Day 295

A story can go in many different directions

…

The Story’s Fork in the Road: Navigating Multiple Paths (or How Many Roads Should You Pave?)

Ah, the delicious agony of the writer’s mind! You’re deep into a scene, a character’s decision point, or a pivotal plot twist, and suddenly—BAM!—five equally compelling, utterly captivating directions unfurl before you. Each one a glittering promise, a potential masterpiece.

Do you freeze, overwhelmed by the narrative labyrinth? Do you toss a coin? Or do you bravely (or foolishly) attempt to build five different narrative highways? This, my friends, is the quintessential writer’s dilemma, and one we’ve all grappled with.

Let’s break it down.

The Agony of Choice: Why It’s So Hard

First, let’s acknowledge why this is such a powerful struggle. It’s not a sign of weakness; it’s a testament to your boundless creativity. Each of those five paths represents a fully formed world, a different emotional journey, a distinct thematic exploration. Choosing one feels like abandoning four perfectly good children at the orphanage of your imagination. You fear:

• Missing the “Best” Story: What if the path you don’t take was the one that would have won the Pulitzer?
• Wasting Potential: All that rich imagery, those intriguing character possibilities… gone?
• Regret: The lingering “what if” can haunt future drafts.

So, how do we navigate this creative crossroads?

Part 1: How Do We Know We’ve Chosen the “Right” One?

The short, honest answer? You don’t. Not with 100% certainty, at least not at first. But you can make the most informed, intentional choice for this particular story. Here’s how to approach it:

1. Revisit Your Core Vision & Theme:
   • What is the absolute heart of your story? What are you really trying to say?
   • What is the central question or conflict you’re exploring?
   • Which of the five paths most profoundly serves this core message or theme? Which one amplifies it, complicates it, or brings it into sharper relief?
2. Follow the Character’s Deepest Arc:
   • Where does your protagonist need to go to achieve their most meaningful growth or transformation?
   • Which path forces them to confront their greatest fears, make their hardest choices, or truly earn their redemption (or downfall)?
   • Sometimes, the “right” path isn’t the easiest or most obvious, but the one that most rigorously tests your characters.
3. Consider the Emotional Impact:
   • Which path elicits the strongest emotional response in you?
   • Which one feels most compelling, most resonant, most likely to move a reader?
   • Don’t underestimate your gut feeling. Your intuition, honed by countless hours of reading and writing, often knows best.
4. Outline Each Path (Briefly):
   • You don’t need to write five full drafts. Take an hour or two and jot down a very brief outline for each of the five directions.
   • Where does each path start? What are its key turning points? Where does it logically end?
   • Seeing them laid out, even in skeletal form, often reveals which one has the most inherent dramatic tension, sustained conflict, or satisfying resolution.
5. Listen to the Story’s Whisper:
   • Sometimes, one path just feels alive. The dialogue sparkles, the imagery flows effortlessly, the next scene already plays out in your head. That’s often the story telling you which way it wants to go. Trust that energy.

Ultimately, the “right” path is often the one you commit to with confidence and conviction, knowing it serves your story’s deepest purpose.

Part 2: Should We Write Five Different Versions of the Same Story?

This is where the practicalities of writing meet the boundless nature of imagination.

The Temptation: “Wouldn’t it be amazing to see how each version played out? What if they could be a series? Or alternate universe novels?”

The Reality (for most): Writing five different versions of the same story simultaneously is a monumental undertaking that can lead to burnout, analysis paralysis, and ultimately, five unfinished manuscripts.

However, there’s a nuanced approach:

1. The “What If” File:
   • Don’t discard those other brilliant ideas! Create a “What If” document or a story bible where you meticulously log these alternate paths.
   • Note down the potential plot points, character developments, thematic explorations, and even snippets of dialogue.
   • This frees up your current WIP while preserving those ideas for future projects. Many successful series or spin-offs are born from these discarded “what ifs.”
2. Experiment in Short Bursts:
   • If you’re truly torn, write a single scene or a very short chapter (500-1000 words) for the top two or three contenders.
   • See which one “sings.” Which one feels most natural to write? This micro-experimentation can often clarify your choice without committing to full drafts.
3. Future Projects, Not Current:
   • Recognize that those other four paths aren’t failures; they’re fertile ground for future stories.
   • Perhaps one becomes a standalone novel set in the same world, exploring a different character. Maybe another becomes a prequel or a sequel.
   • View them as seeds, not fully grown trees you have to nurture all at once.
4. The Luxury of Revision:
   • Remember, you’re not carving your story in stone with your first draft. Write a version. See it through.
   • During revision, you might realize an earlier “what if” path actually does serve your story better, and you can pivot. But it’s much easier to pivot from a complete (even flawed) draft than from five fragments.

The “Right” Path is Often the One You Finish (and Polish)

Ultimately, the most important decision isn’t which path is objectively “best,” but which path you will commit to finishing, refining, and sharing with the world. A perfectly chosen, but incomplete, story has no impact. A story chosen with conviction, even one that had four other contenders, can move mountains.

So, trust your instincts, revisit your story’s core, outline your options, and then, pick a road. Pave it with your words, your sweat, and your heart. And know that those other roads? They’ll be there, waiting for another journey, another story, another day.

---

What’s your strategy when your story branches into multiple paths? Share your tips in the comments below!

Day 295

A story can go in many different directions

…

The Story’s Fork in the Road: Navigating Multiple Paths (or How Many Roads Should You Pave?)

Ah, the delicious agony of the writer’s mind! You’re deep into a scene, a character’s decision point, or a pivotal plot twist, and suddenly—BAM!—five equally compelling, utterly captivating directions unfurl before you. Each one a glittering promise, a potential masterpiece.

Do you freeze, overwhelmed by the narrative labyrinth? Do you toss a coin? Or do you bravely (or foolishly) attempt to build five different narrative highways? This, my friends, is the quintessential writer’s dilemma, and one we’ve all grappled with.

Let’s break it down.

The Agony of Choice: Why It’s So Hard

First, let’s acknowledge why this is such a powerful struggle. It’s not a sign of weakness; it’s a testament to your boundless creativity. Each of those five paths represents a fully formed world, a different emotional journey, a distinct thematic exploration. Choosing one feels like abandoning four perfectly good children at the orphanage of your imagination. You fear:

• Missing the “Best” Story: What if the path you don’t take was the one that would have won the Pulitzer?
• Wasting Potential: All that rich imagery, those intriguing character possibilities… gone?
• Regret: The lingering “what if” can haunt future drafts.

So, how do we navigate this creative crossroads?

Part 1: How Do We Know We’ve Chosen the “Right” One?

The short, honest answer? You don’t. Not with 100% certainty, at least not at first. But you can make the most informed, intentional choice for this particular story. Here’s how to approach it:

1. Revisit Your Core Vision & Theme:
   • What is the absolute heart of your story? What are you really trying to say?
   • What is the central question or conflict you’re exploring?
   • Which of the five paths most profoundly serves this core message or theme? Which one amplifies it, complicates it, or brings it into sharper relief?
2. Follow the Character’s Deepest Arc:
   • Where does your protagonist need to go to achieve their most meaningful growth or transformation?
   • Which path forces them to confront their greatest fears, make their hardest choices, or truly earn their redemption (or downfall)?
   • Sometimes, the “right” path isn’t the easiest or most obvious, but the one that most rigorously tests your characters.
3. Consider the Emotional Impact:
   • Which path elicits the strongest emotional response in you?
   • Which one feels most compelling, most resonant, most likely to move a reader?
   • Don’t underestimate your gut feeling. Your intuition, honed by countless hours of reading and writing, often knows best.
4. Outline Each Path (Briefly):
   • You don’t need to write five full drafts. Take an hour or two and jot down a very brief outline for each of the five directions.
   • Where does each path start? What are its key turning points? Where does it logically end?
   • Seeing them laid out, even in skeletal form, often reveals which one has the most inherent dramatic tension, sustained conflict, or satisfying resolution.
5. Listen to the Story’s Whisper:
   • Sometimes, one path just feels alive. The dialogue sparkles, the imagery flows effortlessly, the next scene already plays out in your head. That’s often the story telling you which way it wants to go. Trust that energy.

Ultimately, the “right” path is often the one you commit to with confidence and conviction, knowing it serves your story’s deepest purpose.

Part 2: Should We Write Five Different Versions of the Same Story?

This is where the practicalities of writing meet the boundless nature of imagination.

The Temptation: “Wouldn’t it be amazing to see how each version played out? What if they could be a series? Or alternate universe novels?”

The Reality (for most): Writing five different versions of the same story simultaneously is a monumental undertaking that can lead to burnout, analysis paralysis, and ultimately, five unfinished manuscripts.

However, there’s a nuanced approach:

1. The “What If” File:
   • Don’t discard those other brilliant ideas! Create a “What If” document or a story bible where you meticulously log these alternate paths.
   • Note down the potential plot points, character developments, thematic explorations, and even snippets of dialogue.
   • This frees up your current WIP while preserving those ideas for future projects. Many successful series or spin-offs are born from these discarded “what ifs.”
2. Experiment in Short Bursts:
   • If you’re truly torn, write a single scene or a very short chapter (500-1000 words) for the top two or three contenders.
   • See which one “sings.” Which one feels most natural to write? This micro-experimentation can often clarify your choice without committing to full drafts.
3. Future Projects, Not Current:
   • Recognize that those other four paths aren’t failures; they’re fertile ground for future stories.
   • Perhaps one becomes a standalone novel set in the same world, exploring a different character. Maybe another becomes a prequel or a sequel.
   • View them as seeds, not fully grown trees you have to nurture all at once.
4. The Luxury of Revision:
   • Remember, you’re not carving your story in stone with your first draft. Write a version. See it through.
   • During revision, you might realize an earlier “what if” path actually does serve your story better, and you can pivot. But it’s much easier to pivot from a complete (even flawed) draft than from five fragments.

The “Right” Path is Often the One You Finish (and Polish)

Ultimately, the most important decision isn’t which path is objectively “best,” but which path you will commit to finishing, refining, and sharing with the world. A perfectly chosen, but incomplete, story has no impact. A story chosen with conviction, even one that had four other contenders, can move mountains.

So, trust your instincts, revisit your story’s core, outline your options, and then, pick a road. Pave it with your words, your sweat, and your heart. And know that those other roads? They’ll be there, waiting for another journey, another story, another day.

---

What’s your strategy when your story branches into multiple paths? Share your tips in the comments below!

Day 294

Writing Exercise

…

My brother was horrible. Aside from being the favoured son, he made sure both my sister and I got nothing from our parents. When they were alive and even when they were dead.

He knew that I wanted the family house. He didn’t care about those things, just what it was worth, and when my father left it to him, he decided to keep it. Not live in it. Just keep it because he could, all the while just doing enough to keep it from being condemned by the local authorities.

Then, twenty years down the track, he called me. We hadn’t spoken in years. And I wouldn’t have if he hadn’t called. He’d decided to sell me the house.

If…

I agreed to three demands.

First, I had to get back together with my first girlfriend, Jennifer Williams, whom I had parted with after she had admitted cheating on me with my brother. He did that to nearly every girl I met, whether they cheated or not. They thought our whole family was rotten, and given his actions, I had to agree with them. That would be impossible; she had moved to Canada.

Second, I had to secure a letter of apology from my friend Jacob over some perceived slight twenty years ago that had cost him a job. It hadn’t been Jacob, per se, who did it; he had done it because I asked him. It would stretch the friendship, but he would do it if I asked.

Third, and the one that would ruin everything I had ever worked for, was to give him 51 per cent control of my companies. He had always been jealous and had always wanted to be a shareholder, but I had blocked him at every turn. He was a monster, and 51 per cent would ruin a lot of innocent lives; he would destroy them simply out of spite. I’d still be rich beyond averice, but I would never recover from it.

So, the point was, did I want the house that much?

…

As you can imagine, he had to believe that there was something in or about the house that made it possible for him to use the leverage he thought he had.

Ever since the house had been built in the late 1700s by a man who had been believed to be a notorious pirate, and coincidentally, an ancestor of ours, rumours abounded of a huge treasure hidden either in the house or the grounds, and somewhere in the house was the treasure map to tell where it was hidden.

That was the story my father used to tell us when we were children, and my brother lapped it up. Three generations of my father’s family had almost gone mad looking for it, including my father, and I had no doubt Jeremy had spent the last 20 years looking for the treasure and the map. 20 years on, I would have known if he found either. I think I knew what the inside of the house would look like, completely ripped to pieces. The surrounding land now looked like a WW2 bomb site.

He hadn’t found it, so he was going with the notion I knew where it was.

Of course, I didn’t, but he would never accept that. And if I gave him what he asked, he would instantly boast that my success was really his success and that somehow I had stolen it from him.

I would be better off taking a contract out on his life and then admitting it to the police.

…

I took his letter of demands and went to visit him in his trailer park caravan, which, if it was the one our parents owned, would be in very bad shape now. I drove down to Brighton in the oldest, worst-looking car I could find. Showing signs of wealth would simply be a red rag to a bull.

He met me on the specially built verandah in shorts and a singlet, three months away from dying a terrible death. I’d only just found out: Cancer. Stage 4.

He gave me the standard sullen look, the one he used to give when he had stolen something from me. I stayed at the bottom of the stairs.

“Took your time. Where are the documents?” He could see the envelope I had.

“There are no documents, Jeremy. It’s three flyers from Funeral Homes for you to choose from before you go. I’m happy to pay for it.”

“That’s not part of the deal.”

“There is no deal. I don’t want the house. I don’t want anything from you.”

He sighed. “I knew you’d be like this. No matter. We just have to move to Plan B.”

“What Plan B?”

“You need an incentive. Remember Jennifer Williams? I sent her a message that you wanted to see her, did it in your name. Offered her a million bucks. People are stupid when it comes to money. Didn’t even check to see if it really came from you.”

This didn’t sound very good. What had he done?

“So?”

“She’s kind of tied up at the house, and the house is rigged with explosives. You know, the sort that go boom.” his gesturing didn’t make it sound any better, but he smirked at the thought of the house going boom.

“You’re mad.”

“No. I was cheated. By you, and by everyone. If you had cut me in on your company, we’d both be rich and no skin off your nose.”

“You would have run it into the ground like everything else you did. You wouldn’t have taken a subordinate role. I don’t need you ruining everything.”

“Whatever. You have three hours to come back with the documents. If you go near the house, it will go boom; if you do anything I don’t like, the house will go boom, and her death is on you. She told everyone she was coming back for you.”

I shook my head, speechless.

“Two hours and fifty-eight minutes, don’t be late.”

…

My mind was just about in full meltdown. Jeremy had gone way past the fringe lunatic and was well on the way to a psychopathic murderer.

Whatever way I looked at it, I was up the proverbial creek.

Unless…

It took half an hour to get back to my office and drag out the seven boxes of papers my father had left with me. It was the detailed notes of his exploration of the property for the location of the treasure map and the treasure, neither of which he had found a trace of.

But there had to be something about the house in there I could use to get in and save Jennifer.

Or die trying. My life would not be worth anything if she were harmed.

And, my mind told me that even if I signed over everything, he would simply blow up the house anyway, just to implicate me in her murder, so basically, I was in a no-win situation.

Box 1, nothing, box 2, equally nothing, and time was ticking away.

Box 3, Box 4, Box 5. Papers were scattered everywhere, on desks and on the floor. Nothing. Half an hour gone, time was relentlessly moving forward.

Box 6. A map. Old. Contours. The English called these maps ordnance surveys. There was an X, a dotted line, and another X.

X marks the spot? What spot?

There was a tracing of a street map that overlaid the survey, and the X marked a building. I wrote down the address, 15 minutes away, and literally ran to the car.

An hour and a half, about, gone. I stopped outside a two-story run-down residence. It was clear by the height of the overgrowth that no one lived there. It took a few minutes to get to the front door, then try it. I was expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t.

Once inside, I turned on the flashlight and looked around. Remarkably clean for a house that hadn’t been used in recent years. I walked up the passage to the rear of the building and into the kitchen. A door was open, perhaps a pantry, and I looked in. There was a trap door in the floor.

I tried it and it swung open. Steps going down. Was it the wine cellar? This house backed onto a hill, so it was likely that there was an underground cellar. I went down slowly; the wooden steps might have decayed. There was a strong odour of wine and damp.

A flash of light in the direction I thought was towards the hill, and I could see the brick arches where the wine had been stored. There were a few broken and empty bottles in the arches, but no usable wine. What was this place, and how did my father know about it?

I went to the rear of the cellar, counting 24 arches, and then between two an iron gate, rusting, but showing signs of recent use. I opened it, and another flask of light showed it was a tunnel.

X to X. Did it go from the street to the old house? Was this an escape tunnel built by our forefathers to escape the British during the fight for independence? That was another story my father used to tell us, that we were among the original patriots. I thought he was joking.

I followed it to the end, where there was another gate, half ajar, as if whoever used it last didn’t bother closing it. It was another wine cellar. I never knew our old house had one. I don’t think my brother did either, unless he found it in his search for the treasure.

And then, playing the light around the walls, I stopped at a tarpaulin, relatively new, covering something. I pulled it off, and there was a figure lying on the ground inside a cage.

Jennifer Williams.

She moved when I aimed the light at her, then lifted her head. “Oliver?”

“It is.” I looked at the cage, and saw there was a lock keeping the door closed, so she couldn;t escape.

“What the hell is going on?” She was still groggy from being drugged.

“My brother is playing one of his games. I’m sorry you had to get mixed up in it.”

“Jeremy? He doesn’t look well.”

“Dying. Stage four cancer. This is his last play to destroy me before he dies.”

I looked around and found an iron bar, one of a dozen or so in a pile in one of the wine arches. It took several minutes to break the lock off the cage and get her out. The drugs were still affecting her mobility, though she seemed more alert now.

“There are bombs somewhere down here. I remember him telling me that if you didn’t pay up, he was going to blow the house up.”

“No surprises there.”

“He also said that you buried a body down here. Edgar something or other. A school prank gone wrong. I don’t remember any Edgar from school days.”

“Come, this way. We don’t have much time.” I led her back down the tunnel to the house.

Halfway, she stopped, blocking the way.

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Kill someone and hide the body under the house?”

Then it dawned on me. He had a dozen plan B’s in place just in case I did manage to find and save her. A story of malfeasance, told with just enough sincerity to make her believe it. After all, the filthy rich always manage to get away with everything, including murder.

“No.”

…

“Oliver, Oliver, Oliver…” A crackly voice that sounded like someone was strangling Jeremy filled the tunnel. “Always trying to be the hero. You do remember what I told you if you tried to rescue Jennifer or go near the house.”

“Jeremy, is that you?”

“Of course. Welcome to my little brother’s nightmare.”

“You said he killed someone and buried them under the house.”

“Oh, slight mistake. I did that. Little shit was too nosy, so I hit him with a brick. Killed him. Sorry state of affairs. Had to make him disappear. It’s why the house has to go boom. Even if Oliver saved you, he wouldn’t save you. I knew you wouldn’t pay up, Oliver, so you can die too.”

“This is between you and your brother, not me. I’m leaving.”

“Can’t. The gate is locked. Better lock than the cage. Iron bars won’t help you now. You have five minutes to say your goodbyes. Then … boom.” The laughter lasted until the volume died.

…

Five minutes.

I looked for the camera, because he had to be watching us squirm. A minute to find two, another minute to smash the lights that he had turned on, obviously to watch us.

“Follow me.”

By the time I reached the gate, another minute, I tried it, and it was shut.

“Next idea.”

I reached down and tried pulling on the lock. It was a desperate and useless thing to do, but…

It opened. It felt wet and corroded. I opened the gate, dragged her through, shut it again and holding her hand, pulled her towards an arch structure as far away from the gate as possible, acting as a wall between us and possible rubble from an explosion.

There was no time to try and get upstairs into the house. I had to hope the cellar wasn’t rigged too, and that the arch structure would withstand the explosion.

I’d set the timer on my watch, and it was nearly time. Five … four … three … two … one … Boom. We could both feel the percussive aftereffect of the explosions; there were about ten in all, followed by a blast of air, dust, and debris as far as the gate, but not much into the cellar. But it had destroyed the tunnel, and had we been in it, we would have been suffocated in the collapse.

I had been holding her very close, protecting her with my body. If we were going to suffer a collapse, at least one of us should walk away from it. I let her go, and she stumbled back, trying to brush the dust off her clothes. The effects of the drugs had worn off, and I think she had just realised just how close we had been to death.

All because she had once been my friend. Now, I’m not so sure she would want to stay any longer than she had to.

“You’re safe now. We should get out of here in case he comes to check.”

“I doubt we’ll ever be safe while he still breathes. We have to go to the police.”

“Of course. The moment we get out of here.”

We went back up to the pantry and then back outside. It was cool and clear, and it was good to breathe clean air again. There were people in the street, looking in the direction of where they thought the explosion came from.

A police car, sirens blaring and lights flashing, came around the corner just up from the house and screeched to a halt not far from us. Two police officers got out, and from behind the doors, with guns pointing at us, screamed for us to get down on the ground with our hands behind our heads.

Or else.

It was stating the obvious to say that things were about to go from bad to worse.

…

We were arrested on suspicion of using explosives in a suburban setting and destroying a house that had a heritage listing, as well as the alleged murder of Edgar Bruinski, whose body was also allegedly in the house I just blew up. With my accomplice.

Now the mad bomber and his accomplice were sitting in an interview room at a police station, awaiting interrogation. It had a camera, and the light was blinking, meaning it was recording us. Perhaps they were waiting for us to turn on each other.

“From one small hole to another,” Jennifer sighed. “I knew I should have worn my worst clothes, but there was that prospect it might have been you, after all these years.” She shook her head. “i should have guessed it was Jeremy all along. You would not have made the offer of money to get me here.”

“Why did you then?”

“People are stupid when it comes to money, and I haven’t had the best of luck over the last few years, money or men for that matter. I thought I would find out if leaving you all those years ago was a mistake.”

“Was it?”

“A mistake? No. Not at the time, but I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and when I pieced together the events, I realised it couldn’t have been you, but your brother and those horrid friends of his.”

That was the moment a detective came into the room. I could feel Jennifer stiffen beside me in fear, or something else, but it was definite she knew who he was.

He sat down and introduced himself. I saw Jennifer shake her head. “No. That’s not who you are, and we both know it.”

He looked at her, a very dark expression on his face. “I think you are mistaken …” He opened a file, and there was a photo of Jennifer. “Miss Williams.”

“Mistaken or not, Detective, I am entitled to a lawyer and I’d like to call one now.”

“Soon. Just a few preliminary questions.”

I looked up at the camera. “Whoever is watching this, if this circus persists for a moment longer, there will be serious repercussions.” Then it came to me why she was afraid. I knew who the man was across the table.

A long time ago, when Jeremy had got into trouble, he had been rescued by a policeman who had been first on the crime scene. He had been an acquaintance of my father’s, and back then, he was in a situation where Jeremy’s troubles would have reflected back on him and ruined a deal he was about to make. Money changed hands, and of course, the gentle threats people with an advantage make. Across the table was his son, and one of the delinquents that Jeremy used to run with.

Another of Jeremy’s fallback plans.

I felt her squeeze my hand. I was right.

“So, Tolliver. Back to helping the scum of this city? Like father, like son.”

He was out of his chair and almost on me by the time two officers got into the room to restrain him. Just in time.

After they dragged him out, a more senior detective came in. He didn’t sit. “I’m sorry, but that was necessary. He’s been under surveillance for a while, and he’s been very careful. Your brother Jeremy is in custody, but it will only be short-lived. I think you know his circumstances.” He looked at Jennifer. “I’m sorry we didn’t live up to your expectations over protecting you, but thank you for the recording of Jeremy’s confession.” He looked at me. “Your father didn’t help matters by handing out bribes when he should have allowed the police to do their job. Not your fault, but those are the facts. At least now we can give Edgar’s family some closure. Don’t leave the city, we might have some more questions. As for now, you’re free to go.”

Once outside again, we walked a short distance to a small park area and sat on one of the benches. I needed time just to breathe. And consider what the detective had said.

“What just happened?” I had to ask.

“When you, or as it were, Jeremy called, I called the detective who was originally investigating the disappearance of Edgar. I had been with Edgar that day, and he had told me that he had a special party to go to, but wouldn’t tell me where or with whom. Of course, I suspected it was Jeremy and his friends and their so-called initiation they put chaps like Edgar through, leading them to believe they would gain admission to his circle of friends, but the reality was just a pile of humiliation and little else.”

I knew about Jeremy and his friends, and the process. He had done it to me, too, and I dared to fight back. Three of his friends got more than just bloody noses, but they didn’t come near me again.

“That was the trouble that would have caused your father a lot more. Tolliver was there, too, and he got his father to get them out of trouble, and there’s always a price to pay. Edgar gets no justice, and the Tolliver family profited handsomely. When I got the call, I told him there was a chance we could get either of you to tell the truth. I didn’t think you might know anything about it, but Jeremy was a chance. When I arrived, I went to see him. I knew straight away it wasn’t you who had asked me to come back. He drugged me and the rest you know.”

“The recording of the confession?”

“Cell phone in the tunnel. Up until then, nothing. He must have thought we were going to die. He was one of the two officers in that first car that arrested us. A little lax in protecting me, but it was worth it in the end.”

“Nearly dying?”

“My life hasn’t been that great, Oliver. I spent what little money I had coming back here, half hoping to see you again. And, here we are. Not under the best of circumstances, but we share a common bond, survivors. I didn’t thank you for trying to protect me back there in the cellar. If those bricks had fallen on us, well…” She suddered, then put her hand on mine. “Perhaps you could take me to dinner, after I get a change of clothes, and I can thank you properly.”

“I’m surprised you would want anything to do with my family.”

“He was the bad apple, Oliver, not you. I’ve seen what you’ve done with your life. Is your sister still alive?”

“She left as soon as she could escape. She said I should have gone with her, but I couldn’t leave my mother with my father and Jeremy, even though there wasn’t much I could do. When she died, I left the day after the funeral. My father wasn’t inherently bad, but it seems Jeremy inherited all the worst traits of his.”

“And you got all the good traits. Now…” She stood and held out her hand. “Let us not dwell on the past, or Jeremy, or what just happened. Food, wine, conversation, and whatever happens after that, that is up to you.” She smiled, and it changed her, almost back to the girl I used to know a long time ago.

I took her hand and stood. I was not sure what was supposed to happen, but it turned into a hug and perhaps the beginning of the rest of my life.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 294

Writing Exercise

…

My brother was horrible. Aside from being the favoured son, he made sure both my sister and I got nothing from our parents. When they were alive and even when they were dead.

He knew that I wanted the family house. He didn’t care about those things, just what it was worth, and when my father left it to him, he decided to keep it. Not live in it. Just keep it because he could, all the while just doing enough to keep it from being condemned by the local authorities.

Then, twenty years down the track, he called me. We hadn’t spoken in years. And I wouldn’t have if he hadn’t called. He’d decided to sell me the house.

If…

I agreed to three demands.

First, I had to get back together with my first girlfriend, Jennifer Williams, whom I had parted with after she had admitted cheating on me with my brother. He did that to nearly every girl I met, whether they cheated or not. They thought our whole family was rotten, and given his actions, I had to agree with them. That would be impossible; she had moved to Canada.

Second, I had to secure a letter of apology from my friend Jacob over some perceived slight twenty years ago that had cost him a job. It hadn’t been Jacob, per se, who did it; he had done it because I asked him. It would stretch the friendship, but he would do it if I asked.

Third, and the one that would ruin everything I had ever worked for, was to give him 51 per cent control of my companies. He had always been jealous and had always wanted to be a shareholder, but I had blocked him at every turn. He was a monster, and 51 per cent would ruin a lot of innocent lives; he would destroy them simply out of spite. I’d still be rich beyond averice, but I would never recover from it.

So, the point was, did I want the house that much?

…

As you can imagine, he had to believe that there was something in or about the house that made it possible for him to use the leverage he thought he had.

Ever since the house had been built in the late 1700s by a man who had been believed to be a notorious pirate, and coincidentally, an ancestor of ours, rumours abounded of a huge treasure hidden either in the house or the grounds, and somewhere in the house was the treasure map to tell where it was hidden.

That was the story my father used to tell us when we were children, and my brother lapped it up. Three generations of my father’s family had almost gone mad looking for it, including my father, and I had no doubt Jeremy had spent the last 20 years looking for the treasure and the map. 20 years on, I would have known if he found either. I think I knew what the inside of the house would look like, completely ripped to pieces. The surrounding land now looked like a WW2 bomb site.

He hadn’t found it, so he was going with the notion I knew where it was.

Of course, I didn’t, but he would never accept that. And if I gave him what he asked, he would instantly boast that my success was really his success and that somehow I had stolen it from him.

I would be better off taking a contract out on his life and then admitting it to the police.

…

I took his letter of demands and went to visit him in his trailer park caravan, which, if it was the one our parents owned, would be in very bad shape now. I drove down to Brighton in the oldest, worst-looking car I could find. Showing signs of wealth would simply be a red rag to a bull.

He met me on the specially built verandah in shorts and a singlet, three months away from dying a terrible death. I’d only just found out: Cancer. Stage 4.

He gave me the standard sullen look, the one he used to give when he had stolen something from me. I stayed at the bottom of the stairs.

“Took your time. Where are the documents?” He could see the envelope I had.

“There are no documents, Jeremy. It’s three flyers from Funeral Homes for you to choose from before you go. I’m happy to pay for it.”

“That’s not part of the deal.”

“There is no deal. I don’t want the house. I don’t want anything from you.”

He sighed. “I knew you’d be like this. No matter. We just have to move to Plan B.”

“What Plan B?”

“You need an incentive. Remember Jennifer Williams? I sent her a message that you wanted to see her, did it in your name. Offered her a million bucks. People are stupid when it comes to money. Didn’t even check to see if it really came from you.”

This didn’t sound very good. What had he done?

“So?”

“She’s kind of tied up at the house, and the house is rigged with explosives. You know, the sort that go boom.” his gesturing didn’t make it sound any better, but he smirked at the thought of the house going boom.

“You’re mad.”

“No. I was cheated. By you, and by everyone. If you had cut me in on your company, we’d both be rich and no skin off your nose.”

“You would have run it into the ground like everything else you did. You wouldn’t have taken a subordinate role. I don’t need you ruining everything.”

“Whatever. You have three hours to come back with the documents. If you go near the house, it will go boom; if you do anything I don’t like, the house will go boom, and her death is on you. She told everyone she was coming back for you.”

I shook my head, speechless.

“Two hours and fifty-eight minutes, don’t be late.”

…

My mind was just about in full meltdown. Jeremy had gone way past the fringe lunatic and was well on the way to a psychopathic murderer.

Whatever way I looked at it, I was up the proverbial creek.

Unless…

It took half an hour to get back to my office and drag out the seven boxes of papers my father had left with me. It was the detailed notes of his exploration of the property for the location of the treasure map and the treasure, neither of which he had found a trace of.

But there had to be something about the house in there I could use to get in and save Jennifer.

Or die trying. My life would not be worth anything if she were harmed.

And, my mind told me that even if I signed over everything, he would simply blow up the house anyway, just to implicate me in her murder, so basically, I was in a no-win situation.

Box 1, nothing, box 2, equally nothing, and time was ticking away.

Box 3, Box 4, Box 5. Papers were scattered everywhere, on desks and on the floor. Nothing. Half an hour gone, time was relentlessly moving forward.

Box 6. A map. Old. Contours. The English called these maps ordnance surveys. There was an X, a dotted line, and another X.

X marks the spot? What spot?

There was a tracing of a street map that overlaid the survey, and the X marked a building. I wrote down the address, 15 minutes away, and literally ran to the car.

An hour and a half, about, gone. I stopped outside a two-story run-down residence. It was clear by the height of the overgrowth that no one lived there. It took a few minutes to get to the front door, then try it. I was expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t.

Once inside, I turned on the flashlight and looked around. Remarkably clean for a house that hadn’t been used in recent years. I walked up the passage to the rear of the building and into the kitchen. A door was open, perhaps a pantry, and I looked in. There was a trap door in the floor.

I tried it and it swung open. Steps going down. Was it the wine cellar? This house backed onto a hill, so it was likely that there was an underground cellar. I went down slowly; the wooden steps might have decayed. There was a strong odour of wine and damp.

A flash of light in the direction I thought was towards the hill, and I could see the brick arches where the wine had been stored. There were a few broken and empty bottles in the arches, but no usable wine. What was this place, and how did my father know about it?

I went to the rear of the cellar, counting 24 arches, and then between two an iron gate, rusting, but showing signs of recent use. I opened it, and another flask of light showed it was a tunnel.

X to X. Did it go from the street to the old house? Was this an escape tunnel built by our forefathers to escape the British during the fight for independence? That was another story my father used to tell us, that we were among the original patriots. I thought he was joking.

I followed it to the end, where there was another gate, half ajar, as if whoever used it last didn’t bother closing it. It was another wine cellar. I never knew our old house had one. I don’t think my brother did either, unless he found it in his search for the treasure.

And then, playing the light around the walls, I stopped at a tarpaulin, relatively new, covering something. I pulled it off, and there was a figure lying on the ground inside a cage.

Jennifer Williams.

She moved when I aimed the light at her, then lifted her head. “Oliver?”

“It is.” I looked at the cage, and saw there was a lock keeping the door closed, so she couldn;t escape.

“What the hell is going on?” She was still groggy from being drugged.

“My brother is playing one of his games. I’m sorry you had to get mixed up in it.”

“Jeremy? He doesn’t look well.”

“Dying. Stage four cancer. This is his last play to destroy me before he dies.”

I looked around and found an iron bar, one of a dozen or so in a pile in one of the wine arches. It took several minutes to break the lock off the cage and get her out. The drugs were still affecting her mobility, though she seemed more alert now.

“There are bombs somewhere down here. I remember him telling me that if you didn’t pay up, he was going to blow the house up.”

“No surprises there.”

“He also said that you buried a body down here. Edgar something or other. A school prank gone wrong. I don’t remember any Edgar from school days.”

“Come, this way. We don’t have much time.” I led her back down the tunnel to the house.

Halfway, she stopped, blocking the way.

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Kill someone and hide the body under the house?”

Then it dawned on me. He had a dozen plan B’s in place just in case I did manage to find and save her. A story of malfeasance, told with just enough sincerity to make her believe it. After all, the filthy rich always manage to get away with everything, including murder.

“No.”

…

“Oliver, Oliver, Oliver…” A crackly voice that sounded like someone was strangling Jeremy filled the tunnel. “Always trying to be the hero. You do remember what I told you if you tried to rescue Jennifer or go near the house.”

“Jeremy, is that you?”

“Of course. Welcome to my little brother’s nightmare.”

“You said he killed someone and buried them under the house.”

“Oh, slight mistake. I did that. Little shit was too nosy, so I hit him with a brick. Killed him. Sorry state of affairs. Had to make him disappear. It’s why the house has to go boom. Even if Oliver saved you, he wouldn’t save you. I knew you wouldn’t pay up, Oliver, so you can die too.”

“This is between you and your brother, not me. I’m leaving.”

“Can’t. The gate is locked. Better lock than the cage. Iron bars won’t help you now. You have five minutes to say your goodbyes. Then … boom.” The laughter lasted until the volume died.

…

Five minutes.

I looked for the camera, because he had to be watching us squirm. A minute to find two, another minute to smash the lights that he had turned on, obviously to watch us.

“Follow me.”

By the time I reached the gate, another minute, I tried it, and it was shut.

“Next idea.”

I reached down and tried pulling on the lock. It was a desperate and useless thing to do, but…

It opened. It felt wet and corroded. I opened the gate, dragged her through, shut it again and holding her hand, pulled her towards an arch structure as far away from the gate as possible, acting as a wall between us and possible rubble from an explosion.

There was no time to try and get upstairs into the house. I had to hope the cellar wasn’t rigged too, and that the arch structure would withstand the explosion.

I’d set the timer on my watch, and it was nearly time. Five … four … three … two … one … Boom. We could both feel the percussive aftereffect of the explosions; there were about ten in all, followed by a blast of air, dust, and debris as far as the gate, but not much into the cellar. But it had destroyed the tunnel, and had we been in it, we would have been suffocated in the collapse.

I had been holding her very close, protecting her with my body. If we were going to suffer a collapse, at least one of us should walk away from it. I let her go, and she stumbled back, trying to brush the dust off her clothes. The effects of the drugs had worn off, and I think she had just realised just how close we had been to death.

All because she had once been my friend. Now, I’m not so sure she would want to stay any longer than she had to.

“You’re safe now. We should get out of here in case he comes to check.”

“I doubt we’ll ever be safe while he still breathes. We have to go to the police.”

“Of course. The moment we get out of here.”

We went back up to the pantry and then back outside. It was cool and clear, and it was good to breathe clean air again. There were people in the street, looking in the direction of where they thought the explosion came from.

A police car, sirens blaring and lights flashing, came around the corner just up from the house and screeched to a halt not far from us. Two police officers got out, and from behind the doors, with guns pointing at us, screamed for us to get down on the ground with our hands behind our heads.

Or else.

It was stating the obvious to say that things were about to go from bad to worse.

…

We were arrested on suspicion of using explosives in a suburban setting and destroying a house that had a heritage listing, as well as the alleged murder of Edgar Bruinski, whose body was also allegedly in the house I just blew up. With my accomplice.

Now the mad bomber and his accomplice were sitting in an interview room at a police station, awaiting interrogation. It had a camera, and the light was blinking, meaning it was recording us. Perhaps they were waiting for us to turn on each other.

“From one small hole to another,” Jennifer sighed. “I knew I should have worn my worst clothes, but there was that prospect it might have been you, after all these years.” She shook her head. “i should have guessed it was Jeremy all along. You would not have made the offer of money to get me here.”

“Why did you then?”

“People are stupid when it comes to money, and I haven’t had the best of luck over the last few years, money or men for that matter. I thought I would find out if leaving you all those years ago was a mistake.”

“Was it?”

“A mistake? No. Not at the time, but I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and when I pieced together the events, I realised it couldn’t have been you, but your brother and those horrid friends of his.”

That was the moment a detective came into the room. I could feel Jennifer stiffen beside me in fear, or something else, but it was definite she knew who he was.

He sat down and introduced himself. I saw Jennifer shake her head. “No. That’s not who you are, and we both know it.”

He looked at her, a very dark expression on his face. “I think you are mistaken …” He opened a file, and there was a photo of Jennifer. “Miss Williams.”

“Mistaken or not, Detective, I am entitled to a lawyer and I’d like to call one now.”

“Soon. Just a few preliminary questions.”

I looked up at the camera. “Whoever is watching this, if this circus persists for a moment longer, there will be serious repercussions.” Then it came to me why she was afraid. I knew who the man was across the table.

A long time ago, when Jeremy had got into trouble, he had been rescued by a policeman who had been first on the crime scene. He had been an acquaintance of my father’s, and back then, he was in a situation where Jeremy’s troubles would have reflected back on him and ruined a deal he was about to make. Money changed hands, and of course, the gentle threats people with an advantage make. Across the table was his son, and one of the delinquents that Jeremy used to run with.

Another of Jeremy’s fallback plans.

I felt her squeeze my hand. I was right.

“So, Tolliver. Back to helping the scum of this city? Like father, like son.”

He was out of his chair and almost on me by the time two officers got into the room to restrain him. Just in time.

After they dragged him out, a more senior detective came in. He didn’t sit. “I’m sorry, but that was necessary. He’s been under surveillance for a while, and he’s been very careful. Your brother Jeremy is in custody, but it will only be short-lived. I think you know his circumstances.” He looked at Jennifer. “I’m sorry we didn’t live up to your expectations over protecting you, but thank you for the recording of Jeremy’s confession.” He looked at me. “Your father didn’t help matters by handing out bribes when he should have allowed the police to do their job. Not your fault, but those are the facts. At least now we can give Edgar’s family some closure. Don’t leave the city, we might have some more questions. As for now, you’re free to go.”

Once outside again, we walked a short distance to a small park area and sat on one of the benches. I needed time just to breathe. And consider what the detective had said.

“What just happened?” I had to ask.

“When you, or as it were, Jeremy called, I called the detective who was originally investigating the disappearance of Edgar. I had been with Edgar that day, and he had told me that he had a special party to go to, but wouldn’t tell me where or with whom. Of course, I suspected it was Jeremy and his friends and their so-called initiation they put chaps like Edgar through, leading them to believe they would gain admission to his circle of friends, but the reality was just a pile of humiliation and little else.”

I knew about Jeremy and his friends, and the process. He had done it to me, too, and I dared to fight back. Three of his friends got more than just bloody noses, but they didn’t come near me again.

“That was the trouble that would have caused your father a lot more. Tolliver was there, too, and he got his father to get them out of trouble, and there’s always a price to pay. Edgar gets no justice, and the Tolliver family profited handsomely. When I got the call, I told him there was a chance we could get either of you to tell the truth. I didn’t think you might know anything about it, but Jeremy was a chance. When I arrived, I went to see him. I knew straight away it wasn’t you who had asked me to come back. He drugged me and the rest you know.”

“The recording of the confession?”

“Cell phone in the tunnel. Up until then, nothing. He must have thought we were going to die. He was one of the two officers in that first car that arrested us. A little lax in protecting me, but it was worth it in the end.”

“Nearly dying?”

“My life hasn’t been that great, Oliver. I spent what little money I had coming back here, half hoping to see you again. And, here we are. Not under the best of circumstances, but we share a common bond, survivors. I didn’t thank you for trying to protect me back there in the cellar. If those bricks had fallen on us, well…” She suddered, then put her hand on mine. “Perhaps you could take me to dinner, after I get a change of clothes, and I can thank you properly.”

“I’m surprised you would want anything to do with my family.”

“He was the bad apple, Oliver, not you. I’ve seen what you’ve done with your life. Is your sister still alive?”

“She left as soon as she could escape. She said I should have gone with her, but I couldn’t leave my mother with my father and Jeremy, even though there wasn’t much I could do. When she died, I left the day after the funeral. My father wasn’t inherently bad, but it seems Jeremy inherited all the worst traits of his.”

“And you got all the good traits. Now…” She stood and held out her hand. “Let us not dwell on the past, or Jeremy, or what just happened. Food, wine, conversation, and whatever happens after that, that is up to you.” She smiled, and it changed her, almost back to the girl I used to know a long time ago.

I took her hand and stood. I was not sure what was supposed to happen, but it turned into a hug and perhaps the beginning of the rest of my life.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025