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.”
There’s more to that word ‘line’, a lot more, making it more confusing, especially for those learning English as a second language.
I keep thinking how I could explain some of the sayings, but the fact is, it’s only my interpretation, which could possibly have nothing to do with its real meaning if it has one.
Such as,
Hook, line, and sinker
We would like to think that this is only used in a fishing depot, but while it is generally, there are other meanings, one of which is, a con artist has taken in a victim completely, or as the saying goes, hook, line, and sinker.
At the end of the line
Exactly what it t says though the connotations of this expression vary.
For me, the most common use is when you’re waiting, like for a table in a restaurant with a time-specific reservation, and you see people who arrive after you, getting a table before you, it’s like being continually sent to the end of the line.
Line ball decision
This is a little more obscure, but for me, it means the result could go either way, and it’s a matter of making a call. The problem is both decisions are right, and unfortunately, you’re the poor sod who has to decide.
It of course partners very well with you can’t please everyone all of the time.
These are the most difficult because one side is going to be aggrieved at the decision especially when it is supposed to be impartial and sometimes isn’t.
Get it over the line
This, of course, has many connotations in sport, particularly rugby when the aim is to get the ball over the try line.
But another more vicarious meaning might be from a senior salesman to a junior, get [the sale] over the line, i.e. get it signed sealed and delivered by any means possible by close of business.
Line of credit
A more straight forward use of the word, meaning the bank will extend credit up to a certain limit, but it’s generally quite large and can feel like its neverending.
Television is a great recorder of the past, and most channels, and especially cable tv have great libraries of films that go back more than a hundred years.
And, whilst it’s possible that modern-day films and television series can try to recapture the past, the English as an exception being very good at it, often it is impossible to capture it correctly.
But, if you have a film shot in the moment, then you have a visual record of what life, and what was once part of our world before you in all its dated glory. The pity of it is that, then, we never appreciated it.
After all, in those particular times, who had the time to figuratively stop and smell the roses. Back then as life was going on, we were all tied up with just trying to get through each day.
Years later, often on reflection, we try to remember the old days, and, maybe, remember some of what it was like, but the chances are that change came far too rapidly, and often too radical, that it erases what we thought we knew existed before.
My grandmother’s house is a case in point. In its place is a multi-lane superhighway, and there’s nothing left to remind us, or anyone of it, just some old sepia photographs.
I was reminded of how volatile history really is when watching an old documentary, in black and white, and how the city I grew up in used to look.
Then, even though it seemed large to me then, it was a smaller city, with suburbs that stretched about ten or so miles in every direction, and the outer suburbs were where people moved to get a larger block, and countrified atmosphere.
Now, those outer suburbs are no longer spacious properties, the acreage subdivided and the old owners now much richer for a decision made with profit not being the motivator, and the current suburban sprawl is now out to forty or fifty miles.
The reason for the distance is no longer the thought of open spaces and cleaner air, the reason for moving now is that land further out is cheaper, and can make buying that first house more affordable.
This is where I tip my hat to the writers of historical fiction. I myself am writing a story based in the 1970s, and it’s difficult to find what is and isn’t time-specific.
If only I had a dollar for every time I went to write the character pulling out his or her mobile phone.
What I’ve found is the necessity to research, and this has amounted to finding old films, documentaries of the day, and a more fascinating source of information, the newspapers of the day.
The latter especially has provoked a lot of memories and a lot of stuff I thought I’d forgotten, some of it by choice, but others that were poignant.
Yes, and don’t get me started on the distractions.
Most children, when they turn 18, or 21, get a car as a present for their birthday. In fact, I had been hoping, in my case, they would buy me a Ferrari, or at the very least, an Alfa Romeo, blue to match my older sister’s red.
Hope is a horrible thing to hang on to.
Instead, I got a seat at the table.
Not an actual seat but joined the other 7 family members that comprised the management group for the family-run business. One would retire to make way for new blood, as they called it.
“This is how it works and has done for a hundred years. In your case, you will be replacing Grandma Gwen. You will be given an area to manage, and you will be expected to work hard, and set an example to your employees. There will be no partying, no staying home when you feel like it, and definitely no getting into trouble. And for the first three years, you will sit, be quiet, listen and learn. One day, down the track, you will become the CEO.”
“If we’re still in business.” It didn’t take much to see that the company was struggling, as indeed many others were in the same industry, cheap imports and changing tastes taking a huge toll.
But we had been making exclusive and distinctive furniture for a long, long time, and discerning people who wanted a reminder of an elegant past still bought it. Part of my training, before I got that seat, was to learn the trade, and like all members of my family, could build a chair from start to finish.
It was part of the mantra, lead by example.
…
On the second day in my new role as manager, I arrived at the office, grandma Gwen was throwing the last of 50 years’ worth of stuff into three large boxes.
It was no surprise that she was resentful at being ousted to make way for me, not that she needed the money, but because even approaching 90, the last thing she wanted to do was retire.
I got the cold stare when she saw me, and, on her way out, a parting shot, “Don’t get comfortable, sonny, they’ll be closing the doors in three months, even sooner. Your father hasn’t a clue how to run the place.”
Out on the factory floor, the eight specialist workers didn’t exactly give her the goodbye I expected, showing that she didn’t have their respect. The foreman, Gary, the man who had shown me the intricacies of the work, opened and closed the door for her, shrugged, and headed back to the office.
The others went back to work.
When he came into the office, his expression changed from disappointment to amusement. He had said, years ago when I was very young, I’d be sitting in that office one.
Now I was there, though the chair, plush and comfortable when new about 50 years ago, was now as old and tired as the office’s previous owner, was hardly a selling point for the job.
“Told you you’d be sitting in that chair one day. That day is here.”
“Maybe not for long, though.”
“Don’t pay no mind to Gwenny. She and your father never got along. She wanted to sell the business 20 years ago when it was worth something, but your Dad wanted to keep the worker’s jobs. It’ll be a different story in a few years, once we’ve all gone. No one wants to be an artisan anymore. And wires, it’s all about furniture in boxes, all veneer and plastic, and a two tear life.”
“Shouldn’t we get a slice of the veneer and plastic market?”
“Can’t beat the overseas factories at their own game. The trick is to diversify, but to do that we’d need to retool, and repurpose factory space and that costs money, big money.”
With all that stuff I learned at University, economics, management, and design, it might have been better to have taken the medical path, but I had been convinced to lay the groundwork to take over the company one day.
Back then, it wasn’t a possibility the company would not go on forever. It seemed odd to me that my father hadn’t said anything about the situation Gary knew so well. Did he not listen to those who knew most?
“So, what’s the solution?”
“That depends on you.”
This was not the job I signed up for.
What did I know about furniture?
It didn’t matter.
It was about manufacturing in a world economy, and the point was, that we could not compete. Like the car industry, there was nothing but foreign imports and rebadged imported items made overseas.
So what was my role?
I was sure that every conclusion I had come to, everyone else around the table was painfully aware of too. A short discussion with my elder sister confirmed it.
It was like being aboard the Titanic and watching it sink firsthand.
That seat at the table was in an ancient wood-paneled room with a huge table that seated 24, a table and matching chairs reputedly hand made by the first owner of the company, my so-many times great grandfather, Erich.
The room reeked of wood polish, the mustiness of age, and a deep vein of tradition. Paintings on the walls were of every CEO the company had, and the first time I was in that room was the unveiling of my father’s portrait.
It was like stepping into a time warp.
Alison, my father’s PA was just finishing up setting the table for the meeting that morning. She had Bern around for a long time, so long I could remember her when I was a child.
She looked over as I stepped into the room.
“You’re just a little early.”
“Just making sure I know where I’m going.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No. It won’t be much different from sitting down to a family dinner, only a few less than normal, and I suspect there won’t be too many anecdotes.”
“It can be quite serious, but your father prefers to keep it light, and short. Your grandfather on the other hand loved to torture the numbers with long-winded speeches and religious tracts.”
Small mercy then.
“Where do I sit?”
“Down the end in the listen and don’t speak seat. It’s where all new members sit for the first year.”
That was twice I’d been told.
There were eight family members, the seven others I knew well, some better than others. I’d seen arguments, words said that were better unsaid, accusations, and compliments. I’d seen them at their best and at their worst.
It would be interesting to see how they got along in this room.
It started with an introduction and mild applause at my anointment to the ‘board’.
Then the captain of the Titanic my father as the current CEO, read out the agenda.
No icebergs expected, just plain sailing.
I sat, and I listened. It was easy to see why it was plain sailing. The family had made its wealth generations ago when our products were in high demand, and we had been living off the wealth generated by astute investment managers.
But even so, the business could not keep going the way it was without being an ever-decreasing drain on resources.
We needed a plan for the future.
“Now, if there’s no more business…” My father looked around the table, his expression telling everyone there was no more business, and stopped at me.
Was that my cue?
“I’m sorry, but I can’t sit here and pretend this place isn’t going to hell in a handbasket.”
“It may or it may not be, but that is none of your concern.”
The tone more than suggested that I should stop, right now. Of course, if I had the sense expected of me I would have, but if I was going to make a contribution, I might as well start now.
“Do you have any idea what’s going on here? We need a plan for the future, we need to be doing something.”
All eyes were on me.
I’d never seen my father so angry. At that moment I thought I’d pushed it a little too hard. To be honest I don’t know what came over me.
He glared at me for a full minute. Then as if a thought came to me that moment, there was a slight change in expression.
“Then, I have a proposition for you. I want you to work on this plan you say we need to have, what you think will be best for the company, and the family, for everyone, for the future. I believe everyone here will agree on something, as you say, that needs to be done.”
There were nods all around the table.
Then, looking directly at me, he said, “if there is nothing else. Good. Our business is done.”
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.
“Why are we still here,” Boggs asked.
A small crowd had gathered to watch the police, some vocal about them finally doing what they should have some time ago. Very few people liked Rico and rumours were rife about his alleged participation in trafficking drugs.
The fact the current Sherriff hadn’t arrested him before now was said to be because he was corrupt, but nobody would say so out loud. I felt sorry for the Sherriff because my mother said he had made it quite clear he was not working for anyone but the city that employed him, and that no one was above the law.
But I’d only heard one person question why he was not here, using the event as part of his campaign for re-election.
“Curiosity,” I said.
“About what. I thought the situation explained itself. Rico’s finally been caught red-handed.”
“I’m not so sure/it was him. Were you watching the boat the whole time when you were waiting for me?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you were, you would have seen him on the boat, join the others and leave. Did it look like they were killing a man below deck?”
How the hell should I know? As you said, it was below deck.”
“But the boat would have been moving, well, the mast really.”
“With the wash coming towards it from the fools who drive their boats too fast. Good luck with that. Do you want Rico to get off, and then come terrorize us. That’s what’s going to happen if they let him go.”
“I don’t think so.”
Despite his protestations, Boggs was as interested in what was unfolding as I was. Only I suspect he wanted to see Rico locked up, if possible, forever. Quite a few people would, and none more than the Benderby’s.
Boggs might not realise it, but his quest for the treasure was at the heart of this. Had Rico tried to double-cross the Benderby’s? He was trying to get Nadia to steal the map from Rico, and perhaps Rico had discovered Benderby was trying to cut him out of the deal.
Had Rico threatened them, and was this how they rep[aid disloyalty?
Or was it my original thought, that the Benderby’s were looking for an easy target?
“I’m going. Coming?” Boggs had lost interest.
“No. Not yet. I want to see what Alex is going to do.”
“Alex Benderby? What’s he doing here?”
“He just conveniently arrived on his father’s boat, which means he wasn’t very far away.”
“Of course not. They’ve been having engine troubles for the last month. They were probably out testing the repairs.”
“How do you know that?”
“Rico. He thinks it’s hilarious they spent so much money on that boat and haven’t got a full day of sailing out of it. More money than sense, that lot.”
I looked in the direction of Alex’s boat and he was coming ashore. So were the divers, now out of their suits and dressed casually, and for the sake of looking normal, with three women, one of whom looked like Nadia.
“Anyway, I’ve decided,” he said, “we’re doing this treasure hunt on our own. I don’t trust anyone but you. It was a mistake thinking Alex would help. Call me tomorrow when you’re free. We have to start planning.”
“OK.”
I didn’t see him leave. I was too busy watching the group with Alex. It was Nadia, and she was looking very cosy next to him.
That tangled web being woven by Sebastian’s boss, Worthington, is getting more sticky by the moment. After reading the John is not given any other option other than to get on a plane and head off to Zoe’s last known location, with Worthington peering over his shoulder waiting to pounce.
Sebastian knows something is up, because he has people watching John and knows he’s on the move, strategically calling the moment John leaves Worthington’s office.
John is getting into spy mode, and lies to Sebastian, not for the first time, and it was something he was going to have to get used to.
Meanwhile, Zoe comes face to face with Romanov, and it’s not the person she thought he was, and hardly the sort she would associate with Alistair’s mother or top KGB.
But he had got her profile and has taken all the necessary countermeasures so that she does not escape, or if she does, will not get very far.
There’s torture but no answers, she’s been here before, and in-between time to consider her options.
This might be a more interesting situation to get out of.
…
Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon once again black and blue, 3,989 words, for a total of 26,242.
The thing is, we had all been taken in, and no one, well, there was one person who had an inkling, but I didn’t take her seriously, simply because it was the girl who cried wolf once too often.
And, consequently, the ramifications could have been very serious.
Was that the price for deciding to take people at face value, that we would eventually discover their true nature before it was too late?
I’d lived in a house full of people who trusted no one, and who was always prepared to believe the worst in people.
My parents trusted no one and consequently suffered relatively lonely lives.
My sister, Davina, was not so bad but underlying every decision that was to do with people, she would have them investigated within an inch of their lives, and that too, had been very costly for her, especially when they found out. It ended three marriages and estranged two of her three children.
As for me, I made the decision not to be like them, and it had served me well. By and large, everyone I knew and had dealings with was fine. But even with this happy-go-lucky attitude, I still found it difficult to find what one might call the woman of my dreams.
That’s why, when Helen appeared one night at a party I’d only just decided to go to at the last minute, I thought my luck had changed.
How do you ‘run into’ the one? Was it an accidental bump, excuse me, and then a lingering look as she sashays off, or is it reaching for the same glass of champagne, with the consequent touching of hands?
There are an infinite variety of ‘first’ moments, moments that left lingering thoughts of ‘who was that woman?”
There is that thought, could it have been a contrivance to get my attention? If it was, it did.
It was a large banquet hall, and there were plenty of places to hide, and I wasn’t particularly interested in staying until our paths crossed. But was my curiosity enough to make a move?
To begin with, it was not.
I shrugged it off as a one-off moment, something to remember from an unremarkable gala that proved, once I arrived, why I had been hesitating in the first place.
Old people displaying their wealth, young people flirting with the rich and famous. I was, perhaps, a little rich, but definitely not famous, hence the reason why a bevy of eligible girls was not beating a path to my door.
There were three others of my ilk there who fitted that bill and willingly took the heat for me. One, Augustus, last name unpronounceable, had that Latin, dark, sultry look going, sauntered over after he had witnessed the ‘meeting’.
“I see you’ve met Helen?”
“She stole my drink.”
“All part of the plan, Ian. She just tossed away another of the pretenders, and if you play your cards right, you might be the next.”
“Pretender?”
His smirk was imprinted on his face and never changed, amused, or annoyed. “You know you can be such a prat sometimes.”
It had been said, more than once. “Do I want to play my cards right?”
“She is interested in a mysterious way. I asked her out, but she seemed disinterested, and as you know, I only ask once. Aside from that, we want to know who she is, really.”
“And you think she’ll tell me?”
“You’re not a player, Ian, and have that perfect aloofness thing going, one that can drive a certain type of girl crazy. I think she’s one of them.”
“Then how do I find her?”
He shook his head. “That’s not how this will be played. She has to come to you. Aloof, remember, Ian, aloof. Now, I must be off. Say hello to Davina for me will you?”
He’d seen her crossing the room and had no interest in sparring with her. For some reason, she just didn’t like him. Or was that because he spurned her? I never could get an answer from her.
Aloof.
I could do aloof, though I was not sure how that would seem interesting to a woman like her.
Aside from my belief that as beautiful as her would be remotely interested in me, aside perhaps from the family wealth that one day I would inheritance s point Davina took great pains to remind me.
And that was something I wasn’t looking forward to.
There was an art to mingling at these affairs, on one hand, the obligatory meet and greet of our contemporaries, deference to our peers, letting them know we were upholding the proper values, and respect as was warranted by our position, and on the other, a casual greeting to those who were on the fringe of our society.
I’d learn the lessons from Davina when she deemed it I was ready, but the truth is, no matter what age you are, you’re never ready for this.
There was a third category, those that came up to you, wishing to make an acquaintance, whether it was for publicity, or for prestige, it was impossible to tell, then and there, sometimes it was a matter of reading the social pages to find out how your name gad been taken in vain.
I preferred not to talk to any of them unless it was absolutely necessary.
Or someone you knew brought them to you, which then, out of deference to them, sometimes put you on the spot.
Nnn chose that path, selecting another person who was known to me, Alison Burkwater, a rare, unbiased reporter, to slip in under the radar.
Not realizing I was the eventual target, I watched them stroll through the crowded floor, stopping momentarily for an introduction, or a polite exchange, Alison gathering information for her next article before they headed in my direction.
I was with one of my father’s oldest friends, Jacob, his wife, Mary, and one of their three daughters, Amy, whom I knew would be pleased if we were together, but fate seemed to keep us apart.
I watched Helen, almost entranced by the fluid motion she moved, reminding me of a cat just before it pounced on unsuspecting prey until she was standing in front of me, unaware that Alison was speaking.
“This is Helen Dunbar, over from England, checking us Americans out as the British do.”
She then introduced each of us, leaving me till last, deliberately.
Each had a comment, or a question, so when it came to me, I asked, “Holiday or business?”
In my experience, they usually said both, but if she was here, it was business, making contacts, getting a feel for the market. Perhaps even at this age, I’d become cynical
“Both.”
Suspicion confirmed. “But I hear you are an unofficial tour guide, and I am in need of someone to show me this great city.”
Flattery, no doubt. And a smile from Alison, a nod to the time when she had written a bad piece about the city, and I took the trouble to prove otherwise.
To one side I heard Jacob excuse himself, and the others left with him. Alison’s job done, she left us together. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Davina deep in conversation with the family’s head of security.
Davina had so little faith in me.
“Perhaps that might be a topic we could discuss over coffee later?”
“Tonight?”
“Unless you’re otherwise engaged?”
“No.”
There was a slight exodus from the main hall, an indication that unusual for a gala like this, there would be dancing. It was a pet pastime of the host, an orchestra had been commissioned, and it was to be a nod to the old days.
“Do you dance,” I asked?
“It was part of my finishing school curriculum that nearly finished me in more ways than one. Long story, but yes.”
“Would you like to lead a poor boy around the floor and make him look good?”
She smiled. “I know you are pulling my leg, but I’ll bite.” She held out her hand, “Take me away before I change my mind “
Dancing was a social etiquette that was forced on me, and I was, for a long time, dreadful at it. It was only in my last year of middle school that a girl by the name of Wendy Whiles took the nervous bumbler with two left feet onto something that might make Fred Astaire proud.
She also introduced me to other more interesting things teenagers did, albeit in the comfort of a very expensive hotel suite, rather than in the back of a car. I thought I’d loved her, but she was not interested in wealth and fame, and I didn’t blame her, though I still insisted someone paid her a large sum of money to break off whatever we didn’t have going.
All her lessons paid off, and I found myself almost floating on air as we waltzed around the floor deftly avoiding the others brave enough to take to the dance floor.
“Do you do this often,” she asked, not long into the routine.
“No.”
“You dance well.”
“Only when I’m not talking. Arthur Murray didn’t include how to handle chatty girls on the dance floor.”
Any other girl I was sure would have been insulted. I could be like that sometimes. I called it being blunt.
“A new experience then.”
“Can’t count and talk at the same time?”
“And yet you dance so well.”
“Flattery will get you only so far.”
We finished in silence, and I thought I had ruined my opportunity, though for what was questionable. I should have been content to dance with one of the most beautiful girls at the ball.
She took my hand as we left the dance floor and headed toward the bar. That walk felt natural, holding hands, and the feeling there was a connection between us. She had not forced it, I had not looked for it, it had just happened.
She drank club soda. She said she didn’t drink alcohol, and it seemed logical. She was effervescent enough without any aids, unlike some of my friends who needed drugs and copious quantities of alcohol to get into a ‘groove’. I could take it or leave it and did the latter.
We picked a quiet corner.
“Why are you really here?” I asked. Start with the hard questions first.
“Sometime told me about this rich, handsome, bored young man who hates galas, and the mating rituals that go with them.”
“And yet here you are?”
“Secretly,” she whispered, “my real name is Rapunzel, I escaped from a tower, and am here to rescue anyone who needs rescuing. Do you need rescuing?”
I did, but I did not want to incur Davina’s wrath. And then I thought about the possibility, that she might just be bait for something more sinister. It was improbable, but Davina had impressed on me that there were a lot of nasty people in the world, and sometimes it was hard to see through the facades.
If she was evil, then it came beautifully gift wrapped.
“Rescue does involve a rather full-on security detail as well, and, the filling out of paperwork that would take till dawn to do.”
“I assume then, that weedy little man pretending to have a quiet drink over there is one of them.”
She nodded in his direction, and I recognized him instantly. “Warren. Dangerous as a cut snake. Even I keep my distance from him.”
Another glance, impassive expression, it would be interesting what she was thinking at that moment.
“So, what do you do for fun?”
“An occasional waltz with the most beautiful girl at the gala.”
“And…?”
“My life is ruled by responsibility. If you’re looking for fun, there are six other very eligible young men here that will be happy to fete you, and indulge your wildest dreams?”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” There was an invitation there, for what, I suspect would be whatever I wanted, but Davina’s voice was well and truly planted in my head. If it’s too good to be true…
I smiled wanly and finished my drink. “That is a luxury that I can only dream about. Thank you for the few brief moments of possibilities.”
Not an hour later, from a distance, I saw two men in civilian suits escorting her out of the building. There was no disguising their true identities, ex-military, or military police.
Odd for a girl that looked like her to be involved with such people.
A few minutes later Davina appeared beside me. “I could have told you that girl was trouble.”
“Looking at her, I thought the exact opposite.”
“You need to be more careful.”
“Warren was there. I’m sure he could handle her. I made sure I was in a position where if trouble came it would have to pass him, and I have the taser in my pocket. What was her crime.”
“None apparently. Some high-ranking Generals’ daughter out for a lark. Now come back and talk to Amy.”
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.
As we all stood either on or off the boat, two things were clear to me. The first, Rico’s genuine surprise at finding the body on his boat, and the second, how quickly the authorities had circled in for the kill.
I know calling 911 was supposed to get a rapid response to dire situations, but to get from the police station to the pier would take at least five minutes longer than it had, and that was breaking all the speed limits.
I might be jumping to conclusions, but someone wanted Rico to be found with an unexplainable body. His recently departed friend’s maybe?
Johnson waited until the officer off the boat had finished his call, and asked, “What are we doing here?”
It was now obvious the men on the boat was either state police, the coast guard, or some Federal branch-like FBI or, if Rico was suspected of dealing or trafficking drugs, the DEA.
“Take him into custody. Some of our people will be along to sit in on the questioning. This is an FBI crime scene and we’ll take it from here.”
“These two?” Johnson nodded in our direction.
“They’ve just found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cut them loose, they have nothing to do with this, other than to contaminate our crime scene.”
And that was it, more men, this time in white overalls, came up from below the deck of the newly arrived boat and came over. Crime scene investigators.
Johnson grabbed both of us by the scruff of the neck and shoved us in the direction of the shore. “Get out of here before I find something to charge you with.”
Neither of us waited to be told a second time. We were lucky, very lucky.
And Johnson was not happy his investigation had been pulled from under him. He needed a case like this to enhance his prospects for the upcoming election for the new Sherriff.
On dry land again I stopped and turned to look back at the boat, and Rico, now handcuffed and guarded.
In the background something else caught my attention, slowly cruising past the unfolding scene aboard Rico’s boat. A large ocean-going yacht, one that was owned by the Benderby’s. With Alex standing at the back of the bridge looking at Rico’s boat, and two others at the stern, dressed in what looked like diving suits, putting equipment away.
Even from this far away I could see the smug expression on his face.
No prizes then, for guessing how the police got an early warning.
Equally so for guessing who it was most likely to dump a body on a boat and have someone else take the rap for it. I had no doubt that a quantity of drugs would be found in some hidey-hole on Rico’s boat where he usually stashed the drugs he picked up from out in the sea lanes. A win-win, for law enforcement on many levels, and Benderby.
The question then I needed an answer to was, who was the dead man, and what was his relationship with the Benderby’s. I think I was now certain Rico had no idea who the man was, or why he was found on his boat, dead.
I’m working on the latest book and it is not going well. I don’t have writer’s block, I think it is more a case of self-doubt, laced with a healthy dose of second-guessing. It’s why I can’t concentrate.
It’s why I’m thinking about the next story and not staying on track.
This leads me to be over critical of what I have written and much pressing of the delete key.
Then …
only to realize that an action taken in haste can be regrettable, and makes me feel even more depressed when I realize the deletions are irrecoverable.
Damn.
That is not supposed to happen because the great God Microsoft told me that auto save was running.
But, it appears even God’s can’t save deleted data if it is ‘in between’ saves.
I think I’d be happier in a garret somewhere channeling van Gogh’s rage.
Lesson learned – don’t delete in haste or anger or when tired, save it to a text file so it can be retrieved when sanity returns.
I was not happy with the previous start. Funny about that, because until a few weeks ago I thought the start was perfect.
What a difference a week makes or is that politics?
Perhaps I should consider adding some political satire.
But I digress…
It seems it’s been like that for a few weeks now, not being able to stick to the job in hand, doing anything but what I’m supposed to be doing. I recognize the restlessness, I’m not happy with the story as it is, so rather than getting on with it, I find myself writing words just for the sake of writing words.
Any words are better than none, right?
So I rewrote the start, added about a hundred pages and now I have to do a mass of rewriting of what was basically the whole book.
But here’s the thing.
This morning I woke up and looked at the new start, and it has inspired me.
Perhaps all I needed was several weeks of teeth gnashing, and self doubt to get myself back on track.
And, perhaps that first cup of coffee in the morning!
So there are words on paper, and three times I’ve tried to fix it, or, perhaps just make it sound better because reading it in my head, there’s too little background and too many questions.
The flow of the story isn’t working for me, so I guess it’s time to sit down and work out what it is I’m trying to say.
The notion that our main character, Graham, is a loser seems to shine through, and that’s not what I’m trying to portray him as. No, far from it, it’s been a lifetime of bad choices that have put him where he is, and he knows it.
So, in part, this is about owning your mistakes, and it’s my job to make him come across as a hero in waiting. There’s good in him, perhaps too much, but there is also that attitude that led to all those bad choices, the one that can get him into trouble, and a sort of intransigence inherited from his father, that has more or less got him ostracised from the family.
I want this character to be a chop off the old block, both of whom are the type not to back down, not to say sorry, and, to quote a rather apt allegory, would cut their nose off to spite their face.
Graham’s intransigence led to his refusal to follow his father into business, refusal to go to University despite having the necessary qualifications, and just to round out the defiance, his choice of women whom he knew would meet with family disapproval.
And these factors, over a period of time, saw him bounce from a low-paying job to jobs with no prospects, and a string of failed relationships, until this moment in time, where he was basically on his own, working the graveyard shift as a security guard. The sort of job where qualifications weren’t looked for and workmates looked like and probably were ex-cons.
There are a few more details like the older brother, Jackson, politician and schemer, the same as his father before him (the seat was passed down through the family), like the younger sister who is a highly successful surgeon, married into immense wealth. His brother had been less successful in the marital stakes but what he lacked in a wife was more than made up with a string of highly eligible and beautiful women.
And, no, he doesn’t resent the fact they’re rich, or that his parents were, too, just that they treated him with contempt.
It was almost five years since the last time he had seen any of them, that last time he attended the family Christmas in Martha’s Vineyard, the ‘Stockdale Residence’ an ostentatious sprawling fifty-room mansion that, in a drunken rage, he’s tried to burn down.
Once again, he had not received an invitation to the next, due in a few days, and it was not entirely unexpected.
Graham has his faults, but that even, five years ago, had pulled him off the road to self-destruction, helped along by a year stint in jail where he learned a great many lessons about life itself, and survival.
The four years since?
A lot of regrets, and a lot of repentance. Life after jail was a lot worse than life trying to defy the family and the system. There were two roads he could have gone down, and thankfully for him, it was not the wrong one.
So, he’s back on the path, a whole lot wiser, a whole lot tougher.
That might not have been exactly what I was thinking for him over the first three attempts. I don’t think any character really begins to shine until halfway through, as you find him meeting various challenges in ways even you, as the writer, find quite unexpected.
Is that the end result of being a pantser over being a planner?
I don’t think, even as a planner, you can create a character that’s not going to change, or even surprise you, as the story evolves.
And somehow I don’t think I’m about to change from one to the other.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 