Tag: #amwriting

The A to Z Challenge – P is for – “Praying for a miracle”

…

The editor looked up from his seat at me, frowning.

“Who are you again?”

He was a busy man, he kept telling us all, and didn’t have time to remember everyone on staff, particularly the reporters whom, to him, seem to come and go as they please.

“Jenkins, sir.  New last week.”

“And you’re here because?”

“You said to come and see you about an assignment, sir.”

“An assignment?”

“Yes, sir.  An assignment, sir.”

He’d come past my desk and stopped, asking that same question, “Who are you again?” Before pretending to recognize the name and tell me to come to his office in an hour for an assignment.

“Jenkins, you say.  Not related to Elmer Jenkins by any chance.”

“He was my father, sit.”

“Damned fine reporter.  Assignment you say.”  He shuffled through the pile of folders on his desk, then plucked one seeming at random, and handed it to me.

“Odd goings-on at St Peter’s cathedral.  Go and see what it’s all about, will you?”

“Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.”

…

Perhaps the better story here was how come the church seemed to get the best real estate in every city, and the bigger the church, the better the spot.

St Peters was where I would have expected the city center to be, on a few acres of perfectly manicured gardens surrounding an exquisite cathedral built in the mid-1500s.

I was not a Catholic, so I had not ventured inside, not realizing that it had always been open during the day, church services or not.

There was also a parish office, a school of sorts, and a priory for visiting priests, as well as those who worked around the cathedral, so it was not unusual to see one or more priests wandering about.

But the most interesting thing about this cathedral was the fact it had an exact replica if the statue of St Mary Magdalene by the Italian sculptor Donatello, considered to be an earlier attempt before creating the real one now housed in the Museo dell ‘opera del Duomo in Florence.

It was not an advertised tourist attraction, but it could be seen by special appointment only with very restrictive visiting hours because of its rarity and delicate condition.

But the report I’d been given was that a cleaner, working in the room where it was housed had seen something very odd involving the statue.  It had what she had described as tears coming from the statue’s eyes.

Of course, the editorial staff had rung the church to ascertain whether the reports they have received were true, and were immediately and emphatically denied, thus putting it into the category of “thou protest too much”, indicating, meaning there had to be something going on.

A second report, which was interesting in itself, had said there was an increased flurry of activity in the church, with several notable arrivals, particularly of the bishop, and a Cardinal from the Vatican, who was by coincidence in the country.

To the inquisitive reporter, that was embers in the grate about to create a much bigger fire.

…

“You heard?”  Jaimie was another of the ‘going to be famous one-day’ group, I was also a member of.

I arrived breathlessly at the entrance to the cathedral grounds, to find several other reporters already there, conversing.

They were my former classmates at university, working as junior reporters for various media outlets.

“The editor tossed me a sparse file with very little to go on.”

“They’re not taking it seriously, are they?”  Joey, never the one to take his profession seriously, was here just to meet and greet.

The three of us were juniors.  There was not any of the ‘serious’ reporting staff there, perhaps waiting to see what we came up with.

“No.  I mean, a cleaning lady and a statue with tears.  My guess, sap leaking out of the wood, though waiting four or five hundred years to do so is a bit farfetched.”

“Then it’s true that it might be a replica of the real thing.”  Joey seemed surprised, and it was him, never studying up on background before turning up.

“I’ve seen the real one in Florence,” Jaimie said.

“You’ve been everywhere, done everything, and seen everything.  Why am I not surprised?”

Joey never liked her because of her family’s wealth and privilege which granted her access to much more than either Joey or I ever had.  Including traveling the world twice.

“Can’t help drawing the parents I got, but that’s beside the point.  You should have done some research.”

Joey held up his cell phone.  “All the research I need is right here.  Where and when I need it?”

“Why are you waiting here?” I asked.  I would have expected them to be chasing up the relevant parish office person, if not the bishop himself.

“The doors are closed, which is highly unusual for a church during the day, and the sigh refers everyone to the parish office, who are telling everyone, and reporters, in particular, there will be a statement soon.  We have a line of sight to the office and one of the staff will call us.  Why wait over there when this area is so much more peaceful “

“So, you’re just going to quit?” I asked.

“What else can we do?” Jaimie was not the adventurous sort.

Neither was I, but this story could be something more, and getting the scoop might improve my standing with the editor.

“Do a little investigating of our own.”

“We might miss the statement.”

“You know what it will say, you could probably write it yourself.  Nothing to see here, move along.  I’m going to see if there’s a back door.”

“Churches don’t have back doors, Colin.”  Joey would not be coming, his preferred modus operandi was to do as little as possible.

“Then I’ll soon find out.”  I looked at Jaimie.  “Coming?”

She shook her head.  She liked to play by the rules, but it is getting a good story, there were no rules.

“Then no doubt I’ll see you later.”

…

I walked slowly towards the main entrance, but my intention was to do a circuit of the cathedral and see how many entrances there were, and if I  could gain entrance by one of them, acting like a routine might so as not to arouse suspicion.

After a few minutes, I realized just how large the cathedral was, having only been inside once; to attend the wedding ceremony for one of my uncles and then it had seemed small when compared to Westminster Abbey.

In the end, I found an unexpected obstruction, a fence between the walkway from the church, most likely the cloisters, to where the clergy lived, and the gardens alongside the cathedral.

There was a gate. I walked across the grass, and by the time I reached it, it swung open, and Jaimie popped her head out. 

“Come on, before anyone sees you?”

“How did you get in there?”

“Simple.  Did you try the front door?”

“I assumed it would be locked.”

“It wasn’t.  Then I guessed you’d been right here, after watching you leave “

She closed the gate. “Quick, before someone comes.”

She walked quickly back to, and into the church through what might literally be the back door, but more likely how the priests came and went.

Once inside, she led the way through the back room where a variety of vestments were hanging, out into the church, across the front of the altar to the other side where there was an archway, and steps leading down to a lower level, presumably where the statue was located.

“And you know this is the way to the statue because…”  The moment I asked, I knew the answer.  It was a dumb question.

“My parents had a viewing and brought us, kids, along.  At the time I thought it was a funny-looking wood statue.”  She spoke quietly because the acoustics for sound at this end of the cathedral was amazing.

You could probably hear a pin drop on the other side.

Then, she added, “It’s down in the basement.  They build a special room with all the environmental procedures built-in.  Been here for a long time.”

I followed her down to the bottom of the stairs, considerably more steps than the usual floor to floor level in a modern building, and the moment we came through the arch, the temperature dropped ten or more degrees, and I shuddered.

I had a strange feeling of unease, that something bad had happened here.

The light was very poor, perhaps because of the environment, but across the room I could see a glass-fronted space with a statue in the middle on a base, with lights shining upwards, giving it a strange hue.  To one side there seemed to be someone kneeling, as if in prayer.

Jaimie started walking towards the statue, slowly, as if she had been mesmerized by it.

I followed, but headed towards the kneeling figure, stopping just short.

Jaimie had stopped in front of the statue, staring at it.

The next second the kneeling figure jumped up and grabbed Jaimie and dragged her away, telling me, “get away from here, back to the stairs, and don’t look at the statue under any circumstances.”

By the time we reached the archway, he had sufficiently shaken Jaimie back to life, although she sounded confused, and dazed.

“What just happened?”

“You looked at the statue.  How did you get down here, past the guards?”

“There are no guards upstairs,” I said.  “Though we did come around the back way.”

“You two get out of here now, and I’ll overlook this transgression.  Do not mention anything you’ve just seen or heard, or God will, quite literally, smite you down.”

“Through the statue?”  I thought it a bit far-fetched.

“The cleaner prayed for a miracle.  She got one.  That statue now has some sort of power.  Now, you never heard that, and you cannot use it in a story or it will create panic.  I can tell you are reporters.  Just stick to the official handout.”

“What about the cleaner, she’s already told a lot of people.”

“She’s dead.  Her story has already been refuted.  Go, now.  I’m relying on your common sense.”

…

Outside back in the sunshine, we stopped before going back to Joey, who was still standing by the gate.

“What just happened?” Jaimie asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean why are we standing here.  I don’t remember coming here.”

“We were in the church?”

“No.  Who are you, by the way.  I haven’t seen you before.”

I looked at the alternating blank, inquisitive face trying to see if she was playing a joke on me.

“Do you know your name?”

“Of course, I do.  Mary.  Mary Magdalene.”

© Charles Heath 2022

The A to Z Challenge – O is for “Oh, Oliver!”

Amelia Benton, nee Fosdyke had worked very hard to get where she was.  Becoming a star didn’t happen overnight, as much as the fan magazines would have it, because one star performance had to be followed by another, and another.

It meant you had to be lucky enough to get that call, the one that ensures you get a role that was a plum, or it was written for you.

It also meant playing the game, trying to not rock the boat or push too hard, realizing that extra straw some demanded would break the proverbial camel’s back.

And with the successes came favors, cards she could play at the appropriate time. 

She used one of one of these to help her brother, Oliver, a budding scriptwriter, who, she was assured, had talent, and a reasonable script.

It was, for her, a leap of faith.

But there was only one problem. Oliver could be a pedantic pain in the neck, and after being given a miraculous first chance. He was burning bridges and causing grief.

It was why she called him, and, in the end, demanded his presence.  Or else.  And she still held enough sway over him to ensure his obedience.

She was reading her latest script when her personal assistant ushered him into the room, making him wait until she finished the scene.

Then putting the script to one side she glared at him.  Being older, she had often been left to mind him and had established a form of authority which earned until he was older, and some idiosyncrasies set in, making him harder to contend with.

Burning bridges and being haughty were two recent traits that ordinarily she would ignore, but it was impacting her reputation.

Time to fire the first salvo, “Just what the hell are you playing at?”

He stood before her, a truculent expression on his face.  He was still bristling from the rebuke served by his assistant, a wise-ass boy named David.

“I just got a call from the front office telling me Joachim is up there with chiefs discussing your role in the delays to production.  It might not be all your fault Oliver, but you could try to be less confrontational.”

“They keep asking for idiotic changes, I mean, seriously, how do you work with these people?”

“A few lines here and there, I’m told.  Seriously, Oliver?  I get you this opportunity and how do you repay me.  This is my neck on the line, not only yours and if Joachim can’t save you, I definitely won’t.  Do you understand what I’m saying here?”

He nodded.  “I am not ungrateful Amelia, believe me.  I just didn’t expect…”

“Nothing in this business makes sense Oliver, and yet, after a while, you find that it does.   You’re new and inexperienced in the industry.  Get some experience and a few years in, and maybe then you can complain.  Until then, I don’t expect any more issues.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me, Oliver.  Save them for the people who matter.  Now, you better get back back to your meeting.”

Job done, she went back to the script.

Oliver stomped back to his office, more annoyed than ever.

The meeting was not exactly a humiliation, the script changes were not exactly a surprise to him because, as David had said, they’d already been discussed.

But he had dismissed them.  What was wrong with the lines as originally written.  He knew that the two leads when rehearsing the lines had twisted the words hence the sniggering at the end of the scene.

The director should have exercised more control over his actors, more control in fact over the whole cast.  He understood why his sister would be concerned, given her connections.

But he wasn’t going to be told what to do.  And, as for that wise-ass David, changing his script without permission, or consultation, even of it appeased the director, well, he was going to get what he deserved.

The director took him aside at the end, though, that was unexpected.  Oliver had been sufficiently fired up that had he seen David right after the meeting, he might have said some very regrettable things.

Now, having time to simmer down, he was starting to have second thoughts.  His sister hadn’t said as much, but like other occasions where pride had got in the way, she hadn’t been there to save him from himself.

Just then, David poked his head in the door.  “You wanted to see me?”

Oliver could clearly see the boy wanted to be anywhere nut in his office.  “Come in and shut the door.”

David came in, reluctantly, shut the door, and moved the seat back away from him before he sat.

“You do realize,” Oliver said, “that you were not hired as a writer.  In fact, I’m not quite sure what you were hired for.”

“Yes.”  Wary.

“Then why would you make those changes.”

“It’s what you would have done.  You talked about it with the director and the actors involved.  I was there, and I saw the script annotations.  The director wasn’t happy, and I want to keep this job and learn.”

“Irritating superiors is not the way to go about that.”

“Not my intention.  You just temporarily lost sight of the end result.  It in no way changes anything.  You were about to get removed, by the way, and that would have been wrong.  Call it what you like Mr. Fosdyke, but you’ve been handed a reprieve.  You can yell at me if you like, but it won’t change anything.  I’ll still be here.  Better though, if we got along, and after all, I’m sure you could teach me a lot about writing a really good script.”

He could, though he could never see himself as a teacher.  And this fellow was a bit presumptuous.  But he hadn’t done anything he wouldn’t have done himself, so no harm done.  A small price for a few lessons.

“OK.  But don’t let it go to your head.”

David looked visibly relieved.  “Can I go now?”

“No.  We have a few additions to do.”

“Done.  They’re annotations in your master.  As I said, nothing you hadn’t already thought of.”

“I threw that script away.”

“I know.  It was a mistake, so I kept it.  It has a couple of other good ideas in it.  I suggest you consider them.  Now.  I gave to go.  See you early tomorrow.”

Oliver watched him leave, a little faster than he should, then laughed.  Impertinent.  He’ll probably go a long way in this business.

© Charles Heath 2022

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 51

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

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

Things are about to get complicated…

Once out of the elevator I could see another security desk halfway up the corridor.  There were no doors before the desk, only after, so my destination was past the desk.

I pulled out my card in readiness, and as I approached, a woman came out of a door behind the desk and joined the security guard.

She spoke to the guard, then looked at me.  “My name is Joanne, I have been assigned to help you, and in accordance with security measures in place on the floor, I will be accompanying you.  One of the conditions of access is to not be anywhere on your own.”

“Except in the restroom, I hope.”

A momentary frown, “Common sense applies, you know.”

OK, try not to be flippant.

She handed me a form, I read it, ticked several boxes, and signed it.  I gave the guard my card and he scanned it.  Logging my movements, was not unexpected.  Having a shadow was.

But, there was nothing I was going to look at, that I didn’t want anyone not to know about.

“Good,”: she said when I handed the form back.  She in turn passed it to the guard, then said, “Follow me.”

A gate opened to let me through, then jolted shit behind me.  Either the mechanism was broken, or the thud was just to remind people going through it, it was not a toy.

We went three doors up the corridor where she stopped, opened the door, and ushered me in.

It was a reasonable-sized room with a desk, a computer with three screens, and two chairs, one I guess for me, and one for her.

We sat.

I thought I’d ask a couple of questions first.  “Do you always look after incoming researchers?”

“Yes.”

“And when there is none?”

“I work in with the research team, creating or updating breeding papers for agents in the field.”

“Do agents normally come in to look stuff up?”

“No.  Generally, they request it through secure channels.”

“Secure channels?”

“Usually, one of our consulates or embassies scattered all over the world.”

Good to remember.

“You’re just going to sit there?”

“Yes.”

I shrugged.  So be it.

I logged in and typed in Severin’s original name David Westcott.

The search engine brought back over a million hits, the first dozen relating to a violinist who seemed to be having a relationship and drug problems.

To narrow that search down, I added ‘Military service” in the hope that he may have been in the military before joining the intelligence services.

He was.  I did the same for Bernie Salvin and found the two of them had served roughly at the same time, in the same places, and were among the last people out in 2014.

When I added “Intelligence” to the search, the computer sent me on a side mission, bringing up documents relating to both men’s service in various branches of the intelligence services, for 5 years, after which it seemed they had just up and left, their service sheet marked ‘retired’, which could have meant anything, but I think it was a euphemism for ‘dead’.

I thought about asking my shadow, but that would lead to too many other questions that I didn’t want to answer.  As it was, I could see she was very interested in the two names I’d just searched on.

It explained how both men were so knowledgeable about the operations and facilities.  A quick search on the training facility we had used showed it had been closed, and abandoned, 6 years before.  I’d always thought it had that abandoned feel about it, and we were using it for the atmosphere value.

Then came searches on Severin and Maury and Arche Laboratories, and that too brought up the Security profiles of both men, but their prior history had been manufactured, though no doubt based on their real experience, being in the military in Afghanistan, and in a branch of the intelligence services, though not mentioning the specifics.

There was information on several security breaches and the computer systems being hacked reportedly by a foreign country, but nothing had been taken, a story perhaps to allay the fears of people who might think dangerous material might have fallen into the wrong hands.

At the very least, it was reported the facility would be shut down, due to its age and everyone being reassigned to a new more secure facility.  The fact Severin and Maury didn’t transfer told me they had either been caught, or they ad jumped before the fingers of accusation were pointed at them.  Either way, both had disappeared off the face of the earth.

Until I and others have become their unwitting recruits.

Everything O’Connell said was true, and it was all there, so Dobbin was as well versed on the pair as I now was.  And, now I had some background before I met Severin later in the day.

When Joanne finally plucked up the courage to ask me about my searches, I told her I had been reading up on a lot of old laboratories that used to contract government research and had narrowed the place where the information came from to several candidates and struck it luck the first search.  Arche Laboratories.

Previously I had got a list of the security staff from half a dozen labs that had closed unexpectedly, looking for possible matches to Severin and Maury, because I thought they would have a military and intelligence background, but the two I’d used, didn’t seem to fir the profile.  Their photographs, those that were posted for Arche Laboratories looked nothing like the Severin and Maury today, but I’d expected that.

She didn’t need to know that and looked satisfied with my answers.

Now it was time to look at some CCTV feeds.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The A to Z Challenge – N is for – “Now I understand”

My brother only had one job.

To arrive on time with the envelope.

It was a test.

He failed.

…

At that moment, when my expectations were completely trashed, and there was a great deal riding on it, words could not express my disappointment.

Michael had the better end of the deal.  Being second-born meant that avoided all of the family’s hopes and expectations that fell on me, that I would carry on the business, as our father had, his father before him, going back six generations.

Without any of the expectations loaded on his shoulders, he got to live a free and easy lifestyle, one with little responsibility, some of which o would have liked to have myself.

Then there was the problem where my father, not quite the businessman as those before him, had made a number of dubious decisions, leading us down the path that almost closed the business down, and had only just found the financing to keep it afloat when he died suddenly.

It left me in charge of what could have been a sinking ship, but, as I unraveled the complexities of the deal he had made, it soon became clear he had made a deal with the devil himself.

And fort eight hours before that missed drop-off, I had finally discovered all of the connections through countless shell companies to arrive at the person from whom he had secured the funding.

Walter Amadeus Winthrop.

A man whom my father had hated because he had stolen away the only woman he had ever loved, a man who was in the business of stealing other people’s companies, ideas, products, and people because he could.

And he wanted our company, simply so he could destroy my father a second time.

There was no doubting the reason why my father had died.  He had found out who had supplied the funding.

I had the evidence that linked Winthrop to dirty dealings and promised to get it to the DA’s office by a particular time, but a previous and more pressing appointment meant I couldn’t be in two places at once, so I sent Michael on my place.

It had been time-sensitive and having missed the deadline to tender the documents in court, the case lapsed, and Winthrop, who had been arraigned many times before and got away for lack of evidence, or witnesses, survived yet again.

…

It wasn’t out of the question that Michael had been kidnapped by Winthrop’s people, but I didn’t think it was possible they knew about him, simply because as part of his distancing from the family he had taken our mother’s birth surname.

I rang his cell phone, and it went to his voice mail.  That was not really a concern because he rarely answered the phone the first time, especially if I was calling him.

Next, I called his latest girlfriend, not the usual sort of girl he dated, and quite a surprise given her sobriety and work ethic.  She was, I thought more than once, the sort of girl I’d like to meet.

When they introduced thirty-hour days, perhaps.

“Good morning, this is Katherine Willoughby.”

“Good morning, Katherine, it’s Michael’s brother, Jake.”

“He’s not here.  I assume he made it to the meeting?”

“He didn’t.”

“But that can be possible.  I went with him until outside the front door of the building.  I saw him go in, talk to the reception, and then get taken up in the elevator.”

“Then we have a mystery on our hands.  He hasn’t called me to say it’s done, and as usual not answering his phone.”

“That’s just for you.  If I call…  I’ll call you back.”

I waited for five minutes, then my phone rang.  Katherine again.

“He’s not answering for me either, and that is very unusual.  Did you talk to others at the meeting?”

“Yes, they just said he didn’t turn up, but I have another thought.  Leave it with me.”

A call to the DA’s office sent an assistant down to the front desk, where it was established, that Michael had signed in, and the officer that remembers him could recall the name of or describe the person who came and collected him.

But he had gone there as I’d requested and was beginning to look like Winthrop obviously had someone in the DAs office keeping him informed on what was happening.

Which meant, Winthrop’s people had taken him.

It was a development I hadn’t entirely unexpected.

…

This was my first time on what was known as a superyacht.  Really, it was slightly smaller than an ocean liner, and the grand tour showed fifteen staterooms, a dining room, a games room, a ballroom, well a small one, and various other rooms that were as remarkable as they were mysterious.

For a laugh, I said it was missing a library.

I was promptly corrected.

My host, the owner’s daughter, Sylvia, no last name given or asked for, had promised a visit and passing by after picking up the vessel after some repairs, she collected me by helicopter, and took me straight to the ship.

I was taking in some sea sir, trying to make sense of what just happened, and get some sea air.

“You look unhappy, Jake.”

“My brother has gone missing.  He was delivering some documents for me and never arrived.  While it’s like him not to finish anything he starts, this time I know that, at the very least, he made it to the building.”

“That seems very strange.”

“Not when you factor in who the documents were about.”

I’d told her some of the history over a few drinks, perhaps more than I should.

“I’m sure you’ll discover what happened soon enough.  Chef tells me lunch is ready.”  She held out her hand, “come, dine with me.”

We went into the dining room and sat.  Two waiters in full livery attended us, serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres.

That’s when my phone rang.

And Sylvia said, quietly, “put it on loudspeaker, on the table.”

The tone was insistent and worried me.  The call was from Michael’s phone.  He was simply calling me back.  Just the same, I did as she asked.

I said, “Michael?”

“Is that Jake?”

“Put my father on the phone, Ari.”  Sylvia looked as though she knew who it was.

I looked over at the woman I knew as Sylvia.  She was supposed to be a representative of another company in the same business we were, and I’d met her at a business conference in Miami, a few months back.  That she would turn out to be something else wasn’t the surprise I thought it would be.

It wasn’t long before I began to think I’d been seeing the daughter of the man who I believe killed my father.

“He’s not here.”

“Tell him I’ll sink this tub he sent me to get if he doesn’t get his ass on the phone now.”  Not angry but laced with intent.

Silence.

I was going to say something, but I think words failed me.  What could I say, if she was a Winthrop, his success in destroying us was complete?

I just sat in silence.

Then, “What are you doing Sylvie?”

I assumed that voice belonged to her father, the infamous Winthrop himself.

“You shouldn’t have let me go to explosives school.  Oh, that’s right, you did know.  So much you don’t know about me.  I’ve wired this yacht Dad, and I will sink it.  I’m sure mom will be impressed.”

I heard a sigh.  Was he trying to deal with an errant daughter?  Was she crazy?  She certainly had a lot of talents, piloting helicopters, and making bombs; was there a stint in the military somewhere in her resume.

“What do you want, Sylvie.”

“Stop pissing off my boyfriend.”

“Jake?  Have you been dating Jake,”

“In a manner of speaking.  Since he hates the family so much and given what you just did, I’m not surprised, and I’ve been trying to figure out a way to tell him.  But kidnapping his brother?  Not a way to impress him Dad or give me a usable Segway.”

“You do know Jake is helping the authorities put me in jail.  That’s not going to happen.”

“I don’t care what your issues are with the authorities, but if you’re worried that the evidence Michael had will have you prosecuted, then you have lied to me, and I told you what would happen if I found out you lied to me.”

“You’re just a child.”

“Whose got a penchant for blowing up things.  I’ll start with this boat, then I’ll move on to bigger and better things, like your car collection.  I’m thoroughly pissed off myself now.”

Silence.

“What do you really want?”

“Give them their company back.  You don’t need it.  Get Ari to take Michael home and apologize for making a mistake.”

“And the documents?”

“Burn them for all I care.  You’re going to make a very generous investment in their company, and then never bother them again.”

“And the ship?”

“Just hope I’m in a good mood in a few hours’ time after lunch, and Jake doesn’t jump overboard to get away from me.”

“OK.  Your mother is waiting for you in Venice.  Don’t upset her.”

“Why would I?  I’m her favorite.”

The line went dead.

“So, Jake, didn’t I tell you I’d fix everything.”

She had, and I’d foolishly thought no one could handle Winthrop.  “Would you sink this ship?”

“Hell yes, just to piss him off.  Now, where is lunch?  Negotiating makes me hungry.  And,” she smiled wickedly, “there’s a stateroom with our name on it.  You are coming to Venice?”

I guess it really was a matter of who you know, not what you know. 

“Of course.”

© Charles Heath 2022

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 27

This is the staircase down to the bedroom level of a two-story holiday apartment at the Rosebud Country Club on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria Australia.

It was the first time we stayed there for a long time.

However…

Innocuous stairs leading downwards to a black hole suggest a great many other things, especially if you left your imagination run wild.

For instance:

What if you are an only child being dropped off by your parents at your creepy grandparent’s place in the middle of the woods. Imagine driving up on a cold, wintry, windy, cloudless dark night, and when you get there, this old rambling mansion looks like the coven for witches.

What if when you get to the door this creepy old man who looks more dead than alive answers the door, and when you step over the threshold you hear what seems to be a high-pitched scream coming from outside the house.

What if, when you are being taken up the staircase, every single wooden step creaks or groans, that at the top of the stairs, every painting you pass, the eyes seem to follow you.

What if, when you explore, against the express wishes of your grandfather, you come across a door that leads down into a basement. There has to be some interesting stuff down there, a torture chamber, a medical laboratory with a half-finished Frankenstein, a workshop with coffins stacked in a corner.

The possibilities are endless

Can I help you? – A short story

I had once said that Grand Central Station, in New York, was large enough you could get lost in it.  Especially if you were from out of town.

I know, I was from out of town, and though I didn’t quite get lost, back then I had to ask directions to go where I needed to.

It was also an awe-inspiring place, and whenever I had a spare moment, usually at lunchtime, I would go there and just soak in the atmosphere. It was large enough to make a list of places to visit, or find, or get a photograph from some of the more obscure places.

Today, I was just there to work off a temper. Things had gone badly at work, and even though I hadn’t done anything wrong, I still felt bad about it.

I came in the 42nd street entrance and went up to the balcony that overlooked the main concourse. A steady stream of people was coming and going, most purposefully, a few were loitering, and several police officers were attempting to move on a vagrant. It was not the first time.

But one person caught my eye, a young woman who had made a circuit of the hall, looked at nearly every destination board, and appeared to be confused. It was the same as I had felt when I first arrived.

Perhaps I could help.

The problem was, a man approaching a woman from out of left field would have a very creepy vibe to it, so it was probably best left alone.

Another half-hour of watching the world go by, I had finally got past the bad mood and headed back to work. I did a wide sweep of the main concourse, perhaps more for the exercise than anything else, and had reached the clock in the center of the concourse when someone turned suddenly and I crashed into them.

Not badly, like ending up on the floor, but enough for a minor jolt. Of course, it was my fault because I was in another world at that particular moment.

“Oh, I am sorry.” A woman’s voice, very apologetic.

I was momentarily annoyed, then, when I saw who it was, it passed. It was the lost woman I’d seen earlier.

“No. Not your fault, but mine entirely. I have a habit of wandering around with my mind elsewhere.”

Was it fate that we should meet like this?

I noticed she was looking around, much the same as she had before.

“Can I help you?”

“Perhaps you can. There’s supposed to be a bar that dates back to the prohibition era here somewhere. Campbell’s Apartment, or something like that. I was going to ask…”

“Sure. It’s not that hard to find if you know where it is. I’ll take you.”

It made for a good story, especially when I related it to the grandchildren, because the punch line was, “and that’s how I met your grandmother.”

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

The A to Z Challenge – M is for – “Murder at the mansion”

My great grandfather used to say the mark of a man was not how wealthy or wise he was, but by how much respect he garnered.

Well, my great grandfather was wealthy, wise, and also respected … by everyone but his children.

It was an interesting tale, oft-told by my father over the dinner table, when we, his children, would bemoan the fact that he was too hard on us.

Like my great grandfather, our father had also made something of himself, took every opportunity afforded him, and made it a success.

Yes, there were failures, like how our mother couldn’t handle the success and virtually abandoned us because of him, like our first stepmother, who hated children, and for a while, virtually turned him against us, setbacks that were eventually overcome.

To the outside world, we always said everything turned out all right, but the reality of it was completely the opposite.  Appearances were just that, appearances.

My eldest brother, John, was out the door as soon as he could escape, and into the military, and from that moment we never really saw him.

Then there was me, Toby, with a name I hated, stuck at home to weather the endless storms, and to look after my youngest sister Ginny, who really didn’t have a care in the world.

I don’t think I ever got to have a childhood.

And lastly, my younger sister, Melanie, the tearaway tomboy troublemaker, a devil in disguise, that was responsible for ten nannies in twelve years.

We were as disparate and different as any group of siblings could get, and that was all because of how, in the end, our father finished up exactly like the man he often disparaged, our great grandfather.

Wealthy, yes, wise, the jury was still out in that one, and respected, yes, by everyone but his children.

And, now, I was looking at the body of the man I called my father, sprawled out on the floor, and it was quite plain to see he was dead.

There was no mistaking the bullet hole in his head, Or the puddle of blood emanating from the back of his head.

Someone, obviously, hated him more than we did.

…

I was surprisingly calm in the face of such a calamity, faring better than Ginny, who was the first to discover him.

She was once subject to bouts of hysteria, and that it had not happened in these circumstances was, in a sense disconcerting.  She had reason to hate him more than the rest of us, the reasons for which I had only learned the night before.

She was sitting on the floor, not ten feet from the body, staring at what she had described as the devil incarnate.  She had every reason to kill him, in fact, I had wanted to myself when she told me.

And when confronted him and demanded to know the truth, he had laughed at me, telling me that it was just a figment of her imagination.

I had to call the police, but before that, I needed to have a clear idea of where everyone was. 

It was a weekend where, for the first time in twenty years, all four siblings were home.  It was ostensibly for an announcement regarding the family, read how my father was going to bequeath his worldly possessions in the event of his death.

And I suspect, to tell us about the fact he was dying, the running battle he had with cancer finally getting a stranglehold in his body, and that he had about six weeks to three months left.

Not that he had said anything, I had received an anonymous email from his doctor telling me, that he didn’t believe we should not be kept in the dark.  But it was not the news I’d shared with the others, hoping the man himself would.

That secret had died with him.

John and Melanie had both yet to put in an appearance.  It had been a late night, and we had all ended up in John’s room, drinking shots of whiskey and talking about how different our lives had been, and how it had been too long apart.

I’d been very drunk at the end and barely made it back to my room before collapsing on the bed.  I had no idea what happened to the others.

Ginny didn’t drink, or so she said, but the few drinks she had, had no effect on her.  She had Bern in a dark mood and no wonder.  She had left all of us in utter silence, devastated at the revelation our father was a monster, the reason why our mother left, unable to do anything to stop him.

She should have taken Ginny with her, but she didn’t, probably saving Melanie from a similar fate.

Threats against his life flew thick and fast, and the once made by John actuary sent a shiver down my spine.  He was the only one experienced in killing, and I could totally believe he could kill in cold blood and not even blink.

Had he?

“Fuck!”

Great timing.  John just walked into the room, still in his pajamas and looking disheveled, as if he had just fought off a pack of bears.

“This your doing?”

“What?  No.  Saying and doing are two different things, Toby.”  He looked down at Ginny.  “Ask her, she had more reason than any of us.”

I was going to, but she seemed in a catatonic state.

“No.  I did not, and believe me, I’ve wanted to for many years.”

Ginny, obviously not in a catatonic state.

“Have you called the police,” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Good.  Let’s think about this first.  Any sign of a breaking?”

I checked the French windows behind the desk and they were intact and locked.  The room, other than the body on the floor was as it always was.

Not a book or paper out of place.  The desk was clear.  Usually, there was a computer and cell phone on it.

“His laptop is missing.  A robbery gone bad?”

“Robbers don’t usually carry guns, let alone be able to shoot so accurately.”  He was standing over the body making strange body movements, then, “whoever shot him was behind the desk.  He must have heard something and came to investigate.”

If it was any time up to the fifty shots of whiskey, we would have heard a gun going off.

“Silencer?” I said.

“I’m a light sleeper, so I would have heard it.  Others too. It screams premeditation.  Robbers don’t bring guns with suppressors.  If it was a case of being caught unawares, that shot could have gone anywhere.  No, whoever was in her was looking for, maybe found, something, and may have made enough noise to get his attention with the intention of killing him.”

“Holy Mary mother of God!”

Melanie just arrived, riveted to the spot, just inside the door.

“I take it you didn’t do it?” John said to her.

“Me?  You have to be joking.  I wouldn’t know what end of the gun to use.”

Not true, I thought, Melanie was in the gun club at her exclusive school and won various awards for pistol shooting, and we’ll as an expert clay pigeon shooter to boot.  But it was school days, a long time ago.

I looked at her pointedly, and I think she realized what my glare implied.

“I think it’s time we called the police,” I said.

“Can’t we just dig a hole and bring him out there somewhere and pretend he’s gone away?”

“A thought, but not practical, unless one of us did it and we need to hide the evidence.  Anyone going to own up?”

No one spoke.

“Good.  Just remember from this point on, if you have any deep dark secrets, they won’t be for much longer.  We will be the prime suspects.  Leaving isn’t an option.”

“Let the chips fall where they may.  At least the bastard got what he deserved.

I pulled out my phone.

“Last chance.”

John was looking resolute.  Melanie was in a state of shock.  Ginnie went back to being almost catatonic.  I don’t know what I felt, sad, maybe, but with all that had come before, perhaps a sense of relief.

I dialled the number.

“Daisy.  No, I’m alright.  We have a bit of a problem here.  Someone has shot and killed my father.  I think you’d better get here.”

“Right.  Don’t touch anything and keep the scene clear.  I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

I disconnected the call and put the phone back in my pocket. 

At that same moment, I had a great overwhelming feeling that one of them did it.  I couldn’t see how anyone from the outside could or would.

As John said, let the child fall where they may.

“OK.  Daisy wants us out of the room.  Let’s go.”  I said, helping Ginnie up from the floor

“Daisy?  She that girl you were pining over back in elementary school?” John muttered.

“Married her too.  Deputy sheriff now, so be a good boy.  And don’t think our relationship will make this any easier.”

As I closed the door to the office and turned the key in the lock, I could hear the sirens in the distance.

The die, as the saying goes, was cast.

© Charles Heath 2022

The A to Z Challenge – L is for “Last boat to nowhere”

I had, literally, just witnessed the end of the world on the large screen TV.

Live and on CNN.

There had been skirmishes, Russia looking to take back its satellite countries and restore the USSR, and NATO posturing when the leaders of the countries asked for help and received none.  Everyone knew what would happen if they did.  War.

But, the playing field changed when Russia set it sights on Poland.

Rollback 83 years, the last time a country rolled into Poland.  What happened?  War.

This time, threats, empty it seemed for a month, and then, yes, we were plunged back into War.

This time, however, everything was different.  Yes, wars were once predominantly waged with men and machines.  That type of warfare changed when Germany introduced the VI Rocket bombs, a means of remotely bombing selective targets.  Hit and miss maybe, but it worked.  Last time we had an atomic bomb, or two as it happened.

This time, we had guided missiles, with nuclear warheads, not a hundred, but thousands, deployed all around the world, aimed at selected targets, not necessarily military targets, but civilians.

There were some who thought they could negotiate a peace settlement.

And, in the middle of that, someone pressed the button.  You know that infamous button that sends a nuclear weapon on its way.

We all saw it launch, live.

We all saw it land, dodging every defence system in its path, with devastating effect, as the camera melted, and everything just went black.  Not one, but all over the world.

It was estimated that the whole world lost a third of its population in four hours, vaporised by missile strikes, and another third would be dead within a month from proximity radiation.  The remaining third, when the dust settled, and those who were not in the direct line of fire, well, the weather would soon decimate them.

Us.

We all thought nuclear weapons were just a deterrent.

Now, well, it was too late to think about anything.  We were, as I just heard on the TV, all going to die from the fallout.  It was only a matter of time before it reached us.  Then, according to the expert, we would all end up with radiation poisoning and die.

I was fortunate enough to live on one of the most southern parts of Australia, a small town by the name of Cockle Creek, Tasmania.  Even though I had never heard of it until overwhelmed by the loss of my wife, I wanted to hide from the world, and Cockle Creek was just the place.

Now, for a while, it was going to be a haven.

Before the storm clouds arrived.

I switched off the TV, and most likely wouldn’t be turning it back on.  There wasn’t going to be any good news, and I really didn’t want to know how long we had left.  I put several bottles of red wine, some cheese, bread, and meat into a bag, and headed down to the beach.

It was part of a secluded part of the shore that backed onto a half dozen houses, and on rare occasions, the neighbours appeared, spoke briefly and went about their business.  People in my street were at best recluses, at worst hermits, all of us running away from something.

It wasn’t long before Angie appeared, at the end of her evening run.  I’d met her several times, and knew a little of her history, once married to a cheating bastard, once had a good job but because of him had to leave, now no longer interested in anything.

I understood her.

She stopped.  I expected a wave as she passed by.

“Max.”

“Angie.  How are you?”

“Usual.  See the news?”

“Hard to miss it.”

“Not a lot to look forward to?”

“I came here to spend my last days in peace, there’s just fewer of them, I guess.”

“Pragmatic.”

“Realistic.

She came over and sat beside me.  For some odd reason, I’d packed two glasses.  Had I a premonition she would drop by?

“Red?”

“Why not?”

We sat there and drank wine, first from one bottle, then starting on the next.  We didn’t say anything, there wasn’t anything to say.

“Would you believe me if I said I was once a scientist?  There’s a more specific name, but the scientist will do?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“M\y dad refused to believe a woman could be that smart.  My husband was a bit like that, never liked the idea that I might be smarter than him.”

“Some men feel threatened.”

“Would you?”

“My wife was far smarter than I was, but I loved her because she was her, not the smart part.  That was just a small part of who she was.  And she didn’t care if I was a dustman.”

“Were you?”

“No.  I owned a bookshop, served coffee, and talked to strange people all day.”

“Lots of dusty books then?”

I had no idea if she was joking or just commenting, but it didn’t matter.  It was amusing to think of it like that.

“Lots.  So, what branch of science was it?”

“Snow science.”

OK, so my poker face wasn’t quite working, and it wasn’t hard to guess what I was thinking.

“Look it up, it’s real.”

“No internet anymore.  Kind of got nuked along with a lot of other stuff.  But, despite the scepticism I suspect there is such a thing, and, if I remember right, is that something to do with the study of snow and ice movement, possible for the prediction of similar events?”

“It had a lot to do with predicting storms, and how snow affected water supplies.  There’s a whole lot more, but it’s rather irrelevant now.  Like me.”

“Like all of us, I think, though if you’re feeling irrelevant, come and see me and I’ll try to think of a way to change that.”

“Could you?”

“Probably not.  But I know how you feel.  That’s why I’m here.”

Another few glasses of wine, enough time to consider what she said, and how to make sense of it, before she said, “My last job was for an eccentric billionaire.  I never told anyone because it was the craziest two years of my life.”

“Why bring it up?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.  Turns out he wasn’t batshit crazy after all.

”OK, I’ll bite.  Why was he crazy?”

“Because he built a huge city like complex under the ice in Antarctica.  He said that man would destroy the earth sooner rather than later, and he wasn’t going to hang around and watch them do it.  Space travel was too difficult, so he did the next best thing.  A haven for 5,000 specially selected people.  I was his snow and ice expert.”

“It’s all melting.”

“Deep in the ice.  There are a few thousand years before it all dissipates, and even then, it’s below ground.  We anticipated every scenario.”

“Bet you didn’t think of aliens with excavators.”

“Now you’re mocking me.”

I shook my head.  “No.  Ivan Rostov, an oligarch.  Strange man, stranger idea, bet rich enough not to care what the world thought of him.  You knew Ivan?”

“Slept with him once.  Bit of a disappointment.”

“Sorry to hear that.  Before or after your husband strayed.”

“After.  I have principles.”

“You should be there, with him.”

“Wasn’t open for business.  When I left, just before I came here, it was in the last stages of being shut up until when it would be needed.  I guess that’s about now.  But I don’t work for him, and he doesn’t need me, and I don’t think I could stay there anyway.  How long do you think people would have to stay there?”

“From what I’ve been reading, between 5,000 and 25,000 years, but that’s very extreme and assumes plutonium has been used.  A substantial amount of the northern hemisphere has been rendered radioactive, and if Chernobyl is anything to go by, a long time.  People wouldn’t see daylight in this lifetime.”

“Sounds like fun then.  You up for a home-cooked meal.  Long time since I’ve entertained, seems like there might not be many more opportunities.”

“Why not?”

Sitting opposite a woman who I had probably seen a dozen times in a year, and spoke to here, albeit briefly, on three of those occasions, I felt remarkably at ease in her company.

Perhaps it was the fact we were all living on borrowed time, perhaps in those circumstances, we had let a lot of our guard down.  Whatever it was, sitting there, enjoying the moment, I felt as though I’d known her all my life.

An odd ringing sound broke the silence that had settled on us.

She got up.  “Excuse me for a moment.”

She went into another room, the ringing stopped and I could hear her muffled voice.  A minute later she returned with a device that looked like a satellite phone in her hand.

She put it on the table and sat down.  “You’re on speakerphone.  Now, tell me what you just said again.”

A male voice, relatively old if I was to guess, and authoritative.

“We are just packing, and tomorrow we will be going to nowhere.  I’m sorry I haven’t been as communicative in recent times, so much to do, so little time, but, as you are aware, the world has finally gone to hell in a handbasket, and we’re getting everything ready.  I’d like you to come.  After all, it’s as much your pet as it was mine.”

“Tempting offer, but I don’t think we’ll ever see daylight again.”

“That maybe so, or maybe not.  We have no idea how mother nature is going to handle this swipe, but that’s in the future.  Staying outside is simply a death sentence, and you’re too good for that.”

I looked at her, the look conveying the unspoken quester, ‘Is that your former boss?”

She nodded, a sign to me at least, that she could read minds.  Perhaps then not a good thing.

“I have a friend here, if he wanted to, could I bring him as my plus one?”

“Certainly.”

“I need time to think about it.  Can I call you back?”

“Any time.  As I say we leave tomorrow and will be there in a week.  I’ll be dropping in anyway, whatever you decide.”

“Ok.  Thanks.”

She disconnected the call.

“Nowhere?”

We gave New Eden and name that people would never quite understand.  We used to say, we’re going nowhere, when we were going to the building site.  It was how we kept it secret.”

”You should go.  Life is precious and you should hang on to it for as long as possible.”

“What about you?”

“I’m sure there are other more important people you could take.”

“There are none that I care about.  Not anymore.  Why do you think I’m here, alone, and never leave?”

I shrugged.

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.  There’s no obligation on your part to be anything but a friend.  If I go, I need to have at least one person there I know.”

“Won’t all the people who built it be there?”

“I never got to know any of them.  Didn’t want to.  But with you, after one afternoon, I feel as though I want, I need to know more about you.  You are perhaps what some would call a kindred spirit.  I know it doesn’t make any sense, but these are strange times, are they not?”

I smiled.  They were.  And oddly enough, I felt the same about her.

“Perhaps if we both take the week to think about it?”

She nodded.  “Dinner at yours tomorrow?”

“Afternoon wine, same time, same place?”

A nod and a nod.

I saw the superyacht arrive and drop anchor about a mile offshore, and then, after a half-hour of activity on the rear deck, the launching of a tender, which then headed slowly towards our section of the beach.

It was a no brainer, in the end, we got along so well, why would I want it to end?  So we had to live in a bunker for 50,000 years.  It would be with her, and that’s all I cared about.

She took my hand in hers.  “So, are you ready to catch the last boat to nowhere?”

© Charles Heath 2022

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 25

This is an old chateau at the foot of a skiing area on the north island of New Zealand. It was once predominately advertised as a guest house for hikers in the summer months.

chateautongoriro

However, with fertile imaginations, we can come up with a whole different scenario.

Like, for instance, a haunted house, owned by an old and some might say creepy family, a place where few are invited, and those that are, approach the front door with trepidation.

It could be the family estate, the sort of place grandparents live, and their children consider themselves lucky to have escaped and their children, in turn, hate going there.

Of course, the opposite to that is that everyone loves going there for the holidays when the whole family gets together.

Then, a murder occurs…

It might also be a hotel in an unusual backdrop, where fugitives come to hide, or just one person from the city, trying to get away from a bad partner, or someone working there seeking a fresh start.

The truth is, there are any number of possibilities.

In a word: Dog

Yes, it’s that little or big furry thing that’s also known as man’s best friend, a dog.

But the word has a number of other meanings, like a lot of three-letter words.

It can also mean to follow someone closely.

If you are going to the greyhound racing, you could say you’re going to the dogs, or it could mean something entirely different, like deteriorating in manner and ethics.

Then there are those employers who make their workers work very hard, and therefore could be described as making them work like a dog.

Some might even say that it is a dog of a thing, i.e. of poor quality.

There’s a dogleg, which could aptly name some of those monstrous golf course holes that sometimes present the challenge of going through the wood rather than around it.

Tried that and failed many times!

A dog man used to ride the crane load from the ground to the top, an occupation that would not stand the test of occupational health and safety anymore.

And of course, in a battle to the death, it’s really dog eat dog, isn’t it?