Never trust anyone else to do the job you should have done yourself in the first place.
It’s an interesting premise, but somehow encapsulates the ethos of this story.
Who is Romanov? Zoe, Irina, whatever you want to call her, he’s her father.
But…
The notion that anonymously putting out a finder’s fee on his daughter’s head, coupled with the ire of Olga over the death of her son, sent everyone from the Minister in the Kremlin down into a tailspin.
The first effort, had the kidnappers just followed the rules, would have got an enormous payday, and everything would have been resolved there and then, in Marseilles.
No, people got greedy.
So did all the others, getting wind of what was at stake, enough to retire, or continue to retire in style.
Dominica, Yuri, and even Olga had she been smart.
She was not.
People didn’t have to die. Zoe could have been spared a killing spree, and John some maybe quality time with Olga. It’s a mistake Olga won’t make again.
And John, now with a father in law, well it’s just another surprise in a long list of surprises.
…
Today’s writing, with everyone, almost, getting their just desserts, 2,111 words, for a total of 65,265.
Usually, from a very early age, you have some idea of what you intend to do with your life.
Those early choices of fireman, policeman, doctor, fighter pilot, slowly disappear from the list as the education requirements become clearer, and their degree of impossibility.
Then you have to factor in academic achievement or failure, hone situation, what blows life has dealt you, and your financial ability to fund any it all of your hopes and dreams, especially for that all-important university education, and even then, it has to be the right one.
Then there are the family aspirations where parents really want you to follow in their footsteps, as a doctor or a lawyer or in the military.
And if you get past all that, and everything has fallen into place, and you’re ready to head out on that highway of life, you should be fully imbibed with the knowledge and the drive to make everything happen.
…
Now I was lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling wondering at what point it all went wrong.
Right on the starting line where everything I had worked for was about to come to fruition, it had all come to an abrupt halt.
My memory got as far as driving home from a work party where we had been celebrating the company’s most recent success, and my progression to the next level of management, when a car failed to stop at a stop sign and T-boned me.
The car was a write-off. I was still not sure what happened to me, but I had heard someone say, in that murky twilight of pain medication, that if I was a horse, they would have to shoot me. It was the only thing I remembered between the car hitting mine and waking up in the hospital bed.
But that was not all the story, and I had plenty of time mull over everything that had happened in that last week. There was a certain symmetry to it all, as if one event led to the next, and then the next, and it was the last straw, on the last day, that broke the proverbial camel’s back.
…
And here’s the thing.
I would not have been in that accident had I not taken the car. I wasn’t going to, I had intended to take the train to a friends place and stay there for a few days, what the boss had told me would be a well earned rest.
Even then, I might have not taken the car, except for a cryptic text message I received from my sister, about needing to be ‘rescued’ from a bad date.
Nothing unusual for her, she was currently on a dating site binge, and after half a dozen bad experiences, I thought she had given up.
That was the thought that ran through my head as I watched her curled up in the chair next to the bed, half asleep.
Her first words, on arrival, and when she was allowed to see me, was to apologise, believing it had been her fault. She knew I hated driving in the city, so coming to get her, as I always did, had been preying on her mind, and I could see the tangible effects of it in the worried expression, and unkempt manner which was so totally unlike her.
“It was simply an accident, and could have happened to anyone,” I told her.
“You were going to Jeremy’s, I should have sorted my own problem out for once. IT’s not as if I couldn’t just call up an Uber, and now look what’s happened. I’m so sorry.”
She wouldn’t accept that it was not her fault, nor would she leave until she knew I would be OK. I didn’t understand what she meant by that because in the three discussions I had with the head doctor, I was going to make a full recovery.
He had used the work lucky more than once, and seemingly the sequence of events, and other factors like the car safety features, the angle the car had struck, and where, the fact the other driver had to dodge a pedestrian, all of it played a part.
Had they not, quite simply I would be dead.
My sister and her dating was only one aspect of how my life was being driven.
Another memory returned, from that week, that of another text message, from a girl I used to know back at University.
Erica.
She was what some might have called a free soul. She didn’t conform to what I would have called normal. Her clothes sense was somewhat odd, she always looked as though her hair needed combing, and she never had any money.
And, for a while, she lived with me, in a small, cramped room ideal for single University students on a budge, but not for two. Yet, for some strange reason, she never seemed to get in the way, or mind the closeness of our existence.
In that short period, she became my first real love, but she had said that while we were together, it was fine, but she was not seeking anything permanent. Nor, she said, did she believe in monogamy. Until she left, studies completed, I wanted to believe she would stay, but a last lingering kiss goodbye and she was gone.
Now, the message said, she wondered if I was still free, and like to meet. Of course, ten years of water had passed under that bridge, so I was not sure where it would go. I hadn’t replied, and the message was still sitting on my phone.
That invitation, however, had been n my mind moments before the crash, and I had to wonder, thinking of her, contributed to it.
Then, on top of all that, there was my parents. Married for 40 years, and the epitome of the perfect marriage.
Or so I thought.
That morning, before I went to work, I had called in to see them after my mother had called the day before saying she wanted to talk to me about something.
Before I knocked on the door, I could hear yelling from behind the door, and it seemed the perfect marriage had hit a rocky stretch.
Or simply that my father had chosen to have an affair, and had been caught out by the simplest of means, my mother answered his phone when he was out of the room thinking it was important work matters, only to discover it was his ‘floozie’.
No guessing then why my mother had called me. After hearing all I wanted to, and not wanting to face an angry couple I just headed on to work.
My mother had yet to come to the hospital to see me. My father had been, but he made no mention of her, or anything else, except to tell me if there was anything I wanted, all I had to do was ask. Then he left, and hadn’t come back.
Then, last but not least, were the rumours.
The owner of the company I worked for was getting older and didn’t have an heir. One thing or another had managed to foil his succession plans, and in the end, he did not have a son or a daughter to pass the reins to.
With the latest success, the company was about to have a bigger profile which meant more work, and plans to open branches in other cities. It was too much for one man, now in his 70s, and looking to wind down.
A rumour had started about a week before the accident that he was looking to sell, and there were at least half a dozen suitors. There was supposed to be an announcement, but it hadn’t happened while I was at work, but, considering how long I’d been in hospital, and the two weeks in an induced coma, anything could have happened.
Louisa stretched, and changed positions.
“You look better,” she said.
“Relative to what, or when?”
“Half an hour ago.”
I shook my head. Sometimes Louisa was prone to saying the oddest stuff. “What’s the deal between our parents. Dad was here for all of five minutes. Where’s our mother?”
“She left.”
OK. Blunt, but plausible. “Why?”
“Dad was being an ass.”
“Does she know I was in an accident?”
“I told her.”
“So, you’re seeing her?”
“She calls. I don’t know where she is. I think she might have gone to stay with one of our aunt’s.”
I sighed. Louise had an awfully bad memory, and I was sure one day she was going to forget who I was.
There were four sisters, mother the youngest. She had a love hate relationship with the middle two, so the best bet would be the eldest sister, Jane. Jane was also the crankiest because she hated children, never got married, and was set in her ways.
Then, there was something else lurking in the back of my mind. Another item I’d overheard when I suspect I was not meant to be listening.
I might not have a job to go back to if the company had been sold, I might not have a home to go back to if my parents had split up, and I might not be able to do anything for a long, long time. Recovery might be complete, but it wasn’t going to happen overnight.
I had a sister who blamed herself for my accident, and an old girlfriend who wanted to see me, though I suspect not like this, broken and useless. What else could there be.
Oh, yes. Another snipped from the shouting match behind the door. And an explanation why my father had all but abandoned me. My mother had also had an affair, and his son, well he was not his son.
No surprise then I had a father who didn’t want to know me.
What else could go wrong?
There was movement outside the room, and raised voices, one of which was saying that whoever was out there couldn’t go into the room. It didn’t have any effect as seconds later, a man and a police officer came in. The officer stood by the door.
Louisa looked surprised, but didn’t move.
The man, obviously a detective, came over. “Your name Oliver Watkins?”
It was, and hopefully still is. “Yes.”
“I need you to answer some questions.”
“About the accident?”
He looked puzzled for a moment, then realised what I was referring to. “No. Not the accident. About the embezzlement of 50 million dollars from the company you work for. It seems you didn’t cover your tracks very well.” He turned around to look at Louisa, “You need to leave now, miss.”
“I’ll stay.”
He nodded to the officer, “You leave now, or he will remove you.”
She looked at me, a different expression, “You didn’t tell me you were a crook, Olly.”
“Because I’m not.”
The officer escorted her from the room and shut the door.
The detective sat in the recently vacated chair. “Now, Mr Watkins. It seems there is such a thing as karma.”
Once upon a time, you could have told me Jack Robinson was a jack in the box, the name meant nothing to me.
Not until Phryne Fisher came along, a rather brilliant 1920s private detective series set in the back streets of Melbourne, as well as more salubrious houses of the rich and famous.
In this series, there is a policeman, a foil for her detective moments, and a love interest that is always just beyond her grasp, a man by the name of Inspector Jack Robinson.
How coincidental.
But…
As for the saying, before you can say Jack Robinson…
It has nothing to do with Phryne Fishers Inspector.
Instead,
There is one story of a politician, Jack Robinson, in the late eighteenth century who was accused of bribery on the floor of the house of commons in England. His accuser was another MP who was asked to name the culprit, and thereby coined the term, ‘I could name him as soon as I could say Jack Robinson’.
The second was a Jack Robinson, the hero of a story written in the nineteenth century who came home to find his intended wife married to another, and to assuage the pain of it was back to the sea, ‘afore you could say Jack Robinson’.
I’m sure there’s a ton of other saying that could be attached to the name, but these seem to be the accepted reason for the term ‘before you can say Jack Robinson’.
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…
They reached a point a few kilometers from what was known as Brenner Pass at four in the morning, having navigated their way through patchy snow, icy roads, and bitter cold.
Progress at times was slow and the roads were difficult, the driver, at times, nearly losing control of the car.
The checkpoint appeared almost when they were on top of it, one that hadn’t been marked on the map, so they had not been prepared for it. Too late to turn back, they had to stop.
Once again the soldier that came out of the hut beside the boom was an army Unteroffizier who was more concerned about the cold than those in the car.
The Standartenfuhrer once again explained the nature of their business, and again the sentry went back to his hut and made a call.
While he was there the driver was checking the number of other soldiers were in attendance and had pulled his weapon out from under the seat and had it ready to use.
The Standartenfuhrer had done the same, also having checked the extent of the staffing of the post.
Then the driver said, “This looks like one of several. I think we may have walked into a hornet’s nest. The Brenner Pass is very important to the Germans for supplies from Germany to its soldiers in Italy.”
“You think our luck has finally run out?”
They had both seen the guard change expression, from the languid guard worrying more about the cold than a lone car at night, to a soldier who looked like he was about to attend a Nazi rally.
“I think they’ve finally discovered that our friend Mayer is missing.”
“Which means we’re about to get a small platoon of soldiers down on us. OK. You keep them off as long as you can so Mayer and I can get into the woods.”
The Standartenfuhrer turned to Mayer. “This is it, then end of the line for driving. We’re about to get a lot of unwanted visitors.”
He thrust the folder of plans into Mayer’s hands along with a coat.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?” Mayer was almost panic-stricken. The situation was deteriorating with each passing second. He, like the others, could see six men jogging towards them.
Their only advantage was the lack of illumination.
The driver said, “See you on the other side.”
The Standartenfuhrer leaned over, opened the door, and said, forcefully, “Get out, now.”
Mayer tumbled out almost slipping on the icy surface, and the sudden cold hitting him hard.
The Standartenfuher was right behind him, closing the door, and then literally dragging him off the side of the road and towards the tree line about 50 meters away, just barely visible again the dark sky. Thankfully there was no moon peeking through the clouds. But light snow just began to fall, and it would hide them behind an artificial white wall.
They made it to the edge of the forest just as the soldiers reached the car.
Mayer turned to look and could see the sentry now with a torch, probably checking the car which was now barely visible to them. He had seen three people before, now there was only one.
No time to see the inevitable, the Standartenfuhrer dragged him away with, “We have to go before they bring out the dogs.”
Further into the trees, and moving as quickly as they could through the trees and undergrowth, and at times slipping and sliding on both snow and ice, it was five minutes before they heard six shots in rapid succession, followed by the sound of a machine gun.
“Let’s hope he killed at least six of them before he died.”
The problem was, Mayer thought, there was probably another hundred others waiting to take their place.
Mayer had come totally unprepared for the snow, and the cold. At least he had a coat.
Another problem was that he was hungry and that only added to his discomfort. And now they had no means of transport, it was going to take a lot longer to get to Florence, or anywhere for that matter.
An hour passed as they worked their way steadily through the trees, and cover. The dreaded dogs had not been unleashed on them, but they had to assume that someone at the border checkpoint would raise the alarm that there were fugitives in the area, and probably wait until morning before looking for them,
They could calculate how far they had walked and sent in search teams from there.
Or not.
Four hours after they’d left the car, they stumbled upon a cabin. It was not much, having been abandoned quite some time ago and left for the forest to reclaim, but it was shelter and a place to rest. It was not long before first light, and then they could assess their situation.
It was also time for the Standartenfuhrer to give Mayer all the information he needed once he got to Gaiole because at some point they were going to have to split up and Mayer would have to go alone.
I’m going over the conversation Olga is having with John now that he is her prisoner.
On the first run through it seemed to make sense, but as we all know, when you read the conversation out loud, often it sounds terrible.
A question of, “Would I say that?”
Whilst snatching John off the street was a rather simple task, made easier by the fact he was not expecting it, Olga is not sure whether it is a big act.
Working with Irina has made her wary of everyone and everything, even more so since Irina had left her charge, but she knows just how much Irina evolved into the Zoe her son tried to keep on a leash, with spectacularly awful results.
Had she been training John to be like her?
Has Sebastian been training John to become a spy, or was he one already? After all, why is someone like John, if he is that reputed computer nerd type, doing with a girl like Irina.
Her preference would have to be someone strong, authoritative, masculine, like Alistair. The problem was she hadn’t driven out all of the emotions in the time she spent with her.
So, sitting opposite each other, John and Olga try to do their individual assessments.
She finally admits that she doesn’t want to kill Irina, just rehabilitate her.
John, of course, is horrified at the thought of them brainwashing her, especially if they send her after him again.
It comes down to a single point. Will he do as she asks, and invite her to come and get him?
What neither of them realizes Irina already knows where they are, and any plans Olga might have will be useless.
…
Today’s writing, with Irina, otherwise know as Zoe, on the way, 1,232 words, for a total of 63,154.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
I took a moment longer to study the differences in the maps, trying to see what our edge was.
“So, according to this map, Alex would be looking for a stretch of shore with two rivers going inland, which you say are no longer there.”
“I do because they’re not. Well, they’re not visible these days from the seaward side, and not really visible from shore either because I think one of the two might have started where the mini marina is.”
The mini marina wasn’t as marina as such, rather an area of seawater surrounded by a promenade with a bridge over the entrance from the ocean, and a lot of expensive Italian tiles. It was part of the redevelopment of the old marina when the shopping mall had been built.
“Wasn’t that the old marina, which was part of the old navy yard for PT boats?”
Everyone knew the potted history of the town and the navy yard that put it briefly on the map. There had been an inlet where a marina was built in the early days. Then with war looming, the navy was looking for a place to build PT boats, carry out repairs to medium-sized warships, and train PT crews.
“One and the same. There’s very little in the archives about what happened back then, but I did manage to find a document, mentioned in my father’s notebook, about the navy set up a base. Attached to it was a geological report that stated two facts, the first, they would be building over a watercourse which at the time was believed to be underground, and secondly, deep foundations would be required. In the event all of it was ignored, they built the port and it was operational up until the end of the war.”
After which as everyone knew they shut the facility down, put up fences and signs with the words hazardous and dangerous, and trespassers would be shot, and it sat there like a festering eyesore until a plan was mooted to turn the site into a mall.
It was a favorite place for us children to go and play, having the fearless mentality that every child was born with. Yes, there were hazards on the grounds, in for form of rusting metal and hundreds of barrels holding what must have been hazardous material, but best of all, there were two nearly intact boats moored there, and I remembered being captain at least once on a vessel that had taken on everything the enemy had.
“And then they built a mall.”
He nodded. “My father always said that it was doomed to failure. There’s a section in his notebook about an earlier plan to rebuild the marina with facilities to repair those new larger ocean-going yachts that proliferate in Bermuda and places like that, only he couldn’t find anyone to back the project. The Benderby’s at the time didn’t like the idea, and since they basically owned the town nothing was going to happen without their approval.”
The mall, however, was something the Benderby’s could get their hooks into, in the building of it, then a slice of every business that moved in. It would also be good for employment, and people employed mean customers for their other criminal activities. Deals were made with the Cossatino’s and everyone was happy. For a few years anyway.
That’s when a newspaper expose on the mall was published.
Exposes were never plucked out of thin air and presented, there had to be a catalyst. There had been allegations of corruption regarding all aspects of the mall, from planning through the opening day, and especially in the building. Allegations of payoffs to get approvals, substandard materials used, and the worst allegation, that the builder had not properly cleaned up the site before building commenced.
All of this came to a head when, not long after the tenth anniversary of opening, large cracks started to appear in the floors and walls, so bad that nearly half the mall, that part that had been built over the old navy base, had to be closed, and now was in danger of collapse.
The mini marina, the focal point for the mall, had also been closed because the pool had become polluted from the old navy base waste that had been improperly disposed of in the foundations rather than being properly removed and stored in a special dump. But there had also been other problems like excess water continuously flooding the lower level carparks, and flowing into the sea pool making it unusable, and at times, very smelly.
Boggs’s father had discovered at the same time as his research for the treasure maps, that the water came from the underground river that had been mentioned in the geological report made before the naval base had been built. Just because it hadn’t been there at the time, didn’t mean it wasn’t there at all. It just depended on rainfall back up in the hills, and the year the problems started for the mall coincided with the wettest period for the area in more than 50 years.
His father’s notebook was a goldmine of information, Boggs said.
“It appears there was a lake right where the map says it was, about a hundred years ago. Since then an earthquake caused a fault line that drained the lake and makes a river instead. That river ran from the hills to the sea. Until someone decided to build on the old lake, raised the level and piped the river underground, and drawing from it for the towns and sounding areas water supply. That in effect reduced the water flow from the lake to the sea to a trickle, or rather a stream.
“But every now and then when it rains heavily and for a long period, the stream becomes a river, and it backs up until with nowhere else to go, it floods the mall carparks. The lowest level carpark is actually the lowest depth of the river, and it comes out at the sea where the pool now is. Unfortunately, with the old naval waste rotting in those old rusting barrels, it collects that waste and not only stinks up the mall but also the pool area which is why it’s now closed.
“And the bad news is, it can’t be fixed. But that’s got nothing to do with our quest. It’s just an aside to our quest, proving that three of the landmarks on the treasure map actually existed once, and in some form still do. The thing is, neither the Benderby’s or the Cossatino’s will realize that which means we have a clear run at getting past the first hurdle and with any luck we will be able to identify the river from the hills which is the starting point.”
A simple job, no doubt in Boggs’s mind. He never had any trouble coming up with hair-brained schemes, only the logistics to carry them out. This one required proper transport because there was no way we’re going to be able to cycle there and back in a morning, the only time I had free for exploring.
“How do you propose we do this?”
“Rico’s car. It’s sitting in the marina carpark. The keys for it are on his boat.”
I was one of six people who answered a house-sitting ad. What stood out was the money, as was intended.
When I arrived at the interview, held in an accountant’s office downtown, there was no suggestion that it was a trick, or there were ulterior motives.
Just $5,000 for a week’s work. Move in, act like a security guard and check all entrances and exits, and all rooms that had windows to the outside every four or so hours, particularly at night.
The reason?
The owner had to maintain residence in the house for the week, as he was going away, under a clause in the sale contract. The reason for hiring civilians, that it was too expensive to get live in people from a security company.
The owner freely admitted he was a cheapskate.
But fir someone like me, the $5,000 was a lot of money and would help pay beck everyone I owed money to.
I earnestly pleaded my case, submitted myself to a background check and then waited to hear back.
When I didn’t hear anything by the due date I figured some other lucky person had pleaded a better case, then, exactly a week later I got the call.
The next day a courier delivered the keys to the house, and the address. My week started at exactly 9am the next morning.
…
The cab dropped Mr off at the front gate of the house, only it wasn’t a house so much as a mansion, and one that had seen better days.
It was at the end of the street, behind two large gates, and a high brick fence. I could see the driveway on the other side, and just make out the house behind the unkempt shrubbery.
I had a bunch of keys, and it took a few attempts to find the one that fitted the lock and chain preventing the gates from opening.
I just unlocked it when another car pulled up in the same place my can had, and a young woman got out. She rescued her sports bag from the trunk and paid the cabbie.
“Who are you,” she said.
“The caretaker for the next week. I might ask the same question.”
“The ex-wife with nowhere to go.”
No one mentioned an ex-wife that was part of the deal.
“I wasn’t told anyone else would be here, so it would be best you left.”
I slipped the lock back in place and stood my ground. She could be anyone.
She pulled out her phone and rang a number.
A heard the voice on the other end say hello.
“You can tell you dead head caretaker that I’m staying for a few days.”
Then I watched her expression turn very dark, and then the words, “I have nowhere else to go, and it will only be a few days.” Then silence and an accompanying ground, ending with, “You don’t want me to come after you because you know how that will end”.
She listened, then handed the phone to me.
“Hello.”
“I’m the owner requesting the service. You are not responsible for her, but if she becomes a problem, lock her in the basement.”
Then he hung up. It was not the best of answers to the problem.
“Are you going to open the gate?”
I shook my head and then pretended to fumble through the keys looking for the eight one. “You know this place,” I asked without turning around.
“No. The bastard didn’t tell me about a lot of the stuff he owns.” Her tone bristled with resentment.
I ‘found’ the key and opened the lock and started pulling the chain through the fence. I could feel her eyes burning into my back.
When I swung open the gate, she barged past, and kept walking. I stepped though, and immediately felt the change in the temperature. It was cold, even though the sun was out and I could feel an un-natural chill go through me.
By the time I closed and relocked the gate she had gone as far as, and round a slight bend in the driveway. I thought about hurrying to catch up, but I didn’t think it mattered, she didn’t have a key. Or perhaps I hoped she didn’t have one.
I headed towards the house at a leisurely pace. I didn’t have to be there in the next instant, and I wanted to do a little survey of the grounds. If I was checking windows, then I needed to know what the access might be like through any of them.
As I got closer to the house, the overgrowth was worse, but that might have been because no one could see it from the roadside, or through the iron gate.
Accessibility via the gardens would-be problematic for anyone who attempted it because there was no easy access. It was one less immediate problem to deal with.
The driveway widened out into a large gravel covered square outside the front of the house. It had an archway under which cars could stop and let out passengers under cover, ideal for ball goers, which meant the house had been build somewhere during the last century.
There were aspects that would warrant me taking a look on the internet about its history.
She was waiting outside the door, showing some exertion, and the mad dash had been for nothing.
“I take it you have a key?”
I decided to ignore that. I hoped she would disappear to another part of the house and leave me alone. I had too much to do without having to worry about where she was, or what she was doing. It seemed, base on the short time I spoke to him, that the owner had a mistake marrying her, if they were in fact married. Ex could mean almost anything these days.
Again, I made a show of trying to find the right key, though in the end it was hit and miss, and it took the fourth of fifth attempt to find it.
The door was solid oak, but it swung open easily and silently. I had expected it to make a squeaking sound, one associated with rusty hinges. This time she was a little more circumspect when she passed by me. I followed and closed and locked the door behind me.
Inside was nothing like I expected. Whilst the outside looked like the building hadn’t been tended to for years, inside had been recently renovated, and had that new house smell of new carpets and painted walls.
There was a high vaulted roof, and a mezzanine that was accessed by a beautifully restored wooden staircase and ran around the whole upper floor so that anyone could stand anywhere n ear the balustrading and look down into the living space, and, towards the back, the kitchen and entertaining area.
The walls had strategically place paintings, real paintings, that looked old, but I doubted were originals, because if they were similar to those I’d seen in a lot of English country estates they would be priceless, but not left in an empty building.
I had also kept her in the corner of my eye, watching her look around almost in awe.
“What do you think these paintings are worth?”
Was she going to suddenly take an inventory?
“Not a lot. You don’t leave masterpieces in an abandoned house. I suspect nothing in here would be worth much, and really only for decorative purposes so the owner can have a better chance of selling the place. Empty cavernous buildings do not sell well.”
“What are you again?”
“No one of any particular note. I’ve been asked to look after the place for the next week until it is handed over to the new owners. Aside from that I know nothing about the place, nor do I want to. According to the note I got with the key, there are bedrooms off that mezzanine you can see up there.” I pointed to the balustrading. The kitchen has food, enough for the few days I’ll be here, but I’m sure there’s enough to share.”
“Good. You won’t see me again if I can help it.”
I watched her walk to the staircase and go upstairs. The mud map told me there were bedrooms up of the mezzanine, and also across from this area. There was another large room adjacent to this, a games area or room big enough to hold a ball, a part of the original house, and which led out onto the side lawns. I’d check later to see what the access was like, because eI suspected there would be a few doors that led out from the hall to the garden.
When she disappeared along the upstairs passageway, I headed towards the next room. IT was large, larger than that next door, and had another grand staircase leasing down to the dance floor. I guess the people used to stay in rooms upstairs, get dressed, then make a grand entrance down those stairs.
I hadn’t expected this house to be anything like the old country estates, and it was a little like icing of the cake. I would have to explore, and transport myself back to the old days, and imagine what it was like.
…
She was true to her word, and I didn’t see her the next morning. I was staying a world away from her. I was in the refurbished old section and she was staying in the newly renovated and modernised part of the house.
I did discover, on the first day of getting my bearings and checking all of the entrances and windows ready for my rounds, that above the bedrooms on the second floor of the old section, there was a third floor with a number of smaller rooms which I assumed were where the servants lived.
I stayed in one of those rooms. The other main bedrooms, with ornate fireplaces and large shuttered windows smelled a little too musty for me, and I wasn’t about to present someone with an open window. The views form the balconies was remarkable too or would have been in the garden had been kept in its original state.
In the distance I could see what might have once been a summerhouse and promised myself a look at it later. A long day had come to a tiring end, and I was only destined for a few hours sleep before embarking on my first midnight run. I was going to do one at eight, after eating, another at midnight, and another at six in the morning. I’d make adjustments to the schedule after running the first full night’s program.
…
I brought my special alarm with me, the one that didn’t make a sound but was very effective in waking me. It was fortuitous, because I had not been expected someone else to come along for the ride, and didn’t want them to know where and when I would be doing the rounds.
It had taken longer than I expected to get to sleep, the sounds of the house keeping me awake. Usually a sound sleeper, perhaps it was the first night in different, and unusual surroundings.
I shuddered as I got out of bed, a cold air surrounding me, a feeling like that when I walked through the gate. I had the sensation that someone was in the room with me, but in the harsh light after putting the bedside light on, it was clearly my imagination playing tricks.
I dressed quickly, and headed out.
The inside of the house was very dark, and the light from my torch stabbed a beam of light through what might have been an inky void. The circle of light on the walls was never still, and I realised that my hand had acquired a touch of the shakes.
Creaking sounds as I walked across the flooring had not been discernible the previous night, and it was odd they only happened at night. A thought that the house may be haunted when through my mind, but I didn’t believe in ghosts, or anything like that.
The creaking sounds followed me as I started my inspection. I headed downstairs, and once I reached the back end of what I was going to call the ball room. Before I went to bed the previous evening, I drew up a rough map of the places I would be going, ticking them off as I went.
The first inspection was of the doors that led out onto the lawns. The floor to ceiling windows were not curtained, and outside the undergrowth was partially illuminated by moonlight. The day had been warm, that period in autumn leading into winter where the days were clear but getting colder. Outside I could see a clear starry night.
Then, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the flash of a torch light in the gardens. I stopped, and looked more carefully, but there was nothing. I waited for about ten minutes, but there was still no movement.
I was going to have to park my imagination before starting rounds or I’d never get the job done.
I went out of the room and into the living area. There seemed to be lights all arounds me, those small pilot lights that told you appliances were on standby.
I was heading towards the stairs when suddenly there was a blood curdling scream, followed by what sounded like a gun shot, a sharp loud bang that, on top of the scream, made me jump.
The woman.
I raced as fast as I could up the stairs. The sounds had come from there, but when I reached the top of the stairs, I realised I had no idea in which direction it came from. Pointing the torch in both directions, there was nothing to see.
I could see a passage which might lead to the bedrooms on this level, and headed towards it, moving slowly, keeping as quiet as I could, listening form anything, or if someone else was lurking.
I heard a door slam, the echo coming down the passage. I flashed the light up the passage, but it didn’t seem to penetrate the darkness. I moved quickly towards the end, half expecting to see someone.
Then I tripped over, and as I tried to get to my feet, realised it was a body. I flashed the torch on it, and it was the woman.
Dead, a gunshot wound in the chest, and blood everywhere.
I scrambled to my feet, and ran towards the end of the passage, and stopped at what appeared to be a dead end. With nowhere to go, I turned.
I wasn’t alone, just hearing before seeing the presence of another person, but it was too late to react. I felt an object hitting me on the back of the head, and after that, nothing.
…
I could feel a hand shaking me, and a voice coming out of the fog. I opened my eyes, and found myself in completely different surroundings.
A large ornate bedroom, and a four-poster bed, like I had been transported back to another age. Then I remembered I had been in a large house that had been renovated, and this was probably one of the other bedrooms on the floor where the woman had been staying.
Then I remembered the body, being hit, and sat up.
A voice beside me was saying, “You’re having that nightmare again, aren’t you?”
It was a familiar voice.
I turned to see the woman who I had just moments before had seen dead, the body on the floor of the passage.
“You’re dead,” I said, in a strangely detached tone.
“I know. I’m supposed to be. You helped me set it up so I could escape that lunatic ex-husband of mine.”
I must have looked puzzled.
“Don’t worry. The doctor says your memory will return, one day. But, for now, all you need to do is rest. All you need to know is that we’re safe, thanks to you.”
This wouldn’t be so apt if it didn’t bring back a raft of bad memories, those days I used to go to the races, and back all of the wrong horses.
I had a knack, you see, of picking horses that fell over, or came dead last.
Perhaps that’s another of those sayings, dead last, with a very obvious meaning. Dead! Last!
But…
In the modern vernacular, flogging a dead horse is like spending further time on something in which the outcome is already classed as a complete waste of time.
However…
Back in the old days, the dead horse referred to the first month’s wages when working aboard a ship, usually paid for before you stepped on board the ship. At the end of the first month, the theoretical dead horse was tossed overboard symbolically, and thereafter you were paid.
It still didn’t make sense to me that someone would tell me I was flogging a dead horse, until I realized, one day, the lesson to be learned was never to get paid in advance.
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…
By the time they reached the outskirts of Munich, what the Standartenfuhrer considered their biggest hurdle, it was quite dark and almost impossible to see where they were going.
The whole city seemed to have disappeared so effectively was the blackout.
But there was one benefit, there was little or no traffic on the roads, which lessened the chance of running into another car or truck.
And it was time to refill the tank with two more petrol cans, leaving two remaining. Filling up now, the Standartenfuhrer said, would get them to Innsbruck.
He sounded confident, but Mayer got the distinct impression it was mostly that he was putting on a brave face. There had been one instance, the checkpoint before Munich where he nearly lost his nerve. For the first time, there had been SS guards at the checkpoint, and which had been entirely unexpected.
An SS officer of the same rank had been summoned and he had requested their written orders. They had paperwork, but Mayer wasn’t sure if it related to their current situation, further confirming his belief this had been a very carefully planned operation to get him out of Germany, and that there was a more pressing reason why. It definitely had something to do with the V2’s, but had their intelligence services found out about something else, something he didn’t know about?
Given the level of risk to the two men with him, and that at every turn there was a possibility of capture or death, given the level of planning and the run so far, one he would have never thought of trying on his own, he didn’t have a very high level of confidence that they would get away with it.
Those in the SS were not fools, trusted no one, believed nothing they were told, and disregarded anything written on paper. Check, double-check, then check again. Take nothing as read. The document he’d been given on what made a first-class SS officer in the eyes of the Reich, was fundamentally not him, nor most of the German population.
The officer at this checkpoint reminded him of the one who had shot the shooting in the hotel, and for at least ten tense minutes, during which time the other two had conferred quietly in English, one suggestion they cut and run.
That would have invited a hail of machine-gun fire that none of them would survive.
Both looked visibly relieved when he returned, having obviously called the name of the officer who had signed the order. The only explanation he had for this was that the level of discontent among officers Military of SS must be greater than he thought.
They managed to cross over into Austria without any problems, the route they had taken, a series of back roads and tracks which had been given to them. Once again, Mayer was surprised that so many people could be working against their own country, but, of what he’d seen, conditions were harsh no matter which part of Germany they were in.
The war was not going the way the German people were being told, and it was hard to see any resolution of the conflict any time soon.
Perhaps everyone in the high command was hoping the new V2 rockets were going to change the country’s fortunes in the war. If they were, they were going to be bitterly disappointed. What they needed was the jet-propelled fighters and bombers, something that remarkably had not been implemented years earlier, and would have given them air superiority.
He’d worked on those early jet engines and they were remarkable, and faster than anything the British or the Americans had. It was hard to comprehend why high command had not pushed forward the new jet-propelled planes that Belin had finally decided to implement.
And just when the trio had agreed that everything would work out about 100 kilometers from Innsbruck, on the road to the Italian border crossing, they took the wrong route. It was a mistake brought on by tiredness, and a momentary lapse in concentration.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 