K is for Katerina

…

Sunday lunch could be the best of times or the worst of times.  Any family gathering at my parents’ house was a trial, one that eventually drove me away.

I had stopped turning up at the family residence for the weekly gatherings simply because the ritual cross-examination of why I was not like my brothers and sisters, married with three point two children, got too exhausting.

It meant that I rarely, if ever, got to see my nieces and nephews or my brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, and well-meaning but over-the-top parents.

Moving to the other side of the country had a lot to do with it.  The rest of my family had stayed put, making their lives in the one place they all professed they could never leave.

Only one other sibling had attempted an escape, my younger sister Eileen, but two months after she left, she came home.  I knew something bad had happened, but she never said anything and never left again, except for the odd trip to the state capital for work.

But like all good things that came to an end, it was approaching that time when I would have to go back, if only once, because it was time.

…

I might have returned home earlier had it not been for an entirely unforeseen event.

I never had any intention of looking for, or becoming involved with, any other person, not to the extent that it would require explanation of my rather odd, to me anyway, circumstances.

Yes, I harboured the same hopes and dreams of meeting ‘the one’ as everyone else had, but the idea of subjecting them to the rigours of the family third degree was the single limiting factor.  I could not say I was an orphan, but then I didn’t think it would be a selling point that I was the second youngest of fourteen children, with twelve of the thirteen others married, with a collective thirty-six nephews and nieces.

What was probably the worst aspect, this group turned up every Sunday for lunch, all sixty-four of them, unless a major calamity prevented their attendance.  As you can see, with odds of sixty-four to one, the Spanish Inquisition would have been a kindergarten outing by comparison.

But to say I missed them may have been the case, but that they missed me more was becoming very hard to ignore or put off.

Perhaps they had missed making my life hell, because over the past three years, there had been many phone calls and messages and one visit by my eldest brother, the self-elected spokesman, he said, the peacemaker, who had come to take me home.

It was the last time we spoke. Civilly, anyway.

That was a year ago.

Things had changed during that year, though I was not sure whether for the better.  I had met someone, yes, a woman named Catherine, Katerina if I wanted to call her by her Russian name, which I didn’t, one who was perhaps as skittish as I was at the whole dating and sharing your life thing.

Our first meeting was fascinating because her Russian accent was intoxicating, and I told her at the end of the night that she could read me War and Peace, and I would listen to it all night.  I think that I realised she used her Russian heritage to put off potential suitors.  I told her it wouldn’t work with me.

We both started out playing the orphan card, and as the dates piled up and the little pieces of our sad lives leaked out, it became apparent we both had suffered the small-town, large family, endless expectations things.  She had been expected to marry her high school sweetheart until she found out he was secretly cheating on her.

When she told her parents, and they confronted him, he denied it and made her look like she was just spiteful because she didn’t want to marry him.  The other girl could have him, and she left on the next bus out.  It was no surprise to learn the other girl hadn’t married him, nor had any other.

From there, with cards on the table, we just clicked.

But like all good things, it, too, should have ended because I was one of those people who never finished what they started.

…

A Saturday morning, not generally a workday and the day we set aside for everything that couldn’t get done on a weekday, came after an extended evening in the pub.

We rarely stayed beyond a drink or two, but others we knew, just back from a long holiday, dropped in on the off chance we would be there, and it turned into dinner and more drinks.

It never affected Katerina. I was guessing it was something to do with her Russian heritage and vodka, and the explanation I missed when I had to go to the bathroom. I was not so lucky.

She was up and about, and I heard the buzzer, usually someone trying to get in after they forgot to take their key, and I thought no more about it.

Five minutes passed, and then Katerina was standing in the doorway, her half-hostile, annoyed expression glaring at me. It was one of those expressions you could feel.

“Some silly girl at the door says she is your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“I say this, and she says, ‘Go tell that annoying bastard Eileen is here’.  So, annoying bastard, who is this Eileen?”

“One of the thirteen other siblings I try very hard not to admit I have.  They’re like debt collectors. You can never really escape them.”

I climbed out of bed and went out.  She stayed back at the door but was still visible from the front.

I opened the door, and there was Eileen, my youngest sister, the last born and the most spoiled.  Given the age differences between my other siblings and me, she was the only one I could relate to.

“What the hell, Robert?”

“What the hell, yourself?  Didn’t I make it clear to Prince Walter that I had disappeared through a portal to another dimension?”

It was an attempt at a joke that he couldn’t and wouldn’t understand.  He had no sense of humour at all.

“That dumb shit doesn’t work on me.  Are you going to leave me standing in the passage?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Oh, for fucks sake, Robert,” then brushed past inside.

Katerina was watching with a bemused expression.  Perhaps this was her family, too.

I could see Eileen giving her the traditional family female death stare.  “Who is she?”

“She is standing right here, and I can hear and see you.  A warning word, my other job is a bouncer at a nightclub, and you may, depending on what you say next, find out how I treat recalcitrant customers.”

That notion of not wanting to meet her in a dark alley was right.  Katarina was a gym freak.

It was amusing to see Eileen think before she spoke next.

Then, with a glance over my shoulder at Katarina, she said, “As I said at the door, I’m his sister, Eileen.  I’m surprised he didn’t mention me.”

Katerina looked her up and down.  “He mentioned all of you, but I think his description may have been a little harsh.  You only seem a little bit bitch from hell.  I am Katarina.  Bigger bitch from Siberia.”

I smiled.  She could be a fascinating companion, more so after a bottle of vodka, and especially when she related tales of being in the Russian army.  I could never tell if they were true and never dared to ask.

Eileen didn’t know what to do or say at that point. She was a hugger, and for the first time, I saw her hesitate.

Instead, she said, “Wow.  The others are going to shit their pants when they meet Katarina.”

“And you know that’s never going to happen.  That unappreciative, condescending collection of hypocrites doesn’t deserve anything from me and nothing from Katerina.”

She switched her death stare back to me.

“Dad’s dying.  Earlier in the week, the final diagnosis gave him four to six months, if he’s lucky.  We don’t believe he’s lucky.  He must go to the hospital next week, and I honestly believe he won’t be coming out, Robert.  We gave him a wish, the one thing he wanted most of all, no matter what it was, and we would grant it.  He wants to see you one more time before he dies.”

That was saying something. When I left, he told me I could die in purgatory, after hell froze over, before he wanted to see me again.

“You were there when I left?  He was the one who drove me away.  Along with everyone else, including mother, who, I might add, spent every last breath making you the spoilt brat you are.”

“You need to get over it and yourself.  I was not spoiled.  When I left, I made a fool of myself and was raped.  It was the worst experience of my life, and my mother nearly fought a losing battle when I tried to kill myself.  I thought I knew everything, but I knew nothing.  Perhaps I should have told you, and you wouldn’t have left.”

Well, if nothing else, it was typical of how my family handled trouble.  My brother could have explained everything when he came, but he chose not to.  He was the same man as my father, uncompromising and a hard task master.  I was sure that if my father, and in turn my eldest brother, could whip us for our sins, he would have.

I shook my head and looked at Katerina.  She went up to Eileen and hugged her. 

“It is a terrible thing, what men can do to women.  We go find this lowlife and teach lesson, no?”

“Too late.  God has a way of sorting out these problems. He was killed in a crash, chased by the cops while kidnapping an underage girl he had got pregnant.  Leopards and spots, my father says.”

That would be him.  A saying for everything, not a solution.

“There is no God, just karma.  But the story doesn’t change people, as you say, like leopards and spots.  Nor does death. They are still the same people as in life.  You need more compelling reasons.  I have the same family, which is why I left Russia.”

Eileen glared at me.  “Who is this woman?”

Katerina put her angry face on again. “When you live my life, you can dare ask.  You have delivered a message.”  She went to the door and opened it.  “We will discuss; let you know.”

“Robert?”

“Where are you staying?”

“The hotel up the road, not far from here.”

“Good.  I’ll call you.  I assume your cell number hasn’t changed?”

Her annoyance changed to surprise. I was not sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the open door.

“Is that it?”

“Like the rest, your expectation is that I would just fall into line. You could have called me.”

“You wouldn’t answer.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.   But I will call you.”

“We can talk now.”

“No.  You can’t just turn up on my doorstep and expect me to drop everything.  I now have a life, one I like, free of all that obligation and expectation.  I don’t have to meet anyone’s standards other than my own and of Katarina, as it should be.”

“He’ll be very disappointed if you don’t.  Everyone will be.”

“And there’s the emotional blackmail.  Go now before I simply refuse, and you will have wasted your time and money.”

She looked at me with anger and just a little of what my brother had in his eyes the last time I saw him.  Hatred.

“I don’t understand why you hate us so much.”

“You should be asking them, not me.”

A final shake of the head, and she left.  It was not what I wanted, but it was the right thing to do.  Something I had learned while away from home was that decisions were not mine alone when there were others involved, something my father never practised.  It had always been his way or no way.

I leaned against the door and sighed.

“You think her story is true?  She is quite manipulative, as you said.”

“Maybe.  My father taught them well, her especially.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Go back to bed and pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Shopping or bed, I know which I prefer, but it doesn’t resolve the problem.”

“Then I make a call to a friend who will know what’s really going on.  Then bed, then we talk, then we take her to dinner and send her back with the good or bad news.  It’s up to you, too.”

“It is, after all, your family.”

“And yours for better or worse, if or when we decide to make this permanent.”

“Does that mean we have to go to Siberia to see mine? It is not something I would ask of you.”

“I’d love to see Siberia.”

She laughed.  “You are funny, boy Robert.  No one loves to go to Siberia, especially Siberians.  Make the call, and then I will make you forget Siberia exists.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

K is for Katerina

…

Sunday lunch could be the best of times or the worst of times.  Any family gathering at my parents’ house was a trial, one that eventually drove me away.

I had stopped turning up at the family residence for the weekly gatherings simply because the ritual cross-examination of why I was not like my brothers and sisters, married with three point two children, got too exhausting.

It meant that I rarely, if ever, got to see my nieces and nephews or my brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, and well-meaning but over-the-top parents.

Moving to the other side of the country had a lot to do with it.  The rest of my family had stayed put, making their lives in the one place they all professed they could never leave.

Only one other sibling had attempted an escape, my younger sister Eileen, but two months after she left, she came home.  I knew something bad had happened, but she never said anything and never left again, except for the odd trip to the state capital for work.

But like all good things that came to an end, it was approaching that time when I would have to go back, if only once, because it was time.

…

I might have returned home earlier had it not been for an entirely unforeseen event.

I never had any intention of looking for, or becoming involved with, any other person, not to the extent that it would require explanation of my rather odd, to me anyway, circumstances.

Yes, I harboured the same hopes and dreams of meeting ‘the one’ as everyone else had, but the idea of subjecting them to the rigours of the family third degree was the single limiting factor.  I could not say I was an orphan, but then I didn’t think it would be a selling point that I was the second youngest of fourteen children, with twelve of the thirteen others married, with a collective thirty-six nephews and nieces.

What was probably the worst aspect, this group turned up every Sunday for lunch, all sixty-four of them, unless a major calamity prevented their attendance.  As you can see, with odds of sixty-four to one, the Spanish Inquisition would have been a kindergarten outing by comparison.

But to say I missed them may have been the case, but that they missed me more was becoming very hard to ignore or put off.

Perhaps they had missed making my life hell, because over the past three years, there had been many phone calls and messages and one visit by my eldest brother, the self-elected spokesman, he said, the peacemaker, who had come to take me home.

It was the last time we spoke. Civilly, anyway.

That was a year ago.

Things had changed during that year, though I was not sure whether for the better.  I had met someone, yes, a woman named Catherine, Katerina if I wanted to call her by her Russian name, which I didn’t, one who was perhaps as skittish as I was at the whole dating and sharing your life thing.

Our first meeting was fascinating because her Russian accent was intoxicating, and I told her at the end of the night that she could read me War and Peace, and I would listen to it all night.  I think that I realised she used her Russian heritage to put off potential suitors.  I told her it wouldn’t work with me.

We both started out playing the orphan card, and as the dates piled up and the little pieces of our sad lives leaked out, it became apparent we both had suffered the small-town, large family, endless expectations things.  She had been expected to marry her high school sweetheart until she found out he was secretly cheating on her.

When she told her parents, and they confronted him, he denied it and made her look like she was just spiteful because she didn’t want to marry him.  The other girl could have him, and she left on the next bus out.  It was no surprise to learn the other girl hadn’t married him, nor had any other.

From there, with cards on the table, we just clicked.

But like all good things, it, too, should have ended because I was one of those people who never finished what they started.

…

A Saturday morning, not generally a workday and the day we set aside for everything that couldn’t get done on a weekday, came after an extended evening in the pub.

We rarely stayed beyond a drink or two, but others we knew, just back from a long holiday, dropped in on the off chance we would be there, and it turned into dinner and more drinks.

It never affected Katerina. I was guessing it was something to do with her Russian heritage and vodka, and the explanation I missed when I had to go to the bathroom. I was not so lucky.

She was up and about, and I heard the buzzer, usually someone trying to get in after they forgot to take their key, and I thought no more about it.

Five minutes passed, and then Katerina was standing in the doorway, her half-hostile, annoyed expression glaring at me. It was one of those expressions you could feel.

“Some silly girl at the door says she is your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“I say this, and she says, ‘Go tell that annoying bastard Eileen is here’.  So, annoying bastard, who is this Eileen?”

“One of the thirteen other siblings I try very hard not to admit I have.  They’re like debt collectors. You can never really escape them.”

I climbed out of bed and went out.  She stayed back at the door but was still visible from the front.

I opened the door, and there was Eileen, my youngest sister, the last born and the most spoiled.  Given the age differences between my other siblings and me, she was the only one I could relate to.

“What the hell, Robert?”

“What the hell, yourself?  Didn’t I make it clear to Prince Walter that I had disappeared through a portal to another dimension?”

It was an attempt at a joke that he couldn’t and wouldn’t understand.  He had no sense of humour at all.

“That dumb shit doesn’t work on me.  Are you going to leave me standing in the passage?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Oh, for fucks sake, Robert,” then brushed past inside.

Katerina was watching with a bemused expression.  Perhaps this was her family, too.

I could see Eileen giving her the traditional family female death stare.  “Who is she?”

“She is standing right here, and I can hear and see you.  A warning word, my other job is a bouncer at a nightclub, and you may, depending on what you say next, find out how I treat recalcitrant customers.”

That notion of not wanting to meet her in a dark alley was right.  Katarina was a gym freak.

It was amusing to see Eileen think before she spoke next.

Then, with a glance over my shoulder at Katarina, she said, “As I said at the door, I’m his sister, Eileen.  I’m surprised he didn’t mention me.”

Katerina looked her up and down.  “He mentioned all of you, but I think his description may have been a little harsh.  You only seem a little bit bitch from hell.  I am Katarina.  Bigger bitch from Siberia.”

I smiled.  She could be a fascinating companion, more so after a bottle of vodka, and especially when she related tales of being in the Russian army.  I could never tell if they were true and never dared to ask.

Eileen didn’t know what to do or say at that point. She was a hugger, and for the first time, I saw her hesitate.

Instead, she said, “Wow.  The others are going to shit their pants when they meet Katarina.”

“And you know that’s never going to happen.  That unappreciative, condescending collection of hypocrites doesn’t deserve anything from me and nothing from Katerina.”

She switched her death stare back to me.

“Dad’s dying.  Earlier in the week, the final diagnosis gave him four to six months, if he’s lucky.  We don’t believe he’s lucky.  He must go to the hospital next week, and I honestly believe he won’t be coming out, Robert.  We gave him a wish, the one thing he wanted most of all, no matter what it was, and we would grant it.  He wants to see you one more time before he dies.”

That was saying something. When I left, he told me I could die in purgatory, after hell froze over, before he wanted to see me again.

“You were there when I left?  He was the one who drove me away.  Along with everyone else, including mother, who, I might add, spent every last breath making you the spoilt brat you are.”

“You need to get over it and yourself.  I was not spoiled.  When I left, I made a fool of myself and was raped.  It was the worst experience of my life, and my mother nearly fought a losing battle when I tried to kill myself.  I thought I knew everything, but I knew nothing.  Perhaps I should have told you, and you wouldn’t have left.”

Well, if nothing else, it was typical of how my family handled trouble.  My brother could have explained everything when he came, but he chose not to.  He was the same man as my father, uncompromising and a hard task master.  I was sure that if my father, and in turn my eldest brother, could whip us for our sins, he would have.

I shook my head and looked at Katerina.  She went up to Eileen and hugged her. 

“It is a terrible thing, what men can do to women.  We go find this lowlife and teach lesson, no?”

“Too late.  God has a way of sorting out these problems. He was killed in a crash, chased by the cops while kidnapping an underage girl he had got pregnant.  Leopards and spots, my father says.”

That would be him.  A saying for everything, not a solution.

“There is no God, just karma.  But the story doesn’t change people, as you say, like leopards and spots.  Nor does death. They are still the same people as in life.  You need more compelling reasons.  I have the same family, which is why I left Russia.”

Eileen glared at me.  “Who is this woman?”

Katerina put her angry face on again. “When you live my life, you can dare ask.  You have delivered a message.”  She went to the door and opened it.  “We will discuss; let you know.”

“Robert?”

“Where are you staying?”

“The hotel up the road, not far from here.”

“Good.  I’ll call you.  I assume your cell number hasn’t changed?”

Her annoyance changed to surprise. I was not sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the open door.

“Is that it?”

“Like the rest, your expectation is that I would just fall into line. You could have called me.”

“You wouldn’t answer.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.   But I will call you.”

“We can talk now.”

“No.  You can’t just turn up on my doorstep and expect me to drop everything.  I now have a life, one I like, free of all that obligation and expectation.  I don’t have to meet anyone’s standards other than my own and of Katarina, as it should be.”

“He’ll be very disappointed if you don’t.  Everyone will be.”

“And there’s the emotional blackmail.  Go now before I simply refuse, and you will have wasted your time and money.”

She looked at me with anger and just a little of what my brother had in his eyes the last time I saw him.  Hatred.

“I don’t understand why you hate us so much.”

“You should be asking them, not me.”

A final shake of the head, and she left.  It was not what I wanted, but it was the right thing to do.  Something I had learned while away from home was that decisions were not mine alone when there were others involved, something my father never practised.  It had always been his way or no way.

I leaned against the door and sighed.

“You think her story is true?  She is quite manipulative, as you said.”

“Maybe.  My father taught them well, her especially.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Go back to bed and pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Shopping or bed, I know which I prefer, but it doesn’t resolve the problem.”

“Then I make a call to a friend who will know what’s really going on.  Then bed, then we talk, then we take her to dinner and send her back with the good or bad news.  It’s up to you, too.”

“It is, after all, your family.”

“And yours for better or worse, if or when we decide to make this permanent.”

“Does that mean we have to go to Siberia to see mine? It is not something I would ask of you.”

“I’d love to see Siberia.”

She laughed.  “You are funny, boy Robert.  No one loves to go to Siberia, especially Siberians.  Make the call, and then I will make you forget Siberia exists.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

J is for – Just when you think…

…

The way I saw it, the grass was always browner on the other side.

Josh was not particularly interested in my assessment of having affairs, as I had told him long ago that all they would cause was unnecessary grief.

And for what?

That aspect he had never explained in a manner that would convince me that the grass was not brown but green.

It was yet another Friday night in a bar renowned for what Josh called hook-ups, his description of married men and women looking for something on the side.

His specialty was one-night stands.

I went along only for the beer and to watch the machinations of people who were not satisfied with what they had.

Over and over again.  The only thing that didn’t surprise me was the jaded expressions.

“When you’re finally married, Robert, you’ll know exactly how I feel.”

He never got tired of telling how much he adored his wife, that he would never leave her, and that his Friday night was just to remove the boredom.

If I were married to Lucy, Josh’s wife, there would be no boredom or straying.

“I could not imagine being unsatisfied with the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

Of course, the opportunity to find the one hadn’t yet presented itself, and I sure as hell didn’t want to partake in what was on offer in this bar.

Not that I hadn’t been propositioned on numerous occasions.  I had found their reactions amusing when I declined.

“That might just about sum you up, Robert.  No sense of adventure.”

Be that as it may, it never stopped Josh from trying to hook me up with a double date.  Some had been interesting, but I had a rule not to date married women.  Being accosted by an angry husband was not on my wish list.

And a pity Josh had not got the memo.

“Well, that lack of adventure is about to be tested.”

He looked in the same direction as I was, to the end of the bar where two women were sitting, sipping drinks and surveying what was on offer.  I’d caught them looking at us more than once.  Well, Josh, maybe.  I doubted I’d raise an eyebrow.

“I’d go and introduce myself,” I said.  “They keep looking in your direction.”

Since I was there to provide an opinion on the participants, act as a wingman when necessary, and generally help his case, he knew I was not giving him a bum steer.

“Which one?’

“Redhead, though I doubt it’s her natural colour.  She’s more your type, sassy.”

That was his go-to type, brazen or sassy, the exact opposite of Lucy.

The other, younger, like a sister, cousin, or office junior, did not look like she was a willing participant, but then, what would I know?

“She is.”  He drank the rest of the Scotch and soda for the courage, slipped off his seat, and sauntered down to their end of the bar.

I didn’t watch after he reached them.  I didn’t want to know. 

The bartender came over, and I ordered another bottle of beer. A voice next to me said, “I’ll have what he’s having.”

A glance sideways told me it was the redhead’s friend.  Brunette, short, with a fringe.  There were, now she was closer, blue tinges through her hair.

Not sassy, but rebellious.  In other words, trouble.

I looked down at the end of the bar, and the red head and Josh were gone.

“What happened to your friend?”

“Went with Josh, possibly to a hotel.  He said you would take me home, but you don’t have to.”

“If Josh said I would, I will.  Do you want to go home?”

“Not yet.  The night is young, and I’m glad I don’t have to help Erica in her quest.  Please tell me you don’t either?”

So, either happily married, in a steady relationship, or like me, still looking, or not.

“No.  I come here just for the amusement of guessing who will end up with whom.”

The bartender put the bottles in front of us and moved on.

She looked at the label, took a sip, and then made a face that changed her whole demeanour. “How’s that going?”

“Like my own ability to pick who might be the woman of my dreams?  It seems I don’t understand the randomness.”

“Desperation, Robert, it’s called desperation.  And if you ask me, there’s an element of sex addiction.”

She knew my name.  Josh probably told her all about me, according to Josh, which was about as far from the truth as anyone could get.

“I’ve not yet reached the point of desperation.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m never going to meet the one.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“I don’t really know what I’m looking for.  And I don’t understand women at all because if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be here.”

“Odd.  I feel the same way.  Erica has no problem finding guys to do her bidding.”

“Is she married?”

“She says she is in an open relationship, whatever that means, but I know she’s unhappy with her husband.  He’s not adventurous at all.”

There was that word again.  Perhaps that was a prerequisite to visiting a place like this; you needed a sense of adventure.

“Why does that matter?”

“You should ask Josh.  Apparently, Erica thinks I need to find one, or I’ll be left on the shelf.”

More beer, more interesting changes in expression.  I don’t think she drank beer, which raised the question, why did she ask for one?

Then she added, almost randomly, “I do weekend rock climbing.  That’s all the adventure I need.”  Then the sudden switch in topics.  “So, tell me your criteria for what you think would be the one.”

OK.  I didn’t see that coming.  Usually, by now, the girl had moved on. 

“As I said…”

“You don’t know.  My belief is that you do, so hypothetically, what’s on the list?”

Surprisingly, she ordered more beer.  I wondered for a moment if she was one of those women who could drink a lot and not show any signs of it.  Unlike me, I could survive perhaps four bottles if I drank them slowly.

I had a feeling that whatever I might guess about this woman, chances were high I was completely wrong. 

Except that she was the opposite of the red head she had been with.

Or she was a very good actress.

“Does it matter what I think?”

“No.  But humour me.  The evening has not turned out the way I expected it would.”

What was she expecting?

“OK.  One.  She must be footloose and fancy free.”

“Not married or straying?  This, then, would hardly be the place to find such a partner?”

“Not my first choice, but I’m beginning to see that I should stop spending Friday nights with Josh.”

She smiled, and facets of her personality shone through.  “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes, now I think about it.  Two.  She must like to try different cuisines at least once.  I try to, at least once a week.

“That should be on my list, you know, mothers’ old sayings, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Does anyone cook these days.  I have an apartment with a kitchen, but nothing in the pantry, and beer and juice in the refrigerator.”

“No wilting celery or mouldy cheese?”

“No.  It happened at the start when I had the best of intentions, then I started working twenty-hour days.”

“No rest for the wicked, then.”

“Except Friday night, and sometimes the odd weekend.”

“This weekend?”

“As it happens.  But, to continue…”

She liked driving conversations sideways.  I would have to pay more attention.  “Three.  She should not be afraid to travel second or third class, where the real adventure is.  I’m not necessarily cheap, just careful so I can do and see more.”

“Well, aren’t you the party pooper.  I couldn’t bear to travel in anything less than first class, or better still, the private jet.”

I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, such was her serious expression.  Then she burst out laughing, perhaps in response to my bewildered expression.

Then, inexplicably, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.  “You had me at one, Robert.  If you so desire, I would like you to take me to a new dining experience, one you haven’t been to before, and then, depending on your list and my list, maybe we could talk about this affinity you think you have with travelling third class.  What do you think?”

“I don’t know your name.”

“Elizabeth.  Liz, for short.  Call me Lizzy, and I’ll turn into the axe murderer you’re thinking I might be.”

“If I call you Elizabeth?”

“You would be confusing me with my mother.  So, sweep me off my feet.”

Challenge accepted.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

J is for – Just when you think…

…

The way I saw it, the grass was always browner on the other side.

Josh was not particularly interested in my assessment of having affairs, as I had told him long ago that all they would cause was unnecessary grief.

And for what?

That aspect he had never explained in a manner that would convince me that the grass was not brown but green.

It was yet another Friday night in a bar renowned for what Josh called hook-ups, his description of married men and women looking for something on the side.

His specialty was one-night stands.

I went along only for the beer and to watch the machinations of people who were not satisfied with what they had.

Over and over again.  The only thing that didn’t surprise me was the jaded expressions.

“When you’re finally married, Robert, you’ll know exactly how I feel.”

He never got tired of telling how much he adored his wife, that he would never leave her, and that his Friday night was just to remove the boredom.

If I were married to Lucy, Josh’s wife, there would be no boredom or straying.

“I could not imagine being unsatisfied with the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

Of course, the opportunity to find the one hadn’t yet presented itself, and I sure as hell didn’t want to partake in what was on offer in this bar.

Not that I hadn’t been propositioned on numerous occasions.  I had found their reactions amusing when I declined.

“That might just about sum you up, Robert.  No sense of adventure.”

Be that as it may, it never stopped Josh from trying to hook me up with a double date.  Some had been interesting, but I had a rule not to date married women.  Being accosted by an angry husband was not on my wish list.

And a pity Josh had not got the memo.

“Well, that lack of adventure is about to be tested.”

He looked in the same direction as I was, to the end of the bar where two women were sitting, sipping drinks and surveying what was on offer.  I’d caught them looking at us more than once.  Well, Josh, maybe.  I doubted I’d raise an eyebrow.

“I’d go and introduce myself,” I said.  “They keep looking in your direction.”

Since I was there to provide an opinion on the participants, act as a wingman when necessary, and generally help his case, he knew I was not giving him a bum steer.

“Which one?’

“Redhead, though I doubt it’s her natural colour.  She’s more your type, sassy.”

That was his go-to type, brazen or sassy, the exact opposite of Lucy.

The other, younger, like a sister, cousin, or office junior, did not look like she was a willing participant, but then, what would I know?

“She is.”  He drank the rest of the Scotch and soda for the courage, slipped off his seat, and sauntered down to their end of the bar.

I didn’t watch after he reached them.  I didn’t want to know. 

The bartender came over, and I ordered another bottle of beer. A voice next to me said, “I’ll have what he’s having.”

A glance sideways told me it was the redhead’s friend.  Brunette, short, with a fringe.  There were, now she was closer, blue tinges through her hair.

Not sassy, but rebellious.  In other words, trouble.

I looked down at the end of the bar, and the red head and Josh were gone.

“What happened to your friend?”

“Went with Josh, possibly to a hotel.  He said you would take me home, but you don’t have to.”

“If Josh said I would, I will.  Do you want to go home?”

“Not yet.  The night is young, and I’m glad I don’t have to help Erica in her quest.  Please tell me you don’t either?”

So, either happily married, in a steady relationship, or like me, still looking, or not.

“No.  I come here just for the amusement of guessing who will end up with whom.”

The bartender put the bottles in front of us and moved on.

She looked at the label, took a sip, and then made a face that changed her whole demeanour. “How’s that going?”

“Like my own ability to pick who might be the woman of my dreams?  It seems I don’t understand the randomness.”

“Desperation, Robert, it’s called desperation.  And if you ask me, there’s an element of sex addiction.”

She knew my name.  Josh probably told her all about me, according to Josh, which was about as far from the truth as anyone could get.

“I’ve not yet reached the point of desperation.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m never going to meet the one.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“I don’t really know what I’m looking for.  And I don’t understand women at all because if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be here.”

“Odd.  I feel the same way.  Erica has no problem finding guys to do her bidding.”

“Is she married?”

“She says she is in an open relationship, whatever that means, but I know she’s unhappy with her husband.  He’s not adventurous at all.”

There was that word again.  Perhaps that was a prerequisite to visiting a place like this; you needed a sense of adventure.

“Why does that matter?”

“You should ask Josh.  Apparently, Erica thinks I need to find one, or I’ll be left on the shelf.”

More beer, more interesting changes in expression.  I don’t think she drank beer, which raised the question, why did she ask for one?

Then she added, almost randomly, “I do weekend rock climbing.  That’s all the adventure I need.”  Then the sudden switch in topics.  “So, tell me your criteria for what you think would be the one.”

OK.  I didn’t see that coming.  Usually, by now, the girl had moved on. 

“As I said…”

“You don’t know.  My belief is that you do, so hypothetically, what’s on the list?”

Surprisingly, she ordered more beer.  I wondered for a moment if she was one of those women who could drink a lot and not show any signs of it.  Unlike me, I could survive perhaps four bottles if I drank them slowly.

I had a feeling that whatever I might guess about this woman, chances were high I was completely wrong. 

Except that she was the opposite of the red head she had been with.

Or she was a very good actress.

“Does it matter what I think?”

“No.  But humour me.  The evening has not turned out the way I expected it would.”

What was she expecting?

“OK.  One.  She must be footloose and fancy free.”

“Not married or straying?  This, then, would hardly be the place to find such a partner?”

“Not my first choice, but I’m beginning to see that I should stop spending Friday nights with Josh.”

She smiled, and facets of her personality shone through.  “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes, now I think about it.  Two.  She must like to try different cuisines at least once.  I try to, at least once a week.

“That should be on my list, you know, mothers’ old sayings, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Does anyone cook these days.  I have an apartment with a kitchen, but nothing in the pantry, and beer and juice in the refrigerator.”

“No wilting celery or mouldy cheese?”

“No.  It happened at the start when I had the best of intentions, then I started working twenty-hour days.”

“No rest for the wicked, then.”

“Except Friday night, and sometimes the odd weekend.”

“This weekend?”

“As it happens.  But, to continue…”

She liked driving conversations sideways.  I would have to pay more attention.  “Three.  She should not be afraid to travel second or third class, where the real adventure is.  I’m not necessarily cheap, just careful so I can do and see more.”

“Well, aren’t you the party pooper.  I couldn’t bear to travel in anything less than first class, or better still, the private jet.”

I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, such was her serious expression.  Then she burst out laughing, perhaps in response to my bewildered expression.

Then, inexplicably, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.  “You had me at one, Robert.  If you so desire, I would like you to take me to a new dining experience, one you haven’t been to before, and then, depending on your list and my list, maybe we could talk about this affinity you think you have with travelling third class.  What do you think?”

“I don’t know your name.”

“Elizabeth.  Liz, for short.  Call me Lizzy, and I’ll turn into the axe murderer you’re thinking I might be.”

“If I call you Elizabeth?”

“You would be confusing me with my mother.  So, sweep me off my feet.”

Challenge accepted.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

I is for – Indecision

…

So, there she is, standing on the corner of the street, under a flickering streetlamp, smoking a cigarette. You’re watching the tendrils of smoke drift upwards until a burst of air blasts them away, and then the whole process starts over again.

The burning question in your mind: Will I go up to her and ask if she’s free for a drink?

She might be waiting for someone, or she might be waiting for someone like me to go up and ask her. What have you got to lose?

That voice of the devil sitting on your shoulder chimes in, perhaps she is waiting for a chump like you so she can fulfil an order for a kidney or liver.

And that face, all the innocence of Mata Hari rolled into the epitome of the girl next door.

The thing is, I’d never seen the typical girl next door to know what one looked like.

What am I looking for, a whirlwind romance, a walk in the park, or a quick and painless death?

I took two steps in her direction, determined to make the move, and stopped as a car pulled up beside her. A flick of the butt, a smile, she gets in the car, and it drives off.

Oh, well, I guess I’ll be drinking on my own. Again.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

I is for – Indecision

…

So, there she is, standing on the corner of the street, under a flickering streetlamp, smoking a cigarette. You’re watching the tendrils of smoke drift upwards until a burst of air blasts them away, and then the whole process starts over again.

The burning question in your mind: Will I go up to her and ask if she’s free for a drink?

She might be waiting for someone, or she might be waiting for someone like me to go up and ask her. What have you got to lose?

That voice of the devil sitting on your shoulder chimes in, perhaps she is waiting for a chump like you so she can fulfil an order for a kidney or liver.

And that face, all the innocence of Mata Hari rolled into the epitome of the girl next door.

The thing is, I’d never seen the typical girl next door to know what one looked like.

What am I looking for, a whirlwind romance, a walk in the park, or a quick and painless death?

I took two steps in her direction, determined to make the move, and stopped as a car pulled up beside her. A flick of the butt, a smile, she gets in the car, and it drives off.

Oh, well, I guess I’ll be drinking on my own. Again.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

H is for – Hide and Seek

…

I had been warned that the weather could change instantly, but I believed that to be an exaggeration.

Why?

I had been told that while the place I wanted to visit was once an old alluvial gold mine with some very interesting geological structures as well as an archaeological site that had the remnants of buildings dating back to what was believed to be an ancient advanced society, it was also owned by a mysterious old man, some of whom thought him to be a ghost whose permission had to be sought first before going there.

An old man, no one seemed to know his location.

It only added to the intrigue that surrounded the area.

Numerous newspaper reports suggested that it was Dargaville’s own Bermuda Triangle, where cell phones ceased to work, where apparitions could appear, of an old man, or a young girl dressed in period costume, where strange weather could erupt at any moment.

In my mind, something was going on there that someone didn’t want anyone to discover.

I’d stopped in at the diner, one of seven shops on a short main street that boasted a drapery, a hardware store, a drug store, a gas station, and a sheriff’s office. The opposite side of the road was a park, one that had just the bare minimum of maintenance.

Dargaville was literally a one-horse town. There was a horse hitching bar, and a horse was tethered to it. There was no sign of the owner, or anyone else, for that matter.

Herb, the cook, the waiter, the server, in the diner was behind the servery, and I could feel him watching me from the moment I stopped the car, till I walked into his diner.

The pie holder on the counter was empty. No, ‘only Dargaville can make such delicious apple pies’ apple pie was going to be tasted today, a slight disappointment.

“Where are you headed?” was his opening gambit.

“The gold fields.”

“You need permission. Old man Dargaville doesn’t like intruders.”

“Where can I find him then?”

“That’s just it, you can’t. He comes, he goes, but no one knows exactly where he is.”

“Where was he seen last?”

“Here. Three days ago. Took the last of the apple pie.”

We both looked at the empty pie holder. I could see several crumbs that had been left behind.

“Pity,” I said. “It was the other reason why I came here. Nowhere else can I find him.”

The man waved his hand, “Out there, somewhere.”

“No pie, and no old man. What does he look like?”

He looked at me thoughtfully, thinking perhaps, correctly, I was not going to leave that easily.

“Old, dusty, bushy-bearded, battered hat. Sometimes he drops a line in at the river that’s at the end of the park, that way.” He pointed across the street and along the road. “Past the gas station.”

There was a sudden crack of thunder, followed by a few more rumblings.

Odd. The sky had been clear, except for some distant clouds.

“Time to move on, before the weather sets in. You don’t want to get stuck here; the motel is not a place I’d recommend you stay.”

Very welcoming. Not!

I shrugged. “As you say, not a place to be stranded. Thanks for your help.”

When I stepped outside and looked up, the sky was the same as it had been all morning.  It made the thunder I’d just heard … Or was it my imagination?

I looked back to see the man in the diner on his cell phone. Perhaps he was telling the old man that I was coming. Or someone else.

…

I checked the riverside fishing spot at the end of the park, almost opposite the gas station, and indeed it showed signs that someone had been there very recently, a roll-your-own cigarette still burning through the last of the tobacco.

The call had been a heads-up that I was coming to see him.

So, the old man did exist. I decided to go ahead and visit the site and took out my notebook to find the page with the instructions on how to get there.

Along the road I was on, for a further five miles, where there was a rusted sign with a skull and crossbones and Hazardous Materials written under it.

Five miles up the road, I found the sign, almost hidden behind overgrown bushes, very faded. More words, freshly painted, were added under Hazardous, ‘to your health’. Beside it was a drawing of a man with his head cut off and blood spurting out of the neck.

Someone had a sense of humour.

It was a further two miles up a track that sometimes disappeared except for tire ruts. I was glad I brought the off-road SUV. At precisely two miles, I stopped. I had to. A brand-new steel wire fence and gate had been erected, blocking the way.

Previously, from all the reports, there had been no fences or gates.

Another crack of thunder had me looking up, and there was a change. The sky turned stormy, as though it was a roiling witch’s cauldron, clouds swirling and shades of grey from dark to light changing almost like an electronic display.

I could smell rain in the air. The wind picked up and swished through the trees. Another crack of thunder, this time coming after a bolt of lightning that wasn’t far away.

On the gate was a sign. “Trespassers will be shot”, with several bullet holes above and below the words to emphasise the fact.

It did make me think twice before I got a weapon of my own, and then while searching for a way over the fence, I found a pedestrian gate about thirty yards along to the right, that wasn’t locked.

Curious. Just on the other side, I found an almost burnt-out cigarette, the same as the one at the fishing spot. Whoever had been there was here.

There was a worn track on either side of the fence, so I followed it carefully. It was one of those wooded areas where you always had the feeling someone was watching you. The scrub was dense but not very high. There were trees, but sparse in number.

Long before I reached it, I could hear a river, or creek perhaps, but the sound of running water.

A few minutes later, I reached the edge of a clearing, and on the other side, away from where the track led, I saw a girl, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, not of this civilisation, dancing. She was the epitome of a summer’s day, so brightly dressed and so carefree.

She had neither seen nor heard me coming. I stayed and watched for a few minutes, and then she disappeared into the woods. I thought of following her, but it was off mission. The weather was holding off, but it might not last. I continued towards the river.

Coming out of the woods, noting I had been following the creek for about three hundred yards, before me were the ruins of several structures that looked to me to have been built of mud bricks, and part of a much larger structure. The whole area back from the creek was paved in stones that made up a very sophisticated design.

It looked a bit like a town square, built around a well, and on the other side, what looked to be the ruins of a temple. What the gold miners made of it was anyone’s guess, but very few of their writings included anything about any ruins.

Further on from that was a seat, and there sat a man with his back to me. Battered hat, dusty clothes. I walked towards him. He didn’t turn around, as if he were expecting a visitor.

I stopped when I was alongside the seat, and then he turned to look at me. His face was worn, like that of an old leather chair, from years of exposure to the elements. I wondered if he felt as miserable as he looked.

He sighed. “I knew you’d come.”

“Hello, gramps.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

H is for – Hide and Seek

…

I had been warned that the weather could change instantly, but I believed that to be an exaggeration.

Why?

I had been told that while the place I wanted to visit was once an old alluvial gold mine with some very interesting geological structures as well as an archaeological site that had the remnants of buildings dating back to what was believed to be an ancient advanced society, it was also owned by a mysterious old man, some of whom thought him to be a ghost whose permission had to be sought first before going there.

An old man, no one seemed to know his location.

It only added to the intrigue that surrounded the area.

Numerous newspaper reports suggested that it was Dargaville’s own Bermuda Triangle, where cell phones ceased to work, where apparitions could appear, of an old man, or a young girl dressed in period costume, where strange weather could erupt at any moment.

In my mind, something was going on there that someone didn’t want anyone to discover.

I’d stopped in at the diner, one of seven shops on a short main street that boasted a drapery, a hardware store, a drug store, a gas station, and a sheriff’s office. The opposite side of the road was a park, one that had just the bare minimum of maintenance.

Dargaville was literally a one-horse town. There was a horse hitching bar, and a horse was tethered to it. There was no sign of the owner, or anyone else, for that matter.

Herb, the cook, the waiter, the server, in the diner was behind the servery, and I could feel him watching me from the moment I stopped the car, till I walked into his diner.

The pie holder on the counter was empty. No, ‘only Dargaville can make such delicious apple pies’ apple pie was going to be tasted today, a slight disappointment.

“Where are you headed?” was his opening gambit.

“The gold fields.”

“You need permission. Old man Dargaville doesn’t like intruders.”

“Where can I find him then?”

“That’s just it, you can’t. He comes, he goes, but no one knows exactly where he is.”

“Where was he seen last?”

“Here. Three days ago. Took the last of the apple pie.”

We both looked at the empty pie holder. I could see several crumbs that had been left behind.

“Pity,” I said. “It was the other reason why I came here. Nowhere else can I find him.”

The man waved his hand, “Out there, somewhere.”

“No pie, and no old man. What does he look like?”

He looked at me thoughtfully, thinking perhaps, correctly, I was not going to leave that easily.

“Old, dusty, bushy-bearded, battered hat. Sometimes he drops a line in at the river that’s at the end of the park, that way.” He pointed across the street and along the road. “Past the gas station.”

There was a sudden crack of thunder, followed by a few more rumblings.

Odd. The sky had been clear, except for some distant clouds.

“Time to move on, before the weather sets in. You don’t want to get stuck here; the motel is not a place I’d recommend you stay.”

Very welcoming. Not!

I shrugged. “As you say, not a place to be stranded. Thanks for your help.”

When I stepped outside and looked up, the sky was the same as it had been all morning.  It made the thunder I’d just heard … Or was it my imagination?

I looked back to see the man in the diner on his cell phone. Perhaps he was telling the old man that I was coming. Or someone else.

…

I checked the riverside fishing spot at the end of the park, almost opposite the gas station, and indeed it showed signs that someone had been there very recently, a roll-your-own cigarette still burning through the last of the tobacco.

The call had been a heads-up that I was coming to see him.

So, the old man did exist. I decided to go ahead and visit the site and took out my notebook to find the page with the instructions on how to get there.

Along the road I was on, for a further five miles, where there was a rusted sign with a skull and crossbones and Hazardous Materials written under it.

Five miles up the road, I found the sign, almost hidden behind overgrown bushes, very faded. More words, freshly painted, were added under Hazardous, ‘to your health’. Beside it was a drawing of a man with his head cut off and blood spurting out of the neck.

Someone had a sense of humour.

It was a further two miles up a track that sometimes disappeared except for tire ruts. I was glad I brought the off-road SUV. At precisely two miles, I stopped. I had to. A brand-new steel wire fence and gate had been erected, blocking the way.

Previously, from all the reports, there had been no fences or gates.

Another crack of thunder had me looking up, and there was a change. The sky turned stormy, as though it was a roiling witch’s cauldron, clouds swirling and shades of grey from dark to light changing almost like an electronic display.

I could smell rain in the air. The wind picked up and swished through the trees. Another crack of thunder, this time coming after a bolt of lightning that wasn’t far away.

On the gate was a sign. “Trespassers will be shot”, with several bullet holes above and below the words to emphasise the fact.

It did make me think twice before I got a weapon of my own, and then while searching for a way over the fence, I found a pedestrian gate about thirty yards along to the right, that wasn’t locked.

Curious. Just on the other side, I found an almost burnt-out cigarette, the same as the one at the fishing spot. Whoever had been there was here.

There was a worn track on either side of the fence, so I followed it carefully. It was one of those wooded areas where you always had the feeling someone was watching you. The scrub was dense but not very high. There were trees, but sparse in number.

Long before I reached it, I could hear a river, or creek perhaps, but the sound of running water.

A few minutes later, I reached the edge of a clearing, and on the other side, away from where the track led, I saw a girl, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, not of this civilisation, dancing. She was the epitome of a summer’s day, so brightly dressed and so carefree.

She had neither seen nor heard me coming. I stayed and watched for a few minutes, and then she disappeared into the woods. I thought of following her, but it was off mission. The weather was holding off, but it might not last. I continued towards the river.

Coming out of the woods, noting I had been following the creek for about three hundred yards, before me were the ruins of several structures that looked to me to have been built of mud bricks, and part of a much larger structure. The whole area back from the creek was paved in stones that made up a very sophisticated design.

It looked a bit like a town square, built around a well, and on the other side, what looked to be the ruins of a temple. What the gold miners made of it was anyone’s guess, but very few of their writings included anything about any ruins.

Further on from that was a seat, and there sat a man with his back to me. Battered hat, dusty clothes. I walked towards him. He didn’t turn around, as if he were expecting a visitor.

I stopped when I was alongside the seat, and then he turned to look at me. His face was worn, like that of an old leather chair, from years of exposure to the elements. I wondered if he felt as miserable as he looked.

He sighed. “I knew you’d come.”

“Hello, gramps.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

G is for – A Ghost from the past

….

It was a silly ritual, but when four of us graduated high school, we made a pact on Prom Night that we would meet up every year, New Year’s Eve, on the 81st floor lookout of the Empire State Building, every year until we couldn’t, literally the only excuse not to be there was death.

We thought it was original, but of course, lots of movies immortalised the same thing, making it a little passe. And with it, there were gaps when others didn’t make it.

I, on the other hand, had been to every meeting. When others didn’t, I was disappointed, but then that wasn’t the only disappointment in my life.

John Rogers, who was keen on Alison West, the two who were our prom king and queen, didn’t stay together very long; their fields of study and universities meant the tyranny of distance would eventually take its toll.

Daniel Franks, that was me, and Marjorie Leyton were not a couple but had gone to the prom together, because we could have been an item, but neither of us pressed it. We parted and saw each other from time to time, and now, mostly at the Empire State Building. She was the second most attended member.

We had eventually all gone in different directions, and the last time we met was at the high school reunion. The other three were married, successful, great partners and children they were proud to show off, and I, well, I was the odd one out. The girl that I wanted to marry just didn’t know I existed, and though I had tried with others, from home and away, it just didn’t have the same thing about it.

Maybe one day, before I die.

…

The cell phone rang shrilly, waking me from a restless sleep. I glanced over at the clock on the far bedside table, and it read 2:37 a.m.

I normally had it switched off overnight for just that reason, not to be woken in the middle of the night. It was always difficult to fall asleep; it was far worse if I was woken soon after.

I looked at the screen. ‘Private Number’.

No one that I would normally answer. I let it ring out and then switched it off.

Five minutes later, another cell phone rang, a phone that I had used three times in eighteen years, the last time precipitating the most anxious three weeks of my life.

It was a call I could not ignore.

I dragged myself out of bed and got to it just as it rang out. No matter, I knew who it was, and called straight back.

“Danny. Bad time?”

“Very.”

“Still a light sleeper?”

“One eye open and a gun under the pillow, some things never change. What do you want, Fred?”

“Texting an address. Extraction. You have thirteen hours and five minutes.”

After the last time he called, I thought I’d drawn a line under this sort of affair. “I don’t do this anymore.”

“You left the phone on. Naughty boy. Sorry. On your horse.”

The phone went dead.

I glared at it, then put it on the desk. It chimed. Message, the address, and when I looked it up, it was a back alley in the financial district of St Louis, Illinois. I lived in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and to get to St Louis, Missouri, I would have to take I-35 south. Easy as. It was just that it was a 9-hour drive, without breaks, so I just had enough time to get there.

I shook my head, considering I should just ring back and say I was done with him and his antics.

Should, but wouldn’t. Perhaps this was what I needed to get me out of the despondency I’d fallen into.

…

A half hour later, refreshed and ready to go, I headed to the lockup at the rear of the property I lived on and dragged the cover off the 2016 Silver Ford Fusion sedan. It was once described as the ultimate invisible car, and the reason why I owned one. It had fifteen sets of plates, and today it was running with my home state. That would change when I got to St Louis, and again, depending on where I was told to take the target.

When I reached Cedar Rapids, I stopped for an hour for coffee and breakfast of pancakes, bacon and eggs, at a diner where the place was clean, the staff were friendly, and the service was quick. The food wasn’t bad either.

Outside St Louis I changed the plates and paperwork, changed into different clothes, the sort that when the police asked a witness to describe me, it would be average height, average weight, average clothes, you know, check shirt, well-worn North Face parka, well-worn hiking boots, faded well-worn jeans, and a well-worn face that had had spent a lot of time outdoors.

The sort of person a mother wouldn’t recognise if he were standing next to her on a bus. It was the part of the training I liked the most – becoming invisible.

Then, ten minutes before the appointed time, I sent the location to a burner number, a street corner where I could stop for just long enough for someone to get in, and we could keep moving. This was a critical part of the operation and required precision timing. The only thing that could mess this up was an accident, and I’d checked the route; nothing was going to cause a problem.

At the precise moment, I stopped the car, released the door lock, and someone got in the back. They were covered, protected from the cold, and I didn’t look other than to make sure they were in and the door closed before I drove off. In all, I was there for 7 seconds.

After sending an acknowledgement text to the boss, he sent the destination. There was generally no conversation with the target; it was pick up and deliver. Food was in a hamper on the back seat. We would not be stopping for anything other than gas and restroom visits.

…

There was no communication with the target; it was just my job to take them from point A to point B, which this time, was outside Saks, Fifth Avenue, New York. I would have guessed a safe house, not a place where the target could do some indulgent shopping. I sighed inwardly.

A glance in the back told me very little, other than this time it was a woman, and that she would not be recognisable as anyone I would know or attempt to guess at. Because we both worked for the same man, she would have the same training as I had, except I didn’t get to go into the field as a primary agent; I had only qualified for work in Section 5, support services.

There had been times when I was disappointed, but sometimes running support could also be as dangerous as an agent on the ground, especially when it was a hot extraction.

At the first restroom stop, I pulled into the carpark close to the building, and she got out, taking a small backpack with her. I had not seen it when she got in, but that meant little. I waited half an hour, the maximum time before I had to go check, but she reappeared, having changed her appearance, but still as anonymous as before.

I was not meant to, but I watched her walk from the front door of the cafe, towards the car before turning to the front as she neared. It reminded me of someone from a distant past, but exactly who eluded me.

The door shut, and I drove off.

Once past the city limits, she asked, quite unexpectedly, “What’s your name?” The voice was distorted through the mask.

“Against protocol, ma’am.”

“We’re out in the middle of nowhere. Surely it doesn’t matter.”

“Not my call. The boss is insistent. No names, no conversation.”

I heard a sigh, and then she settled into the seat. The car wasn’t exactly the most comfortable, but Services had upgraded the seating, especially for the driver, knowing how long we might have to drive in a single sitting. Moving an agent was by car. Any other form of travel left a trail.

A half hour later, I heard the sounds of sleep. I would get mine after I dropped her off.

…

Darkness settled slowly until the inky blackness swallowed us up, and then it was a matter of watching the headlights of the cars opposite come and go, and the cars and trucks behind and in front pass or get passed. There was a reasonable amount of traffic, and for the first few hours of darkness, it was almost boring.

There was no movement from the back seat.

Then, “I need a break. Find some facilities.”

I checked the GPS and there was one ten minutes ahead. “Ten minutes or so.”

“Thanks.”

Ten minutes, I pulled off the main road and stopped at a BP petrol station at a place called Straughan. She got out and went inside. I filled the tank with Premium, paid the bill in cash and got back in the car.

That’s when I saw a car, sitting in the truck park, no lights, but suddenly, the flaring of a match lit a cigarette. Not enough light to see the driver’s face, but an outline. A large man in a small car.

It could be nothing.

The door opened and closed. I started the car and drove out slowly. I watched the car behind me. It didn’t move. I turned and went back the way we came to the on ramp of the I-70 and soon was back up to speed.

Back on the highway, I switched on the cruise control and relaxed. A glance every now and then in the exterior rear vision mirror showed the usual traffic, except after an hour, a set of headlights appeared a distance back and then stayed there, sometimes falling back, sometimes moving faster, but never beyond a certain point.

Damn!

It could be my imagination, but I didn’t think so. There was that car on the side of the road back at the gas station, but the fact that it had taken hours to locate us suggested only one possibility.

“Excuse me?”

A few seconds of silence, then “I thought we were not to speak.”

“True, but there might be a problem. I would like you to check everything you have and make sure there isn’t a tracking device.”

“We have a tail?”

“We might, or it might be my paranoia.”

“It’s not possible.”

“Humour me.”

I heard her mutter something under her breath and then reluctantly search. A minute later, a sharp gasp, the window opening and then closing.

“How?” I asked.

“I was with the target, who seemed a little more anxious than usual. I left as soon as I could without raising suspicion, called the controller and requested extraction. There were other red flags, and it was time.”

“Once they realise you tossed the tracker, the excitement begins.”

I had three guns, a modified car that could outrun the car behind me, theoretically, but they had time to set up a blockage further along, depending on how desperate they were to capture my passenger. I guess we’d soon find out.

“Settle in. This could take a while.”

Except, not long after, the headlights appeared behind me again. There were two trackers. I wouldn’t bother her about the second; just wait and see what they were prepared to do. I was on a major highway, and there were a lot of trucks to use as cover.

…

At the next gas station, near Akron, I sent a text message requesting another car and a device that would knock out anything transmitting a signal, which meant we would not have any communications. That would not be a problem for the short time it took for us to get away. I also requested her to double-check everything she had with her and on, just to make sure.

I didn’t ask, and she didn’t say whether there was another device, but it was clear she had completely changed everything and left the other clothes and belongings behind.

At Akron, we changed cars.

I also made an alarming discovery. The woman in the back of my car was a girl I used to know back in high school, the one who never gave me a second look. When I did know her, it was she who had suggested, with the grades I had, that I should apply to the FBI. She didn’t say she was, but it surprised me that she suggested it.

Annabel Tyler.

Undercover agent for? I was tempted to ask, but it was not my business. She wouldn’t remember me, not if she had evolved into many different identities and personas. She probably didn’t know who she was herself.

We lost the tail. There were no more trackers, and I arrived at Saks Fifth Avenue.

When I stopped the car outside the building, she leaned forward and offered a card. It had a number scribbled on it.

“What’s this?”

“My number, Daniel. I was far too focused on turning into whatever this is I am now, and lost sight of everything that should matter. I’m tired and need a break. You call this number, and I’ll answer, any time of the day or night.”

“Why?”

“You now know my secret, and I know yours. You are the only person I can trust. What do you think? Don’t disappoint me a second time.”

And then she was gone. Just like that. Into thin air. I put the card in my pocket and pulled out into the traffic.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

G is for – A Ghost from the past

….

It was a silly ritual, but when four of us graduated high school, we made a pact on Prom Night that we would meet up every year, New Year’s Eve, on the 81st floor lookout of the Empire State Building, every year until we couldn’t, literally the only excuse not to be there was death.

We thought it was original, but of course, lots of movies immortalised the same thing, making it a little passe. And with it, there were gaps when others didn’t make it.

I, on the other hand, had been to every meeting. When others didn’t, I was disappointed, but then that wasn’t the only disappointment in my life.

John Rogers, who was keen on Alison West, the two who were our prom king and queen, didn’t stay together very long; their fields of study and universities meant the tyranny of distance would eventually take its toll.

Daniel Franks, that was me, and Marjorie Leyton were not a couple but had gone to the prom together, because we could have been an item, but neither of us pressed it. We parted and saw each other from time to time, and now, mostly at the Empire State Building. She was the second most attended member.

We had eventually all gone in different directions, and the last time we met was at the high school reunion. The other three were married, successful, great partners and children they were proud to show off, and I, well, I was the odd one out. The girl that I wanted to marry just didn’t know I existed, and though I had tried with others, from home and away, it just didn’t have the same thing about it.

Maybe one day, before I die.

…

The cell phone rang shrilly, waking me from a restless sleep. I glanced over at the clock on the far bedside table, and it read 2:37 a.m.

I normally had it switched off overnight for just that reason, not to be woken in the middle of the night. It was always difficult to fall asleep; it was far worse if I was woken soon after.

I looked at the screen. ‘Private Number’.

No one that I would normally answer. I let it ring out and then switched it off.

Five minutes later, another cell phone rang, a phone that I had used three times in eighteen years, the last time precipitating the most anxious three weeks of my life.

It was a call I could not ignore.

I dragged myself out of bed and got to it just as it rang out. No matter, I knew who it was, and called straight back.

“Danny. Bad time?”

“Very.”

“Still a light sleeper?”

“One eye open and a gun under the pillow, some things never change. What do you want, Fred?”

“Texting an address. Extraction. You have thirteen hours and five minutes.”

After the last time he called, I thought I’d drawn a line under this sort of affair. “I don’t do this anymore.”

“You left the phone on. Naughty boy. Sorry. On your horse.”

The phone went dead.

I glared at it, then put it on the desk. It chimed. Message, the address, and when I looked it up, it was a back alley in the financial district of St Louis, Illinois. I lived in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and to get to St Louis, Missouri, I would have to take I-35 south. Easy as. It was just that it was a 9-hour drive, without breaks, so I just had enough time to get there.

I shook my head, considering I should just ring back and say I was done with him and his antics.

Should, but wouldn’t. Perhaps this was what I needed to get me out of the despondency I’d fallen into.

…

A half hour later, refreshed and ready to go, I headed to the lockup at the rear of the property I lived on and dragged the cover off the 2016 Silver Ford Fusion sedan. It was once described as the ultimate invisible car, and the reason why I owned one. It had fifteen sets of plates, and today it was running with my home state. That would change when I got to St Louis, and again, depending on where I was told to take the target.

When I reached Cedar Rapids, I stopped for an hour for coffee and breakfast of pancakes, bacon and eggs, at a diner where the place was clean, the staff were friendly, and the service was quick. The food wasn’t bad either.

Outside St Louis I changed the plates and paperwork, changed into different clothes, the sort that when the police asked a witness to describe me, it would be average height, average weight, average clothes, you know, check shirt, well-worn North Face parka, well-worn hiking boots, faded well-worn jeans, and a well-worn face that had had spent a lot of time outdoors.

The sort of person a mother wouldn’t recognise if he were standing next to her on a bus. It was the part of the training I liked the most – becoming invisible.

Then, ten minutes before the appointed time, I sent the location to a burner number, a street corner where I could stop for just long enough for someone to get in, and we could keep moving. This was a critical part of the operation and required precision timing. The only thing that could mess this up was an accident, and I’d checked the route; nothing was going to cause a problem.

At the precise moment, I stopped the car, released the door lock, and someone got in the back. They were covered, protected from the cold, and I didn’t look other than to make sure they were in and the door closed before I drove off. In all, I was there for 7 seconds.

After sending an acknowledgement text to the boss, he sent the destination. There was generally no conversation with the target; it was pick up and deliver. Food was in a hamper on the back seat. We would not be stopping for anything other than gas and restroom visits.

…

There was no communication with the target; it was just my job to take them from point A to point B, which this time, was outside Saks, Fifth Avenue, New York. I would have guessed a safe house, not a place where the target could do some indulgent shopping. I sighed inwardly.

A glance in the back told me very little, other than this time it was a woman, and that she would not be recognisable as anyone I would know or attempt to guess at. Because we both worked for the same man, she would have the same training as I had, except I didn’t get to go into the field as a primary agent; I had only qualified for work in Section 5, support services.

There had been times when I was disappointed, but sometimes running support could also be as dangerous as an agent on the ground, especially when it was a hot extraction.

At the first restroom stop, I pulled into the carpark close to the building, and she got out, taking a small backpack with her. I had not seen it when she got in, but that meant little. I waited half an hour, the maximum time before I had to go check, but she reappeared, having changed her appearance, but still as anonymous as before.

I was not meant to, but I watched her walk from the front door of the cafe, towards the car before turning to the front as she neared. It reminded me of someone from a distant past, but exactly who eluded me.

The door shut, and I drove off.

Once past the city limits, she asked, quite unexpectedly, “What’s your name?” The voice was distorted through the mask.

“Against protocol, ma’am.”

“We’re out in the middle of nowhere. Surely it doesn’t matter.”

“Not my call. The boss is insistent. No names, no conversation.”

I heard a sigh, and then she settled into the seat. The car wasn’t exactly the most comfortable, but Services had upgraded the seating, especially for the driver, knowing how long we might have to drive in a single sitting. Moving an agent was by car. Any other form of travel left a trail.

A half hour later, I heard the sounds of sleep. I would get mine after I dropped her off.

…

Darkness settled slowly until the inky blackness swallowed us up, and then it was a matter of watching the headlights of the cars opposite come and go, and the cars and trucks behind and in front pass or get passed. There was a reasonable amount of traffic, and for the first few hours of darkness, it was almost boring.

There was no movement from the back seat.

Then, “I need a break. Find some facilities.”

I checked the GPS and there was one ten minutes ahead. “Ten minutes or so.”

“Thanks.”

Ten minutes, I pulled off the main road and stopped at a BP petrol station at a place called Straughan. She got out and went inside. I filled the tank with Premium, paid the bill in cash and got back in the car.

That’s when I saw a car, sitting in the truck park, no lights, but suddenly, the flaring of a match lit a cigarette. Not enough light to see the driver’s face, but an outline. A large man in a small car.

It could be nothing.

The door opened and closed. I started the car and drove out slowly. I watched the car behind me. It didn’t move. I turned and went back the way we came to the on ramp of the I-70 and soon was back up to speed.

Back on the highway, I switched on the cruise control and relaxed. A glance every now and then in the exterior rear vision mirror showed the usual traffic, except after an hour, a set of headlights appeared a distance back and then stayed there, sometimes falling back, sometimes moving faster, but never beyond a certain point.

Damn!

It could be my imagination, but I didn’t think so. There was that car on the side of the road back at the gas station, but the fact that it had taken hours to locate us suggested only one possibility.

“Excuse me?”

A few seconds of silence, then “I thought we were not to speak.”

“True, but there might be a problem. I would like you to check everything you have and make sure there isn’t a tracking device.”

“We have a tail?”

“We might, or it might be my paranoia.”

“It’s not possible.”

“Humour me.”

I heard her mutter something under her breath and then reluctantly search. A minute later, a sharp gasp, the window opening and then closing.

“How?” I asked.

“I was with the target, who seemed a little more anxious than usual. I left as soon as I could without raising suspicion, called the controller and requested extraction. There were other red flags, and it was time.”

“Once they realise you tossed the tracker, the excitement begins.”

I had three guns, a modified car that could outrun the car behind me, theoretically, but they had time to set up a blockage further along, depending on how desperate they were to capture my passenger. I guess we’d soon find out.

“Settle in. This could take a while.”

Except, not long after, the headlights appeared behind me again. There were two trackers. I wouldn’t bother her about the second; just wait and see what they were prepared to do. I was on a major highway, and there were a lot of trucks to use as cover.

…

At the next gas station, near Akron, I sent a text message requesting another car and a device that would knock out anything transmitting a signal, which meant we would not have any communications. That would not be a problem for the short time it took for us to get away. I also requested her to double-check everything she had with her and on, just to make sure.

I didn’t ask, and she didn’t say whether there was another device, but it was clear she had completely changed everything and left the other clothes and belongings behind.

At Akron, we changed cars.

I also made an alarming discovery. The woman in the back of my car was a girl I used to know back in high school, the one who never gave me a second look. When I did know her, it was she who had suggested, with the grades I had, that I should apply to the FBI. She didn’t say she was, but it surprised me that she suggested it.

Annabel Tyler.

Undercover agent for? I was tempted to ask, but it was not my business. She wouldn’t remember me, not if she had evolved into many different identities and personas. She probably didn’t know who she was herself.

We lost the tail. There were no more trackers, and I arrived at Saks Fifth Avenue.

When I stopped the car outside the building, she leaned forward and offered a card. It had a number scribbled on it.

“What’s this?”

“My number, Daniel. I was far too focused on turning into whatever this is I am now, and lost sight of everything that should matter. I’m tired and need a break. You call this number, and I’ll answer, any time of the day or night.”

“Why?”

“You now know my secret, and I know yours. You are the only person I can trust. What do you think? Don’t disappoint me a second time.”

And then she was gone. Just like that. Into thin air. I put the card in my pocket and pulled out into the traffic.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026