This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.
But, there’s more to come. Those were long flights…
And sadly when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start.
If it had been Jackerby in charge and not Johansson, I had no doubt I’d be at the end of a firing squad now.
Jackerby was not Army, nor a man of honour. His gait, his manner gave him away, despite the fact he was out of his usual uniform. I suspect now I had been taken care of, that would change, and we’d get to see his true colours.
After leaving the hall, I was escorted downstairs to the cellar, and where I knew there were a number of rooms with iron gated fronts, places I suspected, in olden days, enemies of the castle were held, enslaved or executed in these cells.
There were several male prisoners is the first two cells, awaiting their fate, one which would not include escaping to the other side, but perhaps something a lot worse than death.
At the end, there was another corridor, and several smaller cells, where second from the end, I was roughly shoved by one of the guards. He was going to add the butt of his rifle to the back of my head for good measure, but Jackerby stopped him.
I was sure it wasn’t out of respect for Johansson. It appeared that Johansson needed me for something else.
After the door closed I yelled out, “All the rooms upstairs filled?”
“Yes. It’s high season.” So Jackerby had a semblance of a sense of humour.
The room, if it could be called that, had a camp stretcher, a seat, and a bucket. The light came from a burning torch out in the corridor, an interesting touch that electricity had not made it down this far.
The floor was cobbled, and, like the walls, damp. There was an overbearing odour of mustiness in the room.
It was also cold, so these cells must be located not only under the old castle but underground. That meant centuries of history, and probably a ghost or two. I was sure terrible things had happened, down in these cells, not just back then but also recently.
Outside the wall, I could hear the sound of running water, so the back wall must border onto the stream. And there must be a gap, or hole somewhere for the sound to reach me, but it was too dark to see.
When night fell, it was going to be a lot worse; the light wouldn’t be affected, but it was going to get a lot colder. As it was the torchlight from the passage barely made an impact, and it took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust. And I was sure there were rats, just waiting for the dark to come out to play.
I moved the seat to beside the door and sat down, trying to make myself comfortable, in a position where I might hear them coming if they came back.
Then a voice quite near, said, “What are you here for?”
John’s search for Zoe was at an impasse, simply because it was her job to disappear and reappear at will, and he knows he’s no match for her in that regard.
So, having gone to her residence in Paris, not finding her there which was predictable, the place looked like it had not been visited in months, he concluded a short stay might help to clear his head.
Until he gets a phone call.
Kidnappers, other than the Russians, have captured Zoe, and they’re ringing him for a ransom.
Odd, because he was not the one who placed the kidnap order on her, so why would they be ringing him?
This was initiated by Zoe, no doubt playing the kidnapper by sending him to a bigger payday.
If that’s the case then John has to deduce she has faith in him to come and get her.
Which he’s going to do, but not on his own.
It’s time to call Sebastian, someone John knew would know what to do.
Or at least hope he does!
…
Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon waiting for a white knight, 3,270 words, for a total of 8,871.
Everyone always wants to change their circumstances, particularly if you are among those who are not so well off.
My father always said, whenever we complained about not having enough money to go on holiday, or buy something we needed, that there was always someone worse off than we were.
As a child, I could hardly believe that was true when it looked like everyone else had everything they wanted.
As an adult, I promised myself that I would never be in those circumstances, that I would always have enough money.
And, of course, what you want, what you would like, and what really happens are very different outcomes, and no matter how much planning, or how many contingencies plans you have in place, a single event can wreck everything.
When you open the front door and see policemen, two thoughts cross your mind. The first, they’re at the wrong place, the second, that something awful has just happened.
“George Williamson?”
It was the second.
“May we come inside?”
As I stood to one side, a thousand thoughts went through my mind until it settled on one, something had happened to Jane.
As she did on every Wednesday morning, she got up early, I made her breakfast, she kissed the tones and told them she would be back the next day, then headed for the airport for her weekly visit to hear office.
When we had to move, her company agreed to let her work from home, and it was an arrangement that worked well, she was only missing for two days a week, and a week when the annual accounting was done.
She was due back this morning.
Instead, I had to police officers in my lounge room, looking very somber.
“Something has happened to Jane, hasn’t it.” I almost couldn’t bring myself to say it.
The policewoman spoke. It was like they had drawn straws and she got the short one.
“I’m very sorry to say your wife was involved in an accident this morning, on her way to the Atlanta airport. We have just been informed she passed away.”
It was one of those moments when there were no words. In fact, I was not sure what I felt in that moment other than a great sadness.
“How?”
“We understand a car ran a red light, hit the limousine. Had she been on the other side…”
Not much consolation in speculation.
“Do you have someone you can call; do you need us to arrange for support…”
“I have a sister, I’ll call her. Thank you for coming and telling me, I guess this is not what you want to be doing at this time of the morning.”
“Part of the job, sir.”
I ushered them to the door and after reassuring them I would be OK, and getting out the phone to call my sister, they left.
The shock of it hadn’t set in. As I closed the door, my thoughts turned to the twins, now at school. They adored their mother and would be expecting her to pick them up from school.
I would have to get them before news of her death reached them. These days, with the internet, someone would find out and it would be better to hear it from me.
“George?”
My sister, Eileen. She had been amazed that I would find a girl like Jane let alone marry her. She had always expected me to be the philandering bachelor.
“Something very bad has happened?”
“Jane?”
“Killed in a car crash this morning in Atlanta. The police were just here.”
“Oh my God, George. The girls.”
“I know. I have to get to them. Can you be here when I get home? They’ll need you.”
“Sure. On my way.”
Next call, the girl’s school. I called the head Master and explained the situation, and he immediately had them brought to his office.
When I arrived, I put on my best ‘this is a happy day’ face and went in, mustering all of the courage I had to not look like something bad had happened.
The girls, of course, thought that their mother had arrived home early and come to get them. She had done it before.
They were only mildly disappointed to see me.
“Mommy not here?”
“Sorry, you have to tolerate me for a while. We have to go home and you’ve been given a day pass.”
Knowing how much they preferred not to be at school, the diversion worked.
The headmaster gave me a wan look as we left.
I fielded a hundred questions on the way home, all of which centered around what surprise Mom had in store for them, and the fact it had to be monumental since they had to go home early.
All the tome I was trying to think of a way to let them down gently, but there wasn’t one. Being blunt wasn’t the way either, they deserved the truth.
As soon as they saw Eileen, I could see the hesitation and a note of trepidation. Usually, Eileen came over when Jane was going to have an extended stay away.
“I need you two to go into the lounge and sit down. I’ll be then in a minute.”
“Is mommy’s not coming home today?”
They knew something was wrong.
“I’ll be in in a minute and will explain everything.”
At least Eileen had to foresight not to show any sign of the distress I knew she must be feeling.
When the girls had gone into the room she gave me the teary-eyed look, and a hug.
“You must be devastated.”
“It hasn’t sunk in. I’m still expecting her to walk in the door, and this is all a bad mistake.”
“The girls…”
“This is one time I hate the idea of being a father.”
“Then I’m glad you called me. You could not break this alone. They are going to be devastated.”
Everyone who knew her would be.
Once again I had to find the courage to keep it together, but at least I had support.
It went better than I expected. At first, they thought it was an elaborate prank, though I was not sure how they could think that.
Then, when they realized it was true, they, like I was when I first heard the news, were in shock, and barely able to comprehend the reality of it.
I did remember saying at one point, “I wish she was still alive, and that she would walk back through that door…” but not able to finish.
So, we just sat there, in silence, the rest of the world passing by, going about its business.
Until there was another knock on the door.
I was going to ignore it, but a nod from Eileen got me off the seat.
Perhaps the police were back to tell me it was all a big mistake, and it was someone else who’d died.
I opened the door…
…and neatly had a heart attack.
“Jane?”
A wish come true? Standing before me was a woman who looked exactly like Jane, down to the last detail, including the unmanageable whisp of hair.
“You must be George. No, not Jane, Jill, the banished evil twin. Now, where is she?”
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 instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
Five minutes past the appointed time, I sat on the end of the clean bed and waited. The single chair didn’t look very comfortable.
It didn’t worry me she was late, she had not specifically stated how long she would be, but to be there in an hour. If she had business with dark glasses, then she might be a while. Giving me the key to her room suggested she was not bringing him back with her.
There was a light rapping on the door, hinting at a sense of urgency. Without looking,. I opened the door, and she slid through and I closed it quickly and quietly.
“I thought you might not be coming?”
I went to switch on the light, but heard her say, “No lights.”
My eyes were already adjusted to the light, or lack of light, and I could see her standing by the door to the bathroom. Everything about her manner suggested she was ill at ease, or perhaps frightened of something or someone.
Or waiting for Vince, and had to string me along until he arrived.
“Why?”
“No one knows I’m here.”
“Not even Vince?”
“No. Especially him.”
“He was here about twenty minutes ago, went into the office and came out with a briefcase.”
“I suggest you forget you ever saw that.”
Drugs then, or protection money, or… OK forgotten. “Duly forgotten as requested.”
“Is this pace one of the Cossatino’s places?”
“If you saw Vince, then it is. It never used to be. The Benderby’s used to bring their clients here, back in the day. Vince had some of the rooms wired, you know, blackmail, that kind of stuff.”
I could imagine. I’m sure the ‘clients’ never brought their wives here to have a good time.
“Why are you staying here?”
“Can’t stay at home. Things have changed. I’m not interested in working with the family business. It’s why I left in the first place.”
Imagination running wild, I think I began feeling sorry for her. Beautiful girl, stupid men, caught in a seedy hotel. My respect for old man Cossatino just took a dive.
“Why come back then?”
“Alex. He’s a bastard, just like his father. All those Benderby’s are the same. You say you’ve got a plan that might help get him off my back?”
She took off her coat and threw it on the bed with the other clothes. It wasn’t that dark I couldn’t see her outline and had to look away.
“A possible plan. One that might kill two birds with one stone. I have to look out for Boggs because he had got himself into a mess that he doesn’t realise the full potential of yet.”
“The treasure map?”
“I wish people would stop calling it that. It’s just a piece of paper with a drawing on it. I’m sure the whole myth was concocted by Boggs’ father as another one of his schemes.”
Everyone knew Boggs father was a touch crazy and had come up with a number of schemes, some even calling the ‘get rich quick’ schemes, and one had landed him in jail. He never quite understood the nature of the schemes he’d bought off other people in the hope of getting rich himself. The treasure map, that was a new one for him, but one of his previous customers had caught up with him, and he’d not lived long enough to play this one out.
Boggs unfortunately, was doing it for him.
“You don’t think it’s real?”
“What I think is irrelevant.”
She moved closer and sat on the side of the bed, not far from me.
“So what is this plan?”
“I get you a copy of the map, you give it to Alex, see what he says. You know you can’t trust him, or anything he says.”
She was too close, so I moved, trying to look like I was not moving. But at the same moment, I had no idea what it was about her that scared me. It was apparent she hadn’t told Vince about this meeting.
“It’s a chance I have to take, and you are right, I don’t want to cosy up to Rico. I have had previous dealings with him, and he is not nice. But, if you are willing to do this for me, what do you want in return?”
The inevitable question and I think I could guess what she thought I might want. And that thought did cross my mind.
“Nothing.”
“That is not possible. All men want something.”
“I’m not all men. I owe Alex a little payback and this will be a small cog in a big wheel. If it helps you, good, but I know the Benderby’s and nothing is easy with them.”
“This plan…”
“The less you know the better.” I stood, and then moved to the door. “I’m only going to be able to see you in the early hours of the morning. I’m working an afternoon shift till midnight, and I don’t want to come here in the daylight.”
She stood and came over to join me.
“You are going to have to do something about Rico because Alex will ask him.”
It was something that also occurred to me just before she raised it. I knew there was going to be a problem, I just hadn’t realised it at the time. Now, it seemed like another of those insurmountable things.
“I’ll think of something.”
“Then soon.” She put a piece of paper in my hand. “My cell number. Send me a text before you come.”
Our hands touched briefly and it sent a shiver down my spine.
“I will.”
There was a moment, looking into her eyes where I didn’t want to leave, but fortunately, common sense kicked in, I opened the door and slipped out in the cold night air. As it shut behind me I shivered.
This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.
But, there’s more to come. Those were long flights…
And sadly when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start.
On the way back I decided to call my enemies the holy trinity. Jackerby, Johansson and Wallace. It would be interesting to see who took the lead.
Back in the main hall, I was told to sit in one of the antique chairs. No one bothered to tie me up. No need. Three of the guards were strategically placed so I couldn’t escape, or if I tried to attack any of my captors, I would be shot.
At first, it was Jackerby and three guards, men from the landing party looking no different than they would on any mission. If they were English, which they were not. No one spoke. I guess there wasn’t much to talk about. It is told me that Jackerby wasn’t the man in charge.
If there was a separate man in charge of the stormtroopers, he didn’t show himself.
By the time Johansson joined us, I’d deduced it was he who was in charge of this operation. Wallace was referring to him and was not showing his face. He was in situ, he had been left in charge of the castle, and in the ‘end of war’ scenario, using it as a staging point for filtering enemy scientists and experts who were leaving quickly before the war ended, making sure they found their way to the allied side.
Of course, since he had taken up residence, those people fleeing the war had dried up to a trickle, and it was now understandable why. Now that it was clear to me he was working for the Germans, he just wasn’t letting them all go. If they were going to lose the war, then the victors would only get some of the spoils.
The question was what was happening to everyone else who didn’t make it.
Back in London, someone realised something was going terribly wrong, and so they sent me. Someone else had said there might be a nest of traitors; another described them as double agents, on both sides of the channel.
My job was to find out what was happening, and now I had. The possibility that I might get killed in the process had been flagged as a risk, but that hadn’t been a deterrent. I had visited the castle before the war as an archaeological exercise and had been keen to come back and take another look.
Unfortunately, I had not had time to file a report, but up till now it would not be much, and given my current circumstances, I might not be able to inform them, but at least I knew the investigators in London were right.
And it looked like it was true Johansson had friends in London because my arrival had been telegraphed. One attempt to blow me up, and now, nothing less than a dozen enemy storm troopers to make sure I didn’t leave.
“London finally realise what’s going on here?”
“In a manner of speaking. They weren’t sure, but I guess we now have proof.”
“You have circumstantial proof, but basically nothing actionable. They really have nothing, and won’t until you return, or report, neither of which you are going to be able to do for a while. Not until we finish here what we started.”
I was tempted to ask what that was but knew better. Another day.
I glared at him. “Why?”
“I assume you are referring to myself being a double agent? I was caught up in London just as the war broke out. There was no question what side I was going to be on, it just meant getting into a good position, and then using it for the good of my country. There’s quite a few of us, actually.”
I didn’t doubt that.
“So you let quite a few through to set up your credentials, and now, in the dying stages of the battle, when the real experts are trying to leave, you’re preventing them.”
“Not the best solution to a problem. I’m sure, if you were standing here and losing the war, you’d be doing the same. You’d hardly want those secrets in enemy hands.”
“The war’s over. It’s just a matter of time.”
“This one, maybe. The next one we’ll win.”
I admired his confidence. It also explained the syphoning of boffins. They may have missed their opportunity in this war, but regroup somewhere and prepare, who knows what might happen in another ten years time.
No one in London had come up with this sort of doomsday scenario. We knew what they were capable of, more sophisticated air force with jet fighters, far more deadly and wide sweeping bombs, by some sort of miracle we’d stopped them this time, but the next?
“What happens now?”
“You behave, you’ll live to fight another day. You make trouble, we’ll execute you. To me, you’re just another prisoner of war, but I’m not sending you to Germany.”
Simple choice.
“Why should I believe you?”
“I am an officer of the army, who serves his country with pride and honour. You have my word; that should be enough.”
Oddly enough, I believed him.
“I assume my accommodation awaits?”
A flick of his hand, and Jackerby and two guards, escorted me out of the room.
I had thought surrender was going to be a lot more difficult than that.
It was a routine call, that a man was behaving strangely in a shopping mall. It was passed from mall security to the local police, and then, when the man became agitated and produced a weapon, they called in the next line of police, and they called us.
At the scene, I counted 12 police cars, marked and unmarked, a van, SWAT, several fire and rescue trucks, and a host of bystanders, all crowding at the barrier that was set far too close to the exit.
“You don’t mind if I take the lead on this one?” Josephine had been my partner for the last six months, at first training on the job, then started taking cases. This would be her second.
“Not at all. You’re ready.”
It was a relief, the last event was difficult, long, and both mentally and physically exhausting, but we saved the wife and two children. There was never going to be an option to save the husband. I realized too late that it had always been his aim to be killed by the police, and sadly, two trigger-happy deputies were only too happy to oblige. A bad day all around, in the end.
Logistically, the mall had been emptied in a brief window when the man was engaged in talking to the local police, except for two shop assistants. When the man realized what was happening, he had taken them both as hostages. Had he not, we would have had a quiet afternoon. Now, deputies were stationed inside the ball, cutting off an easy retreat, outside the front entrance, and one inside, but pinned down.
While we were en route, the local negotiator had been establishing communications with the perpetrator, and this had been completed when we got there.
The perpetrator had fired off seven shots, and it was estimated that he may have up to 12 remaining shots. Based on the seven shots fired, it was assumed he was a very good shot, even though he had not hit anyone.
Nor had he made any demands, other than to suggest they find a proper negotiator, which was odd because the one in situ was one of the best in the country.
Josephine had been waiting for me to finish my observations, and, when I joined her, she dialed the perpetrator’s number.
“At last.” Male, agitated, angry perhaps, but definitely on the edge. The fact that he hadn’t threatened or harmed the hostages yet told me there was a chance this might be resolved.
“My name is Josephine McTrantor, can you start by telling me your name?”
“Is Oliver Strand there?”
That was me. Surprise number one.
She looked at me, and I shrugged. It was her negotiation. “I will be handling the negotiations today, sir, but it would be helpful if I had a name?”
“He is there. I want to talk to him. I don’t want to talk to anyone else. Tell him to call me when he’s ready.”
The line went dead.
“Well, that’s a little unusual,” the local police commander muttered. He had been observing events from a distance, although he still had overall control of the situation. “Your fame precedes you, Mr. Strand.”
“What would you like to do, sir?” Josephine looked as though she would be more than happy to pass this on.
I held out my hand, and she put the phone in it. “I suppose we should find out what he wants. The trouble is, he hasn’t been making wild demands or threats, just getting our attention. It makes me think there’s something else in play.”
I dialed the number.
When he answered, he said, “This better be Oliver Strand.”
“It is,” I said, “but you have me at a disadvantage. What is your name, sir?”
“Gerald Rawlings. We have matters to discuss, and I would prefer to do that in person.”
Railings. That name had some significance, but for the moment I couldn’t think where or why.
“I will arrange safe passage to a neutral place, but it can’t be in the mall.”
“I’m not leaving here. You will come to me, not the other way around. I will exchange all if the hostages and allow you to remove everyone else, but only once you are here, with me. You have an hour to comply otherwise the hostages die.”
Once again the phone went dead.
I looked at the phone, though I’m not sure why then put it on the makeshift table. I looked at the police commander, “Well, now we know what he wants. Me.”
“You’re not going to agree to those terms, because it seems to me he has an ax to grind.”
Then it hit me. He did. I knew the name was familiar. He had what I presumed to be a brother, Axel Rawlings. Two years before, another hostage situation, one that could have been avoided, only by the time we were called I’m, two hostages were dead, and there was nowhere for Axel to go, even if he surrendered, which he didn’t.
I had made progress, but some overzealous marksman took the shot, without my permission, and a tragedy followed, compounded by the fact the officer in question got off without any charges.
Now the past had caught up to the present. I could have avoided that tragedy with a little more effort. I wasn’t going to let history repeat itself.
“He does, and I know what this is about.”
Josephine looked concerned. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“No, but if I don’t, then this is going to go down exactly the same as it did with his brother.” I took the phone and dialed the number. “Ten minutes, Gerald. Be sure you honor your part of the deal.”
To the others, “I expect you all to remain on standby, but under no circumstances is anyone to take any shots unless I say so. Is that clear?”
A nod from both.
Time enough to steel myself before going in. I gave Josephine my gun, and they fitted a mike. At least someone would be listening this time.
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 instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
Before the waterfront cleanup, the Shingle Inn was another of those places respectable people didn’t go to. And those from out of town only stayed there if everything else was taken, or they were looking for a reason to visit a hospital.
I knew this not because it was advertised on the radio or television, or it was in the newspapers, or it probably was but I never read any of them, but because several of my senior year classmates went there on a dare to sample ‘the fare’.
They learned the lesson the hard way so all the rest of us wouldn’t make the same mistake.
So, the question I had to ask myself when I reached the safety of a bus shelter about 100 yards from the bar, was the reason Nadia was staying there, or if she was not, how did she have a room key.
I was hoping she had not fallen into the ways some of the girls did, going down the path of drugs, loans they couldn’t pay, and ending being owned by some seedy man. That had happened too, and to girls, I had believed knew better.
I guess I was no judge of character, then or now.
Should I go there now and wait for her, perhaps check the place out, and the room, and see if she was staying there.
Or should I read between the lines, and consider this might be a trap of some sort, and that her brother, Vince, would turn up and ‘teach me a lesson not to meddle in their affairs’. The latter seemed more likely.
And yet it was the dumb ass stupid streak I had that was telling me to go, just to see what happened. I wasn’t looking for nor did I expect that she was offering me anything, so, giving her the benefit of the doubt, it might mean she was entertaining my suggestion of getting the map to get her off Alex’s hook.
That would then leave only one question, what did I want from her in return.
Fifteen minuted before the hour was up, I was standing in the shadows watching the Inn. In the hour since the bar, the sun had gone down, and now the Inn, shrouded in gaudy colours from broken neon lights, and a sign that made it look like a hotel in paradise, looked like it was, a den of iniquity.
The girls for hire were still there. The rooms had different lights above the door of each room that I could see, one red one green which I guessed let others know the room was free or occupied.
The room the key Nadia had given me had no lights on, so I was not sure what that meant.
Ten minutes to go, a car pulled up outside the office, and I saw Vince get out.
Illusion shattered. It was a setup, she was upset by my appearance at the bar and had called in the punishment crew. Two minutes later he came back out of the office with a briefcase, got in the car, and drove off.
Was the Inn one of the Cossatino’s establishments, or was that for protection, or picking up drugs? Or all three?
I shrugged. Time to find out what Nadia’s intentions were.
I kept to the shadows, crossed the road where it was darkest, and came upon the room from the rear fire stairs. The room was the second from the end, so I would not have to walk along the balcony very far, and risk being seen.
At the door, a look in either direction, I unlocked the door, opened it, and waited to see if there were any surprises inside waiting, nothing stirred, so I went in and closed the door behind me.
There were no surprises inside; it was just a room with two beds and a bathroom. A suitcase was beside one of the beds, and its contents spread over the bed.
The aroma of some recognisable perfume came from the bathroom, looking a mess with worn clothes on the floor in one corner, and used towels in the other.
She was staying here. One of the questions I was going to ask was why?
The process of writing is rewriting editing and more rewriting.
The other day l wrote some words. I didn’t like them. But it had laid the groundwork for a second draft.
Here it is:
Growing up I did not believe l had one of those lovable faces.
My brother, known in school as the best looking boy of his graduating class, said it was a face only a mother could love.
He was mean.
Simone, a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend, said my face had character.
She was charming and polite.
Looking now, in the mirror, l decided I’d aged gracefully.
I could truthfully say my brother had not, but that was as far as the comparison went.
My overachieving brother was the epitome of success in business, a veritable god zillionaire. Everything he touched turned to gold.
My ultra successful sister, Penelope, had married into the right family perhaps by chance, but she was also a very learned scholar whose life was divided between her chair and the university and her social life with the rich and famous.
Then there was me.
I gave up on my chance at university because l was not the scholarly sort and didn’t last long. Sadly l was the first of my family to be sent down from Oxford.
Instead, l took on a series of professions such as seasonal laborer, farmhand, factory worker, and lastly, night watchman. At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.
It would not be enough for my parents who every year didn’t say it out loud but the disappointment was always there in their expressions.
My brother in his usual blunt manner said l was a loser and would never change.
My sister was not quite so blunt. She simply said it was disappointing so much potential was going to waste. I only asked her once what she meant and lost me after the first four-syllable word.
Finally, I’d taken their comments to heart and decided l would not be going home to the family Christmas holiday reunion.
I told my boss l was available to work the night shift over the holidays, the shift no one else wanted.
It was he said the time for reflection. He hated his family as much as I did so we would be able to lament our bad luck though the long cold hours from dusk till dawn.
It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the North Pole. I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.
The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.
It was going to be a white Christmas, all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was climbing down from the driver’s seat.
She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car. “Graham?”
It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time, my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. From what I could see, she didn’t look too well.
“What do you want?”
“Help.”
My help, I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”
“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”
The instant the last word left her lips I saw her jerk back into the car, and then start sliding down to the ground. There was no mistaking the red streak following her as she fell.
She’d been shot from what could be a sniper rifle, which meant …
It still needs work but I’ve got the gist of where I want to go.
The idea is not to make a character so loathsome no one would want to read about him.
This will evolve and you can if you like come along for the ride!
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
We took the elevator down to one of the basement levels, and then along a long poorly lit passageway which in my estimation had taken us to another building.
It would not have surprised me if it had been part of a large underground complex used in the second world war, safe from the overhead bombing raids. Certainly, a lot of the fittings and paintwork looked very, very old, and I could imagine armed soldiers stationed along the length of the corridor each in his own little cutaway.
At the end, the building was a lot more modern and bright.
There was a large open space, and we headed towards one of the corners where the walls had wallpaper scenic views that if you didn’t know it was a photograph, it could almost be mistaken for a view overlooking the Thames.
It made that corner space more liveable.
There were two desks, more computers, and another girl who appeared like she had been waiting for us.
“I was told you wanted to view CCTV for the day of the recent street bombing.”
If the girl knew what I was looking for, then Monica would already have seen it and most likely had it analyzed by a team of experts. If it wasn’t for the fact I wanted to see it myself, I might have just gone to her for the official report.
“Yes.”
I sat down beside her, and Joanne remained standing, behind us.
“OK. There are seven cameras in that location, five of which were working at the time. There is one across the road from the café, and it provided a good view of the actual explosion.”
She brought it up on the screen and ran it from shortly before O’Connell passed the front. Then he came into view, walking as though he was purposefully going from one place to the next, almost stopping to look sideways into the café. A prolonged moment looking through the window told me he had seen the reporter.
We could not see the reporter from our viewpoint.
But it was clear that O’Connell had seen something else because his pace quickened.
Then the explosion happened, and he was caught up in the aftermath, as was I as I had just entered the frame, following diligently. My effort to look nonchalant, and not following O’Connell was not very good. If this was a training tape on what not to do, that was me.
Watching it was horrifying, watching myself being blown a short distance across the pavement, followed by rubble. Watching a dozen other people suffering far worse injuries were far worse.
I saw myself getting gingerly up off the ground, then seeing two men running past in the opposite direction, one of whom was McConnell. I hadn’t realized at the time it was him. Then we disappeared out of frame.
“Is there a camera farther along?”
She checked the list, picked a site, and brought up the feed for that timeframe, and just in from on the left-hand side was me, pinned to the ground by two men, and a street policeman, covered in dust walking up to us.
A discussion ensued, then the two men got in the car and drove off.
McConnell then suddenly reappeared from the right-hand side of the frame, walking past me and the policeman now on the ground.
Where had he come from? How did he manage to get back to the bomb site, if that was where he had gone?
“Can we go back to the bomb site from where we left off before?”
A few seconds before the footage recommenced.
A minute, perhaps a little longer passed as those who had survived were trying to get up, McConnell reappeared from an alley two shops along from café, almost untouched by the blast, and crossed the road.
A few seconds later another person came out of the alley and followed him.
“Can you focus on that person who came out of the alley?”
She stopped the feed, zoomed in, and then cleaned up the blurry image until it showed a woman’s face.
“Who is she?”
She brought up the comments that went with the footage. It had been already reviewed previously, as part of the investigation into the bombing.
“They couldn’t formally identify her.”
“Anyone hazard a guess?”
“No. She’s still a person of interest though.”
I gave the girl a piece of paper with a list of seven of the scientists from the laboratory. “See if you can find wives of the male scientists.”
Joanne had been intrigued the whole time we had watched the event unfolding.
“That was you caught up in the explosion, wasn’t it?”
The pictures had been grainy and indistinct, so all I looked like was an anonymous blob. Monica had obviously not told her of my involvement.
“Yes. And McConnell. I suspect McConnell did get the hand-off, but not from the journalist. The journalist was in the café with the wife of the scientist who stole the information, though it would only be speculation to assume they were together, or whether she was there to sell the information, and give it to McConnell.”
“Anna Jacovich, wife of Erich Jacovich. Microbiologist,” the girl said.
A fine day, on this trip a rarity, we decided to take the train to Windsor and see the castle.
This is a real castle, and still in one piece, unlike a lot of castles.
Were we hoping to see the Queen, no, it was highly unlikely.
But there were a lot of planes flying overhead into Heathrow. The wind must have been blowing the wrong day, and I’m sure, with one passing over every few minutes, it must annoy the Queen if she was looking for peace and quiet.
Good thing then, when it was built, it was an ideal spot, and not under the landing path. I guess it was hard to predict what would happen 500 years in the future!
I’m not sure if this was the front gate or back gate, but I was wary of any stray arrows coming out of those slits either side of the entrance.
You just never know!
An excellent lawn for croquet. This, I think, is the doorway, on the left, where dignitaries arrive by car. The private apartments are across the back.
The visitor’s apartments. Not sure who that is on the horse.
St George’s Chapel. It’s a magnificent church for a private castle. It’s been very busy the last few months with Royal weddings.
The Round Tower, or the Keep. It is the castle’s centerpiece. Below it is the gardens.
Those stairs are not for the faint-hearted, nor the Queen I suspect. But I think quite a few royal children and their friends have been up and down them a few times.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 