Tag: Thoughts

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was very careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rules out whether it was a male or a  female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective Inspector Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her Sargeant was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be a very bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2021

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

 

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

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The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 28

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 instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

 

I didn’t get to go wandering into the next ward to see Boggs, if he was there, because the head of ER had decided I was well enough to be discharged.  It seems they had kept me there just in case there might be problems with concussion after being whacked on the head.

I still had a dull ache in my head, but they gave me a few days supply of pain killers and sent me on my way.  After I signed some papers to that said anything happened to me outside the hospital was my fault, and that I’d been duly warned about the possible consequences of concussion.

That list of consequences always ended in death, but that could happen by being run over by an ambulance arriving outside the ER just as I was leaving.

I don’t know why, but I’d expected someone to be there, though I was not sure who.

It was a short walk to the main entrance to the hospital, and then a bit of a puzzle to be solved in trying to find the appropriate person who could tell me where Boggs was.

Twenty minutes later I came to an abrupt woman in a hospital uniform with a clipboard in her hand, and a solemn look on her face.  If the brick wall could be personified, this was it.

Nurse Jamieson.  No first name.  No sense of humour.

She looked up at me with utter disgust that someone would dare interrupt what she was doing, something I had not worked out yet unless staring at a screen saver on her computer could be said doing something.

“Can you tell me where Wiliam Boggs is, please,”  I said it nicely, and politely.

“Are you a relative?”

“No, I’m his best friend.”

“That’s not what I asked.  You can hear properly can you?”

“Yes.”

Then, what did I ask you, just before?”

“Was I a relative?”

“And the answer?” followed by what I thought she said, “not that we don’t already know the answer to that one.”

“No.”

“The go away.  Close relatives only.”

“Then if I can’t see him, can you tell me how he is?”

Too late.  Nurse Jamieson had gone back to the mesmerising screen saver.  Perhaps it was being used by some intergalactic alien to brainwash her.

I shook my head and headed back towards the main entrance.

“Excuse me?”

I heard a voice from behind, approaching quickly but quietly.  Another nurse, a different coloured uniform.  Bad nurse, good nurse, was this the latter?

I turned as she reached me.  “Yes?”

“I heard you were looking for Boggs.”

Last name, only used by friends, not that he had many, and none who were female unless he’d been holding out on me.  No, he didn’t know any girls.

“Yes.  He’s my best friend.  Do you know him?”

“A friend of his cousin, Annabelle.  I can take you to him, but you won’t be able to stay very long.”

Annabelle?  I don’t remember him telling me anything about a cousin called Annabelle, but he did say there were family members he still hadn’t met, but that was because of longstanding feuds.

“Is he alright?”

“Nothing a little rest won’t cure.  He looks worse than he is.”

I followed her back along a passage off the main foyer to an elevator, and then up to the sixth floor.  

A sign on one of the ways pointed to what was called ‘Recovery’.  We walked halfway down that passage then stopped at a room.

“He’s in there.”

The door was open, but there was a screen pulled across the entrance blotting out those who walked past from looking it.  I pushed the screen back a short distance and saw the end of the bed.

When I stepped in and reclosed the screen, I realized the bed was empty, though someone had been in it.  I stepped further into the room, and around the corner, sitting in a chair, was Nadia.

© Charles Heath 2019

I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 18

Can we say, full steam ahead?

…

The captain and the Chief Engineer were a team. I was on the outside, and I doubted being temporarily being promoted would change that.

And while it might not hamper the running of the ship, there might be pushback on some of my decisions, so it was going to be important to have his support.

But it was time to bring up the reason for my visit. “The Admiral said we have a faster ship than most of us were aware of.”

“Project Alpha. It was need to know, as you can understand.”

“Who exactly is aware of the fact?”

“Three engineers. The captain, the navigator, helmsman, and six engine specialists. Van was going to tell you before the general announcement in a day or so once we’ve gone through the preparations before a short test.”

“It didn’t happen in the trials before the handover?”

“It did, but it was not the resounding success we were expecting. It’s the reason for the delay in departure.”

And the reason I was on the ship at all. Had the ship left when it was.intended, I would have still been on the moon base waiting for transport. The fact I made it at all was all down to fate. Which, for once, was on my side.

“You were on board for the trials?”

“As was Van. You would gave been,too, if you hadn’t got stuck at the moon base.”

“The problem, if it was it was problem, I assume has been fixed?”

“Let’s hope so. We’re going to need it, if what I hear is true.”

“Last question, when?”

“By the time you get back to the bridge. We’ll need to have another talk later.”

“Of course.”

There were so many questions the chief engineer, and obviously the captains best friend certainly on-board the ship, didn’t ask, starting with information on the alien.

I suspect he already knew as much about the alien ship as he needed.

Back on the bridge it was hard to tell whether anything was happening. Unlike a freighter where there was no more than three present any one time, out of a crew of about twenty. Here, there was about twenty or so, each quietly monitoring systems.

The second now first officer .jumped out of the captains chair the moment he heard the elevator doors open.

“No change, still on course for Uranus.thw two shipyard still there, effectively in our path, no sign of the other ship, but we believed it is cloaked, or at the very least, obscured from our scanners.”

“Very good.”

I took the.few.steps.to the navigation console.where.i could see our trajectory, and.the planet Uranus which intersected.our path.

“Mr Saville.”

He preferred being called by name, not rank.

“Sir?”

“I assume you’re across Project Alpha?”

“Yes.” He had a quizzical expression, that said, how do you know about it?

“Stand by, were about to see if it works this time.”

Quizzical expression to total concentration. I saw him enter code, and the console change to a different screen.

As I turned to return to the captains seat, not that I felt like sitting in it, I saw a message flashing at the top of his screen, “System awaiting command”.

Umpteen billions worth of research, technology, and man power was sitting on the end of a green button that had the word “go” on it.

We were according to my console, sitting on an SSPD of 3.25. It was close to the tip speed I knew we were capable of, and just under cruise.

I sat. A short announcement. I was not sure what to expect when we moved to a higher speed, but I was guessing it would be similar to what it was like now, a gradual increase in speed, to the maximum.

We’d soon find out.

“Attention all personnel. We are about to run a test on our propulsion unit.”

“Mr Saville.”

“Sir.” He turned to look at me.

“It’s the moment of truth. Let’s go.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

Whatever happened to pre-dinner drinks and a chat about your day?

There’s nothing more I like to do at the end of a day than sit down and have a drink, usually Scotch and Soda or Bacardi and Coke.

But that’s the problem.

What is your definition of the end of the day?

No doubt for most it is probably that time when they get home from work, and take some time between then and dinner.  From my memories of American sitcoms of the 1950s, it was over Sherry and included a summary from every one of their day.

It was a time when women, apparently, preferred to stay home than go to work.  Odd, for some reason, that Hollywood would ignore the hard-won rights of women to have jobs, though some might argue out of necessity because of the war.

There were no computer games, contrary children, and that period, for the children was between coming home from school (doing homework) and going outside to play.

Yes, none of this disappearing into dark rooms for secret conversations on mobile phones or playing games on computers, or, dare I say it, being stuck in front of a television, pigging out on snack foods.

Any man these days who thought the 1950s sitcom scenario might be a social norm would be vilified by all and sundry.  His children would be in a permanent battle to be left alone, his wife would divorce him if he even remotely suggested she stay home or have dinner on the table when he got home, and that peaceful hour or so before the expected dinner, well, that disappeared a long time ago.

If it ever existed in any era.

So much for American sitcom stereotypes.

Now, in similar sitcoms these days, the children are obnoxious to their parent, yes, every family it seems in the USA is broken, and the mother is the long-suffering one stuck with the children and having to work, whilst the ex is out having a great time with his new girlfriend/trophy wife.

Hollywood is still stereotyping, but it’s much more dark and gloomy.

This is added to the continual threat of online predators, online pornography further reducing women’s hard-won right to be seen as more than just a sex object, bullying, not only at school and online but in the workplace, and above all that it seems men still treat women as second class citizens, not the least of which are corporate entities, and government.

Oh, and the mention of having a drink before dinner in this day and age would be associated with alcoholism, or a drinking problem, caused by excessive stress, and almost always added to an apparent addiction to painkillers or antidepressants.

What might also be worse is the alarming statistics of the number of women now drinking wine by the gallon rather than a few drinks in that period between picking up the children from school and dinner, driven by, take your choice of, obnoxious children or absent-minded or chauvinistic husband.

Damn, have I stirred up a hornet’s nest?

Sorry, I think I’d better cancel the notion of having after-work drinks, and since I do the cooking, so there’s no expectation for someone else getting dinner on the table.

At least we are still married, and the children never had to deal with a broken marriage and two warring parents, but if any of the reports on why children are the way they are, I guess mine missed out on playing one parent off against the other, or get to live in different houses, or tolerate parents other boy or girlfriends, and live on junk food, well not all of the time.

Are they normal?

Perhaps when someone defines normal I will probably tell you.

I ceased being so-called chauvinistic a long time ago, and I had to have an attitude readjustment along with it, because, I’m told, we live in a different world now.

Perhaps I will have that drink or three; it’s certainly a necessity in order to watch the increasingly bad news, the antics of our politicians, and to watch the world gradually go to hell in a handbasket.

Whilst being politely told that I drink too much!

 

The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 27

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 instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

 

I was taken to the hospital, despite the fact the paramedics deemed that I might not be as badly concussed as they first thought.  At the very least, I got a ride in the ambulance and painkilling pills that were very effective.

They kept me in the emergency department in between being taken for X-Rays, and I think something they called a CT Scan.  Whatever it was, it didn’t help my claustrophobia.  When that was completed, my mother was waiting in the cubicle.  Benderby, looking concerned, stood behind her.

After the attendant left, he said, “I’ll be going now.  Take all the time you need to recover Sam; I’ll make sure you don’t lose any wages over this.  And you can be assured that it will not happen again, and we will get the people who did this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m just glad nothing worse happened to you.”

He said something to my mother in hushed tones and then left.  My mother had got over her initial reaction, and a more curious look had replaced the one of fear.

“Tell me you didn’t try to apprehend those thieves yourself, Sam.”

“No, I didn’t.  I didn’t know there was anyone in the building until I was hit from behind.  I’m not sure what they thought they were going to find there that was of any value, it’s just parts for some of the products built there.”

“People will steal anything for money these days.  You should know that.  Times are not as good for some.  Perhaps it’s not a good idea for you to work there is this is going to happen again.”

“You heard Mr Benderby.  He’ll make sure security is improved, and I suspect I was in the wrong place at the wrong time because I don’t normally go into the warehouse itself, that someone else’s purview.  So, stop worrying, and go home.  I’m fine.”

I wished she would go.  I wanted to check if Boggs had been brought in and see what had happened to him.  I also wanted to know if the perpetrator was Vince.  If it was, Nadia was first on my list for a visit when I got out of the hospital.

It seemed to mollify her concern.

“Mr Benderby said to tell you if you need a ride home, to call this number,” she gave me a piece of paper with a phone number on it, “and a driver will come.  He’s been very nice about everything.  You will thank him.”

“I will.  Yes.  Now go home.  Get some rest.  And stop worrying about me.”


Ten minutes later, I got off the bed and stood.  Well, I tried to stand, but my head wasn’t quite ready to accept that it was in command of everything else.  It took only seconds for the room to start spinning, and I had to lie down again.

My reconnaissance was going to have to wait for an hour or so.

A nurse came and checked my blood pressure and pulse, both high but not off the chart, and she went off looking concerned.

A few minutes after that an orderly went by with another bed, empty but recently used, and I recognised him as another of the boys Boggs and I went to school with.  He was destined for bigger things, but it seems he, too, never got out of the neighbourhood.

He saw me looking at him, stopped, and his expression told me he’d recognised me.

“Sam?”

“Angelo?”

“The same.  I’ll be back after I’ve dropped off this bed.  Won’t be long.  I won’t ask how you are, you must be sick if you’re in that bed.”

True.  And it was natural to ask, ‘How are you?’ when you see someone after having not seen them a while, even if you are in a hospital.  A weird custom indeed, which occupied my thoughts till he returned.


Angelo had been the smartest kid in our class, and we had all assumed that he would become a doctor, or a lawyer, one of those jobs that made piles of money.  He was also the boy whom all the girls swooned over.

Being his friend had benefits.

Unfortunately, Boggs and I, not being the two brightest kids, didn’t register on his friend’s scale.  In his favour, he was not a bully like Monty was, but I guess that went with being one of the school’s star athletes, but he did simply ignore us.

Now, it seems the mighty had fallen.  It was a destiny that seemed to befall anyone who came from our neighbourhood.

The same could be said for Monty, who got a sports scholarship to further his sporting career, but he too stumbled at the second hurdle, being done for performance-enhancing drugs, and banished to the boondocks from whence he came.

Now, as far as I knew, he was working for the Colosimo’s.

Angelo seemed bright enough.  That impression was confirmed when he returned with two bottles of soda and handed one to me.

“Hopefully it won’t kill you,” he said, sitting down.

“Shouldn’t.  I’m here because someone hit me over the head.”

“Bar fight?”

Once, in the old days, that might be the case.  “If only I could take the bragging rights, but no.  I work over at Benderby’s warehouse, and someone broke it.  Seems I got in the way.”

“Benderby’s eh?  Thought you said you’d die before ever working for them.”

True, we all said the same, in school, as naïve children who hadn’t yet learned how tough the world was going to be.

“Needs must.  My mother isn’t getting any younger, and it’s a struggle.  But I guess you already know that.  You were going to be a doctor, not a trolley pusher.”

His shook his head.  “As you say, reality trumps dreams.  Education costs, my parents couldn’t raise the money, and, well, I think you know the rest.”

A minute’s silence for the death of whatever dreams we may have had passed.

“Have you seen Boggs.  He’s here somewhere.”

“I saw him in ER, didn’t look too good, but I think it was mostly superficial wounds.  Apparently, some unknown assailants beat him up.  You two still hang out together?”

“Off and on.”

You weren’t with him when this happened.”  He nodded towards the bandage on my head.

“No.”  but, I thought, it was most likely the same person who inflicted both injuries.  Had Boggs set us both up for some reason?  It had to do with the treasure, and now Vince was in on the act.

“Does Boggs still go on about that Pirate treasure he reckons is buried here somewhere?  I mean, his dad used to bang on about it, and there’s no doubt it got him killed.  You reckon someone went after Boggs over it?”

Angelo hadn’t forgotten that even in school, Boggs had said he was going to be a treasure hunter when he grew up, and he had a map that would be the basis of his first quest.  That same map he told me was his father’s.

That same map that had got both of us beaten up.

“Is he here, somewhere?” I asked.

“Next ward.  Last I saw he was out; they gave him a sedative so he could rest.”

Squawking sounds came out of Angelo’s communicator, and only he seemed to know what it meant. 

He stood.  “Got to go now.  Perhaps we can catch up later.”

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 7

As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.

Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

20160917_075236-1

This is Chester.  He’s been caught almost red-handed climbing the curtains.

Of course, he is all innocence, because the evidence is circumstantial.  He was sitting on the window ledge looking out, thinking ‘if only I could get out there’.

Now he’s thinking how much trouble he’s in and whether it will be his least favorite cat food for dinner.

No, I’m not that mean.

Not unless I catch him red-handed.

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 7

As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.

Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

20160917_075236-1

This is Chester.  He’s been caught almost red-handed climbing the curtains.

Of course, he is all innocence, because the evidence is circumstantial.  He was sitting on the window ledge looking out, thinking ‘if only I could get out there’.

Now he’s thinking how much trouble he’s in and whether it will be his least favorite cat food for dinner.

No, I’m not that mean.

Not unless I catch him red-handed.

Brainstorming, or is it barnstorming?

Perhaps it should be brainstorming in a barn!

It’s a weird word that describes a process where a bunch of people get together and throw ideas around, though others may have different permutations on what brainstorming is.

Reading through the current blogs sent to my reader, the word ‘brainstorming’ got my attention.

I use it, well, I try to use it.

I’m still working on the YA novel, you know the sort, a far off land where there’s kingdoms, kings, queens, princes and princesses, witches, no dragons and the jury’s still out on a unicorn.

I have three grandchildren, all girls, who wanted me to write a story for them.  Not that thriller stuff, or murder, but what sort of life they’d like to have in they could live in a different world.

Fortunately, both still have an imagination, a prime requisite for them to transition through their childhood to young adult, smoothing out the bumps.  They are avid readers, so I have an untapped source of ideas.

Or so you would think.

This is how it started:  A few years ago I told the eldest, who’s 18 this year, to stop acting like a princess.  She didn’t get the inference because it was an ‘adult’ concept when dealing with children.

What she did say was how she was going to be a princess when she grew up.  I said there were not enough real-life princes to go around, a point she took on board with all the aplomb of as she was then 12-year-old, so it graduated to becoming a princess in a story.

Somehow she ended up with the name Marigold.

She decided Marigold was going to be a haughty, self-indulgent, spoilt brat.  That condescending tone, those flicks of the hair, those sharp put-downs, a princess indeed.   It was as if she had acting lessons from the Disney ‘bad princess’ school of acting.

But …

As all haughty and condescending people do, the princess is taught an invaluable lesson in humility when her Kingdom is invaded, her brother, next in line to the throne, murdered, the king thrown in the dungeons, and her mother put to the sword and left for dead.  She flees the castle and her betrothed prince who is leading the invasion of their Kingdom, and who is now regarded as both unworthy and dangerous, goes after her.

The first few ‘brainstorming’ sessions saw the addition of two sisters (her two real life cousins, one back then who was ten and other six), a healer (another name for a witch as witches are outlawed in her Kingdom), magic spells, and a quest to save her family and the land.

It’s been done before, but this is without the Knight in shining armour, and where a young girl who has never had to fend for herself has to come to grips with a completely alien environment, and the fact none of her companions believe she is going to be of any help whatsoever.

Several sessions later we came up with the quest.

What has surprised me, for a generation of children brought up with video games, endless violence, and the endless pressures on youth these days versus what I had in my day, they have this amazing ability to take a step back and see themselves in such a different light.

I’ve always had an overactive imagination borne from a time where we didn’t have any of the facilities children have these days.  We had to make our own adventures, not live them out on TV and in video games.

I dragged them into my world, and now, together, we have a bond that will never be shaken.  I am the storyteller, they are Marigold, Ophelia and Nerida, princesses.

They are as different as chalk and cheese.  Ophelia wants her own story, the princess who battles against the magic within her.  Nerida has a quite simple aim in life, having been taught swordplay by her brother, she wants to slay a dragon.

The first story is now nearly finished, and at the rate I’m going I’ll be lucky to see it published by her 18th Birthday.

Still, how good would it be to be handed a book that was specially commissioned by, and written for her?

The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 26

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 instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

 

When I woke, I was outside the warehouse near an ambulance, and when I opened my eyes, I could see my mother, looking close to hysterical.  Further back, behind her, was Benderby himself, looking concerned.

A voice was saying, on the other side, “Just take it easy.  You’ve had a nasty knock to your head.”  I tried, instinctively, to move my hand there, but it was not responsive.

That scared me.

I tried wiggling my toes, and it felt like something was happening.  That was a good sign, wasn’t it?

Then I realised there were more people around the gurney I was lying on and a lot of chatter about a break-in and possible casualties.  There was only one, wasn’t there?  Me.

I went to say something to that effect when I stopped.  Not a good idea to say two masked assailants came to interrogate me about a map.  Firstly, my mother would be annoyed I was wasting my time on frivolous matters with Boggs, and secondly, everyone would think the blow did more damage to my sanity.

If they were calling it a break-in…

“What happened?” I asked.

I moved my head sideways further and could see the Sheriff standing next to Benderby.  The sheriff moved closer.

“We think one or two unknown persons got past the perimeter security, disabled the alarm system, and broke into the warehouse where you were.  One of the night security guards was doing his rounds when he found you on the floor in the main office.  Can you tell us what happened to you?”

One of the paramedics answered for me, “We need to stabilise the wound, check for concussion and any other side effects before you can question him.  That might have to wait until we get him to the hospital.  Now, I need everyone to stand back.”

And he meant everyone, including my mother.  I guessed they would let her come to the hospital with me, but if not, I was sure Benderby would bring her.  He actually had his arm around her, talking to her.  I didn’t think she liked him that much or was I just delirious?

I was about to tell the paramedic to tell the sheriff to go check on Boggs, but that would only lead to uncomfortable questions, and since Boggs had been so cavalier in putting the assailants onto me, I wasn’t very happy with him.  But I did wonder if they had gone back to him about my lack of co-operation, and what they might do to him.

Or, I just remembered, maybe nothing, because they thought it might be an elaborate hoax.  I was beginning to think that myself, despite Boggs giving me a copy of the map.  When I looked at it, on the surface it seemed to be the same as the one Osborne was peddling.

Whilst getting my head bandaged, I saw one of the sheriff’s men come running up to him, speaking and gesturing wildly.  I thought I heard a name, but the paramedic chose that exact moment to accidentally wrap the bandage around my ear.

Then I heard it, sharp and clear, perhaps as an answer to a question by Benderby.

“It’s Boggs.  Looks like someone gave him a severe beating and left him outside his house.”

The result of an equally forceful interrogation, or had it been a warning not to waste people’s time?

It would have to wait.  I had problems of my own.

© Charles Heath 2019