In the beginning, we tend to write ourselves into the stories we write, and also, the various other characters are a collection of traits of people we have known in the past and present.
The trick is with those other people not to make them too much like their real-life counterparts, or you may spend the rest of your life in litigation.
I know there are parts of me in my characters because people I know who have read my stories tell me how much they are like me. The problem with that is I didn’t realise I was doing it.
But, to emphasise, the story is not about you.
Unless it is an autobiography.
I have thought about it, writing the story of my life, but it’s so boring, the best use of my book would be to read it just before going to bed.
What is probably more interesting would be the story of my family, traced back to the mid-1700s, and they are a very interesting bunch. To me, it seems that people who lived a hundred years ago had far more interesting lives than we do these days.
Jake had made his usual stop on the way from his office to the front door, on his way home for the day.
It was ritual if he and I were in the office and depending on who was leaving first.
I looked up. Jack was a man without a care in the world, happily married for twenty-two years to the most adorable and kind woman.
He was lucky, in love, in a career, in everything. The rest of us had to battle over what was left.
I, on the other hand, thought I had been happily married for twenty years to an equally adorable and kind woman, was reasonably lucky in my career, and worked hard to get where I was.
Except…
Everything I thought I knew about marriage, career, life, was about to be completely undone by a single video clip sent anonymously to me, five minutes before Jack put his head in the door.
“It’s nothing. I’m just looking at new headlines again, and I shouldn’t. The world is going to hell in a handbasket, and I think I’d rather not know.”
I switched the phone off and put it face down on the desk. Even when not looking at it, the scene still played in my head.
“Ellie’s got her track meet this weekend, and I’m counting on you and Jacquie to be in the cheer squad.”
“Of course. If I remember, if she wins this, it’s the state titles, right?”
“And then nationals, and then… well, I’ll try not to get too wrapped up in the possibilities.”
“She’ll win, don’t worry.”
His eldest daughter was a sprinter at school, the same school both our children attended. She had shown an early aptitude for running and won everything the school had to throw at her. Now, she was about to conquer Regionals, then state.
Neither of my two had any aptitude for sports of any sort. Neither had I, so I guess they got that from me, much to Jaquie’s dismay as she had been a champion swimmer, just shy of competing at the Olympics.
That four one-hundredths of a second would always be, for her, the difference between success and failure. From her point of view, not mine.
I could see he was going to ask another question, perhaps about Jacquie, but he thought better of it. He knew something was amiss, but it had happened before and sorted itself out.
“Just make sure you’re there.”
“Promise.”
Another concerned glance, and then he left.
I looked at the phone and went to pick it up, but I could not unsee what I’d just seen. Jacquie, looking ten years younger, dressed in clothes that, while barely there, would cost more than our house, in a passionate embrace with a devastatingly handsome man who was instantly recognisable as a very well known, very visible, billionaire.
But…
It couldn’t be, because she was at a sales conference in Seattle, verifiable by the location of the calls I received over the last five days, ending with one from her an hour before telling she was on her way home from the airport.
The only explanation was that she had a doppelganger, and someone I knew, or didn’t know, had sent it thinking it was her.
Except…
Jacquie had a small scar in a place that would not normally be seen, and in that clip, in that scanty outfit, it was the first thing I noticed. Anyone else would miss it because you had to know about it and know where it was.
Which made it all the more confusing because that clip was of the couple in Monaco, Monte Carlo, two days ago, a long, long way from the rural parts of Kansas where we lived, and Seattle where she was supposed to be.
I sat back in my chair and looked at the ceiling. I don’t know what I was expecting to see, perhaps a sign that this was all a case of mistaken identity. I stayed there in the silence after everyone had gone home and the cleaners had moved in.
Enough.
She would be home by now, though I had not received the usual message. Perhaps she had forgotten and was overtired from the flight and drive and had fallen asleep in her favourite chair.
It would not be the first time.
But, for just a moment…
There had always been this thing between us, a moment in the relationship before it became a relationship. Our eyes had met across a crowded room, and suddenly, there was no one else in it.
I blinked, and she had disappeared.
For the next hour I looked for her, trying to look like I was not looking for her, and just as I was about to give up, thinking my imagination had simply conjured up an apparition, she was standing behind me.
A tap on the shoulder sent a shock wave through me, right after scaring me half to death.
I turned, and she was standing there, head slightly tilted, a smile that could and did light up the room. It certainly made me feel in a way I had not for a long time.
“Who are you?” I asked. Not the question, not the blunt manner, not the girl to be trifling with.
“Mimi.”
“I’m…”
“William, yes, I know. You fascinate me.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Not as well as I’d like. What are you doing tomorrow morning?”
It was a trick question. I was working. I debated whether to tell her I had a job to go to, and then didn’t. “Where and when?”
She smiled. “Do you like playing games?”
I did not. Normally, this sort of behaviour would have ended this conversation, but I was intrigued. Someone was playing with me, and I wanted to know who.
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll send you a text message.”
There was a commotion behind me, and I turned. When I turned back, she was gone.
Fun over. I believed then I would not see her again. There were only two people who could pull this off. I’d wait, and when she didn’t call, I would give them a piece of my mind.
I was wrong.
It was the beginning of an odyssey, one that was going to take an emotional and physical toll, one that took me on what she eventually called a journey of discovery.
It did not require me to get her approval. It would tell me if I considered myself worthy.
Worthy of what?
I danced to her tune for three months. There were highs, there were disappointments, and in the end, I got on a plane and went home.
That last meeting was meant to be in the foyer of a plush hotel in Hong Kong, a place I’d always wanted to visit, but with someone special, she had not turned up.
Three months after that, after no contact, no explanation, nothing, she arrived on my doorstep.
I had spent those three months honing the speech I would give her, a speech that had been through many drafts, a speech that was fed by an ever-increasing anger.
And then, there she was.
Her appearance was that of someone who looked as though they had been held captive in a dusty, odorous basement, tied to a chair, and beaten.
She collapsed in my arms, the faintest of a smile, or was it simply utter relief, and the two words that I didn’t quite hear, but what I thought was, “I’m safe.”
She never told me what had happened, other than she had been on her way to the hotel to meet me, and the next thing she knew, she was in a prison cell. From there, it was as if she had stepped through a portal into hell.
She could not remember how she got to my doorstep, just that it was the only place she could remember when asked by a rather alarmed cabbie.
I had a thousand questions, and in the end, I didn’t ask. She said she had no memory of where she came from or who she was, other than a name on a passport in her pocket, Jacquie Wilson.
I put her name and address into Google, and it came back with a house belonging to James and Anna Wilson on the other side of town.
Beyond that, there was very little.
Three months after that, we were married, I got the job I spent the next seventeen years in, and we had our ups and downs.
She became a writer, produced several novels of moderate success, went off to writing conferences every year, some I went with her, more recently not, and before her latest conference, in Seattle, we had an argument which I still didn’t understand what precipitated it, and now had the added bonus of a receiving a certain video.
And wondering why, in the car, that whole encapsulated life decided to pop back into my mind after I’d so determinedly tried to forget it.
I was approaching the last intersection before turning into my street, and in the semi-darkness of late evening, it was ablaze with flashing lights when my phone buzzed.
Police, ambulance, fire trucks. A major incident. Then I could see a car, or what was left of it after being hit very hard by a truck, which a heavy tow truck was in the process of dragging away.
There was something familiar about the car, but there wasn’t time to keep looking. An incoming message flashed up on my phone screen.
“Don’t go home. Mimi!”
I hit the brake, and the car skewed towards the side of the road in a half slide.
Mimi.
OMG.
Ordinarily, it would mean nothing. I’d only heard that name used once.
A name belonging to the mysterious girl who had turned up on my doorstep.
Another message appeared. “Appearances are deceptive. Girls are safe. See you in heaven!”
Then, a few more seconds, while the confusion danced in my head before another message, clearly being sent in real time by someone nearby.
“Now!!!”
I could see ahead a man in a suit peering in my direction, then talking into his phone as he started walking towards my car.
Damn.
No time or way to leave quietly. Screaming tyres, fish tailing turn, but I was out of there, leaving a running man fast outpaced by the car.
I had just enough time before turning a corner to see a car pull up beside the running man.
Write a piece and then edit it by reducing its size by 20 percent.
…
First draft:
Growing up I did not believe l had one of those lovable faces.
My brother, known in school as the best looking boy of his graduating class, said it was a face only a mother could love.
He was mean.
Simone, a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend, said my face had character.
She was charming and polite.
Looking now, in the mirror, l decided I’d aged gracefully.
I could truthfully say my brother had not, but that was as far as the comparison went.
My overachieving brother was the epitome of success in business, a veritable god zillionaire. Everything he touched turned to gold.
My ultra successful sister, Penelope, had married into the right family perhaps by chance, but she was also a very learned scholar whose life was divided between her chair and the university and her social life with the rich and famous.
Then there was me.
I gave up on my chance at university because l was not the scholarly sort and didn’t last long. Sadly l was the first of my family to be sent down from Oxford.
Instead, l took on a series of professions such as seasonal laborer, farmhand, factory worker, and lastly, night watchman. At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.
It would not be enough for my parents who every year didn’t say it out loud but the disappointment was always there in their expressions.
My brother in his usual blunt manner said l was a loser and would never change.
My sister was not quite so blunt. She simply said it was disappointing so much potential was going to waste. I only asked her once what she meant and lost me after the first four-syllable word.
Finally, I’d taken their comments to heart and decided l would not be going home to the family Christmas holiday reunion.
I told my boss l was available to work the night shift over the holidays, the shift no one else wanted.
It was he said the time for reflection. He hated his family as much as I did so we would be able to lament our bad luck though the long cold hours from dusk till dawn.
It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the North Pole. I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.
The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.
It was going to be a white Christmas, all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was climbing down from the driver’s seat.
She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car. “Graham?”
It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time, my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. From what I could see, she didn’t look too well.
“What do you want?”
“Help.”
My help, I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”
“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”
The instant the last word left her lips I saw her jerk back into the car, and then start sliding down to the ground. There was no mistaking the red streak following her as she fell.
She’d been shot from what could be a sniper rifle, which meant …
602 words long
…
After editing:
My parents were very wealthy, with an Upper Westside Apartment in Manhattan and a holiday house in Martha’s Vineyard. My sister had a successful medical career and married a most eligible bachelor, as expected, and my brother he was a politician.
I’d not seen any of them in at least five years, and they hadn’t called me.
You see, I was the black sheep of the family. I dropped out of college when it all became too much and drifted. Seasonal labourer, farmhand, factory worker, add job man, and night watchman.
At least now I had a uniform and a gun and looked like I’d made something of myself.
It was hard to say why, but just before I was about to head out of the factory to end my shift, those thoughts about them came into my mind. They might be gone, but I guess I will never forget them. I wondered briefly if any of them thought about me.
It was 3 a.m., and it was like standing on the exact epicentre of the South Pole. I’d just stepped from the factory warehouse into the car park.
The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow coming. A white Christmas? That’s all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on inside an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.
“Graham?”
It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.
I looked again and was shocked to see my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. She was leaning against the front fender, and from what I could see, she didn’t look too well.
How on earth did she find me, after all the years that had passed? Perhaps that sparked my un-conciliatory question, “What do you want?”
I could see the surprise and then the hurt in her expression. Perhaps I had been a little harsh. Whatever she felt, it passed, and she said, “Help.”
My help? Help with what? I was the last person who could help her, or anyone for that matter, with anything. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”
“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”
Then, with that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.
My first thought was that she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, call 911, which I did, and hoped like hell they got here in time.
And, yes, there was a third thought that crossed my mind. Whether or not I would be blamed for this event.
After another exhausting walk, by now the heat was beginning to take its toll on everyone, we arrived at the pagoda forest.
A little history first:
The pagoda forest is located west of the Shaolin Temple and the foot of a hill. As the largest pagoda forest in China, it covers approximately 20,000 square meters and has about 230 pagodas build from the Tang Dynasty (618-907) to the Qing Dynasty (1644-1911).
Each pagoda is the tomb of an eminent monk from the Shaolin Temple. Graceful and exquisite, they belong to different eras and constructed in different styles. The first pagoda was thought to be built in 791.
It is now a world heritage site.
No, it’s not a forest with trees it’s a collection of over 200 pagodas, each a tribute to a head monk at the temple and it goes back a long time. The tribute can have one, three, five, or a maximum of seven layers. The ashes of the individual are buried under the base of the pagoda.
The size, height, and story of the pagoda indicate its accomplishments, prestige, merits, and virtues. Each pagoda was carved with the exact date of construction and brief inscriptions and has its own style with various shapes such as a polygonal, cylindrical, vase, conical and monolithic.
This is one of the more recently constructed pagodas
There are pagodas for eminent foreign monks also in the forest.
From there we get a ride back on the back of a large electric wagon
to the front entrance courtyard where drinks and ice creams can be bought, and a visit to the all-important happy place.
It’s a question I have to ask. Why is there a three-star Michelin chef on the Royal Jet?
Are you getting the vibe that this Royal family are rich beyond avarice, their people are downtrodden, and the monarchy should be irrelevant?
Yes, all good topics, and they are to be covered in today’s lesson on the monarchy and the people.
The principality has been around for 800 years, and it is actually the 800th-anniversary celebrations this year.
Once, the whole country was owned by the king and staunchly defended by his army. Gradually, over time, the need to defend the place was replaced by diplomacy. People were gradually allowed to have their own land, houses, and businesses.
Cue today, and everyone is happy.
The king is largely a figurehead. The people are represented by a parliament that makes laws and decisions that reflect the will of the prople, the church is the church and not the inquisition,
Nobody wants to invade them because they have nothing of value unless you call their tourist industry and souvenirs worth usurping. Of course, there are treaties with France and Germany, which guarantees them protection, but there are no enemies.
Write a piece and then edit it by reducing its size by 20 percent.
…
First draft:
Growing up I did not believe l had one of those lovable faces.
My brother, known in school as the best looking boy of his graduating class, said it was a face only a mother could love.
He was mean.
Simone, a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend, said my face had character.
She was charming and polite.
Looking now, in the mirror, l decided I’d aged gracefully.
I could truthfully say my brother had not, but that was as far as the comparison went.
My overachieving brother was the epitome of success in business, a veritable god zillionaire. Everything he touched turned to gold.
My ultra successful sister, Penelope, had married into the right family perhaps by chance, but she was also a very learned scholar whose life was divided between her chair and the university and her social life with the rich and famous.
Then there was me.
I gave up on my chance at university because l was not the scholarly sort and didn’t last long. Sadly l was the first of my family to be sent down from Oxford.
Instead, l took on a series of professions such as seasonal laborer, farmhand, factory worker, and lastly, night watchman. At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.
It would not be enough for my parents who every year didn’t say it out loud but the disappointment was always there in their expressions.
My brother in his usual blunt manner said l was a loser and would never change.
My sister was not quite so blunt. She simply said it was disappointing so much potential was going to waste. I only asked her once what she meant and lost me after the first four-syllable word.
Finally, I’d taken their comments to heart and decided l would not be going home to the family Christmas holiday reunion.
I told my boss l was available to work the night shift over the holidays, the shift no one else wanted.
It was he said the time for reflection. He hated his family as much as I did so we would be able to lament our bad luck though the long cold hours from dusk till dawn.
It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the North Pole. I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.
The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.
It was going to be a white Christmas, all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was climbing down from the driver’s seat.
She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car. “Graham?”
It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time, my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. From what I could see, she didn’t look too well.
“What do you want?”
“Help.”
My help, I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”
“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”
The instant the last word left her lips I saw her jerk back into the car, and then start sliding down to the ground. There was no mistaking the red streak following her as she fell.
She’d been shot from what could be a sniper rifle, which meant …
602 words long
…
After editing:
My parents were very wealthy, with an Upper Westside Apartment in Manhattan and a holiday house in Martha’s Vineyard. My sister had a successful medical career and married a most eligible bachelor, as expected, and my brother he was a politician.
I’d not seen any of them in at least five years, and they hadn’t called me.
You see, I was the black sheep of the family. I dropped out of college when it all became too much and drifted. Seasonal labourer, farmhand, factory worker, add job man, and night watchman.
At least now I had a uniform and a gun and looked like I’d made something of myself.
It was hard to say why, but just before I was about to head out of the factory to end my shift, those thoughts about them came into my mind. They might be gone, but I guess I will never forget them. I wondered briefly if any of them thought about me.
It was 3 a.m., and it was like standing on the exact epicentre of the South Pole. I’d just stepped from the factory warehouse into the car park.
The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow coming. A white Christmas? That’s all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.
As I approached my car, the light went on inside an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.
“Graham?”
It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.
I looked again and was shocked to see my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. She was leaning against the front fender, and from what I could see, she didn’t look too well.
How on earth did she find me, after all the years that had passed? Perhaps that sparked my un-conciliatory question, “What do you want?”
I could see the surprise and then the hurt in her expression. Perhaps I had been a little harsh. Whatever she felt, it passed, and she said, “Help.”
My help? Help with what? I was the last person who could help her, or anyone for that matter, with anything. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”
“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”
Then, with that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.
My first thought was that she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, call 911, which I did, and hoped like hell they got here in time.
And, yes, there was a third thought that crossed my mind. Whether or not I would be blamed for this event.
F is for — Fishing for information. Without sounding like you are fishing
…
What does it feel like when you answer all of their questions, and they don’t believe you?
Like I felt now.
In a very bad place, because no matter what I said, it didn’t fit their narrative.
The main interrogator, Jake, no surnames provided, had a story. He told me that story, over the last three days, a story that painted me guilty of a crime that I didn’t commit, couldn’t commit, wouldn’t commit.
My problem?
I could not prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was where I was at the time with someone who could never be named.
Ever.
So my guilt was circumstantial, and it would not be the first or the last person to spend a lifetime in jail for a crime they did not commit.
I guess that was the penalty for a stolen night with the woman I could never be with, never be seen with, and never spend the rest of my life with.
I was glad that this country did not partake in torturing confessions out of their suspects, but then, even if they did, I would die long before I said one word. I’d been there before and had only just survived that interrogation.
I wondered if Jake knew that.
He had been pacing around the small room like a caged tiger. We’d been at it for six hours. While he looked thoroughly exhausted, I had remained cool and collected despite the exaggeratedly warm room.
It was their version of sweating answers out of you.
I was denied cold water, and water to a thirsty man was like gold to a fossicker. He knew I needed a drink.
He stopped pacing, turned, and glared at me.
“Let’s go over this again.”
Of course, keep repeating the same story over and over until it becomes fact, until you give a nuance that gives that story credibility, that first chink in the armour that can be exploited.
When you’re tired, when you try not to give in, to waver, to give an expression that can be construed as a confession or agreement.
“The timeline tells us you were at your office until 3 pm. We have CCTV footage of your departure by the front foyer. You take an Uber to the Cyber Cafe, getting there at 3:54 pm. There you stay until 6:17 pm where you take another Uber to the Hotel Jackson, arriving at 7:24 pm. Your cell phone confirms these times, along with CCTV evidence. Why did you go to the hotel?”
Here’s the tricky part. Firstly, the hotel is a special hotel in that there is no CCTV surveillance anywhere inside or out. They could only confirm my presence there by my phone’s GPS. Secondly, they could not get confirmation of any guest within that hotel because the government used it to house ‘special’ guests. Thirdly, by using the hotel, I was bound to an NDA to never divulge why I was there.
It didn’t stop Jake from fishing.
“You know I can’t tell you that. And you are fully aware of the reasons.”
“It’s not helping your alibi.”
“Keep going. So far, you have my movements.”
“You claim you stayed the night at the hotel, going to your room and staying there until 8:03 am the next morning.”
“That is correct.”
Except it wasn’t, technically. I was in the hotel, on the same floor, but in an adjoining room from 8:00 pm to 7:00 am. It didn’t matter, I didn’t leave the hotel.
However…
Jake contends that it was ten minutes if I hurried down a back alley under cover and out of sight of any CCTV coverage to another hotel where someone that looked like me was caught on tape going in the back entrance of a seedy hotel, carefully avoiding looking at any camera, both inside and outside, up to a room on the fourth floor by the rear stairs, murdered a man named Joseph Flines and then returned just as expeditiously being caught on CCTV on the way out not ten minutes later.
That was inconclusive, but there was a kicker…
I had an argument with an unnamed man outside my work building several hours before I left, at times heated, and where Flines had a swing and a miss, after screaming he was going to kill me, adding that the world needed to know what kind of heinous criminal I was. He said quite loudly and openly that my reputation and livelihood would be over once everyone knew the truth.
I had no idea who he was, and I was even more mystified at why he believed I was a heinous criminal. It was the last time I saw him until the police arrested me. All I could think of was that he had mistaken me for someone else.
“How do you explain the confrontation outside your workplace earlier?”
“He has confused me with someone else. I had never seen him before.”
“And yet he knows you by name.”
“I’m not exactly anonymous in this city. A lot of people who know who I am, and can recognise me. It’s not the first time some stranger had walked up to me to have words, sometimes disparaging. I’m sure you have found these instances and realised that I have nothing to do with them either. My job is not exactly one people see eye to eye with, so there’s bound to be some dissenters.”
A lot, perhaps, because it was left to me to make the hard decisions because those who were supposed to didn’t and hid behind me and blamed me when the media was looking for a scapegoat.
I was not sure how Flines was affected by any decision I’d made, but it was a possible link. Jake hadn’t made that connection yet. Neither had I.
“So you admit…”
“Nothing, and it would serve you well not to start jumping to conclusions without a shred of evidence.”
“We’re close, very close. People like you have the ability to hide in plain sight, but not this time.”
Smug, the first time he let any emotion into his tone. That told me a great deal. There was a connection. It would have to be obscure, very obscure, one that I’d never guess existed.
He took a drink from his water bottle and glared at me, daring me to ask for a sip so he could deny it. Yes, he looked like the man who held all the cards.
“How long has it been since your fiance died?”
What did that have to do with anything? I said as much.
“Just answer the question.”
If this was court, my lawyer would be asking for relevance.
“Three years.”
“Her killer was never found.”
“I was in Hong Kong at the time if that’s what you are implying.”
Yes, they did try to pin that on me as well, but there was sufficient evidence to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt I didn’t do it or have anything to do with it.
“I was not. But, can you explain why your wife met with the victim, Joseph Flines, several times, about weeks before she died.”
Could I? No. Did I know? I did not. Did I know exactly what she did? Other than that, she was a corporate lawyer charged with keeping high flying executives out of jail when they committed so-called human errors in their business transactions.
Smoothing the waters, she said. She never passed moral judgments, just found loopholes. Did she care about those who were unjustly wronged? No. Not her problem. If they hired good lawyers, her job would be so much harder.
I loved her, not her job. I wanted to investigate her death. I was not allowed to. Orders from above.
But as for Flines…
“If you say so. I know nothing about her business or anyone she dealt with.”
“Three years you were together. Very close. And you claim…”
Fishing again. Pushing buttons. Get a reaction, and then run with it.
“It’s a situation you would have no understanding of. After all, you haven’t had a relationship last longer than nine months, and one that had you suspended for three months. There are lines that you do not cross, and both Margret and I knew where those lines were. Clearly, you don’t.”
There was a pounding on the door, not unexpected. It was only a matter of time before Jake crossed a line. The door opened a fraction, a whispered conversation, heated, then, “This isn’t over.”
He then left, closing the door loudly behind him.
I had time to think about what sort of relationship Margaret may have had with Flines. From what I knew of him, he had more enemies than friends, the result of a background check after he confronted me.
A seedy private investigator that swam down in the sewer of nasty divorce cases, there were upwards of fifty disgruntled husbands he had outed, and yet Jake and his team could not find one eligible perpetrator from that list.
I’d found ten, and that was just at first glance.
What would Margaret want with the likes of him when she had one of the best teams of investigators in the country at her disposal?
I didn’t have time to come to any sort of conclusion before the door opened, and an elderly woman came in and, after closing the door, leaned against it
She reminded me of the librarian at high school, the same severe expression, severe hairdo, and severe suit.
“You are going to be a proper pain in the proverbial backside, Mr Jones. I know who you are, I know what you do, and I know that damnfool head of department you work for. I apologise for Jake. The man doesn’t understand discretion or when to keep information to himself.”
“Flines association with Margaret. I didn’t kill the man, no matter how you try to stitch a timeline together.”
“Sadly, I have to agree. I so wanted to wrap this up, but you don’t always get what you want. You tell Jimmy hello from Betsy. He’ll know who it is. Oh, and by the way. Anything you hear in this room stays in the room. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“Very good. You may go.”
Jake had overstepped his brief. It would not be the first time someone in his position made a mistake in disclosing information that could queer a case.
But that was always a risk when you had to go on a fishing expedition. What staggered me was the connection between Flines and Margaret, which on the surface could have circumstantially sealed my fate.
It still didn’t tell me why Flines had come after me, unless he thought I was working in concert with Margaret, and at a guess, she had caused him grief over a case. Maybe he was not working for her, but for someone opposed to her, and she had to discredit him.
I hadn’t been able to investigate and still couldn’t, so perhaps I’d never find out. And there was that one other small problem. I was not supposed to know about my wife and Flines’s connection.
His partner, sent over by the boss as a surprise, arrives at his door, and he is shocked. He works alone, this was not discussed and leads to a call back.
Threats are delivered; she stays. In her own room of course.
As I’m writing these information pieces I note over the days the story repeats or changes a little. This is because as I’m writing it, the story changes the characters, the situations, the places as I fill in the gaps, and flesh out the story, little pieces that change from my original thoughts.
I will think of something new as a question is asked, and one will be that our journalist is a feature writer and has been published in reputable newspapers. This, of course, sets his bona fides as cover, but I added another detail: he can actually write. If not mentioned before, he has a history with the keynote speaker. They are inevitably going to meet, though in his role as protector, which is not supposed to happen.
What plan ever goes by the book?
In the early stages of the story, he will meet with the girl in white, the policeman, maybe he’ll run into the head of the secret police, and maybe the keynote speaker.
Then there is the leader of the rebels.
In between all of this, he had to get used to the fact he now has a shadow, and she cannot be cut out. It’s no coincidence that she will do very nicely as a distraction, but who is it she will be distracting if not our protagonist?
You have to love the way things can go from bad to worse to utterly impossible.
I’m not one of those people who can write the typical fairy tale “I found a prince to marry, the dream of every young girl.”
No, there has to be a conspiracy theory involving a whole bunch of conspirators that might not be conspirators but an over-active imagination and reading too many thriller books in his spare time.
Why can’t it just be an avalanche and a few missing people?
Perhaps the problems are who the missing people are. No, not the ordinary people who are not really missing but just thought briefly to be; it’s those other people.
The ones that make the story more compelling, not just an hour and a half of Hallmark movie fun.
So the inevitable happens: the king dies earlier than expected, actually while the prince is on his way home in the “corporate” jet, and a few other problems present themselves and things get intense.
His partner, sent over by the boss as a surprise, arrives at his door, and he is shocked. He works alone, this was not discussed and leads to a call back.
Threats are delivered; she stays. In her own room of course.
As I’m writing these information pieces I note over the days the story repeats or changes a little. This is because as I’m writing it, the story changes the characters, the situations, the places as I fill in the gaps, and flesh out the story, little pieces that change from my original thoughts.
I will think of something new as a question is asked, and one will be that our journalist is a feature writer and has been published in reputable newspapers. This, of course, sets his bona fides as cover, but I added another detail: he can actually write. If not mentioned before, he has a history with the keynote speaker. They are inevitably going to meet, though in his role as protector, which is not supposed to happen.
What plan ever goes by the book?
In the early stages of the story, he will meet with the girl in white, the policeman, maybe he’ll run into the head of the secret police, and maybe the keynote speaker.
Then there is the leader of the rebels.
In between all of this, he had to get used to the fact he now has a shadow, and she cannot be cut out. It’s no coincidence that she will do very nicely as a distraction, but who is it she will be distracting if not our protagonist?
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 