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Tag: #amwriting
A to Z Challenge – V is for: Very clear about this…
Kane was in a very difficult position.
It was not for the first time, but this time was significant because he had basically agreed in principle to vote for both sides.
And, when he realized what had happened, he had, depending on how you looked at it, been tricked.
Not good for someone who was well respected by both sides, and whose vote would count towards picking up those who were undecided.
That was just pointed out to him by Amy, his personnel assistant, the moment he arrived back in the office.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at a point just past her head, a copy of a painting by one of the old masters, still an object of beauty.
“So, when did Cheney change sides?” He asked, dragging his attention back to the problem in hand.
He suddenly realized what had happened, and it was a well thought out scheme. Cheney had always been on board with the Board’s recommendation until he accepted Kane’s invitation to come to a meeting that would attempt to explain why the board’s recommendation was wrong.
He should have been skeptical of Cheney’s sudden change of mind, and then of the discussions he had attended with Cheney’s allies, with the objective of changing their minds too. In fact, he had left with the impression he had persuaded them, saying, in essence, they should all vote against.
Seeing Cheney that morning with the leader of the group agreeing to vote for the motion, should have set off alarm bells. The phone call from Williams, the head of the group voting for the board’s recommendation, saying he was pleased that Kane had finally seen ‘the light’ as he called it, had been interesting, to say the least, especially when he mentioned in passing, how very much the board appreciated Kane’s confidence in them.
He had done no such thing.
Instead, Cheney had put him on the spot, and his words were now being taken out of context.
“This morning. I just got word from Ellie, who told me he had a breakfast meeting with Jacobs and Meadows. She said he came back looking very pleased with himself.”
Jacobs was the chairman of the board and Meadows was the CEO who was pushing the new plan, which would break up, and sell-off, or disband, the underperforming divisions of the company. By having Meadows in attendance, Jacobs could basically offer Cheney anything he wanted.
And top of his list was my division.
“Yes, and I think we can guess why. He wants this division. Of course, if they gave it to him, it would not be the magic bullet he thinks it will be. Nor would it line the shareholders, and therefore the board members pockets as it has in the past.”
“Is this situation the proverbial double-edged sword?”
“It depends. I doubt you could quit out of dissatisfaction with a crappy board decision. I doubt anyone could in the current financial climate. But you won’t have to worry. It might mean going back to the pool for a while if you don’t want to work with Cheney.”
“No problem there. Ellie had already told me my days are numbered.”
Understandable. Ellie and Amy had put themselves forward for the role of Jake’s personal assistant, and Ellie had tried very hard to convince him Amy was not suitable for a variety of reasons, none of which he found valid, and appointed her. Ellie was not one who forgot or forgave easily.
Although he didn’t like denigrating anyone, he had said more than once to Amy, both Ellie and Cheney suited each other. Neither cared who or what they destroyed to get what they wanted.
“Then it looks like you and I are heading for the scrap heap.”
“Sounds like an excuse for a long lunch.” She smiled. For a woman who was about to lose a dream job, she was in remarkably good spirits.
“Ask me again in an hour. I have a few things to do.”
“Call in some favors, maybe?”
People didn’t rise in a company over several decades without making friends, making enemies, and stumbling over information which may or may not be used depending on circumstances at the time. He had a few interesting tidbits in his arsenal, but whether he would use them or not wasn’t uppermost in his mind.
“We’ll have to see.”
Jake watched her leave, and, not for the first time, he wondered what life with her might be like. He had never married, but had, for a number of years had a more or less relationship with the Chairman’s daughter, before she broke it off. He suspected the Chairman had instigated it given the number of times she had tried to contact him since parting.
That door had closed. As for Amy, she had a husband who was a member of the armed services and had been killed in Afghanistan. She had weathered that event and finally come out the other side of some very dark days, some of which he had witnessed personally, and tried to help where he could. But was she up to dipping her foot into the dating thing. He wasn’t prepared to ask. Not yet.
He sighed and picked up the phone. It was time to call Jacobs. It was the day I knew he would be in his office, not at the factory site where we all were housed, but in the top floor of a prestigious building in the city, twenty miles away You could call it an ivory tower, but the board did oversee the functioning of seven different and diversified companies.
Some time ago they had called for ideas on how to integrate a lot of the similar processes of those diversified companies, but in the end, they had paid a ‘crony’ a million dollars for an unworkable plan, and it had not gone any further. Now, the conglomerate was bleeding cash, someone had come up with a new, knee jerk, plan.
Jacobs was surprised to hear from him.
“I was told,” he said, “everyone is now on board.”
“They probably are. It’s just that it is no longer a problem for me. You’ll have my resignation on your desk by close of business.”
That statement was met with silence. Stunned, or was it smug satisfaction. He had always viewed Kane as a thorn in his side.
“Is that really necessary?”
“I think you know why, and whatever the plan was, it has backfired. I don’t need the job, nor do I need the aggravation of scheming and plotting.”
“I think you’re making a mistake, but let’s be very clear about this, you leave, there’s no coming back. If I were you, I would consider my position very carefully.”
Interesting reaction. The only conclusion from his reaction was that the thorn was now removed.
I expected just such a reaction.
Now, for the next job. Kane went down to the factory floor and called in all the production managers. Like himself, he knew most of them didn’t really have to stay, some could retire, some could go into business by themselves, most could walk into another job, even a better job, the next day.
Kane left that meeting a half-hour later, telling them the decision to stay and work under Cheney, a man none of them liked, was their decision but he was moving on.
He called Amy, asked if she had sent his resignation letter, which she had, and to pick the restaurant for lunch, the more expensive the better, and that he would pick her up outside the front of the office block.
For Kane, it was the 107th day of what he called the rest of his life. He was woken by the sun streaming in through the window of his hotel room. He had reached Singapore and had been told that Raffles Hotel was the place to stay.
He agreed. Old but new, the place just reeked of nostalgia.
The figure beside him stirred, opened her eyes, and smiled.
“Good morning, Amy.”
“It is a good morning, isn’t it Kane?”
Over lunch that fateful day 107 days ago, he took the chance of asking her if she would be interested in dating him. Nothing heavy, no strings, he would understand if she thought it inappropriate.
She didn’t think it was inappropriate, just wanted to know why it had taken him so long.
The had got married in Rome, 42 days ago, in a quaint little church, and after a week, moved to Venice for the honeymoon. They hadn’t set a limit on how long it should be. There was no reason to go back.
Of course, just when it’s least expected, the phone would ring. His cell phone. It was the first time in months.
“Hello?”
He was surprised it was Jacobs. He’d followed the fortunes of the company he had abruptly left, as it tried to implement the plan that Cheney and his ‘friends of the board’ had voted for. One problem after another; in three months the stock value of the parent company had lost 90% of its value. As Kane had expected, every one of his management team resigned the day after, knowing full well, once Cheney was installed as manager, the transition would fail.
Now, faced with hostile shareholders, a corporate watchdog investigation, someone had to turn around the company’s fortunes or it would slide into liquidation before the week was out.
“It seems that we have serious problems implementing the restructure. We have made some mistakes, but I think if I could tell the receivers that we have a plan and you would be heading up a new management team, we could save the company and all of the employees.”
The 2,500 left. They should have left well alone, and the whole 8,000 that had been there the day Kane left would still be employed.
The Board and upper management would do well out of the company going under. The staff, well, they always lost.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Now, if you don’t mind, I have business to attend to. Goodbye.”
I turned the phone off and put it back on the bedside table.
“Who was that?”
“Someone from another lifetime. Now, where were we?”
© Charles Heath 2020
“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems
A single event can have enormous consequences.
A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.
A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?
A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.
A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.
After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.
From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.
An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon
I wandered back to my villa.
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
She smiled. “As you say, I was never here.”
© Charles Heath 2018-2020
Searching for locations: The Castello di Brolio, Gaiole in Chianti, Tuscany – The Old Castle
The castle is located in the southern Chianti Classico countryside and has been there for over ten centuries, and owned by the Ricasoli family since 1141.
Like any good castle, it has strong defences, and I was looking for a moat and drawbridge, but it looks like the moat has become a lawn.
The very high walls in places no doubt were built to keep the enemy out
The castle has been destroyed and rebuilt many times over the last 900 years. It was part of the Florentine defenses, and withstood, and succumbed to many battles with Siena, which is only 20 km away. More recently, it still bears the scars of artillery fire and bombing in WW2.
The room at the top of this tower would have an excellent view of the countryside.
Here you can see the old and the new, the red brick part of the rebuilding in the 1800’s in the style of an English Manor
We did not get to see where that archway led.
Nor what was behind door number one at the top of these stairs. Rest assured, many, many years ago someone wearing armor would have made the climb. It would not pass current occupational health and safety these days with a number of stairs before a landing.
Cappella di San Jacopo. Its foundations were laid in 1348.
Renovated in 1867-1869, it has a gabled façade preceded by a double stone staircase. The interior, with a crypt where the members of the Ricasoli family are buried, has a nave divided into three spans with cross vaults.
The 1,200 hectares of the property include 240 hectares of vineyards and 26 of olive groves, in the commune of Gaiole.
Way, way back when life was so very much different…
It’s a weird word that describes a process where a bunch of people get together and throw ideas around, though others may have different permutations on what brainstorming is.
Reading through the current blogs sent to my reader, the word ‘brainstorming’ got my attention.
I use it, well, I try to use it.
I’m working on a YA novel, you know the sort, a far off land where there’s kingdoms, kings, queens, princes, and princesses, witches, no dragons and the jury’s still out on a unicorn.
I have two grandchildren, both girls, who wanted me to write a story for them. Not that thriller stuff, or murder, but what sort of life they’d like to have in they could live in a different world.
Fortunately, both still have an imagination, a prime requisite for them to transition through their childhood to young adult, smoothing out the bumps. They are avid readers, so I have an untapped source of ideas.
Or so you would think.
This is how it started: I told the eldest, 16 years old, to stop acting like a princess. She didn’t get the inference because it was an ‘adult’ concept when dealing with children.
What she did say was how she was going to be a princess when she grew up. I said there were not enough real-life princes to go around, a point she took on board with all the aplomb of a 16-year-old, so it graduated to becoming a princess in a story.
Somehow she ended up with the name Marigold.
She decided Marigold was going to be a haughty, self-indulgent, spoilt brat. That condescending tone, those flicks of the hair, those sharp put-downs, a princess indeed. It was as if she already had acting lessons from the Disney ‘bad princess’ school of acting, according to her mother.
And she was in the wizard of oz, perhaps she was channeling the wicked witch of the west.
But …
As all haughty and condescending people do, the princess is taught an invaluable lesson in humility when her Kingdom is invaded, her brother, next in line to the throne, murdered, the king thrown in the dungeons, and her mother stabbed and left for dead. She flees the castle and her betrothed prince who is leading the invasion of their Kingdom and is suddenly both unworthy and dangerous
The first few ‘brainstorming’ sessions saw the addition of two sisters (her two cousins, one 13 and other 10), the first a healer (another name for a witch as witches are outlawed in her Kingdom), who likes to play with alchemy but doesn’t yet know about magic spells and other special talents all of which she will need if she’s going to save her family and the land.
The younger, of course, had no specific role except to get under feet, and practice her workmanship with a wooden sword carved by her older brother.
It’s been done before, but this is without the Knight in shining armor, and where a young princess who has never had to fend for herself, has to come to grips with a completely alien environment, and the fact none of her companions believe she is going to be of any help whatsoever.
Several sessions later we came up with the quest.
What has surprised me, for a generation of children brought up with video games, endless violence, and the endless pressures on youth these days against what I had in my day, they have this amazing ability to take a step back and see themselves in such a different light.
I’ve always had an overactive imagination borne from a time where we didn’t have any of the facilities children have these days. We had to make our own adventures, not live them out on TV and in video games.
I dragged them into my world, and now, together, we have a bond that will never be shaken. I am the storyteller, they are Marigold, Ophelia, and Nerida, princesses.
They are as different as chalk and cheese. Ophelia wants her own story, the princess who battles against the magic within her. Nerida has a quite simple aim in life, having been taught swordplay by her brother, she wants to slay a dragon.
The first story is about two thirds finished, and I was told the other day, there are at least another ten stories yet to be told.
I guess it’s time to go back to ‘brainstorming’.
The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers
The write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.
But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modeled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I image back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.
I have high hopes of publishing it in May 2020. It even has a cover.
A to Z Challenge – U is for: Uncanny good luck shines upon me…
I never did take advice very seriously. Especially when they were issued by old man Taggard, a man of some mystery that we all, adults and children alike wanted to know about.
Everyone in the street knew him as he had lived in the almost derelict mansion at the end of the cul-de-sac forever, way longer than anyone else in the neighborhood had. In fact, it was rumored he had owned all the land around and sold it off bit by bit over time, the reason why there were so many houses of varying age in the estate.
Ours was one of the older houses, a few doors up from it. We were close enough to observe Taggard’s habit, like sitting gon the porch on an old swing chair in the afternoons, to the late-night wanderings in the street. Some said he was accompanied by the ghost of his long-dead wife, which led to stories being told of the house he lived in being haunted.
As children, we had been brought up on a diet of TV shows such as ‘The Munsters’ and ‘The Addams Family’, and had invented our own make-believe show called ‘The Taggard Mansion’, the house with ghosts, and the neighborhood center for strange goings-on.
And as children were wont to do, we had to ‘investigate’.
There was a ‘gang’ even though we didn’t refer to it as such, about seven of us who lived in nearby houses, and all of whom had very active imaginations. We also met in the cubby house out the back of our house to plan forays to find out whether the rumors were true. The thing is we never got very far as he seemed to know when we were sneaking in and scared us off, so for years, the rumors remained just that, rumors.
But as grown-ups, and by that I mean, middle teens, our plans became bolder and more sophisticated, based on a whole new breed of TV shows, where the seemingly impossible was no longer that. And Andy Boswell, my older brothers best friend, his father was a private detective, or so he told us, and he had managed to ‘secure’ some of his father’s tools of the trade; a camera on the end of a wire that could connect to a cell phone, a listening device that could hear through walls, and in-ear communicators. We could now, if we were close enough, see under doors, and hear if anyone was in. We could all keep in touch, though I couldn’t see how this would help.
But a plan was formulated. All seven of us had a role to play. My brother Ron and Delilah, his girlfriend, were taking point, whatever that meant, Andy and I were going to take point, while Jack, Jill, and Kim were going to run distraction. The theory was, they’d make enough noise to keep the old man occupied chasing them. No one had been inside the house, ever. Andy and I were going to be the first.
Andy had drawn up a plan and it was up on the wall. He had charted the house, and had a very accurate picture of the house’s footprint, where doors and windows were, likely entrance points, including a hatchway down into what he assumed was a basement, though he preferred to call it the dungeon, and a layout of the grounds. Apparently under the undergrowth were paths and gardens, even a large fountain that once graced the grounds of the three-story mansion made of sandstone, and built sometime during the middle of the 1800s.
Andy had done some research, mostly from old newspapers, and also discovered that the old man had once been married, they had a half dozen children, three of whom had died, the others scattered around the world. It explained why no one ever visited the place.
The distraction team would be going in through the front gate, easy enough because it had come off its hinges and just needed a shove to open. The old man usually emerged from the house via the driveway, or what was once a drive that cars could enter one side of the property, stop under a huge canopy, and emerge on to the road further along. But it’s overgrown stare, the width of the pathway was now about six feet. The fact it was once an amazing feature was the roadside lights, now all but disappearing behind the undergrowth.
Andy had found a photograph in the paper of it, and it had looked magnificent, as had the gardens, the overhanging canopy, and all the lights. To think such magnificence was now lost. And having seen it for what it once was, it was not hard to imagine any number of scenarios, my favorite, rescuing a damsel in distress from the tower. Yes, it even had a tower, two, in fact, at each end of the house. My brother always said I had an overactive imagination.
Andy and I would be going in by the less used car exit, and heading for the left side of the building where Andy said was several floor to ceiling windows that looked to him like French doors. Of course, none of us knew what French doors were, and my brother cut Andy short when he tried to explain.
Failing that, there was a door at the rear that seemed to be open, and we’d try that next. We would get into position, advise the distraction team, and the operation would be a go. The only debate was what time of the day were we going to do it. My brother preferred late in the afternoon. Andy said it was better at dawn, or soon after if we were looking for maximum confusion of the target.
Dawn, confusion, tactics, target, Andy was in his element. He was going to be a spy when he grew up. My brother said he would never grow up, but then, my brother said I was a dreamer and would never amount to anything. We ignored his advice, well, we pretty much ignored everything he said.
We were going in at dawn.
At 5 a.m. on Saturday morning, we gathered at the cubby house ready for action. We all took a communicator and put it in our ears, and then had fun saying stupid stuff, and hearing it through the earpieces. It was weird but added an exciting element to the adventure. I know my heart was beating faster in anticipation. Andy was pretending to be cool and failing. I suspected my brother and Delilah had other plans when we left them alone in the cubby house. The distraction team was ready to go.
Shortly after the sun came up, it was cool and the air still. It was going to be a hot day, and that first hour, everything was almost perfect. It seemed a waste to do anything but let the early morning serenity settle over us. Not today. Andy and I went to our position, slowly feeling our way through the bushes, taking bearings from the light poles, and every now and then seeing the guttering and what looked to be a concrete path. Beyond that was once a garden, and I tried, more than once, to imagine what it was like.
In my ear I could hear the others in the distraction team setting up at the start of the driveway, ready to go. We reached our position, about twenty feet from the so-called French windows, the view into the house blocked by curtains, but beyond that, what we could see was darkness inside the house. Taking in the whole side of the house, there were no lights on behind any of the windows. If we didn’t know better, we could have assumed the house was empty.
I heard Andy say, “Ready. Start making noise.”
A minute later we could both hear the distraction team in the distance and through the communicators. It took two minutes before we heard the old man, yelling, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Their job done, getting him out of the house, all they had to do was retreat.
Time for Andy and I to go.
Working on the basis that no one else was at the house, and the fact we had no evidence there was, we were not overly worried about making a stealthy approach. I could hear in my earpiece, the gasping of those in the distraction team having just made it outside the gate, and to tell us the old man had stopped at the gate. I doubt he had been running, but his yelling was just as effective.
That had stopped, and a sort of silence fell over the area.
We were now at the French doors, and Andy produced another tool that he’d forgotten to tell us about, a lock pick. The fact it didn’t take long to unlock the door told me he was either very talented, or the lock was old and presented no problems. Either way, he opened the door and ushered me in.
I brushed the curtains aside for him to follow, then moved in as he followed, closing the door behind him.
I’d taken five steps before I heard a woman’s voice say. “Uncanny good luck shines upon me. My knights in shining armor. You’ve come to rescue me, no?”
© Charles Heath 2020
Camp NaNoWriMo – Day 24
The April version of the November write-a-thon is upon us, well, me actually. I’m not sure hope many others are trying to resurrect an old piece of writing.
The truth is, I’ve been at this story off and on over the past three years, and every time I get a head of steam, something else comes along.
Now I’ve decided to use the April version of NANOWRIMO to get this thing finished, or at least in a first draft state.
Part 3 is now finished and it is onto the laborious work of getting part 4 right. There will be about ten chapters in this section, and then a short Part 5 which is yet to be written.
Today’s assignment is Chapter 41 and it’s difficult going. I’m going to have to stop looking at Trump’s COVID briefings because they’re starting to sound like something out of a science fiction book.
Today is not going to be one with a smiley face, for reasons other than lack of progress. I’m sure I’m not hearing right, we’re not being asked to inject ourselves with dettol, are we?
Today’s word count takes me to the end of Chapter 41 and adds another 1,970 words for a total of 67,080 so far.
“The Things We Do For Love” – Coming soon
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 