The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 7

Here’s the thing.

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 back on the treasure hunt.

My mother was happy that I’d been given a job, and when I relayed Benderby’s message, she said she would have to call and thank him.

It was in a tone that surprised me, and if I had not known better, I was left with the impression she might actually go out with him. Aside from the fact Benderby was married, he also hit on every woman he could, especially those at work.

I shrugged. My mother was old enough to look after herself.

Boggs came around, having realized I was not going to answer his calls and demanded to know what my problem was.

“Some of us have to work, Boggs. It’s taken a while but I realize my mother cannot do it on her own.”

“But working for Benderby, that’s like selling out to Satan.”

“It’s one of the few places where there still is work. Besides, I’m not shoveling the shit, just taking inventory of it. Pencil pusher. I have to make this work so anything we do will have to be outside working hours.” Then, another thought came to me, one that might appease Boggs. “In fact, you could think of me as your inside man. Working there, I should be able to keep an eye on the Benderby’s and finds out what they know, and are doing, if anything. Don’t you think?”

He looked both skeptical and reluctant, but, saying it out aloud made some sort of sense.

“I’m not putting the treasure hunt on hold, Sam,” he said, in that sulky tone he used when he didn’t get his way.

“Don’t expect you to, but I wouldn’t get to carried away with it. I heard Rico trying to sell Alex Benderby the map this morning.”

“Where?”

“In the employee car park. Alex reckons the map is a load a bunk. You still got it?”

I saw his hand go over his back pocket. “It’s safe.”

“And you reckon it’s real. Maybe that was not the sort of thing you should be talking about in front of Rico. He wants it, but peddling it to Alex wasn’t his best play. You know what’ll happen if he gets his hands on it.”

“Rico will get cut out.

“So will you.”

“Not if I keep a copy and sell him the original. We’re going to need money to carry out our own search.”

I shook my head. “You will not come out ahead. The Benderby’s of this world always win and the likes of us always lose.”

“That may or may not be the case, but we have to take control of this. At least it will take Rico out of the equation. I’ll work on a plan. Thanks for the tip. And, as you say, you can be my inside man. That way we might be able to keep one step ahead of them.”

If they decided to be players. But, would be no stopping him.

I sighed. This whole map thing was going to end badly.

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

NaNoWriMo – April 2022 – Day 24

First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.

…

Zoe is now painfully reminded why she did not get involved with other people, why it was better to be responsible only for herself. It was easy perhaps to blame John for making his own problems by not heeding her advice, but, just the same, she felt a small shred of responsibility for his current situation.

After learning that John has been kidnapped by Olga, Zoe first goes to see an old colleague, and Yuri’s friend, Dominica to interrogate her, then meets up with Yuri, and it does not end well for one of them. After telling her he’s the elusive Romanov, Yuri informs her of the fact Olga has taken John, and that Worthington is about to use John’s mother as leverage against her.

Not knowing immediately where Olga is, but believing she will not kill him because Zoe will come to her, she detours to take care of Worthington, having finally realized why he was searching for her. In another of her many disguises, room service visits his room, and Worthington gets more than dinner served up to him.

Of course, Yuri lies. He is not Romanov, and Romanov is not trying to kill her, but find her.

Who is her, well, you’ll have to read the book to find out.

And, as for Olga, well, hell hath no fury than a woman avenging a woman avenging her son!

…

Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon waiting for a white knight, 1,923 words, for a total of 59,911.

A photograph from the inspirational bin- 34

This is the moon, unexpectedly observable in the late afternoon.

For me, the moon provided inspiration for an episodic story I have entitled, for now, ‘I always wanted to see the planets’.

It’s about a freighter captain who gets a gig as First Officer on an exploratory starship, who by a series of inexplicable events gets promoted to captain, and has to navigate not only the outer reaches of space, but new species.

But in the back of my mind there is that expression ‘shoot for the moon’, which could mean almost anything.

It could mean going for the unobtainable, whether it be a job, or the partner of your dreams. Failing can be heartbreak. Success might mean you’d be ‘over the moon’.

Them there’s travelling to moon, perhaps the next logical step for regular people, heading off the spend a week on a moon base hotel. I’m not sure what we would see out there in space; Perhaps a UFO?

Fictionalised, a moon base might just be the meeting place for various species, and being the mystery writer I am, what if there was a murder?

As always, the possibilities are endless.

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 46

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

…

It took longer, as everything does when you’re in a hurry.

The plane was loaded, the fuel truck had just disconnected the final hose, and was leaving the field, and Davies was firing up the engines.

Everyone was on board and strapped in. I gave my thanks to the Colonel and shut the door before joining Davies in the cockpit.

Looking at her cool, calm demeanor gave me confidence. If anyone could get us out of here in one piece, she could.

I put the headphones on and put on the seat belt, just as she revved the engines, saw the wave from the ground crewman who removed the wheel chocks, and we started moving.

15 minutes to spare. Would it be enough?

The Colonel had said that it was possible the helicopter might be one of those belonging to the air force and might have missiles that could shoot us down. Not a good thought. At the very least it would have a cannon, and if the bullets hit us, it could make an awful mess of the fuselage.

He didn’t have any good news though.

I was hoping it would just be a commercial helicopter with a couple of thugs with handguns shooting at us.

At the top of the runway, she didn’t waste time going to full throttle, and we started rumbling down the runway. Unfortunately, the wind had changed and to take off we had to initially fly towards Congo airspace before turning towards our destination.

Then we lifted off and started gaining altitude.

Then I heard Davies mutter, “Fuck.”

Trouble. I saw what elicited the curse. The helicopter, heading towards us.

“Military,” she added.

Not that I had any idea what I was looking for, but it didn’t seem to have rockets, but it did have a cannon barrel under the fuselage.

“Brace yourself,” she said. “We’re about to get on the roller coaster.”

Still climbing we were getting closer, and I could just see the cannon move. If it was shooting rounds, they didn’t hit us, not from such a distance, but they were getting closer because we were still flying towards them.

Then, suddenly, she turned the planes to the right and down, a plunge so quick that my stomach was in my mouth. I hate to think what it would be like for those in the back.

Aside from the fact my hearing was blocked by the headphones, I could still hear several mini-explosions coming from behind me.

Another curse, rather longer this time, from Davies and she twisted the plane back in the opposite direction, and heading around towards the airfield again, much lower down this time, with the helicopter in hot pursuit.

Now we couldn’t see it, but it would have a good view of our engines and tail.

If any of the bullets hit, we’d be in big trouble.

I was bracing myself for disaster.

Davies was coaxing the plane upwards, but it seemed sluggish.

Nothing happened.

“Gun’s jammed.” She said. “If you don’t maintain your equipment…”

That statement was cut off by a huge explosion and turning as far as I could in my seat I just saw the remnants of a firewall, what was once a helicopter.

“Ground to air rocket. The Colonel must have some interesting toys at his disposal.” Davies sounded very relieved.

I started breathing again.

“Are we damaged?” It was a valid question. The plane seemed like it was flying awkwardly.

“I’d say so., Those explosions. Cannon fire hitting the fuselage. Probably took out some controls, or failing that, since there’s still maneuverability, probably just a few holes creating drag.”

She was a matter of fact like, but that was more because she was fighting the controls to keep us moving in the right direction.

Away from trouble.

“Go check it out,” she said.

At the head of the cabin, I saw the problem, a row of neat holes carved from one window through to halfway along the fuselage, going down. We’d be lucky if one of the bullets hadn’t struck one of the wires that drove the flaps/

There was a hell of a noise from the air coming in through the holes.

By the second window, slumped forward, was Shurl. There was blood and blood spatter on the floor. Monroe came up to me and yelled in my ear.

“Damned good flying, and only one casualty. We were incredibly lucky. Shurl wasn’t quick enough to get on the floor. Other than that, we’re still in the air, and I’m guessing someone shot the helo down?”

“Ground to air missile. Any sooner, that would have been us. Try and sit back, rest, and enjoy the in-flight service. Oh, and a prayer or two might help.”

“Going out of my mind…” – a short story

Accidents can happen.

Sometimes they’re your fault, sometimes they’re not.

The accident I was in was not. Late at night driving home from work, a car came speeding out of a side street and T-boned my car.

It could have been worse, though the person who said it had a quite different definition of the word worse than I did.

To start with, I lost three months of my life in a coma, and even when I surfaced, it took another month to realize what had happened. Then came two months of working out my recovery plan.

If that wasn’t trial enough, what someone else might describe as the ‘last straw that broke the camel’s back’, my wife of 22 years decided to send me a text that morning, what was six months in hospital, to the day.

“I’m sorry, Joe, but enough is enough. I cannot visit you anymore, and for the sake of both our sanity, I think it’s time to draw a line in the sand. I know what happened isn’t your fault but given the prognosis, I don’t think I can cope with the situation. I need time to think about what will happen next and to do so, I’ll be going home to spend some time with family. Once again, I’m so sorry not to be doing this in person. I’ll let you know what I decide in due course. In the meantime, you have my best wishes for your recovery.”

In other words, goodbye. Her family lived in England, about 12,000 miles away in another hemisphere, and the likelihood of her returning was remote. We had meant to visit them, and had, in fact, booked the tickets shortly before the accident. I guess she couldn’t wait any longer.

My usual nurse came in for the first visit on this shift. She had become the familiar face on my journey, the one who made it worth waking up every morning.

“You look a little down in the dumps this morning. What’s up?”

She knew it couldn’t be for medical reasons because the doctor just yesterday had remarked how remarkable my recovery had been in the last week or so. Even I had been surprised given all the previous negative reports.

“Ever broken up by text?”

“What do you mean?”

“Frances has decided she no longer wants to be involved. I can’t say I blame her, she has put her whole life on hold because of this.”

“That’s surprising. She’s never shown any disappointment.”

“Six months have been a long time for everyone. We were supposed to be going home so she could see her family. Maybe that’s what it’s all about.”

I gave her the phone and she read the message.

Then she handed it back. “That’s goodbye, Tom. I’m sorry. And no, I’ve never had a breakup by text, but I guess there could always be a first time.”

She spent the next ten minutes going through the morning ritual, then said, “I’ve heard there’s a new doctor coming to visit you. Whatever has happened in the last few days had tongues wagging, and you might just become the next modern miracle. Fame and fortune await.”

“Just being able to walk again will be miracle enough.”

That had been the worst of it. The prognosis that it was likely I’d never be able to walk again, or work, and the changes to our lives that would cause. I knew Frances was bitterly disappointed that she might become the spouse who had to spend the rest of her life looking after, and though she had said it didn’t matter, that she would be there for me, deep down I knew a commitment like that took more internal fortitude than she had.

She ran her own business, managed three children into adulthood, and had a life other than what we had together. When I was fit and able, and nothing got in the way, it had worked. Stopping everything to cater to my problems had severely curtailed her life. Something had to give, and it had.

But, as I said, I didn’t blame her. She had tried, putting in a brave face day after day but once the daily visits slipped to every other day, to once a week, I knew then the ship was heading towards the rocks.

This morning it foundered.

I pondered the situation for an hour before I sent a reply. “I believe you have made the right decision. It’s time to call it, go home and take some time to consider what to do next is right. In normal circumstances, we would not be considering any of this, but these are not normal circumstances. But, just in case you are worried about the effect of all of this on me, don’t. I will get over it, whatever the result is, and what you need to do first and foremost is to concentrate on what is best for you. If that means drawing a line on this relationship, so be it. All I want for you is for you to be happy, and clearly, having to contend with this, and everything else on your plate, is not helping. I am glad we had what time we had together and will cherish the memories forever, and I will always love you, no matter what you decide.”

It was heartfelt, and I meant it. But life was not going to be the same without her.

…

I’d dozed off after sending the message, and only woke again when my usual doctor came into the room on his morning rounds, the usual entourage of doctors and interns in tow. I’d been a great case for sparking endless debate on the best route for my recovery among those fresh out of medical school. Some ideas were radical, others pie in the sky, but one that seemed implausible had got a hearing, and then the go-ahead, mainly because there was little else that apparently could be done.

That doctor, and now another I hadn’t seen before was standing in the front row, rather than at the back.

The doctor in charge went through the basics of the case, as he did every day, mainly because the entourage changed daily. Then, he deferred to the radical doctor as I decided to call her.

She went through the details of a discovery she had made, and the recommendation she’d made as a possible road to recovery, one which involved several radical operations which had been undertaken by the elderly man standing beside her. When I first met him, I thought he was an escaped patient from the psychiatric ward, not the pre-eminent back surgeon reputed to be the miracle worker himself.

It seemed, based on the latest x-rays that a miracle had occurred, but whether it was or not would be known for another week. Then, if all went well, I would be able to get out of bed, and, at the very least, be able to stand on my own. In the meantime, I had endless sessions of physio in the lead-up to the big event. Six months in bed had taken its toll on everything, and the week’s work was going to correct some of that.

It meant there was hope, and despite what I said and thought, hope was what I needed.

There had been ups and downs before this, fuelled by a morning when I woke up and found I could wriggle my toes. It was after the second operation, and I thought, given the number of pain killers, it had been my imagination.

When I mentioned it, there was some initial excitement, and, yes, it was true, I wasn’t going out of my mind, it was real. The downside was, I couldn’t move anything else, and other than an encouraging sign, as the days passed, and nothing more happened, the faces got longer.

Then, the physiotherapist moved in and started working on the areas that should be coming back to life. I felt little, maybe the pain killers again, until the next, and perhaps the last operation. I managed to lift my left leg a fraction of an inch.

But we’d been here before, and I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

…

Annabel, the daughter that lived on the other side of the country, finally arrived to visit me. I had thought, not being so far away she might have come earlier, but a few phone calls had sorted out her absence. Firstly, there was not much use visiting a coma patient, second, she was in a delicate stage of her professional career and a break might be the end of it, and thirdly, she accepted that I didn’t want to see her until I was much better.

She was not very happy about it, but it was a costly venture for her, in terms of time, being away from a young family, and just getting there.

Now, the time had come. She had a conference to attend, and I was happy to play second fiddle.

After the hugs and a few tears, she settled in the uncomfortable bedside chair.

“You don’t look very different than the last time I saw you,” she said.

“Hospitals have perfected the art of hiding the worst of it, but it’s true. The swelling had receded, the physios have revived the muscles, and I have a little movement again.”

“The injuries are not permanent?”

“Oh, they’re permanent but not as bad as first thought.”

“Pity my mother isn’t here.”

“She was, day after day, through the darkest period. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But your mother is an independent woman, and she has always been free to do what she wants, and I would not have had it any other way.”

“But deserting you in the middle of all this…”

“It’s been very debilitating on her. I can understand her reasons, and so should you. She will still be your mother no matter what happens to us.”

There had been a number of phone calls, from each of the children, decrying her actions after she had sent a text message to each of them telling them what she was doing. She had not told them she was leaving, in so many words, but leaving the door ajar, perhaps to allay their fears she was deserting them too. Annabel had been furious. The other two, not so much.

“And this latest development?”

I had also told her about the miracle worker, and the possibilities, without trying to get hopes up.

“On a scale of one to ten, it’s a three. We’ve been here before, so I’m going to save the excitement for when it happens, if it happens.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

It was a question I’d asked myself a number of times, one that I didn’t want an answer to. Hope was staving it off, each day a new day of discovery, and a day closer to the idea I might walk again. I had to believe it would happen, if not the next day, the next week, month, year, that it would eventually happen.

For now, all I had to do was stand on my own two feet.

It was ironic, in a way, that simple statement. ‘Stand on your own two feet’. Right then, it seemed so near, and yet, at the same time, so far away.

I didn’t answer that question, but did what I usually did with visitors, run a distraction and talk about everything else. This visit was no exception. I had a lot of catching up to do.

It’s odd how some call the day of momentous events D-Day because to me nothing would be more momentous than the invasion of France during the second world war.

Others were not quite of the same opinion. It was going to be a momentous day.

It started the same as any other.

The morning routine when the duty nurse came to do the checks. Then the physio, now a permanent fixture mid-morning, just after the tea lady arrived. Deliberate, I thought, to deprive me of my tea break, and some unbelievably delicious coconut cookies.

Then the routine changed, and the escort arrived to take me down to the room where the physio had set up an obstacle course. It looked like one, and I’d told him so when I first saw it, and he had said by the time he was finished with me, I’d be able to go from start to finish without breaking a sweat.

In my mind perhaps, but not with this broken body. I didn’t say that because I was meant to be positive.

An entourage arrived for the main event. I would have been happier to fail in front of the doctor, the miracle worker, and the physio, but it seemed everyone wanted a front-row seat. If it worked, the physio confided in me, there was fame and fortune being mentioned in Lancet, which was a prestigious medical journal.

Expectations were running high.

The physio had gone through the program at least a hundred times, and the previous day we had got to the point where I was sitting on the side of the bed. We’d tried this ordinary maneuver several times, previously without success under my own steam but this morning, for some reason it was different.

I was able to sit up, and then, with a struggle move my legs part of the way, and with a little help for the rest.

What was encouraging, was being able to swing my legs a short distance. It was those simple things that everyone could do without thinking, that had seemed impossible not a month before, that got people excited. I didn’t know how I felt other than I missed those simple things.

Then the moment had arrived. Hushed silence.

There was a structure in place. All I had to do was pull myself across, at the same time sliding off the bed and into a standing position. There was a safety harness attached so that if my grip slipped it would prevent me from falling.

It was probably not the time to tell them the pain in my lower back was getting worse.

So, like I’d been instructed, and going one step further than the day before, I reached out, grabbed the bars, and pulled myself up and over, at the same time, sliding off the side of the bed. I could feel the tug of the safety harness which told me I had left the safety of the bed, and was in mid motion.

I could feel my legs straightening, and then very softly landing on the floor, the safety harness letting my body drop down slowly.

The pain increased exponentially as the weight came down onto my legs, but my body had stopped moving. I could not feel the tightness of the harness, but a rather odd sensation in my legs.

All that time I had been concentrating so hard that I had heard nothing, not even the encouraging words from the physio.

Until I realized, from the noise around me, that it had worked. I was standing on my own two feet, albeit a little shakily.

And I heard the physio say, in his inimitable way, “Today you just landed on the moon. Tomorrow, it’s going to be one small step for mankind. Well done.”