The time has come to work on the second draft for the editor, taking into account all of the suggested changes, and there are quite a few. So much for thinking I could put in an almost flawless manuscript.
…
Those first thoughts were, what led up to the start of the story, a veritable getting back in the saddle after the metaphorical horse has tossed you off with life-threatening injuries were met with enthusiasm.
That’s basically the first chapter, or it might finish up as a prologue. There are arguments for and against prologues, so perhaps as the month and the story progresses, it might become clearer what is needed.
So, where are we?
Somewhere in Africa, a country that is run by the military with a so-called puppet president. A country that is ripe for revolution, where the people are plotting to take their country back.
With help, but just whose help is nebulous.
In the meantime, there’s a human rights conference about to happen, a rather ironic event in a country supposedly at the forefront of perpetrating such offences.
Why is our fractured main character there? To protect one of the keynote speakers and convenors of the conference, supposedly without her knowledge, but of course, secrets are only secrets if they remain so.
And with governments involved, nothing remains secret for long.
That’s the premise so far.
Today is much about fine-tuning the background of the main character, and what came before.
The time has come to work on the second draft for the editor, taking into account all of the suggested changes, and there are quite a few. So much for thinking I could put in an almost flawless manuscript.
…
Those first thoughts were, what led up to the start of the story, a veritable getting back in the saddle after the metaphorical horse has tossed you off with life-threatening injuries were met with enthusiasm.
That’s basically the first chapter, or it might finish up as a prologue. There are arguments for and against prologues, so perhaps as the month and the story progresses, it might become clearer what is needed.
So, where are we?
Somewhere in Africa, a country that is run by the military with a so-called puppet president. A country that is ripe for revolution, where the people are plotting to take their country back.
With help, but just whose help is nebulous.
In the meantime, there’s a human rights conference about to happen, a rather ironic event in a country supposedly at the forefront of perpetrating such offences.
Why is our fractured main character there? To protect one of the keynote speakers and convenors of the conference, supposedly without her knowledge, but of course, secrets are only secrets if they remain so.
And with governments involved, nothing remains secret for long.
That’s the premise so far.
Today is much about fine-tuning the background of the main character, and what came before.
The man who had said that we would never make the distance was right.
It had been my idea to go ‘troppo’, forsake everything, hop on a motorbike and go around Australia. I was, at that stage fed up with everything and, catching Harry in one of his low spots, he decided there and then he would join me.
For the first few days, we believed we were stark staring mad and talked about calling it quits, but perseverance made all the difference. After two months we were glad we had the resolve to keep going, and in that time we had managed to see more of the Australian countryside than we’d seen all our lives.
That was until this particular morning when we arrived in Berrigum, what could have been called a one-horse town. It consisted of one hotel, one general store (that sold everything from toothpicks to petrol) and an agricultural machinery depot. It also had a station and some wheat silos, and this appeared to be the only reason for a town in this particular spot in the middle of nowhere.
And it was the railway station that interested Harry, who was, by this time, getting a little homesick and fed up with his motorbike.
After coughing and spluttering for the last week it had finally died, and the five-mile walk to Berrigum had not helped either his temper, or his disposition, and had only served to firm his resolve to return home.
It was hot but not unbearably so, unlike a hot summer’s day in the city, and even worse still in public transport. For miles around as we tramped those five miles all we could see was acres and acres of wheat, but no sign of life. It was the same when we reached the town. It appeared all the people were either hiding or had left. Harry suspected the latter given the state of the road, and the buildings, more or less the epitome of a ghost town.
Standing at the end of what could have been called the main street with only our own dust for company, one look took in the whole town. In a car, one wouldn’t have given it a second look, if one had time to give it a first. I didn’t remember seeing neither any speed restriction signs nor signpost advertising a town ahead.
And since no amount of argument could sway him from his resolve, the first objective was to get a train timetable, if such a thing existed, and make arrangements for Harry’s return.
The station was as deserted as the town itself, and a quick glance in the stationmaster’s office showed no sign of life.
Leaving the bikes on the platform outside the office, we headed for the hotel for both a drink and make enquiries about rail services. Being a hot day and the morning’s tramp somewhat hot and dusty, we were looking forward to a cold glass (or two) of beer.
The hotel looked as though it was a hundred years old though there was no doubting a few relentless summers would reduce it to the same state. It was as bad inside as out, though the temperature was several degrees lower, and we could sit down in what appeared to be the main bar. We were the only occupants and still to find any sign of life. Overhead, two fans were struggling to move the hot air around.
More than once Harry reckoned it was a ghost town and I was beginning to believe him when, after five minutes, no one arrived.
After ten, we stood, ready to leave, only to stop halfway out of our chairs when a voice behind us said, “Surely you’re not going back out there without refreshment?”
“I was beginning to think the town was deserted,” I said.
“It is during the day, but when the sun goes down…”
I didn’t ask. We followed him to the bar where he had stationed himself behind the counter. “The name is Jack.” He stretched out his hand towards us. “We don’t bother with last names here.”
“Bill,” I said, shaking it, and nodding to Harry, “Harry.”
Harry nodded and shook his hand too.
“The first one’s on the house.” He poured three glasses and put ours in front of us. “Cheers.”
In all cases, it went down without touching the sides (as they say) and he poured a second, at the same time asking, “What brings you to our little corner of the earth?”
“Just passing through,” I said, “Or at least for me.”
“And you?” Jack looked at Harry.
“I can’t hack the pace. I can truthfully say I have thoroughly enjoyed the trip so far, except for a few mishaps, but for me, it’s time to get back to the big smoke. My ‘do your own thing’ has run out of momentum. Do you know if there is a train that goes anywhere important?”
The publican looked at him almost pityingly. “Important, eh?” He rubbed his chin feigning thought. “You make it sound like you are in purgatory.”
“Aren’t we?”
I suppose one could hardly blame Harry for his attitude. After all, at the beginning, he had numerous accidents, caught a virus that stayed with him (and a couple of torrential downpours had done little to help it), and now his motorbike had finally died. No wonder his humour was at an all-time low.
For a moment I thought the publican was going to tell Harry what he thought of him, but then he smiled and the tension passed. “Perhaps to a city fellow like you it might be,” he said. “The mail train which has a passenger carriage comes through once a week, and, my good man, you’re in luck. Today’s the day.”
“Good. How do I get a ticket?”
“You’d have to see the Station Master.”
“And where might he be at the moment? We were at the station a while back and there was no sign of life.”
“Nor will there be until the train comes. Meanwhile, there’s time enough for lunch. I’m sure you will stay?” He looked questioningly at us.
I looked at Harry, who nodded.
“Why not.”
Over lunch, we talked.
I remember not so long ago when I had to attend a large number of lunches where the talk was of business, or, if anything, mostly about subjects that I had no interest in. It was always some posh restaurant, time seemed important, the atmosphere never really relaxed, and to get into a relaxed state it took a large amount of alcohol to deaden the despair and distaste of that one had to fete in order to secure their business.
How different it was here.
We talked about the country, and, after seeing as much of it, and worked on it as we had to fund our odyssey, we could talk about it authoritatively. And, most of all, it was interesting.
The atmosphere too was entirely different than it had been in the city. Out here the people were always friendly, people always willing to stop and talk, particularly farmers; share a drink or some food.
There was none of this carefree purposefulness in the city, and more than once I’d thought of the fact one could travel in the same train with the same people for year after year and still not know any of them. It was the same at work. Even after five years I still hadn’t known three-quarters of the office staff, and most of them probably didn’t want to know me. Harry was virtually the only real friend I’d had at work.
But here, in ‘the middle of nowhere’ as Harry had called it, I felt as though I’d known the publican all of my life instead of the few short hours.
Some hours later and after much argument, where Jack and I tried to talk Harry into staying (Jack said he knew someone who could fix anything including Harry’s bike), Harry remained unconvinced and resolute. Jack, to round off the occasion (we were the first real guests from outside he had had in a week) provided another on-the-house ale and then saw us to the station. “After all”, he had said, “I’ve nothing else to do at the moment.”
By that time the station was showing a little more life than it had before. A station assistant, moving several parcels with a hand trolley, slowly ambled towards the end of the platform.
And whether it could be called a platform was a debatable point. It was a gravel and grass affair that looked more like part of cutting through a hill than a station.
At the station, Jack portentously announced he was also the stationmaster and would be only too happy to take care of Harry’s requirements. It would be, he added, “the first passenger ticket sold for several months.” Certainly, the ticket he handed Harry bore witness to that. It had yellowed with age.
One would have thought with the imminent arrival of the train there would be more people, but no. The only event had been the station assistant’s stroll to the end of the platform and back. Now both he and Jack had disappeared into the office and we were left alone on the platform. Very little in the whole town stirred, nor had it the whole time we’d been there.
“Well,” I said to break the silence. “I’m sorry to see you going through with it. I thought I might have been able to talk you out of it…” I shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.
“I’m sorry to be going too, but a body can take only so much bad luck, and God knows that’s all I’ve had.”
“Yes.” I couldn’t think of much else to say. “But it’s been good to have your company these last few months.”
“And you. When do you think you’ll get back?”
“When I get sick of it I suppose.”
“Look us up then when you get back.”
“I will.”
Thankfully the appearance of the train in the distance broke off the conversation. I had begun to think of what it was going to be like out on the road with no one to talk to but myself. The thought was a little depressing and I tried not to let it show.
We said little else until the train pulled in, three flat cars, seven enclosed wagons, a passenger carriage and the guard’s van. The train stopped with only part of the passenger carriage and the guard’s van at the station.
The guard took aboard the parcels the station assistant had left for him earlier, and then put those that were for Berrigum on the trolley.
I shook Harry’s hand and said I’d see him around. Then he, the motorbike, and the guard were aboard and the train was off, disappearing slowly into the afternoon haze.
The station assistant then repeated his amble to the end of the platform to collect the hand trolley.
“Staying or moving on.” Jack had come up behind me and gave me a bit of a start.
“Staying I guess, until tomorrow or maybe later.”
“I had heard one of the farm hands is leaving tomorrow heading back to Sydney. There could be a vacancy.”
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
I was straight back to the scenario where O’Connell was expendable after performing his role, and that Anna was cleaning up before leaving, or she had already gone.
O’Connell had no doubt told her about the Peasdale address, and the fact he’d told me, and she might have assumed that there would be a window of opportunity to get some belongings at her flat.
Would she be there?
I switched off the light, backtracked to the door, and then went back outside into the passage. Jennifer appeared beside me.
“O’Connell’s in there, dead. Shot in the head.”
“Your friend?”
I’m not sure how she came up with the designation, ‘Your Friend’, but after the shortened version of my time with Josephine, and the fact we had a hotel room together, could have inspired such a thought.
I went to her flat and listened at the door.
Nothing. There was no light showing under the door, so this could be a fruitless exercise. The same operation as before, Jennifer waited outside, and I would go in. It didn’t take as long to pick her lock. Practise.
I opened the door, the gun in hand, and went slowly into the room.
There was a glow from what might be a night light coming from the end of the passage where the bedroom was.
She was in, or she forgot to turn off the light.
It was also not so dark in this flat, with several pilot lights casting red, blue or green hues over the furniture and floor. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust.
“Drop the gun, Sam.”
Josephine, now just discernible across the room, a gun of her own aimed at me.
I shot her. Without hesitation.
She was taken utterly by surprise, dropping her own weapon and spinning sideways into the arm of the chair, lost balance and crashed down to the floor.
Jennifer was in the door and had it closed behind her, and switched on the light. We were both blinded for a second, enough time for Josephine to reach for her weapon which hadn’t fallen very far from her and for Jennifer to shoot her gun hand.
I remembered in that instant, that Jennifer scored the highest in gun training. She would be ‘deadly’ Maury had said.
“OK, enough, what the hell was that for?” Jo said, stretching out on the floor and holding the hand that Jennifer shot.
“You played me, Anna.”
“Operation necessity. I had to know what you were up to. O’Connell said you were going to be a problem.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Me? No. He was dead when I got here. We were here just to get our away bags. How did you guess?”
“Lucky. I was going to the other flat, but I figured it was too new for O’Connell to probably tell you. He may have been planning to double-cross you too. It seems the way of things in this op. Where are the USBs?”
“What makes you think I have them?”
“The fact you just said them, when all we knew for sure was there was only one. I assume you have one each for safety’s sake, and coming back here, one or other of you was going to pull a double cross.”
“Until someone else got another idea. Right now, you have a window of opportunity, Sam. A big payday, for the two of you.”
“Tempting, but no. I’m not in this for the money.”
“Then you’re a fool. No one does anything except line their own pockets. If you give the USBs to your chief, what do you think they’re going to do? O’Connell got five million, the person who gave him the money will get ten at the very least. They’re not interested in saving the world, Sam.”
She was probably right.
I looked at Jennifer. “Are you in this for the money, Jennifer?”
“I just want my old life back.”
“Then keep an eye on the door, we’ll be having visitors very soon. Anyone who comes through it using a key, disarm them. Don’t hesitate.”
Back to Anna. “Where are they? Bear in mind I have no qualms about shooting you until you do tell me, so make it easy on yourself, because the next thing I shoot at is your knees.”
A moment’s thought, and a shot into the wall that just missed her head, decided the matter.
“In the backpack pocket.”
She nodded her head in the direction of the backpack sitting on the kitchen bench.
I went over and in the third pocket I opened there were two USBs in a plastic bag.
“What are you going to do with them?”
“Destroy them. The world doesn’t need any more pandemics any time soon.” I went over to the microwave oven and put them in and set it running.
Inside the old building, it was very quiet and almost cold.
Strange, perhaps, because outside the temperature was bordering on the record hottest day ever, nearly 45 degrees centigrade.
The people who’d built this building nearly a hundred years before must have known how to keep that heat at bay, using sandstone.
Back then, the sandstone would have looked very impressive, but now after many years of being closed off and left abandoned, the outside was stained by modern-day pollutants giving it a black streaky look, and inside layers of dust, easily stirred up as we walked slowly into the main foyer.
It was huge, the roof, ornate, with four huge chandelier lights hanging down, and wood paneling, giving way to a long counter with brass serving cages highlighting its former use; a bank.
In its day it would have conveyed the power and wealth so that its customers could trust the money to. Of course, that was before the global economy, online banking, and a raft of the new and different institutions all vying for that same money.
Then it was a simple choice of a few, now it was a few thousand.
“How many years had this been closed up?” I asked.
“Close to twenty, maybe twenty-five. It was supposed to be pulled down, but someone got it on the heritage list, and that put an end to it. “
Phil was the history nut. He’s spent a month looking into the building, finding construction plans, and correspondence dating back to before and during the construction.
Building methods, he said, that didn’t exist today and were far in advance of anything of its type for the period. It was the reason we were standing in the foyer now.
We were budding civil engineers, and the university had managed to organize a visit, at our own risk. The owner of the building had made sure we’d signed a health and safety waiver before granting access.
And the caretaker only took us as far as the front door. He gave us his cell number to call when we were finished. When we asked him why he didn’t want to come in with us, he didn’t say but it was clear to me he was afraid of something.
But neither of us believed in ghosts.
“You can see aspects of cathedrals in the design,” Phil said. ” You could quite easily turn this space into a church.”
“Or a very large wine cellar.” I brought a thermometer with me, and inside where we were standing it was the ideal temperature to store wine.
Behind the teller cages were four large iron doors to the vaults. They were huge, and once contained a large amount of cash, gold, and whatever else was deemed valuable.
They were all empty now, the shelves and floor had scattered pieces of bank stationery, and in a corner, several cardboard boxes, covered in even more dust.
Behind the vaults were offices, half-height with glass dividers, the desks and chairs still in place, and some with wooden filing cabinets drawers half-open.
Others had benches, and one, set in the corner, very large, and looked like the manager’s office. Unlike the other office which had linoleum tiles, this one had carpet. In a corner was a large mirror backed cabinet, with several half-empty bottles on it.
“Adds a whole new meaning to aged whiskey, don’t you think.” Phil looked at it but didn’t pick it up.
“I wonder why they left it,” I muttered. The place had the feel of having been left in a hurry, not taking everything with them.
I shivered, but it was not from the cold.
We went back to the foyer and the elevator lobby. They were fine examples of the sort of caged elevators that belonged in that time, and which there were very few working examples these days.
The elevators would have a driver, he would pull back an inner and outer door when the car arrived on a floor, and close both again when everyone was aboard.
Both cars were on the ground floor, with the shutter doors closed, and when I tried to open one, I found it had been welded shut. The other car was not sitting level with the floor and the reason for that, the cable that raised and lowered it was broken.
Restoring them would be a huge job and would not be in their original condition due to occupational health and safety issues.
The staircase wound around the elevator cage, going up to the mezzanine floor or down to the basement.
“Up or down?” He asked.
“Where do you want to go first?”
“Down. There’s supposed to be a large vault, probably where the safety deposit boxes are.”
And the restrooms I thought. Not that I was thinking of going.
As we descended the stairs it was like going down into a mine shaft, getting darker, and the rising odor of damp, and mustiness. I suspect it would have been the same back when it was first built being so close to the shoreline of the bay, not more than half a mile away.
The land this building and a number of others in a similar style, was built on was originally a swamp, and it was thought that the seawater still found its way this far inshore. But the foundations were incredibly strong and extensive which was why there’d been no shifting or cracking anywhere in the ten-story structure.
At the bottom, there was a huge arch, with built-in brass caging with two huge gates, both open. It was like the entrance to a mythical Aladdin’s cave.
There was also an indefinable aura coming from the depths of that room. That, and a movement of cold air. Curiously, the air down there was not musty but had a tinge of saltiness to it.
Was there a natural air freshener effect coming from somewhere within that vault.
“Are we going in?”
I checked my torch beam, still very bright. I pointed it into the blackness and after a minute checking, I said, “We’re here, so why not.”
We had to walk down a dozen steps then pass under through the open gates into the room. There was a second set of gates, the same as the first, about thirty feet from the first, and, in between, a number of cubicles where customers collected their boxes.
Beyond the second set of gates was a large circular reinforced safe door high enough for us to walk through.
This cavernous space stretched back quite a distance, and along the walls, rows, and rows of safety deposit boxes, some half hanging out of their housing, and a lot more stacked haphazardly on the floor.
I checked a few but they were all empty.
I shivered again. It felt like there was a presence in the room. I turned to ask Phil, but he wasn’t there. I hadn’t heard him walk away, and there were only two sets of footprints on the floor, his and mine, and both ended where I was standing.
It was as if he had disappeared into thin air.
I called out his name, and it echoed off the walls in the confined space. No answer from him.
I went further into the room, thinking he might have ventured towards the end while my back was turned, but he hadn’t. Nor had he left because there were only footprints coming in, not going out.
I turned to retrace my steps and stopped suddenly. An old man, in clothes that didn’t belong to this era, was standing where Phil had last been.
He was looking at me, but not inclined to talk.
“Hello. I didn’t see you come down.”
Seconds later the figure dissolved in front of me and there was no one but me standing in the room.
“Joe.”
Phil, from behind me. I turned and there he was large as life.
“Where were you?”
“I’ve been here all the time. Who were you just talking to?”
“There was an old man, standing just over there,” I said pointing to somewhere between Phil and the entrance.
“I didn’t see anyone. Are you sure you’re not having me on?”
“No. He’s right behind you.” The old man had reappeared.
Phil shook his head, believing I was trying to fool him.
That changed when the man touched his shoulder, and Phil shrieked.
And almost ran out of the room. It took a few minutes for him to catch his breath and steady the palpitating heart.
“Are you real?” I asked, not quite sure what to say.
“To me, I am. To anyone else, let’s just say you are the first not got faint, or run away.”
“Are you a ghost?” Phil wasn’t exactly sure what he was saying.
“Apparently I am and will be until you find out who killed me “
Ok, so what was it called, stuck in the afterlife or limbo until closure?
“When?”
“25 years ago, just before the bank closed. It’s the reason why it’s empty now.”
“And you’re saying we find the killer and you get to leave?”
“Exactly. Now shoo. Go and find him.”
We looked at each other in surprise, or more like shock, then back to the man. Only he was no longer there.
“What the…” Phil sail. “It’s time to go.”
“What about the man and finding his killer?”
“What man? We saw nothing. We’re done here.”
I shrugged. Phil turned to leave, but only managed to take three steps before the gates at the entrance closed with a loud clang.
When he crossed the room to stand in front, he tried pulling them open.
“Locked,” he said. Flat, and without panic, he added, “I guess it looks like we have a murder to solve.”
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
This month has been exhausting, because not only have I been trying to get the NaNoWriMo project completed, which involves writing about 1,800 words a day, every day, I have been keeping up the A to Z blogging challenge with a new story every day bar Sunday.
You have no idea how much I looked forward to each of the Sundays.
Of course, a plan is needed if anyone is contemplating to do something similar.
It also requires you to be able to come up with a new idea every day for the story and try not to get caught up in a crossover.
And, try not to hit the wall.
This is exactly what happened yesterday, when I got halfway through the story, and the equivalent of deleting the file rather than saving it happened.
So few yards from the finishing line and kaput, I’m sitting there in front of a blank screen wondering where the next 2,5000 words for the story are coming from.
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
This month has been exhausting, because not only have I been trying to get the NaNoWriMo project completed, which involves writing about 1,800 words a day, every day, I have been keeping up the A to Z blogging challenge with a new story every day bar Sunday.
You have no idea how much I looked forward to each of the Sundays.
Of course, a plan is needed if anyone is contemplating to do something similar.
It also requires you to be able to come up with a new idea every day for the story and try not to get caught up in a crossover.
And, try not to hit the wall.
This is exactly what happened yesterday, when I got halfway through the story, and the equivalent of deleting the file rather than saving it happened.
So few yards from the finishing line and kaput, I’m sitting there in front of a blank screen wondering where the next 2,5000 words for the story are coming from.
I changed the order and put the events leading to her death at the start as part one.
Part two is the story from Michael’s perspective, and part three is the detectives on a mission to find the killer.
I’m still not sure if I really do want to kill her, or whether I just make it so that she has to go away and live off the grid somewhere with the love of her life.
Does anyone still believe in happy endings?
Oddly this story has also been an emotional roller coaster though I can’t say why. Something in it resonates. Parts of the story brought me to a halt, and though I could feel the pain of Michael’s anguish. Or that helplessness of Howards, I rather think I knew what that was like.
I have been there. And it brought back memories that I thought I had buried. I guess they do not go away, just lie dormant until another day.
But for the moment, it’s done, and it will go into the basket to be revisited in six months. Perhaps then I will understand what it is that connects me to this story.
It was odd because when I had gone to bed the previous evening, it had been quite warm, after one of those balmy autumn days. We had all been basking in what seemed to be an endless heatwave and finally getting some relief, and the last thing I’d seen was storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
It had been the strangest of summers, unprecedented, and as some of the more radical climate change so-called experts said, the beginning of the end.
The more rational scientists, the people the government relied on to advise them, had said that changes were occurring though not in a manner that rang ring alarm bells, but it was not part of the normal weather patterns.
Storms like that being predicted were normal, what was not normal, was feeling cold.
Also, I’d woken to an eerie darkness because there didn’t seem to be any lights on in the room. A few minutes later, that darkness had given way to a murky light as dawn broke, and I shivered.
Something was not right.
I looked at the clock, and it had stopped. I checked my phone, and it had a seventy per cent charge where it should be full. The charger was not working. A few seconds later, I tried the light switch.
Nothing. There was no power.
Another shiver went through me, but this time, it was generated by fear. I was being drawn to the window, and then when I looked out, what I saw took my breath away.
What in hell’s name had happened?
Outside, there was nothing but snow as far as the eye could see.
I’d gone to sleep after spending a few hours on a warm balmy night with Tricia, the waitress from the flat above, over a cold bottle of white wine.
Over the last few weeks, we had talked about this, about that, about nothing at all, slowly discovering that spending these few hours together relieved the boredom and inanity of our mundane lives.
For me, it had given me the hope of something else in the future than of being nothing of consequence and going nowhere.
That landing we had sat on only a few hours before was now deep in snow. If it was January, I wouldn’t give it a second thought, but this was September.
I threw on some warm clothes, buried in the bottom drawer and smelling of mothballs because I wasn’t supposed to need them for a few more months. It looked bleak outside, and I wanted to see just how bad it was close up.
After another look out the window to make sure I wasn’t seeing things, I went downstairs where there were a dozen or more people in the foyer and more out on the sidewalk, most of whom had looks of stunned disbelief.
As I descended the stairs it got colder, and with the door open, we could all feel the breeze swirling the lightly falling snow outside and in through the opening. The building supervisor was rugged up, standing by the door, making sure it closed after someone entered or left.
I knew most of those downstairs. I also recognised the looks on their faces.
Fear.
“What’s happening,” I asked. “Aside from the obvious.”
Mr Jacobson, the oldest member of our little enclave and the most educated, peered out the door and then looked at me. “It seems winter has come early this year.”
There was a hint of irony in his tone. The previous day had been in the low seventies, and the weather forecast had been for rain. Instead of rain, we got snow. How was that possible? I’m sure he would tell me if I asked, but I was not sure I’d understand him. He was a scientist in his previous life before forced retirement.
“Or, if it isn’t that…” I said, perhaps expecting him to complete the sentence. I knew he had a thing about climate change, even though everyone else had dismissed it when it seemed the planet’s climate appeared to have readjusted itself a few years back.
Some said it was a miracle. Some said we were all worried about nothing, but some said it was a sign, one last chance to stop going down the path we were on. If it was a reprieve, we ignored it.
Mr Jacobsen had told everyone that adjustment was only temporary, but he’d been saying the same thing for the last few years, and nothing had happened. Now he was simply the man who cried wolf.
“Mother Earth has been waiting patiently to take her revenge, and because we preferred to be complacent, this is just the beginning.” Mr. Jacobson wasn’t saying it out of spite, I believed he knew what was happening but couldn’t explain it in words any of us would understand.
But Harry Johnson, the man who knew everything but knew nothing, threw in his two cents worth. “You scientists have been banging on about this nonsense for decades, and nothing has happened. This is an aberration. Something had to give after an abnormally hot summer. It’ll be gone in a day or two. Mark my words.”
Mr Jacobson shook his head, but he said nothing more. There was no point. No one was going to believe him now. “There’s no power,” he said to me. “And it’s going to get colder. They should have insulated the power stations when they had the chance, but they didn’t. My advice, to everyone, get some extra blankets.”
“Or head south,” someone yelled out.
“You think it’s going to be better there?” Someone else asked.
“Out in that cold.” Another resident, one from a few floors above me, came in from outside shivering as if to emphasise his point. “You wouldn’t get far. The police are saying it only goes as far south as Washington, but everyone has the same idea, and the roads are clogged with people trying to get out of the city. They also say we’re actually not as badly off as those further north.”
“I didn’t see any police outside,” Harry Johnson said, and I’ve been out a few times.”
“They’re moving from building to building, telling people to stay indoors and keep warm until the power is back on. There is only limited transport options and office buildings and shopping centres are closed due to the blackout. They say we should tune into the radio for further information. Didn’t any of you take notice after the last disaster when we were told to be prepared in case it happened again?”
“That was different,” Harry muttered.
“How? This is worse. Then they rationed power, but we had power, and trucks and transport could move. This time, we have no power at all, and nothing can move because of the snow and icy conditions. This is going to take a while for the authorities to fix. If the weather changes out there, and it doesn’t look like it will change any time soon. Go to your apartments and keep warm. Find a radio and keep yourselves informed.”
There was murmuring, and a few complaints about people telling them what to do, but within five minutes, they were all trudging back up the stairs. With nothing more to see, I went back up the stairs myself. When I got to my apartment, Tricia was outside the door, dressed in her ski gear.
“What happened? Where’s the heat. I just woke up freezing.”
“Mr Jabobson says it’s Mother Nature taking revenge on us horrible humans.”
“The mad scientist?”
It was one of several names the residents gave him.
“I don’t think he’s as mad as we want to believe he is. He says it’s going to get colder and we need extra blankets.”
“I could get mine, bring them down, and we could share if you like. I know you’d like to be with me as much as I would like to be with you. It’s as good a reason as any. I am assuming you like me as much as I like being with you.”
I hadn’t expected whatever we had to move quickly, but I had thought my feelings towards her were not fully reciprocated. I didn’t want to take advantage of the situation, but it was a sensible idea.
“I do, and I’m happy if you’re happy. I don’t think the heat or the power will be back in a hurry, so we are not likely to be going far.”
“Then let’s go up and fetch the blankets.”
It was coincidental that recently, I had been reading about doomsday events. The oil crisis was not likely to happen again, and someone had thought about that Hormuz bottleneck, built alternative pipelines, and considered a lot more scenarios again after the recent mini-crisis. Then there was the possibility of a meteor crashing into the earth and knocking us out of orbit, but that was a bit more extreme and unlikely.
Nor was it because I was one of those prepper types who were hoarding necessities in an underground bunker, but because for a few months, about a year ago, the Middle East went up in flames and the oil supply briefly stopped, again.
It just proved that we should never put politicians in charge of trying to de-escalate a potential war. For those few months, it began with anarchy until the order was restored, and everything was rationed until common sense prevailed.
We saw what could happen, and it wasn’t pretty.
This, however, was a different problem. What could be a prelude to the next ice age had just arrived on our doorstep, and it would be interesting to know what was happening, even get a weather report that could tell us it was temporary. If we had learned anything from the past, people needed to be kept informed.
Even if they told us a lie, that everything would get better soon, it would be better than nothing. After the last crisis, everyone was aware that there had been precious little truth spoken as time passed, and inaction was met with unrest. It came very close to martial law, and no one wanted to see that again.
After that, I bought a small battery-operated radio, knowing there would be a designated radio station that had its own power supply to advise people of what was happening and what to do in a crisis like this; once Tricia and I were comfortable and warm, we tuned in to the station. It wasn’t confidence-inspiring, and the deadpan announcer’s voice only added a sense of the sinister to the news.
It definitely wasn’t good.
What we did learn; the snow basically blanketed the whole of the northern hemisphere from the north pole to the latitude below Washington, though there were snowy conditions for a further hundred miles south past that point. It was similar to the southern hemisphere, where it reached as far up as the bottom of Tasmania, an island south of mainland Australia.
And it wasn’t predicted to stop snowing for a few days at the very least. The poles were apparently clouded over and in a similar situation to being fogged in. There, the temperatures were a lot, lot colder.
No one was commenting on why it was happening, only that it was an unexpected turn of events that was not expected to last, and that the city’s services would be soon operating on a reduced scale, predicted to be within 24 hours, and that people, unless they were designated as working for essential services, should stay home until advised otherwise.
They acknowledged that power stations had been temporarily disabled by an abnormal amount of snow. The drifts had also caused problems in the substations and along the feeder lines, whatever that meant.
Then, the message looped after saying to stay tuned for any change in the situation. At the very least, they would advise the latest weather report on the hour. That was twenty minutes away.
We both listened to the weather report, and we both agreed that the wording was a signal. Not necessarily to us, but to others, and that was most likely to say things were not going to get better in the short term and to prepare for trouble.
The announcement underlined the necessity that we all stayed in place, the conditions would soon improve, and, shortly after that, another announcer said there would be limited power returning in a matter of hours.
A specific number wasn’t mentioned. It was as close to saying that no one knew definitely.
After several minutes of a rather sombre symphony playing softly in the background, both of us agreed it was weird because New York was never this quiet, ever. Tricia said to no one in particular, “What are they not saying?”
She was right. The announcer had spoken for nearly half an hour and told us nothing we already didn’t know. In words we really didn’t understand.
“My father always said that when people start using big words, they’re trying to hide the truth.”
“It’s not getting better, is it?”
“We don’t know. Mr Jacobson, the man you call the mad scientist, said that winter had come early, and while he made it sound like a joke, I don’t think he meant it that way. I’m going to see him and ask him what he’s going to do.”
“Don’t you think he’s crazy?”
Everybody did. Especially after he lost his job after telling anyone who would listen that exactly what happened was going to happen. Maybe if it had been five years ago, someone might have listened.
“No.”
Outside the door, we could hear raised voices. Had Harry decided to tell Mr Jacobson to keep his theories to himself. “I’d better go and see what’s happening.”
By the time I got the door open, it was to see Jacobson being escorted by two policemen. I ran up to them before they descended the stairs, yelling out, “He’s not mad, just concerned like all of us.”
He stopped and turned to me. “It’s fine, Alex. I’m going to have a talk with the meteorologists. They requested I go and meet with them. Remember what we talked about a few months back?”
For the moment, I couldn’t, but I had made a note of it on my phone.
“No matter. When you do, it’s Z. Do you understand? Z.”
I repeated it, and he nodded. Then they continued down the stairs, a few of the residents following.
On the way back to my apartment, I tried to remember what it was we were talking about. He had been, I remembered now, rather disjointed, as though he was having a hard time articulating what he wanted to say. He’d been more distracted than normal, but I had put it down to the anniversary of his wife’s death. It had hit him very hard, and I could only imagine what it would be like for him.
I went in and closed the door behind me. Tricia was still under the blankets. “What was it?”
“Jacobson, your mad scientist, was being taken away by the police. He says he’s been taken to see the meteorologists.”
“Or the loony bin. I heard Harry say more than once Jacobson was a loose cannon.”
“Harry wouldn’t know his ass from his elbow. Jacobson reminded me of something we talked about a few months ago. It might not be relevant; he was rambling more than usual at that time. He asked me to write it down, so all I have to do is find the notes on my cell phone.”
Which then took the next two hours to go through. I hadn’t realised that I’d accumulated so much junk over the years, nor so many photographs of New York all through the year, a visual reminder of what it was like before the snow.
“We will have to think about food soon,” Tricia said. “I usually only cater from day to day, like everyone.”
It was probably what a lot of people inside and outside the building were also thinking about, and given what happened the last time food supplies were interrupted, it could get ugly very quickly.
That was why I stocked up on some essential long-life items like milk, canned meat, vegetables, and fruit. Enough for two people to last a month.
“The thing I do remember from talking to Jacobson several months ago was to store up some essential items in case the oil stopped again. He said it was prudent these days to have supplies because of how things are in the Middle East.”
Tensions never die down there, and rockets were always flying about threatening to extend the current conflict between Israel and the Palestinians into a wider war with Lebanon, Syria, and Iran.
Who knew we’d have something else to worry about.
“For you, perhaps.”
“For two. I have always included you in my disaster plan.”
“Then believe me when I say you are the first.”
“I know how that feels. But only if you want me to. I don’t want you to feel obligated or have to do anything in return.”
She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I know. Now, what was the mad scientist trying to tell you?”
I found the relevant document file and scrolled through the pages, a whole mass of disjointed and in places almost unintelligible notes. Jacobson had been reciting stuff so fast that I could hardly get it down. His wife had been an expert on shorthand, and he forgot that I was not her.
But then I got to the section that had a ‘Z’ on it, in capitals and bolded so that it stood out. He must have slowed down by then.
“It says that Plan Z was to get ready for an ELE event.”
“ELE, what is that?”
“Can’t remember, hang on.” I scrolled through a few more pages and then stopped reading. It was not on the page, but I suddenly remembered what it was.
An apt description of what happened when the meteor struck Earth and killed all the dinosaurs. I said, “It’s what is known as an Extinction Level Event.”
“I thought that was when meteors were coming.”
“It could also be a deadly virus like Covid, or an ice age, though that wouldn’t kill everyone, but it would make things very difficult to survive. Maybe that’s not what he specifically meant. Perhaps it’s just some of the suggestions he made if such a thing happened.”
“He did say z, plan z.”
“No, just Z, but he did say it was what we had been talking about, and that was the only z I can remember, or made notes on. And if they’re pulling him back to be an advisor after scoffing at his ideas, then what they’re not telling us is quite telling if you ask me. If you don’t mind the irony of it all.”
It was met with a wan smile from her. “What did you think we should do?”
I shrugged. “If It was just me alone, I’d probably head south. There’s no transport, so I’m not sure what I’d use.”
“And go where?”
“Always wanted to go to California, and that’s past the current freeze line. Somewhere where there’s power for starters, though.”
“I’ve got a car. It’s not a very good one, but I used to hang out in my dad’s workshop, and I pretty much know everything there is about cars and trucks.”
“And you waitress?”
“Girl mechanics don’t get far, just hit on. Lasted a week before I hit one jerk with a spanner. They’re very useful for teaching jerks lessons. Do you have any hidden talents?”
“Aside from washing dishes, not really. I can read, not comics, but textbooks and learn from them. Very good at trivia questions. I can program computers, and I have a funny little program running at the moment collecting every digitised book on the planet. Useful, of course, to no one but me.”
“Every book?”
I shrugged. “That can be freely downloaded, yes.”
“Why?”
“The usual reason, because I can.”
“How about speaking other languages, like Russian, or German?”
“Yes, several. Why?”
“Another quirk, I guess, that I have too. I can speak about six or seven different languages. I just can for some reason. Helps to talk to the customers at the diner when their English is kaput.”
Interesting. But time for a change of subject. “Does the car have petrol?”
“Diesel.”
“Spare fuel?”
“Some. So, we have a car, we have food, we have blankets and warm clothes. Still might not be enough. We certainly will not get on the roads with the stay-at-home order in place, but when things get better, it’s a possible plan.”
Another announcement had just been made, that if you had no reason to be on the street, stay at home, until further notice. There was also a specific reference to looting and the fact that perpetrators would be apprehended. This time, they were not waiting until everything went to hell.
“The question is, and don’t take this the wrong way if I was to consider going anywhere, I would not want to leave you here, not while this is all going on. And if it does pass, I would consider going south, but again, I don’t want to leave you unless…”
“I have something better to do with my life, or I have a secret boyfriend or ex-husband, or maybe I just don’t like you. What you see is what you get, Alex. I don’t want to be alone, and yet that’s what always happens. The type of guys I get to meet, well, you’re not one of them. Let’s see what happens in the next few days when we are so close; bad habits are bound to surface. I’m not perfect.”
“Neither am I. Nor do I have many dates. Talking to you on the fire escape has been the highlight of my life. Make of that what you will.”
It was hard to tell what she was thinking, though, at times, it was easy enough to gauge her mood. At the moment, with everything, there was an element of fear, tinged with something else. But the fact she wanted to stay with me and see what happened was a good sign.
She took my hand in hers and held it with both of hers. “I’m not sure if I should curse or thank this weather. But one thing is for sure, it brought us together in a way I never expected, though part of me was hoping something might develop. Lives such as ours don’t give scope for much, but it doesn’t mean we can’t try. Plan for two. I think soon, we’re going to be in for a hell of a ride if we can get in front of it. That said, in the meantime, what have you got to eat?”
When I started the story, it was the day after Agatha was found dead. From there it was a story of how her ex-husband charted a path through the tangled web of her life and business.
It was going to be one told through the various people in her life and the effect they had, good and bad. It was also meant to be a story of taking something good and twisting it, which is not what always happens but can.
I had always believed that being rich is a curse rather than a blessing, because you eventually start worrying about those around you who want to take it away, the fact, in the end, you can’t trust anyone.
I guess that it doesn’t happen a lot in real life.
Or maybe it does.
Is this why we believe rich people are eccentric?
These are only a few questions that are going to get a much bigger airing in the first edit, because at the moment, there are arts I’m not happy with.
I know who is responsible for her death. Now. For almost the whole of the story, I was like the reader, waiting to find out, and speculating along the way. It’s not who you think.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 