This is countryside somewhere inside the Lamington National Park in Queensland. It was one of those days where the rain come and went…
We were spending a week there, in the middle of nowhere on a working macadamia farm in a cottage, one of four, recuperating from a long exhausting lockdown.
It was not cold, and we were able to sit out of the verandah for most of the day, watching the rain come and pass over on its way up the valley, listing to the gentle pitter-patter of the rain on the roof and nearby leaves.
But as for inspiration:
This would be the ideal setting for a story about life, failed romance, or a couple looking to find what it was they lost.
It could be a story about recovering from a breakdown, or a tragic loss, to be anywhere else but in the middle of dealing with the constant reminders of what they had.
It could be a safe house, and as we all know, safe houses in stories are rarely safe houses, where it is given away by someone inside the program, or the person who it’s assigned to give it away because they can’t do as they’re supposed to; lay low.
Then there’s camping, the great outdoors, for someone who absolutely hates being outdoors, or those who go hunting, and sometimes become the hunted.
This is countryside somewhere inside the Lamington National Park in Queensland. It was one of those days where the rain come and went…
We were spending a week there, in the middle of nowhere on a working macadamia farm in a cottage, one of four, recuperating from a long exhausting lockdown.
It was not cold, and we were able to sit out of the verandah for most of the day, watching the rain come and pass over on its way up the valley, listing to the gentle pitter-patter of the rain on the roof and nearby leaves.
But as for inspiration:
This would be the ideal setting for a story about life, failed romance, or a couple looking to find what it was they lost.
It could be a story about recovering from a breakdown, or a tragic loss, to be anywhere else but in the middle of dealing with the constant reminders of what they had.
It could be a safe house, and as we all know, safe houses in stories are rarely safe houses, where it is given away by someone inside the program, or the person who it’s assigned to give it away because they can’t do as they’re supposed to; lay low.
Then there’s camping, the great outdoors, for someone who absolutely hates being outdoors, or those who go hunting, and sometimes become the hunted.
This is rugged bushland not far from suburbia, though you wouldn’t know exactly where it is just by looking at the photograph
But, for the writer, this is an excellent setting.
For instance, once again we are out wandering in the bush, lost. It’s not hard to get lost, and stay lost if there are no recognizable landmarks, and given we all walk with a bias to one side or the other, and we have to avoid objects like trees, ravines, animals, and rocks, keeping a straight line is impossible.
But the question is, how did you get into the bush in the first place?
It’s not as if you would deliberately go there, just to if you can get lost.
No, my idea is that you have been kidnapped and drugged, then taken to a location either in the book of a car or just in the back seat with a hood, then dropped off and left to die
The criminals in this story are more efficient in getting rid of pesky witnesses.
Or maybe it’s something less sinister, like going out and counting the koalas in the bush, well, what’s left of the bush as the suburban spray takes more and more of the koala’s habitat.
And it could also be like the planet of the apes, the koalas start fighting back.
At that moment, when my expectations were completely trashed, and there was a great deal riding on it, words could not express my disappointment.
Michael had the better end of the deal. Being second-born meant that avoided all of the family’s hopes and expectations that fell on me, that I would carry on the business, as our father had, his father before him, going back six generations.
Without any of the expectations loaded on his shoulders, he got to live a free and easy lifestyle, one with little responsibility, some of which o would have liked to have myself.
Then there was the problem where my father, not quite the businessman as those before him, had made a number of dubious decisions, leading us down the path that almost closed the business down, and had only just found the financing to keep it afloat when he died suddenly.
It left me in charge of what could have been a sinking ship, but, as I unraveled the complexities of the deal he had made, it soon became clear he had made a deal with the devil himself.
And fort eight hours before that missed drop-off, I had finally discovered all of the connections through countless shell companies to arrive at the person from whom he had secured the funding.
Walter Amadeus Winthrop.
A man whom my father had hated because he had stolen away the only woman he had ever loved, a man who was in the business of stealing other people’s companies, ideas, products, and people because he could.
And he wanted our company, simply so he could destroy my father a second time.
There was no doubting the reason why my father had died. He had found out who had supplied the funding.
I had the evidence that linked Winthrop to dirty dealings and promised to get it to the DA’s office by a particular time, but a previous and more pressing appointment meant I couldn’t be in two places at once, so I sent Michael on my place.
It had been time-sensitive and having missed the deadline to tender the documents in court, the case lapsed, and Winthrop, who had been arraigned many times before and got away for lack of evidence, or witnesses, survived yet again.
…
It wasn’t out of the question that Michael had been kidnapped by Winthrop’s people, but I didn’t think it was possible they knew about him, simply because as part of his distancing from the family he had taken our mother’s birth surname.
I rang his cell phone, and it went to his voice mail. That was not really a concern because he rarely answered the phone the first time, especially if I was calling him.
Next, I called his latest girlfriend, not the usual sort of girl he dated, and quite a surprise given her sobriety and work ethic. She was, I thought more than once, the sort of girl I’d like to meet.
“He’s not here. I assume he made it to the meeting?”
“He didn’t.”
“But that can be possible. I went with him until outside the front door of the building. I saw him go in, talk to the reception, and then get taken up in the elevator.”
“Then we have a mystery on our hands. He hasn’t called me to say it’s done, and as usual not answering his phone.”
“That’s just for you. If I call… I’ll call you back.”
I waited for five minutes, then my phone rang. Katherine again.
“He’s not answering for me either, and that is very unusual. Did you talk to others at the meeting?”
“Yes, they just said he didn’t turn up, but I have another thought. Leave it with me.”
A call to the DA’s office sent an assistant down to the front desk, where it was established, that Michael had signed in, and the officer that remembers him could recall the name of or describe the person who came and collected him.
But he had gone there as I’d requested and was beginning to look like Winthrop obviously had someone in the DAs office keeping him informed on what was happening.
Which meant, Winthrop’s people had taken him.
It was a development I hadn’t entirely unexpected.
…
This was my first time on what was known as a superyacht. Really, it was slightly smaller than an ocean liner, and the grand tour showed fifteen staterooms, a dining room, a games room, a ballroom, well a small one, and various other rooms that were as remarkable as they were mysterious.
For a laugh, I said it was missing a library.
I was promptly corrected.
My host, the owner’s daughter, Sylvia, no last name given or asked for, had promised a visit and passing by after picking up the vessel after some repairs, she collected me by helicopter, and took me straight to the ship.
I was taking in some sea sir, trying to make sense of what just happened, and get some sea air.
“You look unhappy, Jake.”
“My brother has gone missing. He was delivering some documents for me and never arrived. While it’s like him not to finish anything he starts, this time I know that, at the very least, he made it to the building.”
“That seems very strange.”
“Not when you factor in who the documents were about.”
I’d told her some of the history over a few drinks, perhaps more than I should.
“I’m sure you’ll discover what happened soon enough. Chef tells me lunch is ready.” She held out her hand, “come, dine with me.”
We went into the dining room and sat. Two waiters in full livery attended us, serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
That’s when my phone rang.
And Sylvia said, quietly, “put it on loudspeaker, on the table.”
The tone was insistent and worried me. The call was from Michael’s phone. He was simply calling me back. Just the same, I did as she asked.
I said, “Michael?”
“Is that Jake?”
“Put my father on the phone, Ari.” Sylvia looked as though she knew who it was.
I looked over at the woman I knew as Sylvia. She was supposed to be a representative of another company in the same business we were, and I’d met her at a business conference in Miami, a few months back. That she would turn out to be something else wasn’t the surprise I thought it would be.
It wasn’t long before I began to think I’d been seeing the daughter of the man who I believe killed my father.
“He’s not here.”
“Tell him I’ll sink this tub he sent me to get if he doesn’t get his ass on the phone now.” Not angry but laced with intent.
Silence.
I was going to say something, but I think words failed me. What could I say, if she was a Winthrop, his success in destroying us was complete?
I just sat in silence.
Then, “What are you doing Sylvie?”
I assumed that voice belonged to her father, the infamous Winthrop himself.
“You shouldn’t have let me go to explosives school. Oh, that’s right, you did know. So much you don’t know about me. I’ve wired this yacht Dad, and I will sink it. I’m sure mom will be impressed.”
I heard a sigh. Was he trying to deal with an errant daughter? Was she crazy? She certainly had a lot of talents, piloting helicopters, and making bombs; was there a stint in the military somewhere in her resume.
“What do you want, Sylvie.”
“Stop pissing off my boyfriend.”
“Jake? Have you been dating Jake,”
“In a manner of speaking. Since he hates the family so much and given what you just did, I’m not surprised, and I’ve been trying to figure out a way to tell him. But kidnapping his brother? Not a way to impress him Dad or give me a usable Segway.”
“You do know Jake is helping the authorities put me in jail. That’s not going to happen.”
“I don’t care what your issues are with the authorities, but if you’re worried that the evidence Michael had will have you prosecuted, then you have lied to me, and I told you what would happen if I found out you lied to me.”
“You’re just a child.”
“Whose got a penchant for blowing up things. I’ll start with this boat, then I’ll move on to bigger and better things, like your car collection. I’m thoroughly pissed off myself now.”
Silence.
“What do you really want?”
“Give them their company back. You don’t need it. Get Ari to take Michael home and apologize for making a mistake.”
“And the documents?”
“Burn them for all I care. You’re going to make a very generous investment in their company, and then never bother them again.”
“And the ship?”
“Just hope I’m in a good mood in a few hours’ time after lunch, and Jake doesn’t jump overboard to get away from me.”
“OK. Your mother is waiting for you in Venice. Don’t upset her.”
“Why would I? I’m her favorite.”
The line went dead.
“So, Jake, didn’t I tell you I’d fix everything.”
She had, and I’d foolishly thought no one could handle Winthrop. “Would you sink this ship?”
“Hell yes, just to piss him off. Now, where is lunch? Negotiating makes me hungry. And,” she smiled wickedly, “there’s a stateroom with our name on it. You are coming to Venice?”
I guess it really was a matter of who you know, not what you know.
This is the staircase down to the bedroom level of a two-story holiday apartment at the Rosebud Country Club on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria Australia.
It was the first time we stayed there for a long time.
However…
Innocuous stairs leading downwards to a black hole suggest a great many other things, especially if you left your imagination run wild.
For instance:
What if you are an only child being dropped off by your parents at your creepy grandparent’s place in the middle of the woods. Imagine driving up on a cold, wintry, windy, cloudless dark night, and when you get there, this old rambling mansion looks like the coven for witches.
What if when you get to the door this creepy old man who looks more dead than alive answers the door, and when you step over the threshold you hear what seems to be a high-pitched scream coming from outside the house.
What if, when you are being taken up the staircase, every single wooden step creaks or groans, that at the top of the stairs, every painting you pass, the eyes seem to follow you.
What if, when you explore, against the express wishes of your grandfather, you come across a door that leads down into a basement. There has to be some interesting stuff down there, a torture chamber, a medical laboratory with a half-finished Frankenstein, a workshop with coffins stacked in a corner.
I had once said that Grand Central Station, in New York, was large enough you could get lost in it. Especially if you were from out of town.
I know, I was from out of town, and though I didn’t quite get lost, back then I had to ask directions to go where I needed to.
It was also an awe-inspiring place, and whenever I had a spare moment, usually at lunchtime, I would go there and just soak in the atmosphere. It was large enough to make a list of places to visit, or find, or get a photograph from some of the more obscure places.
Today, I was just there to work off a temper. Things had gone badly at work, and even though I hadn’t done anything wrong, I still felt bad about it.
I came in the 42nd street entrance and went up to the balcony that overlooked the main concourse. A steady stream of people was coming and going, most purposefully, a few were loitering, and several police officers were attempting to move on a vagrant. It was not the first time.
But one person caught my eye, a young woman who had made a circuit of the hall, looked at nearly every destination board, and appeared to be confused. It was the same as I had felt when I first arrived.
Perhaps I could help.
The problem was, a man approaching a woman from out of left field would have a very creepy vibe to it, so it was probably best left alone.
Another half-hour of watching the world go by, I had finally got past the bad mood and headed back to work. I did a wide sweep of the main concourse, perhaps more for the exercise than anything else, and had reached the clock in the center of the concourse when someone turned suddenly and I crashed into them.
Not badly, like ending up on the floor, but enough for a minor jolt. Of course, it was my fault because I was in another world at that particular moment.
“Oh, I am sorry.” A woman’s voice, very apologetic.
I was momentarily annoyed, then, when I saw who it was, it passed. It was the lost woman I’d seen earlier.
“No. Not your fault, but mine entirely. I have a habit of wandering around with my mind elsewhere.”
Was it fate that we should meet like this?
I noticed she was looking around, much the same as she had before.
“Can I help you?”
“Perhaps you can. There’s supposed to be a bar that dates back to the prohibition era here somewhere. Campbell’s Apartment, or something like that. I was going to ask…”
“Sure. It’s not that hard to find if you know where it is. I’ll take you.”
It made for a good story, especially when I related it to the grandchildren, because the punch line was, “and that’s how I met your grandmother.”
I had, literally, just witnessed the end of the world on the large screen TV.
Live and on CNN.
There had been skirmishes, Russia looking to take back its satellite countries and restore the USSR, and NATO posturing when the leaders of the countries asked for help and received none. Everyone knew what would happen if they did. War.
But, the playing field changed when Russia set it sights on Poland.
Rollback 83 years, the last time a country rolled into Poland. What happened? War.
This time, threats, empty it seemed for a month, and then, yes, we were plunged back into War.
This time, however, everything was different. Yes, wars were once predominantly waged with men and machines. That type of warfare changed when Germany introduced the VI Rocket bombs, a means of remotely bombing selective targets. Hit and miss maybe, but it worked. Last time we had an atomic bomb, or two as it happened.
This time, we had guided missiles, with nuclear warheads, not a hundred, but thousands, deployed all around the world, aimed at selected targets, not necessarily military targets, but civilians.
There were some who thought they could negotiate a peace settlement.
And, in the middle of that, someone pressed the button. You know that infamous button that sends a nuclear weapon on its way.
We all saw it launch, live.
We all saw it land, dodging every defence system in its path, with devastating effect, as the camera melted, and everything just went black. Not one, but all over the world.
It was estimated that the whole world lost a third of its population in four hours, vaporised by missile strikes, and another third would be dead within a month from proximity radiation. The remaining third, when the dust settled, and those who were not in the direct line of fire, well, the weather would soon decimate them.
Us.
We all thought nuclear weapons were just a deterrent.
Now, well, it was too late to think about anything. We were, as I just heard on the TV, all going to die from the fallout. It was only a matter of time before it reached us. Then, according to the expert, we would all end up with radiation poisoning and die.
I was fortunate enough to live on one of the most southern parts of Australia, a small town by the name of Cockle Creek, Tasmania. Even though I had never heard of it until overwhelmed by the loss of my wife, I wanted to hide from the world, and Cockle Creek was just the place.
Now, for a while, it was going to be a haven.
Before the storm clouds arrived.
I switched off the TV, and most likely wouldn’t be turning it back on. There wasn’t going to be any good news, and I really didn’t want to know how long we had left. I put several bottles of red wine, some cheese, bread, and meat into a bag, and headed down to the beach.
It was part of a secluded part of the shore that backed onto a half dozen houses, and on rare occasions, the neighbours appeared, spoke briefly and went about their business. People in my street were at best recluses, at worst hermits, all of us running away from something.
It wasn’t long before Angie appeared, at the end of her evening run. I’d met her several times, and knew a little of her history, once married to a cheating bastard, once had a good job but because of him had to leave, now no longer interested in anything.
I understood her.
She stopped. I expected a wave as she passed by.
“Max.”
“Angie. How are you?”
“Usual. See the news?”
“Hard to miss it.”
“Not a lot to look forward to?”
“I came here to spend my last days in peace, there’s just fewer of them, I guess.”
“Pragmatic.”
“Realistic.
She came over and sat beside me. For some odd reason, I’d packed two glasses. Had I a premonition she would drop by?
“Red?”
“Why not?”
We sat there and drank wine, first from one bottle, then starting on the next. We didn’t say anything, there wasn’t anything to say.
“Would you believe me if I said I was once a scientist? There’s a more specific name, but the scientist will do?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“M\y dad refused to believe a woman could be that smart. My husband was a bit like that, never liked the idea that I might be smarter than him.”
“Some men feel threatened.”
“Would you?”
“My wife was far smarter than I was, but I loved her because she was her, not the smart part. That was just a small part of who she was. And she didn’t care if I was a dustman.”
“Were you?”
“No. I owned a bookshop, served coffee, and talked to strange people all day.”
“Lots of dusty books then?”
I had no idea if she was joking or just commenting, but it didn’t matter. It was amusing to think of it like that.
“Lots. So, what branch of science was it?”
“Snow science.”
OK, so my poker face wasn’t quite working, and it wasn’t hard to guess what I was thinking.
“Look it up, it’s real.”
“No internet anymore. Kind of got nuked along with a lot of other stuff. But, despite the scepticism I suspect there is such a thing, and, if I remember right, is that something to do with the study of snow and ice movement, possible for the prediction of similar events?”
“It had a lot to do with predicting storms, and how snow affected water supplies. There’s a whole lot more, but it’s rather irrelevant now. Like me.”
“Like all of us, I think, though if you’re feeling irrelevant, come and see me and I’ll try to think of a way to change that.”
“Could you?”
“Probably not. But I know how you feel. That’s why I’m here.”
Another few glasses of wine, enough time to consider what she said, and how to make sense of it, before she said, “My last job was for an eccentric billionaire. I never told anyone because it was the craziest two years of my life.”
“Why bring it up?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. Turns out he wasn’t batshit crazy after all.
”OK, I’ll bite. Why was he crazy?”
“Because he built a huge city like complex under the ice in Antarctica. He said that man would destroy the earth sooner rather than later, and he wasn’t going to hang around and watch them do it. Space travel was too difficult, so he did the next best thing. A haven for 5,000 specially selected people. I was his snow and ice expert.”
“It’s all melting.”
“Deep in the ice. There are a few thousand years before it all dissipates, and even then, it’s below ground. We anticipated every scenario.”
“Bet you didn’t think of aliens with excavators.”
“Now you’re mocking me.”
I shook my head. “No. Ivan Rostov, an oligarch. Strange man, stranger idea, bet rich enough not to care what the world thought of him. You knew Ivan?”
“Slept with him once. Bit of a disappointment.”
“Sorry to hear that. Before or after your husband strayed.”
“After. I have principles.”
“You should be there, with him.”
“Wasn’t open for business. When I left, just before I came here, it was in the last stages of being shut up until when it would be needed. I guess that’s about now. But I don’t work for him, and he doesn’t need me, and I don’t think I could stay there anyway. How long do you think people would have to stay there?”
“From what I’ve been reading, between 5,000 and 25,000 years, but that’s very extreme and assumes plutonium has been used. A substantial amount of the northern hemisphere has been rendered radioactive, and if Chernobyl is anything to go by, a long time. People wouldn’t see daylight in this lifetime.”
“Sounds like fun then. You up for a home-cooked meal. Long time since I’ve entertained, seems like there might not be many more opportunities.”
“Why not?”
Sitting opposite a woman who I had probably seen a dozen times in a year, and spoke to here, albeit briefly, on three of those occasions, I felt remarkably at ease in her company.
Perhaps it was the fact we were all living on borrowed time, perhaps in those circumstances, we had let a lot of our guard down. Whatever it was, sitting there, enjoying the moment, I felt as though I’d known her all my life.
An odd ringing sound broke the silence that had settled on us.
She got up. “Excuse me for a moment.”
She went into another room, the ringing stopped and I could hear her muffled voice. A minute later she returned with a device that looked like a satellite phone in her hand.
She put it on the table and sat down. “You’re on speakerphone. Now, tell me what you just said again.”
A male voice, relatively old if I was to guess, and authoritative.
“We are just packing, and tomorrow we will be going to nowhere. I’m sorry I haven’t been as communicative in recent times, so much to do, so little time, but, as you are aware, the world has finally gone to hell in a handbasket, and we’re getting everything ready. I’d like you to come. After all, it’s as much your pet as it was mine.”
“Tempting offer, but I don’t think we’ll ever see daylight again.”
“That maybe so, or maybe not. We have no idea how mother nature is going to handle this swipe, but that’s in the future. Staying outside is simply a death sentence, and you’re too good for that.”
I looked at her, the look conveying the unspoken quester, ‘Is that your former boss?”
She nodded, a sign to me at least, that she could read minds. Perhaps then not a good thing.
“I have a friend here, if he wanted to, could I bring him as my plus one?”
“Certainly.”
“I need time to think about it. Can I call you back?”
“Any time. As I say we leave tomorrow and will be there in a week. I’ll be dropping in anyway, whatever you decide.”
“Ok. Thanks.”
She disconnected the call.
“Nowhere?”
We gave New Eden and name that people would never quite understand. We used to say, we’re going nowhere, when we were going to the building site. It was how we kept it secret.”
”You should go. Life is precious and you should hang on to it for as long as possible.”
“What about you?”
“I’m sure there are other more important people you could take.”
“There are none that I care about. Not anymore. Why do you think I’m here, alone, and never leave?”
I shrugged.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough. There’s no obligation on your part to be anything but a friend. If I go, I need to have at least one person there I know.”
“Won’t all the people who built it be there?”
“I never got to know any of them. Didn’t want to. But with you, after one afternoon, I feel as though I want, I need to know more about you. You are perhaps what some would call a kindred spirit. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but these are strange times, are they not?”
I smiled. They were. And oddly enough, I felt the same about her.
“Perhaps if we both take the week to think about it?”
She nodded. “Dinner at yours tomorrow?”
“Afternoon wine, same time, same place?”
A nod and a nod.
I saw the superyacht arrive and drop anchor about a mile offshore, and then, after a half-hour of activity on the rear deck, the launching of a tender, which then headed slowly towards our section of the beach.
It was a no brainer, in the end, we got along so well, why would I want it to end? So we had to live in a bunker for 50,000 years. It would be with her, and that’s all I cared about.
She took my hand in hers. “So, are you ready to catch the last boat to nowhere?”
This is an old chateau at the foot of a skiing area on the north island of New Zealand. It was once predominately advertised as a guest house for hikers in the summer months.
However, with fertile imaginations, we can come up with a whole different scenario.
Like, for instance, a haunted house, owned by an old and some might say creepy family, a place where few are invited, and those that are, approach the front door with trepidation.
It could be the family estate, the sort of place grandparents live, and their children consider themselves lucky to have escaped and their children, in turn, hate going there.
Of course, the opposite to that is that everyone loves going there for the holidays when the whole family gets together.
Then, a murder occurs…
It might also be a hotel in an unusual backdrop, where fugitives come to hide, or just one person from the city, trying to get away from a bad partner, or someone working there seeking a fresh start.
The truth is, there are any number of possibilities.
Yes, it’s that little or big furry thing that’s also known as man’s best friend, a dog.
But the word has a number of other meanings, like a lot of three-letter words.
It can also mean to follow someone closely.
If you are going to the greyhound racing, you could say you’re going to the dogs, or it could mean something entirely different, like deteriorating in manner and ethics.
Then there are those employers who make their workers work very hard, and therefore could be described as making them work like a dog.
Some might even say that it is a dog of a thing, i.e. of poor quality.
There’s a dogleg, which could aptly name some of those monstrous golf course holes that sometimes present the challenge of going through the wood rather than around it.
Tried that and failed many times!
A dog man used to ride the crane load from the ground to the top, an occupation that would not stand the test of occupational health and safety anymore.
And of course, in a battle to the death, it’s really dog eat dog, isn’t it?
We visited the falls in winter, just after Christmas when it was all but frozen.
The weather was freezing, it was snowing, and very icy to walk anywhere near the falls
Getting photos is a matter of how much you want to risk your safety.
I know I slipped and fell a number of times on the ice just below the snowy surface in pursuit of the perfect photograph. Alas, I don’t think I succeeded.
The mist was generated from both the waterfall and the low cloud. It was impossible not to get wet just watching the falls.
Of course, unlike the braver people, you could not get me into one of the boats that headed towards the falls. I suspect there might be icebergs and wasn’t going to tempt the fate of another Titanic, even on a lesser scale. The water would be freezing.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 