When the impossible becomes possible – a book publishing deal
…
All writers dream of getting a publishing deal. One book or three that euphoric feeling is the same.
But, just because the signature is on the contract, there is a process to be followed before you get to see that precious baby you spent the best part of your life on.
Like a child bent on leaving the nest, you do feel that reluctance in parting with it.
Of course, it doesn’t turn up in book form for quite a few months, even a year before the final product turns up on your doorstep, a box of copies to gift to your friends and family.
But…
Long before that, other, more important questions were being asked.
Have you got another book in you?
Here’s the thing. Everybody has one book in them. Most do not have any more. Some will have a series in mind and can churn one out every year.
Others will say they have another, but they will need time to consider what it’s going to be about, that this time they will plan rather than go with the flow, and then use any excuse not to write.
After all, don’t I have to go on a book signing tour?
As for myself, when it happens, I have at least twenty other books to pick from and could publish a new book every year.
When the impossible becomes possible – a book publishing deal
…
All writers dream of getting a publishing deal. One book or three that euphoric feeling is the same.
But, just because the signature is on the contract, there is a process to be followed before you get to see that precious baby you spent the best part of your life on.
Like a child bent on leaving the nest, you do feel that reluctance in parting with it.
Of course, it doesn’t turn up in book form for quite a few months, even a year before the final product turns up on your doorstep, a box of copies to gift to your friends and family.
But…
Long before that, other, more important questions were being asked.
Have you got another book in you?
Here’s the thing. Everybody has one book in them. Most do not have any more. Some will have a series in mind and can churn one out every year.
Others will say they have another, but they will need time to consider what it’s going to be about, that this time they will plan rather than go with the flow, and then use any excuse not to write.
After all, don’t I have to go on a book signing tour?
As for myself, when it happens, I have at least twenty other books to pick from and could publish a new book every year.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the Second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
…
War is hell.
I remembered an old Sargeant Major was telling us that going to war was not fun, that the very real possibility of getting killed should be the only thing on our minds.
Along with keeping your head down and being very aware of your surroundings.
Apparently, he had been at a place called Gallipoli, and from what I had read, that was a special kind of hell.
He had also said fifty per cent of us wouldn’t return. I hoped to be in the fifty per cent that did. Just to spite the old bastard.
I knew it was going to get problematical sooner than we thought, I could smell the aroma of burning bush on the air, and as we got closer to the castle, the smoke got denser.
Wallace had a cunning plan, he’d used flame throwers to set the bush on fire so we couldn’t get to the castle under the cover of the forest. It was a plan he hadn’t me about.
Carlo had stopped, also understanding what Wallace had done. Would this interfere with us getting to the external entrances, or if the other three were unattainable, could we get to the secret entrance?
I caught up to him. “Not exactly what we envisaged. I had no idea Wallace was planning this?”
“It is a logical move. He can’t leave the castle, and as it was, he knew the forest would give us cover until the very last moment.”
“And now?”
“Now we use another entrance. Take longer, but we’ll get there. Only problem, they will be expecting us, and waiting.”
The others joined me, just as Carlo did an about-face and started going back the way we came.
“Where is he going?” Blinky asked.
“Another way. Wallace is burning our cover.”
He shrugged. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for some rain?”
“Sadly no. Fine and clear with a touch of fog, well, smoke maybe.”
He didn’t think it was funny. War I guess could do that to you.
When Thompson and company were planning the operation that was set up primarily to get defecting Germans out of the country, there was only so much research that could be done.
It was one of the reasons I got a seat at the table, my exploits in Italy looking at ancient buildings suddenly became a red-hot reason to be included. The war had all but petered out in that part of the country, the Germans were shoring up the Italians, and the Allies had bigger plans to invade via Sicily, or one of those islands.
Someone mentioned something hush-hush about Italy and the road back to peace, but at that point in time, the end of the war was not in sight.
The point was, the castle was in a strategic location, it was only being held by a small garrison, according to the resistance, ideal for what Thompson wanted. Approvals gained, he sent in a team of German-speaking soldiers to replace those there, as if nothing had happened and then set up the pipeline.
It worked.
For a while anyway. Several months after the new team had set themselves up and the personnel was moving through, it all stopped.
First thought was the Germans had discovered what was going on and switched the team again. Until Thompson noted we were still getting reports from Wallace, one of his men on the ground.
That’s when Thompson decided to send me.
And. No, it was not just a matter of saying, great, I always wanted to holiday in Italy, and particularly Tuscany. My excuse, I was not trained to be a commando or a secret agent.
Of course, I made that one fatal mistake, I had enlisted to fight in the war, and it was not my decision where they sent me.
So, I was on the next plane to Tuscany.
The trouble was, Thompson and I both agreed that it was more likely the men we selected had not changed their allegiances, they just went back to what they were before. Wallace, Johannesen and Jackerby had all been extricated from blown missions, and Thompson had been left scratching his head as to who the mole was in his office.
Too many coincidences proved it wasn’t.
Except coincidentally, Thompson had teamed up all the traitors in one place.
So, my mission was twofold, first to ascertain if they were traitors, and, if they were, to execute them.
The next problem, the mission was almost over before it started, because even though Thompson had told Wallace the wrong pick-up point where my plane would be landing, cloud cover made it impossible to guarantee I’d be jumping at the correct spot.
As it turned out, the resistance had planned a huge ambush in exactly the same place my plane landed, and I was in the middle of it. The rest as they say is history.
The thing is, ever since I landed, I had the benefit of a huge amount of good luck.
That couldn’t last.
Carlo seemed unfazed about the fire, perhaps he had expected it, but his only concern was time. We had to be in the castle just as the explosions started.
With 23 minutes to go, Carlo stepped up the pace. For a big man, he didn’t make much noise. I wished I could say the same for myself.
Write a story that has the line, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”
…
I looked down at the woman who called herself my mother and shook my head.
It was hard to reconcile the fact that over two hundred people turned out for the funeral, one hundred and ninety-nine of them I had never seen or met before.
Ten of them had stood up in front of the mourners and reminisced on the life of a woman that I had no idea was the person they were describing.
Kind, generous, loving, a friend to everyone…
… except her son.
The one I knew, her lawyer, who was overseeing the execution of her will. That she would even remember me or put me in that will was a surprise. I hadn’t seen her in forty years, the day her latest husband kicked a naive and very frightened fifteen-year-old out of ‘his’ house when she was away.
He had been just the latest of terrible men she had taken up with after the sudden death of my father, a year before.
I left and never came back. I burned any letter that came from her until I eventually moved to the other side of the world and built a life of my own.
Until I got that fateful phone call.
My mother had died, and her last request was to find me. I had changed names and disappeared several times, and yet I’d been found.
How?
The lawyer summed it up in a half dozen sentences. She had a team of private investigators keep track of me. Once she discovered what her latest ‘boyfriend’ had done, she had kicked him to the curb, an interesting expression for a lawyer, and set about finding me. When I didn’t answer her letters, she didn’t lose interest. She just had them keep track of me, in case, one day, I changed my mind.
That I didn’t was her greatest sorrow.
I was of two minds whether to go back and attend the funeral, and nearly didn’t. That was Noelle’s doing, insisting the lawyer pay for two first-class tickets, which he did. That she said, spoke volumes, though not explaining what she meant.
Of course, Noelle knew the story. Like everything about my life, she had wheedled and cajoled it out of me over a long period of time. She knew when she met me, I was damaged goods, but I soon discovered she was everything I needed to heal.
I felt a hand slip into mine, and her aura enveloped me. “She has passed Ian, and she can’t hurt you anymore.”
That was a matter of opinion because seeing her again dredged up a lot of very good memories after that kind, generous person they described until my father died.
It seemed odd to me that none of the other one hundred and ninety-nine attendees were very interested in me or why I was there. But, then, nor was I interested in them. They just seemed to melt away, leaving almost as if there were rented mourners. Perhaps they were.
Ten minutes after the service, it was just the coffin, me, Noelle, and the lawyer, who had given me some time to be with her. I was surprised that I hadn’t just left with everyone else.
“As I said earlier, Ian, there will be a reading of her will back in my office on Wednesday, and you are specifically requested to attend.”
“Is there any point. I mean, after forty years, I hardly think we would ever remember she had a son.”
We’d had this same argument earlier, and he had no persuasive argument then. This time, he had come prepared. I could see an envelope in his hand.
“She knew that you might show some reluctance, so she wrote this letter,” he held up the envelope. “I urge you to read it. It might explain a few things about her, or it may not. I was not privy to the contents, only that I was given explicit instructions to give it to you at the funeral.”
He held it out. I looked at it, then Noelle, who nodded. I took it and put it in my coat pocket.
“Thank you, Ian. I am very sorry for your loss, and I will leave you now. Later, perhaps.”
He held out his hand, and I shook it. It was my mother I hated, not him.
I remained there with her until the casket was closed and taken away for the cremation she had requested.
It was a silent drive back to the quaint hotel Noelle had found for us, and the room, she pointed out, a king back in the so-called dark ages, had stayed there.
Given the modern look, I’d say that the King would not recognise the room now if he had stayed there, which was a remote possibility. Just the same as an advertising hook to start there, it worked.
The letter was sitting on the table between two very comfortable leather chairs, and after dinner downstairs in the dining room, we had opened a bottle of champagne and sat in front of the fireplace, which we were told was used in winter.
It was cold but not that cold, but as I picked up the envelope, I shivered.
Her ghost?
“What did you think it said?”
“Perhaps a belated apology. I don’t know. She’s had forty years to think about it.”
“Are you going to read it?”
That was a question I had churned over in my mind the whole way from the church to the hotel. Was there anything left to say, or anything she could say that would make a difference?
“Yes.”
The first few lines anyway. I opened the envelope and pulled out several sheets of lined paper, and at first glance showed very neat and legible handwritten script, the sort that would take forever to write. It was the sort of perfection she indulged in, and I remembered bringing with her when she used to write letters, being told at the same time that we should never lose the art of writing or communicating with others.
To her, a person who could not write or find a reason to write to someone else was not someone she would want to know. I’m sure after I refused to write back, I fit into that category.
I unfolded the pages and steeled myself for what was to come.
My dear Ian,
If you are reading this, then I have passed. It is regrettable that we did not speak again after you left in the spring of 1985, and sad that in the years that followed that you did not reply to my letters.
It took many months before I discovered what had happened in my absence, but it is no excuse to simply say it would not have happened in different circumstances.
In all likelihood, it would have happened anyway, then or later, because, in truth, after your father died, I stopped being your mother. I have no excuse and offer none. Nothing will ever make up for the injustice wrought upon you.
Though while you may have hated me, I never for one minute stopped loving you, and when I finally accepted you wanted nothing more to do with me, I asked some friends to keep an eye on you. Although you may not have realised it, I have been able to help you in your endeavours, as a proud mother would in different circumstances.
I put the letter down for a moment and thought back over several key moments in my life, reflecting on how hard it had been to achieve certain milestones, against the odds and in the face of almost insurmountable obstacles.
Were they all that insurmountable if there was an invisible hand behind it? Had I not achieved those milestones on my own?
Before you get all ‘het up’ over what you might consider interference, believe me when I tell you, you had achieved the unachievable all on your own, but sadly, your background was working against you. I simply helped to level that so-called playing field.
I knew in my heart that if you wanted to reconnect with me, you would, and in that, I decided I would not interfere. Perhaps I will live to regret that, but it was never going to happen if I turned up on your doorstep. And, believe me, there were many times I wanted to do just that.
I have said all that I wish to say about those matters. What happened is what happened, and it can not be undone. I hope you will see your way to come to my funeral. It will be very strange with lots of people who will be very alien to you.
All they saw was the widow of a billionaire who was their benefactress, and hoping by paying their respects would continue to be so. The same could not be said for you, you came because you wanted to, not because you to and for that I am very grateful.
Then, at the bottom of the page was, in a less tidy hand, the words, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”
Whatever followed was on the next page, except there wasn’t a next page. I showed it to Noelle.
“What do you think of that?”
She read the words and turned the page over, thinking it might be on the back. There was nothing on the back. She looked at the page in the light, perhaps thinking there might be indentations, but there weren’t any.
“There was more, and it’s missing. What do you think it said?”
“Something someone didn’t want me to read. I guess we will be going to the reading of the will after all.”
Write a story that has the line, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”
…
I looked down at the woman who called herself my mother and shook my head.
It was hard to reconcile the fact that over two hundred people turned out for the funeral, one hundred and ninety-nine of them I had never seen or met before.
Ten of them had stood up in front of the mourners and reminisced on the life of a woman that I had no idea was the person they were describing.
Kind, generous, loving, a friend to everyone…
… except her son.
The one I knew, her lawyer, who was overseeing the execution of her will. That she would even remember me or put me in that will was a surprise. I hadn’t seen her in forty years, the day her latest husband kicked a naive and very frightened fifteen-year-old out of ‘his’ house when she was away.
He had been just the latest of terrible men she had taken up with after the sudden death of my father, a year before.
I left and never came back. I burned any letter that came from her until I eventually moved to the other side of the world and built a life of my own.
Until I got that fateful phone call.
My mother had died, and her last request was to find me. I had changed names and disappeared several times, and yet I’d been found.
How?
The lawyer summed it up in a half dozen sentences. She had a team of private investigators keep track of me. Once she discovered what her latest ‘boyfriend’ had done, she had kicked him to the curb, an interesting expression for a lawyer, and set about finding me. When I didn’t answer her letters, she didn’t lose interest. She just had them keep track of me, in case, one day, I changed my mind.
That I didn’t was her greatest sorrow.
I was of two minds whether to go back and attend the funeral, and nearly didn’t. That was Noelle’s doing, insisting the lawyer pay for two first-class tickets, which he did. That she said, spoke volumes, though not explaining what she meant.
Of course, Noelle knew the story. Like everything about my life, she had wheedled and cajoled it out of me over a long period of time. She knew when she met me, I was damaged goods, but I soon discovered she was everything I needed to heal.
I felt a hand slip into mine, and her aura enveloped me. “She has passed Ian, and she can’t hurt you anymore.”
That was a matter of opinion because seeing her again dredged up a lot of very good memories after that kind, generous person they described until my father died.
It seemed odd to me that none of the other one hundred and ninety-nine attendees were very interested in me or why I was there. But, then, nor was I interested in them. They just seemed to melt away, leaving almost as if there were rented mourners. Perhaps they were.
Ten minutes after the service, it was just the coffin, me, Noelle, and the lawyer, who had given me some time to be with her. I was surprised that I hadn’t just left with everyone else.
“As I said earlier, Ian, there will be a reading of her will back in my office on Wednesday, and you are specifically requested to attend.”
“Is there any point. I mean, after forty years, I hardly think we would ever remember she had a son.”
We’d had this same argument earlier, and he had no persuasive argument then. This time, he had come prepared. I could see an envelope in his hand.
“She knew that you might show some reluctance, so she wrote this letter,” he held up the envelope. “I urge you to read it. It might explain a few things about her, or it may not. I was not privy to the contents, only that I was given explicit instructions to give it to you at the funeral.”
He held it out. I looked at it, then Noelle, who nodded. I took it and put it in my coat pocket.
“Thank you, Ian. I am very sorry for your loss, and I will leave you now. Later, perhaps.”
He held out his hand, and I shook it. It was my mother I hated, not him.
I remained there with her until the casket was closed and taken away for the cremation she had requested.
It was a silent drive back to the quaint hotel Noelle had found for us, and the room, she pointed out, a king back in the so-called dark ages, had stayed there.
Given the modern look, I’d say that the King would not recognise the room now if he had stayed there, which was a remote possibility. Just the same as an advertising hook to start there, it worked.
The letter was sitting on the table between two very comfortable leather chairs, and after dinner downstairs in the dining room, we had opened a bottle of champagne and sat in front of the fireplace, which we were told was used in winter.
It was cold but not that cold, but as I picked up the envelope, I shivered.
Her ghost?
“What did you think it said?”
“Perhaps a belated apology. I don’t know. She’s had forty years to think about it.”
“Are you going to read it?”
That was a question I had churned over in my mind the whole way from the church to the hotel. Was there anything left to say, or anything she could say that would make a difference?
“Yes.”
The first few lines anyway. I opened the envelope and pulled out several sheets of lined paper, and at first glance showed very neat and legible handwritten script, the sort that would take forever to write. It was the sort of perfection she indulged in, and I remembered bringing with her when she used to write letters, being told at the same time that we should never lose the art of writing or communicating with others.
To her, a person who could not write or find a reason to write to someone else was not someone she would want to know. I’m sure after I refused to write back, I fit into that category.
I unfolded the pages and steeled myself for what was to come.
My dear Ian,
If you are reading this, then I have passed. It is regrettable that we did not speak again after you left in the spring of 1985, and sad that in the years that followed that you did not reply to my letters.
It took many months before I discovered what had happened in my absence, but it is no excuse to simply say it would not have happened in different circumstances.
In all likelihood, it would have happened anyway, then or later, because, in truth, after your father died, I stopped being your mother. I have no excuse and offer none. Nothing will ever make up for the injustice wrought upon you.
Though while you may have hated me, I never for one minute stopped loving you, and when I finally accepted you wanted nothing more to do with me, I asked some friends to keep an eye on you. Although you may not have realised it, I have been able to help you in your endeavours, as a proud mother would in different circumstances.
I put the letter down for a moment and thought back over several key moments in my life, reflecting on how hard it had been to achieve certain milestones, against the odds and in the face of almost insurmountable obstacles.
Were they all that insurmountable if there was an invisible hand behind it? Had I not achieved those milestones on my own?
Before you get all ‘het up’ over what you might consider interference, believe me when I tell you, you had achieved the unachievable all on your own, but sadly, your background was working against you. I simply helped to level that so-called playing field.
I knew in my heart that if you wanted to reconnect with me, you would, and in that, I decided I would not interfere. Perhaps I will live to regret that, but it was never going to happen if I turned up on your doorstep. And, believe me, there were many times I wanted to do just that.
I have said all that I wish to say about those matters. What happened is what happened, and it can not be undone. I hope you will see your way to come to my funeral. It will be very strange with lots of people who will be very alien to you.
All they saw was the widow of a billionaire who was their benefactress, and hoping by paying their respects would continue to be so. The same could not be said for you, you came because you wanted to, not because you to and for that I am very grateful.
Then, at the bottom of the page was, in a less tidy hand, the words, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”
Whatever followed was on the next page, except there wasn’t a next page. I showed it to Noelle.
“What do you think of that?”
She read the words and turned the page over, thinking it might be on the back. There was nothing on the back. She looked at the page in the light, perhaps thinking there might be indentations, but there weren’t any.
“There was more, and it’s missing. What do you think it said?”
“Something someone didn’t want me to read. I guess we will be going to the reading of the will after all.”
Z is for Zoo. It seemed that who’s who in the zoo was about to be very much a statement.
…
There’s the easy way and the convoluted way to go to jail.
The first, the easy way, commit a crime, hand yourself in, plead guilty, and the justice department will be falling over themselves to frogmarch you to the front gate
The hard way, trying to create a foolproof backstory with official evidentiary documents, to take you seemingly from one jail to another without raising suspicion.
Of course, it was never my intention to become a felon, but people are sometimes so stupid they don’t know when to back off. And, of course, we are trained never to ‘lose it’ under any circumstances, but I did.
In front of about a hundred other prisoners who made very reliable witnesses. He was kind of popular, so that made my continued presence in that prison untenable.
Hence the move. No trial, an extra twenty years, I should see the world outside again when I was too old to enjoy it.
I would have time to contemplate the mistakes of the past for a long time. Or not. The prison I was going to was notorious for chewing up and spitting out newbies in their system.
I had a name, Louie. It’s best not to call him that, I was told. He was the one to look out for. There were another hundred or so, all varying degrees of Louie-like danger, so my hands would be full for a while.
Along with six other new prisoners, we were taken inside. There we were given the once over by the warden, whose expression when he looked at me was the very definition of hatred. Then he had three of the guards drag me into a room up the passage. Special treatment, he said with a smile, that told me it was not a special I was going to like.
Once onside with door shit, two professionals, the guards beat me with their batons. Bruises, abrasions, and barely able to walk, I rejoined the others, who all looked the other way lest they incur the same wrath.
An hour in the dispensary, then taken to meet my new best friend, it was the greeting I expected.
The guard stopped me outside the two-bunk cells that I would get to call my Hilton hotel room. My roomie was lying on his bed, odd since he should be out on the exercise yard with his friends, but I was guessing he was going to lay down the ground rules.
“Your new roomie, Dyson.”
He glanced over at me, then at the guard. “I’m paying the single rate.”
“Not any more.” The guard nodded at me to go in and shake a plain to the empty bed.
This is going to be interesting.
I took a step towards the bunk, and he was out of his bunk and standing in my way.
I looked him straight in the eye. “This can go two ways, Dyson. You keep standing there, and I get to stake a few weeks on solitary. Since I’m used to it, it’s no skin off my nose. But you, you might not walk again, or maybe this time I’ll see if I can rip your arm off and beat you with it. Lasy guy, I tried to prove it could be done, but he died. You know where I’m from, and you know why I’m here.”
I made it menacing enough. Most of the men in this jail didn’t frighten easily.
Tyson looked at the guard.
“My money is on the fact he’ll do it. Plenty of you idiots who don’t know when to leave well alone. I’ll turn around so I can say I didn’t see who started it.”
Which is what he did.
Tyson backed down and sat on his bunk. “Louie isn’t going to be pleased.”
“Not trying to please or displease anyone. All I want is a quiet contract and to be left alone.”
And knowing that was never going to happen.
“Get along, Dyson.” The guard said, just before he left.
After I threw everything on the bed, not that it amounted to much, and certainly nothing worth stealing, it was time to get some air.
The cell was quite stuffy, and Dyson wasn’t the cleanest of men. I might tell him later, when he is a little more friendly.
“Which way to the exercise yard?”
“Follow the passage to the end and turn left. You’ll see it.”
“Don’t like exercise?”
“Don’t like the inmates. You’ll see.”
I’m sure I would. As far as I was aware, Louie had my resume, and when I read it, it was impressive. Mostly enemy soldiers, but there were also a few who were not.
I came out into the sunshine, and when the others out there realised who it was, they stopped and glared at me. Not in a friendly manner.
There were two waiting by the entrance, ready for what? Were they expecting trouble?. I could see the man called Louie on the other side, sitting on the bleachers, his acolytes around him.
The two men were almost beside me when they stopped. One of the left, short, obese, and sweating badly, said, “You have an appointment.”
The one on the right looked menacing. He was in trouble because he had his hand in his pocket, so there was a ship, knife or another weapon there.
Np point in giving him an excuse to get beat up.
I shrugged. “I don’t remember making one, but if you say so.”
He nodded in the direction of the man I thought was Louie. I shrugged again and walked. Slowly. If things went south, I needed a strategy.
Of course, there was never enough time. We were standing in front of him. No matter. He was intent on ignoring me because he could. He was the boss. I’m not sure how or why.
A minute passed, then two.
Never the patient, man, I said, “Listen shit for brains, you make an appointment you keep it. I’ll count to three, and if your head’s still up your ass, then I’m going over the other side.” I waited a few seconds, then said, “One.”
He glanced at me. To do otherwise would lessen his prestige.
“Two.”
He smiled, then turned. “Have you noticed people are always in a hurry?” He said it to no one in particular.
“To fie,” I said. “Yes, they are. I’m sure you don’t want to be one of those, do you?”
The smile turned to a frown. “You should be more respectful.”
“Respect us earned, not given or expected.”
I saw the imperceptible nod to the enforcer and was ready. Disarmed and arm twisted out of its socket, he was no longer a threat. I threw the shiv over the fence, outside.
The enforcer hadn’t made a sound short of a grunt, but he stayed down. No one else moved.
“Sorry. I needed to verify who you are, Stanson. The best of the best now is the best of the worst?”
“Whatever. You’ve had your fifteen minutes. I’m going over there,” I pointed to the bench on the other side of the compound. “And rest in peace. I won’t be so kind to the next fool you send.”
“As you wish. But we still have to have words.”
“Then call my secretary and make an appointment.”
A final look at the red spots growing on his cheeks, and I walked away. No one followed me. It was not a victory, just a minor delay before he came back.
There had been a plan, and when I heard it, I sat back and laughed.
It was anything but a plan, except if I wanted to die before one day had passed.
Everyone knew who ran that prison.
Louie.
And to get what they wanted, which I didn’t know about, simply because if I did and was captured and tortured, they would discover who was behind this charade, they needed to neutralise Louie
And the three attempts so far had failed spectacularly, and in the process had alerted him to what they were trying to do.
I told them it was a mistake.
They then made me an impossible promise, one I knew they would never keep because they knew I would not see it through.
I was surprised I got to see Louie, so perhaps one aspect of this mission might be true. Louie was scared, not of me, but of someone else.
The question was, who?
I pondered all of these questions in that dank gold called solitary confinement. I was there firstly for my protection, no other prisoners were allowed near me, and secondly, I could not be seen to get away with harming another prisoner.
Then I heard the outer door being unlocked.
An unscheduled visit.
Could it be that there was someone else in the prison who was facilitating a host, and not a friendly one?
There was no hiding spot in the cell, so all I could do was be ready if the guard was hostile. A figure loomed out of the darkness into the dull glow of the low-wattage globe illumination and space in front of my cell door. It had been the only light I’d had for days.
“Good. You’re awake.”
My contact in the jail, the one whom I was to go to, if I got into trouble. Why was he here? He was not supposed to approach me.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“There’s an opportunity. Louie has been taken to the infirmary. He will be alone. You have 30 minutes to do what you have to.” He dropped a bag on the other side of the door, then opened it. “Change of clothes and tools.”
“Afterwards?”
“You disappear. As promised.”
There were so many holes in this plan. I didn’t know where to begin. “Who put this on motion?”
“The same person who put Louie in the hospital. You’re wasting time.”
Three minutes to freshen up and change, then along the passage and up to ground level. Out one door and in the next, along another passage, and we were outside the infirmary. Another four minutes.
A nurse was sitting at a desk, with monitors on three beds with prisoners. The middle one was Louie. My guard pointed to the middle door on the other side of the passage we were standing in.
The monitors blinked, the screens went fuzzy, and then came back on. Replay, so my presence in his room would go unnoticed.
He knocked and went into the room with the nurse. I didn’t wait to see what he was going to do. I crossed to the door and listened, then went in.
He watched me warily as I closed the door.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
“Why?” I crossed to his bed. Handcuffed. Precautions.
“You’ve come from Alexander, haven’t you?”
Alexander was the crazy man who made promises he couldn’t keep.
“He is crazy. I told him that. And yet here I am. You know why I’m here?”
“He blames me for Forrester’s death. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Then why are you on a video, clear as day, shooting him in the back of the head. An execution. You said he was a traitor, and traitors get their just deserts. To you, maybe, but not his country.”
“And you’re going to execute me?”
He didn’t deny it, which he strenuously did in court before they found the video. There had been a camera, but it was broken. Someone else had installed another, one not so obvious, and when we reviewed the recordings, it was clear why it was there and had led to a dozen other arrests. The footage of my brother’s death was collateral damage.
“It was my first thought, but you need to suffer.”
“He didn’t if it’s any consolation. Just what does it have to do with you?”
“My brother.”
“You look nothing like him.”
“Well, that’s as much I’m going to tell you.” I pulled the hypodermic syringe that was also in the bag of clothes and jabbed it into his leg.
Less than a second. Justice.
“What did you just do?”
“Give you a lifetime to reflect on what you did.”
I gave him a last look, the serum starting to work, relaxing all of his muscles, and in about ten minutes would completely paralyse him.
If he was lucky, they would recognise what had happened and give him the other syringe sitting on the bedside table. It wouldn’t unparalyse him, but it would make it so he could live, only with full-time care. He could not move or speak, but behind that mask, his mind would be active, and he could play over and over the actions that got him there.
Justice for murdering my brother.
And this prison was now free of his influence and threats.
Did that mean I could take over?
No. It simply meant I’d repaid a debt and was now free.
My prison contact returned, took me out the back way through an unknown passageway, built secretly at the time of the prison itself, there in case the warden and his family needed to escape, when a car was waiting.
Great are the days when writing flows easily, and bad are the days when it doesn’t flow at all. What you’re striving for is somewhere in the middle.
If that is at all possible.
Conditions have to be conducive, which means it doesn’t necessarily follow that you can write just anywhere.
That means you need, if it is at all possible, to set up a little, or big, nook someone in your residence where you can write.
It doesn’t necessarily have to be free of distractions, except, of course, the electronic kind. Of course, if you are writing on a computer of any sort,t it would be better if it were not connected to the internet, where every few seconds there’s an alert, an email, a phone call, or breaking news headlines.
Nor do you really want to be near a phone, except if you’re expecting a call from your agent telling you you just got a multi-million dollar three-film contract.
OK, I’m projecting my own desires here…
But…
A writing room or nook would to me be a room with a view, my preference overlooking the ocean high on a cliff so that I could see the roiling ocean and dhimips battling against the odds.
Distraction.
Not necessarily, but on summery days it can provide the background for a lengthy piece of prose, or even a poem, an ode to days of leisure.
And to dream…
Yes inspired.
In such a computable and familiar place, it is possible to write without hindrance. I do not have a room with a view, but I am surrounded by a thousand books, lounge chairs, and the tools to inspire me.
Writing isn’t difficult. It’s more about getting out there because the daily routine often gets in the way
But, my best writing happens at night after everyone has retired for the day, and the words come. Often, it is no trouble to write a whole short story or several chapters of a novel.
But, then, having participated in the yearly A to Z blog month and twice yearly NANOWRIMO novel writing month has conditioned me to getting the job done.
When the story is over, you realise you’ve forgotten a major chunk of it.
It’s one of those wakes in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, and screaming.
I was just looking at the first few chapters and realised, what about that horrid reporter that confronted them in the restaurant?
While Cherise dealt with the problem, it occurred to me later that she would be perfect for the new king to get an outsider, and a cynic at that, view.
Yes, he does get a little payback later on at the media conference at the Embassy when he arrives back from Ruth’s home.
So, now there’s a new chapter or section where the ambassador summons her editorial boss, and they put a proposal to both of them.
This will also then lead to an interview of sorts on the plane when they are coming home, where he has become King
I’m also including a new chapter where he meets with Archie, an old friend and the head of the principality’s only newspaper and TV station.
And there will be a revolving door of interaction with the media.
Great are the days when writing flows easily, and bad are the days when it doesn’t flow at all. What you’re striving for is somewhere in the middle.
If that is at all possible.
Conditions have to be conducive, which means it doesn’t necessarily follow that you can write just anywhere.
That means you need, if it is at all possible, to set up a little, or big, nook someone in your residence where you can write.
It doesn’t necessarily have to be free of distractions, except, of course, the electronic kind. Of course, if you are writing on a computer of any sort,t it would be better if it were not connected to the internet, where every few seconds there’s an alert, an email, a phone call, or breaking news headlines.
Nor do you really want to be near a phone, except if you’re expecting a call from your agent telling you you just got a multi-million dollar three-film contract.
OK, I’m projecting my own desires here…
But…
A writing room or nook would to me be a room with a view, my preference overlooking the ocean high on a cliff so that I could see the roiling ocean and dhimips battling against the odds.
Distraction.
Not necessarily, but on summery days it can provide the background for a lengthy piece of prose, or even a poem, an ode to days of leisure.
And to dream…
Yes inspired.
In such a computable and familiar place, it is possible to write without hindrance. I do not have a room with a view, but I am surrounded by a thousand books, lounge chairs, and the tools to inspire me.
Writing isn’t difficult. It’s more about getting out there because the daily routine often gets in the way
But, my best writing happens at night after everyone has retired for the day, and the words come. Often, it is no trouble to write a whole short story or several chapters of a novel.
But, then, having participated in the yearly A to Z blog month and twice yearly NANOWRIMO novel writing month has conditioned me to getting the job done.
Y is for — You can sort it out. The boss thinks certain people are not needed until they are.
…
For someone who continually professed that they would never let work affect them outside of business hours, and who usually dropped off to sleep when their head hit the pillow, I was still awake at 2:30 am.
Perhaps it was the unofficial rumour running through the company like wildfire that the CEO of the family-run business had disappeared, and the prodigal son was considering selling the company off to the highest bidder, something his father would never do.
Perhaps it was the fact I knew that son, Jeremy McMaster, only too well, practically from the day he was born, we both went to the same schools, university, and I watched him turn into the disloyal, lazy, incompetent fool, and eventually, the major disappointment to his father that he was now.
Perhaps it was the fact that without the old man in charge, the company would soon be on life support and a great many people who depended on it for their livelihood would soon be out of work, and then, like other cities around us, it would wither and die.
Perhaps it was the fact that good people were leaving every day in the absence of any news that could give them hope.
Perhaps it was the fact that I knew there was nothing I could do to turn things around. I could try, but the prodigal son had forbidden it and dismissed anyone in Management who could have made a difference.
At least he couldn’t fire me. The old man had ensured that I would have a job for life or as long as the company was in business. That was the promise my father had extracted when he lent a swag of money to the old man when things went awry about 30 years before.
Now, it didn’t seem it would be long before my tenure would be over. Either way, to me, it didn’t matter. The prodigal son would soon discover that he had to repay my father’s loan before he could take anything for himself, and the way it was going, he was not going to make anything at all.
And the interesting part of all this was that I don’t think he knew what would happen in the event of the business being sold. That, I figured, would be within the next three days when an offer would be tendered to take over the business or parts of it
Someone had anonymously sent me a copy of the draft proposal, and it was horrendous.
Maybe that’s why I couldn’t sleep.
I dropped into an uneasy sleep, only to be woken by the shrill sound of my cell phone. Obviously, I’d forgotten to turn it off the night before, but usually, that wasn’t a problem.
Very few people called me, and even less knew I had it. I had a work phone as the main point of contact, and I turned it off. By the time I had gotten out of bed, it stopped ringing. Good. If it were important, they would call again.
I moved it to beside the bed, glancing at the time. 3:37 AM I sighed, getting back under the covers. It was cold, and I was tired and a little annoyed.
13 minutes later, the phone rang. I rolled back the covers, picked it up, and glared at the screen. Private number. I considered ignoring it and switching off the phone, and going back to bed.
I didn’t. Wondering who it could be, I pressed the answer button. “What?” I put just enough annoyance into my tone to make the caller think twice before they annoyed me.
“That’s a nice way to greet a long-lost friend, Michael.”
I knew that voice and the girl it belonged to, the one that had broken my heart ten years ago when she abruptly up and left without so much as a goodbye
Elaine McMaster, quite literally the boss’s daughter.
The girl I had been madly in love with, and quite likely still was, if missing a few heartbeats just hearing her voice was anything to go by.
“You have a new phone, and if you didn’t, I wouldn’t have answered.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
Nothing ever was. She was one of those people who always had an excuse, always passing the blame to anyone else but herself, and had a Daddy who could buy her way out of trouble. She was quite literally the female version of Jeremy.
“Not a discussion I want at this hour of the night, nor at any time. Go away, Elaine and make some other poor wretch’s life miserable.”
Silence. I hoped she had hung up in my ear. She hadn’t.
“Can’t.”
“Can’t what?” I wasn’t going to forgive myself for taking the bait.
“Can’t go make some other wretch’s life miserable. I’m outside your door. I thought it best to call first before pounding on your door.”
“I could have moved.” It was a lame comeback, but only she could make me feel like this. I could never hate her.
“You’re a creature of habit, Michael. A place for everything, and everything in its place.”
“Except you.”
“I told you from the outset that loving me would be your greatest challenge. But, having said that, I chose you to go to the prom for a reason, and that reason holds today as it has for most of my life. Now, are you going to open the door, or do I have to start pounding on it?”
That begged the question: how did she get past the security?
“I’m hanging up now.” And did
I was of two minds whether to open the door. I knew the moment I saw her I would melt, so it was probably wiser to leave her there
Damn her.
I knew I was going to regret it the moment I opened that door.
I never understood why she picked the shy, gangly, awkward teenager I once was to go to the prom when she could take anyone. That one night changed me forever.
Until, of course, she left.
And there she was, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, with that whimsical expression I used to think she saved for me. It wasn’t, but I had my fantasies.
She stepped over the threshold and into my space, and without a second hesitation, put her arms around my neck and reached up that short distance, inviting me to kiss her.
The first time, I had not understood the nuance, and it annoyed her
How could I refuse?
And in that short period, anything from a few seconds to an hour and a half, I lost myself in a world I thought I’d never go back to.
“Damn you, Elaine,” I cursed under my breath.
“Because you never stopped loving me, or because I never stopped loving you.”
She brought her roller case over the threshold and closed the door, leaning against it.
“My mother, just before she died, sent me away to her sister in Switzerland. The reason I left in such a hurry and without a word was that I was pregnant. Not your child; I was raped by one of Jeremy’s friends the day after the prom. They were all staying over and were drunk. It was not a pleasant experience, and my parents refused to believe me, preferring to blame you for my predicament. It was terminated, but I was forbidden to see you or even communicate with you. I’m sorry.”
It was a compelling story, but was it true? She also had a reputation for telling the most convincing lies.
“Proof?”
“Ring my aunt in Berne. Go ask Bernard Davies, the guy who raped me, and got paid a lot of money to shut his mouth. And if that doesn’t satisfy you, I’m happy to go to any doctor you choose who will tell you what happened to me.”
Was she banking on the fact that I wouldn’t, that I would take her at her word?
“Why are you here, now?”
“To see you. I want to pick up where we left off, but I’m willing to accept that you might have reservations. If that’s the case, I will try very hard to convince you that there never was, and never will be, anyone else for me.”
“What about your parents, who have this thing against me. Your father never mentioned it, just you and your mother were off travelling. He never treated me any differently.”
“He was like that. I think he hated me more than he hated you. He always said that he had big plans for me, that Jeremy was a waste of space, and when what happened to me happened, all those plans went west.”
“Where is he now. All we know is that he’s taking an extended leave of absence and that the company was in good hands while he was away. Pity he didn’t consider that Jeremy would fire the management team he trusted and install himself as the lord and master.”
“He had to leave because the customers were getting worried about his health. It turned out to be stage four lung cancer. Came to Switzerland for what was touted as a miracle cure, and it wasn’t. I buried him a week ago.”
It didn’t make sense, but nothing the McMasters did ever made sense.
“But before he died, he changed his will and left me with his shareholding, and with yours, he told me we have a majority, certainly enough to bury Jeremy. He doesn’t know yet that Daddy changed his will, and he now just has a minority shareholding. Daddy knew what he was doing and had to wait until he died to rearrange things.”
“You’re too late. He’s all but wrecked the business, and there’s not much left to salvage.”
“Well, all you have to do is resign, and then we’ll see what we see.”
The Elaine I knew had no business sense and was content to spend the family fortune on clothes and overseas holidays before she disappeared without a trace.
Whether the old man changed his will or not, the company had been destroyed in the six months he had been gone, and Jeremy had taken the reins.
If I resigned, it would precipitate the clause that would compel the company to pay back the loan my father had given them.
It would benefit both of them financially as well as get a millstone off both their necks. I couldn’t discount the possibility that Jeremy and Elaine were working together now their father had died, with the idea of maximising their inheritance.
I shook my head. “There is a spare bedroom, you can put yourself there. I have some calls to make.”
“At 4am?”
“The people I know don’t have 9 to 5 jobs. Or the luxury of swanning around Europe without a care in the world.”
“Those days ended when Jeremy stopped paying my aunt for my upkeep. I literally just got off the plane after travelling in coach.” The expression on her face was priceless.
Yes, how the mighty have fallen. She was about to find out how cold and harsh it could be in the real world. “Then have a long, hot shower and get some rest. We’ll talk again later. I’m going back to bed and trying to make up for the interruption. Some of us have to work for a living.”
With that, I went into and shut the door to my room, leaving her standing by the door. If she had any common sense, she would leave. Whatever I may have felt about her, it would not affect my judgment in business matters. It was perhaps the one thing the old man and my father had taught me.
The first call was to my lawyer, who, like me, never seemed to sleep.
His father was my father’s legal representative and was, for a long time, old man McMasters. After the two men clashed, McMaster found a new legal practice to handle his affairs
Alistair Crewsbury was the son, third generation named Alistair, and still had copies of a lot of McMaster’s documents, one of several secrets between us.
What was more important was his father’s notebooks that gave a great deal of detail on McMasters affairs, and particularly relation to my father’s investment, and in the handling of his affairs in the event of his death, and his disbursements to his children, Jeremy and Elaine.
Admittedly, it was twenty years old and may not be relevant, but there was no indication that the old man was dead or that he was in Switzerland getting cured. His cancer, Alistair had said, was real, and he had gone to Europe to be with his daughter and left the running of the company in Jeremy’s hands.
It wasn’t ideal, nor did he trust him, but at the time, blood was thicker than water. I was not blood, but my family had a lien, of a sort, on the business that had to be settled if it wound up or was put out of business
Alistair had said more than once that if the McMasters wanted to get around that lien, they had to run the business into the ground. Until it was worthless.
Jeremy was certainly trying to do that. And it would not leave me with any options.
This much was clear.
Weigh in with the fact Elaine was back on the pretext that Jeremy had cut her off, didn’t sit with the fact her father had gone to see her, on his way to get treatment.
When Alistair answered the phone, knowing who was calling him, he said, “So Elaine McMaster has landed on your doorstep.”
It was a statement rather than a question.
“You know. I don’t think I want to know how. Yes. Some story about being cut off.”
“I believe she sent you the plans for the company’s future. I’m not sure why, because it alerts you to the fact that Jeremy intends to just hand it over to a rival for nothing. In doing so, he will be relieved of the outstanding loans and says liability. It says nothing about the fate of the employees, but you can be assured that four-fifths will be fired.
“He has to get something out of it.”
“According to the consulting accountants, he’s been squirrelling away nearly fifty million in offshore accounts, which he thinks no one is aware of.”
“Can it be proved?”
“Not yet. He’s not as stupid as some would think. He has managed to hire some very clever and very interesting employees to do his bidding.”
“No surprises there. Where does this leave me?”
“Do you care? Your father left you far better off than the McMasters are currently. I don’t think your father ever expected to recoup the money he gave McMaster, and it didn’t bother him. I’m sure if my assessment of you is correct, I doubt it is a concern. It’s probably a principal thing.”
“I care more about the people losing their jobs, as hadvold man McMaster, and I’m surprised he hadn’t done anything to curb his son’s excesses.”
“If you want an opinion, Elaine returning means he died. Recently. I haven’t yet heard from his new lawyer, but they will have to tell us soon. It was a codicil on his will.”
“What if I simply resign and walk away?”
“As you are aware, it would invite a clause in the loan agreement, and given the financial state, you would be blamed for bringing the company down and cause the workforce to be made redundant with no benefits. That at least would leave the McMaster children much better off, and with their reputations intact. Go on leave and watch from the sidelines.”
“It would be difficult. A lot of those people are my friends.”
“Well, here’s a thought. If you could find a way to sabotage the company and not make it a going concern, according to the terms of the sale, the agreement would lapse. The magic expiry date is the 25th, in twelve days. As they say in the classics, the ball is in your court.”
It was. The fact that the blame would rest on me if i resigned and that the McMaster children would get off Scott free was reason enough not to. Best let Jeremy be the reason, through bad management. His advice to take some leave and watch the fun from the bleachers was good advice.
He then added a very interesting fact, that one of his associates had seen Jeremy and Elaine together that afternoon over lunch, having what seemed to be a friendly discussion.
It wasn’t the cheapest restaurant in the city.
I thanked him for his observations.
My second call was to William Prentice, the production manager, and I asked to see him at 9 am.
Staring at the ceiling provided two observations: the first that the roof needed repainting, or I had a slow leak that was wrecking the roof; the second, what was Elaine’s game?
If I tried to think too hard about it, it would probably lead me down the path to hell and damnation. I wanted to believe her, but it didn’t quite stack up. The thing is, a lot must have happened to her in the last ten years.
And that story about Bernard? I would have a chat, but it wasn’t going to be pleasant for him. The thing is, I knew Bernard, and he always had a thing for Elaine. He was also a bully, so if he did what he did, it would be totally in character.
Except Mr McMaster would have killed him, not paid him off to keep his mouth shut. I never had any illusions about the old man. You didn’t get where he was without a few strong-arm tactics
And he would not let any man do that to his daughter and still be around to talk about it.
So, the first job inside the room was to check for any obituary notices for one Bernard Davies and after spreading a larger net than the five towns nearby, found the versatile man, dead from a car accident a week after the prom.
I guess Elaine really did believe I would take her on trust.
Morning dawned, and having got a couple of hours of restless sleep, I decided it was enough and went out to make some coffee.
It was already made.
Elaine was wandering down the passage when she looked up, saw me, and jumped, giving a little squeal of surprise.
“I’m not that scary,” I said
“You are when you’re creeping about like that. Get some more shut-eye?”
“A little. Wouldn’t be the first time I went in more tired in the morning than I was when I went home.”
“Stay at home then. You can reacquaint me with the town.”
“It’s one street, Elaine, and only two shops have changed hands, and they were two you never went to. You don’t need me to hold your hand. You’re all grown up and heiress to an alleged fortune. Well, maybe not so much a fortune, but what was once a great little earner. I have to go in. Besides, didn’t you say I had to resign?”
“You can do that over the phone.”
“You might, but I have principles and integrity. I’ll be doing it in person as it should be done. When I get around to it. I will have to clear my desk.”
I was going to do more than that, but she didn’t need to know.
Elaine wanted to go with me, and I said there was no point alerting Jeremy she was back and plotting against him.
She seemed to accept that, but an odd look from her when I mentioned Jeremy’s name was interesting, to say the least. She would never make a good poker player.
I drove to work as I did every morning, parked in the car space that had my office title on the ground, not my name, and made that walk from the car to the front door
At the hour, nearly everyone on the day shift had arrived, and the car park was quite full. There were 2,500 people working on this particular day in seven of the eight factories and warehouses on this site.
All were dependent on the main assembly line, in building C had been the subject of a dozen lengthy memos that basically pointed out that if it was not stopped for a period of three weeks to perform major maintenance, it was likely to stop permanently
The major maintenance would cost upwards of 10 million dollars, an expense Jeremy had vetoed because he believed it would last long enough for the sale to go through, and then it would be someone else’s problem.
At 9 am, William Prentice arrived at my office, closed the door, sat down and shared a wee dram of a single malt I had sent over from my father’s favourite Scottish whiskey distillery.
At 9:05 a.m., he stood, nodded, and then left.
At 9:10 a.m., my 4 weeks off on annual leave began with a walk down to HR.
As Jeremy’s personally selected employee, he refused. I simply said I would see him in four weeks’ time and left my work phone on his desk before walking out the door.
Behind me, he snatched up the intercom receiver and was dialling Jeremy’s number. The lift door closed before I could confirm who it was he called.
I made it as far as my car in the car park.
Jeremy was coming towards me, the fastest I had ever seen him move.
“Michael.”
I thought about ignoring him, but it wasn’t worth the problems.
I turned and waited until he arrived
“Jeremy?”
“You can’t go on leave. Not right now. It’s imperative the plant remains operational “
“Whether or not it remains operational doesn’t depend on me being here, Jeremy. Last managers’ meeting I believe you said to me specifically, and the others in general, that nothing in this place depended on my being here or in Timbuktu. That being the case, Jeremy, I thought I’d go there to see what happens.:
“Go where?”
“Timbuktu.”
“You’re mad. I was just making a point, Michael. It didn’t mean anything.”
“Well, too late. I’m off. The place can run without me, like you said, the first day you took over as CEO, and you were right. Back then, I had overinflated ideas of my worth to the company. Now I do not. Now, I have to pack a bag and get to the airport.”
As I turned to unlock the car door, a siren ramped up, similar to the one used in London at the time of the Blitz in WW2
Jeremy’s head swivelled around to look in the direction of the buildings, and we could both see workers exiting from them quickly and orderly.
“What’s happening?”
“You’re the CEO, Jeremy, you’re supposed to know everything that happens.”
“That’s why I employ fools like you, so I don’t have to. What’s happening?”
“One of two things, Jeremy. It’s a fire drill, or the main assembly line just crashed. I hope for your sake it’s not the latter.”
“So should you. Go sort it out.”
I shrugged. “I’m on leave. That’s officially now William Prentice’s purview. I suggest you find him, and he’ll tell you what’s happening.”
“If you leave, you’re fired.”
“Sorry, Jeremy. You can’t. No one can. Read my employment contract. Now, you’d better hurry up and see what’s going on.”
The workers were now assembling in the fields adjacent to the car park.
I got into my car and drove off, just as the wailing of the fire service trucks started heading towards the site.
I was half expecting Elaine to be gone, accepting I would resign, and then join her brother to execute the fait-accompli.
Instead, she was sitting in a lounge chair reading a women’s magazine. She looked up when I came into the room.
She didn’t have that guilty look on her face, but a whimsical smile. “You were always the most unpredictable boy I ever knew. And never did what I asked, no matter how politely, or with the most tempting bribes. Did you ever care about me?”
It was an interesting question. I did realise when I was eight that she was trouble and that Jeremy was not above using her to get at me.
“Of course. I loved you with all my heart. And you broke it. It was a pain I felt for a very long time, and in that time, I realised you never really cared about me. So, coming back, laying that story on me like pancake makeup, well, a leopard never changes its spots. Was any part of that story you told me true?”
“It was. I was raped by that moron nnnn, and Daddy had him removed. I hated Jeremy for a long time after that, grateful that Daddy sent Mother and me away. To be honest, I never wanted to come home even more to see you again because I knew how you would react. But Jeremy was a shit about everything and cut off my allowance until I agreed to help him with you.”
“And yet you failed to realise that as my wife, you would be richer than Jeremy or you could ever hope to be?”
“I know, but I left you without so much as an explanation, and I knew that I would only get one chance. Daddy always said that you were too good for the likes of me, that if I didn’t hurt you at first, it would not take long before I did. He was a very astute judge of character, Michael. I came back several times, but when I saw you, I couldn’t go through with meeting you.”
“You could have said hello.”
“No. I knew how you would be when you saw me, ever the optimist. Yes, you’d hate me, but you wouldn’t turn me away, just like now. Just like I knew you’d scratch below the surface and find out what Jeremy was up to. Jeremy believed you were the same naive fool you’ve always been, but I know you’re not. Daddy told me how you kept the place going, how you were the son he always wanted, and how he wanted you and me to be together until that day after the prom. While he never said it, I knew I was as big a disappointment to him as Jeremy.”
I could see the tears, and not fail to notice the break in her voice. It was perhaps a little churlish of me to think for a moment that this was one of her best acting performances.
“For what it’s worth, Michael. I really did love you. Then and now. I don’t think I’ve had any sort of relationship since you that’s lasted longer than a month or two, and I honestly believe there is no one else.”
“Then stay.”
“And how long would it be before you really despised me?”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 