Yesterday there was a moment where I went back over the plot, and whilst that exercise was a success in a way, it also got me thinking, and like always, I couldn’t sleep, thinking about how the timeline was working, but the narrative wasn’t.
Yes, I made the fatal mistake of considering editing in the middle of a writing marathon.
What brought this self-destructive mood on? A movie. No relevance at all to my story, but it was a study in interactions between disparate people, which is what I have going on between John and Zoe.
It works in the first story because they are thrown together and everything is new and crazy.
In the second, the premise is that the novelty of the thing they had is wearing off.
Zoe needs to keep occupied and doing something other than all she’s ever known is not exactly on her to-do list.
Of course, that’s all put on hold because she is now a target because of the death of Alistair, and it’s a problem she has to take care of. Alone.
I realize now there needs to be some discussion around this, and the way the story starts does not set the scene.
Similarly, there should be more definition of the relationship as it stands, or not as the case may be, and reasons why John decides to go after her, if only to get the truth because he believes she is using the people seeking revenge as an excuse to keep him at arm’s length.
And, from her perspective, it’s not so much she doesn’t want to be with him, it’s because she doesn’t want him ending up dead, given the sort of people she was up against. Not being able to articulate her feelings, as it’s not something she really knew how to, there’s bound to be some confusion.
Inevitably he is going to find her, and when they d, the reasons why they are together are clear, but there’s still many reasons why he shouldn’t be there. Her life is not the sort of life he would want, by choice, and it’s not going to improve, so where is this thing going to take them?
I haven’t thought it though, so I’m going to take some time out to sort it out. I’m 47,000 odd words into the narrative, so I have a day, two at the most to review, and perhaps rewrite to get the missing perspective I’m looking for
…
Today’s writing, a part of the assessment of their relationship underway, 560 words, for a total of 47,626.
It was a combination of circumstances, not all related, but coming at me out of left field, circumstances that would prevent me from going home when I said I would.
I had every intention of getting there and as testament to that, I had got to the airport with baggage two hours before departure time, and had reached the departure gate with 20 minutes to spare, ready to board the plane.
I’d even got a business class ticket so I could travel in style.
What precipitated the set of circumstances? A simple phone call. I should have turned it off five minutes before boarding, but I didn’t but because I’d forgotten to, simply because I’d been distracted.
The call was from Penelope, my hard working and self-sacrificing personal assistant. I had offered to take her with me so we could work on a business plan that had to be presented the day after I was scheduled to return, but she had declined, which when I thought about it, if she hadn’t it might have created problems for both of us.
With a huge restructure going on, I was running behind in getting it completed, and had promised to finish it while at home.
The call: to tell me I had left a folder with vital research back on my desk, and she coming to the airport to deliver it, and she was, in fact, was in the terminal building when the boarding call came.
When I met her at the gate, only a few passengers had to be loaded. Being business class had afforded me a few extra minutes. File delivered, I left her looking exasperated and headed down the boarding ramp.
I was last aboard, and seconds after being seated, the door was closed.
I quickly typed and sent a message to tell everyone I was on the plane, eliciting two responses. My mother was glad that I was finally coming, the other from my elder brother, saying he would believe it when he saw me.
It was not without reason; I’d been in this situation before; on the plane ready to go.
Last time the plane didn’t leave the gate, a small problem that caused a big delay, so much so, I couldn’t get home.
Not this time. There was a slight lurch as the push tractor started pushing the plane back from the gate. A minute or so later the pilot fired up the engines, a sure sign of a definite departure. Nothing could stop us now.
It was a reassuring vibration that ran through the plane before the engines settled into a steady whine, a sign of an older plane that had flown many miles in the past and would into the future.
We stopped while the push tractor was disengaged and then the engines picked up speed and we lurched forward, heading towards the runway for take-off. In some airports this could take a long time, and tonight it seemed to take forever.
I looked out the window and saw a backdrop of lights against the darkness, but no indication where we were. It didn’t look like the end of the runway because I could not see any other planes waiting to take off.
Then the engines revved louder and for a pronged period. We didn’t move, but remained where we were, until the engines returned to what might be called idling speed
It was followed by an announcement from the pilot, “This is the captain speaking. We have encountered an anomaly with one of the engines, so to be on the safe side, we are returning to the gate and will have the engineers have a look at it. I do not anticipate this should take longer than 30 minutes.”
A collective groan went through the airplane. Those savvy with these problems would know that the odds were we would not be leaving tonight. The airport curfew would see to that.
But a miracle could still occur.
The plane then started back to the terminal. Another message from the pilot told us we would not be going back to the gate, but to a holding area. Time to have a glass of champagne the steward was offering before going back to the terminal for what, an interminable wait.
It seemed the gods did not want me to go back home.
…
When we got back to the parking spot, three buses and four delays later, I headed for one of the several bars to get a drink, and perhaps something decent to eat.
Then I saw Penelope, sitting by herself, a glass of champagne sitting half drunk in front of her.
“What are you doing here?” I said as I slid onto the stool beside her.
She started, as if she had been somewhere else, and turned to see who it was. The faraway look turned into a smile when she recognised me. “Getting drunk.”
“I thought you were going home.” A nod in the direction of the bartender, followed by pointing to her glass and indicating I wanted two, got instant service.
“I saw an ex heading to a plane with his latest squeeze. Made me feel depressed. I heard your plane was returning so I decided to wait. Better to get drunk with someone you know than drink by yourself, or someone you don’t. I’ve had three offers already.”
I wasn’t surprised. She was very attractive, the sort of woman who was the most popular at any of the work functions but was equally surprising was that she was not with any of those potential suitors. In fact, as far as I knew, she was not in a relationship.
“No one at home to amuse you?” It was not the sort of question I should be asking, because it was really none of my business.
It elicited a sideways glance, as if I stepped over an invisible line.
“Sorry, none of my business.”
She finished off the glass in front of her, just as the new round arrived in front of her. I gave the bartender my credit card and asked him to start a tab. I’d just heard that the plane was going to be another two hours before we’d be leaving.
“I live with two other girls, but they are more interested in finding stray men and getting wasted, not necessarily in that order, and that’s not what I want to do.”
“Get wasted or find stray men?”
I was not sure how anyone had the time and inclination to do that, but a few weeks back I spent two evenings with a friend of mine whose marriage had fallen apart. The people there seemed either desperate or looking for a one-night stand. It had amused me to discover most of them were married, and not divorced, and that the girls knew what to expect.
“Both apparently.”
“How do you expect to find the man of your dreams if you don’t go looking.”
“I am, this place seems as good as any, but the man of my dreams doesn’t exist.”
The bemused expression and the tone of her voice told me she had had more than the one drink before I got there. Even then, judging from several previous parties for work we had attended, she had a much greater capacity for alcohol than I had.
She finished off the glass just brought, and seconds later her eyes seemed glassy. Perhaps it was time for me to put her in a cab and send her home.
“Another,” she said, “and then you can be responsible for me.”
I had no idea what that meant, and I think, judging by the facial expressions, she didn’t really care.
“Perhaps…”
She didn’t let me finish. “Perhaps you should buy me another drink and lighten up.” And the look that came with it told me not to argue the point.
I got the bartender’s attention, and he responded by bringing two fresh glasses and a bottle. I told him to leave it. It gave me a minute or so to contemplate what she meant by ‘lighten up’. I was so used to seeing her work ethic and diligence, this was a different side to her.
I took a sip and could feel her looking at me. A glance took in the near permanent bemused expression.
“Are you going to be alright getting home?” It was probably not the question I should have asked, but in the back of my mind there was a recent briefing given to all of management on the subject of sexual harassment and intra office romances.
“I’m fine. It’s not as if I do this a lot, but the last week has been difficult. Not only for me, but for you too. But you have to admit you put yourself under a lot of pressure.”
She was starting to sound like my conscience. It was something I’d been thinking about on the way to the airport, but decided it was part of the job, and I knew when I accepted the position what it would involve. My predecessor, much older than I was, had fallen on his sword, the pressure destroying his marriage and almost his life.
“So I said, lamely, It goes with the job, unfortunately.”
She shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. They might think it does, but they don’t care. They sit in their ivory tower and watch their minions crash and burn. There’s always someone else waiting in the wings to take your place, believe me.”
It was an interesting perspective, but where did it come from? I knew she had been at the corporation for a number of years, and I had been lucky enough to draw the long straw when having her assigned to me as my PA when I took the position. One of the other executives had lamented my good fortune, but he had also said she was one of the few who were there to guide those management considered were management prospects.
I just thought I was lucky.
“I might end up in that ivory tower one day.”
“Why?”
She turned to look directly at me. It made me uncomfortable now, as it had on other occasions, and I had begun to think it might have something to do with unspoken feelings. I liked her, but I doubted that was reciprocated. And, after the lecture on office romances, I promptly put those feelings in the bottom drawer and locked it.
“Doesn’t everyone aspire to be the best, and climb to the top of the corporate ladder?”
“For that you have to be devious and ruthless, and from what I’ve seen, you’re neither. You’ve heard the expression ‘good guys come last’. It’s true.”
I was guessing from the people she had worked for, she had firsthand experience. My predecessor was a ‘good guy’ and some said he was eaten alive by the office predators. I knew who they were, and avoided them. Perhaps she knew something I didn’t, but when would she have told me? Not tonight, no one could have predicted the plane would break down.
“You’re telling me this now, why?”
“You’re smarter than all of those above you put together. You don’t need them, but they need you. But, you won’t get any concessions, not until you get near the top. By then you will have had to sell your soul to the devil.”
Good to know, on one hand I was about to see my soul to the devil, and on the other that I was smart, just not smart enough to see the wolves in sheep’s clothing.
I noticed she hadn’t touched the latest glass of champagne. Nor was she the languid barfly she’d pretended to be earlier.
“You’re advice, if I’m listening correctly, is that I should be looking for another job.”
“Actually, you shouldn’t be listening to me at all. Too many drinks and I pontificate. Some people become happy, I become,” she shrugged, “unhappy. Take no notice.” She swung around to the front and picked up the glass.
“OK.” I turned around to look at the departures board to see my flight had been cancelled, and I should go to the check in counter. “My plane is completely broken, so it looks like I’m staying home.”
“Or you could take me to dinner.” She looked sideways again, the bemused expression back.
“Wouldn’t that be inappropriate?”
“Only if you were in upper management, married, and asking me to have an affair. Last I looked you’re not in upper management, not married, so there’s no hint of an affair. For heaven’s sake, it’s only dinner.”
She was right on all counts, and it was only dinner.
“Why not?” I said, more to myself than to her.
“Good. And you’d better get me on the plane too. We need to get that report done, and it’ll be an excuse to stay at a hotel. I know you wouldn’t want to stay in your old room at your parents’ house.”
She was right about that too, I had long outgrown them, and staying at home would only lead to arguments. “How could you possibly know that?”
I was minding my own business, as the saying goes.
Having made my mark on the world, I had retired from a world that I hardly recognized as what had once been.
Pandemics, political games, countries on the brink of disaster, and what could be called a world gone mad seemed to be the new normal, though it was hard to say what the old normal was.
So, I let all flow on past me, like water under the bridge, much the same that I was now standing on, overlooking the Grand Canal in Venice, the second to last whistle-stop on what had been a long respite from the real world.
I’d also been lamenting the death of the only woman I’d ever loved and for a long time the only thing that made sense.
She was with me always, in life and in death, reminding me that she would not want me to simply give up on life. Sometimes those words fell on deaf ears, but today was a good day.
She had always loved Venice and we always came for the Carnival, but this was the first year I’d missed it. It would not be the same without her.
After a while I moved on, over the bridge, heading back to the apartment, one of several in the major cities we traveled to often, Paris, London, Istanbul, and Vienna to name a few.
I stopped at a Cafe, one we often did when Violetta was alive, and the owner served me himself. It was, coincidentally, where Violetta and I first met, a story in itself
Then it was back home.
There were certain instincts I had, acquired when I lived in another world, and one was telling me something was not right.
I looked up and down the street but everything seemed normal. It was part of the city where cars were permitted, though I chose not to have one.
I shrugged. Perhaps my instincts were wrong, after all, it had been a long time since I’d needed them.
As I approached the front door to the building, I could see a man come from the opposite side of the street, heading towards the same doorway. He’d timed it to arrive at the same time.
Normally it wouldn’t bother me, but he did not look like a resident or a visitor.
“Mr. Wallace?”
As I went to put the key in the lock, he called out, his timing not quite getting him to the front door. Perhaps that was because I’d quickened my pace.
I was going to ignore him, but something told me not to. He seemed familiar.
I turned, just as he reached me.
“Mr. Wallace?”
“Who wants to Know?”
“Alfie Simkins. Who I work for is irrelevant, but we need to have a short discussion.”
OK, the irrelevant reference told me everything I needed to know. It was my past, coming back to haunt me.
“About what?”
“Nothing I would care to utter in the street.”
I gave him one of those long hard stares, the one known to unnerve even the hardest of opponents, but he didn’t flinch.
I knew his sort, and he was the last person I wanted to talk to. But just to make sure he was who he was intimating he was…
“Who sent you?”
“Rodby.”
And there it was. That blast from the past, a name I had hoped I’d never hear again.
I opened the door and he followed me in, then up the elevator to the third floor. At the time I could not afford the top floor, but it was comfortable enough, even if the view was somewhat limited.
He’d barely made it through the door before I asked, “I need some proof…”
“That I’m not an assassin, he said you’d require it. Two words, Alan McWhirter.”
There was a name I hadn’t heard in a long time, almost twenty years, my original name, lost after becoming so many different people. There had been times when I hardly knew who I was myself.
Now it was only a matter of what Rodby wanted, usually the impossible.
“How is he? He must be about a hundred years old by now.” He was close to that when I first met him, oh so long ago.
“Still comes into the office every day, still sharp as a tack as they say.”
The man would never die or lose his marbles.
“So, what’s this about?”
“A recording a surveillance team made and which they thought held no significance.”
“But Rodby did.”
“One of the analysts, you might remember her, Wendy Tucker, thought it might be relevant so she raised a flag.”
I did remember her, and by now she would be as old as I was and probably the only surviving member of the old team. But my memories of her were for other reasons.
“Yes, and I’m surprised she’s still there.”
“She heard your name, and another, but perhaps I should play the recording and then comment on it.”
He put his phone on the bench and played it.
A male voice accented, eastern European I thought, spoke first. “I’m told you knew a man named Egan Watts.”
“There’s a name I never expected to hear again.” A female voice and one I thought I recognized.
“Then you did know him?”
“Briefly, and not all that well. He and I went to an industry function once after we met in rather unusual circumstances, but whatever it was, it didn’t last long. He put work before anything else, so we parted.”
“Amicably?”
“Yes. For a while after we crossed paths, had dinner, you know.”
It had been a time when I’d been in recovery and retraining and had time for such a relationship. Nothing permanent, but just fun. She hadn’t been looking for anything permanent either.
“So you would know him now?”
“God no. It’s been a long time, and last I heard, he was married and traveling the world.”
“His wife died. Now he’s in Venice. We’d like you to pick up where you left off.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” she said. “Chances are he’s moved on and forgotten all about me.”
“Be that as it may, this isn’t a request. We ask you to do, or there will be consequences.”
Silence, perhaps a moment to reflect on exactly what those consequences might be, then, “What for?”
“That’s none of your concern. All you are required to do is rekindle your relationship. How you do it is your business, but you better go and pack for a long stay.”
Juliet Ambrose.
I remembered the voice, and the distinctiveness of its soft Irish accent, almost mesmerizing.
She had been one of the doctors supervising my recovery and she seemed to be out of sorts, so I’d asked her out to dinner, and talk if she wanted to. She didn’t, but one thing led to another…
That’s where Alfie stopped the recording.
“Good to know then,” I said, ” it’s time to leave Venice and move on.” The expression on Alfie’s face told me that was not what was going to happen. “Or…”
“The man in the conversation is Larry Pomisor, a key figure in the Waterville organization.”
That said, it all came back to me in a flood. An assignment that specifically targeted Larry’s brother Andre, and how spectacularly it failed. Andre had been killed, which was the mission objective, but so had his wife and children, which was not, and Larry had sworn to find his killer.
Apparently, he now had.
“Then if he regards me as the perpetrator, then you and Rodby both know Larry is going to honor a promise he made. Surely this is all Rodby needs to put him behind bars.” I knew Rodby could not have Larry ‘removed’ like he could once.
“It’s not that straightforward. If we were to go in with what we know, it would burn our source, so for the time being Rodby wants you to play along, find out what he intends to do, and we’ll swoop in and round them all up.”
The man had enthusiasm, I’ll give him that, but no idea what might happen if it all went wrong; that there will be a lot of pain and suffering involved. Larry was not a man to miss hitting the first time.
“All good intentions I’m sure, but both of you seem to forget I don’t work for him, or the government, anymore.”
“He never rescinded your file. As far as anyone knows you’re still on the active list. It’s just for a short time until we make all the connections. Clearly, while the girl is courting you nothing is going to happen, and we’ll have eyes on all the major players. All he’s asking is for you to play a role.”
It seemed to me my whole life had been one long screenplay. And it was never that simple.
“If I say no?”
“Then I’m sure he’ll arrive on your doorstep and personally ask you to return the favor”
Yes, I’d expected that. He may have agreed very reluctantly to my retirement, but it had always come with a caveat.
“Just this once then.” There would be no getting around it.
“Of course. I assume that we have permission to install eyes and ears here?”
An inconvenience, but necessary. I nodded. “But I am considering going to Paris, and then to New York. She might ask to come with me.”
“Wouldn’t you simply stay put and make them come to you? Besides, why would you take anyone actively assisting in a plan to kill you anywhere?”
Good point. “Perhaps we’ll see what happens, I have to get back home sometime.”
“Then give us the addresses and we’ll take care of the rest. Oh, and the plane. Just in case.”
I shook my head. I guess I could say goodbye to privacy for the next few weeks.
Yes, when you are going at it like a bat out of hell, it might be an idea to take a pause and regroup.
That being a pause as an interruption to an activity.
In music, it’s a mark over a note.
Perhaps it’s a good idea to pause recording a TV show while the ads are on. Networks don’t like it, but it makes the show make more sense without the distractions of advertisements, sometimes quite inane, or annoying.
What I just said, might give pause to my opposite number in this debate.
Have you been in a conversation, someone says something quite odd, and there’s a pregnant pause?
How did the word pregnant get into the conversation? That, of course, usually means something significant will follow, but rarely does. But it can also be a conversation killer where no one says anything.
Is that a wide eye in awe moment? You did WHAT?
Then there is the word pours, sounds the same but is completely different.
In this case, the man pours water from the bucket on the plants.
Or my brother pours cold water on my plans. Not literally, but figuratively, making me think twice about whether it would work or not. Usually not.
Or a confession pours out of a man with a guilty conscience. AKA sings like a bird. Don’t you just love these quaint expressions? It reminded me of a gangster film back in Humphrey Bogart’s day.
It never rains but it pours? Another expression, when everything goes wrong. A bit like home renovations really.
Really, it means to flow quickly and in large quantities, ie. rain pours down.
And if that isn’t bad enough, what about paws?
Sounds the same again, but, yes it’s what an animal has as feet, especially cats, dogs, and bears.
One use of it, out of context, of course, is ‘get your paws off me!’
And one rabbit paw might be good luck, but having two rabbit pows, I might win the lottery.
It might not make much sense, but it can be worked on. You know how it is, the words come from nowhere, the story writes itself in your head at the awkwardest of moments, then if a free moment as soon as possible…
Write:
…
When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring, there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the handsomest of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.
I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.
They came at mid morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. Perhaps she was the distraction, taking my mind of the reality of what I was about to see.
Another doctor came into the room, before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon that had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.
I found it hard to believe, if he was, that he would be at a small country hospital.
“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months time.”
Warning enough.
The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly, and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.
Then it was done.
The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with his work. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.
I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand, and was somewhat reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the final result. The doctor said it was going to heal with very little scarring. You have been very fortunate he was available. Are you ready?”
I nodded.
She showed me.
I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but, not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.
And I still could not talk. There was a reason, he had worked on that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.
“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement on last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”
It seems like everyone has a potential skeleton in their closet. How well we know of our relatives and family members close and far is something we don’t necessarily delve into, unless it’s for the purpose of genealogy.
Even then it can be difficult because there is always that one person no one will talk about, whether they know of them or of their reputation from afar. That potential skeleton.
Of course its a whole different ball game if you have tried to forget them, and finally believing that they and the past have finally been erased.
Or has it?
The story starts out in New York at Christmas. I’ve been there that time of the year and it brought back memories, mostly of the snow and cold, and Central Park under a white blanket.
And the playful sqirrels.
In the setting of impending holidays and family reunions, we focus in on a man with a past, a man who is not who he says he is, a man who wants nothing less than an ‘ordinary’ life ‘like everyone else’. A man who wants to believe his past is but a distant memory.
He feels it is time, 20 years having passed, and surely the trail for his adversary, the man who killed his parents and was gunning for him, had gone cold.
That belief, and everything that went with it, disappears in a flash when he realizes his past has finally caught up with him, and it comes down to making a stand or getting the hell out of town. It’s not a hard decision. Will has the escape route planned, and has one foot out the door.
Except …
This time, after breaking his golden rule, don’t get involved, there’s more at stake.
This is a very interesting collection of characters, all of whom have their own dark secrets, and as each layer is peeled away we gradually become more invested.
There wasn’t a year went by when I was reminded of a saying that a childhood friend, Jack Mulligan, had one told me, when one door closes another one opens.
I forget why he said that, but I suspect it had something to do with a chip on my shoulder over not being the same as other children in the street.
We were definitely not equal with them, and it had shown. And school could be hell when kids see prey and attack mercilessly.
When I left the school, and the family moved away from Odyssey Falls, I never saw Jack again, though I followed his progress, as well as several others, for a few years, up until I read about a car accident, and not only his death, but that of my first love, Cecilia Zampa.
After that, I forgot about Odyssey Falls, and a life that had not been particularly good.
It took another friend, one I’d made during a stint in the National Guard, to bring back a single memory, and one thing led to another as it inevitably does, until I found myself waking up in the Sad Sack Motel on the city limits of Odyssey Falls, one very cold, snowy morning.
It would not have happened if it had not been snowing so hard, and the road that passed through the city had not been covered in snow.
Not that I knew, the moment I woke up, that I was in Odyssey Falls, we had not passed the sign telling all that they were about to enter the most scenic city in the state, and it could have been anywhere.
“What the hell happened to us?” The croaky voice that was the result of 40 cigarettes a day, sounded startled, and belonged to my travelling companion, Melissa, last name not sure.
“We hit a bank of snow, and the cops said to hole up in the motel until the road was cleared, hopefully this morning sometime.”
“Is there a reason we’re in this bed together?
A good question. Until two days ago I’d never met Melissa before, she had been seeking a lift when I’d stopped at a gas station to fill up, and it beat making the drive by myself.
“Your idea. I said I’d sleep on the floor.”
“Did we…?”
“No. I started on the floor and you took pity on me.”
I saw her glance under the blanket, just to make sure, but she still had most of her clothes on. She rolled over. “What time is it?”
“Still dark. A few hours before it gets light. I’m going out to get some coffee, you want any?”
“God, no. Maybe later.”
I thought I’d got out of the bed without waking her, but obviously the opposite was the case. It had been a strange night, and she had talked in her sleep, and it didn’t take much to realise she had not been treated well by the men in her life. I didn’t sleep much, too many bad dreams myself, and I was heading to the truck stop a few hundred yards up the road.
“I’ll see you when I get back,” I said just before opening the door. There was no reply, so I guess she had gone back to sleep.
..
It was dark and cold, the hour or two before the sun made an appearance. In that dark, it was quiet, the traffic on the road stopped waiting for the snow ploughs to clear the way.
The truck stop stood out like a beacon in the night, like a light drawing an insect towards it on a hot summers night. A find memory popped into my head and was gone again by the time I reached the door.
It was bright inside, and busy, a lot of stalled drivers taking the forced down time to get breakfast. I wandered up to the counter and sat on one of the well-worn stools.
Back in my day, this place was all,shiny and new, and the place to go and meet up with others before getting into mischief. The city had been in its heyday then, when it was a stopover for those going east to west or vice versa, and there were a dozen cafes and even more motels.
This appeared to be the last, showing its age, and perhaps if the snow had not cut the road, would be empty. When the new turnpike had been built, 20 miles south, the effect on the city had been catastrophic, even more than when the timber mill closed after all the trees had been cut down.
The two events had reduced the population from a peak of 200,000, down to the 8,109 today, turning it into a veritable ghost town. Its halcyon days adorned the walls in photographs, now faded and wrinkled.
As soon as I sat down, one of the two women behind the counter noticed and came over, a half full pit if percolated coffee in one hand and a cup on a saucer in the other.
She looked tired, not in the way that indicated the last hour of a 12-hour shift, but tired of life.
She put the cup in front of me, and said, “coffee?”
I nodded, and she poured.
“Milk, sugar?”
“No.”
It was then I noticed the signature white tuft of hair that all the Zampa women had. This one had to be Cecilia’s younger sister, Marilyn.
I saw her giving me the once over, as if I had one of those familiar faces.
“Martin?” If she was Marilyn, she would have to recognise me, even though I was older and half the weight. She knew of my unrequited love for her sister and had, like many others, derided me for it
“Marilyn?”
“Ain’t seen you in a lifetime.”
“A mistake I assure you. Wasn’t expecting a prom queen to be a waitress in a dump like this.”
“OK, so I deserved that. I was a different person back then and believe me God has been punishing me ever since. The burgers are quite good here, believe it or not.”
“For breakfast?”
“You’d be surprised.”
I probably would, so I ordered it on her recommendation, and she went off to the kitchen. I was expecting her to yell it out across the room, but she didn’t.
Whilst mulling over the coffee, I tried assembling the history we shared, but it was only bits and pieces. The best I could remember was her sister being sympathetic towards me, but Marilyn, being the one who hung out with the football team, and the quarterback prom king, had made my life miserable.
She was far more beautiful than her sister but had that mean streak that every girl who knew she would be the most desired girl in school had towards people like me.
Fated too to marry the quarterback who had been drafted into a team that was a steppingstone towards fame and fortune, she had foolishly allowed herself to get pregnant, and then dumped when the lad left town. From what I remembered reading afterwards, it was the only child she had, and had never married since.
The quarterback, he wrecked his knee and tumbled out of favour and the big time, only to return to town and end up working in his father’s factory, at a sight less that he would have got in the big league.
She came back and dumped the burger in front of me and refilled the coffee cup. It was black and very strong, and I could feel it waking me up, and to an extent sober me up. I was lucky the cops had not realised I’d been drinking, and that was the cause of the accident, and equally lucky that no one else had been involved.
It was the sum of my life, going on benders and losing whole weeks at a time. It might have been the catalyst for finding myself back in the one place I said I’d never return. But the mind does play tricks, and it had decided the only place I was going to find salvation was this place.
And if that was the case, I don’t think I was going to find salvation.
..
When daylight broke and turned the darkness into a sea of whiteness, I’d finished. She’d been right, the hamburgers were good.
I paid the check and climbed back into my anorak. It had started snowing again, and it would be cold. Then, outside the door, it took a moment to remember which way the motel was.
Behind me I heard the swish of the automatic doors open and close, then Marilyn, “where are you staying?”
“Briefly at the Sad Sack, until the road clears.”
“Not staying?”
“There’s nothing to see or stay for. My parents live in Florida, my brother and sister somewhere in Europe and Asia respectively. There’s nothing here.”
“In a once thriving city, you’re not right, once everything closed down, and the new turnpike opened, people started drifting away, and now the only people we see are those that have lost their way. As for our generation, everyone has gone, except those who have nowhere to go.”
“I thought you had that dream of going to Hollywood.”
If I remembered correctly, she had been the star of several stage productions, and was quite good. Everyone had been impressed with her singing and dancing, and the drama teacher was going to talk to a friend in the business.
“Me and a thousand others. Being good in a backwater doesn’t guarantee you anything but heartache, and disappointment. Then my mother got cancer and I had to come back to look after her, and work in the motel. I had my chance, and it didn’t work out.”
“For what it’s worth, everything I tried turned to crap. From what I’ve read, all of us had the same bad luck. You still own the motel?”
“My mother died, then dad, which was no surprise. Now my brother runs it, let’s me stay there, and the mean bastard makes me pay rent. You should come visit before you leave. Unless you’re married or something.”
“Once, but she found someone else, more successful. But my heart wasn’t in it, there was no one after Cecilia.”
“She liked you, you know, but she had aspirations that were never realistic.”
“What about you?”
“That’s a story that requires copious quantities of alcohol to relate. And time. If you change your mind, come and see me, it’d be nice to see a familiar face.”
“Walk you home?” It seemed almost a novel idea.
“Why not?”
..
When I got back to the room, it looked like a bomb had gone off in it.
Melissa was not in the room, and when I checked she was not in the bathroom either, that was a bigger mess. She had used all the towels and left them lying in a sopping heap in the corner. The sink had strands of black hair.
I came back out of the bathroom and was hit by the heady aroma of perfume. Had she spilled it on the floor, there was a stain beside the bed. On the bedside table was a scribbled note.
‘A salesman staying next door said he was leaving, and I hitched a ride with him. Thanks for the ride and room.’
Although I’d not expected any recompense, leaving a few dollars might have been an acceptable gesture, but she had not. I shrugged. I was considering leaving myself right after having a shower, but there didn’t seem to be the same desire to leave in a hurry.
Perhaps seeing Marylin and being reminded of Cecelia might have done that.
I took a last look at the room from the doorway, then pulled the door shut. At the very least I needed new towels.
Three doors up I ran into Marylin now changed into a cleaner’s uniform, and dragging a large cleaning car with, yes, new towels.
“No rest for the wicked then?”
“The cleaning lady rostered on today didn’t turn up for work. I don’t blame her. Sleep will have to wait. You are leaving now?”
“No. My travelling companion of a few days has up and left after using all the towels.”
She pulled two off the top of the pile and handed them to me. “Does this mean you’re staying?”
“For a day or two maybe. I have to go and see the old house where we lived, and you did intimate you had a story to tell, and I’m a sucker for stories.”
“Then when I get off shift I’ll call you. Every cloud eh?”
I had no idea what that meant, nor cared. For the moment I had something else to care about, other than the fact I was dying. My mind went briefly back to the doctor’s surgery a week before. The doctor delivered the news deadpan, and I took it in numbly. It had only hit home that morning just before I’d got out of bed.
The reason for coming home, the only home I’d ever known. Maybe now I could come to terms with it. Marylin smiled at me when I looked back, just before I went into the room. Perhaps that was another reason my subconscious had brought me here, to see Cecilia’s sister, to be reminded of what I’d once felt. Perhaps I’d felt that for her sister too.
Only time would tell, and although I had little of it left, it was time to take a few chances. Then I realised what she had said, that ‘every cloud had a silver lining’.
I looked up, just as the snow started again. I think I finally realised what fate was telling me, and for the first time since being told the bad news, I didn’t feel angry or sad, that everything would be the way it was meant to be.
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…
——
Johannesen went to find Wallace. He had seen Jackerby leave the castle alone, which couldn’t be a good thing. He had also noticed most of the Resistance members had gone too and had considered going back to the dungeons,
If he had been picking team members, Jackerby would not have been one of them. He might act British and speak perfect British English, but he was a Nazi at heart, perhaps more Nazi than the Nazis’
It was not unsurprising. The file Wallace had on him along with one for all of them, wasn’t exactly describing a life of roses. His grandparents were German, and the British had killed them during the first world war. There was no doubting he had based his whole life on one day avenging them, and this war had given him the opportunity.
To be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Johannesen guessed that was an apt description of him. He was a devoted follower of Mosley and the English Fascists, openly supporting Hitler until it came to choosing a side. That was easy, become part of a fifth column, Worthing from within.
And when the Reich became the all-powerful country when they won the war, there would be a position for him, a war hero.
Losing the war hadn’t figured in the story, but despite the successes, there were more failures, and tactical errors, like trying to invade Russia, and he could see that it was going to be the reason Germany lost. Superior weapons were not going to staunch the losses, and it was only a matter of time.
The time he would use to figure out how not to get shot as a spy and somehow get back on the other side.
But, not today.
Wallace was trying a new wine, have the same thirst for wine, but not as swill as those Resistance members like Leonardo, a deep-colored red.
“You should try a glass, Johannes. It’s an exceptional vintage.” He picked up the bottle and looked at the label, then cleaning the dust off the label, said, “1907 no less. Bastards never sold any of this to us to try. We should liberate the cellar, and share it with our compatriots after the war. At a price, of course.”
Like all the soldiers he’d met along the way, always looking to make a profit. Goering and Hitler steal all the paintings, they were talking about the wine. What did the people finish up with?
“Not really a red man, sir.”
“That’s because you’ve never had one like this.”
“Why not.”
Wallace poured him a glass.
Johannesen sipped it. Wallace was right, it was better than any other he had tasted, not that he could really remember the last time he had the opportunity.
“It is quite good, sir.”
“It is. You know Jackerby says you are a double agent, which is pretty rich coming from him. Strictly speaking, if wouldn’t be a double agent, but a triple agent, if that was the case. You’re not, are you?”
The smile on Wallace’s face didn’t extend to the eyes. He was not amused, or annoyed.
Just fishing.
“That’s the problem with our situation. We’ve been lying to everyone for so long, that it’s hard t tell what is the truth and what isn’t. At the moment, the British don’t know where my allegiances lie, they think I’m the sleeper in this group, and Atherton, well, he’s not sure if that’s the case or not. No doubt Jackerby told you about my trip to the dungeons to get the woman to talk. Jackerby offers the big stick and that isn’t going to work on these people. She’ll die before she gives up any secrets. They all will. And by all accounts that breute Leonardo was executing her compatriots in front of her to make her talk, and all they are is dead, and we’re no closer to anything. What do you think I am?”
“Clever. But that isn’t going to be my problem in,” he looked at his watch, “two hours. We have a new commander, and a few more people arriving to weed out this elusive Atherton and the few resistance that’s left. People higher than me want Meyer returned to Germany. Whatever you are, Johannesen, you might have to plead your case to someone else far less understanding.” He stood. “Enjoy the wine. It might be your last.”
Reading between the lines, Johannesen got the impression Wallace no longer cared what happened. For all of them, it had been a long war, and it was dragging on with no success in sight.
And it was becoming abundantly clear he picked the wrong side. Now, all that was going to happen was that he would end up in the crossfire. Perhaps he had known all along that the German notion that no one could ever be trusted, that everyone should be treated as a traitor first, was going to be the death of all of them.
He had no doubt the new arrivals would be Waffen SS, battle-hardened, and sent on this mission as a sort of holiday. They would find Atherton and the remnants very quickly and snuff out a problem Jackerby couldn’t.
Or, if Jackerby knew the Waffen SS was coming, had he left, knowing his loyalties would be called into question. Pure German soldiers versus double agents, Johannesen knew who’d he believe first.
For the first time, Johannesen knew he was not going to see the end of this war, or that Germany had any hope of winning.
He needed a plan of escape, and that woman in the dungeons was the only one who could help him.
Today, we’re back in Vienna, with Zoe planning their escape. We’re off to the railway station and catching the train. Unfortunately, Worthington is able to track them and knows exactly where they are, and where to direct his hit squad.
And you guessed it, mayhem is about to erupt in the station. But, as Zoe knows all too well, chaos can be her best friend, and they escape.
Sebastian knows something is afoot with Worthington, because all of a sudden, he has disappeared.
That’s good for Sebastian in one sense, he can go ahead with the interrogations of Isobel and Rupert in his quest to find out where John, and ultimately Zoe, is.
But the thing is, they are disinclined to be helpful in any way shape or form, and Isobel in particular, tells him to bring on the torturers.
Weird maybe, but Sebastian knows she’s probably getting a kick out of it.
…
Today’s writing, with Isobel laughing in the face of danger, 1,905 words, for a total of 43,067.
My great grandfather used to say the mark of a man was not how wealthy or wise he was, but by how much respect he garnered.
Well, my great grandfather was wealthy, wise, and also respected … by everyone but his children.
It was an interesting tale, oft-told by my father over the dinner table, when we, his children, would bemoan the fact that he was too hard on us.
Like my great grandfather, our father had also made something of himself, took every opportunity afforded him, and made it a success.
Yes, there were failures, like how our mother couldn’t handle the success and virtually abandoned us because of him, like our first stepmother, who hated children, and for a while, virtually turned him against us, setbacks that were eventually overcome.
To the outside world, we always said everything turned out all right, but the reality of it was completely the opposite. Appearances were just that, appearances.
My eldest brother, John, was out the door as soon as he could escape, and into the military, and from that moment we never really saw him.
Then there was me, Toby, with a name I hated, stuck at home to weather the endless storms, and to look after my youngest sister Ginny, who really didn’t have a care in the world.
I don’t think I ever got to have a childhood.
And lastly, my younger sister, Melanie, the tearaway tomboy troublemaker, a devil in disguise, that was responsible for ten nannies in twelve years.
We were as disparate and different as any group of siblings could get, and that was all because of how, in the end, our father finished up exactly like the man he often disparaged, our great grandfather.
Wealthy, yes, wise, the jury was still out in that one, and respected, yes, by everyone but his children.
And, now, I was looking at the body of the man I called my father, sprawled out on the floor, and it was quite plain to see he was dead.
There was no mistaking the bullet hole in his head, Or the puddle of blood emanating from the back of his head.
Someone, obviously, hated him more than we did.
…
I was surprisingly calm in the face of such a calamity, faring better than Ginny, who was the first to discover him.
She was once subject to bouts of hysteria, and that it had not happened in these circumstances was, in a sense disconcerting. She had reason to hate him more than the rest of us, the reasons for which I had only learned the night before.
She was sitting on the floor, not ten feet from the body, staring at what she had described as the devil incarnate. She had every reason to kill him, in fact, I had wanted to myself when she told me.
And when confronted him and demanded to know the truth, he had laughed at me, telling me that it was just a figment of her imagination.
I had to call the police, but before that, I needed to have a clear idea of where everyone was.
It was a weekend where, for the first time in twenty years, all four siblings were home. It was ostensibly for an announcement regarding the family, read how my father was going to bequeath his worldly possessions in the event of his death.
And I suspect, to tell us about the fact he was dying, the running battle he had with cancer finally getting a stranglehold in his body, and that he had about six weeks to three months left.
Not that he had said anything, I had received an anonymous email from his doctor telling me, that he didn’t believe we should not be kept in the dark. But it was not the news I’d shared with the others, hoping the man himself would.
That secret had died with him.
John and Melanie had both yet to put in an appearance. It had been a late night, and we had all ended up in John’s room, drinking shots of whiskey and talking about how different our lives had been, and how it had been too long apart.
I’d been very drunk at the end and barely made it back to my room before collapsing on the bed. I had no idea what happened to the others.
Ginny didn’t drink, or so she said, but the few drinks she had, had no effect on her. She had Bern in a dark mood and no wonder. She had left all of us in utter silence, devastated at the revelation our father was a monster, the reason why our mother left, unable to do anything to stop him.
She should have taken Ginny with her, but she didn’t, probably saving Melanie from a similar fate.
Threats against his life flew thick and fast, and the once made by John actuary sent a shiver down my spine. He was the only one experienced in killing, and I could totally believe he could kill in cold blood and not even blink.
Had he?
“Fuck!”
Great timing. John just walked into the room, still in his pajamas and looking disheveled, as if he had just fought off a pack of bears.
“This your doing?”
“What? No. Saying and doing are two different things, Toby.” He looked down at Ginny. “Ask her, she had more reason than any of us.”
I was going to, but she seemed in a catatonic state.
“No. I did not, and believe me, I’ve wanted to for many years.”
Ginny, obviously not in a catatonic state.
“Have you called the police,” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“Good. Let’s think about this first. Any sign of a breaking?”
I checked the French windows behind the desk and they were intact and locked. The room, other than the body on the floor was as it always was.
Not a book or paper out of place. The desk was clear. Usually, there was a computer and cell phone on it.
“His laptop is missing. A robbery gone bad?”
“Robbers don’t usually carry guns, let alone be able to shoot so accurately.” He was standing over the body making strange body movements, then, “whoever shot him was behind the desk. He must have heard something and came to investigate.”
If it was any time up to the fifty shots of whiskey, we would have heard a gun going off.
“Silencer?” I said.
“I’m a light sleeper, so I would have heard it. Others too. It screams premeditation. Robbers don’t bring guns with suppressors. If it was a case of being caught unawares, that shot could have gone anywhere. No, whoever was in her was looking for, maybe found, something, and may have made enough noise to get his attention with the intention of killing him.”
“Holy Mary mother of God!”
Melanie just arrived, riveted to the spot, just inside the door.
“I take it you didn’t do it?” John said to her.
“Me? You have to be joking. I wouldn’t know what end of the gun to use.”
Not true, I thought, Melanie was in the gun club at her exclusive school and won various awards for pistol shooting, and we’ll as an expert clay pigeon shooter to boot. But it was school days, a long time ago.
I looked at her pointedly, and I think she realized what my glare implied.
“I think it’s time we called the police,” I said.
“Can’t we just dig a hole and bring him out there somewhere and pretend he’s gone away?”
“A thought, but not practical, unless one of us did it and we need to hide the evidence. Anyone going to own up?”
No one spoke.
“Good. Just remember from this point on, if you have any deep dark secrets, they won’t be for much longer. We will be the prime suspects. Leaving isn’t an option.”
“Let the chips fall where they may. At least the bastard got what he deserved.
I pulled out my phone.
“Last chance.”
John was looking resolute. Melanie was in a state of shock. Ginnie went back to being almost catatonic. I don’t know what I felt, sad, maybe, but with all that had come before, perhaps a sense of relief.
I dialled the number.
“Daisy. No, I’m alright. We have a bit of a problem here. Someone has shot and killed my father. I think you’d better get here.”
“Right. Don’t touch anything and keep the scene clear. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
I disconnected the call and put the phone back in my pocket.
At that same moment, I had a great overwhelming feeling that one of them did it. I couldn’t see how anyone from the outside could or would.
As John said, let the child fall where they may.
“OK. Daisy wants us out of the room. Let’s go.” I said, helping Ginnie up from the floor
“Daisy? She that girl you were pining over back in elementary school?” John muttered.
“Married her too. Deputy sheriff now, so be a good boy. And don’t think our relationship will make this any easier.”
As I closed the door to the office and turned the key in the lock, I could hear the sirens in the distance.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 