There is no doubt in the new King’s mind that Ruth is the one, but all the old feelings are being stirred up now that he is back home, and it’s not just being home again.
In a castle that he grew up in, there is a memory both good and bad in every corner, every nook and cranny, in the paintings on the walls, in the rooms he used to play, weather, lounge, and entertainment in, and the people.
Talking about the summer palace long since shuttered, though no reason was ever given, was the place he stole his first kiss, with a girl he was soon to meet again.
She was as horrible to him as she was nice, and it was a short period that he could never reconcile in his mind and had never left but remained in the depths, waiting for the opportunity to resurface.
He was hoping it wouldn’t.
He’d got past Eleanor.
Now he had to get past Isobel. Standing in the green room because of the green tapestries depicting the valley before the castle, when there were no village roads or farms, quite literally a sea of green.
The green room was the private reception room where the king met privately with other very senior dignitaries, and the first would be Queen Isobel of the other principality.
Isobel was a mystery to him and quite unlike any girl and later woman he ever met, and he put that down to the eccentricities of Royal blood.
You need a good first line, one that grabs your attention and makes you want to read on…
…
I woke up that morning believing it would be the first day of the rest of my life.
I stretched and luxuriated in the comfort and warmth of the bed, after a dozen years of suffering a very hard, uncomfortable, and cold cot, if it could be called that.
Prison life had been harsh. Being unjustly imprisoned had been harsher, and the years of battling to have the evidence that finally exonerated me finally paid off.
Release.
Perhaps it was not a coincidence that the day I stepped out of the prison was the day the snow started, the first of the season, bringing with it the winter chill. I would not have survived another winter in that prison.
Perhaps it was also not a coincidence that the ex-girlfriend of the man I had supposedly murdered in a jealous rage arrived on my doorstep the same day I was released. It was her evidence, circumstantial at best, but convincingly relayed in the courtroom, a performance even the newspapers said was worthy of an Academy Award.
She still firmly believed I was guilty, evidence or not, and that I would be damned to hell.
That might be true, but not from the so-called murder of her ex-boyfriend, but the deeds I had to do to survive in what could only be described as hell on earth. I tried to tell her that I’d paid my dues, as unjust as they were, and that was the end of it. She had got her pound of flesh.
The parents of the ex-boyfriend were not as unforgiving and wished me well. They had never believed that I was guilty, no surprises because their son and I had been the best of friends from a very early age, when they moved into the house next door.
Those years were gone, as was the house, and everything else. It had been burned to the ground by a bunch of vigilantes riled up by Samantha, who marched on the house just before my arrest. Nobody was blamed for the deaths of my parents, caught in the fire, but the judge did admonish Samantha, in a monologue that all but handed the blame to her. It was, he said, going to be a battle for her conscience.
Now I had nothing.
My lawyer said it was a clean slate, and to put what I needed into a backpack, and get on the first train out of town. There was nothing for me, no reason to stay.
The very thought in my mind when I woke and looked out at the sea of white, and the steady downfall of snow drifting down from the sky. The forecast was snow for a day or so, then clearing. It would halt the trains, so I would be here for at least another day.
Enough time for Samantha to round up another mob and come burn down the hotel.
That was reason enough not to get out of bed.
Except…
The phone beside the bed rang, one that had a shrill insistence about it.
I slipped out from under the covers, shivered slightly in the cool morning air then picke dup the receiver.
“Yes?”
“There’s a Miss Andrews here to see you.”
Miss Andrews. It was a name that lurked on the fringe of my memory, in the life before prison section, and was not quite coming to me.
“Did she state her business?” I assumed it was a reporter here to get my story, one that they were hoping, no doubt, I would be suing the state for false imprisonment.
“No, but she is insistent she sees you.”
“OK. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”
…
During the time it took to throw on some warm clothes, I ran the name through my recollection of people I’d met, and her name didn’t come up. I expect she was a reporter, or perhaps a junior from a law practice looking to get me to hire them for the law case against the state.
I took the stairs, it was only two flights of stairs, and I needed to warm up. For some reason, the passageways and then the foyer felt cold. The front desk clerk saw me step off the last stair and nodded over towards the fireplace, where some large logs were burning.
Sitting on one of the chairs was a woman, about my age, who looked like someone’s mother. I had no doubt she would appear to be disarming and polite, but then strike like a cobra. IT was how I came to view both Lawyers and reporters.
She had seen me coming from the stairs and stood as I approached.
“Mr Peverell?”
“You could hardly mistake me for anyone else.” Maybe not the first words I would have said, but I was tired, and steeling myself for a pitch.
I saw her mentally brush aside my attitude and smile. “How are you this morning, not that the weather is being polite.” I saw her glance outside through the large panoramic windows. The carpark was slowly disappearing.
“Not the sort of day to be out on a whim,” I said. I still couldn’t place her.
“No, indeed. Please,” she motioned to a chair by the fire, two together.
I sat. She sat, then arranged the layers. It had to be quite warm with the coat she was wearing. She had removed the fake fur hat. It actually looked good on her.
“What is so pressing that you had to see me?”
“I need your help.”
“How could I possibly help you or anyone with anything. You do realise I have just spent twelve years locked away from the real world. I’m lucky to remember my name, let alone anything else.”
Yes, the warden and his officers had tried very hard to take everything from me and all the other prisoners, some of whom would never get out of that prison.
“Of course. But left me to introduce myself. My name is Bettina Whales. I’m a private investigator, and I have been commissioned to find out who murdered David Lloyd-Smythe.”
Odd, but then, it just occurred to me that now I was exonerated, the real killer was still out there. It had been on my mind briefly the day before, but I decided I was over it. The murder had robbed me of 12 years of my life. Enough was enough.
But there was an element of curiosity. “By who?”
“Your wife, of course.”
I shook my head. She had dumped me so fast once I was arrested, it made my head spin. Of course, her parents had probably kidnapped her and kept her prisoner from the day she was arrested until yesterday, but I thought if there was a way she could just tell me why she had abandoned me, it might have been tolerable, but she didn’t.
I had decided long ago that she was gone and I would never see her again.
I shook my head. “I don’t believe you. You are here for some other reason, one I’m not going to like.”
She smiled. “She said you’d say that. And I’ll admit when she explained why you would, I had to say I agreed with you. But she can tell you herself. She’s right over there, coming in the door.”
I stood, faced her, and watched mesmerised. Twelve years had not aged her, not like they had me, and she still had that ability to take my breath away. And she still could command a room simply by walking through it. All eyes, and particularly the men, were on her.
Then she was in front of me. That loose way of standing, the smile, the disarming manner.
“You thought I had forgotten you?”
“I didn;t know what to think, other than a part of me had died.”
“And I am sorry about that, but you know my parents. I had to disappear, lest shame be brought upon the family. Been in Europe, in a castle no less. It took me an age to find the people running your case to get out, and then I had to surrupticiously hire an army of lawyers. The lady behind is the one who found the evidence that got you off. She’s the best of the best. Now we’re going after the person that put you there, the real killer.”
Just like in the old days, the take-charge girl, even if you didn’t want to do anything. She, like her father, had no ‘off’ button.
“And if I don’t want to?”
“Don’t be silly, Pev.” She looked at the private investigator. “Get yourself a room if you haven’t already. Pev and I had things to talk about.” She looked back at me. “I can see you threw something on, so we can go back to your room and talk. Or whatever.” She took my hand. “We have twelve years to catch up. Then we’re going to hunt down the bastard that took you away from me. Miss me?”
V is for – Valhalla, where the souls of those who died bravely in battle go
…
For some, death comes when you least expect it.
I was not a soldier. I was never meant to be on a battlefield. I had no interest in slaying the enemy, whoever that enemy might be.
And yet there I was, trying to figure out how it came to be.
Six hours earlier, I was asleep on a cot in a tent, one of about a hundred scattered back from the river in a valley that belied the fact that it was near a contentious border being fought over.
Two facts I learned before crawling exhausted into that cot, religion, and disputed borders were in the top three reasons to start a war against your neighbour.
It started out with two men, one on either side of the river, stating the river belonged to them and the other paid ‘rent’. Then shots were fired.
In three months, it escalated, turning the river and valley surrounding it into a killing field and two previously friendly countries into bitter enemies.
I had been sent over by my media company to report first-hand on the effect it was having on the people, international relations, and responses by the rest of the world.
The latest report, not by me but one of my brethren, was that we were heading inevitably towards World War three. Given the rhetoric I had just heard, I was almost convinced he was right.
I managed to get three hours before being woken by my army liaison officer, the leader of a small group of soldiers who were charged with surveillance. I had been attached to them, mainly because they did not approach the front line.
They were simply there to observe enemy locations and report back. Their position gave me a very good view of the battlefield, the destruction of mortars, cannons, air force strafing, bomb runs, and snipers.
To a layman, it was terrifying and horrifying. To the hawks of war, it was a proving ground for their new weapons.
“Were up. Sorry about the short notice. There’s going to be an offensive in a few hours. Want to join us?”
My first instinct was to say no, but being embedded with this group afforded me an excellent view of the war and the uselessness of it all.
The two men could have sat down and worked it out. But no, they had to settle their differences with guns. Both were dead, as were their families, and most of the valley’s inhabitants. Now, it was extending beyond the valley and into the bigger cities and infrastructure like power stations and refineries. Bullets had gone to mortar bombs to cannons to drones to missiles.
Thousands had been killed, and negotiations for peace had failed. The only people winning in this war were the arms manufacturers.
How could I say no? “Of course. When?”
“Fifteen minutes. Outside the mess tent.”
The two trucks carrying the men slowly crawled over the rough ground that led up to our lookout. The road was constantly bombed to stop troops’ movements in and out, and was pockmarked with bomb craters.
The trip was a mile, but in the time it took, three mortar shells exploded in front and behind us, the last showering us in dirt and rubble. Missiles passed overhead and exploded some distance on the enemy side. A prelude to the new offensive. War didn’t stop at night or at weekends.
We made it in one piece and offloaded, the last shift climbing into the truck. They looked exhausted. There were three sets of men who manned the lookout 24 hours a day. Invariably, at least one man died each shift. This had two, stretched out and put in the truck.
The leaders exchanged paperwork, and he saluted and left with his men.
The replacements had taken up their positions. We had two anti-aircraft guns and three snipers who tried to take out the drones. Every change of shift, a surveillance drone would come and check us out.
I wore my neutrality vest, but that wouldn’t necessarily save me. I would not be the first media representative to be killed in battle.
As I went into the bunker, I heard a loud crump of a bomb exploding and turned. At first, I thought it had missed the truck because I couldn’t see it behind the wall of rubble.
Then it cleared, and there was nothing, no wreckage, no people, nothing. It was as if it had just disappeared.
I shrugged. There was nothing we could do.
I just shut the door when there was another loud crump, so close and so loud it was deafening. The bunker could withstand several direct hits, and this one had hit the roof.
Eight feet of concrete on top of six-inch steel plating.
The bunker was filled with dust and grit, and men were on the ground. It’s not the best way to start a shift.
The morning was given over to watching the missile attack, one that involved more missiles than ever before, targeted strikes on allegedly military targets on the other side, and the observers charting the hits and misses
Most notably, the gun that targeted the truck and our bunker had fallen silent, and it was written down as a possible success.
Everything had fallen silent on the other side of the river, and we were relaxing in that euphoria of not waiting for the next bomb to fall. Anticipation was a terrible thing.
I went up the ladder to the lookout, temporarily unmanned due to the silence, for the first time in a year.
There was nothing but desolation, bomb craters, little vegetation, and once or twice the scene also had the bodies of men who had charged at the enemy and mown down.
Worse than any scene from World War One in France. We had learned very little from that or any other war.
I then saw movement, like a rabbit in the thicket, and then a bang.
Then nothing.
Last thought: you do hear the bullet that has your name on it. You just don’t see it coming.
I was standing in a hall, well not so much a hall but a huge building that had statues on either side evely spaced and which armour, weapons and heraldry.
High up windows allowed the daylight to shine in such a way that it illuminated the statues.
They were not all men, but those there were of strong, muscled, tall, and bearded who would have no trouble holding the swords that were next to them lying across the statue base.
I don’t think I could lift one, let alone use it.
I turned slightly, and the man beside me was almost an exact relica of that on the statue.
“Welcome to Valhalla, sir.”
“Where?”
“It is where hero’s stand for eternity.”
“I am no hero.”
“Not in the sense these people might be but a hero none the less. Words and actions, there are many forms heroism can take. You will write a document that will bring peace to an unsettled land when men have temporarily forgotten what it is to be men.”
Was her speaking in riddles? Was I dead, and just dreaming about a place my mind had taken me because it couldn’t deal with the reality of my death?
I doubted any of my work here would stop anything other than a draught under the door. My grandmother used newspapers in many novel and interesting ways. She never cared much for the news that was in them.
“Am I dead?”
“That depends on you. If you don’t fight, then it will be the end, but you will not be coming here. As I said, you have a job to do, and when you do, here I will be to welcome you.”
“These are all genuine heroes if this is Valhalla.”
“Semantics, but your time is up. You must go back.”
I opened my eyes and saw three men standing at the end of the bed.
The platoon leader, the camp commandant, and my editor.
The room was in a hospital.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You were shot by a sniper from the other side. Near killed you.” My editor, with an undertone of outrage in his tone.
I took a moment to take in what he said, then to realise I was lucky to be alive. It had been a shot to the head.
“I should not be here.”
“No, but you were lucky. The bullet missed everything useful, though you might suffer a little amnesia and inbalance from time to time. We’re glad you survived. Quite a few didn’t.”
The platoon leader came over and shook my hand, and did the commandant. Then they left, leaving me with my editor.
It seemed odd that he came all this way out to see me, injured or not. He sat beside the bed.
“Damn fine piece you wrote.”
“When?”
“After you were shot. You insisted that they get what you had to say down. They reckon you being mad as hell was what kept you alive.”
“I don’t remember…”
“Possibly not. But it’s there down in black and white, and it was enough to precipitate a ceasefire, and you being shot, well, that wasn’t taken lightly. Stupid men who could have sat down over a glass of wine and simply agreed to share the bounty Mother Earth had granted them all. It was the clarity that all of them had lost. The pen truly is mightier than the sword.”
I shook my head. Where had I heard similar words said? Somewhere lost in my imagination I guess.
“The war over?
“Yes. The one person who could stop the madness read your piece and decided to stop supplying weapons if the other side agreed. Perhaps they might not have listened had you not been shot, but there it is. You are now in the history books, like it or not. I just thank God you were working for us.”
OK, I know some of you do, and lock yourself away until the next bestseller is written, but that’s only an option if you saved up a million dollars so you could take the year off.
And if you are like me, I’d probably be out partying every day rather than put words on paper. Sometimes it is easier to just party.
However, for the more serious of us, our day job could work in our favour in several ways. Firstly, it gives us time away from the project so that we can dwell on how the story might progress the moment we get back in the door at home.
Besides that, the job may be so utterly stultifying that you can have the time to work through plotting and planning during the day, and writing by night.
There again you might have exactly the job that provides the inspiration for writing the story, and it is very useful.
That aspect worked for me because I was in the exact place that was a company like the one I was writing about, in a remote location, on an island with isolation and native people. And I had photos of the operations running since 1898.
All the more reason to seriously consider whether or not to give up your day job.
Oh, and there is one other thing. If you’re not living with your parents, you still need to pay the bills.
Eleanor, a princess by birth, was selected by the new king’s mother as his perfect match, and yes, in this principality and the other arranged marriages for their children were still done.
Marriage for love was frowned upon, but our new King was by virtue of the fact he had moved away because fourth sons were not going to be crowned king any time soon, was allowed to annul the arrangement.
The truth of the matter was that although they were good together, temperament-wise, they would have ended up killing each other.
Too young and too silly, that first attraction died away before they reached an age to know what love meant, and for our prince, what responsibility was.
Now, she was Richard’s choice, again not in line for the throne, and she found him a far more suitable and placid person to be with.
The truth was she had fallen in love with the country, and the lifestyle that she freely confessed was far better than her home.
When our new king meets up with his old paramour, whom he has not seen for many years, there are feelings there, but not enough to make an impression.
Now that Richard is gone, it’s a question of what she is going to do with the rest of her life, and it seems she wants to stay.
OK, I know some of you do, and lock yourself away until the next bestseller is written, but that’s only an option if you saved up a million dollars so you could take the year off.
And if you are like me, I’d probably be out partying every day rather than put words on paper. Sometimes it is easier to just party.
However, for the more serious of us, our day job could work in our favour in several ways. Firstly, it gives us time away from the project so that we can dwell on how the story might progress the moment we get back in the door at home.
Besides that, the job may be so utterly stultifying that you can have the time to work through plotting and planning during the day, and writing by night.
There again you might have exactly the job that provides the inspiration for writing the story, and it is very useful.
That aspect worked for me because I was in the exact place that was a company like the one I was writing about, in a remote location, on an island with isolation and native people. And I had photos of the operations running since 1898.
All the more reason to seriously consider whether or not to give up your day job.
Oh, and there is one other thing. If you’re not living with your parents, you still need to pay the bills.
U is for — Underground bunkers. The end of the world is nigh
…
Chester first alerted me to the situation. Animals seemed to have that sixth sense.
It was the usual Tuesday. I got up late after he jumped on the bed and started patting my head with his paw and using his loudest meow right near my ear.
He usually did that when he was hungry, but this was an hour earlier than usual.
Going from the bedroom to the kitchen, I noticed that it was darker than usual for this time of year, and Chester was following me, making strange sounds.
When I reached the kitchen, I went over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the wall that overlooked the ocean, opened the blinds, and was met by a sight I’d never seen before.
Dark clouds stretched all the way to the horizon, and rain fell, a huge stream of whitish blue slowly coming towards us.
Below the cloud, hundreds, thousands of birds were heading away from the clouds, the storm that was coming.
I turned on the radio and searched the stations until I found one that was broadcasting a weather report.
I had tried to get the television to work, but it was showing a notice that there was no signal.
That had never happened before.
Then I heard the announcer say, “People are advised to stay indoors and find a safe place. It is expected that in the next one and two hours, the coastal areas will be hit by hurricane-force winds and high seas. All those below 250 feet above sea level are requested to move to higher ground. There will be a list of alternative accommodation locations available.”
I didn’t believe what I was hearing. Chester meowed loudly, that same tortured sound he made when I was taking him to the vet for a check-up.
“I know,” I said. “We don’t have hurricanes. We’ve never had hurricanes ever.”
I heard a sudden buffeting, the wind picking up and blowing loose debris against the windows. Those windows were not going to withstand a hurricane.
“I think we’re going to have to leave.”
That statement was accompanied by a pounding on the door. Chester shrank back. Was that an omen?
I went to the door and opened it. A fireman. “We’re directly in line with the incoming storm. This place will be a death trap. You have fifteen minutes to get anything you want to keep and get out. There’s a bus at the end of the street.”
I was going to ask a question, but he put his hand up. “Fourteen minutes. Don’t make me come back.” A severe look, then he was gone.
I looked at Chester. He wasn’t happy, and neither was I. I had just taken possession of my new home three days ago, and now it looked like it might be my last.
“We have to go.”
Another guttural sound from him told me he was all of a sudden terrified, so terrified he came straight to me and almost jumped into my arms.
A second later, there was an explosion, and something hit the end window as it literally just exploded.
Time to go.
We made it to the bus, that exploding window impetus to forget about getting anything but the cat and what I had with me, and get out.
The bus didn’t wait the full fifteen minutes, but left as the last stragglers in sight ran to get on board, the last person, a teenage girl, running to jump on the running board and get on before the door closed.
The wind had already reached us, and the fireman on board said the storm was moving faster than anyone anticipated.
For the last ten minutes, we sat in a traffic jam of buses heading to the underground bus station, the safest place for us to stay. People in cars were also trying to escape, but the winds had created obstacles on the road, and confusion and tempers were causing serious problems for those trying to run an orderly evacuation.
The last thing I saw before we went under was torrential rain and high winds buffeting a sign that just collapsed on a dozen cars.
For the next fourteen days, we lived in what I thought was a huge underground space, but when twenty-three thousand terrified individuals were thrown together, it was a living nightmare.
We were told that not one but a dozen storms started from the same confluence in the Atlantic Ocean, but nobody could explain why.
After the first night and the total disorganisation that came from having a calamity thrust on totally unprepared people with very little notice, and the sound of the endless e
What sounded like explosions, howling winds, and rain, combined with the relative calm of the next morning, made it no surprise that people wanted to leave.
They were told that was only the first. No one believed them, and at the behest of one man who whipped everyone into a rebellion, led a group back out into the open. We didn’t know what was out there, well, we did, but we didn’t.
Most stayed. Several hours later, the wind and rain returned. Those who left never came back.
Others left at various intervals, particularly when it was calm. Some came back, and the rest didn’t. Those who came back didn’t speak. All of them were asked and were speechless.
We asked the people running the shelter. They said they had no other communications except with the weather people. That’s how they knew more storms were coming.
And, after fourteen days, it was over. We woke to silence. The original twenty-three thousand had been reduced to fourteen.
Three things were clear.
The first, which might have started as a storm, didn’t end as a storm. Something else had happened, and those stultified people who’d left and returned almost empty shells of themselves had seen something they couldn’t explain or comprehend.
The second, starting from a few days ago. People were getting sick, really sick, and the hushed whispers said it was Ebola, but it was worse than that. It killed all the animals without exception.
Chester hadn’t stood a chance.
The third, while it was good to escape the confines of that underground labyrinth and away from the sick people, what was outside was far more unimaginable, even incomprehensible. Whatever the city had been before, it was no longer. It had been levelled, and all that remained were ashes, smoke, and death.
And something else. Several very large objects looked to me like spaceships. What those who went out and came back were trying to tell us was that we had been invaded by aliens from outer space.
Writing exercise with the starting line – “What are you doing?” he asked, while the water rose.
…
“What are you doing?” he asked, while the water rose.
“Considering all the ways I’m going to kill you when we get out of this mess.”
“It’s not my fault. It had to be someone you’ve annoyed. I don’t have an enemy in the world.”
That might have been the case the last time I saw or spoke to him fifteen years ago, but I was not so sure that was the case now.
“Are you sure about that?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He had come to the airport to pick me up and take me back to the far, a place I had tried to get as far away from as possible, but luck, as it tends to do, ran out and ended my term in Washington. I’d backed the wrong horse.
I thought after so long away, the place would have changed, but it hadn’t.
Archie McKenzie was there, and made it quite plain that the bad blood between him and my brother was still running hot, had been for the past fifteen years, and now it extended to his ‘failure of a brother’.
We were lucky to get out of the terminal without a fight. That was not the worst of it, Archie had followed his father into the police, and he was now a Deputy, a Deputy driven by revenge, with a gun and a badge.
“And what would you call Archie McKenzie?”
“Misguided.”
“All these years, and he’s still mad at you.”
“I didn’t steal her away from him. She walked away, and he couldn’t take it.”
There were four different stories to that one incident, and not one of them explained his pathological hatred of my brother, and by proxy, my family.
“And now we’re here. We don’t get out of here, you know what that means.”
“How do you know he put us here?”
There were three reasons. First, he was hopeless at disguising his voice. Second, he still used the same aftershave, like he bathed in it, and third, one of his mates, Lou, said the same stupid stuff he did back when we went to school.
Archie was one of the three musketeers, or that was what they called themselves. When school was over, it took three months before I enlisted in the National Guard, and spent the next few years in places I’d rather forget. On the last tour, I sustained a few injuries and was discharged. Another guy caught in the same IED explosion asked me to come work for him in Washington as an advocate for soldiers’ care. He got elected to Congress, and I stayed on as his Chief of Staff until he lost the last election.
I thought I’d go home and work out what I was going to do next. Dying wasn’t supposed to be one of those options.
“Does it matter? We have to get out of here.”
I was working on the knots that held my hands together behind my back. Whoever tied them wasn’t very good at knots.
“What are you doing?” he asked again.
“Getting free.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Nothing is truly impossible. There’s just varying degrees of impossible.”
I managed to loosen the rope just enough to get one hand out and then untie the other. It was only a matter of a minute or so to get my feet free.
I stood up. The water had reached my ankles.
“Did you…”
“Yes.” I undid his bindings and dragged him to his feet.
I had a smaller phone tucked in the bottom of my trouser leg in a special pouch and pulled it out. It had a light and I switched it on. I would have to use it sparingly.
“Aren’t you full of surprises?”
I didn’t answer that. Instead, I looked at the floor, and the water coming in from what looked like a garden hose dangling down the side of the well, not far from us. It came from above, where there was a cover over the well. It was about ten feet wide, too wide, too smooth to climb up, but that hose presented a possibility.
To top was about twenty feet up. Putting myself in Archie’s boots, he obviously thought we would not escape the bindings and, thinking the sedative would keep us under long enough for us to drown before we realised what happened, it was a fait accompli.
Archie had never been one to consider the consequences of his actions. He always had a small-town sheriff for a father to get him out of trouble. We were not going to be able to simply go back to town. He had wanted us to disappear.
For a moment, I wondered how many other victims he had disposed of were in here?
“I assume we’re going now?”
“Not yet. I think we need to be closer to the top. I don’t think that hose will be anchored enough, and if we pull it down now, we might never get out. It will at least give us something to hold onto as we go up, so we don’t have to try too hard to tread water.
“It’s going to be cold and wet, and a long time at this rate.”
He wasn’t wrong. We’d been in the well for about half an hour, and it was only six inches deep. It was going to take about twenty hours.
“If you’ve got a better idea, please tell me.”
His silence told me that it was going to be a long wait.
…
Two hours and a foot deep, we heard a truck coming. Was Archie coming back to check on his handiwork? I tried hard to listen and see if it made the same engine noise as the one that had brought us to our watery grave.
Too hard to tell. It was a little after eleven at night. It was dark by the time we were taken off the truck and put down the well. They had removed the blindfolds, but they had their faces covered, so it was not possible to recognise them. Nor had they spoken unless it was necessary.
As for the surroundings, the night was overcast and no moon, so everything was cloaked in darkness. I thought I had seen a farmhouse or a shack, but I couldn’t be sure. I had thought it might be one of the disused farms. Several had folded after a drought struck twenty years ago, the latest disaster to befall the county and the straw that broke most of the farmers.
“You hear that?”
“It might be the people who own the place.”
“This is Dead Man’s Folly. I’m sure of it.”
I knew of it. Six farms in a small group, all suffering from the drought. This well, if it was Dead Man’s Folly, had been dry for years. The farmer spent the last of his savings digging the well, only for it to come up dry. Shot the well digger, his men, his family and then himself.
Where were the ghosts?
We hear the scrunching of tires on the gravel, a skid to a stop, then the engine running for a minute and then silence. A door opened and then closed.
There were no footsteps, or none that I could hear.
A few minutes later, the hose moved as if someone was pulling on it. Then it went limp. Someone had turned off the water flow.
Five or perhaps six minutes after that, there was a crashing sound of a sledgehammer on wood. It was the wooden cover, suddenly splintering and shards raining down on us. A dozen or so more blows and there was a hole, big enough to see the moon-lit sky.
And then the outline of a person.
“That you, Sam, down there?” A girl’s voice.
“Who are you?”
“Beth McKenzie.”
I just barely heard Jack mutter, “Jesus Christ, we’re dead.”
Yes, I know you were waiting for me to inject the spectre of espionage.
After all the new joking is an avid reader of thrillers and spy novels, so there had to be a hint of something going on.
It’s not as if he’s suspicious of his father’s death, not that it should be a big deal, considering the way his father had treated him and his brothers and sisters.
It’s like everyone is glad that he is dead, but trying not to let that show through because it just wouldn’t be right. But it is like a heavy load had been lifted, and no one is talking about it.
As if that isn’t another conspiracy theory!
So, the autopsy reports are in, and it might be construed that the doctor made sure that evil didn’t rise again. In anyone else’s book, that might be murder, but what were the circumstances?
This is not a matter for him to investigate, and he has been advised not to do it himself but to allow his head of security to carry out discreet enquiries.
This is not something that will raise its head until the next book in the series.
As for the spy, he believes he needs to look no further than his mother and her fellow countryman, who is currently in the city and who also covers his movements by being one of several investors.
Writing exercise with the starting line – “What are you doing?” he asked, while the water rose.
…
“What are you doing?” he asked, while the water rose.
“Considering all the ways I’m going to kill you when we get out of this mess.”
“It’s not my fault. It had to be someone you’ve annoyed. I don’t have an enemy in the world.”
That might have been the case the last time I saw or spoke to him fifteen years ago, but I was not so sure that was the case now.
“Are you sure about that?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He had come to the airport to pick me up and take me back to the far, a place I had tried to get as far away from as possible, but luck, as it tends to do, ran out and ended my term in Washington. I’d backed the wrong horse.
I thought after so long away, the place would have changed, but it hadn’t.
Archie McKenzie was there, and made it quite plain that the bad blood between him and my brother was still running hot, had been for the past fifteen years, and now it extended to his ‘failure of a brother’.
We were lucky to get out of the terminal without a fight. That was not the worst of it, Archie had followed his father into the police, and he was now a Deputy, a Deputy driven by revenge, with a gun and a badge.
“And what would you call Archie McKenzie?”
“Misguided.”
“All these years, and he’s still mad at you.”
“I didn’t steal her away from him. She walked away, and he couldn’t take it.”
There were four different stories to that one incident, and not one of them explained his pathological hatred of my brother, and by proxy, my family.
“And now we’re here. We don’t get out of here, you know what that means.”
“How do you know he put us here?”
There were three reasons. First, he was hopeless at disguising his voice. Second, he still used the same aftershave, like he bathed in it, and third, one of his mates, Lou, said the same stupid stuff he did back when we went to school.
Archie was one of the three musketeers, or that was what they called themselves. When school was over, it took three months before I enlisted in the National Guard, and spent the next few years in places I’d rather forget. On the last tour, I sustained a few injuries and was discharged. Another guy caught in the same IED explosion asked me to come work for him in Washington as an advocate for soldiers’ care. He got elected to Congress, and I stayed on as his Chief of Staff until he lost the last election.
I thought I’d go home and work out what I was going to do next. Dying wasn’t supposed to be one of those options.
“Does it matter? We have to get out of here.”
I was working on the knots that held my hands together behind my back. Whoever tied them wasn’t very good at knots.
“What are you doing?” he asked again.
“Getting free.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Nothing is truly impossible. There’s just varying degrees of impossible.”
I managed to loosen the rope just enough to get one hand out and then untie the other. It was only a matter of a minute or so to get my feet free.
I stood up. The water had reached my ankles.
“Did you…”
“Yes.” I undid his bindings and dragged him to his feet.
I had a smaller phone tucked in the bottom of my trouser leg in a special pouch and pulled it out. It had a light and I switched it on. I would have to use it sparingly.
“Aren’t you full of surprises?”
I didn’t answer that. Instead, I looked at the floor, and the water coming in from what looked like a garden hose dangling down the side of the well, not far from us. It came from above, where there was a cover over the well. It was about ten feet wide, too wide, too smooth to climb up, but that hose presented a possibility.
To top was about twenty feet up. Putting myself in Archie’s boots, he obviously thought we would not escape the bindings and, thinking the sedative would keep us under long enough for us to drown before we realised what happened, it was a fait accompli.
Archie had never been one to consider the consequences of his actions. He always had a small-town sheriff for a father to get him out of trouble. We were not going to be able to simply go back to town. He had wanted us to disappear.
For a moment, I wondered how many other victims he had disposed of were in here?
“I assume we’re going now?”
“Not yet. I think we need to be closer to the top. I don’t think that hose will be anchored enough, and if we pull it down now, we might never get out. It will at least give us something to hold onto as we go up, so we don’t have to try too hard to tread water.
“It’s going to be cold and wet, and a long time at this rate.”
He wasn’t wrong. We’d been in the well for about half an hour, and it was only six inches deep. It was going to take about twenty hours.
“If you’ve got a better idea, please tell me.”
His silence told me that it was going to be a long wait.
…
Two hours and a foot deep, we heard a truck coming. Was Archie coming back to check on his handiwork? I tried hard to listen and see if it made the same engine noise as the one that had brought us to our watery grave.
Too hard to tell. It was a little after eleven at night. It was dark by the time we were taken off the truck and put down the well. They had removed the blindfolds, but they had their faces covered, so it was not possible to recognise them. Nor had they spoken unless it was necessary.
As for the surroundings, the night was overcast and no moon, so everything was cloaked in darkness. I thought I had seen a farmhouse or a shack, but I couldn’t be sure. I had thought it might be one of the disused farms. Several had folded after a drought struck twenty years ago, the latest disaster to befall the county and the straw that broke most of the farmers.
“You hear that?”
“It might be the people who own the place.”
“This is Dead Man’s Folly. I’m sure of it.”
I knew of it. Six farms in a small group, all suffering from the drought. This well, if it was Dead Man’s Folly, had been dry for years. The farmer spent the last of his savings digging the well, only for it to come up dry. Shot the well digger, his men, his family and then himself.
Where were the ghosts?
We hear the scrunching of tires on the gravel, a skid to a stop, then the engine running for a minute and then silence. A door opened and then closed.
There were no footsteps, or none that I could hear.
A few minutes later, the hose moved as if someone was pulling on it. Then it went limp. Someone had turned off the water flow.
Five or perhaps six minutes after that, there was a crashing sound of a sledgehammer on wood. It was the wooden cover, suddenly splintering and shards raining down on us. A dozen or so more blows and there was a hole, big enough to see the moon-lit sky.
And then the outline of a person.
“That you, Sam, down there?” A girl’s voice.
“Who are you?”
“Beth McKenzie.”
I just barely heard Jack mutter, “Jesus Christ, we’re dead.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 