Tag: Thoughts

Writing about writing a book – Day 4

Of course, by this time, a lot has changed and what I had discussed before now needs a few changes, so I have made the necessary amendments where required to the narrative, but that doesn’t mean I won’t revisit it sometime in the future.

 

It was a late night last night, reading and rereading, considering plot lines, new characters, and demolishing a six-pack.

It’s debatable if it is helping the creative process.  It has left me with a slight headache.

I drag myself out of bed and look out the window.  Bright sunshine, blue sky, slight breeze.

11:00 am.  Half the day is gone.

My stomach rumbles, I need something to eat.  I stagger out to the kitchen and look in the fridge.  OK, too busy to go shopping, time to make time.  A writer has to eat!

 

Three hours have passed and it’s mid-afternoon.  A new plan is required.  I need to make sure I don’t waste the day and write a certain number of words, otherwise, this book will never get written.

Bed: midnight

Rise: 7:00 am, go for a run to clear the head

Breakfast: 8:00 am

Writing: 9:00 am to ??

Let’s just see if that works tomorrow.

 

I sit down and stare at the pad.

Plotting:  Our main character is an IT department manager, whose main responsibility from the start, and at that time, he was alone and not the manager of anything, was setting up and keeping the network running.  These were the early days of Ethernet, token ring, and 3-Com, in moving from mainframes to desktops and servers.

I remember it well, and my first client/server network was 3-Com and Ethernet.

In the story scenario, Bill literally is indispensable because the job he performs is single point sensitive, even though Benton refuses to act on employing another network engineer.  This is art imitating life because so many places have similar situations.

So the reason why Benton is calling Bill; there is a crisis.

Some accountant is found shot dead at his desk, novel but not unheard of.  I know a few accountants who deserve just that.

That’s not the problem though, it’s the fact the network is down, and Benton is almost hysterical (after he makes a promise to his superiors that he can’t keep!).  Nothing unusual there with the sort of person he is, and like many in similar situations.

 

Scribble, scribble …

 

Another five minutes, then the phone began its shrill insistence again.  Before it rang again, I’d moved it from the floor to the bed.  I counted the rings, to ten, and then picked up the receiver.

“Bill?  Don’t hang up.”  Almost pleading.

“Why?  You said I should go, away from work, away from the phones, away to recharge my batteries, I believe you said.”

“That was Friday.  This is Monday. You’re needed.  Richardson has been found shot dead by his desk.  All hell has broken loose!”  Benton rarely used adjectives, so I assumed when he said all hell had broken loose, it meant something had happened he couldn’t fix.  His flowery language and telegram style had momentarily distracted my attention from Richardson’s fate.

Harold Richardson was an accountant, rather stuffy, but good at his job.  I’d spoken to him probably twice in as many years, and he didn’t strike me as the sort who would kill himself.  So why did I think that?  Benton had only said he was shot.

Benton’s voice went up an octave, a sure sign he was going into meltdown.  “It’s a circus down here.  Jennifer is missing, Giles is not in yet, the network is down, and that bunch of nincompoops you call support staff are running around the office like headless chooks.”

It all came out in a nonstop sentence, followed by a gasp for air.  It gave me time to sift the facts.  Jennifer, the Assistant Manager, and responsible for data entry and accounts maintenance, was not there, which in itself was unusual, because she kept longer hours than me, Peter Giles, my youthful assistant, just out of university and still being beaten into shape was also not in, and that was usual, so it could only mean one thing.

The network was down.

It was my responsibility since I’d recommended it and then won the support of management over his objections, and following that it had become a point of continual contention, a petty war neither of us was going to win.

I tried to keep the joy out of my voice. 

He’d also vetoed my recommendation for an extra full-time network engineer as my alternative, and in doing so Benton had made my job become single point sensitive.  There was no one to replace me if anything went wrong.

 

Richardson has nothing to do with the plot, he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but someone else further up the chain of command will be.  That’s something to look forward to, though I’ve yet to decide what happens.

As for Benton, he will linger around for a while, but has no real part to play, except perhaps as the comic light relief.  He will get a rude awakening at the end.

Try not to make it too technical, no one really wants to know about computer systems, just the machinations of the people who are creating the problems and why.

 

© Charles Heath 2016 – 2020

The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 89

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

We have a situation

…

Home wasn’t home anymore.

I stood inside the front door, as I had many times in the past, but this time it was different.

Maybe it was the near-death experience, maybe I hadn’t been there for a few days, maybe I had irrevocably changed in those few short days.

It seemed that I was someone else, that the old Sam had gone away, and a new version had replaced him.  Had I finally grown up, or was I still reeling from the ordeal and, more likely, mourning the loss of what had been my one true friend.

Right then, it felt like Boggs had never existed, and that Nadia had invaded that space.

Nadia.

Until now, right this moment, I hadn’t really thought about what I was about to do.  Since being in the hospital, every movement I’d made felt mechanical, and someone else was manipulating the controls.

Wanting to leave was a knee-jerk reaction, and one that failed to recognize others may have a role in what happened, like my mother.  I gad completely discounted her because of her association with Benderby, but what if that was no longer the case.

With Alex off the hook, they no longer had to worry about Nadia or what I might say or do, not that there was anything we could do.  I felt for Charlene who literally was between a rock and a hard place, having to compromise her principles to uphold justice and her disappointment in her father.

To be honest, his actions came as a surprise, despite the rumors of corruption.  It didn’t occur to me that it might have been the lesser of the evils, getting Vince off the streets, nobbling the Cossatinos, and to a lesser extent, using the situation as a bargaining chip with the Benderby’s.

But all of that was moot.  Another rumor circulating, according to the newspaper I’d seen at the hotel, was that a third term for the current sheriff was looking unlikely.  It was joined by an interview with Benderby on the construction of a new resort on the mall site.  Noticeably absent were any reports on Boggs, the treasure, or Cossatino.

I considered briefly whether I should go to the newspaper and tell them the whole story.  If he considered it had any element of truth, he’d publish it and be damned, but the thought of how his wife, an Ormiston, would take the news of finding her father, only for the body to disappear, would serve no purpose.  If there was a body, I would not hesitate.

But, now, it was enough to make a decision on what I would do next.  Pack a bag, tell my mother I was leaving, and call Nadia.

It was impossible to fit a lifetime into a bag.  It was fortunate, perhaps, that my situation had not afforded me the luxury of too many possessions, or anything of value.

Even so, what fitted wasn’t much.  I wanted to believe it was going to be a new start, but it seemed like I was just running away, that the problems I was running from would just come with me. 

And, then, there was Nadia.  I was today’s flavor of the month, but would I be in a month, or two? 

That thought was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.  I stepped onto the passage just as my mother closed the door.

“Sam.  Where have you been?  I’ve been calling, and leaving messages.”

She wasn’t angry, but there was an edge to her tone.  I should have at the very least sent a message to say I was OK.  It didn’t help my phone battery had died.  I’d put it in the recharge, and minutes later continually dinged with missed messages

“I had to get away.  Either that or I would have done something I regretted.  I thought you’d moved in with Benderby.”

“You thought wrong.  This business with Alex.  I remember you told me he was responsible for what happened to you and Nadia, and when I overheard him arguing with his father, I realised you were telling me the truth, and neither of them could be trusted.  I just told him I needed some time to sort out some issues.”

“You’re not going back?”

“No.  What are you going to do?”

“There’s nothing for me here.  I’m not going back to the warehouse, nor do I want to be here anymore.  Not while Alex is put and about.  It’s only a matter of time before he comes after Nadia and I.”

“Then you’re still going to Italy with her.”

“For a while, see how it works out.  You should come too, at least for a holiday, think about what you’re going to do.  Personally, I think you should also leave, start fresh somewhere else.”

“Maybe you’re…”

We both heard the screeching tires of a car coming to a sudden stop outside, followed by the slamming of doors.

Alex not waiting to clean up his mess?

A sudden pounding on the door revised that assessment, if anyone was here to do us harm they would have kicked the door down.

I moved my mother behind me, and the protection of the door as I opened it.

The sheriff.

“We have a situation,” he said in his most serious tone

Warning us the Benderby’s were coming for us?

When neither of us responded, he added, “Elsie Boggs has the Benderby’s at gunpoint at the Blue Circle, and she will only talk to you.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

© Charles Heath 2019

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 13

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Am I working for anyone now?

 

So, there I was, walking along the street, hands in pockets, trying to look like my whole world hadn’t come crashing down on me when a car pulled over to the side of the road.

I may have been down in the dumps but not that far that I wasn’t still aware of what was going on around me, the training had been that good, so I hung back a little from the curb and waited to see if was me they were after, or just some lucky rich person being dropped off.

And ready to disappear into the crowd, not that there was one, but there were three exits available and within momentary reach if necessary.

I watched the rear window go down slowly then saw a familiar face.

Nobbin.

“Get in Mr Jackson.  We have more to talk about.”

I hesitated like anyone with the training I had would, as any person with common sense would too, I guess.

“It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.”  He sounded reassuring.

A glance into the car showed only him and the driver, who was getting out of the car.  I watched him come around to the curbside and put his hand on the door handle.

“Sir,” he said.

He opened the door.  Nobbin had moved to the other side.

I shrugged, then got in.  A thought: how many people had got into cars such as this, and were never seen again?”

It was not a statistic that reached any of the newspapers.  Only the end result, a body washed down the Thames, with no indication of who it was, or where they came from, and no identification, or means of identification available.

The door closed, the driver went back to the front of the car, and then gently eased the car out into the traffic.

“I’m sorry for the theatrics surrounding this meeting, but it is necessary.  I’m sure you were told of the need for secrecy in this matter, and I’m just reinforcing that.”

“Just who are you?  And, for that matter, those people back in that building?  Or, if it’s not too hard to wrap your head around, who the hell have I been working for?”

“Good questions, all.  At least now I can speak freely.  As you can, Mr Jackson.”

“Except I have no idea who’s side you’re on, I’m on, or anyone for that matter.  This is not what I signed up for.”

“Well, to put some perspective on your situation, Mr Jackson, you were not supposed to live to tell about it.  It was an operation that was created with one purpose in mind, to find an agent named

William O’Connor, and kill him.  And everyone in the team assigned to the task.”

“By Severin and Maury?  If so, why didn’t they kill me in the alley along with this O’Connor?”

“That is a mystery to all of us.”

“And those people back in the room.  Who the hell were they?”

“Operations.  Trying to find out how a sub-section could be created and function within their purview and not be detected.  That’s what it was, run by two agents who had been expelled a few months back, but who were clever enough to work around all of the safeguards, recruit four agents, and then go after the man who caused the end of their careers.”

“Simple, it seems.”

“Very.  And, if it had not been for you, we would never have known who or why.”

“Perhaps we should be thankful there was an explosion then, otherwise we’d all be dead.”

“Or not, because as far as I know, that was part of the operation, designed to take the target, you and the surveillance member behind you.  It only did a third the job.  It didn’t go off at the critical moment.  No one was seriously hurt, by the way.”

“The policeman?”

“Critical but stable.  He’ll survive.”

“The police who were accusing me of being the bomber?”

“Our people trying to delay you, so our man could get away.  Seems they trained you better than we expected.  Did O’Connor say anything to you?”

“There wasn’t much time before I found him, and Severin shot him.”

“Anything at all?”

“He knew who I was.”

“Then he knew the whole team, and who was running it.”

“He killed two of them.”

“In self-defence.  They were not only surveillance but also assassins.  Different training before they joined your group.”

I had thought there was something odd about them.

“Anything else,” he asked again.

“Yes.  He said to tell you he found something he should, and that the evidence is…  And that’s when he was shot.  He didn’t tell me where it was.”

“He didn’t have to.  We had set up three prearranged drop sites, so it must be in one of those.  Here’s my card.”

He handed me a white card with a name and a phone number.  The name was not Nobbin.

“If this Severin contacts you again, call me.  I am available any hour of the day or night on that number.”

“If he doesn’t?”

“Then you will hear from me in the not too distant future.  The fact you’re a survivor tells me you are resourceful and have the makings of a good agent, one I can use in my department.”

“And those others back at the office?”

“You won’t hear from them again.”

The car stopped outside an underground staircase.

“This is your stop, Mr Jackson.  Thank you for your co-operation.”

Perhaps my career wasn’t in tatters.  I got out of the car, and watched it leave before heading for the underground, his card safely tucked away in my pocket.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 69

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

With Nadia seeking gold at the beach at The Grove

…

I was waiting to be picked up at the bus depot by Nadia, trying to keep out of the public eye, knowing very few people I knew would be there at that hour.

It was early for me, not long after getting home from the night shift, with just enough time to change and get something to eat at the diner a block from the depot.

Nadia didn’t understand my obsession with anonymity, but being seen with her was just going to raise questions, and, if either my mother or Boggs found out, that would be two very interesting conversations.

I just didn’t need the aggravation.

I was not sure what to wear so I dug out the clothes I wore to a farm that a friend of my mothers owned and my mother had graciously offered my services.  It hadn’t been such a bad day, but it was hard work.

The clothes had the added advantage of making me almost invisible among the many seasonal workers currently in town.

I nearly missed her because I had been looking for her usual car, but when a large pickup truck pulled up at the curb where I was standing, it took a moment to recognize her behind the wheel.  A very unglamorous plain Jane, without make-up and her hair a mess, or so it looked to me.  I knew well enough not to make a comment.

The truck was battered and seen better days, but the engine sounded like that of a racing car.  A Cossatino’s getaway car.  Oddly, I could imagine her behind the wheel waiting for a team of bank robbers, fuelled no doubt by the many old movies I’d seen in my younger days.

I climbed up into the cabin and she had driven off before the car door was closed

“Are we in a hurry?”

“No parking zone.  Don’t need the sheriff’s deputies giving us a hard time.”

No, indeed.

“Where’s your car?”

“Too recognizable.  Where we’re going it’s better not to be recognized.”

That didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.  I knew it was going to be somewhere along the coastline, her idea to see if any more of the gold coins had fallen out of the treasure chests as they were being brought ashore.

The question was, was there any part of the coastline that hadn’t been surveyed?  That was when it occurred to me she might be headed for that stretch of coastline that belonged to The Grove, split by the coast road, either side of the road fenced off and signs telling people they would be shot on sight if caught trespassing.

There had been rumors of shootings but nothing ever made it to the sheriff’s office.  I hoped she told someone where she was going if that’s where she was taking me.

“You’re quiet this morning?”

“Just got off shift, and a little tired.”

“You should have said something.  I didn’t think…”

“It’s fine.  You’re currently the one ray of light on a very dark horizon.”

She looked sideways at me.  “That is a compliment.”

“I hope you take it that way.  With Boggs on some sort of crusade, my mother giving me dating tips, and Benderby hanging around, being with you Breaks the gloom and doom.” 

I turned slightly to get a better look at her.  If it was anyone else, I could fall in love with her, but knowing a Cossatino was a dance with the devil, and dangerous for your health.

“Well, I’m glad I bring some light into someone’s life.  It seems I can’t do anything right at home.”

“Why did you come home.  It seems to me you were happier away from this place.”

“Reasons I now think were stupid.”  There was a finality in her tone that warned not to go any further with it.

Instead, we were passing the old mall and I saw the transformation.  Fort Knox would be easier to get into.

“Do you know what’s going on at the old mall?”

“The Benderby’s are demolishing it, mainly because they have to, and do a lot of remediation, whatever that is, before they build the new marina and condos. They’re going to tap into the retirement market.”

That premise, according to a financial market magazine left on my desk, and which made interesting reading, was the next gold mine for those who had the foresight, and the financial means.

Benderby had both, and in another article, which to me at the time seemed to be profiling Benderby, opining the fact some of the new rich had not all made their fortunes legitimately, harking back to the war days and profiteering.  Had Benderby’s father and his before him, plowed this path to success, and the son and grandson found other Illegitimate means like drugs and worse to perpetuate it?

Was it possible, in this day and age to make a fortune without crossing the line somewhere?  No one could link Benderby to anything crooked, but rumors, there were plenty, including the mall, and the fact it was a huge insurance write-off.

Lenny seemed to think so, but cleverly, never quite put what he thought into words.

“Lucky them,” I muttered.

Several miles past the mall, she turned off the main road onto a track that had not been used for some time, heading towards the ocean

I could see now why we were in the truck.  A car would not be able to make it without getting bogged.  It was wet and muddy, with pools of water forming in ruts. 

When we hit a couple and got soundly shaken up, she slowed down.  Then, suddenly, the ocean came into view, and the track headed for the cliff, veering at the last minute, and going down the side of the hill until at the bottom we stopped outside a weather-beaten shack about the size of a large room.

She switched off the engine and let the silence surround us until I could just hear the sound of waves breaking on the rocky shoreline.

“Welcome to my castle.”

There was a whimsical expression on her face.

I opened the door and climbed out, in an instant the temperature dropped 10 degrees, and the effect of the wind almost knocking me over.

She slammed the door shut and went to the door of the shack, unlocking, then opening the door, then switching on a light, giving the inside a gloomy yellowish aura.  She motioned me to go in, then followed behind closing the door, and immediately it was much quieter.

“Not much of a castle.”

“It is when you want to get away from the rest of the family.  It used to be a bathing shack, but the waters around here got too treacherous for swimming, and it fell into disrepair.  I had it fixed up and this is where I come when I want to disappear.”

It didn’t look like it had been used in a while, a thin film of dust settled in everything, and smudged footprints on the floor, showing recent signs of habitation.  Two metal detectors were sitting on the table.

“It’s like a different world to be in when you have the family I have.”

“They don’t know about this place?”

“They probably do, but it’s been a wreck for years, and no one ever comes here, not anymore.  I found it one day, wandering along the coastline, exploring the boundaries of The Grove.  This is the southernmost tip.  There’s one on the northernmost tip too, where the building is much larger and used for storage.”

Say no more, I thought.  The Cossatino’s were allegedly smugglers on top of everything else, and that’s probably where the smuggled good were stored.  This part of the coastline was treacherous at best, with underwater reefs and craggy rocks along the cliff line.  There were some sandy stretches, but it was hard work to reach them, and at a guess, Nadia knew how to get there without slipping and falling.

Boats could only get within 50 years of the shoreline before the possibility of being dashed on the rocks, and for that reason, Boggs told me, that whole beachfront could not have been used by the pirate to bring his treasure ashore.

The little I’d seen from where the truck was parked verified that, at least for this section.

“But we’re here to check for gold coins, see if there is a possibility the treasure cane ashore somewhere along the Grove’s shoreline.  I know the consensus of opinion said it’s not possible, but from my explorations, I reckon there are at least a dozen spots where a longboat could land, especially if you came on the tide.”

That, I was guessing, was high tide, and it may have been a coincidence when the pirate arrived on this shore.

“The reefs would be submerged and even more dangerous.”

“There are ways.  I’ve been out there in a canoe once or twice with Vince, looking for passageways.  And, before you jump to any conclusions, I’m not a smuggler, and we may have been once, but an accident ten years ago put paid to that.  We lost four of the family, and six others in a hair-brained night landing in rough weather.”

I remembered a piece in the paper, the coastguard had been trailing a large yacht with suspected drugs aboard, waited until the Cossatino’s had transferred to the longboat that had gone out to meet the yacht, then chased it to the reef where a navigation mistake saw the longboat hit the reef, sink with all the evidence, and all but Vince had drowned in the heavy surf.

“Vince was lucky.”

“Vince was an idiot then and a bigger idiot now.  It made him believe he was invincible.  He’s not.  But let’s not talk about him, or the rest of them, we’re not exactly on speaking terms at the moment.”

She went to the table and picked up one of the metal detectors and held it out.  “Yours.”

I came over and took it, and it was heavier than I expected.

She picked up the other.  “Ready?”

For anything, I thought, then nodded.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

Writing about writing a book – Day 5 continues – Those annoying people called characters

Whilst it is always an idea to sit down and write and keep going, not worrying too much about the narrative, there’s always the problem of ideas about characters, and relationships that come back and need to be addressed.

I have issues with Jennifer in that we will need to know something about her, and need a little backstory.

Jennifer is the second most important character in this novel and one that has more talents than what my main character, or anyone else for that matter, thinks she has.  Of course, that is deliberate on her part for a number of reasons that will be introduced at the appropriate time.

But, at the start, all we will have to work with, is the introduction provided by the narrator.

It may go something like this:

 

Jennifer Pennington Smythe was, as you might expect, very English, very reserved, and very private.  She was the definitive ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’, and I was guilty, at first, of suspecting she had once been a schoolmistress due to the severity of dress, demeanor, and expression.

HR had sent her to me when I’d requested an IT Specialist, though of what particular discipline it was never divulged, neither by HR nor by her.  She arrived one morning, told me she was to ‘help resolve our technical difficulties’, moved into an office that had been used as a storeroom, and worked hard to prove her worthiness in the role.

My first attempt at conversation was rebuffed, the second met with a very cold stare.  Everyone, including me, learned very quickly that any other topic of conversation than work would be ignored.  At the time it suited me, there was trouble in paradise and I didn’t want anything more on my plate to deal with.

 

So, what is this trouble?

There are three distinct stages of this relationship between the two most important characters, and it is the actions of one of the protagonists that brings them together.  This particular protagonist, of course, is the main character’s wife, a woman that is on the periphery for the period the novel covers, but a little background will be needed at some point before we reach this part of the narrative.

This now means that I will have to put together a back story for Bill and his ex-wife Ellen, not too much yet but enough to explain the next part of the evolving relationship between Bill and Jennifer.

 

I’m sure this topic is going to raise it’s head again and again…

The Perils of Travelling: Every plane trip is different

Melbourne to Brisbane by Qantas, post-COVID pandemic

…

The experience coming from Brisbane to Melbourne was interesting, considering that Qantas has been in mothballs for nearly a year and a half.

We’ve thrown all Covid rules into the bin, the plane is at sardine level, no separation and if just one passenger has Covid then the rest of us are in deep shit.

As an example, the passenger next to me coughed for the whole two and a half hours.  I doubt whether people even check these days if they have it or not, so reliant are we on the herd immunity theorem.

It might account for the hostesses being taciturn to the point of almost being rude, they only came down the cabin once to deliver the snack and once to collect the rubbish.

That was it.  The rest of the time they were invisible.  I’m guessing that Covid is on their minds and seeing how easy it would be to get it in such an enclosed environment, the less contact with passengers the better.

Will it be better on the way back?

…

It is not.

This is a bigger disaster.

It’s 10 minutes past departure time, and they can’t find the baggage handlers to load the bags, so they’re forlornly sitting on the tarmac, and we are squashed into a steel cocoon, hoping like hell someone hasn’t lied about not having Covid.

Something else I find amusing, other than the fact they’re shuffling people around seats after everyone had been seated, is the instructions to maintain a safe distance while loading.  

If 25cm is a safe distance, then we’re ok, but if it’s the one and a half meters that’s the usual safe distance then their airline had suffered a mega fail in social distancing.  Of course, it’s not practicable in a plane, so why do they continually labor the point?

They eventually find the baggage handlers, which, to me, seems incredible there isn’t a roster to tell them where they’re supposed to be, something you think the Qantas CEO would be addressing rather than looking for $19 million houses in upscale Sydney, but apparently not.

It seems that Qantas has fired all of the local employees who used to look after baggage and clean the planes, and it is now in the hands of contractors, who are profit-orientated so less staff to do more work in half the time. So, there might be a wait for baggage, and a longer wait to clean the plane if they actually do ‘clean’ the plane – in the few minutes they have because it arrived late, and because of that the plane lost its slot in the roster!

Everything withstanding, we finally push back at 4:05 pm, 45 minutes late, and, by the way, all that time we were cooped up with no air filters keeping the virus at bay.  It’s beginning to look like the Ruby Princess saga all over again.

Seven minutes later, we take off, the pilot continually telling us they will be making up time, and those with ongoing connections, not to lose faith. Sorry, but that ship has sailed!

But, sometimes, there isn’t a lot of time between plane arrivals and departures at connecting airports, and there is one on arrival in Brisbane causing major concern, a flight to New Zealand around 7 pm.  With our arrival after 6pm, that rule of arriving at the airport 2 hours before is looking very shaky.

Glad it’s not me.  I’ve been there and it’s not good for either nerves or heart rate.

On this flight the aircrew are more visible, checking if everything is stowed before take-off, and then when snack service is upon us.

I often wonder who comes up with the idea, four corn chips, some nuts, three pretzels, and some tomato seltzer.  And a soft drink in a small can. There used to be tea or coffee once, but that seems to have disappeared, along with the cake and/or biscuits.

Despite everything, we are tracking to arrive in Brisbane ‘on time’, sorry, the new ‘on time’ of 6pm, with the plane suddenly heading for the ground a half-hour before touching down. Always a heart-stopping moment when the engines make a sudden and ‘funny’ noise.

Touch down at 5:57 pm, this one was relatively smooth, if not very fast. It seems the 737 can’t land at anything less than what feels like 200 miles an hour.

Terminal by 6:00 pm, but getting off the plane, getting to baggage collection, wait for the bags, then head for wherever you’re going, that can be up to another hour before you get out of the terminal. Today it was not so bad, there weren’t 5 planes arriving at the same time!

As for the international connection passengers, they got a bus directly from the airplane, which would save a lot of time finding the transfer desk, then finding the bus, if there was one waiting for them.

“Echoes From The Past”, a past buried, but not deep enough


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

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The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 91

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

The aftermath and goodbye

…

No one in the room, of those who had been forced to remain, could quite comprehend what just happened.

You could read about it in a newspaper, or hear about it on television during the news hour, and think, well, I wasn’t there but it must have been traumatic for those who were, but traumatic didn’t even begin to describe what I just witnessed.

It took everyone more than a few minutes to process those last few seconds before they could move, let alone think about what they were going to do.  With the threat incapacitated, there was no reason to, at least, not straight away.

I was surprised then, that after however long it had been since those events, I heard Charlene’s voice cutting through the fog.

“Are you alright?”

She was shaking me by the shoulder, sitting on the floor next to me, and she looked, and sounded, visibly upset.  I was surprised she was still in town much less anywhere near here.

“I wasn’t the target,” I said, and then realized that was hardly relevant to anything; it was just the first response that popped into my head.

I could then suddenly hear everything as if someone had turned up the volume, and the first background sound was Benderby’s daughter crying.

“You were almost in the line of fire for one of the marksmen.  I thought he’d misaimed. For a moment there, when I saw you fall…

She still cared, which was something I should appreciate.  I took a moment before lifting myself off the floor to sit beside her.

“This was a disaster.  Your father should have realized a woman with a gun would be hell-bent on revenge and wasn’t going to be talked down.  She probably used the time it took to get me to mentally prepare so she could kill the pair of them.  And I’m surprised you didn’t see it coming.”

“It might not have come to this if she hadn’t known Alex and Vince were suspected of killing her son.  Did you tell her about Alex and Vince?”

It was a meaningful look, one that conveyed disapproval because she was right, it had to come from me because I was only one of a very few who knew the actual facts of the matter.”

Better then, to admit it.  “No.  But I told my mother, while I was in hospital before I had time to consider the ramifications.  That was some deal Benderby pulled off, to have Vince strung up and a signing a confession to get Alex off the hook.”

“He didn’t exactly get away scot-free.  He still has a string of minor charges to face, and there will be jail time, one way or another.”

I glanced over at Mrs. Boggs spread out on the floor where she had collapsed after being shot at least twice.

Almost before she hit the floor, two deputies were beside her, removing the gun, and checking if she was still alive.  I imagine the sheriff, by the door, phone to his ear, had called for medical assistance, perhaps out of deference to a woman who was a friend, or because he had to show all care and respect for her so a good defense attorney didn’t find a reason to have the case dismissed for lack of respect.  There had been problems handling perpetrators in the past, perpetrators who got off on technicalities.

But all that was moot if she was dead.  She seemed to be alive when she hit the floor, and then hadn’t moved in the last few minutes.  My first thought was that they had killed her, but I saw her hand move, which meant she was still alive, incredibly good shooting on the part of the marksmen considering the obstacles, and the inclination to stop the perpetrator permanently.

Around us, several other deputies were escorting the remainder of the patrons out of the room, now officially a crime scene designated by the ‘do not cross’ tape lines going up.

The sheriff had made it his job to escort Mrs. Benderby, and her daughter, out of the room, and, no doubt get a statement after being checked out by a paramedic.

I could hear sirens in the distance, so they would be arriving imminently.

A. Minute or so later, I was the last civilian in the room. 

I turned to Charlene, “You do realize that both Boggs senior and Ormiston were in that cave, before Alex and Vince cleaned up.”

She smiled.  “Actually, as a matter of fact, I do.  I took a forensic team back to see if we could find either of Alex’s or Vince’s DNA, and not only did we fund it, but the skeletal remains of what appears to be four individuals.”

“Boggs, Ormiston, and two pirates.  One had a sword through the rib cage so I suspect there was a little dissent when the treasure was being divvied up.”

“I’m sure that will be confirmed soon.  I wanted to nail Alex’s ass to the wall, now it appears we might have enough evidence to put old man Cossatino away too.  He was picked up at the airport trying to leave the country.  An all-around good day for team justice.”

“Except for Mrs. Boggs”

“I’m sure she’ll plead temporary insanity, overcome by the grief of losing her son.”

Flippant, perhaps, or just cynical?  It was a bit early in her career to be like that, so perhaps that might be a little of her father rubbing off.

“Perhaps she was hoping the police would kill her.  After all, she has very little left to live for.  I doubt pleading insanity was her first thought when she walked into this room.  You might want to study up on the human condition a little before you start labeling people, and especially if you are thinking of continuing on this detective thing.”

That came out wrong, more a rebuke than an observation, and judging by her expression, she took it as the former.

“There will always be a lot of things we could do better.  You might consider next time to dissuade your friends from doing stupid things, like Nadia kidnapping Alex and Vince in the first place.”

“If you had done your job…”

Neither of us had seen the sheriff come over, and he was there long enough to be privy to the last comments.  “I’m sure at the end of the day, justice will prevail despite the convoluted route it took us to get there.  But for argument’s sake, neither Alex nor Vince would press charges against Nadia, so it was not kidnapping, and since the mall belongs to the Benderbys, neither wanted to press for trespass, so, all in all, no harm done.”

He glared at his daughter.  “I asked you to get his statement, not debate the legalities of the situation. Get it done and get back to the station.”

With that said, he left.

Charlene stood up, glared at me, then said, “no good deed goes unpunished.  Do you want to give it here, or at the station?”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

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