Day 13 – Writing exercise

All the days just ran together in one long blur.  Wake, dress, go to work, come home, read, sleep, repeat.  Then everything changed…

…

I got out of bed and went over to the closet.

Seven sets of work clothes, seven sets of leisure clothes, I picked one of the work sets and went to the bathroom.

No need to be more selective.  Each of the work and leisure sets was all the same.  Work tan, leisure blue.  Women wore green and pink.

We all looked the same.

On the yellow bus, picking up the factory workers each morning and dropping them off at night, it was a sea of tan and green.

Everyone read the same newspaper in the morning and sat quietly at night.

At work, I sat at a desk, one of two hundred, symmetrically arranged, just far enough apart to prevent idle conversation.  That happened in the canteen where a thousand people congregated for lunch.

Some single people lived in dormitories, and married people lived in houses.  Everything was supplied.  Everything was regulated.  It had been the same as long as I could remember.

That day I came home, changed into the leisure set, went for a walk, spoke to the others in the park where there was a walking track, a playground for children, and picnic tables.

A healthy lifestyle was a healthy, happy worker.

Why then wasn’t I happy?

…

I woke up, went to the closet and picked a work set.  It didn’t matter which one it was.

The newspaper was shoved through a slot in the door as it was every morning at the same time.

The eggs cooked perfectly, the toast cooked perfectly, and the coffee percolated perfectly.  I resisted the urge to open the newspaper and start reading, remembering protocol.

Dining utensils in the dishwasher, clean the surfaces, and ready to leave for work.  The bus was never late or early.  The walk to the bus stop is two minutes and twenty seconds.

I opened the door, ready to step out.

Standing there, in the way, was a young woman.  Odd that she was in the men’s dormitory.  Odder still, she was wearing yellow, not green.

“You are not in regulation clothing,” I said, not ‘how are you?’ or ‘ who are you?’, which would sound more appropriate.

“You’re not who I’m looking for.  Who are you?”

Clocks were everywhere, reminding us of the importance of time.  The time had passed, and now I would miss the bus.

The paperwork was going to be horrendous.

“Johnny five.  You?”

“Melinda Seventy-Two.  I was looking for Alfred thirty.”

Alfred Thirty had been the previous occupant of my space.  He had died, or so we had been told.  It was in the newspaper, and we believed everything that appeared in it.  There was no reason not to.

“Did you not see the report in the newspaper about a month ago?”  His death had afforded me a promotion and larger quarters.

“I don’t believe anything I read in that rag.”

That was seditious and could get her into trouble if anyone heard her.

“You’d better come in.  You cannot be saying stuff like that out loud.”

She looked at me like I was mad, then shrugged and stepped in.

I looked up and down the passage, then closed the door.

“Just me being in here can cause you trouble.”

We were allowed visitors, but at specific times and with the appropriate permission slips.  She was right.  The mountain of paperwork was piling up.

She was not from this district.  The different coloured suit told me she was not from this area.  People were not allowed out of their areas unless they had a travel pass.  I doubted she had one.

“How did you get here?”

“The tunnels.”

I’d heard about the tunnels, that they were an urban myth.  There were service conduits, but they were not big enough for people to travel through.

It was in the newspaper.  Someone had started spreading the rumours that people could travel from area to area via an extensive tunnel system created when the districts were being built.

An urban myth created by troublemakers.  There had been a few in the beginning after the great calamity that destroyed everything.

We were rebuilding the world, a better world where everyone coexisted in harmony.  A happy life, a happy world.  We all believed it.

“They don’t exist.”

“Because they tell you.  They tell you everything, and everything is a lie.  You are a slave to their lies.”

Who was this woman?  She sounded like a revolutionary; some had been around when I was a child.  My father had been on the tribunal that tried them as traitors and sent them to the penalty settlement.  Had she escaped?

“Are you a revolutionary?”

“I am just the same as you. I do what I’m told.  Or did.”  She took a note out of a pocket and handed it to me.

It said:  You do not have to bow to oppression.  Go to Tan-Green, speak to Alfred thirty.  Take the 387 tunnel.”

“The 387 tunnel?”

“I work in Engineering.  We use the tunnels to move around under the district to repair the services.  I did what was asked.  Where is Alfred thirty?”

“Gone.  Dead.  Can’t help you.  I have to go.  Late.  I have to go.”  I could not wait for her to decide what she wanted to do.

I left.

…

I caught the next bus.  It had different people.  I don’t know why I thought there was only one bus, the bus I took every morning.

They all had the newspaper and were reading it.  No conversation.

Why, all of a sudden, did it matter?  Had she affected me that much?

I arrived at work and swiped my key card.  It was what gave me access to my dorm, the bus, the building and my workstation.

A moment after I swiped my card, I was approached by a security guard.  It had never happened before; in fact I had never seen a security guard before.

“You are late, Johnny Five.  Why?”

What did it matter?  I was here, ready to work.  Perhaps the hesitation in answering was causing difficulty.  Should I mention the girl?

“Overslept. Sorry.”

A minute passed, during which it seemed he was waiting for instructions, then, “Proceed.”

I went into the room and walked slowly to my workstation, past about another 20 clerks.  I noticed that some glanced up then went back to work, others lingered, intrigued by the anomaly.

By the time I sat down, the room was back to normal.

For half an hour.

…

The supervisor sat in a room that overlooked the floor, taking in all of the clerks.

We all had to be in that room once, the day we started work, and it was an interesting view.  And intriguing to wonder how long it took to become a supervisor.

Or what exactly the supervisor did, though they too had a workstation.

No one had seen the supervisor leave that room, or come, or go.  She was always in there when we arrived, and still there when we left.

Today, she came down to the floor, walking from the invisible door under the window, then across the floor, walking up the middle of the room, then turning into my row, and then stopping at my workstation.

It had never happened to anyone else.

“Shut down your workstation and accompany me, please.”

I did as I was told.  She waited until the station switched off and then headed back to the invisible door.  By this time, most of the others had stopped and watched us cross the floor.

At the invisible door, she turned and said, “Back to work.”

She waited until their attention was back on their workstations, then opened the door, we passed though and it silently closed behind us.

Two security guards were waiting.

“You will be reported to Maintenance on Level Sun Basement Seven.  The guards will take you.”

“Why?”

“That is not a question I can answer.  I do as I am told, as should you.  Your key card had been programmed with the appropriate authority.”

Whatever that meant

One guard took the lead, the other followed.  I don’t know why, but at one point, waiting at the elevator lobby, I was entertaining the thought of running.  Not where, or why I would want to, but running.

Nor where I would run to.  It was a very strange feeling.

We went down to Sub Basement 7, and when the doors opened, a different guard was waiting.  My escorts stayed in the lift.

I stepped out, and the doors closed.

The new guard said, “This way “

There was only one.  Perhaps down here, they didn’t think they needed two.

We went down a long corridor to the end, to a door that said ‘Maintenance Five’.  The guard scanned a key card, and the lock clunked.

He opened the door and stood to one side.  “Please wait inside.  An engineer will see you shortly.”

I went in, and the door closed behind me.  The room had a chair and a table.  I looked around the room.  It was a square box, brightly lit, with CCTV.

I waited fifteen minutes before another door, behind the desk, and Melinda seventy-two stepped into the room.

“You.”  I recognised her immediately.

“Me.”

“Why?”

“That’s a word you are not supposed to use.  You know that.  Why do you?”

I thought about the question.  It was something that bothered me, too.  It was in the protocol manual. We accepted that everything we did had a reason and that we didn’t need to know why, only that it was to be done.  Years of work had gone into creating workable systems.

“Curiosity “

“There’s a saying….”

“Yes.  I am aware of it.”

“Then you are one of the more recent classes.  Can you tell me, if you had a choice and there were no restrictions, where you would like to go?”

It was not something I thought about.  No one did. But there was a word invoked, in that very moment, a word I’d not used before.  “Sanctuary.”

She smiled.  “And so it will be.  I knew you were different.  We have a special job for you, Johnny five.  Repeat after me, MGS34RYPLM.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.  Repeat the code.”

“MGS34RYPLM.”

There was a moment when my eyes closed, everything went dark, and a second later, everything in my head changed.

“Who are you?”

I looked over at the girl.  I knew instantly who she was.  “Elizabeth.  How are you?”

“All the better for seeing you, Dad.  Everything you had set in place is ready.  I’m sorry it took so long to find you.”

“No matter.  I’m here now.  Let the revolution begin!”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 12 – The smaller characters that can steal the scene

…

The Scene-Stealers: Why the Bit Players in Stories Make Them Unforgettable

Every compelling narrative has a protagonist—the hero, the rebel, the reluctant saviour. We cheer for them, root for their growth, and remember their names long after the book is closed or the credits roll. But have you ever paused to consider the unsung heroes who linger in the background, the extras who, with a single line or moment, could steal the entire show? These bit players might not have the spotlight, but they’re the secret sauce that makes stories rich, relatable, and unforgettable.

---

The Depth Weavers: How Bit Players Add Layers

Stories thrive in worlds that feel alive, and minor characters are the mortar holding those worlds together. Take Mrs. Dubose from To Kill a Mockingbird. On the surface, she’s a grumpy neighbour, hurling insults at Scout. But her brief appearance unravels the complexities of addiction, courage, and legacy. Her story—told in the periphery—deepens the novel’s themes long after she disappears.

Similarly, in The Godfather, the scene where a horse’s head is placed in a man’s bed is legendary. While the man himself (a minor character) is a plot device, his presence underscores the Corleone family’s ruthless power and the era’s mob culture. These characters are not just “extras”; they’re the brushstrokes that add texture to the canvas.

---

The Mirrors and Shadows: Contrasting the Main Event

Bit players often highlight the protagonist’s journey by acting as foils. Consider Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth Bennet’s sharp wit and independence shine brightest when measured against his obsequiousness and cluelessness. Though he’s a minor character, his presence sharpens the story’s critique of societal norms and amplifies Elizabeth’s growth.

In The Lord of the Rings, even the occasional tavern loiterer or roadside traveller reinforces the vastness of Middle-earth and the contrast between the mundane and the epic. These characters remind us why Frodo’s quest is so extraordinary—they live in the same world but will never attempt what he does.

---

The Scene-Stealers: When Bit Players Shine

Sometimes, all it takes is a single moment for a minor character to etch themselves into our memories. Recall the eerie calm of the priest in The Departed as he’s boxed in by assassins, or the surreal comedy of the “Dance of the Seven Veils” in The Producers. These characters may only appear for a scene, but their impact lingers.

Even in literature, consider the Looney Tunes-esque antics of the Gnomes in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. They exist for less than a chapter but remain among the most quoted, parodied, and loved elements of the series. Their fleeting presence reminds us that magic often lives in the moments we least expect.

---

Why It Matters: The Human Touch

At our core, humans crave connection and recognition. We’re all protagonists in our own stories, yet bit players in others’. The minor characters in fiction mirror this duality, grounding narratives in authenticity. They remind us that a society—or a story—needs more than just heroes and villains. It needs the barista who forgets your name, the coworker who “borrowed” your pencil, and the stranger who hands you a stray umbrella in a downpour.

By appreciating these characters, we become more intentional readers and creators. We learn to look beyond the surface, to find wonder in the ordinary, and to recognise that even the smallest role can carry profound weight.

---

Your Turn: Who Are Your Favourite Bit Players?

Think back to your favourite stories. Which minor characters stick with you? Is it the gruff motel owner in Breaking Bad, the inscrutable IT guy in The Office, or even the diner regulars in your favourite novel? Share them in the comments—sometimes the best stories are the ones we didn’t expect to remember.

Because in the end, whether they’re on the page or the screen, these bit players teach us this: every voice, even every extra, has the power to change the narrative.

Day 12 – The smaller characters that can steal the scene

…

The Scene-Stealers: Why the Bit Players in Stories Make Them Unforgettable

Every compelling narrative has a protagonist—the hero, the rebel, the reluctant saviour. We cheer for them, root for their growth, and remember their names long after the book is closed or the credits roll. But have you ever paused to consider the unsung heroes who linger in the background, the extras who, with a single line or moment, could steal the entire show? These bit players might not have the spotlight, but they’re the secret sauce that makes stories rich, relatable, and unforgettable.

---

The Depth Weavers: How Bit Players Add Layers

Stories thrive in worlds that feel alive, and minor characters are the mortar holding those worlds together. Take Mrs. Dubose from To Kill a Mockingbird. On the surface, she’s a grumpy neighbour, hurling insults at Scout. But her brief appearance unravels the complexities of addiction, courage, and legacy. Her story—told in the periphery—deepens the novel’s themes long after she disappears.

Similarly, in The Godfather, the scene where a horse’s head is placed in a man’s bed is legendary. While the man himself (a minor character) is a plot device, his presence underscores the Corleone family’s ruthless power and the era’s mob culture. These characters are not just “extras”; they’re the brushstrokes that add texture to the canvas.

---

The Mirrors and Shadows: Contrasting the Main Event

Bit players often highlight the protagonist’s journey by acting as foils. Consider Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth Bennet’s sharp wit and independence shine brightest when measured against his obsequiousness and cluelessness. Though he’s a minor character, his presence sharpens the story’s critique of societal norms and amplifies Elizabeth’s growth.

In The Lord of the Rings, even the occasional tavern loiterer or roadside traveller reinforces the vastness of Middle-earth and the contrast between the mundane and the epic. These characters remind us why Frodo’s quest is so extraordinary—they live in the same world but will never attempt what he does.

---

The Scene-Stealers: When Bit Players Shine

Sometimes, all it takes is a single moment for a minor character to etch themselves into our memories. Recall the eerie calm of the priest in The Departed as he’s boxed in by assassins, or the surreal comedy of the “Dance of the Seven Veils” in The Producers. These characters may only appear for a scene, but their impact lingers.

Even in literature, consider the Looney Tunes-esque antics of the Gnomes in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. They exist for less than a chapter but remain among the most quoted, parodied, and loved elements of the series. Their fleeting presence reminds us that magic often lives in the moments we least expect.

---

Why It Matters: The Human Touch

At our core, humans crave connection and recognition. We’re all protagonists in our own stories, yet bit players in others’. The minor characters in fiction mirror this duality, grounding narratives in authenticity. They remind us that a society—or a story—needs more than just heroes and villains. It needs the barista who forgets your name, the coworker who “borrowed” your pencil, and the stranger who hands you a stray umbrella in a downpour.

By appreciating these characters, we become more intentional readers and creators. We learn to look beyond the surface, to find wonder in the ordinary, and to recognise that even the smallest role can carry profound weight.

---

Your Turn: Who Are Your Favourite Bit Players?

Think back to your favourite stories. Which minor characters stick with you? Is it the gruff motel owner in Breaking Bad, the inscrutable IT guy in The Office, or even the diner regulars in your favourite novel? Share them in the comments—sometimes the best stories are the ones we didn’t expect to remember.

Because in the end, whether they’re on the page or the screen, these bit players teach us this: every voice, even every extra, has the power to change the narrative.

Days 10 and 11 – Writing exercise

Standing over the grave, staring down at the coffin that held the body of my wife, there was only one question.  “Just who the hell were you?”

…

I was there when Mary Antoinette Davis died.  I wasn’t expecting it, but who does, at any time?

It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.  Simple, fast, a blink of an eye, and she was gone.

It wasn’t fair, but then, most of life isn’t.  It hands you a deck of cards, and you put them in the order you want them to be in.  And sometimes you get it right, and sometimes you get it wrong.

Like that morning.

The same as every other morning when Mary was home.  We slept in till ten, wandered around the house for an hour, had coffee, toast and marmalade, home-made by the neighbour next door.

Dress and go shopping, or sometimes to the cafe to have tea and scones.

Not this morning.

It was to the village grocery shop.

It had been raining.  The side of the road was wet, so we were walking on the edge of the road when there were no cars.

And then, within sight of the shop front, a car came, rather fast, and we got out of the way.

Just.

But she slipped on the wet grass and fell down.  Shaken.  She thought she had hit her head, feeling a little faint, but then, after a few minutes, she was back to her old self again.

We bought oranges, apples, some rhubarb, and bananas.  A fruit salad.

Then it happened.  I turned to pay Silvia, the storekeeper, and when I turned back, Mary had collapsed on the floor.

Quietly.

Not panicking, thinking it might be some residual effect from the slip, I took her hand and squeezed it, saying, “Are you alright?”

There was no response.

I shook her shoulder gently, but there was still no response.

I turned back to Sylvia.  “Please call an ambulance.  This might be serious.”

I heard her go over to the telephone and dial the number.  I turned back and decided to test for a pulse.  Not that I could remember how.

That was when Doc Adams came in, saw Mary on the ground, and came straight over.  He had been her doctor for most of her life.

“What happened?”

“She slipped and fell outside, avoiding a speeding car, and I think she hit her head, but she wasn’t dizzy for long.  She just collapsed just now.”

I watched him as he checked everything I’d forgotten to, and then for a pulse.  He was shaking his head.

Sylvia yelled out, “Ambulance here in five, they were just up the road.”

Otherwise, it would take twenty from the nearest depot.

“There’s no pulse, her eyes…”

He leaned down to see if she was breathing, then started C.P.R.

I didn’t want to ask, but in that moment I felt a chill run through me.  I knew she was dead because part of me had just died with her. 

That’s when I felt the room start to turn, and moments later, nothing.

…

I woke in the small hospital in the nearest town.  It handled non-serious cases, but mostly acted as a triage centre before shipping people off to the city an hour away.

Mary wasn’t there.

Angelina, the matron, nurse, pseudo doctor when Doc Adams was not there or in transit, and general factotum, was sitting beside the bed, knitting.

Nobody ever knew what she was knitting, and they never asked.

“You’re awake?”

I hoped I was recovering from a nightmare because my first thought was horrifying if it was true.

“Mary?”

“Doc couldn’t revive her.  I’m sorry, Evan.  Doc said she had taken a blow to the temple area, found an abrasion, went back to the accident site and found the rock.  Delayed reaction, or some such.”

“She’s dead?”

“Yes.  The police will be here soon and ask you some questions.  Routine, whatever that means.  Doc had her taken to the city hospital, and you will have to go and identify her, for the record.”

She put the knitting aside and stood.  “Doc told me it would not be a good idea if you drove anywhere, just for a day. It’s been a huge shock for you, for all of us.  Doc asked me to bring you, unless…”

“It’s fine.  I don’t think I could concentrate.  How is it possible…?”

“Simple things sometimes trump the more complex.  The odds are a million to one that she would fall and hit her head in that exact spot.  A billion to one even.  I can’t believe it myself.  None of us can.”

She continued with her checks, ticking boxes and making notes with the fountain pen that Mary had given her last Christmas.  They were old friends.  Angelina had known her long before I had, and they had their secrets.

“Can I go now?”

“Sorry.  No.  Not yet.  Have to monitor you for a half hour.  Doc’s orders.

…

I felt fine, but then what I thought I knew was not what Angelina was taught to expect.  Her medical training was extensive, proving a handy backup for the Doc.

He had asked her if she wanted to go to med school; he could arrange it, but she had shied away from fully committing because she wanted better.

What could be better than being a doctor?

I would be one in a heartbeat if I had the talent, but I did not.  I was destined to be an agricultural labourer, with no qualifications and no prospects.

What I couldn’t believe was a brilliant girl who could be anything she wanted, wanted to marry me and live in the village.  When she was not away being brilliant at her real job.

She explained it to me some time ago, but it was all double Dutch to me, well, some of it anyway.  I was a little smarter than I looked, and I think Mary knew, just decided not to rock the boat.

Her friends certainly thought I was just this farmer guy, punching above his weight.  It was true, if not unexpected.  She was the belle of the ball, the pick of the crop, and I ran last in the stakes for a date.

Until I saved her from one of the upper-class boys.  That day, I became her hero and their whipping boy.  Until one day it stopped.  Henry Turbot, son of the local laird, considered her his property because his parents owned everything, even us pathetic farm workers.

And then went about proving a point.

Until he disappeared.

The mystery of the missing Henry Turbot.  The police came and asked questions until they were satisfied I had nothing to do with his disappearance.  Apparently, according to some, there was a portal near the bakery building, painstakingly rebuilt when transferred from a local Stonehenge to the common.

Somehow, he had activated it and disappeared into the ether.  People preferred mumbo-jumbo to the truth;  he had disappeared to his grandmother’s in America. 

I was the luckiest man in the village.  Now I was the saddest.

…

It was painful to visit her in the big city hospital morgue.  It was her, she was dead, and I had half an hour before she was taken to the undertaker.

The funeral was in a few days.

She had no family, so there was no one to call.  We had no family, she was unable to have children because of a riding mishap when she was younger, and I was an only child of now deceased parents.

She had friends all through the village.  They were all devastated.  Most treated me with indifference, and now she was gone, as though I didn’t exist.

I rang her work, picking a number off her phone that oddly said work.  It was strange.

“Identification?”

“It’s Mary Antoinette Davis husband.  I’m calling to tell you she died yesterday.”

“Who is this?”

Didn’t they listen?  “I’ve already told you “

Silence for a moment.  “Wait.”

I waited.  For five minutes, then a woman answered, “Who is this?”

“The husband of Mary Davis.  I’m calling the number on her phone that says work. Who are you?”

“Irrelevant.  She’s dead.”

“Yesterday.  An accident.”

“And you are,”

“Her husband.”

“Of course.  Thank you.”

The line went dead.  I put the phone down, and a minute later it looked as if self-destructed.

What the hell…

What a strange bunch of people she worked for.  But what did I know about medical research and finding cures for complex maladies?  It was ironic that a medical condition other than a serious disease killed her.

Slipping and falling on a rock.

I thought no more of it and went down to the local pub.  Rex, one of the other farmers, asked me if I wanted to talk.  I didn’t, but perhaps a drink or two might have eased the pain.

Outside the pub, I arrived at the same time as a black Audi.  I don’t know why it caught my attention.  Perhaps it was the four men sitting in it.  Suits, big, men who’d seen a few bar fights.

They didn’t get out.  I went inside.

Rex was sitting at the side of the bar where we farmers say, away from the village folk.  Rex was nibbling at the remnants of a pork pie.  There were two large ales sitting in front of him.

I went over and sat.  He slid one over.

“You should be looking sadder,” he said without looking at me.  He was watching the door.

“I am.  I’m just hiding it well.”

The ale was not bad.  It was one the publican brewed himself.  He was getting better at it.  Rex and I were his Guinea pigs.

“Shell be missed.”

“Especially by me, Rex.”

“Damn horrible way to go.  It just goes to show we can all pop off at any moment.”

If been thinking about that, the randomness of it.  I’d also been reliving the event over and over in case I missed a detail, a sign that would tell me everything wasn’t alright.

There wasn’t any.

So, we talked.  People came, and people went, some who knew her, some who didn’t.  No one had a bad word to say about her.  Her friends, though, nodded but didn’t have anything to say.

If I could read minds, they’d probably be saying it was my fault she was dead.  If it came to that, they were probably right.  If she had not come home, it would never have happened.

It was, quite literally, my fault.

…

I left the pub after one too many drinks.  I didn’t drive, I walked, and I took the back path behind the pub that cut through the thicket and the bottom of Giles’ farm, two up from mine.

It was a public access path, and there had never been any trouble about it.  There was none tonight, except that as I approached our house, I saw two men walking towards the road, and a car drove off at speed.

That was unusual for these parts.

I went around the front, and when I got to the door, I could see it was ajar slightly.  I didn’t remember leaving it unlocked or partly open.

I pushed it open and looked in.  Someone had trashed the place, tossing everything out of cupboards, off shelves, off benches,  drawers emptied, seats slashed, and the stuffing ripped out.

In the other rooms, it was worse, clothes and belongings tossed everywhere, walls smashed in with gaping holes.

Someone had been looking for something and not found it.

I called the village constable.

…

Constable Jack Dwyer was close to retirement and ready to hang up his hat; that realisation, he said, was after trying to chase down a young offender on foot.

Neither the speed nor the stamina these days for the requirements of modern policing.

He was old school.

He arrived at the door where I was waiting outside, not wanting to contaminate the crime scene any more than I already had.

I watched all the police shows and knew the jargon.

“Evan.”

“Constable.”

“Jack, please.  You and Mary are friends.” 

He had a slight wheeze from the walk from the lane up to the door.

He peered in the door, and I heard a sharp intake of breath.  “What have we here?’  He pushed the door open further and took a few steps into the room.

I followed.

“When?”

“I came home a half hour ago, so it happened in the three hours before that.  I was at the pub.  Came home, this was what I found.”

“Touch anything?”

“Very little.”

“Anything missing?”

“Nothing obvious.  Why would people be looking in walls? That strikes me as not your average thief.”

“It does not.  I’ll call it in.  This is serious.”

“Do you think it might be something to do with Mary’s death.  She was a cutting-edge researcher, brought something home?”

He shrugged.  “Can’t say.  Let the experts work it out.  Above our collective pay grade, I think.”

He went back out onto the porch and made the call.

I took another look.  I tried to recall any episodes of the dramas I watched for similar incidents.  The best I could come up with; she was a spy and had secrets hidden away, on hand in case she had to run.

And then I laughed at the stupidity of that assessment.  She was a medical researcher.  Her work took her all over the world.  She was going to cure cancer.  We spoke about it often.  If anyone could, I knew it would be her.

When I came out of the bedroom, Jack was by the front door examining it, then looked at me, “Who has a key to the front door.”

“Both of us.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.  Why.”

“This door shows no signs of tampering.  It was opened with a key.”

Mine was in my pocket.  I had her bag, collected from the hospital when I identified her.  I fetched it from the car.  The key was on a key chain with other keys we shared.

“Both accounted for.”

He shrugged.  “Can you stay somewhere else for a few days?”

“Of course.”

We went out, and I locked the door and gave him the key. 

“I’ll let you know when the forensics are done.  They should be here tomorrow.  Bad business, Mary going like that.  One in a billion, the Doc says.  I’m sorry for your loss.”

I thanked him, and he left.

I refused to believe this had anything to do with Mary’s death.

…

The funeral service was attended by everyone in the village and some from the surrounding villages.  There was no one out of place, or I didn’t recognise.

No one from her work turned up.  I had met some of her colleagues fleetingly, first names only and only briefly to the point where I wouldn’t recognise them again.

The rebuff from the telephone call still lingered, and the fact that the phone self-destructed, well, no explanation made it sound plausible.

It was a beautiful service, a tribute to the fact that everyone loved her.  I got to say a few words before I couldn’t.  Others were equally overcome by emotion.

It was a short trip from the church to the freshly dug grave, where another little service was conducted, and the coffin was lowered into the grave.

Flowers, dirt, done.  Handshakes, hugs,  muttered condolences and then nothing.  I was alone by the grave, staring down at what had been the love of my life.

Then my cell phone rang.

No name, no number.

“Hello?”

“Evan, Mary’s husband?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t go home.  Leave, now.  Don’t look back.”

“What?  Who is this?”

“I worked with Mary.  She was murdered.  They’re after me.  And now you.  They think we have it, but we don’t, and no one will believe us.  Run.  Now.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone.  That voice on the other end.  Near hysterical.

I stared down at the box in the grave.  “Just who the hell were you, Mary Antoinette Davis?”

The truth was, I didn’t know, and what I thought I knew wasn’t even remotely true.

In that moment, a montage of scenes popped into my head.  The knowing looks between friends, the nuances and double meanings of her conversations, the way the policeman, the doctor and the matron acted.  They all knew.

A loud bang that sounded very much like a gunshot came from behind me, and I jumped, almost slipping into the grave.

I ran.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026