Writing a book in 365 days – 192

Day 192

Writing exercise – All that glitters…

…

Perhaps if I’d thought about it long enough, I might have seen it coming, but it was taking that light at the end of the tunnel as a good thing, not the double-headed train pounding towards me at breakneck speed while tied to the tracks.

It would be easy to blame my mother. She was the one who taught us to take everyone at face value, to see the good in the world, and, of course, eight times out of ten, everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

I was on the balcony overlooking the bay, the house that my grandfather had first built as a getaway shack, expanded into a holiday home, and then into my retreat, the place I could hide away from the world.

It was the same for my sister, who was still recovering from a bad relationship, one that she blamed herself for, but the truth was, she was not at fault, not for any of it.

But the scars ran deep, deep enough that in the pit of despair, she did the unforgivable, and it was a sixth sense that sent me to her in her in her time of need.

Now, she was well on the road to recovery, older and very much wiser.

For both of us.

“Did you see the report Jenkins sent?”

She was stretched out on the deckchair, taking in the sunshine that came with early spring. It was warm but not hot, a gentle breeze rustling through the surrounding trees.

There were white caps out to sea, and there was a ship slowly plying its way past the bay. It was a busy shipping lane, and it was the perfect distraction to watch the ships go by.

“I did.”

Jenkins was the company’s head of security, and I had asked him to investigate the man who had deceived and nearly destroyed my twin sister. In an attempt to get justice, he had gotten off on a technicality and walked free.

It wasn’t justice, but justice sometimes could be blinded.

“Did you have any idea?”

I had to say I didn’t. Who would, when the woman of your dreams, a woman who ticked all of the boxes, comes into your life when you least expect it.

At first, I believed it was too good to be true. Jenkins checked her out, and everything was irreproachable. It was not that I was the one who didn’t trust her. It was the people around me.

Once the investigation was over, I decided it was time. We had been dating off and on for over a year, and it had been a slow burn.

Then Alisha discovered just who and what her boyfriend was, just in time to prevent a travesty. She was worth a small fortune, and Jackson Pearce had very nearly stolen it all.

He only made one mistake. He told, no, bragged, that he was about to take down the Bernadine’s, one of the wealthier and blue ribbon families.

He very neatly got away with it. He was free, but he was penniless, but oddly not concerned or angry.

I asked Jenkins to find out why.

It was in the report sitting on the coffee table beside Alisha’s deckchair.

The woman I was about to marry in the wedding of the year, after letting her take control of the preparations and ceremony and spending close to three million dollars.

A lot of that money was channelled back to her brother Jackson Pearce. Her real name was Milly Pearce. She’d stuck to the Milly but was using her father’s mother’s birth surname, making it difficult to trace in a first scan of a family tree.

Or lack of one, which matched her assertion, she was an orphan, from an orphanage that no longer existed, and all records of her had been destroyed in a fire.

Only Jenkins thought it was suspicious, but we were all prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“No. She is such a lovely person.”

“So was Jack, until…” It was still painful for her, but not so that it hurt that much. “What are you going to do?”

“Play. Do you think you’re strong enough to join me?”

“Can I shoot her?”

I gave her a curious expression. As much as I understood how she felt about that family, it was not worth the jail sentence.

“No.”

“Spoil sport.”

She sighed. I took her attitude and the determination in her voice as good signs she was all but over her calamity.

Up to the unmasking of Jack, she had been almost like a sister to Milly. I had thought it was the sort of bonding one would expect between the women. Milly had been suitably disparaging towards the dastardly boyfriend, but whatever had been between them had been broken.

Knowing what she did now, it was difficult to imagine how she could be nice to her.

But it would be settled the next day. I had promised to take Milly to a special lunch with just our family, mother, who was kept oblivious of the details of Alishas breakup and subsequent events, my older brother, Wally, who was the current CEO of the company, the one I would eventually take over, and myself, basically to talk about where she would fit into the echelons.

We had talked about it, and she had suggested a role suited to her standing. She had also considered, to feel like she was part of the family and parcel of shares.

That alone should have set off alarm bells, but since Mother and Wally had suggested it, who was I to disagree?

“Are you going to tell Mother and Walter?”

It was like she was reading my mind.

“No. Let’s play her game out and see where it goes.”

“Are you prepared for it?”

I don’t think I would ever be. I had been hesitant to make our budding romance public, and on our eight-month anniversary, we were ambushed by the media. She swore she had not told anyone, but she and I were the only two who knew.

It was the catalyst needed to push us to the next level. Even then, I was not suspicious, accepting her explanation. It was not impossible that I was being followed by a photographer looking for a scoop.

“What would be the upside for her?”

“Without sounding catty, Henry, if she is cut from the same cloth as her brother, there’s always a reason.”

“Fair enough. We shall see.”

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 191

Day 191

Is writing a solitary experience?

…

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one. That’s why, I guess, so many writers have an animal as a pet, someone to talk to, or just feel as though you are not alone in this quest.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometimes the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.

Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not vague or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cat’s world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse, be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna. I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions, there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time. Not while you are writing that next masterpiece. It’s a steady, sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Then there are those moments when you are staring off into space, contemplating the loneliness of it all.

Except you’re not.

There are what I call the sounds of silence, which for some reason are much easier to hear than during the daylight hours.

The bark of a dog.

The rustle of leaves in the trees.

The soft pattering of rain on the roof.

The sound of a train or truck horn from a long way away.

The sound of a truck using its brakes on the highway, also a long way away.

The sound of people talking in the street.

The thing is, you are never quite as alone as you might think or try to be.

Writing a book in 365 days – 191

Day 191

Is writing a solitary experience?

…

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometimes the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.

Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

Then there are those moments when you are staring off into space, contemplating the loneliness of it all.

Except you’re not.

There are what I call the sounds of silence, which for some reason are much easier to hear than during the daylight hours.

The bark of a dog.

The rustle of leaves in the trees.

The soft pattering of rain on the roof.

The sound of a train or truck horn from a long way away.

The sound of a truck using its brakes on the highway, also a long way away.

The sound of people talking in the street.

The thing is, you are never quite as alone as you might think or try to be.

Writing a book in 365 days – 189

Day 189

Writing exercise – Everybody called him Einstein, but long before he had made his last big mistake, people had forgotten why.

…

Some legends are spoken at gatherings around night fires, times when folks liked to talk about olden times, times when life was different.

There were signs of a different civilisation, almost lost in the vegetation, of people who had lived very different lives from what we have now.

Our settlements were near these ruins, taking advantage of facilities that had been created or repurposed, and our progress was based on what we found.

But there was one legend of a person known as Buck, or perhaps his name could have been longer. The relic we found was only a small part of something larger.

One of the elders of our clan said he had heard, when he was young, of a relic called a book, where there was writing in a language that was once spoken by those who lived long ago.

It was still our language, taught down through the generations, as a mark of respect to the people we believed were our ancestors.

This Buck, he said, was also compared to another, a man called Einstein, a great man who lived many centuries before, one of many who contributed to creating the means of destroying the world, and nearly everyone on the planet.

That legend had faded because no one wanted to remember the people who had made our world the way it was, scarred, with often warring clans, fighting over the little resources we had.

It seemed silly that we had to spend more time and effort defending what we had rather than living our lives in peace, but that was something else we learned: not to be greedy and to covet other people’s property. It was a pity that other clans did not.

My question had been, if this man Buck was so clever, why were we not more advanced? The thing was, no one really knew why this Buck was so clever, why he was compared to that man called Einstein specifically, and no one really cared.

The day dawned, a fine day without winds or storms, and warm. It had been progressively getting warmer, and now, in my twentieth year, the cold only lasted for four months of the year.

It was my turn to go to the well and get the water. It was a morning chore that had its advantages. I got to meet up with the other younger people in the clan, and one in particular, a girl of my age, Anna.

If I did everything right, our families would eventually meet, and the bargaining for the marriage between us would commence. Everything had a value in trade. There was no money, a strange concept from long ago, only what we had to trade. Furs, food, timber, mud bricks, tools, weapons.

We did not fight each other, only the other clans, if we were attacked. Such a thing as crime and an ancient concept was not tolerated, and if committed, the perpetrator was expelled into the wastelands.

I joined the line and waited for my turn. There was a water monitor whose job was to make sure everyone got their fair share. I collected our water and then waited to see if Anna came.

She did, collected her water, and then came over time where I was waiting.

“Guy, how are you?”

“Anna. I am well. How are you?”

“I am also well. I trust your family is well.”

“They are. Yours?”

“They are also well. It looks like we will have more warm days this year. My father says it will extend the crops so we will have more food to store for the cold times.”

“That is good. We are hoping to have more cattle and sheep for meat and milk.”

“There are more people. My father says we will have to start exploring again.”

“We he be leading the expedition? I would like to go with him this time, if i can get permission.”

“I will ask. Now I must go. It was nice talking to you, Guy.”

“It was nice talking to you, Anna.”

My trips to the well were not only to meet Anna, but also the thrill of getting another clue to how we came to be.

Her father was one of the few elders trusted with the history of our clan, who organised expeditions beyond the boundary of our village, sometimes put into the expanse.
.
No one ever ventured there. It was uninhabitable with no water, no vegetation, and only ruins of a much older and advanced civilisation. The people, he said, had destroyed themselves through greed and paranoia.

It was said he had seen things no man should ever want to see or should.

He did not share these revelations with his family, but sometimes Anna acquired an artefact and would tell me, in hushed tones, or other times slip me a piece of paper she had written on, with the note to burn it when read.

It was all very secretive.

I checked my pocket, and there was a piece of much-folded paper. When I was alone and not to be interrupted, I carefully unfolded it. It was not handwriting. It was very neat letters, what she had called printing, where all the writing was elegant and easily readable.

We didn’t have books, and I don’t think any of us had ever seen one. We knew about paper, though our paper wasn’t the same as the relics we were told existed. This page I had could get me into trouble because it was a relic.

It was about a man named Albert Einstein, who lived many centuries ago, a man who developed the theory of relativity and contributed to the photoelectric effect, which is a phenomenon related to the interaction between light and matter.

It was obvious to me that to be classed as brilliant, you had to use words no one else could understand. I folded the page up and his it. I would give it back next time I saw her.

…

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence, after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable, calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the type of clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’ but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him was not the concierge, and instead brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position and then made a clunk when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the life lobby, only in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over the the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 190

Day 190

Writing exercise – go back to an old story and rework it

…

When You Least Expect It

Life on the edge, in the corporate world I had immersed myself in, could be exciting, enthralling, or exhausting. People say accountants were boring creatures of habit, with all the charisma of a monotone bingo caller with no sense of alliteration. Pretty much an apt description of me.

My definition of life on the edge? Thinking that I would ever work up the courage to ask Anne Menzies out on a date. Hell would freeze over first.

Besides, who had the time to think about such trivialities when there was a pending merger, and the numbers had to be perfect. Which is why my morning started badly and just got gradually worse.

Why?

The numbers didn’t add up.

I tossed the pile of printouts and colourful charts that were supposed to say business was booming, now and into the future, but the flat line said otherwise. It was different to the result I ran the day before, and I had the afternoon to find out why before the big meeting the next morning.

We were going to dazzle the prospective merger partner.

Or not.

I sighed and threw myself into the chair and rubbed my eyes and then temples, as if that would ease the headache that was starting to get worse.

Somehow, Gallagher, the senior partne,r would see this as my fault.

“Anyone for lunch?” I yelled. Asking in a normal voice would certainly be ignored. So much I remembered from the day before.

Jack, my best friend and the complete antithesis of me, had been right. Anyone with an office was in the firing line. Anyone who preferred to be a general dogsbody, well, no one looked at them twice.

I heard the gong that signified noon, and for some time to take a break. Company-provided lunchtime activities included working off those extra pounds in the games room, or putting them back on in the dining room, where, for a modest cost, one could overindulge to one’s hearts content.

Said Jack, as he did every Tuesday and Thursday, put his head in the door and shook his head. My desk was a mess, unlike his, which was always clear. Jack was a good friend, well-meaning, but not promotional material. He was good at taking orders, not giving them, but he was the all-around nice guy who could hit it off with all the girls, and I discovered, a useful acquaintance.

He waited until I looked up, then said, “Ship sinking?” he asked, then came in and sat in the office’s most comfortable chair.

“Will all hands, when it should just be the Captain.”

“The numbers don’t add up?”

Sometimes he said stuff that was spot on accurate, but he would have no idea that it was actually the case. Or he was cleverer than I gave him credit.

I gave him one of my ‘I don’t believe you said that’ looks. “You know accountancy. You either fudge the numbers, or you fudge the numbers.”

“Like that is it?”

“Exactly.”

“Fancy a few tranquillising drinks to help straighten out your perspective on life? Helps numbers to add up the way they always should have.”

“Not today. Food only, and I haven’t got a lot of time.”

He sighed. “Be careful, Rick, or you might turn into a real accountant.”

“Har bloody har.”

He stood and frowned. “Coming?”

Why not? I needed a break from, and maybe a change of scenery might change the perspective. Food, then a stroll downtown. I need time to think.”

He shrugged. “I’ll catch up with you downstairs.”

Whenever I decided to go out for lunch, someone always found a way to mess with the plan.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be grumpy this time because it was Anne. Anne was one of the more important personal assistants in the building and dropped by my office on her way to the staff dining room.

She had only done that once before, to deliver a message from her manager, who just happened to be Gallagher. I knew she wasn’t here to see me for any other reason.

“Ah, Rick. Caught you just in time.” The tone said everything I needed to know. Another impossible deadline.

“Mr Gallagher is after the forward sales and revenue charts?”

“They’re coming.”

“When?”

“Christmas.” It was wrong to be flippant, but that was the sort of day it was.

Her expression clouded over, the smile turning to a frown.

“The numbers don’t add up.”

“He provided you with access to the system, and I know he’s spent the last two days putting the numbers together.”

“He needs the charts by the close of business tonight.”

“Then you can tell him it will be sorted by then.”

“You don’t sound confident? He told me you were the best man for the job, that you haven’t let him down yet.”

No pressure then. Sent the one girl I liked down to put me on the spot. If I failed him, I failed her; chances gone.

“I’m sure he won’t deny me sustenance. I work better after I’ve had something to eat.”

“Going up to lunch?”

“Not today.” I ushered her to the door, grabbing my coat as we went out.

“And miss your favourite dish?”

How did she know it was my favourite dish? Curious.

“It certainly looks that way.”

“Going out with the boys?”

“Only one.”

“Jack?”

I nodded.

She sighed. “You could do so much better.”

I left her at the lift foyer; she was going up, I was going down. In my lift, I had only one thought: what was it about Jack she didn’t like?