Tag: Fiction

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes in is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the news reader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, murder of woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at that I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until an another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peep hole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff had identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near death experience, I thought I saw my mother, and thinking what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 13

It’s still a battle of wits, but our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because the enemy if it is the enemy, doesn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

If at first, you don’t succeed, try a few threats, or leverage.

Or just get rid of the problem

 

Back in my cell, delivered more forcibly than when they escorted me to the interrogation room, I had time to consider his words.

A tactic, I told myself.  Classic divide and conquer.

It was obvious that he wanted me to corroborate his suspicion that Breeman had sent the helicopter out to find his operation.  Did it sound like something she would do or any other commanding officer whose jurisdiction this operation fell under?

Why hadn’t they told her?  If t was military and being run by our side, why would they keep it secret from their own people, especially when something like what just happened, could happen?

It didn’t make sense.

Unless, of course, it was the CIA.  They seemed to be a law unto themselves, except in this case they needed something to incriminate her with in order to have her removed, and replaced with a more sympathetic commanding officer.

It was all too much for a gunnery sergeant like me to understand.

At least I didn’t know anything so I couldn’t tell them anything.  A little solace perhaps, but the trouble was, they’d never believe me.

I sighed.  Perhaps some sleep before they returned for the next round.

They came in the middle of the night.  Or day, I had no idea what it was outside because there were no windows in my cave cell.

They had no intention of being polite, I was dragged up by the scruff of the next and tossed in the direction of the door.  When I stumbled, still half asleep and unable to see properly, one of the guards kicked me and said he would do it again if I didn’t get up.

He did anyway because I took too long.

My ribs were hurting when I breathed, as I staggered in front of them, one behind me giving me a shove every two or three steps, perhaps hoping I’d stumble again so he could kick me.

At the interrogation room, a different one this time, he shoved me in and shut the door.  I didn’t hear a key in the lock, so perhaps they were hoping I’d try to escape.

There was only one chair in the room, and I sat in it.  I couldn’t sit up straight because it hurt, so I had to slump over.

A half hour later a man and a woman, both with white coats like a doctor would wear, came in.  Nothing was said.  The man took up a position behind me, then held me so I couldn’t move.

The woman then joined him, produced as a syringe, and jabbed it in my neck.

The man let me go, and a few seconds later I fell off the chair onto the floor hitting my head in the process, and a few more after that, it was lights out.

At least there was no more pain.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Writing about writing a book – Day 14 starts

Colonel Davenport, the evil mastermind as I like to think of him, but in reality, he was a tortured soul on a number of fronts.

I’d like to say what happened to him was not his fault, but to a certain extent, people can go one way or the other, choose between right and wrong, choose the easy path or the hard path, and most of all, never take advantage of a situation for personal gain.

Most people.

But try having a reputation to live up to, and the expectations of everyone put on your shoulders, and you knew you would never be able to carry the load?

That was Archibald Davenport, first son of General Horace Davenport, the great, great, great, so many times grandson of the fearless and famous Walter Davenport, who was with General Grant, serving with honor and valor in the Civil War.

No such weight was ever passed on to his younger brother, Leslie, so, free to live his own life, and in doing so, far surpassing his older brother in respect and accomplishment.

Archibald Davenport managed to miss the Second World War, much to the disappointment of his father, kept to the fringes of the Korean War, but unluckily was in the wrong place at the wrong time when serving officers were sought to go over as advisors to the Vietnamese in the years before the conflict escalated.

Or, speaking plainly, his commander wanted to move the problem on by obtaining a promotion to Major and recommending him for service in Vietnam.  It was either that or dishonorable discharge and a few years in the stockade.

Knowing how it would affect his father, he took the commission.

But for an operator like Davenport, a man who could seek out and at the same time have trouble finding him, saw the conflict as a means to an end, and has latched onto an operative that he assumed was working covertly with the CIA, realized the potential for a man of his talents.

It didn’t take long before he was unofficially attached to the CIA, his army commander willingly signing the orders to ‘get rid of what will become a major (pardon the pun) problem’.  So began the empire, arms, drugs, information, whatever was needed by whoever had the wherewithal, he was the man to see.

How did Bill find himself under Davenport’s command?

You’ll have to wait and see.

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 11

It’s still a battle of wits, but our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because the enemy if it is the enemy, doesn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Old friends, new tricks.

Genial tone, trying to win my confidence.  I wasn’t going to ask, but wait for an explanation.  Asking would be like leaving the door ajar.

He sat after pulling the chair closer to the table and put his clasped hands on the table.

“This is a secret military operation known only to very few, apart from the team that is in situ.  Commander Breeman has been, against very specific direct orders, trying to find out what we are doing here.”  He stopped.

I think this was the moment I was supposed to ask, what was going on here.

If it was secret, then I didn’t want to know, and he was not going to tell me anyway.

I just looked attentive.

“You have been caught up in a jurisdictional issue.  It’s not hard to assume that you were sent here, with the pilot of that helicopter, to do an off the book search for this camp.  That, in itself, would be impossible, but the flyover coincided with a provedore run.  Just plain bad luck.”

For Joe, the pilot, it was.  Or not, if he had been given specific verbal orders, making it out to be a training run.  And the odds of me being on board at the same time, given my association with Breeman?

One coincidence too many.

And if it was as the man before had said, they knew everything, then Bamfield would know of my connection to her.

“You said you had no idea where you were when you were shot down?”

Time, I guess, to speak.  “No, I didn’t.  The desert looks all the same to me.”

“You will forgive me if I say I find that hard to believe.  I know you are better than that, Alan.  Who sent you out here?”

“I was along for the ride.  Standard operating procedure.  A helo goes up, someone like me has to be on board in case of trouble.  More conventional trouble than rockets.”

“But you specifically?”

“I don’t make the rosters, I just go where they tell me.”

Bamfield frowned.  I think he’d finally noticed I was not addressing him as ‘sir’.  Until I knew what side he was on, I considered myself a prisoner of war.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Writing about writing a book – Day 13 extra

There’s nothing worse than an interrogation by children, particularly when they are brutally honest.  To make matters worse, I had two inquisitors, and it was clear they had spent some time before getting in the car to organize a coordinated plan of attack.

But, first, a little history.

Back in happier times, in other words before the eventual separation and divorce, we were known as nanna and poppy. I was, most of the time, referred to as grumpy poppy, and the two, girls adored their nanna.

She always had a way with children, and, it was also the case, with our own two sons.  They preferred her to me, for obvious reasons, I had to be bad cop all the time.

When we separated, and this was an eventuality that we both agreed on, and it was, I thought, quite amicable.  There was no underlying reason, like one or other of us cheating, but that we had, over time, simply drifted apart because we had separate ideas about life.

Since I was the nonpreferred grandparent, I decided to see less of the children and allow them more time to be with their nanna.  Sometimes we appeared together, like at birthdays and Christmas, but normally I kept my distance.

No one seemed to complain about my absences, least of all my own children, which spoke volumes, to me, about what they thought of me.

Now, out of the blue, I get this call to pick up my granddaughters from school. It was not as if their nanna was as so overloaded with things to so, so it seemed to me it was some sinister plot, but to what end, I could hardly imagine.

I’d find out soon enough.

The girls were waiting in the drop zone and got in the car.  It didn’t phase them that it was me, and I had thought they may have a problem since I was in a different car. But they seemed to know what to look for.

There was silence until we exited the school grounds, they went to a church primary school and perhaps they didn’t want to risk God’s judgment on me.

The older child fired the first salvo, “Nanna says you have a girlfriend.”

Ok, not the first question I was expecting.

Then the younger girl followed up with the second salvo, “is she going to become our new nanna?”

To them, these were serious questions.  But had they been inspired by their current nanna, and they were to get answers.  She’d know I wouldn’t lie to them.

I stopped at the traffic lights.

“If your nanna saw me with a friend having lunch the other day, then it’s quite possible it may have looked like that, but, no, I don’t have a girlfriend, and for what it’s worth, I’m not ready to embark on that journey again for a while.  As for the other question, there will never be a new or any other sort of nanna other than the one you have already.”

Speech timed to perfection.  The lights changed to green.

I let that sink in and then after a minute asked a question of my own.  “How come your nanna is not picking you up today?”

I notice the two give each other a look and wonder how young does a child have to be to understand what a lie is or be able to keep a secret.

“We were told that you would be collecting us today, that’s all.”

A question then for whoever is at home when I drop them off.

I notice a rather prolonged look from the younger girl, perhaps searching for a truth of her own in my expression, or that she was trying to read my thoughts.  Whatever she saw, she asked, “Do you still go to work?”

“In a manner of speaking.  I work for myself these days.”

“With computers?”

“Not anymore.  I thought I might try writing a novel.  Before, there never seemed to be enough time in a day to do anything, but now things are a little easier.”

Then the older girl chimed in, “Nanna says that it’s a bit late for you to become a writer.”

Yes, I can see it now, the rest of the family sitting around the dinner table saying that I’d finally lost my marbles doing what I always wanted to rather than what I had to.

And my ex had always said I would be wasting my time from the very first time I’d mentioned it to her.  So much for confiding your hopes and dreams in your so-called lifelong partner who is supposed to support you.  I know I had supported her through various career changes, no matter what the consequences.

“What do you think I should do?”

It would be interesting to get their perspective.

“If you don’t have a real job, how do you pay the bills?”

A practical question.  Just the sort my ex would have posed if she was here.

“You’d be surprised what you can do when you put your mind to it.  I manage.”

There was no doubt a dozen other questions to be asked, but the capacity for a child to remember was about three or four.  And then they had to remember my answers so they could relay them.

Hopefully, the interrogation was over.

The cinema of my dreams – I wonder what it was like in the wild west – Part 3

Because despite all the self warnings, and trepidation…

…I crossed that bridge and found this:

Yes, we went back in time, and when I pulled over, and got out of the car the first thing that crossed my mind, I was either in an old gold mining town, or it was a mid way settlement to somewhere else.

Of course, it was deserted.

So, next thought was that this was a ghost town. But, the fact it’s late in the afternoon and everything looks as though it’s locked up, this might also quite easily be a tourist attraction, done for the day.

But, it was off the main road, down a track that led to what I thought might have been a settlement.

I go for a walk and look at some of the buildings. They have been kept in good order, but are showing signs of age, and no sign of modernization.

Does this mean I’ve gone back in time?

“Hey?”

I hear a voice behind me, that of a man, and turn around.

He’s about 80 wearing well-worn clothes and a raggedy beard, wrinkled eyes, and leathery skin. A miner? A cowboy? Someone who lived here, like perhaps the last remaining resident.

“Who are you?” he asks stopping about 20 feet away. He looks annoyed, or maybe that was his perpetual angry face.

“A visitor?”

“From?”

“Back east.”

A knowing look crosses his face. “City slicker eh?”

Language right out of an old Hollywood western. Any minute now I might see John Wayne or a troop of Union soldiers.

“Perhaps.” I had no idea why I used the expression, back east.

“Then you’d better go back. No place for the likes of people like you. The last fellow that came from the city got run out of town.”

Friendly town then. A sideways glance showed movement, and another man alongside one of the buildings, with a rifle, pointed straight at me.

“I guess I’m not welcome. I’m leaving. You might tell that to the man with the gun on me.”

“He knows.”

I turned and walked slowly and steadily back to where I thought I left the car. Instead, there was a saddled horse tied to a fence.

That’s when I had a very bad feeling…

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 10

It’s still a battle of wits, but our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because the enemy if it is the enemy, doesn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Nor does it help when his old mentor walks through the door.

 

I don’t like surprises.  This dislike had started with a surprise birthday party about 10 years ago and since then I’ve assiduously tried to avoid them.

Of course, there are also surprises you have no control over, and I liked them even less.

Bluff and bravado would only carry me so far.  These people whoever they were would not accept that I knew nothing about what had just happened.

Which I didn’t.

It was not the A interrogation team with a chest full of torture tools and dressed in hazmat suits, but when the harbinger of my fate walked into the room, it was something a lot scarier.

A man I knew well or thought I did until he walked in the door, I had the utmost respected for.

Colonel Bamfield.  My first Commanding Officer, the man who cut me some slack, and made me into a soldier.

Now, all I had was questions, but I was on the wrong side of the table.

The first, what the hell was going on here?

My first inclination was to stand and salute a superior officer, but he was not wearing the uniform, not the proper uniform I was used to seeing him in.  My second inclination was to ask him what he was doing in that room with me, but I didn’t.

Speak when spoken to, and don’t volunteer information.

He too tried the silent treatment, or maybe it was that he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

Then, still standing behind the table, looking down on me, he said, “That was some jump you made from a moving helicopter.”  Was there a touch of admiration in his tone?

“Life or death.  Anyone one else is that situation would do the same.”

“Less than you’d think.”

Establishing camaraderie.  Or trying to.  I waited for the next question.

It wasn’t a question but a statement, “We have a problem Alan, and it’s not just with you.”

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Is it a problem to get lost in your make-believe world for a while?

It seems that we can be completely focussed on a single task to the detriment of all else, and, when that task is complete, suddenly we feel totally drained.

That’s how I feel right now.

The end of one year, and soon the start of another…

All I have to do is get past the publication of my next two books, take a few days off, and then I should be invigorated.  Perhaps COVID will have something to do with it because it will be more of the same, rather than a brave new world, we will be counteracting new surges and variations with resultant isolations, so it will be more of a case of head down, tail up, with nowhere to go, no travel to plan, and not able to go anywhere other than the shops, the doctor or the chemist.

For computer programmers who never leave their semi darkened lair, ordering in pizza and Coke, it must have been a Godsend.

Given that I prefer to be at home, working on any number of stories, it usually is for me.

But, have I been working too hard, and it’s finally got to me.  I mean, you can only write so much before the brain starts to fry?

But, at the very least. I have been working on two novels that needed to be completed, not that they are exactly there yet, and other that NaNoWriMo kicked along, and I’m still writing a few pages a night, and two others that are now ready for the final edit.

This has all happened to the detriment of my episodic stories, which have lain idle since October, and then I picked up one, and wrote two or three more episodes, just to keep it ticking over.  The other two still have five spare to publish soon.

And I know it might show signs of panic but April is coming rapidly into focus, and there will be the A to Z Challenge, 26 more stories in 30 days.  I’d like to get a head start on this, but time….

Something else that pleases me, and is entirely unexpected, is that I have sold a number of copies of my books in the last month or so.  I know I’m not about to be vying for the top of the bestseller list, but it’s satisfying.

The cinema of my dreams – I wonder what it was like in the wild west – Part 2

I guess I have seen too many westerns, film fodder my parents liked to watch on TV, and especially with John Wayne, and later on Clint Eastwood.

In this day and age there are only scant reminders of a time that may have bristled with excitement, or so dangerous you would be lucky to survive if you got on the wrong side of a gunslinger.

But, for argument’s sake, what if there was a way to actually step back in time?

So, here’s the start of a story…

…

There are hundreds of places in the midwest, where you could see miles of plains, hills, winding rivers, and sleepy towns. Places with old-fashioned motels and hotels, general stores, farmers’ supplies, and everything else in between.

These are the towns where the young, fresh out of school and full of ideas and enthusiasm get on the bus to go to the big cities, promising to return.

Some do, some don’t.

For others who live in the cities, driving through the midwest would be a welcome change from the clogged highways, freeways, turnpikes, and the 14 hour days. Where a person could wind back the hectic to the sedate, and perhaps for a while, to the mundane. It was a dream to cling to, something that just barely kept a man sane in an insane world. And a dream that was about to become a reality.

Jack was on the verge of burnout, having spent the last year doing 80 hour weeks, gunning for the manager’s role that he had been promised, if he put in the time. That he had, and then some.

But the man who made the promise died suddenly, and it all came to naught, passed over by the replacement boss who had his own selection for the role, younger, better educated, but utterly no experience.

It was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.

The next day he resigned, spoke not one word to anyone after handing in his keycard and resignation letter, and left. Perhaps the only consolation, no one else knew the complex plant operation systems, and when it broke down, as it always did, there was no one who could fix it.

There was one more ceremonial job he had to do before getting in his car, and that was to toss his cell phone in the bin. That done, the drive home took 20 minutes instead of the usual two hours, he threw what he needed into an overnight bag, and after taking a 30-second look back in the place he had called home for 25 years, shrugged, and closed the door.

There would be no coming back.

…

Of course, there were moments where the resolve was tested, those tendrils of loyalty to a company he had worked at for a long time, and who had treated him reasonably well.

The first night, in a quaint motel, was the hardest. Alone with his thoughts, without anyone to talk to, not that there were many back home, the idea of striking out on his own seemed drastic, even silly.

The second night, spent at a surprisingly rural town, he had supper in a diner that had few customers and a waitress his own age who was a talker. She recommended a guest house, one she stayed at herself, a runaway like he was, but for more desperate reasons, and liking the company stayed for a week.

It was difficult to move on, but he did.

Which was why, five days later, in another small town by a river, he had reached the bridge.

The road went in two directions. West or north. North crossed the river, and the minor roads wound their way through hills and dales to Canada. West headed towards San Francisco, and he had no desire to visit another large city. Not for a while.

Over the bridge it was.

After a night in another interesting motel that had a small room that passed as a museum, and related the history of the area, a story in itself.

….

© Charles Heath 2022

In a word: Bar

There’s more than one way … er, perhaps it’s better to say, there are many ways to use the word bar, which is not bad for a three letter word.

 

Bar, the one you associate with drinks, in hotels, restaurants and we’ll, just bars.

Probably the best type of bar you might find me in is a Sports Bar, where you can snack on buffalo wings a tall glass of beer and watch with ice hockey in winter or baseball in summer.

It’s one I use from time to time when asked, what will we do, and the reply is often let’s go to a bar.  The best bars are underground, dark and dingy, full of eclectic people, with a band playing almost passable music or better still jazz

 

Bar, as in the legal variety

There are so many legal references to using bar, that the one that I am most familiar with is being admitted to the bar which means that you can now practice law.

Raising the bar, if that’s possible, where the bar is that imaginary level which offers sinks very low.  When someone says they’re going to try and raise the bar, you may be assured there will be a long battle ahead, simply because people generally find it hard to change.

 

Bar, as in we are not going to let you in here.  Yes, this is the irksome one where you find yourself, often for reasons unknown, barred from somewhere or something.  This may also be referred to by saying everyone may enter bar you.  

 

Bar, as in an iron bar, the sort that is sometimes used as a blunt force object by villains to remind the victim they owe any one of a loan shark, bookie or the mafia.  God help you if it is all three.

There are also iron bars of a different sort, those that are set in concrete outside a window most likely in a prison where the objective is to prevent escape.

It gives rise to an old expression, that person should be behind bars.

 

Then there is just a bar, such as a bar of gold, which I’m sure we’d all like to have stashed away, but not necessarily in the mattress, or the more common variety, a chocolate bar, which I have one now.  What’s your favorite?

 

And just to add to the list of meanings you can always refer to sashes or stripes as bars.

Confused?  Well, there’s still music, and the bane of yachtsmen, sand bars but I think we’ll leave it there.

Welcome to the English language