Tag: Reading

That helicopter story that kept me awake – Episode 35

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 of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

 

04:00 in Africa was an interesting time of the morning, especially after a few hours of intense rain during the night.  I could see what the Colonel meant if it had been raining because outside the barracks it was very wet.

Whilst the others appeared to get some sleep, in a much better environment than the back of an aircraft, I lay awake, at first waiting for the sound of the aircraft leaving, and then listening to the rain that started an hour or so later, followed by the sounds that came afterward.  It was never silent, and there was always that suspicion of being attacked when you’re at your most vulnerable.  I had a weapon ready, just in case.

Outside the cloud cover had gone and it looked like it would be a fine day.

When I did the headcount, I noticed Mobley was missing as agreed, and by the time we had assembled, the cars had arrived.  We would be driving ourselves in a convoy behind Monroe and the Colonel, who was no longer dressed in army fatigues, along with Jacobi and one of his guards.

For the trip, we had been supplied with the western notion of jungle wear, safari suits, that identified us not only garrulous visitors, but typical tourists hardly prepared for what was to come.  It made a good cover for a group of ‘fools’ making a documentary.  

All we had to do was get to the location for the exchange of the hostages reportedly between Aba, a town in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and somewhere on the outskirts of the Park.  It was going to be an easy drive from Uganda to Aba, then the situation might change.

I was going to be in the rear vehicle, with Leslie Davies.  The more I thought about her being assigned to this mission, it seemed she was here solely for her ability to fly anything with wings.  It was the part that was missed on her resume, perhaps for a reason, but whatever that reason was, it would become clear eventually.


We left at 04:05.  Monroe had a slight problem starting her car.

Other than exchanging a few words before getting on the plane and then getting off the plane, Davies and I had not spoken.  After half an hour of driving in silence, I decided to break the ice.

“What did you do to get nominated for this mission?”

A glance sideways gave me no indication of her thoughts, or what look was hidden behind the aviator sunglasses.  I hadn’t seen her smile, or talk to any of the other team members other than a few brief words with Monroe, likely because she was the only other female.

Even then, I didn’t get the impression they were going to be best friends.

“Best you don’t know.”

Her reply came about three minutes after I’d asked, and at a point where I assumed she was going to ignore me.

“Let’s say I’m curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“I’m not a cat.”

Another two minutes of silence, then, “Disobeyed a direct order.”

Not as bad as killing your immediate superior because you didn’t like him.  And I could sympathize.  Some orders were utterly ridiculous.

“Not a bad thing.”

“Not what the court-martial thought.”

I noticed she didn’t use sir.  I could live with that.

“You volunteer?”

“In a manner of speaking.  You?”

She raised her glasses slightly and gave me a sideways glance.

“In a manner of speaking.  Been here before, not that it was for very long, and in a different part of the country, but the powers that be deemed my experience adequate for the mission.”

“I take it the mission isn’t to take pictures of animals?”

It might.  Just not the animals you’re expecting.”


It was our lucky day.  At the Vurra customs post we were met by a Ugandan official who had been forewarned of our arrival, and whom I expect was well compensated for his work, and after going through a half-hour of paperwork, we were taken to the Congo counterpart with whom Jacobi weaved his magic.

I say lucky because the border crossing was often closed, either because of the weather, the road conditions, or the fact neither country was talking to the other, though it was more to do with the Congo villagers and their dispute over lands that stretched into Uganda.

We arrived with a number of trucks, to join a long line waiting to cross, and included were several United Nations vehicles.

Everyone seemed to take the delays and administrative diligence in their stride.

We were moving again, behind several tracks, almost an hour and a half after arriving.  All of the crates of equipment had been opened and inspected, as had our packs, and the raft of documents Monroe had been supplied.  She had a satellite phone at the ready in case we needed to make any calls, though I was not sure what Bamfield would have been able to do.

But, after a few tense moments, everyone lost interest in the documentary crew and moved onto the next vehicle.

Jacobi said it was the easiest crossing he’d made.

About a half-hour, after we had driven on our way, then my radio crackled, and Mobley reported in.  He had just crossed over and was behind us, and a number of trucks.

I got a strange look from Davies.

“Insurance,” was all I said.  “Which no one else needs to know about.”

The road was not exactly in the best of condition in places and having four-wheel drives was a help.  The lie of the land was quite flat, and we passed a lot of small villages and curious looks from the villagers.  Some parts of the road were quite bad, and we had to drive very slowly, especially where it was damp, but for the most part, it was reasonably dry and the roads were navigable.

Other times, Jacobi said, after the rains, those same roads were impossible to drive on and would often see villagers out trying to help the truck drivers keep moving.

I had expected to run into a number of soldiers, but for the first few hours after leaving the border, there wasn’t a lot to see other than flat land, villages, and people on the side of the road, along with the occasional vehicle, belying the fact it was a major road between the border and a town called Aba, a distance that was measured at about 170 kilometers.

Anywhere else in the world it would have taken about an hour and a half, but here, it was early afternoon and finally on a stretch of reasonable road into Aba.  A refuel and we’d be on our way quickly.  The first of the kidnappers appointed times was 16:00 hours and I was hoping the roads would get us there by that time.

 

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

In a word: Might

We might have to use some might to beat the mite.  Confused?

Might is force, so expending might is much the same as what Thor does with his hammer.

We might expend some force, we this might is a maybe.  You’re never quite sure when someone uses the word might, whether or not they will actually do it.

I might do a lot of things, but somehow I never seem to get around to actually doing them,

Of and just for the record, it’s the past tense of the word may.  You know, you may do something, or you might not.

You might also use the word might when being polite, which seems to be a rarity these days because everyone is terse, tense, and it a hurry.

So might I go to the movie will aways get a resounding no if it means you get home late at night.   And you’re only 10 years old.

I might be interested, but I don’t think so.  Let me think about it.  Which also means no.

Of course, if you’re slack in doing homework, you might want to try a little harder next time.

What might have been if only you tried harder?

Then there’s that little pest called a mite, though it goes by a lot of other names, one of which is everywhere, a termite.

Or a dust mite.

It also could be used slangily for a child in distress, that is, look at that poor little mite, he looks so tired.

Or another word for slightly, for example, the girl seemed a mite embarrassed.

 

 

“Going out of my mind…” – a short story

Accidents can happen.

Sometimes they’re your fault, sometimes they’re not.

The accident I was in was not. Late at night driving home from work, a car came speeding out of a side street and T-boned my car.

It could have been worse, though the person who said it had a quite different definition of the word worse than I did.

To start with, I lost three months of my life in a coma, and even when I surfaced, it took another month to realize what had happened. Then came two months of working out my recovery plan.

If that wasn’t trial enough, what someone else might describe as the ‘last straw that broke the camel’s back’, my wife of 22 years decided to send me a text that morning, what was six months in hospital, to the day.

“I’m sorry, Joe, but enough is enough. I cannot visit you anymore, and for the sake of both our sanity, I think it’s time to draw a line in the sand. I know what happened isn’t your fault but given the prognosis, I don’t think I can cope with the situation. I need time to think about what will happen next and to do so, I’ll be going home to spend some time with family. Once again, I’m so sorry not to be doing this in person. I’ll let you know what I decide in due course. In the meantime, you have my best wishes for your recovery.”

In other words, goodbye. Her family lived in England, about 12,000 miles away in another hemisphere, and the likelihood of her returning was remote. We had meant to visit them, and had, in fact, booked the tickets shortly before the accident. I guess she couldn’t wait any longer.

My usual nurse came in for the first visit on this shift. She had become the familiar face on my journey, the one who made it worth waking up every morning.

“You look a little down in the dumps this morning. What’s up?”

She knew it couldn’t be for medical reasons because the doctor just yesterday had remarked how remarkable my recovery had been in the last week or so. Even I had been surprised given all the previous negative reports.

“Ever broken up by text?”

“What do you mean?”

“Frances has decided she no longer wants to be involved. I can’t say I blame her, she has put her whole life on hold because of this.”

“That’s surprising. She’s never shown any disappointment.”

“Six months have been a long time for everyone. We were supposed to be going home so she could see her family. Maybe that’s what it’s all about.”

I gave her the phone and she read the message.

Then she handed it back. “That’s goodbye, Tom. I’m sorry. And no, I’ve never had a breakup by text, but I guess there could always be a first time.”

She spent the next ten minutes going through the morning ritual, then said, “I’ve heard there’s a new doctor coming to visit you. Whatever has happened in the last few days had tongues wagging, and you might just become the next modern miracle. Fame and fortune await.”

“Just being able to walk again will be miracle enough.”

That had been the worst of it. The prognosis that it was likely I’d never be able to walk again, or work, and the changes to our lives that would cause. I knew Frances was bitterly disappointed that she might become the spouse who had to spend the rest of her life looking after, and though she had said it didn’t matter, that she would be there for me, deep down I knew a commitment like that took more internal fortitude than she had.

She ran her own business, managed three children into adulthood, and had a life other than what we had together. When I was fit and able, and nothing got in the way, it had worked. Stopping everything to cater to my problems had severely curtailed her life. Something had to give, and it had.

But, as I said, I didn’t blame her. She had tried, putting in a brave face day after day but once the daily visits slipped to every other day, to once a week, I knew then the ship was heading towards the rocks.

This morning it foundered.

I pondered the situation for an hour before I sent a reply. “I believe you have made the right decision. It’s time to call it, go home and take some time to consider what to do next is right. In normal circumstances, we would not be considering any of this, but these are not normal circumstances. But, just in case you are worried about the effect of all of this on me, don’t. I will get over it, whatever the result is, and what you need to do first and foremost is to concentrate on what is best for you. If that means drawing a line on this relationship, so be it. All I want for you is for you to be happy, and clearly, having to contend with this, and everything else on your plate, is not helping. I am glad we had what time we had together and will cherish the memories forever, and I will always love you, no matter what you decide.”

It was heartfelt, and I meant it. But life was not going to be the same without her.

…

I’d dozed off after sending the message, and only woke again when my usual doctor came into the room on his morning rounds, the usual entourage of doctors and interns in tow. I’d been a great case for sparking endless debate on the best route for my recovery among those fresh out of medical school. Some ideas were radical, others pie in the sky, but one that seemed implausible had got a hearing, and then the go-ahead, mainly because there was little else that apparently could be done.

That doctor, and now another I hadn’t seen before was standing in the front row, rather than at the back.

The doctor in charge went through the basics of the case, as he did every day, mainly because the entourage changed daily. Then, he deferred to the radical doctor as I decided to call her.

She went through the details of a discovery she had made, and the recommendation she’d made as a possible road to recovery, one which involved several radical operations which had been undertaken by the elderly man standing beside her. When I first met him, I thought he was an escaped patient from the psychiatric ward, not the pre-eminent back surgeon reputed to be the miracle worker himself.

It seemed, based on the latest x-rays that a miracle had occurred, but whether it was or not would be known for another week. Then, if all went well, I would be able to get out of bed, and, at the very least, be able to stand on my own. In the meantime, I had endless sessions of physio in the lead-up to the big event. Six months in bed had taken its toll on everything, and the week’s work was going to correct some of that.

It meant there was hope, and despite what I said and thought, hope was what I needed.

There had been ups and downs before this, fuelled by a morning when I woke up and found I could wriggle my toes. It was after the second operation, and I thought, given the number of pain killers, it had been my imagination.

When I mentioned it, there was some initial excitement, and, yes, it was true, I wasn’t going out of my mind, it was real. The downside was, I couldn’t move anything else, and other than an encouraging sign, as the days passed, and nothing more happened, the faces got longer.

Then, the physiotherapist moved in and started working on the areas that should be coming back to life. I felt little, maybe the pain killers again, until the next, and perhaps the last operation. I managed to lift my left leg a fraction of an inch.

But we’d been here before, and I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

…

Annabel, the daughter that lived on the other side of the country, finally arrived to visit me. I had thought, not being so far away she might have come earlier, but a few phone calls had sorted out her absence. Firstly, there was not much use visiting a coma patient, second, she was in a delicate stage of her professional career and a break might be the end of it, and thirdly, she accepted that I didn’t want to see her until I was much better.

She was not very happy about it, but it was a costly venture for her, in terms of time, being away from a young family, and just getting there.

Now, the time had come. She had a conference to attend, and I was happy to play second fiddle.

After the hugs and a few tears, she settled in the uncomfortable bedside chair.

“You don’t look very different than the last time I saw you,” she said.

“Hospitals have perfected the art of hiding the worst of it, but it’s true. The swelling had receded, the physios have revived the muscles, and I have a little movement again.”

“The injuries are not permanent?”

“Oh, they’re permanent but not as bad as first thought.”

“Pity my mother isn’t here.”

“She was, day after day, through the darkest period. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But your mother is an independent woman, and she has always been free to do what she wants, and I would not have had it any other way.”

“But deserting you in the middle of all this…”

“It’s been very debilitating on her. I can understand her reasons, and so should you. She will still be your mother no matter what happens to us.”

There had been a number of phone calls, from each of the children, decrying her actions after she had sent a text message to each of them telling them what she was doing. She had not told them she was leaving, in so many words, but leaving the door ajar, perhaps to allay their fears she was deserting them too. Annabel had been furious. The other two, not so much.

“And this latest development?”

I had also told her about the miracle worker, and the possibilities, without trying to get hopes up.

“On a scale of one to ten, it’s a three. We’ve been here before, so I’m going to save the excitement for when it happens, if it happens.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

It was a question I’d asked myself a number of times, one that I didn’t want an answer to. Hope was staving it off, each day a new day of discovery, and a day closer to the idea I might walk again. I had to believe it would happen, if not the next day, the next week, month, year, that it would eventually happen.

For now, all I had to do was stand on my own two feet.

It was ironic, in a way, that simple statement. ‘Stand on your own two feet’. Right then, it seemed so near, and yet, at the same time, so far away.

I didn’t answer that question, but did what I usually did with visitors, run a distraction and talk about everything else. This visit was no exception. I had a lot of catching up to do.

It’s odd how some call the day of momentous events D-Day because to me nothing would be more momentous than the invasion of France during the second world war.

Others were not quite of the same opinion. It was going to be a momentous day.

It started the same as any other.

The morning routine when the duty nurse came to do the checks. Then the physio, now a permanent fixture mid-morning, just after the tea lady arrived. Deliberate, I thought, to deprive me of my tea break, and some unbelievably delicious coconut cookies.

Then the routine changed, and the escort arrived to take me down to the room where the physio had set up an obstacle course. It looked like one, and I’d told him so when I first saw it, and he had said by the time he was finished with me, I’d be able to go from start to finish without breaking a sweat.

In my mind perhaps, but not with this broken body. I didn’t say that because I was meant to be positive.

An entourage arrived for the main event. I would have been happier to fail in front of the doctor, the miracle worker, and the physio, but it seemed everyone wanted a front-row seat. If it worked, the physio confided in me, there was fame and fortune being mentioned in Lancet, which was a prestigious medical journal.

Expectations were running high.

The physio had gone through the program at least a hundred times, and the previous day we had got to the point where I was sitting on the side of the bed. We’d tried this ordinary maneuver several times, previously without success under my own steam but this morning, for some reason it was different.

I was able to sit up, and then, with a struggle move my legs part of the way, and with a little help for the rest.

What was encouraging, was being able to swing my legs a short distance. It was those simple things that everyone could do without thinking, that had seemed impossible not a month before, that got people excited. I didn’t know how I felt other than I missed those simple things.

Then the moment had arrived. Hushed silence.

There was a structure in place. All I had to do was pull myself across, at the same time sliding off the bed and into a standing position. There was a safety harness attached so that if my grip slipped it would prevent me from falling.

It was probably not the time to tell them the pain in my lower back was getting worse.

So, like I’d been instructed, and going one step further than the day before, I reached out, grabbed the bars, and pulled myself up and over, at the same time, sliding off the side of the bed. I could feel the tug of the safety harness which told me I had left the safety of the bed, and was in mid motion.

I could feel my legs straightening, and then very softly landing on the floor, the safety harness letting my body drop down slowly.

The pain increased exponentially as the weight came down onto my legs, but my body had stopped moving. I could not feel the tightness of the harness, but a rather odd sensation in my legs.

All that time I had been concentrating so hard that I had heard nothing, not even the encouraging words from the physio.

Until I realized, from the noise around me, that it had worked. I was standing on my own two feet, albeit a little shakily.

And I heard the physio say, in his inimitable way, “Today you just landed on the moon. Tomorrow, it’s going to be one small step for mankind. Well done.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

Writing about writing a book – Day 19

I’m still working on the sequence of flashbacks for the story, filling out the back story to how Bill became associated with a man called Colonel Davenport.

It is important to remember that while Davenport may have begun with good intentions, it was not difficult to go slowly mad given the conditions.  This character, Davenport, runs a multitude of operations within the war zone, turning a huge profit and setting up a business for when the war ended.

Bill meets his Davenport’s cronies and then the man himself.  Life is not what it seems, and working for him is not a guarantee of safety, so Bill not only has to watch out for the enemy but also those with whom he also works.

 

Part 3 – In the Service of Davenport

Davenport and punishment

Busted mission, the first threat to Davenport

Manilow’s death – and how he got there

More on Manilow, the night before his death

Taken to rendezvous with Davenport’s boss

Identify Davenport by ‘sniveling morons’

Sniper – killing Ellen’s father – set up

Sniper – Killing Ellen’s father, execution

Planes and death

 

Bill gets to meet an interesting cast of characters, not the least of which is Davenport’s right-hand men, and a very unlucky lad who was supposed to see through his tour in the command station far from the war zone, and who is connected to a person close to him.

He was also unwittingly involved in a murder, one set up by Davenport, and one designed to keep his silence.

 

Part 4 – The Lead up to Capture, and in a POW camp

The object that Davenport is seeking

After R & R revoked, retrieved by Davenport for the last mission

Capture by Cho’s forces, delivered by Davenport’s men

In the POW Camp, and the arrival of Cho

Day of Rescue from Cho

Ellen and Jacobson after rescue in the hospital

 

Bill’s safety may have been assured had he simply toed the line, but, while on a secret mission with Davenport’s men, he sees an opportunity to take some evidence of Davenport’s activities, as an act of self-preservation.

Of course, he doesn’t reckon with the ruthlessness of Davenport and ends up in a camp where Bill is handed over to the chief interrogator, a friend of Davenport’s.  There is no doubt what Cho’s mission is.

But, like all seemingly simple plans, it doesn’t go the way Davenport wants, Bill does not talk, and is eventually rescued.

 

Part 5 – Post Rescue and Transworld

Employment at Transworld, then first interrogation via Collins

In hospital immediately after being shot

Davenport in my hospital room, post being shot

Recognize Jorgenson

 

Davenport discovers Bill was rescued, and that is has lost his memory of all the time in his service, so just in case Bill does, one day, remember, he will be there to get the answers, and the missing information.

It is almost a story within a story, and maybe one day will be published as such.

At least now I have some idea of how to work the much larger story into the flashbacks, as a prelude to what happens to Bill once he realizes who is behind everything that is happening at Transworld.

 

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

What happens after the action packed start – Part 34

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 of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

…

I had hoped we’d land in daylight, but I could see the benefits of arriving at the landing strip after darkness had fallen, and a more primitive form of landing lights had been used.

Less interest from the local people and no bright lights lighting up the runway.

The only lights I could see from the air were the primitive landing lights, fires burning in used fuel drums, and a glimmer of light emanating from two of the buildings set back from the airstrip.

It did worry me, probably more than it should, that the pilots would be landing a plane of this size in virtually a paddock, flying by the seat of their pants, and all credit to them if they got the plane on the ground.  I guessed they’d flown into more than one hot spot around the world, and at least at this one, they were not being shot at.

Their turn around would be quick, just enough time to take on a small amount of fuel and then leave.  No one had said if it would be a fuel tanker or by drums and hand pumps.

The plane had a short distance to go from the end of the runway to what might be called terminal buildings.  The moment the engines were cut, there was a flurry of movement, and after the fuselage door was quickly opened by the co-pilot, then the rear access ramp lowered and standing at the end, once it hit the ground, I could see a tanker and a Land Rover heading towards the rear of the plane, with only small headlamps on.

Monroe had joined me.  Behind me was a hive of activity as the team moved the crates of camera equipment to the end of the ramp, and then the individual packs.  Jacobi was escorted down on the ground by his two-man guard.

“Is this necessary,” he asked as he passed by me

I ignored him.

The Range Rover stopped just by the bottom of the ramp, and two men got out, one I assumed was Colonel Chiswick, former British Army, came over to train the local soldiers, and didn’t go home, and the other a Ugandan soldier with Sergeant stripes.  Perhaps this was one of their airfields feeding supplies and troops for border patrol duties.

Monroe went down first, and I followed.

Chiswick came up to me, holding out a hand.  “James, I presume?”  I shook it.

I nodded towards Jill, “And Monroe.”

“Welcome to nowhere in particular.”

In the distance, another three Range Rovers were heading towards the plane and then stopped within easy distance of the ramp to easily facilitate the moving of the camera equipment into the rear.  Drivers of the cars ushered them, taking their packs and putting them in the back.

I saw a meaningful look pass between Jacobi and Chiswick.  They knew each other.  No surprises there.  If Chiswick was running this base, then he’d have to know about Jacobi whom we knew had friends in all the high places on every side of the fence.

Another car pulled up, a jeep.  “For your man to get to the base.  I gather he has his instructions?”

Mobley nodded, threw his pack in the back, and the jeep drove off.

“Nice night,” Chiswick said, finally, “Glad it’s not raining, or it would have been a rather sticky landing.”

“How long before the plane leave?”

“About an hour.  Don’t worry.  Planes come and go here all the time, so no one really cares much.”

The crates, packs and other men were loaded and taken away.  Monroe had a final word to the pilot, now down on the ground and supervising the fuel loading, then joined me in the Colonel’s car.

“You’ll be leaving just before first light.  Best to get away before the villagers stir.  There will be one or two curious souls, but they’re harmless.  The soldiers here have been informed that you are here for a training exercise, nothing unusual as we get squads from all over from time to time.  As I said, your arrival will have caused little interest.”

From the locals.  It was anyone else other than the locals I was worried about. 

“Excellent.”


There was not much else to talk about in the few minutes it took to get to the compound at the back of the so-called terminal buildings.  It consisted of about ten large barracks, an administration building, and what looked to be a mess.

Pale lights were showing from one of the barracks, and seeing the cars parked out the front, I assumed this was where we would stay until we departed.

The Colonel didn’t get out of the car.  “We’ll be leaving at 04:00 tomorrow morning.  Make sure you’re ready to go.”

“You’re coming too?”

“Bamfield asked me.  Wants to make sure you had someone who knows the lie of the land.”

“I thought you’d delegate that to a few of the soldiers.”

“No.  Can’t have them involved in an incursion or there will be trouble.  This is an off the book’s operation.  Looking forward to it, actually.  There are a few people over there I’d like to have a talk to if we get the time.”

I shrugged.  Just one more problem to deal with.  The Colonel didn’t strike me as being a talker, but a man who let actions define who he was.  And just because Bamfield vouched for him didn’t mean he might be not be working on his own retirement fund.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

“Going out of my mind…” – a short story

Accidents can happen.

Sometimes they’re your fault, sometimes they’re not.

The accident I was in was not. Late at night driving home from work, a car came speeding out of a side street and T-boned my car.

It could have been worse, though the person who said it had a quite different definition of the word worse than I did.

To start with, I lost three months of my life in a coma, and even when I surfaced, it took another month to realize what had happened. Then came two months of working out my recovery plan.

If that wasn’t trial enough, what someone else might describe as the ‘last straw that broke the camel’s back’, my wife of 22 years decided to send me a text that morning, what was six months in hospital, to the day.

“I’m sorry, Joe, but enough is enough. I cannot visit you anymore, and for the sake of both our sanity, I think it’s time to draw a line in the sand. I know what happened isn’t your fault but given the prognosis, I don’t think I can cope with the situation. I need time to think about what will happen next and to do so, I’ll be going home to spend some time with family. Once again, I’m so sorry not to be doing this in person. I’ll let you know what I decide in due course. In the meantime, you have my best wishes for your recovery.”

In other words, goodbye. Her family lived in England, about 12,000 miles away in another hemisphere, and the likelihood of her returning was remote. We had meant to visit them, and had, in fact, booked the tickets shortly before the accident. I guess she couldn’t wait any longer.

My usual nurse came in for the first visit on this shift. She had become the familiar face on my journey, the one who made it worth waking up every morning.

“You look a little down in the dumps this morning. What’s up?”

She knew it couldn’t be for medical reasons because the doctor just yesterday had remarked how remarkable my recovery had been in the last week or so. Even I had been surprised given all the previous negative reports.

“Ever broken up by text?”

“What do you mean?”

“Frances has decided she no longer wants to be involved. I can’t say I blame her, she has put her whole life on hold because of this.”

“That’s surprising. She’s never shown any disappointment.”

“Six months have been a long time for everyone. We were supposed to be going home so she could see her family. Maybe that’s what it’s all about.”

I gave her the phone and she read the message.

Then she handed it back. “That’s goodbye, Tom. I’m sorry. And no, I’ve never had a breakup by text, but I guess there could always be a first time.”

She spent the next ten minutes going through the morning ritual, then said, “I’ve heard there’s a new doctor coming to visit you. Whatever has happened in the last few days had tongues wagging, and you might just become the next modern miracle. Fame and fortune await.”

“Just being able to walk again will be miracle enough.”

That had been the worst of it. The prognosis that it was likely I’d never be able to walk again, or work, and the changes to our lives that would cause. I knew Frances was bitterly disappointed that she might become the spouse who had to spend the rest of her life looking after, and though she had said it didn’t matter, that she would be there for me, deep down I knew a commitment like that took more internal fortitude than she had.

She ran her own business, managed three children into adulthood, and had a life other than what we had together. When I was fit and able, and nothing got in the way, it had worked. Stopping everything to cater to my problems had severely curtailed her life. Something had to give, and it had.

But, as I said, I didn’t blame her. She had tried, putting in a brave face day after day but once the daily visits slipped to every other day, to once a week, I knew then the ship was heading towards the rocks.

This morning it foundered.

I pondered the situation for an hour before I sent a reply. “I believe you have made the right decision. It’s time to call it, go home and take some time to consider what to do next is right. In normal circumstances, we would not be considering any of this, but these are not normal circumstances. But, just in case you are worried about the effect of all of this on me, don’t. I will get over it, whatever the result is, and what you need to do first and foremost is to concentrate on what is best for you. If that means drawing a line on this relationship, so be it. All I want for you is for you to be happy, and clearly, having to contend with this, and everything else on your plate, is not helping. I am glad we had what time we had together and will cherish the memories forever, and I will always love you, no matter what you decide.”

It was heartfelt, and I meant it. But life was not going to be the same without her.

…

I’d dozed off after sending the message, and only woke again when my usual doctor came into the room on his morning rounds, the usual entourage of doctors and interns in tow. I’d been a great case for sparking endless debate on the best route for my recovery among those fresh out of medical school. Some ideas were radical, others pie in the sky, but one that seemed implausible had got a hearing, and then the go-ahead, mainly because there was little else that apparently could be done.

That doctor, and now another I hadn’t seen before was standing in the front row, rather than at the back.

The doctor in charge went through the basics of the case, as he did every day, mainly because the entourage changed daily. Then, he deferred to the radical doctor as I decided to call her.

She went through the details of a discovery she had made, and the recommendation she’d made as a possible road to recovery, one which involved several radical operations which had been undertaken by the elderly man standing beside her. When I first met him, I thought he was an escaped patient from the psychiatric ward, not the pre-eminent back surgeon reputed to be the miracle worker himself.

It seemed, based on the latest x-rays that a miracle had occurred, but whether it was or not would be known for another week. Then, if all went well, I would be able to get out of bed, and, at the very least, be able to stand on my own. In the meantime, I had endless sessions of physio in the lead-up to the big event. Six months in bed had taken its toll on everything, and the week’s work was going to correct some of that.

It meant there was hope, and despite what I said and thought, hope was what I needed.

There had been ups and downs before this, fuelled by a morning when I woke up and found I could wriggle my toes. It was after the second operation, and I thought, given the number of pain killers, it had been my imagination.

When I mentioned it, there was some initial excitement, and, yes, it was true, I wasn’t going out of my mind, it was real. The downside was, I couldn’t move anything else, and other than an encouraging sign, as the days passed, and nothing more happened, the faces got longer.

Then, the physiotherapist moved in and started working on the areas that should be coming back to life. I felt little, maybe the pain killers again, until the next, and perhaps the last operation. I managed to lift my left leg a fraction of an inch.

But we’d been here before, and I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

…

Annabel, the daughter that lived on the other side of the country, finally arrived to visit me. I had thought, not being so far away she might have come earlier, but a few phone calls had sorted out her absence. Firstly, there was not much use visiting a coma patient, second, she was in a delicate stage of her professional career and a break might be the end of it, and thirdly, she accepted that I didn’t want to see her until I was much better.

She was not very happy about it, but it was a costly venture for her, in terms of time, being away from a young family, and just getting there.

Now, the time had come. She had a conference to attend, and I was happy to play second fiddle.

After the hugs and a few tears, she settled in the uncomfortable bedside chair.

“You don’t look very different than the last time I saw you,” she said.

“Hospitals have perfected the art of hiding the worst of it, but it’s true. The swelling had receded, the physios have revived the muscles, and I have a little movement again.”

“The injuries are not permanent?”

“Oh, they’re permanent but not as bad as first thought.”

“Pity my mother isn’t here.”

“She was, day after day, through the darkest period. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But your mother is an independent woman, and she has always been free to do what she wants, and I would not have had it any other way.”

“But deserting you in the middle of all this…”

“It’s been very debilitating on her. I can understand her reasons, and so should you. She will still be your mother no matter what happens to us.”

There had been a number of phone calls, from each of the children, decrying her actions after she had sent a text message to each of them telling them what she was doing. She had not told them she was leaving, in so many words, but leaving the door ajar, perhaps to allay their fears she was deserting them too. Annabel had been furious. The other two, not so much.

“And this latest development?”

I had also told her about the miracle worker, and the possibilities, without trying to get hopes up.

“On a scale of one to ten, it’s a three. We’ve been here before, so I’m going to save the excitement for when it happens, if it happens.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

It was a question I’d asked myself a number of times, one that I didn’t want an answer to. Hope was staving it off, each day a new day of discovery, and a day closer to the idea I might walk again. I had to believe it would happen, if not the next day, the next week, month, year, that it would eventually happen.

For now, all I had to do was stand on my own two feet.

It was ironic, in a way, that simple statement. ‘Stand on your own two feet’. Right then, it seemed so near, and yet, at the same time, so far away.

I didn’t answer that question, but did what I usually did with visitors, run a distraction and talk about everything else. This visit was no exception. I had a lot of catching up to do.

It’s odd how some call the day of momentous events D-Day because to me nothing would be more momentous than the invasion of France during the second world war.

Others were not quite of the same opinion. It was going to be a momentous day.

It started the same as any other.

The morning routine when the duty nurse came to do the checks. Then the physio, now a permanent fixture mid-morning, just after the tea lady arrived. Deliberate, I thought, to deprive me of my tea break, and some unbelievably delicious coconut cookies.

Then the routine changed, and the escort arrived to take me down to the room where the physio had set up an obstacle course. It looked like one, and I’d told him so when I first saw it, and he had said by the time he was finished with me, I’d be able to go from start to finish without breaking a sweat.

In my mind perhaps, but not with this broken body. I didn’t say that because I was meant to be positive.

An entourage arrived for the main event. I would have been happier to fail in front of the doctor, the miracle worker, and the physio, but it seemed everyone wanted a front-row seat. If it worked, the physio confided in me, there was fame and fortune being mentioned in Lancet, which was a prestigious medical journal.

Expectations were running high.

The physio had gone through the program at least a hundred times, and the previous day we had got to the point where I was sitting on the side of the bed. We’d tried this ordinary maneuver several times, previously without success under my own steam but this morning, for some reason it was different.

I was able to sit up, and then, with a struggle move my legs part of the way, and with a little help for the rest.

What was encouraging, was being able to swing my legs a short distance. It was those simple things that everyone could do without thinking, that had seemed impossible not a month before, that got people excited. I didn’t know how I felt other than I missed those simple things.

Then the moment had arrived. Hushed silence.

There was a structure in place. All I had to do was pull myself across, at the same time sliding off the bed and into a standing position. There was a safety harness attached so that if my grip slipped it would prevent me from falling.

It was probably not the time to tell them the pain in my lower back was getting worse.

So, like I’d been instructed, and going one step further than the day before, I reached out, grabbed the bars, and pulled myself up and over, at the same time, sliding off the side of the bed. I could feel the tug of the safety harness which told me I had left the safety of the bed, and was in mid motion.

I could feel my legs straightening, and then very softly landing on the floor, the safety harness letting my body drop down slowly.

The pain increased exponentially as the weight came down onto my legs, but my body had stopped moving. I could not feel the tightness of the harness, but a rather odd sensation in my legs.

All that time I had been concentrating so hard that I had heard nothing, not even the encouraging words from the physio.

Until I realized, from the noise around me, that it had worked. I was standing on my own two feet, albeit a little shakily.

And I heard the physio say, in his inimitable way, “Today you just landed on the moon. Tomorrow, it’s going to be one small step for mankind. Well done.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

Writing about writing a book – Day 19

I’m still working on the sequence of flashbacks for the story, filling out the back story to how Bill became associated with a man called Colonel Davenport.

It is important to remember that while Davenport may have begun with good intentions, it was not difficult to go slowly mad given the conditions.  This character, Davenport, runs a multitude of operations within the war zone, turning a huge profit and setting up a business for when the war ended.

Bill meets his Davenport’s cronies and then the man himself.  Life is not what it seems, and working for him is not a guarantee of safety, so Bill not only has to watch out for the enemy but also those with whom he also works.

 

Part 3 – In the Service of Davenport

Davenport and punishment

Busted mission, the first threat to Davenport

Manilow’s death – and how he got there

More on Manilow, the night before his death

Taken to rendezvous with Davenport’s boss

Identify Davenport by ‘sniveling morons’

Sniper – killing Ellen’s father – set up

Sniper – Killing Ellen’s father, execution

Planes and death

 

Bill gets to meet an interesting cast of characters, not the least of which is Davenport’s right-hand men, and a very unlucky lad who was supposed to see through his tour in the command station far from the war zone, and who is connected to a person close to him.

He was also unwittingly involved in a murder, one set up by Davenport, and one designed to keep his silence.

 

Part 4 – The Lead up to Capture, and in a POW camp

The object that Davenport is seeking

After R & R revoked, retrieved by Davenport for the last mission

Capture by Cho’s forces, delivered by Davenport’s men

In the POW Camp, and the arrival of Cho

Day of Rescue from Cho

Ellen and Jacobson after rescue in the hospital

 

Bill’s safety may have been assured had he simply toed the line, but, while on a secret mission with Davenport’s men, he sees an opportunity to take some evidence of Davenport’s activities, as an act of self-preservation.

Of course, he doesn’t reckon with the ruthlessness of Davenport and ends up in a camp where Bill is handed over to the chief interrogator, a friend of Davenport’s.  There is no doubt what Cho’s mission is.

But, like all seemingly simple plans, it doesn’t go the way Davenport wants, Bill does not talk, and is eventually rescued.

 

Part 5 – Post Rescue and Transworld

Employment at Transworld, then first interrogation via Collins

In hospital immediately after being shot

Davenport in my hospital room, post being shot

Recognize Jorgenson

 

Davenport discovers Bill was rescued, and that is has lost his memory of all the time in his service, so just in case Bill does, one day, remember, he will be there to get the answers, and the missing information.

It is almost a story within a story, and maybe one day will be published as such.

At least now I have some idea of how to work the much larger story into the flashbacks, as a prelude to what happens to Bill once he realizes who is behind everything that is happening at Transworld.

 

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

What happens after the action packed start – Part 34

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 of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

…

I had hoped we’d land in daylight, but I could see the benefits of arriving at the landing strip after darkness had fallen, and a more primitive form of landing lights had been used.

Less interest from the local people and no bright lights lighting up the runway.

The only lights I could see from the air were the primitive landing lights, fires burning in used fuel drums, and a glimmer of light emanating from two of the buildings set back from the airstrip.

It did worry me, probably more than it should, that the pilots would be landing a plane of this size in virtually a paddock, flying by the seat of their pants, and all credit to them if they got the plane on the ground.  I guessed they’d flown into more than one hot spot around the world, and at least at this one, they were not being shot at.

Their turn around would be quick, just enough time to take on a small amount of fuel and then leave.  No one had said if it would be a fuel tanker or by drums and hand pumps.

The plane had a short distance to go from the end of the runway to what might be called terminal buildings.  The moment the engines were cut, there was a flurry of movement, and after the fuselage door was quickly opened by the co-pilot, then the rear access ramp lowered and standing at the end, once it hit the ground, I could see a tanker and a Land Rover heading towards the rear of the plane, with only small headlamps on.

Monroe had joined me.  Behind me was a hive of activity as the team moved the crates of camera equipment to the end of the ramp, and then the individual packs.  Jacobi was escorted down on the ground by his two-man guard.

“Is this necessary,” he asked as he passed by me

I ignored him.

The Range Rover stopped just by the bottom of the ramp, and two men got out, one I assumed was Colonel Chiswick, former British Army, came over to train the local soldiers, and didn’t go home, and the other a Ugandan soldier with Sergeant stripes.  Perhaps this was one of their airfields feeding supplies and troops for border patrol duties.

Monroe went down first, and I followed.

Chiswick came up to me, holding out a hand.  “James, I presume?”  I shook it.

I nodded towards Jill, “And Monroe.”

“Welcome to nowhere in particular.”

In the distance, another three Range Rovers were heading towards the plane and then stopped within easy distance of the ramp to easily facilitate the moving of the camera equipment into the rear.  Drivers of the cars ushered them, taking their packs and putting them in the back.

I saw a meaningful look pass between Jacobi and Chiswick.  They knew each other.  No surprises there.  If Chiswick was running this base, then he’d have to know about Jacobi whom we knew had friends in all the high places on every side of the fence.

Another car pulled up, a jeep.  “For your man to get to the base.  I gather he has his instructions?”

Mobley nodded, threw his pack in the back, and the jeep drove off.

“Nice night,” Chiswick said, finally, “Glad it’s not raining, or it would have been a rather sticky landing.”

“How long before the plane leave?”

“About an hour.  Don’t worry.  Planes come and go here all the time, so no one really cares much.”

The crates, packs and other men were loaded and taken away.  Monroe had a final word to the pilot, now down on the ground and supervising the fuel loading, then joined me in the Colonel’s car.

“You’ll be leaving just before first light.  Best to get away before the villagers stir.  There will be one or two curious souls, but they’re harmless.  The soldiers here have been informed that you are here for a training exercise, nothing unusual as we get squads from all over from time to time.  As I said, your arrival will have caused little interest.”

From the locals.  It was anyone else other than the locals I was worried about. 

“Excellent.”


There was not much else to talk about in the few minutes it took to get to the compound at the back of the so-called terminal buildings.  It consisted of about ten large barracks, an administration building, and what looked to be a mess.

Pale lights were showing from one of the barracks, and seeing the cars parked out the front, I assumed this was where we would stay until we departed.

The Colonel didn’t get out of the car.  “We’ll be leaving at 04:00 tomorrow morning.  Make sure you’re ready to go.”

“You’re coming too?”

“Bamfield asked me.  Wants to make sure you had someone who knows the lie of the land.”

“I thought you’d delegate that to a few of the soldiers.”

“No.  Can’t have them involved in an incursion or there will be trouble.  This is an off the book’s operation.  Looking forward to it, actually.  There are a few people over there I’d like to have a talk to if we get the time.”

I shrugged.  Just one more problem to deal with.  The Colonel didn’t strike me as being a talker, but a man who let actions define who he was.  And just because Bamfield vouched for him didn’t mean he might be not be working on his own retirement fund.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

“For heaven’s sake…” – a short story

It was a combination of circumstances, not all related, but coming at me out of left field, circumstances that would prevent me from going home when I said I would.

I had every intention of getting there and as a testament to that, I had got to the airport with baggage two hours before departure time and had reached the departure gate with 20 minutes to spare, ready to board the plane.

I’d even got a business class ticket so I could travel in style.

What precipitated the set of circumstances? A simple phone call. I should have turned it off five minutes before boarding, but I didn’t but because I’d forgotten to, simply because I’d been distracted.

The call was from Penelope, my hard-working and self-sacrificing personal assistant. I had offered to take her with me so we could work on a business plan that had to be presented the day after I was scheduled to return, but she had declined, which when I thought about it, if she hadn’t it might have created problems for both of us.

With a huge restructure going on, I was running behind in getting it completed and had promised to finish it while at home.

The call: to tell me I had left a folder with vital research back on my desk, and she came to the airport to deliver it, and she was, in fact, was in the terminal building when the boarding call came.

When I met her at the gate, only a few passengers had to be loaded. Being business class had afforded me a few extra minutes. File delivered, I left her looking exasperated and headed down the boarding ramp.

I was last aboard, and seconds after being seated, the door was closed.

I quickly typed and sent a message to tell everyone I was on the plane, eliciting two responses. My mother was glad that I was finally coming, the other from my elder brother, saying he would believe it when he saw me.

It was not without reason; I’d been in this situation before; on the plane ready to go.

Last time the plane didn’t leave the gate, a small problem that caused a big delay, so much so, I couldn’t get home.

Not this time. There was a slight lurch as the push tractor started pushing the plane back from the gate. A minute or so later the pilot fired up the engines, a sure sign of a definite departure. Nothing could stop us now.

It was a reassuring vibration that ran through the plane before the engines settled into a steady whine, a sign of an older plane that had flown many miles in the past and would into the future.

We stopped while the push tractor was disengaged and then the engines picked up speed and we lurched forward, heading towards the runway for take-off. In some airports, this could take a long time, and tonight it seemed to take forever.

I looked out the window and saw a backdrop of lights against the darkness, but no indication of where we were. It didn’t look like the end of the runway because I could not see any other planes waiting to take off.

Then the engines revved louder and for a pronged period. We didn’t move but remained where we were until the engines returned to what might be called idling speed

It was followed by an announcement from the pilot, “This is the captain speaking. We have encountered an anomaly with one of the engines, so to be on the safe side, we are returning to the gate and will have the engineers have a look at it. I do not anticipate this should take longer than 30 minutes.”

A collective groan went through the airplane. Those savvy with these problems would know that the odds were we would not be leaving tonight. The airport curfew would see to that.

But a miracle could still occur.

The plane then started back to the terminal. Another message from the pilot told us we would not be going back to the gate, but to a holding area. Time to have a glass of champagne the steward was offering before going back to the terminal for what, an interminable wait.

It seemed the gods did not want me to go back home.

…

When we got back to the parking spot, three buses and four delays later, I headed for one of the several bars to get a drink, and perhaps something decent to eat.

Then I saw Penelope, sitting by herself, a glass of champagne sitting half drunk in front of her.

“What are you doing here?” I said as I slid onto the stool beside her.

She started, as if she had been somewhere else, and turned to see who it was. The faraway look turned into a smile when she recognized me. “Getting drunk.”

“I thought you were going home.” A nod in the direction of the bartender, followed by pointing to her glass and indicating I wanted two, got instant service.

“I saw an ex heading to a plane with his latest squeeze. Made me feel depressed. I heard your plane was returning so I decided to wait. Better to get drunk with someone you know than drink by yourself or someone you don’t. I’ve had three offers already.”

I wasn’t surprised. She was very attractive, the sort of woman who was the most popular at any of the work functions but was equally surprising was that she was not with any of those potential suitors. In fact, as far as I knew, she was not in a relationship.

“No one at home to amuse you?” It was not the sort of question I should be asking, because it was really none of my business.

It elicited a sideways glance as if I stepped over an invisible line.

“Sorry, none of my business.”

She finished off the glass in front of her, just as the new round arrived in front of her. I gave the bartender my credit card and asked him to start a tab. I’d just heard that the plane was going to be another two hours before we’d be leaving.

“I live with two other girls, but they are more interested in finding stray men and getting wasted, not necessarily in that order, and that’s not what I want to do.”

“Get wasted or find stray men?”

I was not sure how anyone had the time and inclination to do that, but a few weeks back I spent two evenings with a friend of mine whose marriage had fallen apart. The people there seemed either desperate or looking for a one-night stand. It had amused me to discover most of them were married, and not divorced, and that the girls knew what to expect.

“Both apparently.”

“How do you expect to find the man of your dreams if you don’t go looking.”

“I am, this place seems as good as any, but the man of my dreams doesn’t exist.”

The bemused expression and the tone of her voice told me she had had more than one drink before I got there. Even then, judging from several previous parties for work we had attended, she had a much greater capacity for alcohol than I had.

She finished off the glass just brought, and seconds later her eyes seemed glassy. Perhaps it was time for me to put her in a cab and send her home.

“Another,” she said, “and then you can be responsible for me.”

I had no idea what that meant, and I think, judging by the facial expressions, she didn’t really care.

“Perhaps…”

She didn’t let me finish. “Perhaps you should buy me another drink and lighten up.” And the look that came with it told me not to argue the point.

I got the bartender’s attention, and he responded by bringing two fresh glasses and a bottle. I told him to leave it. It gave me a minute or so to contemplate what she meant by ‘lighten up’. I was so used to seeing her work ethic and diligence, this was a different side to her.

I took a sip and could feel her looking at me. A glance took in the near permanent bemused expression.

“Are you going to be alright getting home?” It was probably not the question I should have asked, but in the back of my mind there was a recent briefing given to all of management on the subject of sexual harassment and intraoffice romances.

“I’m fine. It’s not as if I do this a lot, but the last week has been difficult. Not only for me, but for you too. But you have to admit you put yourself under a lot of pressure.”

She was starting to sound like my conscience. It was something I’d been thinking about on the way to the airport but decided it was part of the job, and I knew when I accepted the position what it would involve. My predecessor, much older than I was, had fallen on his sword, the pressure destroying his marriage and almost his life.

“So I said, lamely, It goes with the job, unfortunately.”

She shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. They might think it does, but they don’t care. They sit in their ivory tower and watch their minions crash and burn. There’s always someone else waiting in the wings to take your place, believe me.”

It was an interesting perspective, but where did it come from? I knew she had been at the corporation for a number of years, and I had been lucky enough to draw the long straw when having her assigned to me as my PA when I took the position. One of the other executives had lamented my good fortune, but he had also said she was one of the few who were there to guide that higher management considered were management prospects.

I just thought I was lucky.

“I might end up in that ivory tower one day.”

“Why?”

She turned to look directly at me. It made me uncomfortable now, as it had on other occasions, and I had begun to think it might have something to do with unspoken feelings. I liked her, but I doubted that was reciprocated. And, after the lecture on office romances, I promptly put those feelings in the bottom drawer and locked it.

“Doesn’t everyone aspire to be the best, and climb to the top of the corporate ladder?”

“For that, you have to be devious and ruthless, and from what I’ve seen, you’re neither. You’ve heard the expression ‘good guys come last’. It’s true.”

I was guessing from the people she had worked for, she had firsthand experience. My predecessor was a ‘good guy’ and some said he was eaten alive by the office predators. I knew who they were, and avoided them. Perhaps she knew something I didn’t, but when would she have told me? Not tonight, no one could have predicted the plane would break down.

“You’re telling me this now, why?”

“You’re smarter than all of those above you put together. You don’t need them, but they need you. But, you won’t get any concessions, not until you get near the top. By then you will have had to sell your soul to the devil.”

Good to know, on one hand, I was about to see my soul to the devil, and on the other that I was smart, just not smart enough to see the wolves in sheep’s clothing.

I noticed she hadn’t touched the latest glass of champagne. Nor was she the languid barfly she’d pretended to be earlier.

“You’re advice, if I’m listening correctly, is that I should be looking for another job.”

“Actually, you shouldn’t be listening to me at all. Too many drinks and I pontificate. Some people become happy, I become,” she shrugged, “unhappy. Take no notice.” She swung around to the front and picked up the glass.

“OK.” I turned around to look at the departures board to see my flight had been canceled, and I should go to the check-in counter. “My plane is completely broken, so it looks like I’m staying home.”

“Or you could take me to dinner.” She looked sideways again, the bemused expression back.

“Wouldn’t that be inappropriate?”

“Only if you were in upper management, married, and asking me to have an affair. Last I looked you’re not in upper management, not married, so there’s no hint of an affair. For heaven’s sake, it’s only dinner.”

She was right on all counts, and it was only dinner.

“Why not?” I said, more to myself than to her.

“Good. And you’d better get me on the plane too. We need to get that report done, and it’ll be an excuse to stay at a hotel. I know you wouldn’t want to stay in your old room at your parents’ house.”

She was right about that too, I had long outgrown them, and staying at home would only lead to arguments. “How could you possibly know that?”

She smiled. “You talk in your sleep.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

NaNoWriMo 2021 – Day 28

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is NaNoWriMo-WriterBadge-851-2x.png

A score to settle

…

We’re near the end, and I have to say, it has been hard work.

Today I’ve been writing and revising and reading. There are aspects to the flow that are bothering me, and I know I’m supposed to let it mull for a while before I started editing, but I’m like that, I have to do something about it now, not later.

While I’m doing that, I’ve been working on a musical theme for the writing and hit upon the big band sounds of the 1940s and ’50s.

I have always been fascinated by that era of music, particularly Benny Goodman, but not so much the Dorsey brothers.

It’s then led to the final chapter, as I was playing Sing, Sing, Sing, I had the vision, in the ballroom, just our main character, and Teresa, with a few selected guests.

I’m also one of these people who like happy endings to the stories, or at least until the next book in the series starts.

Two days to go and I can rest.

Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll see.

…

Today’s word count: 4,499 words, for the running total of 79,305.