Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
A shiver went down my spine, and I took it for the omen it was.
Nothing good came of being in a place where you were not supposed to be.
I shook it off.
“Does that look like someone we knew, once?”
He looked at the mannequin, then shook his head. “No, should it?”
“Seems odd they didn’t come back to collect their stock. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as this when the cracks first appeared.”
“Here it was. Walls crumbled, and in places the roof collapsed. Two shop staff got hit by a falling beam. One later died. There was a long court battle over that.”
I did not remember much of what happened. My mother said it was just another tragedy brought on by greed. It was probably why I had such contempt for the rich.
Boggs did a rotation with his light, and in the direction of the marina, there was a central square over which was a skylight, only it was dirty and little light was getting through. It was just enough to see that the plants had all overgrown and taken over, and it was strange to see pylons covered in creeper, and shrubs growing through seats.
There had been a pond in the middle of that square, but it was probably empty now, and if it had water, it would be contributing to the smell.
In the other direction, there was darkness, the mall heading towards the front entrance.
Boggs started walking towards the square.
That was when I realized he had brought an old map of the shopping center and had been looking at it when I joined him.
From the square, there were elevators and steps up to the second level where there were restaurants and entertainment areas, as well as the entrance to the multiplex cinemas. The stairs went down to the carpark.
There were two levels of carpark under the main building, and it was the lower car park that had occasionally flooded.
When we reached the square, it seemed lighter than I first thought, but that had to do with the fact my eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness, making objects clearer. We had to brush past some of the tree branches to reach the pond.
I was wrong. There was water in it, and it was reasonably clear. I guess without man to pollute it, nature had taken over. Here the aroma was more like a park after the lawns had been mowed.
Boggs had turned off his light as we approached the pond, and it was fortunate he had. We both heard the sound of a brick, or rock hitting the floor, and a moment later, the faint glow of torchlight.
Other people exploring the wilderness.
“How many people know about that entrance?”
It sounded to me like they were coming back from the marina.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here if that’s what you’re thinking.”
It wasn’t. Not my first thought, anyway.
He headed towards the stairs next to the elevator lobby, remarkably clear of rubble and undergrowth, and started walking down the stairs, into the darkness. I followed, reluctantly, and inwardly sighed in relief when he stopped on the first landing. There was a rumor there were ghosts down on the car park levels.
We went just far enough down to be hidden from the other visitors. Unless they decided to use this particular staircase.
The light was less intense as it approached the square, and then we saw two figures.
At least one was a male, tall, and smoking a cigarette.
“God knows why the boss wanted us to check this hell hole. There’s no one here but us.” It was the tall man speaking.
He waved his torch around, including once in our direction. At the distance they were from us, the light had no effect.
“You know the boss, he has an active imagination. Perhaps if he hadn’t buried the bodies down here, it wouldn’t be an issue. Come on, this place gives me the creeps.”
Another man, and, now, I could see they were dressed in what looked like security guards’ clothes. Why on earth would anyone want to keep an eye on this place? And who was their boss?
Another wave of the torches and they continued their way towards the front of the mall.
“So,” Boggs said with a curious inflection in his tone, “there are bodies buried down here.”
“A figure of speech,” I said. “No one would be that stupid to bury bodies down here.”
“Why not. No one comes here, except adventurers like us, so it’s a perfect place for either the Cossatino’s or the Benderby’s to hide stuff down here. How many people do you think either of them has killed over the years?”
Allegedly quite a few. It was, when I thought about it, quite a good place to hide a body. I just hoped we didn’t find one.
We waited another five minutes, just in case they came back, but they didn.t. I followed Boggs up the stairs and we headed towards the center of the square.
It was odd having a voice in your head, well, not really in your head as such, but in your ear, and sounding like it was in your head.
You could truthfully say you were hearing voices.
It was the next step after going through some very intensive training, having someone else as your eyes and ears when breaching a secure compound, and avoiding the enemy.
I’d signed on for this extra training thinking one day it would land me in the thick of the action. Some of the others thought I was mad, but someone had to do it, and the fact it was quite dangerous added just that extra bit to it.
But as they say, what you learn in training, and practise in a non-hostile environment, is nothing like being in that same situation in reality.
Now on was on my first assignment, part of an elite team, packed and taken to what was to everyone else, an unspecified location, but to us, it was the point of incursion.
The mission?
To rescue a government official (that was how he was described to us) who had been illegally detained in a foreign prison.
Our job?
To break him out and get out without the knowledge of the prison staff, or anyone representing that government. Yes, what we were doing was highly illegal, and yes, if we were caught it was more likely than not we would be executed as spies.
…
We were under cover in an abandoned farmhouse about three miles from the prison. We had been brought in under cover of darkness, and had only a few hours to set up, and then wait it out until the following night.
It was now or never, the weather people predicting that there would be sufficient cloud cover to make us invisible. Two of us were going in, and two remaining strategically placed outside to monitor the inside of the prison through a system of infrared scanners. We also had a floor plan of the building in which the prisoner was being held, and intelligence supplied, supposedly, by one of the prison guards who had been paid a lot of money for information on guard movements.
To me, it was a gigantic leap of faith to trust him, but I kept those thoughts to myself.
We had been over the plan a dozen times, and I’d gone through the passageways, rooms, and doors so many times I’d memorised where they were and would be able to traverse the building as if I had worked there for a lifetime. Having people outside, talking me through it was just an added benefit, along with alerts on how near the guards were to our position.
I was sure the other person going with me, a more seasoned professional who had a number of successful missions under his belt, was going through the same motions I was. After all, it was he who had devised and conducted the training.
There was a free period of several hours before departure, time to listen to some music, empty the head of unwanted thoughts, and to get into the right mindset. It was no place to get tangled up in what ifs, if anything went wrong, it was a simple matter of adapting.
Our training had reinforced the necessity to instantly gauge a situation and make changes on the fly. There would literally be no time to think.
I listened to the nuances of Chopin’s piano concertos, pretending to play the piano myself, having translated every note onto a piano key and observing it in my mind’s eye.
My opposite number played games of chess in his head. We all had a different method of relaxing.
Until it was 22:00 hours, and time to go.
…
“Go left, no, hang on, go right.” The voice on my ear sounded confused and it was possible to get lefts and rights mixed up, if you were not careful.
It didn’t faze me, I knew from my study of the plans that once inside the perimeter fence, I had to go right, and head towards a concrete building the roof of which was barely above the ground.
It was once used as a helipad, and underneath, before the site became a prison, the space was used to make munitions. And it was an exceptionally large space that practically ran under the whole of the prison, built above ground.
All that had happened was the lower levels were sealed, covered over and the new structures build on top. Our access was going to be from under the ground.
Quite literally, they would not see, or hear, us coming.
The meteorological people had got it right, there was cloud cover, the moon hidden from view, and the whole perimeter was in inky darkness. Dressed in black from head to foot, the hope was we would be invisible.
There were two of us heading to the same spot, stairs that led down to a door that was once one of the entrances to the underground bunker. We were going separate ways in case one of the other was intercepted in an unforeseen event.
But, that part of the plan worked seamlessly, and we both arrived at the same place nearly at the same time.
Without the planning we might easily have missed it because I didn’t think it would be discernable even in daylight.
I followed the Sergeant downstairs, keeping a watchful eye behind us. I stooped at the point where I could see down, and across the area we had just traversed.
Nothing else was stirring.
As expected, the door was seamless and without an apparent handle. It may have had one once, but not anymore, so anyone who did stumble across it, couldn’t get in.
Except us. We had special explosives that were designed to break the lock, and once set, would not make a lot of noise. Sixty seconds later we were inside, and the door closed so no one would know we’d broken in.
I was carrying a beacon so that the voice in my head could follow my progress. The sergeant had one too, and he led.
“Straight ahead, 200 yards, then another door. It shouldn’t be locked, but it might be closed.”
In other words, we had no way of knowing. Our informant had said no one had been down in the dungeons, as he called them, since the munition factory closed, and had been sealed up soon after the prison building had been handed over for use.
We were using night goggles, and there was a lot of rubbish strewn over the floor area so we had to carefully pick our way through which took time we really didn’t have. It looked as though our informant was right, no one had been down there for a long time. We were leaving boot prints in the dust.
We reached the door ten minutes later than estimated. Losing time would have a flow on effect, and this operation was on a very tight time constraint.
“Once you are through the door, there’s a passage. Turn left and go about 50 paces. There should be another passage to your right.”
“Anyone down here?”
“No, but there is a half dozen prison officers above you. Standard patrol, from guardhouse to guardhouse. Unless they can hear you through five feet of solid concrete, you’re safe.”
My instincts told me five feet of concrete were not enough, but I’ll let it ride for the moment.
The door was slightly ajar and it took the two of us to pull it open so that we could get past. Behind it was the passage, going left and right. Trusting my invisible guide was not getting mixed up again, I motioned right, and we headed down the passage.
Despite the fact we should be alone, both of us were careful not to make any noise, and trod carefully.
At 50 or so paces, the passage came into sight. The sergeant went ahead. I stayed back and kept an eye in both directions. The passage before us was the one that would take us under the cell of the captive we were sent to retrieve.
There would be no blasting our way in. The floor to the cell had a grate, and when removed, a person could drop down into the ‘dungeon’. Currently the grate was immovable, but we had the tools to fix that.
The sergeant would verify the grate was where it was supposed to be, then come back to get me.
Five minutes passed, then ten. It was not that far away.
I was about to go search when the voice in my head returned, but with panic. “We’ve been compromised. Get the hell out of there, now. Quickly…”
Then I heard what sounded like gunshots, then nothing.
A minute later there was a new voice. “I don’t know who you are, but I’d strongly advise you give yourself up to the guards. Failure to do so within one hour, I’ll execute the two men I now have in custody.”
Ahead of me there was a sudden explosion, followed by a cloud of dust and fine debris.
Hand grenade, or mine, it didn’t matter. The sergeant wouldn’t be coming back.
This morning we wake up to rain. Or so we thought. Taking a closer look out the window of our room on the 16th floor, we notice the rain is speckled with snowflakes. As the morning progressed the snow got harder until there were flurries.
Later we discover this is called wet snow by the local Vancouverians, and whilst they winge a lot over the endless rain, to them rain is infinitely better than snow.
To us, by the afternoon, it was almost blizzard conditions, with lots of snow. Then the only thing is that it does not accumulate on most of the ground so there are no drifts to play in.
Because the weather is so dismal we decided not to go into Vancouver to do some sightseeing because the clouds were down to the ground and then the snow set in.
Another interesting fact is that construction workers do not go off the job if it’s raining, or worse when it is snowing. Our room overlooks a new apartment complex under construction and the workers battled on through what seemed like appalling conditions.
At four in the afternoon, the Maple Leafs are playing the Ohio Blue Jackets, in Ohio. It is a game we expect they will win. Sparks is the goalkeeper, not Anderson, they’re playing back to back games and Anderson’s starting tomorrow.
They win, four goals to two.
Just before darkness falls, about four thirty, the snow stops and there is a little rain, which melts the snow.
Time to go up to the executive lounge to get some snacks and coffee, then sleep because the next day we’re taking on the Trans Canada highway from Vancouver to Kamloops.
The forecast is for snow, more snow, and just for a change, more snow.
Self-published authors are fully aware that perhaps the easiest part of the writing journey is the actual writing. Well, compared to the marketing aspect I believe it is.
I have read a lot of articles, suggestions, and tips and tricks to market the book to the reading public. It is, to say the least, a lot harder to market eBooks than perhaps their hard or paper-back relatives.
This is despite the millions of eReaders out there.
Then there is that other fickle part of the publishing cycle, the need for reviews.
Proper reviews of course.
As we are learning, reviews can be bought. And Amazon is out there seeking what it calls unverified reviews and the reviewers and it had brought with it very strict control over who can leave a review, especially on Amazon.
Another site where reviews are taken seriously is the Goodreads website where I have established a presence, and expect in due course, some reviews.
But, all the advice I have seen and read tells me that reviews should not be paid for, and that reviews will come with sales. It might be a difficult cycle, more reviews mean more sales, etc.
And getting those first sales …
Therein lies the conundrum. It is a question of paying for advertising or working it out for ourselves. I guess if I were to get more sales, I could afford the advertising … yes, back on the merry-go-round!
And yet, the harder the road, the more I enjoy what I do. It is exhilarating while writing, it is a joy to finish the first draft, it is an accomplishment when it is published, but when you sell that first book, well, there is no other feeling like it.
I was one of six people who answered a house-sitting ad. What stood out was the money, as was intended.
When I arrived at the interview, held in an accountant’s office downtown, there was no suggestion that it was a trick, or there were ulterior motives.
Just $5,000 for a week’s work. Move in, act like a security guard and check all entrances and exits, and all rooms that had windows to the outside every four or so hours, particularly at night.
The reason?
The owner had to maintain residence in the house for the week, as he was going away, under a clause in the sale contract. The reason for hiring civilians, that it was too expensive to get live in people from a security company.
The owner freely admitted he was a cheapskate.
But fir someone like me, the $5,000 was a lot of money and would help pay beck everyone I owed money to.
I earnestly pleaded my case, submitted myself to a background check and then waited to hear back.
When I didn’t hear anything by the due date I figured some other lucky person had pleaded a better case, then, exactly a week later I got the call.
The next day a courier delivered the keys to the house, and the address. My week started at exactly 9am the next morning.
…
The cab dropped Mr off at the front gate of the house, only it wasn’t a house so much as a mansion, and one that had seen better days.
It was at the end of the street, behind two large gates, and a high brick fence. I could see the driveway on the other side, and just make out the house behind the unkempt shrubbery.
I had a bunch of keys, and it took a few attempts to find the one that fitted the lock and chain preventing the gates from opening.
I just unlocked it when another car pulled up in the same place my can had, and a young woman got out. She rescued her sports bag from the trunk and paid the cabbie.
“Who are you,” she said.
“The caretaker for the next week. I might ask the same question.”
“The ex-wife with nowhere to go.”
No one mentioned an ex-wife that was part of the deal.
“I wasn’t told anyone else would be here, so it would be best you left.”
I slipped the lock back in place and stood my ground. She could be anyone.
She pulled out her phone and rang a number.
A heard the voice on the other end say hello.
“You can tell you dead head caretaker that I’m staying for a few days.”
Then I watched her expression turn very dark, and then the words, “I have nowhere else to go, and it will only be a few days.” Then silence and an accompanying ground, ending with, “You don’t want me to come after you because you know how that will end”.
She listened, then handed the phone to me.
“Hello.”
“I’m the owner requesting the service. You are not responsible for her, but if she becomes a problem, lock her in the basement.”
Then he hung up. It was not the best of answers to the problem.
“Are you going to open the gate?”
I shook my head and then pretended to fumble through the keys looking for the eight one. “You know this place,” I asked without turning around.
“No. The bastard didn’t tell me about a lot of the stuff he owns.” Her tone bristled with resentment.
I ‘found’ the key and opened the lock and started pulling the chain through the fence. I could feel her eyes burning into my back.
When I swung open the gate, she barged past, and kept walking. I stepped though, and immediately felt the change in the temperature. It was cold, even though the sun was out and I could feel an un-natural chill go through me.
By the time I closed and relocked the gate she had gone as far as, and round a slight bend in the driveway. I thought about hurrying to catch up, but I didn’t think it mattered, she didn’t have a key. Or perhaps I hoped she didn’t have one.
I headed towards the house at a leisurely pace. I didn’t have to be there in the next instant, and I wanted to do a little survey of the grounds. If I was checking windows, then I needed to know what the access might be like through any of them.
As I got closer to the house, the overgrowth was worse, but that might have been because no one could see it from the roadside, or through the iron gate.
Accessibility via the gardens would-be problematic for anyone who attempted it because there was no easy access. It was one less immediate problem to deal with.
The driveway widened out into a large gravel covered square outside the front of the house. It had an archway under which cars could stop and let out passengers under cover, ideal for ball goers, which meant the house had been build somewhere during the last century.
There were aspects that would warrant me taking a look on the internet about its history.
She was waiting outside the door, showing some exertion, and the mad dash had been for nothing.
“I take it you have a key?”
I decided to ignore that. I hoped she would disappear to another part of the house and leave me alone. I had too much to do without having to worry about where she was, or what she was doing. It seemed, base on the short time I spoke to him, that the owner had a mistake marrying her, if they were in fact married. Ex could mean almost anything these days.
Again, I made a show of trying to find the right key, though in the end it was hit and miss, and it took the fourth of fifth attempt to find it.
The door was solid oak, but it swung open easily and silently. I had expected it to make a squeaking sound, one associated with rusty hinges. This time she was a little more circumspect when she passed by me. I followed and closed and locked the door behind me.
Inside was nothing like I expected. Whilst the outside looked like the building hadn’t been tended to for years, inside had been recently renovated, and had that new house smell of new carpets and painted walls.
There was a high vaulted roof, and a mezzanine that was accessed by a beautifully restored wooden staircase and ran around the whole upper floor so that anyone could stand anywhere n ear the balustrading and look down into the living space, and, towards the back, the kitchen and entertaining area.
The walls had strategically place paintings, real paintings, that looked old, but I doubted were originals, because if they were similar to those I’d seen in a lot of English country estates they would be priceless, but not left in an empty building.
I had also kept her in the corner of my eye, watching her look around almost in awe.
“What do you think these paintings are worth?”
Was she going to suddenly take an inventory?
“Not a lot. You don’t leave masterpieces in an abandoned house. I suspect nothing in here would be worth much, and really only for decorative purposes so the owner can have a better chance of selling the place. Empty cavernous buildings do not sell well.”
“What are you again?”
“No one of any particular note. I’ve been asked to look after the place for the next week until it is handed over to the new owners. Aside from that I know nothing about the place, nor do I want to. According to the note I got with the key, there are bedrooms off that mezzanine you can see up there.” I pointed to the balustrading. The kitchen has food, enough for the few days I’ll be here, but I’m sure there’s enough to share.”
“Good. You won’t see me again if I can help it.”
I watched her walk to the staircase and go upstairs. The mud map told me there were bedrooms up of the mezzanine, and also across from this area. There was another large room adjacent to this, a games area or room big enough to hold a ball, a part of the original house, and which led out onto the side lawns. I’d check later to see what the access was like, because eI suspected there would be a few doors that led out from the hall to the garden.
When she disappeared along the upstairs passageway, I headed towards the next room. IT was large, larger than that next door, and had another grand staircase leasing down to the dance floor. I guess the people used to stay in rooms upstairs, get dressed, then make a grand entrance down those stairs.
I hadn’t expected this house to be anything like the old country estates, and it was a little like icing of the cake. I would have to explore, and transport myself back to the old days, and imagine what it was like.
…
She was true to her word, and I didn’t see her the next morning. I was staying a world away from her. I was in the refurbished old section and she was staying in the newly renovated and modernised part of the house.
I did discover, on the first day of getting my bearings and checking all of the entrances and windows ready for my rounds, that above the bedrooms on the second floor of the old section, there was a third floor with a number of smaller rooms which I assumed were where the servants lived.
I stayed in one of those rooms. The other main bedrooms, with ornate fireplaces and large shuttered windows smelled a little too musty for me, and I wasn’t about to present someone with an open window. The views form the balconies was remarkable too or would have been in the garden had been kept in its original state.
In the distance I could see what might have once been a summerhouse and promised myself a look at it later. A long day had come to a tiring end, and I was only destined for a few hours sleep before embarking on my first midnight run. I was going to do one at eight, after eating, another at midnight, and another at six in the morning. I’d make adjustments to the schedule after running the first full night’s program.
…
I brought my special alarm with me, the one that didn’t make a sound but was very effective in waking me. It was fortuitous, because I had not been expected someone else to come along for the ride, and didn’t want them to know where and when I would be doing the rounds.
It had taken longer than I expected to get to sleep, the sounds of the house keeping me awake. Usually a sound sleeper, perhaps it was the first night in different, and unusual surroundings.
I shuddered as I got out of bed, a cold air surrounding me, a feeling like that when I walked through the gate. I had the sensation that someone was in the room with me, but in the harsh light after putting the bedside light on, it was clearly my imagination playing tricks.
I dressed quickly, and headed out.
The inside of the house was very dark, and the light from my torch stabbed a beam of light through what might have been an inky void. The circle of light on the walls was never still, and I realised that my hand had acquired a touch of the shakes.
Creaking sounds as I walked across the flooring had not been discernible the previous night, and it was odd they only happened at night. A thought that the house may be haunted when through my mind, but I didn’t believe in ghosts, or anything like that.
The creaking sounds followed me as I started my inspection. I headed downstairs, and once I reached the back end of what I was going to call the ball room. Before I went to bed the previous evening, I drew up a rough map of the places I would be going, ticking them off as I went.
The first inspection was of the doors that led out onto the lawns. The floor to ceiling windows were not curtained, and outside the undergrowth was partially illuminated by moonlight. The day had been warm, that period in autumn leading into winter where the days were clear but getting colder. Outside I could see a clear starry night.
Then, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the flash of a torch light in the gardens. I stopped, and looked more carefully, but there was nothing. I waited for about ten minutes, but there was still no movement.
I was going to have to park my imagination before starting rounds or I’d never get the job done.
I went out of the room and into the living area. There seemed to be lights all arounds me, those small pilot lights that told you appliances were on standby.
I was heading towards the stairs when suddenly there was a blood curdling scream, followed by what sounded like a gun shot, a sharp loud bang that, on top of the scream, made me jump.
The woman.
I raced as fast as I could up the stairs. The sounds had come from there, but when I reached the top of the stairs, I realised I had no idea in which direction it came from. Pointing the torch in both directions, there was nothing to see.
I could see a passage which might lead to the bedrooms on this level, and headed towards it, moving slowly, keeping as quiet as I could, listening form anything, or if someone else was lurking.
I heard a door slam, the echo coming down the passage. I flashed the light up the passage, but it didn’t seem to penetrate the darkness. I moved quickly towards the end, half expecting to see someone.
Then I tripped over, and as I tried to get to my feet, realised it was a body. I flashed the torch on it, and it was the woman.
Dead, a gunshot wound in the chest, and blood everywhere.
I scrambled to my feet, and ran towards the end of the passage, and stopped at what appeared to be a dead end. With nowhere to go, I turned.
I wasn’t alone, just hearing before seeing the presence of another person, but it was too late to react. I felt an object hitting me on the back of the head, and after that, nothing.
…
I could feel a hand shaking me, and a voice coming out of the fog. I opened my eyes, and found myself in completely different surroundings.
A large ornate bedroom, and a four-poster bed, like I had been transported back to another age. Then I remembered I had been in a large house that had been renovated, and this was probably one of the other bedrooms on the floor where the woman had been staying.
Then I remembered the body, being hit, and sat up.
A voice beside me was saying, “You’re having that nightmare again, aren’t you?”
It was a familiar voice.
I turned to see the woman who I had just moments before had seen dead, the body on the floor of the passage.
“You’re dead,” I said, in a strangely detached tone.
“I know. I’m supposed to be. You helped me set it up so I could escape that lunatic ex-husband of mine.”
I must have looked puzzled.
“Don’t worry. The doctor says your memory will return, one day. But, for now, all you need to do is rest. All you need to know is that we’re safe, thanks to you.”
This wouldn’t be so apt if it didn’t bring back a raft of bad memories, those days I used to go to the races, and back all of the wrong horses.
I had a knack, you see, of picking horses that fell over, or came dead last.
Perhaps that’s another of those sayings, dead last, with a very obvious meaning. Dead! Last!
But…
In the modern vernacular, flogging a dead horse is like spending further time on something in which the outcome is already classed as a complete waste of time.
However…
Back in the old days, the dead horse referred to the first month’s wages when working aboard a ship, usually paid for before you stepped on board the ship. At the end of the first month, the theoretical dead horse was tossed overboard symbolically, and thereafter you were paid.
It still didn’t make sense to me that someone would tell me I was flogging a dead horse, until I realized, one day, the lesson to be learned was never to get paid in advance.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
It was a good plan.
Wallace, once he discovered his search team had gone missing would send another group to find them, and we would dispatch them in the same manner.
Each foray would reduce his group at the castle until it became, for us, a manageable size. Currently, it was 35, with four already killed. There was also the Leonardo factor, and his men, according to Martina, numbered seven.
If I was Wallace, who would realize once he discovered the body on the road to Chiara’s, that sending his own men out to be picked off was a bad idea, would eventually send Leonardo and his men as the first foray to resolve the problem.
That, of course, would present the same problem as Wallace’s men, there would be deadly retribution. The villages had all hated Leonardo, and he had dislike them for not selecting him as the local head of the resistance. That had fallen to Martina, a more popular person, and one more capable.
It seemed to me, from what she had told me, Leonardo was more a mercenary, one who would work for the highest bidder, and that was the sort of man Wallace would have no trouble employing.
Martina was right to round up the villagers to keep them safe
But, for Carlo and I, we needed to pre-emp their strike, and the safest assumption was that they would return to Chiara’s, looking for her, and for answers.
There was some discussion as to who would be in the attack group, and I agreed that the more we had the better chances we had of beating them, but in the end, we also needed people with the villagers, just in case the worst-case scenario happened, Leonardo knew of the underground wine storage facility and came there instead.
As far as Martina was concerned, he didn’t. Very few people knew of its existence.
In the end, it was decided that Carlo and I should go. He had no doubt he could take Leonardo’s seven by himself, and I didn’t doubt him, so I went along just in case he needed some help.
I took the distant ground with the sniper rifle, and when I saw them, I was not to hesitate to shoot them. Carlo would be closer and clean up what I missed. We had enough ammunition to take out at least twenty.
And that’s where we were, from dusk until the following morning, waiting for the search team to arrive. It did not occur to Carlo, or me, that there was a possibility they might not come, or that Leonardo might have something else in mind.
Alone, in the dark, and surrounded by what could only be described as an eerie stillness, it was hard to imagine that a deadly war was being waged.
In this part of the world, it was not so intense, that according to our intelligence, the Germans were getting stretched very thin on the ground, and were withdrawing soldiers from the extremities of Europe to bolster the fighting closer to home, and the imminent attack in France by the allies.
Of course, there was no way the Germans could know where and when, even I didn’t know that, but it was coming. It seemed odd to me, by way of contrast, that the Germans high command had basically wasted a formidable and hitherto undetected group of double agents to rescue a rocket scientist which, in my mind, was hardly going to save or lose the war for them.
Perhaps that’s why it had not been up to me, and I hoped that our people knew exactly what they were doing. Those that had been filtering through the castle were not exactly the sort of people Thompson had been expecting to defect, but once he learned of Meyer’s desire to leave, that assessment had changed.
It also caused a reassessment of the operation at the castle, which led to the discovery people were not making it beyond that point and became the reason for my mission. The fact I’d been attacked before I reached my objective was coincidental, but it didn’t take long to realize why.
From that to here had been the proverbial hop, step, and jump.
I had not anticipated having to join the resistance, not be involved in becoming a guerrilla.
Not had I expected a dog for a companion. Jack was lying on the ground next to me, and it looked like he was getting a well-earned rest.
Then he heard something, and lifted his head, ears pricked up.
Then I heard it.
The sound of an airplane passing overhead, but some distance away.
It was not the clearest night so all we could do was hear it, not see it. A patrol? A plane that had lost its way. It was a bit south of where the action was, or where I’d expect the Germans to have either fighters or bombers.
Perhaps the allies then, but late at night surrounded by darkness, there would be little to see.
A minute later, nothing.
Jack put his head down, and I was struggling to keep my eyes open. Something had better happen soon, or I would miss it.
After another exhausting walk, by now the heat was beginning to take its toll on everyone, we arrived at the pagoda forest.
A little history first:
The pagoda forest is located west of the Shaolin Temple and the foot of a hill. As the largest pagoda forest in China, it covers approximately 20,000 square meters and has about 230 pagodas build from the Tang Dynasty (618-907) to the Qing Dynasty (1644-1911).
Each pagoda is the tomb of an eminent monk from the Shaolin Temple. Graceful and exquisite, they belong to different eras and constructed in different styles. The first pagoda was thought to be built in 791.
It is now a world heritage site.
No, it’s not a forest with trees it’s a collection of over 200 pagodas, each a tribute to a head monk at the temple and it goes back a long time. The tribute can have one, three, five, or a maximum of seven layers. The ashes of the individual are buried under the base of the pagoda.
The size, height, and story of the pagoda indicate its accomplishments, prestige, merits, and virtues. Each pagoda was carved with the exact date of construction and brief inscriptions and has its own style with various shapes such as a polygonal, cylindrical, vase, conical and monolithic.
This is one of the more recently constructed pagodas
There are pagodas for eminent foreign monks also in the forest.
From there we get a ride back on the back of a large electric wagon
to the front entrance courtyard where drinks and ice creams can be bought, and a visit to the all-important happy place.
Usually, from a very early age, you have some idea of what you intend to do with your life.
Those early choices of fireman, policeman, doctor, fighter pilot, slowly disappear from the list as the education requirements become clearer, and their degree of impossibility.
Then you have to factor in academic achievement or failure, hone situation, what blows life has dealt you, and your financial ability to fund any it all of your hopes and dreams, especially for that all-important university education, and even then, it has to be the right one.
Then there are the family aspirations where parents really want you to follow in their footsteps, as a doctor or a lawyer or in the military.
And if you get past all that, and everything has fallen into place, and you’re ready to head out on that highway of life, you should be fully imbibed with the knowledge and the drive to make everything happen.
…
Now I was lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling wondering at what point it all went wrong.
Right on the starting line where everything I had worked for was about to come to fruition, it had all come to an abrupt halt.
My memory got as far as driving home from a work party where we had been celebrating the company’s most recent success, and my progression to the next level of management, when a car failed to stop at a stop sign and T-boned me.
The car was a write-off. I was still not sure what happened to me, but I had heard someone say, in that murky twilight of pain medication, that if I was a horse, they would have to shoot me. It was the only thing I remembered between the car hitting mine and waking up in the hospital bed.
But that was not all the story, and I had plenty of time mull over everything that had happened in that last week. There was a certain symmetry to it all, as if one event led to the next, and then the next, and it was the last straw, on the last day, that broke the proverbial camel’s back.
…
And here’s the thing.
I would not have been in that accident had I not taken the car. I wasn’t going to, I had intended to take the train to a friends place and stay there for a few days, what the boss had told me would be a well earned rest.
Even then, I might have not taken the car, except for a cryptic text message I received from my sister, about needing to be ‘rescued’ from a bad date.
Nothing unusual for her, she was currently on a dating site binge, and after half a dozen bad experiences, I thought she had given up.
That was the thought that ran through my head as I watched her curled up in the chair next to the bed, half asleep.
Her first words, on arrival, and when she was allowed to see me, was to apologise, believing it had been her fault. She knew I hated driving in the city, so coming to get her, as I always did, had been preying on her mind, and I could see the tangible effects of it in the worried expression, and unkempt manner which was so totally unlike her.
“It was simply an accident, and could have happened to anyone,” I told her.
“You were going to Jeremy’s, I should have sorted my own problem out for once. IT’s not as if I couldn’t just call up an Uber, and now look what’s happened. I’m so sorry.”
She wouldn’t accept that it was not her fault, nor would she leave until she knew I would be OK. I didn’t understand what she meant by that because in the three discussions I had with the head doctor, I was going to make a full recovery.
He had used the work lucky more than once, and seemingly the sequence of events, and other factors like the car safety features, the angle the car had struck, and where, the fact the other driver had to dodge a pedestrian, all of it played a part.
Had they not, quite simply I would be dead.
My sister and her dating was only one aspect of how my life was being driven.
Another memory returned, from that week, that of another text message, from a girl I used to know back at University.
Erica.
She was what some might have called a free soul. She didn’t conform to what I would have called normal. Her clothes sense was somewhat odd, she always looked as though her hair needed combing, and she never had any money.
And, for a while, she lived with me, in a small, cramped room ideal for single University students on a budge, but not for two. Yet, for some strange reason, she never seemed to get in the way, or mind the closeness of our existence.
In that short period, she became my first real love, but she had said that while we were together, it was fine, but she was not seeking anything permanent. Nor, she said, did she believe in monogamy. Until she left, studies completed, I wanted to believe she would stay, but a last lingering kiss goodbye and she was gone.
Now, the message said, she wondered if I was still free, and like to meet. Of course, ten years of water had passed under that bridge, so I was not sure where it would go. I hadn’t replied, and the message was still sitting on my phone.
That invitation, however, had been n my mind moments before the crash, and I had to wonder, thinking of her, contributed to it.
Then, on top of all that, there was my parents. Married for 40 years, and the epitome of the perfect marriage.
Or so I thought.
That morning, before I went to work, I had called in to see them after my mother had called the day before saying she wanted to talk to me about something.
Before I knocked on the door, I could hear yelling from behind the door, and it seemed the perfect marriage had hit a rocky stretch.
Or simply that my father had chosen to have an affair, and had been caught out by the simplest of means, my mother answered his phone when he was out of the room thinking it was important work matters, only to discover it was his ‘floozie’.
No guessing then why my mother had called me. After hearing all I wanted to, and not wanting to face an angry couple I just headed on to work.
My mother had yet to come to the hospital to see me. My father had been, but he made no mention of her, or anything else, except to tell me if there was anything I wanted, all I had to do was ask. Then he left, and hadn’t come back.
Then, last but not least, were the rumours.
The owner of the company I worked for was getting older and didn’t have an heir. One thing or another had managed to foil his succession plans, and in the end, he did not have a son or a daughter to pass the reins to.
With the latest success, the company was about to have a bigger profile which meant more work, and plans to open branches in other cities. It was too much for one man, now in his 70s, and looking to wind down.
A rumour had started about a week before the accident that he was looking to sell, and there were at least half a dozen suitors. There was supposed to be an announcement, but it hadn’t happened while I was at work, but, considering how long I’d been in hospital, and the two weeks in an induced coma, anything could have happened.
Louisa stretched, and changed positions.
“You look better,” she said.
“Relative to what, or when?”
“Half an hour ago.”
I shook my head. Sometimes Louisa was prone to saying the oddest stuff. “What’s the deal between our parents. Dad was here for all of five minutes. Where’s our mother?”
“She left.”
OK. Blunt, but plausible. “Why?”
“Dad was being an ass.”
“Does she know I was in an accident?”
“I told her.”
“So, you’re seeing her?”
“She calls. I don’t know where she is. I think she might have gone to stay with one of our aunt’s.”
I sighed. Louise had an awfully bad memory, and I was sure one day she was going to forget who I was.
There were four sisters, mother the youngest. She had a love hate relationship with the middle two, so the best bet would be the eldest sister, Jane. Jane was also the crankiest because she hated children, never got married, and was set in her ways.
Then, there was something else lurking in the back of my mind. Another item I’d overheard when I suspect I was not meant to be listening.
I might not have a job to go back to if the company had been sold, I might not have a home to go back to if my parents had split up, and I might not be able to do anything for a long, long time. Recovery might be complete, but it wasn’t going to happen overnight.
I had a sister who blamed herself for my accident, and an old girlfriend who wanted to see me, though I suspect not like this, broken and useless. What else could there be.
Oh, yes. Another snipped from the shouting match behind the door. And an explanation why my father had all but abandoned me. My mother had also had an affair, and his son, well he was not his son.
No surprise then I had a father who didn’t want to know me.
What else could go wrong?
There was movement outside the room, and raised voices, one of which was saying that whoever was out there couldn’t go into the room. It didn’t have any effect as seconds later, a man and a police officer came in. The officer stood by the door.
Louisa looked surprised, but didn’t move.
The man, obviously a detective, came over. “Your name Oliver Watkins?”
It was, and hopefully still is. “Yes.”
“I need you to answer some questions.”
“About the accident?”
He looked puzzled for a moment, then realised what I was referring to. “No. Not the accident. About the embezzlement of 50 million dollars from the company you work for. It seems you didn’t cover your tracks very well.” He turned around to look at Louisa, “You need to leave now, miss.”
“I’ll stay.”
He nodded to the officer, “You leave now, or he will remove you.”
She looked at me, a different expression, “You didn’t tell me you were a crook, Olly.”
“Because I’m not.”
The officer escorted her from the room and shut the door.
The detective sat in the recently vacated chair. “Now, Mr Watkins. It seems there is such a thing as karma.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 