For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the Second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
…
We were not leaving the castle the way we had found it, but we would blame the Germans. Carlo understood because he was the one who had selectively destroyed parts of it, but I knew after we’d gone, he would blame us.
When Carlo discovered the empty cells below in the dungeons, he and the boy went back outside and looked for them. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Wallace would have ordered them removed and executed because Meyer had been the objective and everything else was a distraction.
Two of Blinky’s soldiers were assigned to bring back Chiara.
Blinky and the rest of his men moved into better quarters and had their first real meal in a week. We posted sentries, but I didn’t think any Germans would be coming to see what happened. The sentries were more to tell us when Meyer and his escort arrived.
Blinky would then be the official escort for Meyer back to England. A plane was on standby waiting for our signal.
Several hours after Carlo left, he returned with Martina and Johanneson, the latter looking very worse for wear.
The last of the traitors.
Carlo shoved him into a chair and bound him very tightly.
“We found the prisoners, all shot. Fernando’s remnants killed them. I will make it my business to find every last one of them. What do you want to do with this traitor?” He nodded in Johannesen’s direction.
Martina had slumped into a chair. She still wore the very recent scars of a severe beating and was out on her feet. Despite that, I got the impression she was glad to be alive.
“Was he responsible for anything that happened while you were in the cells?” I asked her.
“He saved me if that could be called an act of kindness. He did nothing to save the others.”
“If you had a choice?”
“I’d shoot him.”
“Now hang on. Since when did good Samaritans get punished?” Johannesen was outraged.
I shrugged. “You will be judged on past sins.”
Martina looked up. “He was the leader of the group that destroyed the church. It was our original headquarters, down in the basement. We managed to get away, with a few injuries, but it took out our equipment and radio.”
“There,” he said. “My intention was destroying infrastructure not lives.”
“Coincidental.”
I got up and walked over to Martina and gave her my gun. “I’ve done enough killing for today. Perhaps a small token of retribution for those lost.”
“Chiara?”
“She will be here shortly. We found her just in time.”
“Thank God for that.”
I don’t think she had it in her to enjoy themoment she executed Johannesen, I don’t think it was worth celebrating a death, more lamenting the loss of yet another person in a war that seemed to be dragging on.
At least he accepted his fate and didn’t plead for his life.
It was mission accomplished.
Blinky’s radioman finally reconnected with Thompson and told him that we were awaiting the arrival of Meyer and that he could tell those up the pipeline it was safe to bring him to the village. He would then signal when the plane was in the air. Thompson was pleased enough to give me a ticket back to London. All we had to do was collect Meyer.
That was Carlo and my job, and for the last time, I went back down into the village and waited.
I was not sure who was more relieved, Meyer or myself. I’d met him once before the war, at a University in Hamburg where he was working on a top-secret project, and I was studying the archaeology of some old castles nearby.
I’d been tasked to find out what he was doing, my rather bright future in archaeology was never going to take off in those dark months that followed Chamberlain’s peace treaty. Everyone but him seemed to know that war was inevitable.
He’d spent time telling me about the stars and planets, and how wonderful it would be to visit them one day in the not-too-distant future. From that, we inferred that the Germans were working on space travel, though you never really could tell what they were up to.
It simply meant if things went bad, we needed to touch base every now and then with Meyer, which I did, in a friendly manner and never directly asking what he was up to. That contact had paid off, and he had made contact asking me if it was possible to come live in England.
Thompson had been very pleased.
“Herr Atherton,” he said, rather relieved to see me.
“Herr Meyer.”
We shook hands, and then he hugged me like an old friend would. “You came.”
“You asked. I do my best?”
“We leave now?’
“We very definitely leave now.”
I left Carlo with the escorts to explain the new arrangements, far away from the castle, and I took Meyer back to the castle. Along the way we talked, not of rockets and death, but of old times in Berlin, and how Germany used to be before this crazy person called Hitler had sent them down the path to self-destruction.
Perhaps, he said, one day he might be able to return.
I hoped I would not, not until the war ended, but that being a forlorn hope, not until I had a very long, well-earned rest.
But this was Thompson we were talking about, and his favourite saying was ‘There’s no rest for the wicked’.
Does your story germinate or evolve in your sleep?
…
There are sweet dreams, and there are nightmares.
For writers, they can be something else entirely.
Because I write mostly late at night and into the early morning hours, the story I’m working in is still fresh on my mind, and sometimes when I’m not sure where the story is going to go next, I put my head on the pillow with the express desire of working out what the next plot point is.
Most of the time, it works. Sometimes, other ideas pop into my head.
The good thing is that I can use that time just before going to sleep to review what I have written and where it can go. The real problem sometimes with that process is that I forget what it was I came up with when I wake the next morning.
This is aside from the fact that I have been known to have nightmares, things from a past life that I’ve tried very hard to repress. These are not the sort of dreams that fuel stories, but can lead to becoming an activist to prevent it from happening to others.
Not all people have suffered in such a manner.
Then there are the dreams, not that there are many and those that I remember are quite weird, and sometimes when I could a dream interpreter, I just don’t get how or why they happened.
Or perhaps I should be questioning the interpretation.
What I would seriously like is to be able to drop back into a particular period and actually observe what it was like. A story I am writing goes back to 1928, and in London, I’m catching the night version of the Flying Scotsman, and it’s difficult because there are not so many photographs of diaries of those who travelled back then.
I can imagine, but it’s not the same as being there.
There is one other sort of dream that I have had, and to be honest, this one was scary because it was so real. I went back in time, I don’t know how far back it had to be, 1700s or 1800s, a small cabin, sleeping in a bed near the kitchen, in a hut with no rooms.
Could it be something to do with reincarnation, and I was dreaming of being back there in a previous life? I know now for a fact our forbears lived in the country in the late 1800s, but before that, in Dorset, England, in villages, so it is quite possible could have been there then.
Does your story germinate or evolve in your sleep?
…
There are sweet dreams, and there are nightmares.
For writers, they can be something else entirely.
Because I write mostly late at night and into the early morning hours, the story I’m working in is still fresh on my mind, and sometimes when I’m not sure where the story is going to go next, I put my head on the pillow with the express desire of working out what the next plot point is.
Most of the time, it works. Sometimes, other ideas pop into my head.
The good thing is that I can use that time just before going to sleep to review what I have written and where it can go. The real problem sometimes with that process is that I forget what it was I came up with when I wake the next morning.
This is aside from the fact that I have been known to have nightmares, things from a past life that I’ve tried very hard to repress. These are not the sort of dreams that fuel stories, but can lead to becoming an activist to prevent it from happening to others.
Not all people have suffered in such a manner.
Then there are the dreams, not that there are many and those that I remember are quite weird, and sometimes when I could a dream interpreter, I just don’t get how or why they happened.
Or perhaps I should be questioning the interpretation.
What I would seriously like is to be able to drop back into a particular period and actually observe what it was like. A story I am writing goes back to 1928, and in London, I’m catching the night version of the Flying Scotsman, and it’s difficult because there are not so many photographs of diaries of those who travelled back then.
I can imagine, but it’s not the same as being there.
There is one other sort of dream that I have had, and to be honest, this one was scary because it was so real. I went back in time, I don’t know how far back it had to be, 1700s or 1800s, a small cabin, sleeping in a bed near the kitchen, in a hut with no rooms.
Could it be something to do with reincarnation, and I was dreaming of being back there in a previous life? I know now for a fact our forbears lived in the country in the late 1800s, but before that, in Dorset, England, in villages, so it is quite possible could have been there then.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the Second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
…
When Carlo stopped, I was out of breath and gasping. We all were. The smoke was getting more intense. At times it had made navigation almost impossible.
In front of us were more trees, but these looked different to those we had passed through. I watched Carlo walk back and forth a few yards each way, then disappear into the bushes. A minute later he put his head out and said, “This way.”
We followed him. It was a hidden entrance down to a drain that was quite deep and headed back towards the castle one way and into the forest the other.
If the fire kept up by tomorrow the cover would be gone.
It was still a hard walk through the bushes, but we made it to a wireframeand door with a lock on it. It looked ancient as if it hadn’t been used in decades, even longer.
Carlo produced a rather odd looking key and unlocked it. I would have thought it was rusted shut, but appearances were deceptive. The lock was almost new.
But the gate had not been used for a long time and it took Carlo a few minutes to force it to open. It had rusted shut. When it did finally move, it was with a very loud screeching sound.
We filed in and he relocked it. Anyone thinking they heard something and came to investigate; it would end up on the other side of the gate.
So far so good.
For a moment I was back in my element, the archaeologist exploring caves, a wooden fire torch lighting the way, dampness underfoot, and the trickling of water down the walls. All around the dankness from continual dampness.
It was easy the pretend if only for a few minutes I had not been caught up in the war, that I was on a quest for lost treasure, hidden away at the end of a labyrinth.
The reality was we were quite literally in an ancient sewer and the original builders of the castle had used an underground waterway to tap into to remove waste. It was far more effective than modern systems and used the earth’s own ecology.
Inside the castle, the places where the waste used to drop down into the waterway had been covered over by trapdoors that were still there, and that was how we were going to gain access, through rooms that were no longer used.
We were going in via four access points, two men at each door, and mine with one of Blinkys men would be going into the area where the soldiers were camping to mop up whatever the bombs left behind, before closing off an exit.
Carlo had reserved the last one for himself and the boy, where he hoped to find Wallace and the new German commander.
Our cue to move: the bombs going off.
We just had time to get to the point and lower the trapdoors. Then climb up onto the floor and wait by the door. From the other side, Carlo said, anyone in the castle would only see a continuation of the wall panelling.
We made it with seconds to spare.
We were closest to the bombs and the percussive effect was disorientating for a few seconds before we pushed through the door and into the smoke and dust raised by the explosions.
As the dust settled, we could see dead soldiers, and mess everywhere. If a soldier was still alive, we shot them, systematically picking our way through the debris. I counted thirty-one dead by the time we reached the other side, the other exit from the space.
In the distance, we could hear sporadic gunfire coming from other parts of the castle, and then, after taking up our position, near the tank, we waited.
Three soldiers came bursting out of the exit and we shot them too..
Ten minutes later Carlo yelled out, “It’s me, don’t shoot.” Then he stepped out the door. “It is done.”
The castle was ours.
“You wish to speak to your old commander before I execute him?
“Wallace?”
He nodded.
“Sure”
I followed him into the castle and walked through familiar passageways and rooms, much had not changed in a long time.
Wallace and the new commander were tied up in the dining room. The remnants of a meal and several empty bottles of wine were on the table.
Wallace watched me from the doorway until I stood before him.
“I knew it was a mistake letting you go. Jackerby was convinced you were a stupid fool who would unwittingly lead us directly to the resistance. I told him you were cleverer than you looked.”
“And yet…”
“Perhaps I was tired of people like you being killed needlessly. What just happened, that was a waste of human life.”
“I didn’t start the war, and for the record, I didn’t want any part of it. Unfortunately, higher authorities deemed otherwise, and here I am. This is not a victory to savour.”
“A victory nonetheless.”
I shrugged. “It didn’t have to be like this, but at least we’ve weeded out a few more traitors.”
When the impossible becomes possible – a book publishing deal
…
All writers dream of getting a publishing deal. One book or three that euphoric feeling is the same.
But, just because the signature is on the contract, there is a process to be followed before you get to see that precious baby you spent the best part of your life on.
Like a child bent on leaving the nest, you do feel that reluctance in parting with it.
Of course, it doesn’t turn up in book form for quite a few months, even a year before the final product turns up on your doorstep, a box of copies to gift to your friends and family.
But…
Long before that, other, more important questions were being asked.
Have you got another book in you?
Here’s the thing. Everybody has one book in them. Most do not have any more. Some will have a series in mind and can churn one out every year.
Others will say they have another, but they will need time to consider what it’s going to be about, that this time they will plan rather than go with the flow, and then use any excuse not to write.
After all, don’t I have to go on a book signing tour?
As for myself, when it happens, I have at least twenty other books to pick from and could publish a new book every year.
When the impossible becomes possible – a book publishing deal
…
All writers dream of getting a publishing deal. One book or three that euphoric feeling is the same.
But, just because the signature is on the contract, there is a process to be followed before you get to see that precious baby you spent the best part of your life on.
Like a child bent on leaving the nest, you do feel that reluctance in parting with it.
Of course, it doesn’t turn up in book form for quite a few months, even a year before the final product turns up on your doorstep, a box of copies to gift to your friends and family.
But…
Long before that, other, more important questions were being asked.
Have you got another book in you?
Here’s the thing. Everybody has one book in them. Most do not have any more. Some will have a series in mind and can churn one out every year.
Others will say they have another, but they will need time to consider what it’s going to be about, that this time they will plan rather than go with the flow, and then use any excuse not to write.
After all, don’t I have to go on a book signing tour?
As for myself, when it happens, I have at least twenty other books to pick from and could publish a new book every year.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the Second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
…
War is hell.
I remembered an old Sargeant Major was telling us that going to war was not fun, that the very real possibility of getting killed should be the only thing on our minds.
Along with keeping your head down and being very aware of your surroundings.
Apparently, he had been at a place called Gallipoli, and from what I had read, that was a special kind of hell.
He had also said fifty per cent of us wouldn’t return. I hoped to be in the fifty per cent that did. Just to spite the old bastard.
I knew it was going to get problematical sooner than we thought, I could smell the aroma of burning bush on the air, and as we got closer to the castle, the smoke got denser.
Wallace had a cunning plan, he’d used flame throwers to set the bush on fire so we couldn’t get to the castle under the cover of the forest. It was a plan he hadn’t me about.
Carlo had stopped, also understanding what Wallace had done. Would this interfere with us getting to the external entrances, or if the other three were unattainable, could we get to the secret entrance?
I caught up to him. “Not exactly what we envisaged. I had no idea Wallace was planning this?”
“It is a logical move. He can’t leave the castle, and as it was, he knew the forest would give us cover until the very last moment.”
“And now?”
“Now we use another entrance. Take longer, but we’ll get there. Only problem, they will be expecting us, and waiting.”
The others joined me, just as Carlo did an about-face and started going back the way we came.
“Where is he going?” Blinky asked.
“Another way. Wallace is burning our cover.”
He shrugged. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for some rain?”
“Sadly no. Fine and clear with a touch of fog, well, smoke maybe.”
He didn’t think it was funny. War I guess could do that to you.
When Thompson and company were planning the operation that was set up primarily to get defecting Germans out of the country, there was only so much research that could be done.
It was one of the reasons I got a seat at the table, my exploits in Italy looking at ancient buildings suddenly became a red-hot reason to be included. The war had all but petered out in that part of the country, the Germans were shoring up the Italians, and the Allies had bigger plans to invade via Sicily, or one of those islands.
Someone mentioned something hush-hush about Italy and the road back to peace, but at that point in time, the end of the war was not in sight.
The point was, the castle was in a strategic location, it was only being held by a small garrison, according to the resistance, ideal for what Thompson wanted. Approvals gained, he sent in a team of German-speaking soldiers to replace those there, as if nothing had happened and then set up the pipeline.
It worked.
For a while anyway. Several months after the new team had set themselves up and the personnel was moving through, it all stopped.
First thought was the Germans had discovered what was going on and switched the team again. Until Thompson noted we were still getting reports from Wallace, one of his men on the ground.
That’s when Thompson decided to send me.
And. No, it was not just a matter of saying, great, I always wanted to holiday in Italy, and particularly Tuscany. My excuse, I was not trained to be a commando or a secret agent.
Of course, I made that one fatal mistake, I had enlisted to fight in the war, and it was not my decision where they sent me.
So, I was on the next plane to Tuscany.
The trouble was, Thompson and I both agreed that it was more likely the men we selected had not changed their allegiances, they just went back to what they were before. Wallace, Johannesen and Jackerby had all been extricated from blown missions, and Thompson had been left scratching his head as to who the mole was in his office.
Too many coincidences proved it wasn’t.
Except coincidentally, Thompson had teamed up all the traitors in one place.
So, my mission was twofold, first to ascertain if they were traitors, and, if they were, to execute them.
The next problem, the mission was almost over before it started, because even though Thompson had told Wallace the wrong pick-up point where my plane would be landing, cloud cover made it impossible to guarantee I’d be jumping at the correct spot.
As it turned out, the resistance had planned a huge ambush in exactly the same place my plane landed, and I was in the middle of it. The rest as they say is history.
The thing is, ever since I landed, I had the benefit of a huge amount of good luck.
That couldn’t last.
Carlo seemed unfazed about the fire, perhaps he had expected it, but his only concern was time. We had to be in the castle just as the explosions started.
With 23 minutes to go, Carlo stepped up the pace. For a big man, he didn’t make much noise. I wished I could say the same for myself.
Write a story that has the line, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”
…
I looked down at the woman who called herself my mother and shook my head.
It was hard to reconcile the fact that over two hundred people turned out for the funeral, one hundred and ninety-nine of them I had never seen or met before.
Ten of them had stood up in front of the mourners and reminisced on the life of a woman that I had no idea was the person they were describing.
Kind, generous, loving, a friend to everyone…
… except her son.
The one I knew, her lawyer, who was overseeing the execution of her will. That she would even remember me or put me in that will was a surprise. I hadn’t seen her in forty years, the day her latest husband kicked a naive and very frightened fifteen-year-old out of ‘his’ house when she was away.
He had been just the latest of terrible men she had taken up with after the sudden death of my father, a year before.
I left and never came back. I burned any letter that came from her until I eventually moved to the other side of the world and built a life of my own.
Until I got that fateful phone call.
My mother had died, and her last request was to find me. I had changed names and disappeared several times, and yet I’d been found.
How?
The lawyer summed it up in a half dozen sentences. She had a team of private investigators keep track of me. Once she discovered what her latest ‘boyfriend’ had done, she had kicked him to the curb, an interesting expression for a lawyer, and set about finding me. When I didn’t answer her letters, she didn’t lose interest. She just had them keep track of me, in case, one day, I changed my mind.
That I didn’t was her greatest sorrow.
I was of two minds whether to go back and attend the funeral, and nearly didn’t. That was Noelle’s doing, insisting the lawyer pay for two first-class tickets, which he did. That she said, spoke volumes, though not explaining what she meant.
Of course, Noelle knew the story. Like everything about my life, she had wheedled and cajoled it out of me over a long period of time. She knew when she met me, I was damaged goods, but I soon discovered she was everything I needed to heal.
I felt a hand slip into mine, and her aura enveloped me. “She has passed Ian, and she can’t hurt you anymore.”
That was a matter of opinion because seeing her again dredged up a lot of very good memories after that kind, generous person they described until my father died.
It seemed odd to me that none of the other one hundred and ninety-nine attendees were very interested in me or why I was there. But, then, nor was I interested in them. They just seemed to melt away, leaving almost as if there were rented mourners. Perhaps they were.
Ten minutes after the service, it was just the coffin, me, Noelle, and the lawyer, who had given me some time to be with her. I was surprised that I hadn’t just left with everyone else.
“As I said earlier, Ian, there will be a reading of her will back in my office on Wednesday, and you are specifically requested to attend.”
“Is there any point. I mean, after forty years, I hardly think we would ever remember she had a son.”
We’d had this same argument earlier, and he had no persuasive argument then. This time, he had come prepared. I could see an envelope in his hand.
“She knew that you might show some reluctance, so she wrote this letter,” he held up the envelope. “I urge you to read it. It might explain a few things about her, or it may not. I was not privy to the contents, only that I was given explicit instructions to give it to you at the funeral.”
He held it out. I looked at it, then Noelle, who nodded. I took it and put it in my coat pocket.
“Thank you, Ian. I am very sorry for your loss, and I will leave you now. Later, perhaps.”
He held out his hand, and I shook it. It was my mother I hated, not him.
I remained there with her until the casket was closed and taken away for the cremation she had requested.
It was a silent drive back to the quaint hotel Noelle had found for us, and the room, she pointed out, a king back in the so-called dark ages, had stayed there.
Given the modern look, I’d say that the King would not recognise the room now if he had stayed there, which was a remote possibility. Just the same as an advertising hook to start there, it worked.
The letter was sitting on the table between two very comfortable leather chairs, and after dinner downstairs in the dining room, we had opened a bottle of champagne and sat in front of the fireplace, which we were told was used in winter.
It was cold but not that cold, but as I picked up the envelope, I shivered.
Her ghost?
“What did you think it said?”
“Perhaps a belated apology. I don’t know. She’s had forty years to think about it.”
“Are you going to read it?”
That was a question I had churned over in my mind the whole way from the church to the hotel. Was there anything left to say, or anything she could say that would make a difference?
“Yes.”
The first few lines anyway. I opened the envelope and pulled out several sheets of lined paper, and at first glance showed very neat and legible handwritten script, the sort that would take forever to write. It was the sort of perfection she indulged in, and I remembered bringing with her when she used to write letters, being told at the same time that we should never lose the art of writing or communicating with others.
To her, a person who could not write or find a reason to write to someone else was not someone she would want to know. I’m sure after I refused to write back, I fit into that category.
I unfolded the pages and steeled myself for what was to come.
My dear Ian,
If you are reading this, then I have passed. It is regrettable that we did not speak again after you left in the spring of 1985, and sad that in the years that followed that you did not reply to my letters.
It took many months before I discovered what had happened in my absence, but it is no excuse to simply say it would not have happened in different circumstances.
In all likelihood, it would have happened anyway, then or later, because, in truth, after your father died, I stopped being your mother. I have no excuse and offer none. Nothing will ever make up for the injustice wrought upon you.
Though while you may have hated me, I never for one minute stopped loving you, and when I finally accepted you wanted nothing more to do with me, I asked some friends to keep an eye on you. Although you may not have realised it, I have been able to help you in your endeavours, as a proud mother would in different circumstances.
I put the letter down for a moment and thought back over several key moments in my life, reflecting on how hard it had been to achieve certain milestones, against the odds and in the face of almost insurmountable obstacles.
Were they all that insurmountable if there was an invisible hand behind it? Had I not achieved those milestones on my own?
Before you get all ‘het up’ over what you might consider interference, believe me when I tell you, you had achieved the unachievable all on your own, but sadly, your background was working against you. I simply helped to level that so-called playing field.
I knew in my heart that if you wanted to reconnect with me, you would, and in that, I decided I would not interfere. Perhaps I will live to regret that, but it was never going to happen if I turned up on your doorstep. And, believe me, there were many times I wanted to do just that.
I have said all that I wish to say about those matters. What happened is what happened, and it can not be undone. I hope you will see your way to come to my funeral. It will be very strange with lots of people who will be very alien to you.
All they saw was the widow of a billionaire who was their benefactress, and hoping by paying their respects would continue to be so. The same could not be said for you, you came because you wanted to, not because you to and for that I am very grateful.
Then, at the bottom of the page was, in a less tidy hand, the words, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”
Whatever followed was on the next page, except there wasn’t a next page. I showed it to Noelle.
“What do you think of that?”
She read the words and turned the page over, thinking it might be on the back. There was nothing on the back. She looked at the page in the light, perhaps thinking there might be indentations, but there weren’t any.
“There was more, and it’s missing. What do you think it said?”
“Something someone didn’t want me to read. I guess we will be going to the reading of the will after all.”
Write a story that has the line, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”
…
I looked down at the woman who called herself my mother and shook my head.
It was hard to reconcile the fact that over two hundred people turned out for the funeral, one hundred and ninety-nine of them I had never seen or met before.
Ten of them had stood up in front of the mourners and reminisced on the life of a woman that I had no idea was the person they were describing.
Kind, generous, loving, a friend to everyone…
… except her son.
The one I knew, her lawyer, who was overseeing the execution of her will. That she would even remember me or put me in that will was a surprise. I hadn’t seen her in forty years, the day her latest husband kicked a naive and very frightened fifteen-year-old out of ‘his’ house when she was away.
He had been just the latest of terrible men she had taken up with after the sudden death of my father, a year before.
I left and never came back. I burned any letter that came from her until I eventually moved to the other side of the world and built a life of my own.
Until I got that fateful phone call.
My mother had died, and her last request was to find me. I had changed names and disappeared several times, and yet I’d been found.
How?
The lawyer summed it up in a half dozen sentences. She had a team of private investigators keep track of me. Once she discovered what her latest ‘boyfriend’ had done, she had kicked him to the curb, an interesting expression for a lawyer, and set about finding me. When I didn’t answer her letters, she didn’t lose interest. She just had them keep track of me, in case, one day, I changed my mind.
That I didn’t was her greatest sorrow.
I was of two minds whether to go back and attend the funeral, and nearly didn’t. That was Noelle’s doing, insisting the lawyer pay for two first-class tickets, which he did. That she said, spoke volumes, though not explaining what she meant.
Of course, Noelle knew the story. Like everything about my life, she had wheedled and cajoled it out of me over a long period of time. She knew when she met me, I was damaged goods, but I soon discovered she was everything I needed to heal.
I felt a hand slip into mine, and her aura enveloped me. “She has passed Ian, and she can’t hurt you anymore.”
That was a matter of opinion because seeing her again dredged up a lot of very good memories after that kind, generous person they described until my father died.
It seemed odd to me that none of the other one hundred and ninety-nine attendees were very interested in me or why I was there. But, then, nor was I interested in them. They just seemed to melt away, leaving almost as if there were rented mourners. Perhaps they were.
Ten minutes after the service, it was just the coffin, me, Noelle, and the lawyer, who had given me some time to be with her. I was surprised that I hadn’t just left with everyone else.
“As I said earlier, Ian, there will be a reading of her will back in my office on Wednesday, and you are specifically requested to attend.”
“Is there any point. I mean, after forty years, I hardly think we would ever remember she had a son.”
We’d had this same argument earlier, and he had no persuasive argument then. This time, he had come prepared. I could see an envelope in his hand.
“She knew that you might show some reluctance, so she wrote this letter,” he held up the envelope. “I urge you to read it. It might explain a few things about her, or it may not. I was not privy to the contents, only that I was given explicit instructions to give it to you at the funeral.”
He held it out. I looked at it, then Noelle, who nodded. I took it and put it in my coat pocket.
“Thank you, Ian. I am very sorry for your loss, and I will leave you now. Later, perhaps.”
He held out his hand, and I shook it. It was my mother I hated, not him.
I remained there with her until the casket was closed and taken away for the cremation she had requested.
It was a silent drive back to the quaint hotel Noelle had found for us, and the room, she pointed out, a king back in the so-called dark ages, had stayed there.
Given the modern look, I’d say that the King would not recognise the room now if he had stayed there, which was a remote possibility. Just the same as an advertising hook to start there, it worked.
The letter was sitting on the table between two very comfortable leather chairs, and after dinner downstairs in the dining room, we had opened a bottle of champagne and sat in front of the fireplace, which we were told was used in winter.
It was cold but not that cold, but as I picked up the envelope, I shivered.
Her ghost?
“What did you think it said?”
“Perhaps a belated apology. I don’t know. She’s had forty years to think about it.”
“Are you going to read it?”
That was a question I had churned over in my mind the whole way from the church to the hotel. Was there anything left to say, or anything she could say that would make a difference?
“Yes.”
The first few lines anyway. I opened the envelope and pulled out several sheets of lined paper, and at first glance showed very neat and legible handwritten script, the sort that would take forever to write. It was the sort of perfection she indulged in, and I remembered bringing with her when she used to write letters, being told at the same time that we should never lose the art of writing or communicating with others.
To her, a person who could not write or find a reason to write to someone else was not someone she would want to know. I’m sure after I refused to write back, I fit into that category.
I unfolded the pages and steeled myself for what was to come.
My dear Ian,
If you are reading this, then I have passed. It is regrettable that we did not speak again after you left in the spring of 1985, and sad that in the years that followed that you did not reply to my letters.
It took many months before I discovered what had happened in my absence, but it is no excuse to simply say it would not have happened in different circumstances.
In all likelihood, it would have happened anyway, then or later, because, in truth, after your father died, I stopped being your mother. I have no excuse and offer none. Nothing will ever make up for the injustice wrought upon you.
Though while you may have hated me, I never for one minute stopped loving you, and when I finally accepted you wanted nothing more to do with me, I asked some friends to keep an eye on you. Although you may not have realised it, I have been able to help you in your endeavours, as a proud mother would in different circumstances.
I put the letter down for a moment and thought back over several key moments in my life, reflecting on how hard it had been to achieve certain milestones, against the odds and in the face of almost insurmountable obstacles.
Were they all that insurmountable if there was an invisible hand behind it? Had I not achieved those milestones on my own?
Before you get all ‘het up’ over what you might consider interference, believe me when I tell you, you had achieved the unachievable all on your own, but sadly, your background was working against you. I simply helped to level that so-called playing field.
I knew in my heart that if you wanted to reconnect with me, you would, and in that, I decided I would not interfere. Perhaps I will live to regret that, but it was never going to happen if I turned up on your doorstep. And, believe me, there were many times I wanted to do just that.
I have said all that I wish to say about those matters. What happened is what happened, and it can not be undone. I hope you will see your way to come to my funeral. It will be very strange with lots of people who will be very alien to you.
All they saw was the widow of a billionaire who was their benefactress, and hoping by paying their respects would continue to be so. The same could not be said for you, you came because you wanted to, not because you to and for that I am very grateful.
Then, at the bottom of the page was, in a less tidy hand, the words, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”
Whatever followed was on the next page, except there wasn’t a next page. I showed it to Noelle.
“What do you think of that?”
She read the words and turned the page over, thinking it might be on the back. There was nothing on the back. She looked at the page in the light, perhaps thinking there might be indentations, but there weren’t any.
“There was more, and it’s missing. What do you think it said?”
“Something someone didn’t want me to read. I guess we will be going to the reading of the will after all.”
Z is for Zoo. It seemed that who’s who in the zoo was about to be very much a statement.
…
There’s the easy way and the convoluted way to go to jail.
The first, the easy way, commit a crime, hand yourself in, plead guilty, and the justice department will be falling over themselves to frogmarch you to the front gate
The hard way, trying to create a foolproof backstory with official evidentiary documents, to take you seemingly from one jail to another without raising suspicion.
Of course, it was never my intention to become a felon, but people are sometimes so stupid they don’t know when to back off. And, of course, we are trained never to ‘lose it’ under any circumstances, but I did.
In front of about a hundred other prisoners who made very reliable witnesses. He was kind of popular, so that made my continued presence in that prison untenable.
Hence the move. No trial, an extra twenty years, I should see the world outside again when I was too old to enjoy it.
I would have time to contemplate the mistakes of the past for a long time. Or not. The prison I was going to was notorious for chewing up and spitting out newbies in their system.
I had a name, Louie. It’s best not to call him that, I was told. He was the one to look out for. There were another hundred or so, all varying degrees of Louie-like danger, so my hands would be full for a while.
Along with six other new prisoners, we were taken inside. There we were given the once over by the warden, whose expression when he looked at me was the very definition of hatred. Then he had three of the guards drag me into a room up the passage. Special treatment, he said with a smile, that told me it was not a special I was going to like.
Once onside with door shit, two professionals, the guards beat me with their batons. Bruises, abrasions, and barely able to walk, I rejoined the others, who all looked the other way lest they incur the same wrath.
An hour in the dispensary, then taken to meet my new best friend, it was the greeting I expected.
The guard stopped me outside the two-bunk cells that I would get to call my Hilton hotel room. My roomie was lying on his bed, odd since he should be out on the exercise yard with his friends, but I was guessing he was going to lay down the ground rules.
“Your new roomie, Dyson.”
He glanced over at me, then at the guard. “I’m paying the single rate.”
“Not any more.” The guard nodded at me to go in and shake a plain to the empty bed.
This is going to be interesting.
I took a step towards the bunk, and he was out of his bunk and standing in my way.
I looked him straight in the eye. “This can go two ways, Dyson. You keep standing there, and I get to stake a few weeks on solitary. Since I’m used to it, it’s no skin off my nose. But you, you might not walk again, or maybe this time I’ll see if I can rip your arm off and beat you with it. Lasy guy, I tried to prove it could be done, but he died. You know where I’m from, and you know why I’m here.”
I made it menacing enough. Most of the men in this jail didn’t frighten easily.
Tyson looked at the guard.
“My money is on the fact he’ll do it. Plenty of you idiots who don’t know when to leave well alone. I’ll turn around so I can say I didn’t see who started it.”
Which is what he did.
Tyson backed down and sat on his bunk. “Louie isn’t going to be pleased.”
“Not trying to please or displease anyone. All I want is a quiet contract and to be left alone.”
And knowing that was never going to happen.
“Get along, Dyson.” The guard said, just before he left.
After I threw everything on the bed, not that it amounted to much, and certainly nothing worth stealing, it was time to get some air.
The cell was quite stuffy, and Dyson wasn’t the cleanest of men. I might tell him later, when he is a little more friendly.
“Which way to the exercise yard?”
“Follow the passage to the end and turn left. You’ll see it.”
“Don’t like exercise?”
“Don’t like the inmates. You’ll see.”
I’m sure I would. As far as I was aware, Louie had my resume, and when I read it, it was impressive. Mostly enemy soldiers, but there were also a few who were not.
I came out into the sunshine, and when the others out there realised who it was, they stopped and glared at me. Not in a friendly manner.
There were two waiting by the entrance, ready for what? Were they expecting trouble?. I could see the man called Louie on the other side, sitting on the bleachers, his acolytes around him.
The two men were almost beside me when they stopped. One of the left, short, obese, and sweating badly, said, “You have an appointment.”
The one on the right looked menacing. He was in trouble because he had his hand in his pocket, so there was a ship, knife or another weapon there.
Np point in giving him an excuse to get beat up.
I shrugged. “I don’t remember making one, but if you say so.”
He nodded in the direction of the man I thought was Louie. I shrugged again and walked. Slowly. If things went south, I needed a strategy.
Of course, there was never enough time. We were standing in front of him. No matter. He was intent on ignoring me because he could. He was the boss. I’m not sure how or why.
A minute passed, then two.
Never the patient, man, I said, “Listen shit for brains, you make an appointment you keep it. I’ll count to three, and if your head’s still up your ass, then I’m going over the other side.” I waited a few seconds, then said, “One.”
He glanced at me. To do otherwise would lessen his prestige.
“Two.”
He smiled, then turned. “Have you noticed people are always in a hurry?” He said it to no one in particular.
“To fie,” I said. “Yes, they are. I’m sure you don’t want to be one of those, do you?”
The smile turned to a frown. “You should be more respectful.”
“Respect us earned, not given or expected.”
I saw the imperceptible nod to the enforcer and was ready. Disarmed and arm twisted out of its socket, he was no longer a threat. I threw the shiv over the fence, outside.
The enforcer hadn’t made a sound short of a grunt, but he stayed down. No one else moved.
“Sorry. I needed to verify who you are, Stanson. The best of the best now is the best of the worst?”
“Whatever. You’ve had your fifteen minutes. I’m going over there,” I pointed to the bench on the other side of the compound. “And rest in peace. I won’t be so kind to the next fool you send.”
“As you wish. But we still have to have words.”
“Then call my secretary and make an appointment.”
A final look at the red spots growing on his cheeks, and I walked away. No one followed me. It was not a victory, just a minor delay before he came back.
There had been a plan, and when I heard it, I sat back and laughed.
It was anything but a plan, except if I wanted to die before one day had passed.
Everyone knew who ran that prison.
Louie.
And to get what they wanted, which I didn’t know about, simply because if I did and was captured and tortured, they would discover who was behind this charade, they needed to neutralise Louie
And the three attempts so far had failed spectacularly, and in the process had alerted him to what they were trying to do.
I told them it was a mistake.
They then made me an impossible promise, one I knew they would never keep because they knew I would not see it through.
I was surprised I got to see Louie, so perhaps one aspect of this mission might be true. Louie was scared, not of me, but of someone else.
The question was, who?
I pondered all of these questions in that dank gold called solitary confinement. I was there firstly for my protection, no other prisoners were allowed near me, and secondly, I could not be seen to get away with harming another prisoner.
Then I heard the outer door being unlocked.
An unscheduled visit.
Could it be that there was someone else in the prison who was facilitating a host, and not a friendly one?
There was no hiding spot in the cell, so all I could do was be ready if the guard was hostile. A figure loomed out of the darkness into the dull glow of the low-wattage globe illumination and space in front of my cell door. It had been the only light I’d had for days.
“Good. You’re awake.”
My contact in the jail, the one whom I was to go to, if I got into trouble. Why was he here? He was not supposed to approach me.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“There’s an opportunity. Louie has been taken to the infirmary. He will be alone. You have 30 minutes to do what you have to.” He dropped a bag on the other side of the door, then opened it. “Change of clothes and tools.”
“Afterwards?”
“You disappear. As promised.”
There were so many holes in this plan. I didn’t know where to begin. “Who put this on motion?”
“The same person who put Louie in the hospital. You’re wasting time.”
Three minutes to freshen up and change, then along the passage and up to ground level. Out one door and in the next, along another passage, and we were outside the infirmary. Another four minutes.
A nurse was sitting at a desk, with monitors on three beds with prisoners. The middle one was Louie. My guard pointed to the middle door on the other side of the passage we were standing in.
The monitors blinked, the screens went fuzzy, and then came back on. Replay, so my presence in his room would go unnoticed.
He knocked and went into the room with the nurse. I didn’t wait to see what he was going to do. I crossed to the door and listened, then went in.
He watched me warily as I closed the door.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
“Why?” I crossed to his bed. Handcuffed. Precautions.
“You’ve come from Alexander, haven’t you?”
Alexander was the crazy man who made promises he couldn’t keep.
“He is crazy. I told him that. And yet here I am. You know why I’m here?”
“He blames me for Forrester’s death. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Then why are you on a video, clear as day, shooting him in the back of the head. An execution. You said he was a traitor, and traitors get their just deserts. To you, maybe, but not his country.”
“And you’re going to execute me?”
He didn’t deny it, which he strenuously did in court before they found the video. There had been a camera, but it was broken. Someone else had installed another, one not so obvious, and when we reviewed the recordings, it was clear why it was there and had led to a dozen other arrests. The footage of my brother’s death was collateral damage.
“It was my first thought, but you need to suffer.”
“He didn’t if it’s any consolation. Just what does it have to do with you?”
“My brother.”
“You look nothing like him.”
“Well, that’s as much I’m going to tell you.” I pulled the hypodermic syringe that was also in the bag of clothes and jabbed it into his leg.
Less than a second. Justice.
“What did you just do?”
“Give you a lifetime to reflect on what you did.”
I gave him a last look, the serum starting to work, relaxing all of his muscles, and in about ten minutes would completely paralyse him.
If he was lucky, they would recognise what had happened and give him the other syringe sitting on the bedside table. It wouldn’t unparalyse him, but it would make it so he could live, only with full-time care. He could not move or speak, but behind that mask, his mind would be active, and he could play over and over the actions that got him there.
Justice for murdering my brother.
And this prison was now free of his influence and threats.
Did that mean I could take over?
No. It simply meant I’d repaid a debt and was now free.
My prison contact returned, took me out the back way through an unknown passageway, built secretly at the time of the prison itself, there in case the warden and his family needed to escape, when a car was waiting.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 