Tag: Fiction

The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 26

Here’s the thing…

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.

 

When I woke, I was outside the warehouse near an ambulance, and when I opened my eyes, I could see my mother, looking close to hysterical.  Further back, behind her, was Benderby himself, looking concerned.

A voice was saying, on the other side, “Just take it easy.  You’ve had a nasty knock to your head.”  I tried, instinctively, to move my hand there, but it was not responsive.

That scared me.

I tried wiggling my toes, and it felt like something was happening.  That was a good sign, wasn’t it?

Then I realised there were more people around the gurney I was lying on and a lot of chatter about a break-in and possible casualties.  There was only one, wasn’t there?  Me.

I went to say something to that effect when I stopped.  Not a good idea to say two masked assailants came to interrogate me about a map.  Firstly, my mother would be annoyed I was wasting my time on frivolous matters with Boggs, and secondly, everyone would think the blow did more damage to my sanity.

If they were calling it a break-in…

“What happened?” I asked.

I moved my head sideways further and could see the Sheriff standing next to Benderby.  The sheriff moved closer.

“We think one or two unknown persons got past the perimeter security, disabled the alarm system, and broke into the warehouse where you were.  One of the night security guards was doing his rounds when he found you on the floor in the main office.  Can you tell us what happened to you?”

One of the paramedics answered for me, “We need to stabilise the wound, check for concussion and any other side effects before you can question him.  That might have to wait until we get him to the hospital.  Now, I need everyone to stand back.”

And he meant everyone, including my mother.  I guessed they would let her come to the hospital with me, but if not, I was sure Benderby would bring her.  He actually had his arm around her, talking to her.  I didn’t think she liked him that much or was I just delirious?

I was about to tell the paramedic to tell the sheriff to go check on Boggs, but that would only lead to uncomfortable questions, and since Boggs had been so cavalier in putting the assailants onto me, I wasn’t very happy with him.  But I did wonder if they had gone back to him about my lack of co-operation, and what they might do to him.

Or, I just remembered, maybe nothing, because they thought it might be an elaborate hoax.  I was beginning to think that myself, despite Boggs giving me a copy of the map.  When I looked at it, on the surface it seemed to be the same as the one Osborne was peddling.

Whilst getting my head bandaged, I saw one of the sheriff’s men come running up to him, speaking and gesturing wildly.  I thought I heard a name, but the paramedic chose that exact moment to accidentally wrap the bandage around my ear.

Then I heard it, sharp and clear, perhaps as an answer to a question by Benderby.

“It’s Boggs.  Looks like someone gave him a severe beating and left him outside his house.”

The result of an equally forceful interrogation, or had it been a warning not to waste people’s time?

It would have to wait.  I had problems of my own.

© Charles Heath 2019

“Do you believe in g..g..ghosts…?”, a short story

Inside the old building, it was very quiet and almost cold.

Strange, perhaps, because outside the temperature was bordering on the record hottest day ever, nearly 45 degrees centigrade.

The people who’d built this building nearly a hundred years before must have known how to keep that heat at bay, using sandstone.

Back then, the sandstone would have looked very impressive, but now after many years of being closed off and left abandoned, the outside was stained by modern-day pollutants giving it a black streaky look, and inside layers of dust, easily stirred up as we walked slowly into the main foyer.

It was huge, the roof, ornate, with four huge chandelier lights hanging down, and wood paneling, giving way to a long counter with brass serving cages highlighting its former use; a bank.

In its day it would have conveyed the power and wealth so that its customers could trust the money to. Of course, that was before the global economy, online banking, and a raft of the new and different institutions all vying for that same money.

Then it was a simple choice of a few, now it was a few thousand.

“How many years had this been closed up?” I asked.

“Close to twenty, maybe twenty-five. It was supposed to be pulled down, but someone got it on the heritage list, and that put an end to it. “

Phil was the history nut. He’s spent a month looking into the building, finding construction plans, and correspondence dating back to before and during the construction.

Building methods, he said, that didn’t exist today and were far in advance of anything of its type for the period. It was the reason we were standing in the foyer now.

We were budding civil engineers, and the university had managed to organize a visit, at our own risk. The owner of the building had made sure we’d signed a health and safety waiver before granting access.

And the caretaker only took us as far as the front door. He gave us his cell number to call when we were finished. When we asked him why he didn’t want to come in with us, he didn’t say but it was clear to me he was afraid of something.

But neither of us believed in ghosts.

“You can see aspects of cathedrals in the design,” Phil said. ” You could quite easily turn this space into a church.”

“Or a very large wine cellar.” I brought a thermometer with me, and inside where we were standing it was the ideal temperature to store wine.

Behind the teller cages were four large iron doors to the vaults. They were huge, and once contained a large amount of cash, gold, and whatever else was deemed valuable.

They were all empty now, the shelves and floor had scattered pieces of bank stationery, and in a corner, several cardboard boxes, covered in even more dust.

Behind the vaults were offices, half-height with glass dividers, the desks and chairs still in place, and some with wooden filing cabinets drawers half-open.

Others had benches, and one, set in the corner, very large, and looked like the manager’s office. Unlike the other office which had linoleum tiles, this one had carpet. In a corner was a large mirror backed cabinet, with several half-empty bottles on it.

“Adds a whole new meaning to aged whiskey, don’t you think.” Phil looked at it but didn’t pick it up.

“I wonder why they left it,” I muttered. The place had the feel of having been left in a hurry, not taking everything with them.

I shivered, but it was not from the cold.

We went back to the foyer and the elevator lobby. They were fine examples of the sort of caged elevators that belonged in that time, and which there were very few working examples these days.

The elevators would have a driver, he would pull back an inner and outer door when the car arrived on a floor, and close both again when everyone was aboard.

Both cars were on the ground floor, with the shutter doors closed, and when I tried to open one, I found it had been welded shut. The other car was not sitting level with the floor and the reason for that, the cable that raised and lowered it was broken.

Restoring them would be a huge job and would not be in their original condition due to occupational health and safety issues.

The staircase wound around the elevator cage, going up to the mezzanine floor or down to the basement.

“Up or down?” He asked.

“Where do you want to go first?”

“Down. There’s supposed to be a large vault, probably where the safety deposit boxes are.”

And the restrooms I thought. Not that I was thinking of going.

As we descended the stairs it was like going down into a mine shaft, getting darker, and the rising odor of damp, and mustiness. I suspect it would have been the same back when it was first built being so close to the shoreline of the bay, not more than half a mile away.

The land this building and a number of others in a similar style, was built on was originally a swamp, and it was thought that the seawater still found its way this far inshore. But the foundations were incredibly strong and extensive which was why there’d been no shifting or cracking anywhere in the ten-story structure.

At the bottom, there was a huge arch, with built-in brass caging with two huge gates, both open. It was like the entrance to a mythical Aladdin’s cave.

There was also an indefinable aura coming from the depths of that room. That, and a movement of cold air. Curiously, the air down there was not musty but had a tinge of saltiness to it.

Was there a natural air freshener effect coming from somewhere within that vault.

“Are we going in?”

I checked my torch beam, still very bright. I pointed it into the blackness and after a minute checking, I said, “We’re here, so why not.”

We had to walk down a dozen steps then pass under through the open gates into the room. There was a second set of gates, the same as the first, about thirty feet from the first, and, in between, a number of cubicles where customers collected their boxes.

Beyond the second set of gates was a large circular reinforced safe door high enough for us to walk through.

This cavernous space stretched back quite a distance, and along the walls, rows, and rows of safety deposit boxes, some half hanging out of their housing, and a lot more stacked haphazardly on the floor.

I checked a few but they were all empty.

I shivered again. It felt like there was a presence in the room. I turned to ask Phil, but he wasn’t there. I hadn’t heard him walk away, and there were only two sets of footprints on the floor, his and mine, and both ended where I was standing.

It was as if he had disappeared into thin air.

I called out his name, and it echoed off the walls in the confined space. No answer from him.

I went further into the room, thinking he might have ventured towards the end while my back was turned, but he hadn’t. Nor had he left because there were only footprints coming in, not going out.

I turned to retrace my steps and stopped suddenly. An old man, in clothes that didn’t belong to this era, was standing where Phil had last been.

He was looking at me, but not inclined to talk.

“Hello. I didn’t see you come down.”

Seconds later the figure dissolved in front of me and there was no one but me standing in the room.

“Joe.”

Phil, from behind me. I turned and there he was large as life.

“Where were you?”

“I’ve been here all the time. Who were you just talking to?”

“There was an old man, standing just over there,” I said pointing to somewhere between Phil and the entrance.

“I didn’t see anyone. Are you sure you’re not having me on?”

“No. He’s right behind you.” The old man had reappeared.

Phil shook his head, believing I was trying to fool him.

That changed when the man touched his shoulder, and Phil shrieked.

And almost ran out of the room. It took a few minutes for him to catch his breath and steady the palpitating heart.

“Are you real?” I asked, not quite sure what to say.

“To me, I am. To anyone else, let’s just say you are the first not got faint, or run away.”

“Are you a ghost?” Phil wasn’t exactly sure what he was saying.

“Apparently I am and will be until you find out who killed me “

Ok, so what was it called, stuck in the afterlife or limbo until closure?

“When?”

“25 years ago, just before the bank closed. It’s the reason why it’s empty now.”

“And you’re saying we find the killer and you get to leave?”

“Exactly. Now shoo. Go and find him.”

We looked at each other in surprise, or more like shock, then back to the man. Only he was no longer there.

“What the…” Phil sail. “It’s time to go.”

“What about the man and finding his killer?”

“What man? We saw nothing. We’re done here.”

I shrugged. Phil turned to leave, but only managed to take three steps before the gates at the entrance closed with a loud clang.

When he crossed the room to stand in front, he tried pulling them open.

“Locked,” he said. Flat, and without panic, he added, “I guess it looks like we have a murder to solve.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

I’ve always wanted to go on a Treasure Hunt – Part 25

Here’s the thing…

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.

 

I was in the middle of a large building, sitting on a chair, a single light on above me creating a weird shadow in a circle of light.  Beyond that circle was darkness.

But I was grateful there was no blindfold or gag.

It had to be one of the buildings on Benderby’s factory site.  There were a number of older warehouses on the perimeter of the site, boarded up and in disrepair.  I had heard rumours they were going to be refurbished or demolished, no one seemed to be able to decide what to do with them.

It was deathly quiet, but if I strained hard, I thought I could hear the sound of a generator not far away.  Benderby’s had their own mini power station in case the main power grid went down, and I remembered that it was round the time for the six-monthly testing of the generators.  I was definitely inside the Benderby complex.

So, did that make my captor one of Benderby’s men?  Or was it Alex himself, trying to make a bold statement.  I didn’t think he had that sort of aggressive behaviour in him, but he was a Benderby, and they all had violent streaks somewhere in their makeup.

“Good.  You’re awake.”  The distorted voice could be either male or female.  I’d know more when I saw my assailant, but it came from beside me and I tried to look in that direction.  It was difficult because whoever tied me up did a good job.

There was also an echo, brought on by the emptiness of the building.

“What do you want?  I’m not much good to you if you’re trying to break into the main building.  I don’t have night access.”

“I’m not interested in the main building.”

“What are you interested in?”

“You.”

I had expected to hear the word treasure, not me.

“Sadly, I’m not that interesting.”

“So you say.  But maybe it might have something to do with that friend of yours, Boggs.”

“Then it’s the treasure you’re after.”

“Me, personally, no.  The people I work for, I guess.  The word is that Boggs has a treasure map that his father left him.”

This person had to be acquainted with Rico, because only he could possibly know about that particular map, that is, if Boggs had told him, or told his mother, and Rico had overheard him.

Or Boggs had told this person, under duress, that I had the map, holding it for safekeeping.  My mind started conjuring up all sorts of terrifying scenarios, all of which ended badly.

“If Rico told you that, then he was only trying to save his own skin.  He’s been trying to barter a copy of something to the Benderby’s, a map he didn’t have and hadn’t been able to get off Boggs.  If there is such a map, then Boggs has it.”

“I’m sure he told you about it, didn’t he?”

“What are best friends for, but whether I believed him is a different matter.  He told me about a map he said his father had in his possession, and I know he’s been hunting high and low for it, but if he’s found it, then he hasn’t told me about it yet.”

I was trying to sound sincere, but fear has a way of making you sound, well, afraid.

My captor took a step forward into the fringe of the light.  Dressed in black, with a mask, the body shape looked more like a woman than a man, a figure that could be disguised by the bulky outer clothing.

“Who are you?”

“That’s irrelevant.  What I will do to you if you do not tell me the truth, is.  Boggs told me you had the map.  I believe he was telling the truth.”

So, this person had interrogated Boggs.  It would not have taken much.  Boggs was not the bravest soul I knew.  At school, Boggs had always been the first to capitulate in any confrontation.

I wondered if they had searched him.  Of course, they had, and he didn’t have the map on him, which made it easier to deflect the onus to me.

But I didn’t have the map on me either.  I took the precaution of hiding it away in a place no one would find except me.  Now it was a matter of withstanding whatever this person decided was needed to extract ‘the truth’.

The problem was, I didn’t handle confrontation any better than Boggs had.

“And I’m telling you the truth when I tell you I haven’t got the map.  But I do have one of those being peddled at Osborne’s bar.  You can have that one if you like.”

I saw my captor shake their head.  Disdain, or disappointment?

Two steps further into the circle of light, and the two slaps, either side of my face, very hard.  The paid was instant and stinging, bringing tears to my eyes.  It should have brought acquiescence, but deep down defiance was building.  It surprised me.

My captor took a step back and looked down on me.  “Don’t make me have to hurt you.  All I want is the map.”

“I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

Closed fist this time, and aside from the teeth jarring, possible jaw-breaking, nose bleeding effect, I was starting to consider how long I could withstand this sort of beating.

“The map?”  Patience was running thin, anger was building.

“I can’t…”

Several punches to the ribs and stomach, taking my breath away and making it very difficult to breathe.  Pains where I’d never had pain before.  I’d had beatings at school but never like this.

Once more a step back, I could now only see the black figure through blurry eyes.

Time to plead to deaf ears, “You can beat me to within an inch of my life, but I can’t give you what I don’t have.  It’s as simple as that.”

And then I waited for the next round of punches.

A minute.  Two.

Then a new voice, out in the void, said, “He doesn’t have it.  This is a nothing but an elaborate hoax.”

Not a recognisable voice though.

A final blow rendered me unconscious.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 23

Here’s the thing…

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.

I was not sure what to make of Nadia.  It would have been better if she hadn’t said she liked me.  Perhaps she was just toying with my emotions.

Whatever she said, she was right about one thing, that it put a spoke in the works with my plan to get her the map and ease her problems with Alex.  Of course, I knew that wouldn’t be the end of her issues with Alex, he was not the sort to let a fish off the hook.

And despite her protestations to the contrary, she looked very much at ease in his company.  Had she told Alex what my plan was, and got Rico out of the way so he could set his sights on me?

Had Alex something to do with Rico’s current predicament?  Based on the information that Nadia had given me, the proximity of his boat, and the divers, what were they for?  I suspect it was not to remove fishing line from the propeller shaft.

No, this had the smell of the Benderby’s all over it.

I finished my drink and left.  Once outside, I could see there was still activity on Rico’s boat, and two men from the coroner’s office were just removing the body from the cabin.  I could see a group of white jump suit clad people waiting to board, the crime scene investigators.

I thought about going back to the boat, but there was a policeman standing on the start of the pier making sure only those with a legitimate reason were let through.

Enough excitement for one day.  It was time to go to work.  I had just enough time to get home, change, and get to the warehouse.

When I stepped into the office, Alex was waiting by my desk and that could only mean one thing, I was in some sort of trouble.  Usually, he just ignored me, unless there was something no one else wanted to do like taking inventory.

“A few minutes in my office Smidge.”

Trouble it was.  He only called me Smidge when he was annoyed with me.

I followed him in and closed the door.  His office was the same as his father’s, in the main building, only smaller.

He didn’t invite me to sit down.  He sat on the edge of his desk, facing me.  It brought back bad memories of being in the principal’s office at school.

“What were you doing talking to Nadia?”

How could he know?  Knowing Alex, he, or more to the point, his father, had spies everywhere.

“She came and sat next to me, Alex, not the other way around.  She was reminding me of how insignificant I was, and then she was asking questions about Rico.  I was there when they found a body on his boat, Alex.  You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

I watched his expression change for just a moment.  He didn’t have the same set in granite features as his father, a man who could lie to your face and stab you in the back at the same time.

“Why would I?  I was out testing Dad’s boat, and all I could see what police everywhere.  I wouldn’t put anything past Rico.”

Then I had an idea that might rattle Alex’s cage a little.

“There’s a rumour going around that Rico had a copy of a more detailed treasure map.  I mean, Boggs seems to think his father had a more detailed treasure map than the one doing the rounds, and maybe Rico had got his hands on it, and perhaps that man on the boat was a treasure hunter who was trying to buy it, or steal it, and got on the wrong side of an argument with someone, and not necessarily Rico.  To be honest, Alex, I don’t think Rico is that stupid he would murder someone on his boat.”

There was a definite interest in his eyes, one that sparked whenever I mentioned the treasure map, and it was more than a passing phase.

“You and I both know that Boggs is little more than a brainless idiot who’s always trying to make out his father wasn’t the world’s worst treasure hunter.  Those rumours are just that, Smidge, rumours.  There is no treasure and there is no map.  And it’s debatable whether Rico had anything other than a quick temper.  If I were you, I’d go looking for a better class of friend, and forget about this so-called treasure.”

Put as casually as he could, the problem was Alex could not keep the veiled threat out of his tone.  He was definitely telling me to back off.  But, then I had another thought, just to stir the pot a little more.

“Funny thing Alex, that was what Nadia told me too.  What if the Cossatino’s think the exact opposite, that the rumours are true.  She could have been sizing me up as a potential source for the map, seeing how Boggs and I are such good friends.”

Mentioning the Cossatino’s made Alex uncomfortable.  I could see it, and feel it.  The tension in the room was rising.

“You should keep well away from the Cossatino’s, and particularly Nadia.  They are very, very dangerous people.  If she’s talking to you, then I’d been running away as fast as I could.”

“Because you’re interested in her?”

“Are you, I mean seriously Smidge, what would she see in you?”

That, of course, was a good question, and from his perspective, quite a valid point.  I had nothing that he knew of to offer.

“Everyone has something someone else wants, Alex.  I’ll admit, at the moment, I don’t have anything to offer a woman like that, and she is way above my pay grade, but if you like, I’ll try to find out what it is she does want.  I work here, so perhaps she thinks I might be able to get some dirt on you unless you are good friends and she’s just trying to make my life more miserable than it already is.”

Yes, I could see the wheels turning, the Alex that didn’t trust anyone, no matter who they were.

“If she tries, you tell me.”

“Of course.  Now I’d better get back to work.  Your dad is supposed to be coming over for an inspection.”

He waved his hand, indicating I was dismissed.

Consider the cat thrown among the pigeons.

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

“The Price of Fame”, A Short Story

I looked at the invitation, a feeling of dread coming over me.  It was not entirely unexpected but like a great many things that had suddenly come into my life, it caused equal measures of fear and excitement.

The gold edging and the perfect script displaying my name in the exact centre of the envelope made it almost unique.  Very few people ever received such an invitation.

I held it in my hand for a longer than necessary, then put it down on the desk carefully, as if it would explode if I dropped it.

My first instinct, driven by fear, was not to accept.

But, fear or not, there was no question of me not attending.  Circumstances had painted me into a corner; I’d agreed to go a long time ago when I thought there was no chance it would come to pass.

Way back then, I had been compared to the aspiring painter in an attic having to die before I made any sort of impression.  In those days people thought it amusing.  I thought it was amusing.  Kirsty, in particular, had thought it was as impossible as I had.

Now it was not amusing.  Not even remotely.

 

My life was once quiet, peaceful, sedate, even boring.  That didn’t mean I lacked imagination, it was just not out on display for everyone to see.  Inspired by reading endless books, I had the capacity to transport myself into another world, divorced from reality, where my boring existence became whatever I wanted it to be.

It was also instrumental in bringing Kirsty into my life.  In reality, I thought she’d never take a second look at me, let alone a first.  So I pretended to be someone else.  Original, witty, charming, underneath more scared than I’d ever known.

And yet she knew, she’d always known and didn’t care.

As we spent more time together, she discovered I liked to write, not finish anything, just start, write a hundred pages, then lose interest.  Like everything I did.  Start, and never finish.

Why not?  It would never be published.  It would never succeed.

So she bribed me.  If I didn’t finish my first book and send it away, I couldn’t marry her.  It didn’t matter if it was rejected, all I had to do was finish a book, and send it.

The thought of marrying her had not entered my mind, because I hadn’t thought she would.  Incentive enough, I picked out one of the unfinished manuscripts and humoured her.  She read bits of it, not saying a word.  Sometimes she’d put a note or two on the manuscript, her equivalent to sweet nothings, and with it I gained inner confidence in my own ability, not only to write but in many other aspects of my life.

When it was finished, it was Kirsty who sent it off.  She read it, packaged it, addressed it, and sent it before I had a chance to change her mind.  Once gone, I heaved a huge sigh of relief.  It was done. That was, as far as I was concerned, the end of it.

 

It was not possible that one letter could change a person’s life so dramatically.  I came home to the all-knowing smile, and mischievous whimsicality that had always suggested trouble.

Trouble indeed!

My book was accepted.  With a cheque called an advance.  For more money than I knew what to do with.

This was followed not long after by publication.  And a dramatic change to my life, one I didn’t want.  To become a public person, to face an enormous number of people, people I didn’t know.

I went back to being scared.

 

Kirsty smiled at me and told me how wonderful I looked in my monkey suit.  Why couldn’t I go in jeans and a dress shirt?  All the best actors in Hollywood did it.

“This is not Hollywood.  You’re not an actor.”  It was a simple, practical, answer.

The hell I wasn’t.  I could act sick, dying, fake a heart attack, anything.  “What am I going to say?”

“You could talk about books.”  Quiet, efficient, oozing the confidence I didn’t feel.

She didn’t fuss.  She took it in her stride.  She dressed in her usual simple elegance, in a manner that made me love to be seen with her.  I couldn’t tie my tie, so she did it for me.  She straightened my jacket because I couldn’t do that either.  Nerves.  Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.  Or was that a reference to wives, or mistresses, or something else?

The palms of my hands were sweating.  Meatball hands, I thought, the sort of palms that betrayed the pretenders.  Me, I was the pretender.  My neck felt too large for the shirt.  Beads of sweat formed on my brow.  Where was a sponge when you needed one?

“I can’t do this.”

“You can.”

We hadn’t even left the hotel yet.

“How long before the execution.”

She looked at me with her whimsical smile.  “Long enough for me to give you a hard time.”

 

I lost count of the number of times I had to go to the bathroom, for one thing, or another.  Nerves I said.  Perhaps a dozen Valium or something similar.  Did I have any?  Had she hidden them?  Why did she keep smiling?

In the car, I looked at my watch at least a dozen times.  I couldn’t breathe.  It was too hot, too cold.  She held my hand, and it served best to stop the trembling that had set in.  Why did I agree to this?  Why?

We were greeted by the Events Manager, who was polite and genuinely interested.  He took us inside where he introduced the interviewer, another woman who oozed confidence and charm, who went over the format and generally tried to set me at ease.

I didn’t let Kirsty’s hand go.  Not yet.  She was my lifeline, the umbilical cord.  When it was severed, I knew I was going to die.

Bathroom?  Where was the bathroom?  Hell, five minutes to go, and I felt like passing out.  No, Kirsty couldn’t come in.  Comb my hair.  Straighten my tie, no it was straight.  Maybe I could hide in here?  I looked around.  No, maybe not.

Time.

The cue man was standing beside me, hand gently on my back.  He knew the score.  He knew I would turn and run the first chance I got.  Kirsty was on the other side, smiling.  Did she know too?

Then the announcement, my cue to walk on.

The gentle shove, the bright lights, the deafening applause, the seemingly endless walk to the chair, dear God, would I make it without tripping over?

How many times had I made this trip?  I stood, facing the audience, waved, then sat.  It was the fifteenth.  You’d think I’d learned by now.

There was nothing to it.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

 

Searching for locations: Chateau Tongariro, New Zealand

This chateau was built in 1929 and was originally intended as a hostel for hikers.

It is now near the  Whakapapa skifield on the slopes of Mount Ruapehu and within  the boundary of the Tongariro National Park

chateautongoriro

We had afternoon tea in the lounge several times, and it is very pleasant in winter with the log fires burning.

togariro2

The interior is still as ornate as it had been in the 1930s.  The chairs are very comfortable, and the atmosphere pleasant.

Mount Ngauruhoe can be seen through the window of the lounge.  This was used a backdrop in the filming of Lord of the Rings.

mount-nz

But…

This place is the ideal setting for a murder, and I can see a story being written very much in the mold of Agatha Christie, with a couple of amateur sleuths who are staying there, trying to solve the crime.

Given the sort of shows being produced in New Zealand currently, for Acorn and other streaming services, this could be turned into a very pleasant two hour diversion with some very unique New Zealand, and foreign, characters.

Or just send the Brokenwood detective crew there!

Monday came and went, and now it’s Thursday

I had so many things planned, those little bits and pieces that seem to get away from you.

It’s now Wednesday night and I have only just come back to this post to write some more or maybe finish it, but that should you some idea of how easy the simple things can get away from me.

To fill in the gaps in the story, I started to make a list of those bits and pieces, and that was the first mistake.

I frightened myself.

Tuesday disappeared in writing down what was on my writing slate. For instance,

Episodes 11 to 15 of the murder story, because my characters are having a fight in my head

Episode seventy something of the treasure hunt, which is getting very near the end – and it was a huge surprise, even to me

Episode forty sometghing of the Castello di Brolio story, where our defecting German rocket scientist has lost his rescuers, and the dogs are on the scent

The first episode of another WW2 story – one that is where our team is parachuting behind enemy lines, in a very cold environment. well it is the middle of winter…

Writing instead of insomnia  is actually giving me insomnia

Episodes 140 through 150 of Being Inspired, Maybe – Volume 3. This is a series of photographs, and the story inspired by them.

Just about finished editing Volume 2, and I’m about to publish Volume 1.

Episode 30 through 35 of PI Walthenson’s second case, a title had been created by the jury’s still out whether it’ll be adopted, and there’s an interesting dynamic developing between the son and the mother, a woman whom he is discovering to be nothing like the one he thought he knew.

And, don’t get me started on where I am with Strangers We’ve Become, because the rewrite seems to have stalled at page 360ish. The book is done but rereading told me, or the cat did far more emphatically, there a few gaps.  This needs to get done, and I need to stick the courage to the sticking point.

Wednesday arrived and I was looking at the list wondering what I was going to do next and realized that I’d been putting off writing the next few posts on the traveling blog which desperately need to be done.

So…

Traveling blog times two, and now it’s Thursday.

Damn, where did the week go?

The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 24

Here’s the thing…

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.

 

I was in the middle of a large building, sitting on a chair, a single light on above me creating a weird shadow in a circle of light.  Beyond that circle was darkness.

But I was grateful there was no blindfold or gag.

It had to be one of the buildings on Benderby’s factory site.  There were a number of older warehouses on the perimeter of the site, boarded up and in disrepair.  I had heard rumours they were going to be refurbished or demolished, no one seemed to be able to decide what to do with them.

It was deathly quiet, but if I strained hard, I thought I could hear the sound of a generator not far away.  Benderby’s had their own mini power station in case the main power grid went down, and I remembered that it was round the time for the six-monthly testing of the generators.  I was definitely inside the Benderby complex.

So, did that make my captor one of Benderby’s men?  Or was it Alex himself, trying to make a bold statement.  I didn’t think he had that sort of aggressive behaviour in him, but he was a Benderby, and they all had violent streaks somewhere in their makeup.

“Good.  You’re awake.”  The distorted voice could be either male or female.  I’d know more when I saw my assailant, bit it came from beside me and I tried to look in that direction.  It was difficult because whoever tied me up did a good job.

There was also an echo, brought on by the emptiness of the building.

“What do you want?  I’m not much good to you if you’re trying to break into the main building.  I don’t have night access.”

“I’m not interested in the main building.”

“What are you interested in?”

“You.”

I had expected to hear the word treasure, not me.

“Sadly, I’m not that interesting.”

“So you say.  But maybe it might have something to do with that friend of yours, Boggs.”

“Then it’s the treasure you’re after.”

“Me, personally, no.  The people I work for, I guess.  The word is that Boggs has a treasure map that his father left him.”

This person had to be acquainted with Rico, because only he could possibly know about that particular map, that is, if Boggs had told him, or told his mother, and Rico had overheard him.

Or Boggs had told this person, under duress, that I had the map, holding it for safekeeping.  My mind started conjuring up all sorts of terrifying scenarios, all of which ended badly.

“If Rico told you that, then he was only trying to save his own skin.  He’s been trying to barter a copy of something to the Benderby’s, a map he didn’t have and hadn’t been able to get off Boggs.  If there is such a map, then Boggs has it.”

“I’m sure he told you about it, didn’t he?”

“What are best friends for, but whether I believed him is a different matter.  He told me about a map his said his father had in his possession, and I know he’s been hunting high and low for it, but if he’s found it, then he hasn’t told me about it yet.”

I was trying to sound sincere, but fear has a way of making you sound, well, afraid.

My captor took a step forward into the fringe of the light.  Dressed in black, with a mask, the body shape looked more like a woman than a man, a figure that could be disguised by the bulky outer clothing.

“Who are you?”

“That’s irrelevant.  What I will do to you if you do not tell me the truth, is.  Boggs told me you had the map.  I believe he was telling the truth.”

So, this person had interrogated Boggs.  It would not have taken much.  Boggs was not the bravest soul I knew.  At school, Boggs had always been the first to capitulate in any confrontation.

I wondered if they had searched him.  Of course they had, and he didn’t have the map on him, which made it easier to deflect the onus to me.

But I didn’t have the map on me either.  I took the precaution of hiding it away in a place no one would find except me.  Now it was a matter of withstanding whatever this person decided was needed to extract ‘the truth’.

The problem was, I didn’t handle confrontation any better than Boggs had.

“And I’m telling you the truth when I tell you I haven’t got the map.  But I do have one of those being peddled at Osborne’s bar.  You can have that one if you like.”

I saw my captor shake their head.  Disdain, or disappointment?

Two steps further into the circle of light, and the two slaps, either side of my face, very hard.  The paid was instant and stinging, bringing tears to my eyes.  It should have brought acquiescence, but deep down defiance was building.  It surprised me.

My captor took a step back and looked down on me.  “Don’t make me have to hurt you.  All I want is the map.”

“I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

Closed fist this time, and aside from the teeth jarring, possible jaw-breaking, nose bleeding effect, I was starting to consider how long I could withstand this sort of beating.

“The map?”  Patience was running thin, anger was building.

“I can’t…”

Several punches to the ribs and stomach, taking my breath away and making it very difficult to breathe.  Pains where I’d never had pain before.  I’d had beatings at school but never like this.

Once more a step back, I could now only see the black figure through blurry eyes.

Time to plead to deaf ears, “You can beat me to within an inch of my life, but I can’t give you what I don’t have.  It’s as simple as that.”

And then I waited for the next round of punches.

A minute.  Two.

Then a new voice, out in the void, said, “He doesn’t have it.  This is a nothing but an elaborate hoax.”

Not a recognisable voice though.

A final blow rendered me unconscious.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

In a word: High or is it hie

When the boss says jump, the question is usually ‘how high’.

Not that it’s possible for many of us with a challenging centre of gravity to get much elevation.

High generally means height, how far something rises above ground level, is above our heads.

That plane flies very high in the sky.

Then there’s another meaning, increased intensity, such as a high temperature, a high fever, but my favourite is, a high dudgeon.

I’m still to get a definition on what a dudgeon is.

We have secondary schools here that we call high schools. Make of that what you will

And in the idiomatic world, flying high means we are very happy, and when were left high and dry then not so much. Unless it related to a ship, in which case a lot of people would be unhappy.

We can use high just about everywhere, high hopes, high ceilings, feelings that run high, a high chair for toddlers of course, high speed which may cause s crash and land you in a high security prison.

This is not to be confused with just plain hi which is a universal greeting.

But there is another, hie, which has a more obscure meaning, to hasten or go quickly.

Searching for locations: O’Reilly’s guesthouse

Sometimes it’s not about the destination, but getting there, because sometimes the destination is not what you were expecting.

I have had some experience it staying in iconic guest houses, both here and overseas, and I guess those stays spoiled this one. I have a preference for old, creaky but warm and inviting old mansions mostly built around the early 1900s.

That was what I was expecting this time too, given what I’d read.

The road, from the turn-off from the Greenlee cottages, is narrow, winding, and not one you can go faster than 40ks.  Buses and trucks are restricted to 20kph, but as you get further into the mountains, it’s difficult to see how they can get along the road at all.

It’s difficult enough in a mid-size SUV.

But, in all fairness, these are the sort of roads that nearly always lead to that mountaintop retreat.

At times the road is so narrow that you wonder how trucks and buses could get between the trees, because the close you get to the guest house, the narrower the road. And, at times, the car has to scrape by the overhanging branches, especially when having to make way for oncoming traffic.

The road is definitely not wide enough for two cars, and there are a lot of points where you can pull off to the side to let them pass.

It is tarred, but being in the middle of a dense tropical forest, it’s pitted and rutted, and very uneven.  There is not one moment where can relax, or take your eyes off the road, as some of us do, to take in the surrounding scenery.

But, whilst most of it looks the same, it’s certainly not boring, and every now and then you break out of the darkness into a clearing. And, sometimes a house.

Yes, people do live on the side of a mountain, and, just to be clear, their view, every morning, from the back verandah must be spectacular

At the end of the three-quarters of an hour drive, we emerge onto a mountain top, and what is O’Reilly’s guest house, though, after a more investigative look around, the guests stay in motel-like rooms.

There is an old wooden structure, but if this is the original guest house, it doesn’t look like people stay there anymore.

But, it’s not the accommodation the people come here for, it’s the endless bush walks.  Of course, there’s other stuff there, but it’s more about communing with nature, discovering the wildlife, and taking in the fresh country air.