each other’s sentences, then start bringing up everything bad about the relationship, followed by talk of divorce when things start to go downhill.

People say it’s healthy for a marriage to argue, but really, it isn’t.  What you do learn after twenty years is that compromise is the only way to survive.

Janine and I had a rocky start.  I’d known her forever, but she had always been my second choice.  It had always been a competition between her and Margaret Bennet, and Margaret would have one if she had not dumped me at the last moment.

Even then, it took a few years before I could get my head above water, Margaret had broken me so badly.  I had often wondered why Janine cared that much because others had treated her much better.

It was one of those mornings.  The last child had finally finished school and was university-backed, the other two having already left and worked on becoming captains of industry, or perhaps something less lofty.  Both bots, they were more interested in girls to set themselves up with a good education.

Alive, the youngest, was going to take after her mother and become a doctor or lawyer, having finished at the top of her class.  She was taking a gap year first and going to see the world.

It meant that in less than a week, we would be on our own for the first time in nearly twenty-five years.  We both were planning to take a step back from our jobs to spend some time together.

I could, but I had the feeling Janine would not.  She was one of those micro-managers, and since the business was hers, she was always reluctant to leave, and our holidays tended to see her on the end of the phone, unable to relax.

I’d just run through the overnight work emails and jumped to my personal one.  Usually, there was nothing there, except if the boys needed money which was pretty much invested a week.  This morning there was one from someone rear I never expected to hear from again.

Margaret Bennet.

Only it was Margaret O’Hara now.

I had taken an interest in what had happened to her after she left me, the luckier man being William Barkerfield, the son of a Lord, and the heir to a fortune.  Wealth won, and love lost.  It showed me what her true character was, and at the time, it surprised me.

William Barkerfield was a snotty self-entitled fool who was popular only because of his heritage.  Those who pandered to him got to stay at the castle.  I never pandered to him, but Margaret had several times.

And like the fool I was, I never wanted to believe she cheated, but after she left, I had to suspect that the rumours were true.  It only made the parting so much more painful.

That first marriage to the Son of a Lord only lasted five years, William had not changed his younger days behaviour and was often seen with a bevy of beautiful women.

I think for a short time I felt sorry for her, but she went on to commit an even bigger folly by marrying one of his friends, equally as seldom entitled, who, if the divorce papers were true, beat her.

There were three more attempts to get it right and as O’Hara, I’d just read that her fifth husband had died of a heart attack k and left her comfortable lying off, but I was guessing not comfortable enough.

I had expected a call after each of the disasters ended, but there wasn’t.  Janine was as interested in Margaret’s trajectory, and I knew for Janine’s part it would eventually land her in a cesspool, but there was no love lost between them.

I was in two minds whether I could read it, and in the end, curiosity got me.

It was long and rambling, the sort of missive written by someone very drunk.  It was an apology, but she knew it was too late, and too much water had gone under that bridge.  She wanted to meet and would be in London next week.  It was up to me if I wanted to see her.

I was not sure I did.  Just reading it made me feel a variety of emotions.

Janine saw straight away something was wrong.

“What’s happened?”

“I got an email from Margaret.”

“It’s a little late for an apology.” Ever practical, or was that pragmatic.  “What does she want?”

“Meet up.  She’s in town next week.”

“You going? She has no right to expect anything from you.”

“Don’t know.  I don’t really want to drag up all those old memories again.  I hope it’s not to tell me about all the bad luck she’s had.”

“She’ll want something, Harry.  You can be sure of it.  You can also bet she knows the success you have in your life.  If you go, be careful.”

It surprised me she was so blase about it, given how much she hated her.

“You know me better than that.”

“You know what I mean.”  It was accompanied by that look of hers, the warning that wasn’t meant to look like a warning.  The fact I’d never done anything wrong the whole time I’d been married to her obviously counted for nothing.

I went, if only out of curiosity.

We were dining at the poshest restaurant in the city, and I knew I would be paying for it.  Margaret was that sort of woman. She had been before when I knew her, and nothing would have changed.

She looked elegant, a woman of substance.  She didn’t get up when I arrived and earned her first black mark.  I’d set the bar at three.

She smiled when I sat, but it was a fake smile.  Was meeting me so beneath her?

“It’s been a long time, Harry.”

“So Janine tells me.”

A wrinkle of her nose at the name.  I mentioned it to annoy her.  Now I knew it would I would do it again.

“How are you?” She asked.

“I got over you, and as you can see, I didn’t die of a broken heart.”  It wasn’t said with malice, but malice was what I felt.

“I’m so sorry about what happened.  William had just assumed l would marry him, and it was an impossible situation to get out of.”

“Was it worth it?”

It was clear she was not here to rake over the coals.  The fact that she was tolerating my questions told me Janine was right.  She wanted something badly enough to swallow her pride.

“With the benefit of hindsight, no. I was young and naive back then. I saw you married Janine, so there was no point calling you when it all fell apart.”

“Still married, too,” I said, rubbing a little salt into the wound.

The look she gave me would have killed a lesser mortal stone dead, but it was interesting to realise I felt nothing for her anymore.  It was her loss, not mine.

The waiter delivered the menus, and there were no cheap options.  One course was about the same it cost to feed our family of five.  Both Janine and I would agree was an unnecessary extravagance.

She picked the dearest items on the menu.  I did, too, just to see what it was I was missing.  The champagne was almost an average worker’s weekly paycheck.  Even broke, she knew nothing about being humble.

A silence set in for a few minutes after the waiter left, and another arrived with the champagne and poured it.  Wine was one of those subjective things. Some reckoned expensive wine was no better than cheap plonk.  I tended to agree, but individual taste made the bad sometimes good and good often bad.  I doubt Margaret would understand that personal taste trumps expense.

I had a sip, then put the glass down.  Served properly, and at the right temperature, it was exquisite.  I could tell the difference, and I liked it.  But, although I could easily afford it, I chose not to.

“I saw your last husband died of a heart attack.”  I did wonder if she had something to do with it, but then I remembered she never really wanted to participate.  It was no surprise she had no children.  And possibly no wonder her husbands went elsewhere to pursue women who would willingly give them what they wanted.

“Too lazy.  I told him to go out and exercise to lose some weight.  Then he did.  Died the first day in the gym.”

“Did you inherit the castle?”

“No.  The bastard left me a small annuity and left everything to his kids.  It’s like I never existed.”

“You didn’t think the aristocracy would protect itself from someone like you?” OK, I’d had enough of this wretched woman.  I would have given her the benefit of the doubt, but after picking this place and those items off the menu, she wasn’t worth the effort.  “You really never knew me, Margaret.  And if you think this is what I am,” I waved a hand to take in the whole restaurant, “You’ve greatly miscalculated.  I’m done here.  You can finish your lunch, I’ll tell the maitre’d I’ll pay for it, but don’t call me again.”

I stood, took a last look at the bullet I dodged, and walked out.

What I would never tell either Margaret or Janine was how heartbroken I was, seeing her again, of even thinking that there might be something there, even if I didn’t act on it, or the fact the hurt really hadn’t gone away.

The trouble was, I knew it was not going to be the last time I would see her.

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

…

It was a case of the best-laid plans of mice and men.

I was never quite sure why mice were involved, but over time, I began to think someone knew and was not telling anyone.

The problem with being in a death or glory job, all too often it ends in death and very little of the thing called glory.

Too many times, things went sideways, with either unintended consequences or consequences that were untenable.

That’s why, one day, too many years past my use-by date, I was sitting at a small table outside a Parisian Street Cafe contemplating what retirement might look like, when someone walked past and bumped into me.

My immediate thought, a Russian assassin was about to, or just had, jab me with poison.

I reached out and grabbed the hand of the would-be assassin, and dragged that person around, checking that hand then the other for a weapon, and realising in the same instant it was a woman, not a man, and definitely not Russian.

She gave me a very painful, if not angry, expression.

I let her go.  “I’m sorry.  I thought you were someone else.”

She regained her composure, and the two other customers who had taken an interest in what might have become an altercation went back to their coffee.

“Do you do that to everyone who bumps accidentally into you?” She asked, rubbing her arm where I had grabbed her.

I probably would, but I didn’t think that was a justifying answer for my actions.  Even so, I was still wary.  An assassin didn’t have to be Russian, but conversely, she could be well-versed in Western ways.

“No, but I have had a previous bad experience from someone who didn’t bump into me accidentally.” It sounded lame for an excuse, but I didn’t have a lot of time to come up with something better.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but it was accidental, I assure you.  Tell you what, buy me coffee, and you can explain what it is you have against people bumping into you.”

She sat opposite me.  I called the waiter, and she ordered.  When he went back inside, I sat but not before my suspicious mind had started analysing her.

Mid-thirties, American, or perhaps that was based more on the fact she may have spent a lot of time there.  She had the accent, but I suspect she had been born in England if not somewhere in Europe.

Dressed smartly, not summery, so there for work, and the business suit suggested one of those tertiaries educated professions, doctor, accountant, executive, or at worst, a lawyer.

It seemed then it was unlikely she was an assassin because what she was wearing would make her stand out in a crowd.  Or perhaps that was just her.  What made me notice her was the brunette hair with subtle blonde streaks.

I shook my head.  Where did that come from?

“In Paris for business?”  Not my best opening line.

“Long story short, my husband just dumped me by text.”

Perhaps the angry look wasn’t just reserved for me, and perhaps, the bumping was accidental because now I thought about it, she had been looking at her cell phone.

“That’s pretty dumb,” I said without thinking.

She looked up sharply at me, perhaps wondering if I was referring to her or to the husband, then relaxed a little.  “That’s what I thought.  And yet I also wanted to believe he asked me to come here, spend the week with him, and try to smooth things over.  A second honeymoon, so to speak.  God knows the first one wasn’t anything to write home about.”

What had I just walked into the middle of?  “And alas, it’s not to be, I’m guessing.  Is he here in Paris?”

“He was.  I arrived last night.  We had dinner, then he had to go to Brussels for an early morning meeting, and when I asked him when he would be back, he said it was over.  He said he was going to end it last night but couldn’t tell me to my face.”

Her coffee arrived.

While she took a sip, then another, the thought struck me she didn’t look too upset about it.  Nor had she protested enough about what amounted to assault and battery.

Then, before I thought about it, I asked why she was not more upset.  Sometimes, I forgot discretion was the better part of valour.

“I had my suspicions.  A friend told me she had seen him with another woman, and he simply said it was one of his clients,” she said.

I noticed that she subtly gave me a quick study, perhaps to determine if I was an axe murderer. The trouble with that was that I had been called that once after a particularly nasty assignment.  How not to look like one, I did not know.

She shrugged.  “My name is Melissa, by the way.”

“Monty.  It’s better than my real name, and I’m still suffering nightmares from kids who ragged on me over that name.”

“Monty, it will be.”  She finished her coffee.  “Enough about me and my woes.  Thanks for listening.”

She stood.

I didn’t. “Perhaps we’ll meet again,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t.

She smiled.  “Who knows.”

I watched her leave, walking all the way to the metro station and then disappearing into the bowels of the earth.

I was still undecided whether or not she was an assassin or, more likely, the assassin’s apprentice.

My hotel was a small anonymous place in Rue nnnn picked for its quaintness, and unless you knew it was there, it was a very safe place to hide.  I had a choice of five and tried not to stay in the same hotel whenever I was in Paris.

It was one of those unwritten rules written in concrete, never stay in the same place twice, along with never creating traceable patterns.

It was hard work in itself to adhere to that rule, but when your life depended on it, it was worth the effort.

I had taken the time, after she left, to have another cup of tea and ponder what just happened.  A half-hour later, after dismissing the encounter as a coincidence, I had taken the metro to Montmartre and was wandering around the small market near the station when I saw her again.

Melissa.

Once is an accident, twice is not a coincidence. Another unwritten rule is that there’s no such thing as a coincidence.

I considered simply avoiding her and going to the hotel, but she was there for a reason, and I was one of those people whose curiosity would one day get the better of them.

I kept wandering slowly from one vendor to the next until we met.

She appeared to be pleasantly surprised when I accidentally ran into her, but I could see that fractional hesitation before making the appropriate gesture.  She, too, had seen me earlier and had been watching my progress.

It meant she knew where I would be and where I was staying.  It meant the accidental bump was anything but accidental.

My first question was, who was she and what did she want with me.

The next unwritten rule was to keep your friends close but your enemies closer.

“I had no idea you lived near here,” I said.

“Monty, what a pleasant surprise.”  She left off the rest of the question, ‘Do you live near here too’, trying not to be too obvious.

I’d just completed a scan of the marketplace for anything out of the ordinary.  Melissa was the distraction. The real enemy would be lurking close by.

I’d seen a likely suspect, a male, in his mid-forties, well-covered and almost indistinguishable.  He didn’t want to be recognised, and in being so, stood out.  Clever and yet not so clever.

“By yourself,” I asked casually.

She looked at me sharply again, then smiled to cover it.  “Of course.  I thought that after the bastard dumped me, I might as well make the most of it.  Are you here with someone?”

She looked around as if she thought that I should be with a wife or girlfriend.  After all, someone had once told me, that it’s Paris, the city of love.

For some.

“No.  Quite alone.”  I put an inflection into my tone that conveyed a suggestion that if inclined, she might offer to fill that void.

“That’s a shame, but perhaps not.  It’s like serendipity. We keep bumping into each other like this.”

A nice pun.

“Perhaps the universe is trying to tell us something.  Have you been to Paris before?”

“Once or twice, but I’m not the best tourist.  I didn’t have much spare time to see the sights.”

“Then it could be a case of the blind leading the blind if you have the time.”  Then, with an apologetic look, she added, “I’m sorry.  I have no idea if you’re staying or working, and here I am, prattling along, making assumptions.”

If I were any other guy, I would be flattered at the suggestion.  “I hardly know you, and perhaps it’s not the right time after what happened to you.”

I wasn’t an expert on rebound romances, but it was an excuse to make her work harder.

“You’re right, of course.  I’m being an ass.  Maybe some other time.”  With that, she gave me a smile and continued on with her exploration of the marketplace.

Rule number seventy-two, try not to be obvious you’re trying to set up a meeting or date with a target.  Try too hard they get suspicious.  Try to make it their idea, not yours.

Now I knew I was the target.  Why, I intended to find out.  I would not be surprised if she was staying at the same hotel.  It also meant someone either knew a lot about me or knew someone else who did.

That I would have to give some serious consideration.

The following morning arrived, and I was tired.  Several phone calls home to ask questions gave me no answers.  Was everyone lying to me?

Had I become expendable?

There was a time when your worth to the organisation became less because of fatigue, too long in the field, and the cost of retraining outweighed the agents’ worth.

Although the director had said my time was coming to an end, and expressed his surprise I had not been killed when clearly there were times when it was an almost certainty, he had given me a retirement option.

Except agents only ever retired when they were dead.  It was almost the first thing we were told at the induction.  And it was true.  Six of the eight in my intake were gone.  The other ended up in a facility in a coma he was not expected to recover from. 

It gave me no pleasure to be the last man standing

Then there was that other problem, the fact I was a walking encyclopaedia of the organisation’s inner workings, information an enemy could use to destroy us.

Melissa was potentially one of the enemy agents waiting in line to extract that information.  Her, the hidden man. He had disappeared before she had left me and may have confirmed my location.

Yes, paranoia was in overdrive.

I had expected an attack overnight, hence the tiredness and it only served to underline that it was time to get out.  Sleeping with a hand on the gun under your pillow was not the way to live.

It didn’t make me feel any better to find Melissa in the breakfast room when I walked it.  It was not a shock or surprise to find her there, and if she had been by herself, I might have shot her.

She was bright and breezy with the appropriate surprised response.

“Monty.  I had no idea you were staying here.  What a coincidence.”

I held my tongue.  A coincidence, my ass.  I looked around the room, but no one matched the man I’d seen loitering the day before.

She noticed.  “Looking for someone?”

I glared at her.  “Why would you think that?”  It was time to be a bad cop.

The bright breezy expression disappeared, replaced by concern. For me, I doubt it.  But she wisely didn’t answer that question.

“Right.  I’m going to be walking out the front door in about five minutes.  If I see your friend loitering out there, you will discover who I really am.  Just to be clear, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

I left her there. Perhaps the stunned look was real, but she had her mobile phone in her hand before I reached the stairs.

Sprung.  There was no doubt she was the honey trap.  Now I needed to find out who was after me.

When I made it out onto the street, I saw him just disappearing over the road and heading down towards the metro station.

I headed back inside and towards the breakfast room.  She would be very inexperienced if she was still there or incredibly stupid if she thought she could ride this storm out.

It was almost a relief not to find her there.  The idea of having to torture information out of her made me feel ill.  It showed just how far I’d fallen off the mission.  That sort of thing was a matter of rote and should not register any repugnance.

I sighed.  My cover was blown, and my usefulness in this mission was over.  I’d called in a replacement the night before, and he was awaiting the call. I made it.  Now I was free to go home.

Except…

I saw her scuttling out the front door, a complete change of clothes; a blonde wig, large sunglasses, and a backpack.  A student on sabbatical.

Would she check to see if she was being followed or for general surveillance?  She knew her cover had also been blown, so if she was well-trained, self-preservation would be paramount.  And had she checked the area earlier for a plan b escape?  It had been my priority when I first arrived. 

Not so far.  She was heading in the opposite direction to the man, to the gardens a short distance away.  I knew a shortcut, and it would come out ahead of her.  I waited, and then as she passed, I stepped out and said, “What a surprise to see you here?”

Foolishly, she stopped and turned.  In her shoes, I would have run.  I was not going to chase her, remember, don’t bring attention to yourself.

“How…?”

“Check the whole area where you’re staying.  You never know when things will go south.”

Of course, the darting eyes told me why she had stopped, and I had been almost expecting that it was a well-rehearsed trap.  The expression on her face told the story.  It also signed her partner’s death warrant.

Just as he reached out to grab me, I drove the knife in and up, then twisted it.  He was dead before his body could sink to the ground.  I almost carried him back to a doorway a few meters from the street and gently put him down there.  He looked like a drunk sleeping it off.

The face was familiar, I had definitely seen him before, but I couldn’t put a name to it.

She then decided while my back was turned to finish the job she was sent to do, except there was a mirror above the door that showed foot traffic from the street.  I saw her coming and easily disarmed her.

She thought about running but changed her mind.  A knife in the back before she made it to the street wasn’t appealing.

“What now?” she asked.

“A simple question; why?”

“I don’t ask.  To me, it’s just a job.”

“And the fact you failed?”

“It’s not the first time.  It was clumsily conceived.  I told them you’d work out what’s happening, but Benson, the guy you killed, was adamant.”

Benson.  Now, there was a ghost from the past.  Three years before, he was on another botched mission that got his partner killed and left him with severe injuries.  I was not surprised he would hunt me down.  Yet another rule; one should never be motivated by revenge – it was a matter of learning the old saying – first, dig two graves.

“What are you going to do to me?” she asked.

I realised that at that moment, she was still there.  Again, I would have run the minute I seemed distracted.  “Nothing.  Just tell me who he worked for.”

“I don’t know.  I don’t care either.  It’s just a job, my boss tells me where to go, and they tell me what they want.”

“Who trained you?”

“You don’t need to know.  I won’t be coming after you.  Revenge is a waste of time.  And I’m not worth the effort of chasing down if that’s what you’re thinking.  But I did learn a few valuable lessons if that’s any consolation.  I bet you sleep with a gun under your pillow.  I was going to visit you last night, but the fact you look anything but what you are told me that would be very unwise.  Now, if you don’t mind, I have a train to catch.”

“Do you like what you do?  It seems that if it was anyone else, you’d be dead.  If you had become a problem, you would be.  I’m retiring as of now.  I’m over this looking over your shoulder stuff, and it’s something you’re going to have to get used to.”

“And yet I sense a but…”

“I’m not the worst person you could end up with.  And you know I can protect you.”

“You were just a job, Monty.  I like what I do.”

It was a random thought that popped into my head.  I had the funds to disappear and have a very good life if I wanted it.  And I had got a strange sensation from her the moment she bumped into me.  That eye contact had been almost electric.

I shrugged.  “Then go get your train.  If you change your mind, I’ll be at the Charles de Gaulle airport, making up my mind which plane to get on while getting some lunch and champagne.”

She just smiled and shook her head.  There was nothing to say.

I ended up in terminal 3 and hadn’t realised that I’d not given her a more precise location.

It had the Bistro Benoit, the best of the restaurants at the airport, and there I ended up with a glass of champagne and the job of looking through the upcoming departures. 

It literally was much the same as throwing a dart at the world map and going there.  It would be more fun going with someone, but my life had been dedicated to service, and there never had been anyone special.

I’d felt a spark with Melissa, and it would have been fine to explore the possibilities.  Of course, she might take the opportunity to finish the job, no doubt it would be a request from her boss, so I might yet get a surprise.

An hour passed.

That notion that the airport was very large and had several terminals to explore increased the odds exponentially.

At that time my short list of places to go included Uruguay, though I was not sure why, Kenya, because the idea of going on safari appealed, New Zealand, because no one would believe I’d go somewhere so remote, Jamaica, in search of pirate history, or New York, on the way to somewhere more obscure like Montana.

I was buried in a page on Quebec in Canada when I heard the shuffle of a chair and looked up.

Melissa.

“Don’t tell me, your boss asked you to finish the job.”

“He did.”

“And….”

“I told him it might take some time to track you down.  In the meantime, I don’t see why I can’t have a little fun.”  She reached out and took my hand in hers, and there was that spark.  “And you sure look like you need a little fun.  Where are we going?”

“Jamaica.”

“Good.  My samba is a little rusty.”

If nothing else, I was going to die happy.

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

…

…

…

There is only one possible problem about starting a relationship in a city like New York, a melting pot of people from all over the country.  It’s quite possibly the home of what could become long-distance relationships, mostly because in essence it’s a long distance between your hometowns.

But, for everyone, it’s never the first thing in your mind, that’s just trying to get through those first few weeks, then months, then the steps that get you to the point where it’s time to go visit either your or her parents and family.

It’s a thing that some stave off as long as possible, particularly if you know your family are going to be over-inquisitive or likely to make your life hell with precious little details you hope no one would ever bring into the light again.

And of course, you know that is utterly impossible.

Of course, if you haven’t been home for a while, it makes the announcement all the more poignant at home, especially if you’re bringing the new partner, the one you have been praising to the hilt.

It was never going to be a problem for me, my parents were always on a cruise to somewhere or other and never home, and my brothers, quintessential men of the world, were scattered around the globe and it had been ages since we’d all been together.

But that first Christmas together, I knew Gabby was going to ask me to go home with her.  Like myself, she came from small-town America, a picturesque small city where opportunities were not as varied as those in the larger cities, where many migrated if they wanted better opportunities.

A lot often forget their origins, or more likely due to the pressures of establishing themselves in a new job, it took a while before going home.  Gabby had let three or so years slip by, and after being, as she put it, implored by her mom to come home, she had relented.

And since my office has decided to close for the holidays, she knew I didn’t have an excuse not to go with her.  And for better or worse, I turned up at the airport at the appointed time, and she was waiting.  I didn’t know until later that she had fully expected me not to go, the result of the last trip she had organised with what had been ‘the one’.

On that occasion, she had told the now ex that there was only one thing he had to do once they arrived home.  What she told me once the plane was in the air, “You will be meeting on various occasions my maternal grandmothers, Faith, Hope, and Charity.  They are, how should I say, somewhat strange, but they’re harmless.”

Usually, the mother-in-law was the leader of the Inquisition, and the father-in-law was the one that’s happy to tell you what he would do to you if you hurt his ‘little girl’.  Three essentially quirky old ladies were a new twist, and it was going to be interesting

I have always been a cautious fellow and very rarely dived into the unknown without a little investigation first.  I mean, that’s what an investigative journalist does, isn’t it?

Of course, that could be construed as uncool when it came to your hired friend, but I wasn’t very good at relationships, and this one with Gabby was a surprise.  She was different, but I knew that initial expectations were quickly dashed and over time completely shattered, or it could go the other way.

I had not expected she’d think our relationship was at the point where we would be meeting the parents, but to refuse would not be a good idea.

So, being the person I was, I wanted to know everything about her town, simply because it had a web page, the council, the sheriff, and upcoming Christmas activities.

It also had a sidebar about a certain Prom King and Queen, the town’s two most popular teenagers, and their plans, which were not the least of which was a long happy life together.  Gabby Saunders and John Prince.

It wasn’t hard to see why they were the golden couple.  John was the star of the football team; Gabby was the captain of the cheerleaders, and both families were prominent in the town.

Her father was the mayor and rancher, and John’s father was a farmer and agricultural industrialist.  She had said little about her father other than he ran a ranch, and her brothers and sister were ranch hands

I asked why she thought she needed to chase a career in the city when there was a perfectly good job at home, all it got was a pout and and a mumbled reply about being something more than a cowgirl.

I did a quick scan of the local paper’s digital back copies with her name and found two very interesting items.  The first, a month after the prom, was an incident involving Gabby and John that was remarkably short in detail, and it told me just how much pull each of their fathers had in that town.

The second, the prodigal daughter was leaving to go to New York to seek a career in fashion design, being a notable up-and-coming designer who designed and made clothes for her Aunt Faith to sell in her dress shop.  That raised a question: Why was she now simply a personal assistant to a crabby old lady?

John, in the meantime, had stayed home and was actively working in the management of his father’s business, with no inclination to join his bride-to-be.  He was happy enough, he was quoted, to bide his time whilst she shook off the desire to see what life was like on the other side.  The other side of what, I wondered.

Was this the reason why she had stayed away from home so long?

I thought about that whole scenario, and it was going to be a fascinating dynamic when I turned up with what he believed was his girl.  I came from a town like hers, and I knew how those ‘most likely’ scenarios worked.  He still carried a torch, as the saying goes.  She, apparently, was not.

I searched for a bed and breakfast to stay at if or when things started going south, and they would, no matter what she thought I felt about her.  When I rang up, I got a charming young lady by the name of Pricilla, and when I mentioned Gabby, there was a sharp intake of breath.  That was followed by a warning.  The last chap Gabby brought home to meet the parents was virtually hounded out of town.  He lasted two days.

I smiled to myself.  This might just be fun.  I asked her to be at the airport, just in case, and she said she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Gabby was strangely subdued for most of the flight, unusual because she normally had what I called an effervescent personality.

I put it down to nerves, returning after so long away; and perhaps what lay ahead.  I had not told her that I knew a little about her former life and planned to keep it that way. 

She had said that her mother was coming to get us, but I fully expected to see John in his dilapidated pick-up where only two could sit in the front.  Yes, Hollywood romance movies had a lot to answer for.

It was one of those airports where the steps went down the front of the plane, and you walked across the tarmac to a small building that served as the airport terminal.  Alongside, a fence where people could line up to see who got off the plane.

I saw her scanning that fence line for her mother and not seeing her.

We went into the terminal, a modernised and extended interior, because of increased passenger numbers, or perhaps because a congressman lived nearby.  That always helped.

I saw John before he saw her.  I also saw Priscilla, who, catching sight of me, hung back.

We passed through the arrival gate into the main floor where about 30 people were waiting to greet arriving passengers, and the look on her face went from an impending smile to a scowl, and a mutter under her breath, “What the fuck?”

She never, ever swore.

“I hope that’s not directed at your mother,” I said.

She glared at me.  “This is not what I hoped would be your first look at my hometown.”

Just as that was said, John loomed all six foot six two hundred and forty pounds of a devilishly handsome cowboy.  It was not hard to see what she had seen in him.  But appearances were deceptive.

He tipped his hat.  “Hello, Gabby.  Welcome home!”

She switched the glare from me to him.  “Where’s my mother?”  It was not the politest of tones.

“She was unavoidably detained.  I offered to come in her place, and here I am.”

He had noticed but chose to ignore me.

In her annoyance, Gabby had forgotten to introduce me, so I just leaned against the handle of my suitcase and waited to see how this was going to play out.  Since I was not supposed to know anything about her and him, I couldn’t say or do anything.  Yet.

She had her phone out, calling her mother I guessed.  I heard an answer on the other end, then, “Where the hell are you?”

A moment later, “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.  This is exactly why I haven’t been home in years, and if you have any more of these surprises in store, I will get back on the next plane out, and I will never come home again.”

There was a minute when her face made various contortions, and then she disconnected the call.

She looked like she was going to scream, but didn’t, just counted to ten under her breath, then looked at me.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  These things happen.”

“I’m afraid there’s another problem?”

“No room at the inn?”

Her face changed to one of surprise. “How…”

“Good hearing; your mother has a loud voice.  Storms are unpredictable, and I did check last night to see what the weather conditions were going to be, and I was surprised we were allowed to fly in.  That’s why I took the punt I might need somewhere to stay until your accommodation issues are sorted.”

Priscilla took that to be her cue.  “Hello, Gabby.”

“Prissy.”  It wasn’t a term of endearment.

“I told you I had no part in that.”  Straight on the defensive.  There was a mountain of issues that needed to be resolved, and I was now wondering if this trip was going to have a few unexpected surprises.

Even so, I knew despite everything I was witnessing now; Gabby was everything I could want in a partner, but she had issues.  And if I could help…

Awkward silence.  I broke it.  “So, instead of becoming the next hot news item for the Gazette, if we stand here much longer, I suggest, John, you take Gabby home.  Pricilla will take me to the B and B for a day or so, and I will get myself out to your place tomorrow.”

“This is not… “

“What you planned for.  No.  I fear the best-laid plans of mice and men can easily be waylaid in a small town like this.  I suggest you take the time to reunite with your family, I’m sure John will be happy to drop you off and give you some space.  He has the look of a boyfriend who hasn’t accepted that you’ve moved on.”  I looked at him.  “And I’m sure before the holiday is over you and I will have a chat about that.  In the meantime, I expect you to be a gentleman.”

That look of surprise on her face deepened.  “You knew?”

“I had an inkling.  I come from a small town too, as you know, that had a similar situation.  You are a gentleman, aren’t you John, not some creepy stalker?”

He was going to say something, but Gabby cut him off.  “I bet you brought that shitty little truck?”

His expression told the story.  “Best laid plans of mice and men, as you say David.  There would have been no room in the cabin, and I would not expect you to sit out back with the pig shit.”  She shook her head.  “I truly feel sorry for you, John.  I do.  You and I will be having words on the way to my house.”  Then a final glare in my direction, “I expect to see you tomorrow morning, David.”

In the end, I don’t think John wanted to be there.  And I did see an enterprising young lady taking various photos of us.  A reporter or photographer for the local newspaper?  Or would our encounter go viral on the internet?  I couldn’t wait to find out.

Priscilla had stood back and watched the fun.  So did a dozen or so others who probably knew exactly who they were.  We both waited until they had left the terminal building before moving on ourselves.

“You should just get back on the plane,” she said.  “You still can.  I know the airline staff.”

“It might seem a little rocky at the moment, but the test of a couple’s relationship is to be thrown from the frying pan into the fire.  The whole episode feels like a hiccup moment in a romance movie.  I’m guessing for a while that they were the star attraction given their school graduation and parents standing.”

“What did you read?”

“Nearly all of the back copies of the newspaper for a hundred years.  Might as well be prepared.”

“Did it tell you that neither of them wanted to become a spectacle?  That was Gabby’s mother, who had to take a simple childhood romance and turn it into headline news.  It might have worked had John not believed the story.  Yes, Gabby liked him, yes, they were cute together, but no, Gabby didn’t love him.  After it was broadcast far and wide and their friendship was put under such a large microscope, it became too much.  The only place for Gabby to go was as far away from here as she could get.”

“And he still doesn’t get it?”

“To be honest, John is not a man of the world.  He lacks sophistication, he is a hopeless scholar but is a good football player.  Good enough, but not that good.  He played college football but not NFL as such and just faded into obscurity.  He married twice, but his heart is not in it.  He thinks the only girl for him is Gabby.”

“Well, we’ll know soon enough if she is or isn’t.  I’m not going to force her to choose.”

“Do you love her?”

“Would I be here if I didn’t?  The girl I know from New York, that’s not her who got off the plane.  It’s like we stepped through a portal into another world with another Gabby.’

“For a lot of people, it’s hell.  if you come from a small town like this, you’ll know what it’s like.  We keep getting told it’s going to get better.”

“It isn’t much better in the big cities, just more people and more problems.    If I hadn’t met Gabby, I would have been going home myself permanently.”

“Farmer or rancher?”

“Ranch, though my older brother runs it while my parents see the world from a cruise ship, one long endless cruise, it seems.  Still, it could be worse.”

“You’re right.  That will be tomorrow morning when you meet the three witches.” 

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

…

…

It often came as a surprise to anyone who knew me that I reached adulthood with anything that resembled sanity.

My parents died early in my life, when j was about seven, probably a good age, if it could be said that there was anything good about it, having been shoved in a boarding school, and having parents who travelled the world as diplomats.  They had been interested in everything bar their son, so consequently I didn’t miss them as much as I should.

But…

What to do with a seven-year-old that no one really wanted.  I remember sitting in the headmaster’s office waiting to be taken to the funeral.  I didn’t know what to expect, all the headmaster had said was that my grandparents were coming.

That gave me a choice.  My father’s parents, the severe, strict, bible-thumping minister and his wife, a more sinister-looking pair than anything I’d seen before and was positively petrified when we visited them twice a year.

Then there were my mother’s parents who lived in a castle, not the fairy tale sort, but one with over a hundred rooms and a dungeon, and places where children should never venture.  Of course, telling a child no was the same as saying go for it, and that was a source of contention.

Needless to say, I knew who I wanted it to be.

Equally, I knew who I wanted to live with, but we always never got what we wanted, or so I had been told repeatedly by everyone.

So, until I was old enough to leave school and fend for myself, I had to split my time between the two, not that there was much left after school.  And, yes, neither took me out of boarding school, deciding that a break in my routine would be a disaster.

Nobody thought to ask me my opinion.

When I left school, finally, it was with the necessary qualifications, but not necessarily life skills.  Those were supposedly learned in the family environment.  Of the two, if I strictly applied what I learned in those few brief weeks at home each year was, on one hand, eccentric based on based on the notion I would become a minister, or eccentricity based on the notion I would become lord of the manor.

At no time was it suggested I would become a diplomat, even though I had applied when my parents’ old boss who came to the funeral offered me a pass to join the ranks after graduation.  You know, like father like son.

It gave me an escape, to get away from the stifling life I’d had for the past twelve years, standing at the station waiting for the train to take me away from basically everything I knew, and everyone, it seemed like the end of the world.

Perhaps then, had I not accepted an invitation to go on a holiday with Horace Arbuthnot Esq., my life might have turned out a lot differently.

Or not.  After all, destiny is what it was because it was not written in stone.

Twenty years on, when looking back, it seemed almost an eternity.

That summer, the year I turned eighteen, was memorable for many reasons.  I started out being introduced to Horace’s family and acquaintances as the eccentric Mr Alexander Wilberstone, the only son of highly regarded diplomatic problem solvers who disappeared mysteriously in the uncharted jungle of Africa.

The way he spun the tale was so much different from the reality of what happened, being gunned down on the back streets of Nairobi in a random drive-by shooting. I was, at that time, almost as mysterious as my parents, and the sort of character that added street cred to a lonely boy with no friends.

I didn’t tell him I was in the same boat, but since I was heading for the minister’s manse anything other than that was a godsend.  Besides, I like Horace and the tales he spun to make his ordinary life far more interesting.  And the fact he used my looks and charm to get girls to come and talk to us.

That was the second memorable thing about that year, Anna Louise Romano, an American girl with her family visiting Italian relations in Florence. 

She had a friend who I eventually discovered had been planning to meet Horace in Italy and it only dawned on me later why he seemed to move about constantly seeking tourist attractions and after each visit, noticing his mounting despair.

That of course led to the third thing about turning eighteen, it unlocked my inheritance which was, when an old dusty lawyer in an old dusty office right out of a Dickens novel, told me one dusty afternoon in London.  It was, to an eighteen-year-old, an unimaginably large sum to do whatever I liked.

Within reason, of course.  The minister and the lord of the manor had taught me one thing; to be miserly.

Perhaps Horace had known about it. He certainly knew everything about everyone, ensuring he was not bullied or his friends, the advantage of which I recognised early on.  He was always perpetually short on funds and was always going to pay me back, the mysteriously unavailable funds just about to drop when…  well put any excuse you like in there.

I didn’t mind paying his way.  Twelve years of friendship needed repaying.  And I regarded it my job to ensure he got to meet the love of his life. As for myself, just enough time to fall hopelessly in love, to spend the most incredible four weeks of my life, and then watch her slip through my fingers like the sands of an hourglass.

Horace was lucky, though, in time, he convinced me that very little came to anyone being lucky.  He married his girl, moved to Tuscany, started a vineyard and winery, and told me I had a home any time I wanted one.

I travelled the world, noted all the shortcomings of travel agencies, and everything else in between and created an app that solved firstly my problems and then everyone else’s and sold it for a staggeringly large sum, more staggering than the original inheritance, and on the very day of my thirty-eighth birthday moved into a quaint loft in Brooklyn, New York, to contemplate my next venture.

And as it happened, Horace and Beverly were in the city, and I was taking them to dinner, a sort of birthday party to celebrate everything.  All that was missing was the girl I could share my life with.

I’d tried over the years, but there was never that one, not the Anna Louise Remano that I fell in love with and would never forget, as much as I tried to.  But don’t get me wrong.  I was happy.  I had experienced in those few short weeks what many couples never could in a lifetime.

The restaurant was not far from the apartment, and I’d invited Horace to stay with me, far less expensive than a hotel, and easier for me to show them the city starting the next day.  They had brought their children two remarkable but seemingly unrelated people who had ideas of their own that didn’t include being seen with us old people.  I hired a nanny, much to their dismay.  Until they met her.

We walked, the evening warm but not hot.  It was an ideal time of the year.  Horace was different. He’d lost weight and was looking fit and healthy, more than he had when he was a child.  Life in the countryside, hard work, and finding the perfect partner had cast a spell on him.  I was happy for him. His life had always been harder than mine.

But there was something.  It was like he had a secret, and it was going to burst out of him.  He was making small talk, and he only ever did that when he had a secret and was trying hard not to spill it

Until that moment…

When we reached the restaurant, he opened the door for me.  Usually, it was the other way around.  I gestured for Beverly to go first, but she hung back.

Had he invited one of our old friends, one I hadn’t seen for a long time.  He’d been skirting around the old memories, the time we had been in Florence, taken the train to Piza and driven to Venice.

The mention of Venice had brought back a flood of memories, all of which involved what I had believed to be the love of my life.

Anna Louise Romano.

And the moment I stepped through that door, I knew she was there.  It didn’t matter that the restaurant was crowded, I had that tingling sensation go up and down my spine.

And it was as if the crowd parted and there standing before me was the girl herself, all grown up and as beautiful as the first day I saw her.

Then he was beside me.  “Surprise!”

“How? Where?”

“You were just two ships passing in the night, Alex.  She’s recovering from a nasty divorce, so treat her with kid gloves.  Who knows what might happen?”

…

…

Like many who endured their school years with one endgame in mind, to get as far away as possible from those and the people in it, as soon as I completed high school, I was going to be on the first bus out.

Unlike others, there was nothing to keep in there, my father had died in the last year and my mother had moved on to a new family, and it was evident in not so many words that I was not welcome to stay.

Nor were there very many employment opportunities because like many other rural towns and cities, unless you were from an agricultural background, a tradesman, or simply wanted a dead-end job, there was little reason to stay.

Of course, there was always one minor hiccup in what could have been a perfect getaway.

Mine was called Francine Macallister.

We became friends in elementary school, not by choice but from being thrown together by circumstances.  Her parents had died in a car crash when she was twelve, and my mother, being a close friend of the family, took her in rather than let her be taken into foster care.

As an only child, I hated the fact that I had to share my parents’ affection, and then when it seemed she was given more consideration.  When we argued or fought, it was always my fault.  It seemed to me that after a while, they liked her more than me.

It was like having a real sister, and I hated her.  She was popular with the boys and often found ways to make my life difficult, and on several occasions found myself in a fight which I preferred not to be involved.  All it did was reinforce my resolve to get on that bus.

That decision to leave was not made in haste, nor was I making a leap into the unknown.

For several years, I had worked several jobs to save every cent I could because I knew I was going to need a stake in case I could not immediately find work.  I had a room lined up where I was going to stay until something better came up.

I told no one of my intentions because I didn’t want to explain why I was going, which I thought was obvious, or where I was going.  But there were people I had to deal with, and this was a small enough town for everyone to know everyone else’s business if they were that curious.

I didn’t think anyone would care

Then, finally, school was over.  I woke up that Monday morning, knowing that within hours, I would be out of this house forever.  All I had to do was contain my excitement.

I had already packed my travel bag and left it at the bus depot several days before.  When I left, it would be as if I was going down to the library to study up on work opportunities in the area, a routine I had maintained over several weeks, mostly to get out of the house, and to keep away from Francine and her friends.

At the end of the school year, everyone was home and in the dining room.  Only recently, my mother had begun a relationship with another man, a widower with three children under 10 of his own, which she seemed to end up caring for.  They were as snarky as Francine, and it forced me to move up my plans to leave.

With any luck, it was going to be the last time I saw any of them again.

Francine was dressed, ready to go out, and was eating some vegan cereal, having decided not to eat meat, and looked up as I came into the room.  I saw the others and stopped.

“You’re up late,” she said.

I wanted to be fully rested for what lay ahead.  “No need to get up until I get a job.”

“Not considering going to college?”

I’d been told there was no money for me to go to college a year or so ago and decided that I’d probably never be in a position to go.  “No.  Grades weren’t good enough.  Probably should have studied harder.”

My mother glared at me.  “That’s because you’re as useless as your father.  The quicker you get a job and can pay your way, the better.”

Thanks for the compliment, Mom.

“Exactly my thoughts.  I’m working on it.”

Francine took her plate to the sink and then came back.  “I can see you’re off to the library.  Mind if I come with you?”

It was the last thing I wanted.  She’d never bothered before, and it set off alarm bells.  And that expression on her face, she was up to something.

“Why?”  It came out blunter than I intended.

“Why not?”

“You’re not interested in getting a job.  Didn’t you say you were going to college?”

She was only going because her current boyfriend, Bradley Scott, the eldest son of the town’s hardware and agricultural machinery dealership owner, the richest family in town, was going, and she was joining him.  There was only one problem, funding.

“I might.  Bradley’s going, and he wanted me to go too.”

“Then perhaps you should be looking into college life rather than pestering me.”

“But I like pestering you.”

“Take your sister with you, Sam, and stop being an ass.”

“I hate to break it to you Mom, she’s not my sister.  Never was, and never will be.  And as much as you don’t care, she’s done nothing but make my life miserable.”

I saw the expression on Francine’s face, and oddly, I thought it was one of hurt.  It was hardly possible given the way she had treated me recently.

“That’s a terrible thing to say, Sam.”  My mother stopped what she was doing and looked at me.

“What, you think it’s been all wine and roses since she moved in?  Wow.  What planet have you been on?  You know what.  I don’t want to deal with this anymore.  You think what you like.  I’ll find a job and get out of your hair.”

That said, I walked quickly to the front door, opened it, stepped out onto the patio, and closed it behind me.  I was going to wait for the bus into town, but instead, I was so very angry. I decided to walk off my temper.

By the time I reached the next intersection, about fifty years from home I heard someone coming up behind me.

I turned to see Francine.

She was probably the only person who could derail my plans.

It would create an unnecessary problem if I ignored her, so I waited until she caught up.

“What are you doing,” I asked.  “You have never been interested in anything to do with me unless it involved Bradley and his idiot friends beating me up.”

“You hate me that much?”

“Would it matter if I did or didn’t?  You’ve detested me ever since the day my mother took you in.  Whatever life I had before that was gone and replaced with what could be described as hell on earth.  Hate isn’t a strong enough word.”

“Is that why you’re leaving town?”

I glared at her.  There was no way she could know what I was doing.

“You’re as delusional as my mother.  Go home and figure new ways to make me miserable.”

I walked off, hoping she’d get the message.

Of course, she didn’t.

“Angie’s mother works at the bus depot.  She said you got a ticket to New York.  Didn’t say when you were going, but I’m guessing it’s soon.”

I shook my head.  Of course, Francine would know someone with a mother who pried into other people’s business.  They probably had a meeting of busybodies every Wednesday at city hall.

“Where would I get the notion I could do anything that smart or have the money.  You heard my mother, I’m a good for nothing. You’ve even said so yourself.  If anyone was leaving this dump, it would be Bradley and you.  Prom Queen and King.  You were ordained as the couple who were most likely to succeed.”

It came as no surprise that she and Bradley were given the money his father donated to the school.

She grabbed my shoulder and stopped me.

“You know, I’ve always had a notion that you liked me, Sam.  I could never work out why you always simply ignored me.  Just now, I can see why.  If nothing had happened to my parents, we might have become more than friends over time.  What you said back home, that the day I moved in it was the day your life ended.  You meant your life with me, didn’t you?”

I had worked so hard to suppress any feelings I had for her.  It would have seemed utterly wrong to suggest that I had.  In a sense, she was right.  Until the day she moved in, our lives together had been perfect.  Now, it was reduced to just watching her make a fool of herself with others.

“It doesn’t matter what you think I think or thought or cared about.  You have a life.  I have a version of purgatory.  I can’t live in that house, and my mother has made it perfectly clear. I’m not wanted with that new gaggle she’s invited in.  Sleeping rough in the park is infinitely more preferable.”

“I treated you badly because I didn’t think you liked me anymore.  I just suffered the loss of my parents, and then I lost my best friend in the world. Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“You know why.”

“We’re not related like you said.  I was never your sister, and I never will be.”

“It’s not how the busybodies of this place will see it.  You should be concentrating on landing the town’s biggest fish.  He had rough edges, but I’m sure time and a big stick will sort them out.  Now, whatever you think this was, it wasn’t.  Go home, be happy.  Forget I ever existed.  My mother has.”

“You’re wrong.  About a lot of things.  But whatever.  I won’t tell anyone.  I don’t want to part ways with you thinking I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you.”

With that, she turned and headed back home.

At least she had one to go to.

I nearly changed my mind a dozen times during the day.

I spent a lot of time going over the words of that last conversation and realised that, at the time, I had been so wrapped up in my own self-pity that I hadn’t really listened.

Then, in a moment of clarity, I realised she said she believed I liked her? But was that at the beginning, during, or at the end? Certainly, I had been very much in love with her by the time she arrived at our house and at a time when I had been hoping it might go further.

The thing is, I had always liked her, but I never dared to tell her how I felt.  That I was planning to do, and that’s when timing became my enemy.  It was just before her parents had died.

It was that first brash moment of our teens when feelings ran high and every little nuance of a relationship could cause instant joy or utter despair.  I had the feeling she felt the same as I did and was going to tell her.

Then, it all fell apart.

When she moved in, my instant joy quite literally turned to utter despair.  There was no possible way  I could ever contemplate a romantic relationship with the girl that everyone labelled my sister.

Society’s expectations did not include a romantic relationship between a brother and sister even if we were quite clearly not.

So, we became another of society’s expectations between a brother and sister. We began to fight like cats and dogs.

At first, I thought she was surprised, but my recollection of that time was scant because I was battling a broken heart and another of those teenage angst, getting through teens and being bullied at school.

Whatever happened, I did what I had to to keep the thoughts of her out of my head.  I tried being the brother I thought she would expect to want and instead found her finding ways to make my life miserable.  What was the saying? No good deed goes unpunished.

It didn’t matter in the end, whether I liked her or not or whether she liked me, which I seriously doubted.  I couldn’t wait to get on that bus and leave town.  Forever.

That walk from the library to the bus depot was the longest of my life.  Still, the thoughts were swirling about the effect it would have on my mother and perhaps Francine. I was still telling myself neither cared what happened to me.

But what was worse, with everything that had happened in the last 24 hours, she was once again in my thoughts in a way she shouldn’t be.  I had to get my head in the right space. Otherwise, I was going to be just as miserable. Only the view out the window would be different.

I picked a night when there would be more activity at the bus depot because being the only person I would stand out. 

I was planning to leave unnoticed, and so far, half a dozen other passengers were sitting along the seats.  One thing I’d noticed every time I’d come to check it out, no one came to see anyone off and rarely was anyone there to greet arrivals.

Perhaps no one cared if you left and perhaps arrivals didn’t want people to know they’ve returned.  Whatever the reasons, it suited my stealthy departure.

My thoughts were interrupted by an announcement that the bus was running ten minutes late, then by another passenger who was leaving, sitting two seats up from me.

I turned to glance in her direction and recognised her immediately.  Francine.

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I’m leaving this town.  There’s nothing here for me anymore.”

“You have a family, a home, and people who care about you.”

I gave her my best, incredulous look.  “What planet are you from, and what have you done with the real Francine?”

“Why are you really leaving?”

“It doesn’t matter.  Go home and forget about me.”

It was her turn to look incredulously at me.  “That would be difficult, Sam.  Had you asked me this morning how I felt about you, we might not be here.”

“It would not.  No matter what I feel or what you feel, it can’t be.”

“Because we’re brother and sister.  Even though this morning, I was never your sister. I wondered about that statement and initially thought it meant that I’d never acted like one, even though I know you tried to be a brother.  Then I realised, later, what you meant.  We had been friends before I moved in.  I had hopes that we might be special friends, I liked you that much, and perhaps at that time, it was the first pangs of love.  I thought you felt the same.

“I was disappointed that events turned out the way they did, but it was better than going into the foster system.  It ruined any chance we had of taking our relationship further.  Bradley used to say that you were in love with me. I think you came to the conclusion, that our new situation would never allow our feelings for each other, long before that, simply because we were, in his and everyone else’s eyes, brother and sister.

“You were right, of course.  We’re not.  It was the reason why I stayed within the foster system and kept my name.  I refused to be adopted or change my name to yours.  I had this silly notion that eventually you’d get out of your funk, and we could run away together.  I wanted to leave too, but like you, I couldn’t until I was eighteen.

“Well, this morning I told your mother I was leaving.  I thanked her for the five years she put up with me.  She asked if you were going with me?  It was a curious question, and I said no.  She simply shrugged and handed me an envelope with a bus ticket and an address where I could find a friend of hers.  The ticket is for this bus.  Your bus.  And I suspect the friend’s address is yours.  Your mother is no fool, Sam.  She’s known the anguish you’ve suffered. Once I realised how much you loved me, the last five years made complete sense.

“You could have told me at any time.  You might have saved yourself a lot of anguish.  But men are all the same, trying to be the strong, uncomplaining silent type.” She shook her head.  “You’d better be a lot more communicative from now on.”

She stood and held out her hand.  The bus was pulling into the bay.  Three others getting on were moving towards the gate.

I took it in mine, and all the grief of the last five years melted away.  She smiled that beautiful smile that could light up a room and a smile that had been missing for so long.  A tear ran down her left cheek.

“And don’t ever make me give another of those speeches ever again.  Ever, you hear.”

“I promise. Hey, what about Bradley.  You two seemed very cosy together.”

“That.  That was just to make you mad.  It seemed it worked almost too well.”

“Then don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.  I promise.”

The ticket collector was waiting impatiently by the door waiting for us.  We crossed to the door, gave him the tickets which he punched, and then got on the bus.

There were two seats side by side about the middle.  She sat in the window seat, not that there would be much to see.  I got comfortable and then took her hand in mine.  She smiled when I looked at her. 

“Ready?”

“I am.”

She squeezed my hand, the door closed, and the bus moved away from the bay.  For better or worse, we were on our way.  A last glance back, I momentarily wondered if either of us would ever come back.

One day, maybe.

…

…

What’s the worst thing that could happen?

Yes, I was one of those nervous fliers, professing more than once that if God had meant us to fly, he would have given us wings.

You can imagine the response that got after repeated quotations on just how safe flying was.  I agree.  Based on statistics, flying was safer than driving, and I didn’t fear driving.

Go figure?

So, for years, I avoided planes, and took trains, and ships.  I was wealthy enough and had the time to take ships when I wanted to travel to other countries.  It was a more serene method of travel, but these days, everyone was in a hurry.

Everyone.

Now, it seemed I had to be as well.  It was a day I knew would come one day. 

I had avoided the idea of getting married for a long time, telling myself I would never find someone who would understand the foibles I carried as baggage.  Most could not believe a grown man could be so afraid of something like travelling in an aeroplane.

Annabel was different.  She was not in a hurry either.  She loved travelling in ships, taking our time to go anywhere and everywhere.  It was her idea that we should have our own ship.  We were working on it.

But, truth be told, she did not fear flying and travelled frequently for business.  I preferred the train.

Annabel originally came from Italy and had left her family behind when she came to America to work, and then live. She hadn’t expected to meet me or anyone else, let alone get married.  And because I wanted to please her, I agreed that it should happen in her hometown in Italy.

What was the problem, you ask.

Well, to start with, there wasn’t.  There was plenty of time to get there before the wedding, travelling in the usual manner.  Then her father got sick and sicker until it was discovered he had stage four cancer.

Wedding plans had to be moved up so that, as a final deathbed request, he would be able to walk his only daughter down the aisle.

All we had to do was fly over.

Simple.

I had a plan. It was a simple one.  Fly first class, take a sedative that would put me to sleep and hopefully wake up on the ground on the other side.

After all, I would do anything for Annabel.

The day arrived.  I was nervous, yes, but not overly worried.  We boarded the plane, had a glass of champagne, and just as the plane was taxiing to the runway, I closed my eyes, and everything faded into black

My last memory was of Annabel holding my hand and telling me she would see me in Italy.

When I woke, it was uncharacteristically cold.  There was a loud whooshing sound coming from behind us just about drowned out by a screaming sound of metal on metal.

For a moment, I thought I was in an SUV driving over a very rough road, such was the pronounced jerking movements.

I looked sideways, and first, I noticed Annabel, unquestionably terrified.  Second, I realised we were on the aeroplane, almost in darkness, and something had gone horribly wrong.

It was only seconds before Annabel realised, I was awake, and she turned to me.  She had been crying and tears were in her eyes.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

“What happened?”

She looked quizzically at me, and I realised I would have to speak louder.

I leaned closer.  “What happened?”

“Of all the flights, on any day, we had to take on board a hijacker.”

“Hijacker?”

I thought that measures had been taken to prevent this from happening. 

“He said he had a bomb, and if the pilot didn’t redirect the plane to some obscure place in Africa, he would detonate it.  The pilot refused, and we’re now in the middle of a nightmare.”

It didn’t take much to realize what happened.  The pilot called his bluff, he exploded the bomb, and at 30,000 feet, the result was almost catastrophic.  I looked back and could see a hole in the side of the plane, and through the windows, smoke pouring from one of the engines.

Given the jerkiness of the flight path, there was damage to the controls, and the pilot was using the engines to fly as straight as possible, slowly because of the stress on the frame and the damaged engine.  Another glance showed we were not far from the water, so the plane was down low enough not to need pressurisation.

I did a mental calculation for time elapsed, and I was expecting to wake up eight and a half hours after dropping off to sleep.  I was awake, and we were not there.

“How long have we been like this?”

“Six hours.  We’re flying at about 160 knots, and the last advice from the pilot was that we were heading to Vigo in Spain and,” she looked at her watch, “we have about six hours before we get there.”

There was no chance I could go back to sleep and wake up on the ground.  What was surprising was how calm I felt.

I had nothing to say, and perhaps she had mistaken my silence for anger or annoyance at her insistence we fly and assurances of how safe it was.

I wasn’t annoyed or angry.  Perhaps it was fate.

“Say something, anything.”

I smiled, though it was hard to project confidence that everything would be fine. Perhaps, if I did, she might get the wrong idea that I had simply given up.  The truth was I had no control over what happened, and there was no point getting upset over what you couldn’t do anything about.

“It’s not your fault.”

“If I hadn’t…”

I squeezed her hand.  “You’re here, now with me, and if anything happens, we will go through it together.  I believe the pilot doesn’t want to die any more than any of us on this plane, and he will do everything he can to make sure we survive.”

I leaned back in the seat.  With the blanket, it was still reasonably cold, but at least we were not moving through a storm.  That would have been a lot harder to weather.  As it was, the noise was bad enough.  I was still tired from the sedative, and listening to Annabel telling me what we were going to do when we got off the plane, lulled me back to sleep.

My last thought was that I’d had the life I had never expected to have.  Annabel had always been the one, but I never dared to ask her out.  Instead, I watched from afar as her life took many twists and turns until I accidentally ran into her.

I smiled at the thought.  If only I’d seen what was in front of me.  I finally did.

I opened my eyes just as the wheels hit the runways, slightly harder than I expected for such a large aircraft.  I’d heard that one couldn’t feel the take-off or the landing.

Annabel was smiling.

“We made it?”

“Of course, we did.”

It was then I realised that there was no noise, and looking around, no hole.

“No hijacker. Or a bomb going off?”

“What are you talking about?”

I sighed.  “A bad dream.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry.  We’re on solid ground, and nothing happened.  Thank you for doing this.”

“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.  You know that.”

“Of course.”

She leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek, and a second later, there was a huge explosion.

…