…

I don’t know, at first, what it was that brought back a raft of memories that had been long forgotten, I had woken up in an ambulance on its way to a hospital, and by the way, in which it was moving at breakneck speed, siren wailing, it had on be for a very good reason.

“He’s awake,” a nearby voice yelled near me, and then a face hovered before my eyes, “How do you feel.”

It was an odd question because I felt fine.  “OK.  I guess.  What happened?”

For a minute or so, he checked my vitals and asked, “Do you know who you are?”  I gave him my name, which matched my ID, and then my address, which was also correct.  He asked me where I was, and got it right too.  “You can slow down; I’ll tell them it’s not urgent.”

He made a phone call to the hospital, then turned back to me.

“You had a fall, hit your head on the concrete sidewalk, and started having a fit.  When we arrived, you were unconscious, and the signs indicated you had gone into a coma.  It was a situation that could have gone anyway, which is why we were trying to get you to the hospital as soon as possible.  You need to get an MRI as soon as possible.”

“But I feel fine.”

“That may well be the case, but what happened to you can have ramifications later.  You have suffered a heavy knock to your head.”

It was not as if I could feel anything, so I reached up to feel for any indication of the accident and touched a bandage, covering what felt like a big lump.  I could not feel any pain when I touched it.  “Should I feel something?”

“You should, yes.  We have not administered any pain medication, so it should be very sore.  It’s a fairly large gash.  You say there is no pain?”

“No.”

Not right then, but about five minutes later, I started having blurred vision.  The paramedic went back to checking my vitals, and as he was taking blood pressure I started shaking, and moments after that, I passed out.

When I woke up, I was home, in my room, overlooking the stables, and beyond that the hills.  Montana.  How did I get there?

Everything was exactly as I remembered it, the rodeo curtains, the breeze coming through the open window, the aroma of newly mown grass after the rain wafting in, accompanied by the rustle of the curtains.  Summer, my favourite part of the year.

And yet, I could not be here, because after my parents died, the farm was sold to pay of the mountain of debt they’d accumulated, and sadly the reason why they were no longer alive.

I slipped off the covers and went over to the window.  Exactly as it was when I returned after graduating from university, just before my father and I was going to make repairs to the roof.  I remember that exact time in my life.  I had just broken up with the girl I had planned to spend the rest of my life with, and, heartbroken, I’d come home to be miserable.

There was a pounding on the door.  “Get up now, lazy bones, there are chores to be done.”  Suzie, my older sister, never took crap from me, had no aspirations of getting a university degree, ‘What use would it be in running a farm?’, was always at me since I was six, and had more than once thrown cold water over me, in the morning.

“I’m up,” I yelled back, a reflex action.  This must all be in my imagination.  The last time I’d seen Suzie, it was when I took her to the airport, off to find peace and tranquillity in Tuscany, and was still there with a friend.

But it was my room, and those were my clothes in the dresser, and …  Oh.  My.  God!

My imagination was in overdrive.  I looked exactly like my 23-year-old self.  That reflection in the mirror was startling.  I touched my face, and it seemed real.

Another bang on the door made me jump.  The door opened and Suzie put her head in.  “Good, you’re up.  You just saved yourself a lot of grief.”

She looked so young, so happy, a far cry from the woman she was now, broken by a man we all thought the world of, but turned out to be a monster.  I’d often wished I could go back and change things as we all did.

I crossed the room and gave her a huge hug.  It felt real.

“What was that for?”  She was taken aback by an action that, back then, I would not have contemplated.  Our relationship, then, had been rocky at best.

“You know I love you to pieces, sis, and I don’t think I’ve taken the time or made the effort to tell you.”

“I know that.  You don’t have to say anything.”

“Too many things are left unsaid.”

“You’re going batty, I can see that now.  That fall off the roof of the barn has affected you, though I have to say this version of you is an improvement.  Oh, and by the way, I asked Samantha to come over today, so be nice.  She’s had a hard time of it while you’re away and you were good friends once.”

Samantha.  The girl I dated all through middle school, the one I was supposed to end up with, everyone had said so, except she had other ideas and chose the local football hero instead.  It was around about the time I came back that he was killed in a car accident, though rumours had it, it was not an accident.  It would be interesting to see her again.  The last time I saw her, it was when she ditched me rather unceremoniously.  

“You know me, friends with everyone.”

“She dumped you, and you hate her.  I get it, but there’s enough water under that bridge.  Later.”

I just remembered that fall off the roof, too, showing off, and paying for it.  I didn’t break anything, but I had landed rather hard, and shaken a few things up.  The bump on the head hadn’t helped either.  I shrugged and pulled out work clothes.  It was going to be an interesting day.

At the breakfast table, Mom in her usual manner had everything out and just finished up the last of the cooking.  I missed her breakfasts, in fact, I missed that first thing in the morning with family, the food, and, well, just the moments I realised much later I’d taken for granted.

Dad was there, his usual gruff, and jovial, self, complaining about everything that was going wrong, from the tractor to the crops in the south paddock, the lack of rain, and having to pump water from the dam.

When I left for college, we needed help and that’s how Walter Fisk came into our lives, particularly into Suzie’s.  He called in one day, in his battered Ford truck asking if there was any employment available in the area, and because I was not there, Dad hired him.  He was, at first, a hard worker, and then, once he had charmed Suzie, changed.  The first time I met him I took an instant dislike to him, and he knew it.  It was why he then spent the time I was away to break the relationship I had with my sister.

I was sitting at the table when he came in.  I hadn’t realised he was welcome at the breakfast table, and it marked a turning point in his acceptance, almost into the family.  I’d forgotten quite a lot about his time at the farm.  It was only several years later when the damage was done, that we learned who he really was, a thoroughly bad man by the name of Walter Reinhart who had murdered his wife and disappeared, only to turn up on our doorstep.  It wasn’t until he nearly murdered Suzie that we realised his true nature.

“Morning all.”  His eyes stopped at me, and his expression changed for just a second.  “David.”

“Walter.”  It was a pity all of this was running in my imagination, or I’d go into town and see the sheriff and tell him about Fisk.  Just seeing him brought all the old memories back, and it made me angry, so much so that I lost my appetite, and couldn’t sit at the same table with him.

I went past him as he sat down, and muttered, “Don’t get too comfortable, Reinhart.”

He grabbed my arm, stopping me from leaving, the expression on his face now one of fear.  “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“If you say so.  Now, I would like my arm back, Walter.”

Suzie had noticed that something was happening between us, and said, “I hope you two are not going to be tiresome, again.  I thought we got past all that nonsense.”

“There’s nothing going on here, is there Walter?”

He let go of my arm.  “No, nothing.”

In my imaginary world, I had just scored a small victory.

I went outside into the fresh morning air, something else that I missed greatly after leaving home.  The mornings were never the same in the city, with no open spaces to speak of and everyone living on top of each other.

And in a city with millions of people, it was ironic that I never felt more alone than I did back home.

Perhaps my mind had had enough of being where I was and had decided to put me back to a time when I had a chance to make a difference in my life.  This moment in time was when I made several regrettable decisions, each of which eventually set me on a path to where I was now.

It was not what I had envisaged my life would turn out like, then or now.

Perhaps I was taking stock, going over the choices and seeing what life might have been like.

I walked slowly towards the barn.  I could see materials and tools scattered around in my father’s usual haphazard manner, mine too for that matter. We were in the middle of patching the roof, a job long overdue, and it must be just after I fell off the roof.  Luckily, I’d landed on a haystack next to it, but though it softened the fall it still hurt.

I could feel the aches and pains from it still.

Inside the barn, I knew what I was looking for.  Grandfather’s Indian motorcycle was the only thing he left in his will to me.  I loved that bike and used to go out on it whenever I could.  I also remembered that Walter stole it when he finally left, and I never saw it again.

I had to do something about that.

I pulled the tarpaulin cover off it and checked it had fuel, then wheeled it out.  A minute later I was off, deciding to go into town.  I was still undecided about telling the sheriff about Walter.

About five miles up the road I saw Samantha and her truck on the side of the road, hood up.  She heard the bike and turned to see who it was, then waved.

I stopped.

I hadn’t seen her for a long time, much less the in those years following my return.  I remember when I came back I was bitter and said some regrettable things.  I had a chance to change that.

“David.”

“Samantha.”  I switched off the bike and it was suddenly eerily quiet.

“You know I get worried when you ride that thing.  I never think it’s safe.”

“One ride and you hated it, Sam.  You should embrace the freedom.”  It had been a constant basis for conflict between us, neither willing to back down.  I realised then that I was still annoyed, and it showed in my tone.  Had I learned nothing?

“I’m sorry.  I should have listened to your concerns, and I was a little selfish when I didn’t.”

She looked at me as if to say, ‘Who the hell are you, and what have you done with David?’

“You were right though.  I should.  Perhaps you might consider giving me another opportunity.  I know I haven’t been as understanding as I could have been.”

I shrugged.  We were both making an effort.  “It was what it was.  We were young, first love is like that, I guess.  What’s up?”

“It just stopped.  And you know me, I’m hopeless at everything.”

I got off the bike and had a look.  I was not much of a mechanic, but living on a farm you got a rudimentary knowledge of everything, so basic problems I could solve.  This one was a loose cable that had come away.  I put it back and then asked her to start the car, which it did.

“Are you coming back to the farm,” she asked.

“Yeah, just getting some air before I get back to work.  Falling off the roof sort of changes your perspective, especially when you consider what the consequences could have been. It just feels like the world is closing in on me lately.”

She got out of the truck, came over and have me a hug.  At that moment a whole raft of memories returned.  I kissed her and she kissed me back, and suddenly it felt like we had never been apart.

“I never stopped loving you Sam.”  It seemed the right time and the right thing to say.

“I know.  I always knew you were the one, but I was young and stupid.  I learned my lesson, and it won’t happen again.  If you still want me.”

I smiled. Was it that easy to fix?

“I do, very much.”  I kissed her again.  “Let’s start again. Hello.  My name is David Westbrook.  What’s yours?”

She smiled back.  “Samantha Bailey.”

“Well, Samantha, I like you a lot.  Would you be interested in going on a date?”

“Just tell me where and when.”

“Do you like motorbikes?”

“I do now.”

“Good.  I’ll see you back at the farm and when my father had finished flogging me to death, I’ll take you to a place I know that has the best burgers in the county.”

After another hug, a tear, perhaps two, she left.  I watched until she disappeared out of sight.

…

It was going to be a good day.

I went to the sheriff’s office; Mike was a good friend of my father’s as he was to all the residents of our little town.

I told him about Walter Fisk and his other name, and that I suspected he was a murderer sought by the Sacramento police.  Mike had an assistant who was clever enough to access police records from all over the country and found the information on Walter, and the wanted poster photograph was almost an exact copy of the man we had working for us.

He asked me how I knew, and I said a friend of mine was working on an assignment for his forensic science degree and had pulled up a number of cases by wanted posters and seen Walters among them.  That and the fact I always thought he was not who he said he was.

Job done; I went home.

Back on the roof, I was careful.  Working with my father again was special and I savoured the time together.  I hadn’t really wanted to get stuck on the farm, seeing what it had done to him, and his father before him.  Farming was a rough business given everything that could go wrong, and I didn’t want that responsibility.

But maybe with Suzie, who had always said she would never leave, between us, we could make it work.  Especially if we adopted an idea I had read about back in the city.  Time would tell.

Suzie, and Samantha, a farm girl herself, came back from the northern paddocks where we had cattle; and she had been taking feed for them because the grass was getting a little thin after a prolonged dry period.

Then they brought lunch to us, sitting at the table where we’d often have a BBQ Saturday night and inviting the neighbours over.  Sam sat next to me and it didn’t go unnoticed.  Suzie was pleased but didn’t state the obvious.

I thought that was the moment to tell them my plan for the future.  I also knew that from this point on things were only going to get worse, my father getting ill, the drought, Walter, and my departure all compounding onto the terrible end to everything I knew and cared about.

“I have an idea which as some of you know can be a bad thing, but thus might be another string in the bow for the farm.  I read a while back that one of the schools back east was considering introducing a farm stay for their students, say for a week or fortnight to get a feel for what happened, other than believing all food came from a supermarket.

“I thought about a dozen bunkhouses down by the river with a mess hall, classrooms, and stables would make that a reality.  You know how many schools there are, and we have everything right here.  Just think about it.  It could become a very good income stream.”

Suzie looked surprised.  “You thought of that all by yourself?”

“I am capable of thinking, you know.”

“It’s a good idea.  Dad, what do you think?”

“It will cost money we don’t have.”  The man was ever practical, quite often the devil’s advocate.

“Then what if I get a journalist to come down and go through the plan, show him everything, and get him to sell it for you.  At least it will gauge reaction, and if it’s positive…”

“One of your cronies?” Suzie asked.

“He’s a good journalist and he owes me a favour.  I’ll call him later.”

Dad shrugged.  To him, it was about the money.  Not the idea, which was sound and would work, if there was a market.  Secretly I think he was pleased with me, trying to find ways to keep the farm.

The day ended on a date and perhaps for the first time in a long time, I felt content.  I had, in my imagination, corrected everything that had gone wrong in my life, and just before I fell asleep, I wished that it could go on forever.

…

I felt a hand roughly shaking me by the shoulder, and a voice in the background saying rather loudly, “David, David, wake up, wake up.”

I put my hand out to grasp the hand that was shaking me while trying to open my eyes and wake from, well, I had no idea what it was.

It felt like I was drowning.

Then, eyes open I was staring directly at Samantha’s face.  Only she was 30 years older than the last time I saw her.

“Sam?’

“David.  Oh God, I thought I’d lost you.  She leaned down and kissed me then hugged me which was difficult.

I was in a hospital bed with cables and tubes everywhere.

“What…”

“You’ve been in a coma.  You hit your head on the sidewalk and one minute you were fine, the next, we didn’t know if you were going to live or die.”

My other hand was being held and I looked over to see Suzie equally as concerned.

“Suzie?  Why are you here?  You live in Tuscany?”

She looked blankly at me as if I was mad.  “Where did that come from?  I came up from the farm the moment Sam told me what happened.  Some second honeymoon you two are having.”

“What?  This is all wrong.  None of this is real.”

I was back in another nightmare where I was being tormented by the same two protagonists as in the last.  But why were they here and what was this second honeymoon business.

Samantha looked concerned, perhaps a little scared.  I was too because it seemed I was not back in the ambulance on my to the hospital for other reasons.  And that life didn’t have either Suzie or Samantha in it.

Suzie came into view.  “You should not be overly worried if none of this is familiar to you.  We were told by the doctor that you might have difficulty remembering anything, but that wouldn’t last forever.  So, a quick recap may or may not help.  You’ve been married to Sam for thirty years, and you have three children, not here of course, I’m now running the farm, that was a great idea of yours and it’s all we do these days, Mom and Dad retired to Florida like they always intended, and you and Sam work with me.”

“Walter?”

“He was arrested and charged with murder.  God, that was a bullet dodged.  That was your diligence too, David, and I cannot thank you enough.”

“How long have I been out of it then?”

“About a month.  We’ve been rather frantic I can tell you.”

A coma?  It had seemed very real to me.

The problem was my life had been nothing like this one, but coincidentally it was the one I had always wanted and had dreamed of often.  It wasn’t possible I could have gone back in time, so what really happened?

Suddenly around me, alarms were going off and there was a sudden movement of people coming into the room.  One minute I was conscious, the next I found myself in a white room, sitting at a table with a bearded man.

St Peter at the pearly gates?  Was I dying?

“David, David, David.”  His tone had just the right amount of disapproval and, what was it, disappointment.  “You are given a second chance and you’re not grasping it with both hands.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s been your problem all your life, looking for meaning in something that just is.  Are you going to stop procrastinating, and just go back and live your life, the life you have been given?  You do not want to miss out on being a grandfather, do you?  To go back, a simple yes or no will suffice.”

I didn’t want to think what a no might do, so it had to be a yes.  I had no idea what was happening to me, but it was the life I always wanted, to be with Samantha, and have my sister back to her old self again.  Whether or not I had intervened, and made it so, was moot.  I had hit my head, and basically, everything in it was scrambled anyway.

“Yes.”

“Good.  Now don’t come back, not until it’s your time.”

…

There was relief written all over the faces in that room, of the doctors, the nurses, a dozen other spectators, and the two who mattered the most to me.  Samantha was holding my hand and I squeezed it, and moments later, opened my eyes.  Perhaps I was still dazzled by the white room, but I could have easily confused her with an angel.

“You’re back.”

“Did I go somewhere?”  Did she know what had been happening to me?

“I think it might have been that place just before you leave this mortal earth.  You weren’t dead, but I think it was touch and go.  I’m glad you came back.  Our life together is not over yet, and there are so many experiences we have to look forward to.”

“Like being grandparents?”

“How do you know that?  I only just got a text message not five minutes ago.”

“I have connections.  Don’t worry.  I’m back now, and I’m not going anywhere.  I think what happened to me was the universe telling me not to be an ass.  I’m sure I did something wrong.”

“Well, you’re right about being an ass, but we all have our quirks.  We’re together now, as it should be.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2023

…

I don’t know, at first, what it was that brought back a raft of memories that had been long forgotten, I had woken up in an ambulance on its way to a hospital, and by the way, in which it was moving at breakneck speed, siren wailing, it had on be for a very good reason.

“He’s awake,” a nearby voice yelled near me, and then a face hovered before my eyes, “How do you feel.”

It was an odd question because I felt fine.  “OK.  I guess.  What happened?”

For a minute or so, he checked my vitals and asked, “Do you know who you are?”  I gave him my name, which matched my ID, and then my address, which was also correct.  He asked me where I was, and got it right too.  “You can slow down; I’ll tell them it’s not urgent.”

He made a phone call to the hospital, then turned back to me.

“You had a fall, hit your head on the concrete sidewalk, and started having a fit.  When we arrived, you were unconscious, and the signs indicated you had gone into a coma.  It was a situation that could have gone anyway, which is why we were trying to get you to the hospital as soon as possible.  You need to get an MRI as soon as possible.”

“But I feel fine.”

“That may well be the case, but what happened to you can have ramifications later.  You have suffered a heavy knock to your head.”

It was not as if I could feel anything, so I reached up to feel for any indication of the accident and touched a bandage, covering what felt like a big lump.  I could not feel any pain when I touched it.  “Should I feel something?”

“You should, yes.  We have not administered any pain medication, so it should be very sore.  It’s a fairly large gash.  You say there is no pain?”

“No.”

Not right then, but about five minutes later, I started having blurred vision.  The paramedic went back to checking my vitals, and as he was taking blood pressure I started shaking, and moments after that, I passed out.

When I woke up, I was home, in my room, overlooking the stables, and beyond that the hills.  Montana.  How did I get there?

Everything was exactly as I remembered it, the rodeo curtains, the breeze coming through the open window, the aroma of newly mown grass after the rain wafting in, accompanied by the rustle of the curtains.  Summer, my favourite part of the year.

And yet, I could not be here, because after my parents died, the farm was sold to pay of the mountain of debt they’d accumulated, and sadly the reason why they were no longer alive.

I slipped off the covers and went over to the window.  Exactly as it was when I returned after graduating from university, just before my father and I was going to make repairs to the roof.  I remember that exact time in my life.  I had just broken up with the girl I had planned to spend the rest of my life with, and, heartbroken, I’d come home to be miserable.

There was a pounding on the door.  “Get up now, lazy bones, there are chores to be done.”  Suzie, my older sister, never took crap from me, had no aspirations of getting a university degree, ‘What use would it be in running a farm?’, was always at me since I was six, and had more than once thrown cold water over me, in the morning.

“I’m up,” I yelled back, a reflex action.  This must all be in my imagination.  The last time I’d seen Suzie, it was when I took her to the airport, off to find peace and tranquillity in Tuscany, and was still there with a friend.

But it was my room, and those were my clothes in the dresser, and …  Oh.  My.  God!

My imagination was in overdrive.  I looked exactly like my 23-year-old self.  That reflection in the mirror was startling.  I touched my face, and it seemed real.

Another bang on the door made me jump.  The door opened and Suzie put her head in.  “Good, you’re up.  You just saved yourself a lot of grief.”

She looked so young, so happy, a far cry from the woman she was now, broken by a man we all thought the world of, but turned out to be a monster.  I’d often wished I could go back and change things as we all did.

I crossed the room and gave her a huge hug.  It felt real.

“What was that for?”  She was taken aback by an action that, back then, I would not have contemplated.  Our relationship, then, had been rocky at best.

“You know I love you to pieces, sis, and I don’t think I’ve taken the time or made the effort to tell you.”

“I know that.  You don’t have to say anything.”

“Too many things are left unsaid.”

“You’re going batty, I can see that now.  That fall off the roof of the barn has affected you, though I have to say this version of you is an improvement.  Oh, and by the way, I asked Samantha to come over today, so be nice.  She’s had a hard time of it while you’re away and you were good friends once.”

Samantha.  The girl I dated all through middle school, the one I was supposed to end up with, everyone had said so, except she had other ideas and chose the local football hero instead.  It was around about the time I came back that he was killed in a car accident, though rumours had it, it was not an accident.  It would be interesting to see her again.  The last time I saw her, it was when she ditched me rather unceremoniously.  

“You know me, friends with everyone.”

“She dumped you, and you hate her.  I get it, but there’s enough water under that bridge.  Later.”

I just remembered that fall off the roof, too, showing off, and paying for it.  I didn’t break anything, but I had landed rather hard, and shaken a few things up.  The bump on the head hadn’t helped either.  I shrugged and pulled out work clothes.  It was going to be an interesting day.

At the breakfast table, Mom in her usual manner had everything out and just finished up the last of the cooking.  I missed her breakfasts, in fact, I missed that first thing in the morning with family, the food, and, well, just the moments I realised much later I’d taken for granted.

Dad was there, his usual gruff, and jovial, self, complaining about everything that was going wrong, from the tractor to the crops in the south paddock, the lack of rain, and having to pump water from the dam.

When I left for college, we needed help and that’s how Walter Fisk came into our lives, particularly into Suzie’s.  He called in one day, in his battered Ford truck asking if there was any employment available in the area, and because I was not there, Dad hired him.  He was, at first, a hard worker, and then, once he had charmed Suzie, changed.  The first time I met him I took an instant dislike to him, and he knew it.  It was why he then spent the time I was away to break the relationship I had with my sister.

I was sitting at the table when he came in.  I hadn’t realised he was welcome at the breakfast table, and it marked a turning point in his acceptance, almost into the family.  I’d forgotten quite a lot about his time at the farm.  It was only several years later when the damage was done, that we learned who he really was, a thoroughly bad man by the name of Walter Reinhart who had murdered his wife and disappeared, only to turn up on our doorstep.  It wasn’t until he nearly murdered Suzie that we realised his true nature.

“Morning all.”  His eyes stopped at me, and his expression changed for just a second.  “David.”

“Walter.”  It was a pity all of this was running in my imagination, or I’d go into town and see the sheriff and tell him about Fisk.  Just seeing him brought all the old memories back, and it made me angry, so much so that I lost my appetite, and couldn’t sit at the same table with him.

I went past him as he sat down, and muttered, “Don’t get too comfortable, Reinhart.”

He grabbed my arm, stopping me from leaving, the expression on his face now one of fear.  “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“If you say so.  Now, I would like my arm back, Walter.”

Suzie had noticed that something was happening between us, and said, “I hope you two are not going to be tiresome, again.  I thought we got past all that nonsense.”

“There’s nothing going on here, is there Walter?”

He let go of my arm.  “No, nothing.”

In my imaginary world, I had just scored a small victory.

I went outside into the fresh morning air, something else that I missed greatly after leaving home.  The mornings were never the same in the city, with no open spaces to speak of and everyone living on top of each other.

And in a city with millions of people, it was ironic that I never felt more alone than I did back home.

Perhaps my mind had had enough of being where I was and had decided to put me back to a time when I had a chance to make a difference in my life.  This moment in time was when I made several regrettable decisions, each of which eventually set me on a path to where I was now.

It was not what I had envisaged my life would turn out like, then or now.

Perhaps I was taking stock, going over the choices and seeing what life might have been like.

I walked slowly towards the barn.  I could see materials and tools scattered around in my father’s usual haphazard manner, mine too for that matter. We were in the middle of patching the roof, a job long overdue, and it must be just after I fell off the roof.  Luckily, I’d landed on a haystack next to it, but though it softened the fall it still hurt.

I could feel the aches and pains from it still.

Inside the barn, I knew what I was looking for.  Grandfather’s Indian motorcycle was the only thing he left in his will to me.  I loved that bike and used to go out on it whenever I could.  I also remembered that Walter stole it when he finally left, and I never saw it again.

I had to do something about that.

I pulled the tarpaulin cover off it and checked it had fuel, then wheeled it out.  A minute later I was off, deciding to go into town.  I was still undecided about telling the sheriff about Walter.

About five miles up the road I saw Samantha and her truck on the side of the road, hood up.  She heard the bike and turned to see who it was, then waved.

I stopped.

I hadn’t seen her for a long time, much less the in those years following my return.  I remember when I came back I was bitter and said some regrettable things.  I had a chance to change that.

“David.”

“Samantha.”  I switched off the bike and it was suddenly eerily quiet.

“You know I get worried when you ride that thing.  I never think it’s safe.”

“One ride and you hated it, Sam.  You should embrace the freedom.”  It had been a constant basis for conflict between us, neither willing to back down.  I realised then that I was still annoyed, and it showed in my tone.  Had I learned nothing?

“I’m sorry.  I should have listened to your concerns, and I was a little selfish when I didn’t.”

She looked at me as if to say, ‘Who the hell are you, and what have you done with David?’

“You were right though.  I should.  Perhaps you might consider giving me another opportunity.  I know I haven’t been as understanding as I could have been.”

I shrugged.  We were both making an effort.  “It was what it was.  We were young, first love is like that, I guess.  What’s up?”

“It just stopped.  And you know me, I’m hopeless at everything.”

I got off the bike and had a look.  I was not much of a mechanic, but living on a farm you got a rudimentary knowledge of everything, so basic problems I could solve.  This one was a loose cable that had come away.  I put it back and then asked her to start the car, which it did.

“Are you coming back to the farm,” she asked.

“Yeah, just getting some air before I get back to work.  Falling off the roof sort of changes your perspective, especially when you consider what the consequences could have been. It just feels like the world is closing in on me lately.”

She got out of the truck, came over and have me a hug.  At that moment a whole raft of memories returned.  I kissed her and she kissed me back, and suddenly it felt like we had never been apart.

“I never stopped loving you Sam.”  It seemed the right time and the right thing to say.

“I know.  I always knew you were the one, but I was young and stupid.  I learned my lesson, and it won’t happen again.  If you still want me.”

I smiled. Was it that easy to fix?

“I do, very much.”  I kissed her again.  “Let’s start again. Hello.  My name is David Westbrook.  What’s yours?”

She smiled back.  “Samantha Bailey.”

“Well, Samantha, I like you a lot.  Would you be interested in going on a date?”

“Just tell me where and when.”

“Do you like motorbikes?”

“I do now.”

“Good.  I’ll see you back at the farm and when my father had finished flogging me to death, I’ll take you to a place I know that has the best burgers in the county.”

After another hug, a tear, perhaps two, she left.  I watched until she disappeared out of sight.

…

It was going to be a good day.

I went to the sheriff’s office; Mike was a good friend of my father’s as he was to all the residents of our little town.

I told him about Walter Fisk and his other name, and that I suspected he was a murderer sought by the Sacramento police.  Mike had an assistant who was clever enough to access police records from all over the country and found the information on Walter, and the wanted poster photograph was almost an exact copy of the man we had working for us.

He asked me how I knew, and I said a friend of mine was working on an assignment for his forensic science degree and had pulled up a number of cases by wanted posters and seen Walters among them.  That and the fact I always thought he was not who he said he was.

Job done; I went home.

Back on the roof, I was careful.  Working with my father again was special and I savoured the time together.  I hadn’t really wanted to get stuck on the farm, seeing what it had done to him, and his father before him.  Farming was a rough business given everything that could go wrong, and I didn’t want that responsibility.

But maybe with Suzie, who had always said she would never leave, between us, we could make it work.  Especially if we adopted an idea I had read about back in the city.  Time would tell.

Suzie, and Samantha, a farm girl herself, came back from the northern paddocks where we had cattle; and she had been taking feed for them because the grass was getting a little thin after a prolonged dry period.

Then they brought lunch to us, sitting at the table where we’d often have a BBQ Saturday night and inviting the neighbours over.  Sam sat next to me and it didn’t go unnoticed.  Suzie was pleased but didn’t state the obvious.

I thought that was the moment to tell them my plan for the future.  I also knew that from this point on things were only going to get worse, my father getting ill, the drought, Walter, and my departure all compounding onto the terrible end to everything I knew and cared about.

“I have an idea which as some of you know can be a bad thing, but thus might be another string in the bow for the farm.  I read a while back that one of the schools back east was considering introducing a farm stay for their students, say for a week or fortnight to get a feel for what happened, other than believing all food came from a supermarket.

“I thought about a dozen bunkhouses down by the river with a mess hall, classrooms, and stables would make that a reality.  You know how many schools there are, and we have everything right here.  Just think about it.  It could become a very good income stream.”

Suzie looked surprised.  “You thought of that all by yourself?”

“I am capable of thinking, you know.”

“It’s a good idea.  Dad, what do you think?”

“It will cost money we don’t have.”  The man was ever practical, quite often the devil’s advocate.

“Then what if I get a journalist to come down and go through the plan, show him everything, and get him to sell it for you.  At least it will gauge reaction, and if it’s positive…”

“One of your cronies?” Suzie asked.

“He’s a good journalist and he owes me a favour.  I’ll call him later.”

Dad shrugged.  To him, it was about the money.  Not the idea, which was sound and would work, if there was a market.  Secretly I think he was pleased with me, trying to find ways to keep the farm.

The day ended on a date and perhaps for the first time in a long time, I felt content.  I had, in my imagination, corrected everything that had gone wrong in my life, and just before I fell asleep, I wished that it could go on forever.

…

I felt a hand roughly shaking me by the shoulder, and a voice in the background saying rather loudly, “David, David, wake up, wake up.”

I put my hand out to grasp the hand that was shaking me while trying to open my eyes and wake from, well, I had no idea what it was.

It felt like I was drowning.

Then, eyes open I was staring directly at Samantha’s face.  Only she was 30 years older than the last time I saw her.

“Sam?’

“David.  Oh God, I thought I’d lost you.  She leaned down and kissed me then hugged me which was difficult.

I was in a hospital bed with cables and tubes everywhere.

“What…”

“You’ve been in a coma.  You hit your head on the sidewalk and one minute you were fine, the next, we didn’t know if you were going to live or die.”

My other hand was being held and I looked over to see Suzie equally as concerned.

“Suzie?  Why are you here?  You live in Tuscany?”

She looked blankly at me as if I was mad.  “Where did that come from?  I came up from the farm the moment Sam told me what happened.  Some second honeymoon you two are having.”

“What?  This is all wrong.  None of this is real.”

I was back in another nightmare where I was being tormented by the same two protagonists as in the last.  But why were they here and what was this second honeymoon business.

Samantha looked concerned, perhaps a little scared.  I was too because it seemed I was not back in the ambulance on my to the hospital for other reasons.  And that life didn’t have either Suzie or Samantha in it.

Suzie came into view.  “You should not be overly worried if none of this is familiar to you.  We were told by the doctor that you might have difficulty remembering anything, but that wouldn’t last forever.  So, a quick recap may or may not help.  You’ve been married to Sam for thirty years, and you have three children, not here of course, I’m now running the farm, that was a great idea of yours and it’s all we do these days, Mom and Dad retired to Florida like they always intended, and you and Sam work with me.”

“Walter?”

“He was arrested and charged with murder.  God, that was a bullet dodged.  That was your diligence too, David, and I cannot thank you enough.”

“How long have I been out of it then?”

“About a month.  We’ve been rather frantic I can tell you.”

A coma?  It had seemed very real to me.

The problem was my life had been nothing like this one, but coincidentally it was the one I had always wanted and had dreamed of often.  It wasn’t possible I could have gone back in time, so what really happened?

Suddenly around me, alarms were going off and there was a sudden movement of people coming into the room.  One minute I was conscious, the next I found myself in a white room, sitting at a table with a bearded man.

St Peter at the pearly gates?  Was I dying?

“David, David, David.”  His tone had just the right amount of disapproval and, what was it, disappointment.  “You are given a second chance and you’re not grasping it with both hands.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s been your problem all your life, looking for meaning in something that just is.  Are you going to stop procrastinating, and just go back and live your life, the life you have been given?  You do not want to miss out on being a grandfather, do you?  To go back, a simple yes or no will suffice.”

I didn’t want to think what a no might do, so it had to be a yes.  I had no idea what was happening to me, but it was the life I always wanted, to be with Samantha, and have my sister back to her old self again.  Whether or not I had intervened, and made it so, was moot.  I had hit my head, and basically, everything in it was scrambled anyway.

“Yes.”

“Good.  Now don’t come back, not until it’s your time.”

…

There was relief written all over the faces in that room, of the doctors, the nurses, a dozen other spectators, and the two who mattered the most to me.  Samantha was holding my hand and I squeezed it, and moments later, opened my eyes.  Perhaps I was still dazzled by the white room, but I could have easily confused her with an angel.

“You’re back.”

“Did I go somewhere?”  Did she know what had been happening to me?

“I think it might have been that place just before you leave this mortal earth.  You weren’t dead, but I think it was touch and go.  I’m glad you came back.  Our life together is not over yet, and there are so many experiences we have to look forward to.”

“Like being grandparents?”

“How do you know that?  I only just got a text message not five minutes ago.”

“I have connections.  Don’t worry.  I’m back now, and I’m not going anywhere.  I think what happened to me was the universe telling me not to be an ass.  I’m sure I did something wrong.”

“Well, you’re right about being an ass, but we all have our quirks.  We’re together now, as it should be.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2023

…

It was just a simple conversation, or so I thought.

You know how it is, stuck in a long queue, waiting for service when you strike up a conversation with the person in front of the person or behind.  Random strangers, never seen before, perhaps will never see again.

The plane had arrived late, along with the three others in quick succession, all with over 300 passengers, and being that time of night, not so many service staff.  The line was quite literally a mile long and not moving very fast. 

It was apparent the person in front of me, who looked like a university professor, had to be somewhere else and was getting impatient.

“This is ridiculous. You would have thought they’d know about the hold-ups, that every plane would arrive at the same time, and make the appropriate adjustments.”

It was a common sense thing, but apparently not deemed so by airport management.  It was the same the world over. 

“At least you won’t have to wait for your baggage.  It’ll be on the carousel by the time we get out of here.”

He sighed, pulled out a cell phone, and dialled a number, most likely the person picking him up.  They didn’t answer, and as he jammed his finger on the disconnect button, he muttered, “Fiddlesticks.”

One second, I was thinking what an odd thing to say, the next, nothing.

When I opened my eyes I was looking at a roof, in unfamiliar surroundings, with two ambulance staff leaning over me, saying, “Mr Giles, Mr Giles,” while gently shaking me by the shoulder.

My first thought was, who was Mr Giles?  I looked at one, “Where am I?”

“JFK airport, New York.”

“How, why, when?”

“You collapsed, waiting in line to pass through immigration.  The security staff called us.”

“Who is Mr Glies?”

“That’s you.”

“No, it isn’t.  My name is Jeremy Watkins.”

“Not according to your passport and ticket information.  Samuel Giles.”

No.  I’ve never heard of him.  Nor did I have any idea why I was in New York, where I came from or why I was there.  Seeing the guards surrounding me, I realized airport security staff were naturally paranoid about terrorist attacks, and given my situation, I had just become a number one suspect.

This was not going to end well.

Within five minutes of saying what I’d just said, I was taken to a room somewhere within the innards of the airport, the paramedics having determined there was nothing physically wrong with me, saying it was just a reaction to a long flight, tiredness, and stress from waiting.

All the time, I’d been flanked by three airport security staff, followed by two uniformed officers of the NYPD.  When I got to the room, a man was waiting.  He looked as tired as I felt.  My baggage was on one side of the room, and it had been thoroughly searched.  The paramedics’ work was done, and they left.  The airport security guards were also dismissed, but the two uniformed officers remained, one in the room and one outside the room.  If I tried to escape, I would not get very far.

He pointed to a seat opposite him, and I assumed I was meant to sit.  Once I had, he said, “Now, Mr Giles slash Watkins, just who the hell are you?” 

I didn’t think he was from the FBI, but just to make sure I asked, “Who are you?”

He glared at me, perhaps considering he didn’t have to tell me anything, then changed his mind.  “Detective Barnsdale, NYPD.  Someone up there,” he pointed to the roof, “Decided to make this my lucky day.  Make it easy for both of us.  I’d tend to believe you were hallucinating if you’d banged your head when you collapsed, but the medics tell me you didn’t.  I can only assume this is some sort of prank.  If it is, then I suggest you give it up.  Otherwise, if I escalate this, it’s going to get ugly.”

If he was trying to scare me, it was working.  “My name is Jeremy Watkins.  If you have access to the internet, you can look me up.  I’m an author, not exactly a runaway best-seller, but I make enough.  I don’t know how I got here, or why I’m here, and as much in the dark as you why my documents say I’m someone else.”

He brought out his cell phone and pushed a few buttons, typed in my name, and waited.  Then, his expression changed, and another glare at me.  “OK, it looks like you.  Give me some titles of your books.”

“It happened in Syracuse, the end is nigh, and the girl with blue eyes.”

A shake of the head.  “Not exactly conclusive proof. You could have looked it up and remembered them.  But you look exactly like him.”

He went back to his phone and picked up the driver’s licence with that name and address and typed that name in.  Another expression change, one that suggested he’d found nothing.  “So you are telling me you know nothing about this Sidney Giles from Houston.  It’s your photo, and this licence looks real.  And this boarding pass says you came in from Houston.”

“I can’t explain it.  No.”

He sighed.  “OK.  Take me through your last 24 hours.  What do you remember?”

That was the problem, I could not remember anything beyond the fact I had just finished a class where I’d been trying to get completely disinterested teenagers to write a story about their ideal day out, and being met with derision.  The bell rang and they all left, leaving me somewhat shattered, sitting at the desk contemplating why I’d chosen this career path.

Then Marjorie, the other English teacher who had conducted my orientation, came in and asked me how my first class went.  I couldn’t remember what I said, but the next memory was in a bar, she was there, and we were talking about writing, and the fact she was hoping to finish her first book soon, and was asking if I wanted to read it.

“I’m not sure if it’s the last 24 hours, but I’m apparently a new teacher at a college in Syracuse somewhere, who took his first class, not very successfully, I might add.”

“Nothing to indicate how you got to Houston, and then here?”

Another memory popped into my head, a rather disconcerting one.  I was with Marjorie, and we were talking about writing thrillers and how sometimes she playacted her character’s roles, the latest, an assassin who had been hypnotised believing she was someone else entirely, fitted out with a complete change of identity and then travelling to a particular city to carry out her assignment.  Who said art imitated life? This was the other way around.

“You remembered something, didn’t you?”

“I think whatever it was, it’s just a figment of my writer’s mind.  It’s too far out there to be believable.”

“Try me.”

“Apparently, I was discussing aspects of another author’s latest work in progress, where the main character is hypnotised into thinking they are someone else.  That’s just too far-fetched, isn’t it?”

The detective picked up his phone and called security and asked if there was any CCTV of the incident.  Five minutes later, a guard came with an inadequate and handed it to him.  “It’s your lucky day,” he said.

The detective looked at the footage not once but about ten times.  “The coverage shows you talking to the man ahead of you in the queue, and then suddenly just collapse.  I’m sure he says something to you, a word that sounds like Fiddlesticks.”

The next thing I knew, he was shaking me by the shoulder, and I was on the floor, totally disorientated.

“What happened?”

“You fainted.  Can you tell me who you are?”

“Sure.  Sidney Giles.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2023

…

It was just a simple conversation, or so I thought.

You know how it is, stuck in a long queue, waiting for service when you strike up a conversation with the person in front of the person or behind.  Random strangers, never seen before, perhaps will never see again.

The plane had arrived late, along with the three others in quick succession, all with over 300 passengers, and being that time of night, not so many service staff.  The line was quite literally a mile long and not moving very fast. 

It was apparent the person in front of me, who looked like a university professor, had to be somewhere else and was getting impatient.

“This is ridiculous. You would have thought they’d know about the hold-ups, that every plane would arrive at the same time, and make the appropriate adjustments.”

It was a common sense thing, but apparently not deemed so by airport management.  It was the same the world over. 

“At least you won’t have to wait for your baggage.  It’ll be on the carousel by the time we get out of here.”

He sighed, pulled out a cell phone, and dialled a number, most likely the person picking him up.  They didn’t answer, and as he jammed his finger on the disconnect button, he muttered, “Fiddlesticks.”

One second, I was thinking what an odd thing to say, the next, nothing.

When I opened my eyes I was looking at a roof, in unfamiliar surroundings, with two ambulance staff leaning over me, saying, “Mr Giles, Mr Giles,” while gently shaking me by the shoulder.

My first thought was, who was Mr Giles?  I looked at one, “Where am I?”

“JFK airport, New York.”

“How, why, when?”

“You collapsed, waiting in line to pass through immigration.  The security staff called us.”

“Who is Mr Glies?”

“That’s you.”

“No, it isn’t.  My name is Jeremy Watkins.”

“Not according to your passport and ticket information.  Samuel Giles.”

No.  I’ve never heard of him.  Nor did I have any idea why I was in New York, where I came from or why I was there.  Seeing the guards surrounding me, I realized airport security staff were naturally paranoid about terrorist attacks, and given my situation, I had just become a number one suspect.

This was not going to end well.

Within five minutes of saying what I’d just said, I was taken to a room somewhere within the innards of the airport, the paramedics having determined there was nothing physically wrong with me, saying it was just a reaction to a long flight, tiredness, and stress from waiting.

All the time, I’d been flanked by three airport security staff, followed by two uniformed officers of the NYPD.  When I got to the room, a man was waiting.  He looked as tired as I felt.  My baggage was on one side of the room, and it had been thoroughly searched.  The paramedics’ work was done, and they left.  The airport security guards were also dismissed, but the two uniformed officers remained, one in the room and one outside the room.  If I tried to escape, I would not get very far.

He pointed to a seat opposite him, and I assumed I was meant to sit.  Once I had, he said, “Now, Mr Giles slash Watkins, just who the hell are you?” 

I didn’t think he was from the FBI, but just to make sure I asked, “Who are you?”

He glared at me, perhaps considering he didn’t have to tell me anything, then changed his mind.  “Detective Barnsdale, NYPD.  Someone up there,” he pointed to the roof, “Decided to make this my lucky day.  Make it easy for both of us.  I’d tend to believe you were hallucinating if you’d banged your head when you collapsed, but the medics tell me you didn’t.  I can only assume this is some sort of prank.  If it is, then I suggest you give it up.  Otherwise, if I escalate this, it’s going to get ugly.”

If he was trying to scare me, it was working.  “My name is Jeremy Watkins.  If you have access to the internet, you can look me up.  I’m an author, not exactly a runaway best-seller, but I make enough.  I don’t know how I got here, or why I’m here, and as much in the dark as you why my documents say I’m someone else.”

He brought out his cell phone and pushed a few buttons, typed in my name, and waited.  Then, his expression changed, and another glare at me.  “OK, it looks like you.  Give me some titles of your books.”

“It happened in Syracuse, the end is nigh, and the girl with blue eyes.”

A shake of the head.  “Not exactly conclusive proof. You could have looked it up and remembered them.  But you look exactly like him.”

He went back to his phone and picked up the driver’s licence with that name and address and typed that name in.  Another expression change, one that suggested he’d found nothing.  “So you are telling me you know nothing about this Sidney Giles from Houston.  It’s your photo, and this licence looks real.  And this boarding pass says you came in from Houston.”

“I can’t explain it.  No.”

He sighed.  “OK.  Take me through your last 24 hours.  What do you remember?”

That was the problem, I could not remember anything beyond the fact I had just finished a class where I’d been trying to get completely disinterested teenagers to write a story about their ideal day out, and being met with derision.  The bell rang and they all left, leaving me somewhat shattered, sitting at the desk contemplating why I’d chosen this career path.

Then Marjorie, the other English teacher who had conducted my orientation, came in and asked me how my first class went.  I couldn’t remember what I said, but the next memory was in a bar, she was there, and we were talking about writing, and the fact she was hoping to finish her first book soon, and was asking if I wanted to read it.

“I’m not sure if it’s the last 24 hours, but I’m apparently a new teacher at a college in Syracuse somewhere, who took his first class, not very successfully, I might add.”

“Nothing to indicate how you got to Houston, and then here?”

Another memory popped into my head, a rather disconcerting one.  I was with Marjorie, and we were talking about writing thrillers and how sometimes she playacted her character’s roles, the latest, an assassin who had been hypnotised believing she was someone else entirely, fitted out with a complete change of identity and then travelling to a particular city to carry out her assignment.  Who said art imitated life? This was the other way around.

“You remembered something, didn’t you?”

“I think whatever it was, it’s just a figment of my writer’s mind.  It’s too far out there to be believable.”

“Try me.”

“Apparently, I was discussing aspects of another author’s latest work in progress, where the main character is hypnotised into thinking they are someone else.  That’s just too far-fetched, isn’t it?”

The detective picked up his phone and called security and asked if there was any CCTV of the incident.  Five minutes later, a guard came with an inadequate and handed it to him.  “It’s your lucky day,” he said.

The detective looked at the footage not once but about ten times.  “The coverage shows you talking to the man ahead of you in the queue, and then suddenly just collapse.  I’m sure he says something to you, a word that sounds like Fiddlesticks.”

The next thing I knew, he was shaking me by the shoulder, and I was on the floor, totally disorientated.

“What happened?”

“You fainted.  Can you tell me who you are?”

“Sure.  Sidney Giles.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2023

…

I never really understood why I had an affinity for libraries until I stepped into the one in my grandfather’s house.

The last time I’d seen it was when I turned ten, and we visited him the day after my grandmother had died.  I remembered that day very clearly for two reasons.  First, my grandfather said I was too young to go, so I was left with the housekeeper and allowed to go into a large room with thousands upon thousands of books.  By myself.

So many, in fact, I was so immersed in them that I hadn’t realised my parents had come back and it was time to go.  Not until I heard raised voices coming from outside the window.  My father and grandfather were in a full bare-knuckle fighting stance, with my mother standing between them.

That second reason, it was also the day my father stopped talking to and visiting my grandfather.  I had seen him once, in all the time leading up to my grandmother’s funeral, and never again.  The only references to him I found were in the newspapers, along with words like patron, philanthropist, politician, and patriot.  My father said he was evil, but he never told me why.

There was a lot of fallout from that day of the funeral.  Not only had my father stopped talking to his father, but also his two sisters and brother, all of who were a mystery to me.  Later I learned that I belonged to a very dysfunctional family and that my father was the sanest of the four siblings.  Of course, that was my mother’s assessment, but I also learned later, my father marrying her had got him disinherited.

But to be honest, at 10 it didn’t seem a big deal.  I didn’t know them, and having said no more than a dozen words to my grandfather, it was not as if I knew him enough to miss him.  I did remember that library though, and that huge house by the lake.  My father never said he’d grown up there, just that his life had been spent in boarding schools and the military.  Enough of a life though, to give me a university degree, yes, you guessed it, in Library Science and Information Management.

That I knew so little about him made it all the more difficult to write a eulogy.  For him, and my mother who had basically died a few days after him.  I wanted to believe she just didn’t want to live on without him, but that was too fanciful.  She had been worn down by what I now believed was a very bitter man.  That bitterness had caused me to stop visiting home about a year before when relations between us sunk to an all-time low.  I spoke to my mother by phone every week, but it was not the same, not being able to see me, and that I hadn’t made it back before she died was a sin I would spend a long time atoning for.

Nor did I have any siblings to turn to for help.  That ship had sailed after I was born when my mother discovered she could have no more children.

But, here’s the thing.  I had not heard that either of my parents had died until I got a call from my parents’ Pastor of their church.  Had he not called, I would not have known.  My initial reaction was not to go, that was how deep the scars were from our fractured relationship, but the pastor insisted that I would not get closure if I didn’t.

I still believed it was a huge mistake as I was getting on the plane.  I told Wendy, a girl whom I had just become more than friends with that I would have to go, it surprised her because I had told her that I was more or less like her, an orphan.  I had met her after the final altercation, and I didn’t think it necessary to bore her with my parents’ odd behaviour.

By the time the plane arrived, I was past the misgivings and telling myself just to get it done and go home.  One day, two at the most and it would be all over, filed under, don’t come back to haunt me again.

Shock number one:  A girl, about my age or slightly younger, dressed in what might have passed as mourning clothes, was standing in the arrivals section where people held signs of names of people they were to pick up.  She had mine, or maybe not.  It could be someone else.  I went over to her, cautiously.

She smiled when she saw.  “My God; Lindsay, you look just like your father.”

How could she possibly know who I was, or what he looked like?  None of his family had ever made themselves known or came to see us.

“How…”

“Your photographs.  My dad is your uncle by the way, and I’m your something or other, someone explained it to me but it was too much.  Your mother sent thousands of photographs and letters to your uncle and aunts and we know about you.  It’s just a pity we couldn’t meet until the old bastard died.  Now, it’s like we’re old friends.  I’m Allie by the way.  Wow!”

Wow, indeed.  My mother the traitor!  She always seemed to have a conspiratorial look about her and now I knew why.

“Travelling light,” she said, seeing my backpack.

“Wasn’t intending to stay.”

“Can’t do that now Lindsay.  You have a lifetime of catching up to do.  I hope you have a spare week up your sleeve.”

I followed her out of the terminal to the car park. 

“Where do you want to go first?  By the way, I’m your chauffeur for the duration of your stay, and you tell me, that’s where we go.”

“Haven’t you got better things to do?”

“No.  I had to beat up my sister and brother to get this privilege.  This is not a  chore Lindsay.  And I get first dibs to talk to you about everything.”

She had a strange way of talking, so I let most of it go over my head.  “Perhaps the funeral parlour, I think the pastor said they were in one of them near the church.  Not their church, either.”

“I try not to get involved in heavy family stuff.  But I think you’ll find my father had something to do with that.  Blood is thicker than water, he says.  He says a lot of stuff I don’t understand.  Your dad like that?”

We reached the car, she unlocked it and we got in.  A RAM 2500.  Better than anything we could afford.

“Your car?”

“Mine, hell no.  This is Dad’s special truck, only comes out on hunting weekends and special occasions like weddings.  Damned if I know why he let me drive given my track record.” She shrugged.  “Perhaps it’s another of his tests.”

It sounded like a family trait because my father used to do the same.  I left her to the driving and pondered this whole other life that went on around us, ignored simply because my father hated his family.  Obviously, there was some deep-seated resentment generated at some point before he struck out on his own, and maybe I could find out.  Certainly, it seemed I was not going to be able to escape as easily as I had first imagined.

What worried me was suddenly meeting a whole host of people I’d never seen before but apparently knew everything about me.  I’d never have suspected my mother going behind my father’s back, but there was always that air of defiance in her, and in some of their arguments, they didn’t go nuclear, but she did stop talking to him or doing anything for him until he backed down.

A lesser woman would not have been much of anything up against him, which was why he married her.

Our first stop as requested was the funeral home.  There I was shown into a special room where both were in their caskets.  It was an open casket viewing, and while they had been restored to some of their former glory, my mother was almost unrecognisable.  I had the room to myself, and thankfully Allie didn’t come in because there were tears, even though I told myself there would not be.

My father, of course, never changed and looked the same forbidding person he’d always been.  I was sure somewhere within him there was kindness, but he never showed it to me.  Even so, it was still a shock to know that he had passed.

After a half hour, I came back out into the daylight.  Allie handed me a cup of coffee.

“I didn’t know if you wanted or needed something stronger, but we can drop into a bar on the way for some fortification if you like.  The next stop, I’m afraid, is the church.  Got a call to say the Bishop has arrived.  Our family has some brownie points and got the Bishop to come and say a few words.  I’m not a keep churchgoer either Lindsay.”

Were any of the younger generations?  Those attempts of his to put the fear of God in me never worked, probably because they tried too hard.  A more gentler and persuasive method would have had better results, but the priest was all fire and brimstone.  I don’t think I could remember one Sunday where the sermon had any levity in it.

“Perhaps if they tried to move into the 21st century, it might be better.  I heard that my father’s church Pastor is coming too.  He’s as old as the hills, and hopefully, he will not remember the errant and disappointing child I was.”

“Don’t count on it.  They keep everything in a big ledger, and it’s opened the day you go to heaven or hell.  Hell’s where I’m going, I’m sure of it.”

It was an amusing thought.  “Perhaps you’ll see me there, too.”

The Pastor was there with the local church leaders, and the Bishop, all very severe-looking men.  Granted it was a sombre occasion, but a little levity wouldn’t go astray.  I noted, firstly, the look they gave me was one of surprise, though I had no idea why, and secondly, they hardly approved of the mourning outfit on my chauffeur.  Granted it was low cut and the hem high, but it suited her, and in my mind rather a fashion statement, and appropriate.  This was not the nineteenth century.

That led to shock number two.  My father’s paster recognised me instantly, and the change of expression told me he remembered everyone one of my sins, some of which I still had to atone for.  That was not the reason for the shock, the fact I had to write a eulogy and read it was.  He had intimated such in the phone call but I had told him I preferred not to.  Perhaps he had been hard of hearing.

He was warm in his greeting though.  “Lindsay, so glad you could come, and, my, you have grown up into a fine young man.”

Grown-up, may, fine, that was debatable.  “They haven’t retired you yet?”  It was not meant to be antagonistic, but some memories of injustices never left you.

“There’s still a lot of God’s work to be done.  I see you have lost none of your candour.  Let us not dwell on the past, and consider only what lies ahead.  Your father was a good man, despite your differences, and his disposition.  I had urged him, in his last days, to reconcile with you, and I believe he was going to.”

“You knew a different man to me, Pastor.  But as you say, let us not dwell upon what was.  I think I said I preferred not to participate in the service.”

I saw the other Pastor and the Bishop approach.  I thought I remembered the Bishop, but not as a Bishop but as a simple priest, many years before.  The trouble was, they all looked the same to me.

“Marriot here tells me you are going to read your eulogy as part of the service.  I believe it’s the right thing to so, a fitting end to a life devoted to service to his country and his church.”

He gave me no chance of reneging, and at any rate, there was no denying a Bishop’s request, not if I wanted the wrath of God to befall me.

“Until tomorrow, Pastor Marriot said and left with the other two men.

“I can see that went swimmingly,” Allie said when she came back over.   It wasn’t hard to notice she was avoiding the Pastors and Bishop.

“An ambush.”

“Not getting out of the eulogy?”

“Apparently not.”

“Then write and read something wicked.  There’s going to be a packed house, so the audience will be in your hands.  The trouble is, people rarely bring up the bad stuff at funerals, and the lies they tell about people, it’s outrageous.  We had an in-law who died in a police shootout when he tried to rob a gas station.  Not one bad word.  It’s probably why they didn’t ask me to say anything.”

The thought did cross my mind, but no, I had enough respect for the occasion that I would say a few words.

“Well, the fun’s over,” she said.  “You now are about to meet all the people you never knew existed.”

The family had taken over a restaurant in a nearby town, and everyone had come to see the missing link.  I felt like a character out of Charles Darwin’s evolution book.

There were about 35, my father’s brother and two sisters, their children, my contemporaries, some grandchildren, and one very old lady, the sister of my grandfather who presided over the gathering like a Queen.  She was the first introduction, and from there, it was simply a sea of faces and names.

Inevitably I was asked why I had not tried to seek them out earlier, and that was complicated.  My father never told me about his family, and that one memory of my grandfather was fleeting and without context.  But the most sinister of reasons was the fact he had changed his surname, making it impossible to trace anyone.  While I knew he had siblings, I could never find them.  As for my mother, she said she would tell me the truth when he died.  That, of course, could not happen, which landed me where I was right now.  Even his priest did not know the truth until one of the family contacted him upon learning of my father’s death.

It was, quite simply, the most improbable of situations that most people could not believe possible.

The following day, over a hundred people arrived for the funeral, and it was a beautiful service on a perfect day.  My few but heartfelt words were delivered in a broken voice, by a person who should not have but was, overcome with emotion. 

Afterwards, when the bodies were lowered into their final resting place, in the family graveyard near my grandfather’s house, exactly as I had remembered it, I was sitting on the seat that overlooked the lake, wondering what it might have been like to like in such a house.  Allie had taken me on a guided tour, the house now a museum of sorts, where the family occupied the upper floors and the museum the lower, including that incredible library.

She was sitting next to me, the rock that had got me through a fairly traumatising day.

Shock number three:  She handed me an envelope with my name on it.  “We had to wait until your father died before it could be delivered.  It is a letter all of us in our generation, got when our grandfather died.”

“I’m surprised he considered me part of the family.”

“You were, and are, despite your father’s best efforts.  He knew about you, and everything you have done, until the day he died.  You can read it, or I can summarise it if you like.”

“You can tell me, I’m just too overwhelmed to read anything at the moment.”

“As you wish.  In essence, you and 7 of us, own equal shares in the old building over there.”  She nodded in its direction.  “You have a suite of rooms set aside, as each of us has, and a job helping in running the museum.  He particularly thought you would like to run the library and the research department.  There are a lot of historical documents, and books that are considered invaluable to researchers who come here from all over the world.  You might not want to, but the rest of us would love it if you did.  And there’s a pot of gold, literally at the end of the rainbow.  You can, if you so desire, become very, very wealthy.  Or just take an annuity as I do.  Too much money makes me anxious.  Now, you can stay in your rooms tonight, for as long as you want, and tomorrow we will all sit around the table and just talk.”

Just then I saw her turn towards the driveway and heard a car arriving.  She smiled.  “We also thought it might be too overwhelming on your own so we asked Wendy to come.  I hope you don’t mind?”

It was odd because she was on my mind at that exact moment she arrived, and exactly the person I wanted to see.

As I crossed the lawn and reached the car as she got out, and saw the house, there was a look of recognition, surprise and something else I couldn’t place.

“Is this where you grew up?” she asked.

“No.  I’d only seen it once when I was ten when my parents came to attend my grandmother’s funeral.  Why?”

“Because this is very, very familiar.  I lived here with my mother until I was fifteen when she died and I was sent to live with my aunt in New York.  I remember a day when a boy came, and stayed in the library, and refused to come and play with me.  I was seven, I think, at the time.  It means I’ve known you forever, even if I did hate you to pieces then.  What a remarkable coincidence.”

“Serendipity,” Allie said.  “Welcome home, the both of you.”

…

©  Charles Heath 2023

…

I never really understood why I had an affinity for libraries until I stepped into the one in my grandfather’s house.

The last time I’d seen it was when I turned ten, and we visited him the day after my grandmother had died.  I remembered that day very clearly for two reasons.  First, my grandfather said I was too young to go, so I was left with the housekeeper and allowed to go into a large room with thousands upon thousands of books.  By myself.

So many, in fact, I was so immersed in them that I hadn’t realised my parents had come back and it was time to go.  Not until I heard raised voices coming from outside the window.  My father and grandfather were in a full bare-knuckle fighting stance, with my mother standing between them.

That second reason, it was also the day my father stopped talking to and visiting my grandfather.  I had seen him once, in all the time leading up to my grandmother’s funeral, and never again.  The only references to him I found were in the newspapers, along with words like patron, philanthropist, politician, and patriot.  My father said he was evil, but he never told me why.

There was a lot of fallout from that day of the funeral.  Not only had my father stopped talking to his father, but also his two sisters and brother, all of who were a mystery to me.  Later I learned that I belonged to a very dysfunctional family and that my father was the sanest of the four siblings.  Of course, that was my mother’s assessment, but I also learned later, my father marrying her had got him disinherited.

But to be honest, at 10 it didn’t seem a big deal.  I didn’t know them, and having said no more than a dozen words to my grandfather, it was not as if I knew him enough to miss him.  I did remember that library though, and that huge house by the lake.  My father never said he’d grown up there, just that his life had been spent in boarding schools and the military.  Enough of a life though, to give me a university degree, yes, you guessed it, in Library Science and Information Management.

That I knew so little about him made it all the more difficult to write a eulogy.  For him, and my mother who had basically died a few days after him.  I wanted to believe she just didn’t want to live on without him, but that was too fanciful.  She had been worn down by what I now believed was a very bitter man.  That bitterness had caused me to stop visiting home about a year before when relations between us sunk to an all-time low.  I spoke to my mother by phone every week, but it was not the same, not being able to see me, and that I hadn’t made it back before she died was a sin I would spend a long time atoning for.

Nor did I have any siblings to turn to for help.  That ship had sailed after I was born when my mother discovered she could have no more children.

But, here’s the thing.  I had not heard that either of my parents had died until I got a call from my parents’ Pastor of their church.  Had he not called, I would not have known.  My initial reaction was not to go, that was how deep the scars were from our fractured relationship, but the pastor insisted that I would not get closure if I didn’t.

I still believed it was a huge mistake as I was getting on the plane.  I told Wendy, a girl whom I had just become more than friends with that I would have to go, it surprised her because I had told her that I was more or less like her, an orphan.  I had met her after the final altercation, and I didn’t think it necessary to bore her with my parents’ odd behaviour.

By the time the plane arrived, I was past the misgivings and telling myself just to get it done and go home.  One day, two at the most and it would be all over, filed under, don’t come back to haunt me again.

Shock number one:  A girl, about my age or slightly younger, dressed in what might have passed as mourning clothes, was standing in the arrivals section where people held signs of names of people they were to pick up.  She had mine, or maybe not.  It could be someone else.  I went over to her, cautiously.

She smiled when she saw.  “My God; Lindsay, you look just like your father.”

How could she possibly know who I was, or what he looked like?  None of his family had ever made themselves known or came to see us.

“How…”

“Your photographs.  My dad is your uncle by the way, and I’m your something or other, someone explained it to me but it was too much.  Your mother sent thousands of photographs and letters to your uncle and aunts and we know about you.  It’s just a pity we couldn’t meet until the old bastard died.  Now, it’s like we’re old friends.  I’m Allie by the way.  Wow!”

Wow, indeed.  My mother the traitor!  She always seemed to have a conspiratorial look about her and now I knew why.

“Travelling light,” she said, seeing my backpack.

“Wasn’t intending to stay.”

“Can’t do that now Lindsay.  You have a lifetime of catching up to do.  I hope you have a spare week up your sleeve.”

I followed her out of the terminal to the car park. 

“Where do you want to go first?  By the way, I’m your chauffeur for the duration of your stay, and you tell me, that’s where we go.”

“Haven’t you got better things to do?”

“No.  I had to beat up my sister and brother to get this privilege.  This is not a  chore Lindsay.  And I get first dibs to talk to you about everything.”

She had a strange way of talking, so I let most of it go over my head.  “Perhaps the funeral parlour, I think the pastor said they were in one of them near the church.  Not their church, either.”

“I try not to get involved in heavy family stuff.  But I think you’ll find my father had something to do with that.  Blood is thicker than water, he says.  He says a lot of stuff I don’t understand.  Your dad like that?”

We reached the car, she unlocked it and we got in.  A RAM 2500.  Better than anything we could afford.

“Your car?”

“Mine, hell no.  This is Dad’s special truck, only comes out on hunting weekends and special occasions like weddings.  Damned if I know why he let me drive given my track record.” She shrugged.  “Perhaps it’s another of his tests.”

It sounded like a family trait because my father used to do the same.  I left her to the driving and pondered this whole other life that went on around us, ignored simply because my father hated his family.  Obviously, there was some deep-seated resentment generated at some point before he struck out on his own, and maybe I could find out.  Certainly, it seemed I was not going to be able to escape as easily as I had first imagined.

What worried me was suddenly meeting a whole host of people I’d never seen before but apparently knew everything about me.  I’d never have suspected my mother going behind my father’s back, but there was always that air of defiance in her, and in some of their arguments, they didn’t go nuclear, but she did stop talking to him or doing anything for him until he backed down.

A lesser woman would not have been much of anything up against him, which was why he married her.

Our first stop as requested was the funeral home.  There I was shown into a special room where both were in their caskets.  It was an open casket viewing, and while they had been restored to some of their former glory, my mother was almost unrecognisable.  I had the room to myself, and thankfully Allie didn’t come in because there were tears, even though I told myself there would not be.

My father, of course, never changed and looked the same forbidding person he’d always been.  I was sure somewhere within him there was kindness, but he never showed it to me.  Even so, it was still a shock to know that he had passed.

After a half hour, I came back out into the daylight.  Allie handed me a cup of coffee.

“I didn’t know if you wanted or needed something stronger, but we can drop into a bar on the way for some fortification if you like.  The next stop, I’m afraid, is the church.  Got a call to say the Bishop has arrived.  Our family has some brownie points and got the Bishop to come and say a few words.  I’m not a keep churchgoer either Lindsay.”

Were any of the younger generations?  Those attempts of his to put the fear of God in me never worked, probably because they tried too hard.  A more gentler and persuasive method would have had better results, but the priest was all fire and brimstone.  I don’t think I could remember one Sunday where the sermon had any levity in it.

“Perhaps if they tried to move into the 21st century, it might be better.  I heard that my father’s church Pastor is coming too.  He’s as old as the hills, and hopefully, he will not remember the errant and disappointing child I was.”

“Don’t count on it.  They keep everything in a big ledger, and it’s opened the day you go to heaven or hell.  Hell’s where I’m going, I’m sure of it.”

It was an amusing thought.  “Perhaps you’ll see me there, too.”

The Pastor was there with the local church leaders, and the Bishop, all very severe-looking men.  Granted it was a sombre occasion, but a little levity wouldn’t go astray.  I noted, firstly, the look they gave me was one of surprise, though I had no idea why, and secondly, they hardly approved of the mourning outfit on my chauffeur.  Granted it was low cut and the hem high, but it suited her, and in my mind rather a fashion statement, and appropriate.  This was not the nineteenth century.

That led to shock number two.  My father’s paster recognised me instantly, and the change of expression told me he remembered everyone one of my sins, some of which I still had to atone for.  That was not the reason for the shock, the fact I had to write a eulogy and read it was.  He had intimated such in the phone call but I had told him I preferred not to.  Perhaps he had been hard of hearing.

He was warm in his greeting though.  “Lindsay, so glad you could come, and, my, you have grown up into a fine young man.”

Grown-up, may, fine, that was debatable.  “They haven’t retired you yet?”  It was not meant to be antagonistic, but some memories of injustices never left you.

“There’s still a lot of God’s work to be done.  I see you have lost none of your candour.  Let us not dwell on the past, and consider only what lies ahead.  Your father was a good man, despite your differences, and his disposition.  I had urged him, in his last days, to reconcile with you, and I believe he was going to.”

“You knew a different man to me, Pastor.  But as you say, let us not dwell upon what was.  I think I said I preferred not to participate in the service.”

I saw the other Pastor and the Bishop approach.  I thought I remembered the Bishop, but not as a Bishop but as a simple priest, many years before.  The trouble was, they all looked the same to me.

“Marriot here tells me you are going to read your eulogy as part of the service.  I believe it’s the right thing to so, a fitting end to a life devoted to service to his country and his church.”

He gave me no chance of reneging, and at any rate, there was no denying a Bishop’s request, not if I wanted the wrath of God to befall me.

“Until tomorrow, Pastor Marriot said and left with the other two men.

“I can see that went swimmingly,” Allie said when she came back over.   It wasn’t hard to notice she was avoiding the Pastors and Bishop.

“An ambush.”

“Not getting out of the eulogy?”

“Apparently not.”

“Then write and read something wicked.  There’s going to be a packed house, so the audience will be in your hands.  The trouble is, people rarely bring up the bad stuff at funerals, and the lies they tell about people, it’s outrageous.  We had an in-law who died in a police shootout when he tried to rob a gas station.  Not one bad word.  It’s probably why they didn’t ask me to say anything.”

The thought did cross my mind, but no, I had enough respect for the occasion that I would say a few words.

“Well, the fun’s over,” she said.  “You now are about to meet all the people you never knew existed.”

The family had taken over a restaurant in a nearby town, and everyone had come to see the missing link.  I felt like a character out of Charles Darwin’s evolution book.

There were about 35, my father’s brother and two sisters, their children, my contemporaries, some grandchildren, and one very old lady, the sister of my grandfather who presided over the gathering like a Queen.  She was the first introduction, and from there, it was simply a sea of faces and names.

Inevitably I was asked why I had not tried to seek them out earlier, and that was complicated.  My father never told me about his family, and that one memory of my grandfather was fleeting and without context.  But the most sinister of reasons was the fact he had changed his surname, making it impossible to trace anyone.  While I knew he had siblings, I could never find them.  As for my mother, she said she would tell me the truth when he died.  That, of course, could not happen, which landed me where I was right now.  Even his priest did not know the truth until one of the family contacted him upon learning of my father’s death.

It was, quite simply, the most improbable of situations that most people could not believe possible.

The following day, over a hundred people arrived for the funeral, and it was a beautiful service on a perfect day.  My few but heartfelt words were delivered in a broken voice, by a person who should not have but was, overcome with emotion. 

Afterwards, when the bodies were lowered into their final resting place, in the family graveyard near my grandfather’s house, exactly as I had remembered it, I was sitting on the seat that overlooked the lake, wondering what it might have been like to like in such a house.  Allie had taken me on a guided tour, the house now a museum of sorts, where the family occupied the upper floors and the museum the lower, including that incredible library.

She was sitting next to me, the rock that had got me through a fairly traumatising day.

Shock number three:  She handed me an envelope with my name on it.  “We had to wait until your father died before it could be delivered.  It is a letter all of us in our generation, got when our grandfather died.”

“I’m surprised he considered me part of the family.”

“You were, and are, despite your father’s best efforts.  He knew about you, and everything you have done, until the day he died.  You can read it, or I can summarise it if you like.”

“You can tell me, I’m just too overwhelmed to read anything at the moment.”

“As you wish.  In essence, you and 7 of us, own equal shares in the old building over there.”  She nodded in its direction.  “You have a suite of rooms set aside, as each of us has, and a job helping in running the museum.  He particularly thought you would like to run the library and the research department.  There are a lot of historical documents, and books that are considered invaluable to researchers who come here from all over the world.  You might not want to, but the rest of us would love it if you did.  And there’s a pot of gold, literally at the end of the rainbow.  You can, if you so desire, become very, very wealthy.  Or just take an annuity as I do.  Too much money makes me anxious.  Now, you can stay in your rooms tonight, for as long as you want, and tomorrow we will all sit around the table and just talk.”

Just then I saw her turn towards the driveway and heard a car arriving.  She smiled.  “We also thought it might be too overwhelming on your own so we asked Wendy to come.  I hope you don’t mind?”

It was odd because she was on my mind at that exact moment she arrived, and exactly the person I wanted to see.

As I crossed the lawn and reached the car as she got out, and saw the house, there was a look of recognition, surprise and something else I couldn’t place.

“Is this where you grew up?” she asked.

“No.  I’d only seen it once when I was ten when my parents came to attend my grandmother’s funeral.  Why?”

“Because this is very, very familiar.  I lived here with my mother until I was fifteen when she died and I was sent to live with my aunt in New York.  I remember a day when a boy came, and stayed in the library, and refused to come and play with me.  I was seven, I think, at the time.  It means I’ve known you forever, even if I did hate you to pieces then.  What a remarkable coincidence.”

“Serendipity,” Allie said.  “Welcome home, the both of you.”

…

©  Charles Heath 2023

…

“We’ve got a difficult one this time.”

It was the message left on my cell phone from Detective Inspector that sometimes threw work my way, usually difficult cases that didn’t have the usual clues leading to a resolution.

I’d been lucky in an old case I’d been researching for a mystery novel and discovered a pattern that, in the end, led to the discovery and resolution of seven other cases spanning thirty years.

It got me into Detective Inspector Clarissa Menzies’ world of criminal investigations, which benefited my research and writing, as well as provided her with another perspective on some of her cases.

I met her at the hospital and was surprised that it was outside a psychiatric ward.

“A little background first.  The person you’re about to meet, Angela O’Brien, found herself in a relationship with a criminal, James Dyson, who was portraying himself as a businessman.  Things were fine until she discovered who he was, and then, finding herself in too deep asked us to help find a way out.  Unfortunately, the best of intentions didn’t quite go the way we planned it.”

“Don’t tell me.  You recruited her to get the information you could use against him; you couldn’t resist having someone that close and not try to use it.”

Her expression told me that was exactly what happened.  “It was not what I wanted, but to get our help, they wanted something in return.”

“Let me guess.  Once she realised who he was and how dangerous he was, she changed.  He noticed the change, and when she tried to get the information, he caught her.”

“She was lucky.  She was in the wrong place at the wrong time and didn’t get to see or take anything.  He was just overly suspicious, realising that sooner or later, she would find out.”

“I’m assuming she is in the psych ward, which means…”

“The Barnsdale warehouse fire.  He was using it as a processing centre for stolen goods inside the legitimate organisation trading in second-hand goods and claimed, out of spite, she burned the place to the ground.  We found her there, covered in incriminating evidence, unconscious from a beam that fell on her as a result of the fire.  The thing is, she has no memory of the night, how she got there, or anything.  He’s made all the running in this case, accusing her of arson and demanding we charge her.  The only problem is that there was another body in that fire, one of his associates, and we think he murdered him, and the way it’s going, if she can’t remember anything, she will end up paying for his crime.  All she can remember is the word Kaleidoscope.”

“How will my talking to her make a difference if her memory is gone?”

“You will no doubt have a completely different perspective on the whole affair, especially since I’m not going to tell you anymore.  Treat her as a suspect in one of your stories and ask questions.  All you need to know is that it was a crime scene, a man was murdered, the fire is covering that up, and she has been set up to take the fall.  It might end up being your next novel.”

“Will you be staying?”

“No.  I’ll tell her you are helping us with the case and you have some questions.”

For a victim found in a burnt-out building, she seemed remarkably untouched.  Except for bandages on her head and some red welts on her hands, there was little other evidence of her ordeal.  She was middle-aged and had the appearance of a woman who had devoted herself to the job, forsaking marriage and children.   Larissa hadn’t told me her circumstances, but I suspect she may have worked in his organisation, and he had targeted her.  Or the circumstances might be totally different.

Clarissa introduced me and then left.  I sat down, aware she was giving me the once over, her expression conveying curiosity and wariness.

“The detective says you might be able to help me remember.  Are you a doctor?”

“No, but I do have a degree in psychology, not that I ever wanted to be a psychologist.  It sometimes helps analyse people, more to put me at ease in their company than anything else.”

“You’re going to analyse me then?”

“Do you want me to?”

“If it discovers how I could have made such a stupid mistake, yes.  I mean, I’m sure I knew there was something about him, but I just ignored it until it was too late.”

“We are either willing to compromise in order to get what we want or not, and finish up becoming old and bitter.  The fact that it turns out to be the wrong one, it’s just a mistake we learn from and generally move on from.  Rarely does it end up like your current situation.  But, in your favour, the Inspector doesn’t believe you are either a murderer or an arsonist, despite the circumstantial evidence.  However, it would help if you remembered something, anything from that night. So, tell me the last thing you remember?”

“Getting ready to go out.”

“Was this when you realised, he was on to the fact you knew who he was.”

“It wouldn’t be hard, try as I might, I couldn’t get over the horror and knowing I’d been with such a terrible man.”

“Did he change in any way towards you?”

“Not that I could tell, but then he was a good actor.”

“Do you know where he was taking you?”

“No.”

“Was there a place you’d normally go?”

“Yes.  A small restaurant owned by a friend of his.  When things were good, we’d all dine together and talk about the future.  He had been talking about spending a few months in Sorrento, Italy.  He had relations there, he said.  It would have been nice.”

I’d been there once.  The place was nice, but the circumstances were not.  I’d gone there to try and patch up a relationship, but it only made matters worse. 

“It would be reasonable to assume he knew you were gathering information and was distancing you from his friends.”

“Do you remember him coming to get you?”

“No.”  Then she closed her eyes and had the look of a person trying to squeeze those memories out of their hiding place.  After a minute, and then two, with various pained expressions on her face, and then she opened her eyes and looked at me.  “He looked worried, even frightened.  I can see his face, whether it was that night or not, he was standing in the doorway.  It might have been when he found out I had been to the police, it might not.  Now that I come to think of it, he did mention once to his friend at the restaurant, that a certain other person was trying to move in on his business.”

“Which might mean that someone else burned down the warehouse and you were there by coincidence.”

“Perhaps.  We often dropped in after hours and looked at the new stock that came in that day.  I had no idea at the time that any of it was stolen goods, but a lot of it was high quality and worth a lot of money.  It seems that he was filling orders; someone would come in and ask for a particular item, and he would go find it.  Or, as I know now, steal it.  Some of the people who worked for him didn’t look like nice people, and when I asked about them, he simply said he was doing civic duty, giving ex-prisoners a second chance.  Oh, another thing I remember, he had a register where everything that passed through the warehouse was kept, including where it came from, who bought it, and how much.  I saw it once; showed it to me and then put it away in a large safe.  I knew the combination; I’d seen him open it.  All I can remember now is that I was going to steal it.  Somehow.”

“You had a plan?”

“No, it was going to be based on opportunity.  But it was dragging out, because he never let me out of his sight, not after I think he realised what I was doing.”

“Any other places he would take you?”

“Little cafes, another restaurant run by another friend, not as good as the other, and several nightclubs.  He would sit with other business owners, he called them, and the women, well in most cases girls that look like they still went to school, were shunted to one side.  We didn’t want to hear about boring commerce.  I didn’t want to listen to girls who could easily be my children, and they thought it strange he would date me, after his last girl, about 20 they said, had more class than I ever would.  When I asked where she was, they didn’t know.”

“You told Clarissa this?”

“Yes.  After seeing all of them for the first time, I had to wonder why he was dating me.  If I was cynical, I’d say it was to make me a patsy.  My guess is the guy they found dead in the ruins was the guy trying to buy him out.”

“What were the nightclub names, do you remember?”

She did, in part, but it was enough.  If that was a usual haunt, maybe they’d gone to one first.  It was a lead worth following.

When I suggested Clarissa and I go to a few nightclubs, I was not sure what her first thought was, but I hastily added that Angela may have visited one before she ended up in the warehouse inferno, she looked relieved.  Perhaps she thought I might be trying to get a date with her, an idea that had passed through my mind, but I knew that would be impossible.  Work, for the moment, was her priority, and trying to move up the ranks.

The first two had little to offer, and showing each of the bartenders Angela’s photo did not rouse any signs of recognition.  I could tell, even if they were lying.

The third and last were bigger, brighter, and full of people.  Clarissa recognised a few, from the other side of the law, as well as a few colleagues mixing with people they should not.  It was called Axiom and had continuous blinking coloured lights, like, Clarissa suddenly said, a Kaleidoscope.

“Did you know she was referring to Axiom when she mentioned the word Kaleidoscope?”  She had to yell about the white noise all around us, and the thumping music in the background.

“It was a long shot at best.  When she mentioned he had taken her to places like this, it gave me the idea.”

Clarissa brought out the photo and went, one by one, to each of the bartenders showing the photo of Angela.  Three recognised her, but it was east to see they were lying about it.  The fourth said she had been in the night of the fire, with the man, and there had nearly been a ‘set to’ as she called it, resulting in the other man being thrown out.

That was when I discovered Clarissa had had dealings with the owners before, and she picked one out, sitting over the back of the club, surrounded by young women, and went straight over to him.  He tried to distance himself from the girls, some of which looked underaged but failed.

“Phillip,” she said.  “You do not appear to have learned anything since I was last here, have you?”

He glared at her, then stood.  “What do you want, Clarissa?”

“CCTV for the night of the 3rd.  There was a scuffle and an ejection.  Show me, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“You know I can’t do that.  Privacy and all?”

“Then how about I arrest three of these girls and take them down to the station and find out how old they are?”  She pulled out her cell phone and brought up the station house number.

“You look, then you go?”

“Of course.”

He took us out the back to a small room with a lanky young man named Wally lounging in a comfortable chair, watching half a dozen screens.  He was, according to Phillip, watching for drug transactions.  He ran a clean club wherever possible.  Any perpetrators and buyers were instantly removed.

He told Wally to bring up the feed from the night in question, and the scuffle in question occurred about an hour and a half before the first report of the warehouse fire.  Dyson was there, pushing and shoving back, he didn’t start the altercation, and then the bouncers moved in.  Two takeaways from the footage, the other man was someone both of us had seen before, and Angela appeared to be very drunk.  Only it looked more like she had been drugged. 

Ten minutes later, both were caught on CCTV, leaving by the front entrance, Dyson supporting her as if she had too much to drink.  Clarissa got copies of the footage for both events.  Then we left.

Clarissa had what she believed was enough probable cause to bring Dyson in for an interview.

I was allowed to observe from a room where I could see him but he couldn’t see me, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know others were nearby.  He loomed over at the window and it was an eerie feeling.

He was in a jovial mood because he obviously thought that he had left no evidence behind.  He hadn’t mentioned an altercation at Axiom with the business rival, now identified as Roger Davies’ and the dead man in the burnt warehouse.

Perhaps Dyson was hoping the body may have been incinerated, but it wasn’t.

Clarissa and her partner came in a sat down.  She had a small file with her, perhaps deceptively so to make him think their evidence if any wasn’t enough to worry about.

His lawyer sat silently, like a man who didn’t want to be there.  Did he know the truth?

“Mr Dyson, let’s go through your movements on the might of the warehouse fire.”

She glared at him, or perhaps it was a half grimace.  He was, she had said privately to me, an obnoxious little toad.

“‘We’ve done this.  If we’re going to rehash what non-evidence you’ve got…” he stood. “Then we’ve got better things to do.”

She shrugged.

“Then try telling us the truth, Mr Dyson.  I rarely asked questions in a third interview when I don’t already know the answer, so I suggest you sit down.”

“You’ve got nothing…”

She pushed a button on her phone and the screen directly in his line of sight started with the altercation at Axiom.

“Sit down Mr Dyson, and while you’re doing so try not to conjure up any more lies.”

So I had an argument with some loudmouth fool.”

“The loud-mouthed foil that ended up in your warehouse, very dead, Mr Dyson.”

“Angela’s Co-conspirator perhaps I don’t know maybe they conspired together to burn the place down.”

His eyes didn’t leave the screen though because I was sure he knew what was coming next.

“About that Mr Dyson.  How did the woman you see, quite obviously the so-called arsonist, completely out of it, and remain so even after she left the club?  Not someone who couldn’t strike a match let alone perform the perfect set-up that would need the skills of a seasoned well-trained arsonist.  Oh, and something else you need to consider.  She was drug tested when she was brought in.  A complete panel.  The doctor in the hospital she was taken was overzealous in doing her job.  Didn’t know until an hour ago.  Rohypnol Mr Dyson.  Now, let’s forget the histrionics, and blame others for your problem. From the top, let’s go through your movements on the day of the fire.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023

…

“We’ve got a difficult one this time.”

It was the message left on my cell phone from Detective Inspector that sometimes threw work my way, usually difficult cases that didn’t have the usual clues leading to a resolution.

I’d been lucky in an old case I’d been researching for a mystery novel and discovered a pattern that, in the end, led to the discovery and resolution of seven other cases spanning thirty years.

It got me into Detective Inspector Clarissa Menzies’ world of criminal investigations, which benefited my research and writing, as well as provided her with another perspective on some of her cases.

I met her at the hospital and was surprised that it was outside a psychiatric ward.

“A little background first.  The person you’re about to meet, Angela O’Brien, found herself in a relationship with a criminal, James Dyson, who was portraying himself as a businessman.  Things were fine until she discovered who he was, and then, finding herself in too deep asked us to help find a way out.  Unfortunately, the best of intentions didn’t quite go the way we planned it.”

“Don’t tell me.  You recruited her to get the information you could use against him; you couldn’t resist having someone that close and not try to use it.”

Her expression told me that was exactly what happened.  “It was not what I wanted, but to get our help, they wanted something in return.”

“Let me guess.  Once she realised who he was and how dangerous he was, she changed.  He noticed the change, and when she tried to get the information, he caught her.”

“She was lucky.  She was in the wrong place at the wrong time and didn’t get to see or take anything.  He was just overly suspicious, realising that sooner or later, she would find out.”

“I’m assuming she is in the psych ward, which means…”

“The Barnsdale warehouse fire.  He was using it as a processing centre for stolen goods inside the legitimate organisation trading in second-hand goods and claimed, out of spite, she burned the place to the ground.  We found her there, covered in incriminating evidence, unconscious from a beam that fell on her as a result of the fire.  The thing is, she has no memory of the night, how she got there, or anything.  He’s made all the running in this case, accusing her of arson and demanding we charge her.  The only problem is that there was another body in that fire, one of his associates, and we think he murdered him, and the way it’s going, if she can’t remember anything, she will end up paying for his crime.  All she can remember is the word Kaleidoscope.”

“How will my talking to her make a difference if her memory is gone?”

“You will no doubt have a completely different perspective on the whole affair, especially since I’m not going to tell you anymore.  Treat her as a suspect in one of your stories and ask questions.  All you need to know is that it was a crime scene, a man was murdered, the fire is covering that up, and she has been set up to take the fall.  It might end up being your next novel.”

“Will you be staying?”

“No.  I’ll tell her you are helping us with the case and you have some questions.”

For a victim found in a burnt-out building, she seemed remarkably untouched.  Except for bandages on her head and some red welts on her hands, there was little other evidence of her ordeal.  She was middle-aged and had the appearance of a woman who had devoted herself to the job, forsaking marriage and children.   Larissa hadn’t told me her circumstances, but I suspect she may have worked in his organisation, and he had targeted her.  Or the circumstances might be totally different.

Clarissa introduced me and then left.  I sat down, aware she was giving me the once over, her expression conveying curiosity and wariness.

“The detective says you might be able to help me remember.  Are you a doctor?”

“No, but I do have a degree in psychology, not that I ever wanted to be a psychologist.  It sometimes helps analyse people, more to put me at ease in their company than anything else.”

“You’re going to analyse me then?”

“Do you want me to?”

“If it discovers how I could have made such a stupid mistake, yes.  I mean, I’m sure I knew there was something about him, but I just ignored it until it was too late.”

“We are either willing to compromise in order to get what we want or not, and finish up becoming old and bitter.  The fact that it turns out to be the wrong one, it’s just a mistake we learn from and generally move on from.  Rarely does it end up like your current situation.  But, in your favour, the Inspector doesn’t believe you are either a murderer or an arsonist, despite the circumstantial evidence.  However, it would help if you remembered something, anything from that night. So, tell me the last thing you remember?”

“Getting ready to go out.”

“Was this when you realised, he was on to the fact you knew who he was.”

“It wouldn’t be hard, try as I might, I couldn’t get over the horror and knowing I’d been with such a terrible man.”

“Did he change in any way towards you?”

“Not that I could tell, but then he was a good actor.”

“Do you know where he was taking you?”

“No.”

“Was there a place you’d normally go?”

“Yes.  A small restaurant owned by a friend of his.  When things were good, we’d all dine together and talk about the future.  He had been talking about spending a few months in Sorrento, Italy.  He had relations there, he said.  It would have been nice.”

I’d been there once.  The place was nice, but the circumstances were not.  I’d gone there to try and patch up a relationship, but it only made matters worse. 

“It would be reasonable to assume he knew you were gathering information and was distancing you from his friends.”

“Do you remember him coming to get you?”

“No.”  Then she closed her eyes and had the look of a person trying to squeeze those memories out of their hiding place.  After a minute, and then two, with various pained expressions on her face, and then she opened her eyes and looked at me.  “He looked worried, even frightened.  I can see his face, whether it was that night or not, he was standing in the doorway.  It might have been when he found out I had been to the police, it might not.  Now that I come to think of it, he did mention once to his friend at the restaurant, that a certain other person was trying to move in on his business.”

“Which might mean that someone else burned down the warehouse and you were there by coincidence.”

“Perhaps.  We often dropped in after hours and looked at the new stock that came in that day.  I had no idea at the time that any of it was stolen goods, but a lot of it was high quality and worth a lot of money.  It seems that he was filling orders; someone would come in and ask for a particular item, and he would go find it.  Or, as I know now, steal it.  Some of the people who worked for him didn’t look like nice people, and when I asked about them, he simply said he was doing civic duty, giving ex-prisoners a second chance.  Oh, another thing I remember, he had a register where everything that passed through the warehouse was kept, including where it came from, who bought it, and how much.  I saw it once; showed it to me and then put it away in a large safe.  I knew the combination; I’d seen him open it.  All I can remember now is that I was going to steal it.  Somehow.”

“You had a plan?”

“No, it was going to be based on opportunity.  But it was dragging out, because he never let me out of his sight, not after I think he realised what I was doing.”

“Any other places he would take you?”

“Little cafes, another restaurant run by another friend, not as good as the other, and several nightclubs.  He would sit with other business owners, he called them, and the women, well in most cases girls that look like they still went to school, were shunted to one side.  We didn’t want to hear about boring commerce.  I didn’t want to listen to girls who could easily be my children, and they thought it strange he would date me, after his last girl, about 20 they said, had more class than I ever would.  When I asked where she was, they didn’t know.”

“You told Clarissa this?”

“Yes.  After seeing all of them for the first time, I had to wonder why he was dating me.  If I was cynical, I’d say it was to make me a patsy.  My guess is the guy they found dead in the ruins was the guy trying to buy him out.”

“What were the nightclub names, do you remember?”

She did, in part, but it was enough.  If that was a usual haunt, maybe they’d gone to one first.  It was a lead worth following.

When I suggested Clarissa and I go to a few nightclubs, I was not sure what her first thought was, but I hastily added that Angela may have visited one before she ended up in the warehouse inferno, she looked relieved.  Perhaps she thought I might be trying to get a date with her, an idea that had passed through my mind, but I knew that would be impossible.  Work, for the moment, was her priority, and trying to move up the ranks.

The first two had little to offer, and showing each of the bartenders Angela’s photo did not rouse any signs of recognition.  I could tell, even if they were lying.

The third and last were bigger, brighter, and full of people.  Clarissa recognised a few, from the other side of the law, as well as a few colleagues mixing with people they should not.  It was called Axiom and had continuous blinking coloured lights, like, Clarissa suddenly said, a Kaleidoscope.

“Did you know she was referring to Axiom when she mentioned the word Kaleidoscope?”  She had to yell about the white noise all around us, and the thumping music in the background.

“It was a long shot at best.  When she mentioned he had taken her to places like this, it gave me the idea.”

Clarissa brought out the photo and went, one by one, to each of the bartenders showing the photo of Angela.  Three recognised her, but it was east to see they were lying about it.  The fourth said she had been in the night of the fire, with the man, and there had nearly been a ‘set to’ as she called it, resulting in the other man being thrown out.

That was when I discovered Clarissa had had dealings with the owners before, and she picked one out, sitting over the back of the club, surrounded by young women, and went straight over to him.  He tried to distance himself from the girls, some of which looked underaged but failed.

“Phillip,” she said.  “You do not appear to have learned anything since I was last here, have you?”

He glared at her, then stood.  “What do you want, Clarissa?”

“CCTV for the night of the 3rd.  There was a scuffle and an ejection.  Show me, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“You know I can’t do that.  Privacy and all?”

“Then how about I arrest three of these girls and take them down to the station and find out how old they are?”  She pulled out her cell phone and brought up the station house number.

“You look, then you go?”

“Of course.”

He took us out the back to a small room with a lanky young man named Wally lounging in a comfortable chair, watching half a dozen screens.  He was, according to Phillip, watching for drug transactions.  He ran a clean club wherever possible.  Any perpetrators and buyers were instantly removed.

He told Wally to bring up the feed from the night in question, and the scuffle in question occurred about an hour and a half before the first report of the warehouse fire.  Dyson was there, pushing and shoving back, he didn’t start the altercation, and then the bouncers moved in.  Two takeaways from the footage, the other man was someone both of us had seen before, and Angela appeared to be very drunk.  Only it looked more like she had been drugged. 

Ten minutes later, both were caught on CCTV, leaving by the front entrance, Dyson supporting her as if she had too much to drink.  Clarissa got copies of the footage for both events.  Then we left.

Clarissa had what she believed was enough probable cause to bring Dyson in for an interview.

I was allowed to observe from a room where I could see him but he couldn’t see me, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know others were nearby.  He loomed over at the window and it was an eerie feeling.

He was in a jovial mood because he obviously thought that he had left no evidence behind.  He hadn’t mentioned an altercation at Axiom with the business rival, now identified as Roger Davies’ and the dead man in the burnt warehouse.

Perhaps Dyson was hoping the body may have been incinerated, but it wasn’t.

Clarissa and her partner came in a sat down.  She had a small file with her, perhaps deceptively so to make him think their evidence if any wasn’t enough to worry about.

His lawyer sat silently, like a man who didn’t want to be there.  Did he know the truth?

“Mr Dyson, let’s go through your movements on the might of the warehouse fire.”

She glared at him, or perhaps it was a half grimace.  He was, she had said privately to me, an obnoxious little toad.

“‘We’ve done this.  If we’re going to rehash what non-evidence you’ve got…” he stood. “Then we’ve got better things to do.”

She shrugged.

“Then try telling us the truth, Mr Dyson.  I rarely asked questions in a third interview when I don’t already know the answer, so I suggest you sit down.”

“You’ve got nothing…”

She pushed a button on her phone and the screen directly in his line of sight started with the altercation at Axiom.

“Sit down Mr Dyson, and while you’re doing so try not to conjure up any more lies.”

So I had an argument with some loudmouth fool.”

“The loud-mouthed foil that ended up in your warehouse, very dead, Mr Dyson.”

“Angela’s Co-conspirator perhaps I don’t know maybe they conspired together to burn the place down.”

His eyes didn’t leave the screen though because I was sure he knew what was coming next.

“About that Mr Dyson.  How did the woman you see, quite obviously the so-called arsonist, completely out of it, and remain so even after she left the club?  Not someone who couldn’t strike a match let alone perform the perfect set-up that would need the skills of a seasoned well-trained arsonist.  Oh, and something else you need to consider.  She was drug tested when she was brought in.  A complete panel.  The doctor in the hospital she was taken was overzealous in doing her job.  Didn’t know until an hour ago.  Rohypnol Mr Dyson.  Now, let’s forget the histrionics, and blame others for your problem. From the top, let’s go through your movements on the day of the fire.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023

…

I remember the last conversation I had with my father the day he died.

It had taken three months of my life, giving up everything to make sure his last days were bearable, all with the expectation that it would be a thankless task he would not appreciate.  Three months of dismissive retorts, insults, insufferable behaviour, cryptic comments, and sometimes, in less lucid moments, ramblings about places he’d been, and discoveries made.

Neither of my brothers wanted anything to do with him, other than to wait for the selfish bastard to die and leave them their sufferance money, their expectation of an incalculable inheritance, and it was left to me, the youngest son, and in their eyes the one he cared about the most to take responsibility.

I didn’t have the heart, nor was I given the opportunity, to tell them I was not the golden boy they thought I was.  Or the fact there was no incalculable inheritance.

But there was that conversation, one I never expected to have.

I’d left the room for a break, heading to the hospital cafeteria for coffee and a croissant.  Amelia, one of two dedicated nurses looking after my father, was there, having a coffee before she started her shift.  We had become friends of a sort, each other’s go-to person when my father unravelled on us.

Yesterday’s revelations were about his will, and which one, if there was one, was current.  His mind changed weekly, including who was in and who was out, which made it especially interesting because he sometimes didn’t remember any of all of us.  Or the fact his wife, our mother, had died twenty years before after being dragged along on one of his archaeological adventures.

Yesterday, I was getting nothing, his rant about the child, not knowing I was in the room with him.  He simply didn’t recognise me.  Everything, he said, was going to Elroy, the eldest brother, who, apparently, was in the room with us.

The brain tumour was affecting him more each passing day, and symptoms and behaviour the doctors had told me from the outset, would demonstrate indescribable and at times confronting behaviour.  I think, in that three months, I’d seen it all.

“Another day, not another million dollars, eh Steven?”  She smiled.  She’d caught the last of the spray he gave me.  She was amused by my eligibility as a so-called wealthy bachelor, which changed from week to week.  This week, it was zero wealth, no eligibility.

“I was hoping to propose, but once again, I can’t afford the ring, the wedding, or the honeymoon.”

“You know what I expect, a soda can ring pull, my parent’s backyard, and a B and B in Yonkers.  If I’m lucky.  My parents might charge rent for using their backyard.”

We joked about it, but I’d thought more than once in the last few weeks to ask her on a date, but after telling me about her last breakup and the horrid man, she’d sworn off dating for life.  She was the only light in days of darkness.

“Everything comes to he or she who waits.  I’m sure the right one is out there somewhere.”

“We can only hope.  He had a quiet night, I’m told, and the end is near.  Twice the night nurse had thought he’d died.  Maybe he’s finally done.”

I could only hope.  “Got anything lined up for the weekend?”

She grimaced.  I knew that look.  Duty and obligation led to an inquisition.

“Going home to visit mum and dad, and see the perfect sisters with their perfect families, each with their perfect husband with perfect jobs, and why I’m not married, have no children in a dead-end job.  I sometimes wonder if I should ask you to pretend to be my perfect husband just to get them off my back.  What do you think?”

It was an idea that sent a shiver through me when it shouldn’t.

“I’m not perfect.”

“Nobody is, Steven, except in my family.  Tell you what, the more I think about it….”  Then she shook her head.  “I think I’m going mad.  I’ll see you later.”  She rushed off, and I was not sure if she was late starting or embarrassed by thinking out loud.

It was an idea.  Maybe I’d mention it later.

I opened the curtains covering the windows and looked at the frail man either asleep or feigning sleep.  It was hard to tell.  He was, after the ravages of age and illness, now only a fraction of what he used to be, a big, strong force of nature. 

I arranged the array of newspapers I’d brought with me, just in case he wanted me to read stories from them, or just one.  I had several Dickens novels, which I’d read to him at night.  He liked the classics and Dickens in particular.  I had a bottle of scotch, which we had a drink of sometimes.  Other times, I was not allowed because he thought I was too young.  It was amusing.

Every morning was a waiting game, where I would wait until he spoke to me unless one of the medical staff interrupted this charade.  It seemed to amuse him, and because he was dying, I played along.

Reading the newspaper while waiting, I found a story on page 6 of the local rag, my father’s description of it because he had never anything nice to say about it, or the reporting because the editor was an arch enemy if his, about his impending demise, and how he had been the counties most distinguished archaeologist and celebrity.  It refrained from mentioning he could be and often was abrasive.

“Alfred Biggins in serious condition.” Followed by a catchy subtitled, “Not expected to live.”

It was rather a belatedly written story written by a friend, of sorts; “stodgy”, so named because his journalistic talent was simply writing the facts.  It was a mishmash of everything he’d got from me in a bar the previous Friday in what he thought was a well-disguised interrogation. It was not.  Having every intention of trying to keep the wolves from the door, I managed to head off an assassination piece; those would come from various sources after his death.

“Is that you, Steven?”  My father was awake, and I braced myself.

I put the paper down and looked over to see him sitting up.  If I was to guess, he didn’t look ill or half mad at all, just his usual self.  “It is me.  What can I get you?”

“Nothing I can’t get for myself.  What are you doing here?  What am I doing here?”

OK.  Something was very wrong here.  This person in the bed was not my father.  “You have a brain tumour and you’ve been in a very bad way.  In fact, the night nurse had thought you’d died.  Twice.”

“Died?  Brain tumour?  There’s nothing wrong with me.  I feel fine.”

Then I remembered what the doctor had said a month or so ago when we went through a similar phase.  This moment of clarity wouldn’t last.

“Dad, believe me, you are unwell, and this is just a temporary remission.  The doctor will be here soon and will explain it.”

“Then if I’m ill as you say, where are your brothers?”

“They wanted nothing to do with you once you were put in here.  They delegated me to keep you company.  I’m sure you don’t remember any of this, but it’s been three months now, and it’s getting worse.”

He shook his head and went quiet.  It was as if he was taking in the enormity of it, or just that he didn’t believe it could happen to him.  A few minutes passed, and I wondered if he had slipped back into the fog.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at me.  “Yes.  Some of it I remember, firstly going down like a sack of potatoes in Cairo, waking up in some damn hospital with a witch doctor trying to peer into my soul.  Said I had a tumour and it needed to be seen to, said I had six months, at best to live. Of course, I laughed at him, came home, and then the last thing I know was falling over in the study at home.”

“It’s where I found you.  It was a day before I came home.  Scared the living hell out of me.”

“How long since that day?”1

“Three months almost to the day.”

“Plus the three before that, that’s the six months.  I’m on borrowed time.  There’s a journal in the study.  I don’t remember where I put it, but it’s in a safe place.  If I remember before I die, I’ll tell you, but I think that’s a long shot at best.  The will is in a copy of the 1933 Guide to Touring Egypt.  Basically the money goes to the other two, and the house goes to you.  They don’t need a house and they’d only sell it if I left it to them.  The money with more than compensate them.  I should change it and leave the money to a lost dog’s home, but it’s too late.  I’m sorry for a lot of things Steven, but what’s in the journal will make up for everything.  Two things, don’t tell anyone about it, or what’s in there.  Ever.  The other, watch out for Professor Moriarty.  Yes, I know it sounds stupid because he’s a foe of Sherlock Holmes, but I’m not joking.  The man is dangerous. and he’s after the same thing you are.  Now, be a good boy and get me some cold water.”

I looked at him, trying to fathom if he was having me on.  It wouldn’t surprise me.  Whether or not this was one of those lucid moments, or he was just a very good actor, I couldn’t tell.  But Professor Moriarty?  Please.  That was where I drew the line.  I took the jug and headed to the cold water dispenser.

Amelia passed as I was filling the jug.  “How is he today?”

“The weirdest thing.  Until he mentioned Professor Moriarty, I thought he’d woken and was lucid again.  Certainly, the conversation was better than anything we’d had before, even before being admitted to the hospital.”

“Maybe some of it was, and his mind just wandered.  Ask him again when you see him.  I’ll be there soon.”

I’d just picked up the jug when I heard a scream, and it sounded like it came from my father’s room.  I left the jug and ran.  I arrived at the same time as the doctor and two nurses, to see him trying to get out of bed, yelling, “He’s trying to get me, he’s trying to get me,  Help.”  He was literally fighting the doctor and nurse off.

Suddenly he went limp in their arms, and they managed to get him back on the bed.  With one look at him, the doctor immediately checked for a pulse.  A minute later, with a shake of the head, he looked at the clock on the wall.  “Time of death, 8:43 am.”  He turned to me.  “Your father just passed.  I’m sorry for your loss.  We’ll give you a moment alone with him.”

It grieved me in the sense that I had not been with him in his last moments alive.  But, it also surprised me that I didn’t feel more now that he was dead.  All those years of making us children a second priority perhaps had made us more immune from his loss than it should.  I sat for a minute and held his hand, quite cold, but not because of death.  His hands had always been cold.

It was then I noticed the piece of paper under the pillow, just showing.  I pulled it out.  He must have made a note in those moments of clarity.

I pulled it out and read it.

“If I am dead, then leave.  Now.  Don’t wait around because it will only invite trouble.  Go home.  Look for the journal.  Trust no one.”

I might have ignored that note had it not for the sound of raised voices coming from the nurse’s station, one being a man who was demanding to see my father.

A last look at him, a memory of a man who no longer looked like my father, and I left.  Just about to leave by the side exit I could hear the doctor saying, “You cannot be here, Professor Moriarty, and if you persist, I will call the police.”

…

© Charles Heath 2023

…

I remember the last conversation I had with my father the day he died.

It had taken three months of my life, giving up everything to make sure his last days were bearable, all with the expectation that it would be a thankless task he would not appreciate.  Three months of dismissive retorts, insults, insufferable behaviour, cryptic comments, and sometimes, in less lucid moments, ramblings about places he’d been, and discoveries made.

Neither of my brothers wanted anything to do with him, other than to wait for the selfish bastard to die and leave them their sufferance money, their expectation of an incalculable inheritance, and it was left to me, the youngest son, and in their eyes the one he cared about the most to take responsibility.

I didn’t have the heart, nor was I given the opportunity, to tell them I was not the golden boy they thought I was.  Or the fact there was no incalculable inheritance.

But there was that conversation, one I never expected to have.

I’d left the room for a break, heading to the hospital cafeteria for coffee and a croissant.  Amelia, one of two dedicated nurses looking after my father, was there, having a coffee before she started her shift.  We had become friends of a sort, each other’s go-to person when my father unravelled on us.

Yesterday’s revelations were about his will, and which one, if there was one, was current.  His mind changed weekly, including who was in and who was out, which made it especially interesting because he sometimes didn’t remember any of all of us.  Or the fact his wife, our mother, had died twenty years before after being dragged along on one of his archaeological adventures.

Yesterday, I was getting nothing, his rant about the child, not knowing I was in the room with him.  He simply didn’t recognise me.  Everything, he said, was going to Elroy, the eldest brother, who, apparently, was in the room with us.

The brain tumour was affecting him more each passing day, and symptoms and behaviour the doctors had told me from the outset, would demonstrate indescribable and at times confronting behaviour.  I think, in that three months, I’d seen it all.

“Another day, not another million dollars, eh Steven?”  She smiled.  She’d caught the last of the spray he gave me.  She was amused by my eligibility as a so-called wealthy bachelor, which changed from week to week.  This week, it was zero wealth, no eligibility.

“I was hoping to propose, but once again, I can’t afford the ring, the wedding, or the honeymoon.”

“You know what I expect, a soda can ring pull, my parent’s backyard, and a B and B in Yonkers.  If I’m lucky.  My parents might charge rent for using their backyard.”

We joked about it, but I’d thought more than once in the last few weeks to ask her on a date, but after telling me about her last breakup and the horrid man, she’d sworn off dating for life.  She was the only light in days of darkness.

“Everything comes to he or she who waits.  I’m sure the right one is out there somewhere.”

“We can only hope.  He had a quiet night, I’m told, and the end is near.  Twice the night nurse had thought he’d died.  Maybe he’s finally done.”

I could only hope.  “Got anything lined up for the weekend?”

She grimaced.  I knew that look.  Duty and obligation led to an inquisition.

“Going home to visit mum and dad, and see the perfect sisters with their perfect families, each with their perfect husband with perfect jobs, and why I’m not married, have no children in a dead-end job.  I sometimes wonder if I should ask you to pretend to be my perfect husband just to get them off my back.  What do you think?”

It was an idea that sent a shiver through me when it shouldn’t.

“I’m not perfect.”

“Nobody is, Steven, except in my family.  Tell you what, the more I think about it….”  Then she shook her head.  “I think I’m going mad.  I’ll see you later.”  She rushed off, and I was not sure if she was late starting or embarrassed by thinking out loud.

It was an idea.  Maybe I’d mention it later.

I opened the curtains covering the windows and looked at the frail man either asleep or feigning sleep.  It was hard to tell.  He was, after the ravages of age and illness, now only a fraction of what he used to be, a big, strong force of nature. 

I arranged the array of newspapers I’d brought with me, just in case he wanted me to read stories from them, or just one.  I had several Dickens novels, which I’d read to him at night.  He liked the classics and Dickens in particular.  I had a bottle of scotch, which we had a drink of sometimes.  Other times, I was not allowed because he thought I was too young.  It was amusing.

Every morning was a waiting game, where I would wait until he spoke to me unless one of the medical staff interrupted this charade.  It seemed to amuse him, and because he was dying, I played along.

Reading the newspaper while waiting, I found a story on page 6 of the local rag, my father’s description of it because he had never anything nice to say about it, or the reporting because the editor was an arch enemy if his, about his impending demise, and how he had been the counties most distinguished archaeologist and celebrity.  It refrained from mentioning he could be and often was abrasive.

“Alfred Biggins in serious condition.” Followed by a catchy subtitled, “Not expected to live.”

It was rather a belatedly written story written by a friend, of sorts; “stodgy”, so named because his journalistic talent was simply writing the facts.  It was a mishmash of everything he’d got from me in a bar the previous Friday in what he thought was a well-disguised interrogation. It was not.  Having every intention of trying to keep the wolves from the door, I managed to head off an assassination piece; those would come from various sources after his death.

“Is that you, Steven?”  My father was awake, and I braced myself.

I put the paper down and looked over to see him sitting up.  If I was to guess, he didn’t look ill or half mad at all, just his usual self.  “It is me.  What can I get you?”

“Nothing I can’t get for myself.  What are you doing here?  What am I doing here?”

OK.  Something was very wrong here.  This person in the bed was not my father.  “You have a brain tumour and you’ve been in a very bad way.  In fact, the night nurse had thought you’d died.  Twice.”

“Died?  Brain tumour?  There’s nothing wrong with me.  I feel fine.”

Then I remembered what the doctor had said a month or so ago when we went through a similar phase.  This moment of clarity wouldn’t last.

“Dad, believe me, you are unwell, and this is just a temporary remission.  The doctor will be here soon and will explain it.”

“Then if I’m ill as you say, where are your brothers?”

“They wanted nothing to do with you once you were put in here.  They delegated me to keep you company.  I’m sure you don’t remember any of this, but it’s been three months now, and it’s getting worse.”

He shook his head and went quiet.  It was as if he was taking in the enormity of it, or just that he didn’t believe it could happen to him.  A few minutes passed, and I wondered if he had slipped back into the fog.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at me.  “Yes.  Some of it I remember, firstly going down like a sack of potatoes in Cairo, waking up in some damn hospital with a witch doctor trying to peer into my soul.  Said I had a tumour and it needed to be seen to, said I had six months, at best to live. Of course, I laughed at him, came home, and then the last thing I know was falling over in the study at home.”

“It’s where I found you.  It was a day before I came home.  Scared the living hell out of me.”

“How long since that day?”1

“Three months almost to the day.”

“Plus the three before that, that’s the six months.  I’m on borrowed time.  There’s a journal in the study.  I don’t remember where I put it, but it’s in a safe place.  If I remember before I die, I’ll tell you, but I think that’s a long shot at best.  The will is in a copy of the 1933 Guide to Touring Egypt.  Basically the money goes to the other two, and the house goes to you.  They don’t need a house and they’d only sell it if I left it to them.  The money with more than compensate them.  I should change it and leave the money to a lost dog’s home, but it’s too late.  I’m sorry for a lot of things Steven, but what’s in the journal will make up for everything.  Two things, don’t tell anyone about it, or what’s in there.  Ever.  The other, watch out for Professor Moriarty.  Yes, I know it sounds stupid because he’s a foe of Sherlock Holmes, but I’m not joking.  The man is dangerous. and he’s after the same thing you are.  Now, be a good boy and get me some cold water.”

I looked at him, trying to fathom if he was having me on.  It wouldn’t surprise me.  Whether or not this was one of those lucid moments, or he was just a very good actor, I couldn’t tell.  But Professor Moriarty?  Please.  That was where I drew the line.  I took the jug and headed to the cold water dispenser.

Amelia passed as I was filling the jug.  “How is he today?”

“The weirdest thing.  Until he mentioned Professor Moriarty, I thought he’d woken and was lucid again.  Certainly, the conversation was better than anything we’d had before, even before being admitted to the hospital.”

“Maybe some of it was, and his mind just wandered.  Ask him again when you see him.  I’ll be there soon.”

I’d just picked up the jug when I heard a scream, and it sounded like it came from my father’s room.  I left the jug and ran.  I arrived at the same time as the doctor and two nurses, to see him trying to get out of bed, yelling, “He’s trying to get me, he’s trying to get me,  Help.”  He was literally fighting the doctor and nurse off.

Suddenly he went limp in their arms, and they managed to get him back on the bed.  With one look at him, the doctor immediately checked for a pulse.  A minute later, with a shake of the head, he looked at the clock on the wall.  “Time of death, 8:43 am.”  He turned to me.  “Your father just passed.  I’m sorry for your loss.  We’ll give you a moment alone with him.”

It grieved me in the sense that I had not been with him in his last moments alive.  But, it also surprised me that I didn’t feel more now that he was dead.  All those years of making us children a second priority perhaps had made us more immune from his loss than it should.  I sat for a minute and held his hand, quite cold, but not because of death.  His hands had always been cold.

It was then I noticed the piece of paper under the pillow, just showing.  I pulled it out.  He must have made a note in those moments of clarity.

I pulled it out and read it.

“If I am dead, then leave.  Now.  Don’t wait around because it will only invite trouble.  Go home.  Look for the journal.  Trust no one.”

I might have ignored that note had it not for the sound of raised voices coming from the nurse’s station, one being a man who was demanding to see my father.

A last look at him, a memory of a man who no longer looked like my father, and I left.  Just about to leave by the side exit I could hear the doctor saying, “You cannot be here, Professor Moriarty, and if you persist, I will call the police.”

…

© Charles Heath 2023