I have an electronic notebook on my smartphone and writing pads at the ready at home in my office/writing room/library.
As soon as one hits, I get it down, either on paper or on the phone app. I use SomNote as it’s easy to export the text to an email or have a version of the app running on my computer and just copy and paste. SomNote is great because I can use it anywhere.
Of course, it doesn’t work so well in the shower, so I’m still waiting for a waterproof phone. Or perhaps it can wait for a few minutes until I’m finished.
But the trouble with that is, these ideas come so quickly and are sometimes so vivid that they need to be put down as quickly as possible. I have come up with the perfect dialogue for a tricky scene and played it all out in my head, and by the time I got to the paper, it was almost gone.
Perhaps a whiteboard and a permanent marker on the wall.
Or is that going too far?
A long time ago, I received a portable tape recorder for a present, you know, the one you can hold in your hand, and the tapes so small you wonder how much will fit on it. The gifter said that when ideas came to me, all I had to do was speak. It was also voice-activated.
Needless to say that conjured up a few ideas right there.
But I used it, but I found it quite weird to be talking, ostensibly to myself, in the car whilst driving home, or going to, work, and the curious looks I’d get from others. One thing it did teach me was that when a conversation was replayed, it would sound ok or like most of the time, hardly what one expected a conversation would really be like.
So, because of that device, I learned to read out all conversations, and if they sounded stupid, they were.
So, ideas come in the shower, ideas come while driving, ideas come when reading the newspaper, and ideas even come when reading books.
This leads me to another point that I learned early on. Writers must read. Not only novels of their chosen genre, but any reference books that go with it. The research was, a friend and more successful author than I told me, was mandatory.
So too was the reading to the classics, old English, and sometimes American, literature, to gain an appreciation for the written word. We might not follow those styles, but we can learn the majesty of the English language.
That author taught me a lot, though at the time I didn’t realize it. Perhaps I thought I was already smart enough to write, but I’m guessing that it took a long time before I felt my writing was worth reading before publishing it.
I don’t profess to have a full understanding of the language. I might have loved that school subject called English, and later in university, creative writing, and literature, but not all of it soaked in. But writing is one of those odd things, that it can take many forms and styles, but at the end of the day, if the reader understands where the story is going, and when at the end, is satisfied that it was ‘a good read’, then the author’s work is done.
The only trouble is, getting the next idea, and then they were able to write a second book, or third. It is said everyone has one book in them. For those who can write more, well, that might be what might be called, a gift.
My trouble is that I have too many ideas, too many starts, and brief outlines to work with, I don’t know which story to start on next. I guess being spoilt for choice is a good thing, yes?
It started with a phone call, a phone call that I never expected to get.
I was one of those people who went through life, almost invisible. It was not what I wanted, it just happened.
I was not the sociable sort, at school I tended to spend my time studying and then being labeled a nerd, I didn’t make friends, except for those who wanted help with their homework.
Few friends in elementary school, fewer in middle school, and none in college, that is no one that you could call a true friend. They were more acquaintances that were there for the help I could give them, but no one that would invite me to parties, or to just hang out.
That continues on into university. Except there were several new acquainted that were a little more than that, though not quite BFFs.
There was one, in particular, Anna, who was one of the study group, the one who needed the most help, someone who had been wavering on returning after the first year.
My trouble was that I liked her more than she liked me, my opinion of course, based on what I called the indifference factor, but perhaps I had more expectations than she did
She was doing uni because it was expected of her, not because she wanted to be there. She could take it or leave it, and the last time I spoke to her, she was going to leave.
And when she left to go back home, it was the last time I expected to see or hear from her.
Until that phone call.
“What are you doing this weekend?”
A dumb question, nothing of course, but I wouldn’t tell her that. I was still in shock that Anna would call me, for anything other than school, if at all.
“Not a lot.”
“Good. How would you like to housesit with me?”
House sit? Surely she had a dozen others who would do anything for her. She was that popular and well-liked. And would probably be far more amusing than I ever could be.
“If you like. I had no idea you did house minding.”
“I don’t, but an aunt is going away for the weekend, and she wants someone to look after the cat. I hope you like cats. And gardens. It has a nice garden.”
Cats I could take or leave. Gardens, it was probably a birdbath, two beds of roses, a large tree with a seat under it, and neighbors peering over the fence.
But it was a weekend somewhere else other than my little room, and Anna would be there. Maybe I could try to get past my shyness and actually talk to her.
“OK. I’m in. Do I need to bring anything?”
“No. I’ll send you the address and see you there at 5 pm. Friday.”
Why did I get the feeling I was being set up?
That feeling of impending doing followed me down the path from the front gate to the front door.
Far from the house being a small thatch cottage, based on the address she gave me, it turned out to be a three-story manor house with a large outhouse that looked to be once a stable and coach house
It seemed far too large to be a house for one person.
When I rang the doorbell, I expected a butler to answer the door, but it was Anna herself.
“Nice place,” I said.
“Too large and too hard to maintain. Were trying to convince her that she would be better off in something smaller. But you should see the back.”
Based on the front garden which could happily grace the front cover of any country living magazine, I couldn’t wait.
She let me pass and closed the door behind us. It sounded like the vault was closing and there would be no damage until the timer released the locks.
Inside, the whole place reeked of heritage and antiques, and the personality of its owner. The walls had paintings, table tops had old magazines, the seats worn leather, and worn carpet squares covered floorboards that creaked when you walked on them.
At the end of a long corridor was the kitchen at the end if the house, after passing several sitting and dining rooms. It was a very large house and raised a very important question.
She had not mentioned any family or relatives with anything like the wealth this house exuded. In fact, she had often implied that she was just an ordinary person.
This was anything but ordinary.
I caught up with her on the back patio, just off a large sunroom, to view what had to be an acre or more of manicured laws, garden beds, and trees. All it was missing was a maze.
“Do you actually have a secret life?”
“I was always told not to advertise our wealth.”
“Isn’t showing me this, a form of advertising? After all, I’m apparently from the wrong side of the tracks.”
“I trust you.”
“But you don’t know me, or anything about me.”
“Why do you think you’re here?”
If I wanted to make an educated guess, my first thought was to set me up for something, for the very reason she was aloof, and people like her, and those she kept company with, were not people like me associated with.
I was surprised not to see the two girls I’d once nicknamed ‘the dynamic duo’, Melissa and Winona, with her. Maybe they would turn up later.
My second thought, the most improbable reason, was that she wanted to get to know me, but, why choose a place like this? To make me feel small, grateful, impressed? Ten minutes in a Cafe was all she needed to find out what she needed to know about me.
An alarm bell went off when I asked her where I could get a drink of water, and she said, the kitchen, but didn’t really know where it was. I got an instant bad feeling.
That was followed by a bang that I thought came from the rear of the house.
“Did you hear that?” I asked.
“You hear all sorts of noises in places like these.”
If she wasn’t worried, neither was I.
Then the door chime rang.
“You expecting more visitors?” My internal fear factor was rising exponentially.
“No, but I’d better find out who it is, just in case.”
I shrugged and headed towards where she indicated the kitchen was, the rear of the house, what I would call an educated guess
After I found the kitchen, not technically at the rear, I returned to find my worst fears had come true. Not only the dynamic duo but also their boyfriends, Chad and Lester, two of the worst bullies from school days.
“Well, look who it is.” Chad was particularly menacing.
A glance to the side, it was hard to tell if Anna was looking pleased or neutral, but she wasn’t surprised. I glanced in Anna’s direction and all I got was a tilt of her head.
“Shouldn’t you be down the country club trying to prove you’re a new version of your drunken bully of a father?”
His smile turned into a very angry look. “Don’t go there, Scanlon.”
“Why are you here then?”
I expected to hear Anna had invited them. Instead, “we’re here to make sure Anna doesn’t make a mistake.”
“I don’t need your help or advice Chad. In fact, you should leave.”
None of the four looked like they had any intention of leaving. “Not until we’ve impressed upon both of you, the error of your ways. We thought you were smarter than this or did Scanlon force himself on you?”
She shook her head, not necessarily in anger, but more in despair. “I don’t know where you get your ideas from Chad, but you are very much mistaken. So, I will only say this once more, Chad,” she added quietly, “otherwise you will find yourself in a world of pain. Leave now while you still can.”
Chad, being Chad, was the master of ceremonies, puffed up as he had been in the schoolyard when he was about the unleash his gang on some poor misguided fool, usually me, or one of three others. But it was Melissa who spoke instead, “You go teach Scanlon a lesson outside by the pool while we have a talk to Anna.”
Lester took the cue, came over, and grabbed me by the shoulder. I thought about trying to shrug him off, but Chad was across the room before I could initiate anything. Best to leave calmly and sort it out outside.
I gave Anna a last look, but she was wearing her poker face. Had she set this up? It seemed as though she hadn’t, but then, it didn’t look like she was worried about the dynamic duo.
I shrugged.
Intentional or not, Chad and Lester were about to learn a very valuable lesson, and revenge, at least on them, was going to be sweet.
There are two other characters that will be used in this rewrite, the second an addition to give the main character a means of letting the reader get to know a bit about him.
His name is Milt, an African American that’s always been on the fringe. Another who is a victim of his circumstances but not letting it get the better of him, the sort of man who makes the best of a bad situation.
He’s seen active service in the army, honourably discharged, but still affected though not as bad as some of those he served with. He is in fact the ideal man for the job, with combat experience, so he’s not likely to get flustered in a shit storm.
And probably not the man you want on this site. Being in desperate circumstances doesn’t mean you do desperate things.
He is one of a team of four and our main character drew the straw to partner him. There are two others, based on the other side of the park, neither of whom are trustworthy, Smithy, the overall leader, to whom they all report at shift start and end, and Carruthers, an Englishman reputed to be ex SAS, but no one is inclined to believe him.
The scars on his neck tell a story, but it was left to the other’s imagination, as he doesn’t talk about it. Milt was of the opinion he was captured in Afghanistan and tortured, but that could be just be canteen scuttlebutt.
Whatever the circumstances, Graham kept away from him as much as possible, and was glad when he didn’t have to partner him for the shift.
The other character. Penelope has featured in the earlier versions of the story. Over the changes her background has changed, but I’ve settled on a medical surgeon career, renown for doing tricky procedures with a high success rate, and in doing so gained a reputation, some not always good.
Wealth and ego don’t always make a good pair, and marrying wealth brings its own rewards and pitfalls, particularly when you discover the man you married isn’t exactly whom you thought he was.
It is of course a typical scenario, but I’m going to try and weave it differently. There will be no more teasers until the story starts.
But she will be introduced earlier than in the previous iterations because she needs some backstory too, otherwise just arriving at Graham’s work and getting shot, while provoking a volatile situation that drags the reader in, out of left field is not exactly the best start.
This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.
But, there’s more to come. Those were long flights…
And sadly when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start.
If it had been Jackerby in charge and not Johansson, I had no doubt I’d be at the end of a firing squad now.
Jackerby was not Army, nor a man of honour. His gait, his manner gave him away, despite the fact he was out of his usual uniform. I suspect now I had been taken care of, that would change, and we’d get to see his true colours.
After leaving the hall, I was escorted downstairs to the cellar, and where I knew there were a number of rooms with iron gated fronts, places I suspected, in olden days, enemies of the castle were held, enslaved or executed in these cells.
There were several male prisoners is the first two cells, awaiting their fate, one which would not include escaping to the other side, but perhaps something a lot worse than death.
At the end, there was another corridor, and several smaller cells, where second from the end, I was roughly shoved by one of the guards. He was going to add the butt of his rifle to the back of my head for good measure, but Jackerby stopped him.
I was sure it wasn’t out of respect for Johansson. It appeared that Johansson needed me for something else.
After the door closed I yelled out, “All the rooms upstairs filled?”
“Yes. It’s high season.” So Jackerby had a semblance of a sense of humour.
The room, if it could be called that, had a camp stretcher, a seat, and a bucket. The light came from a burning torch out in the corridor, an interesting touch that electricity had not made it down this far.
The floor was cobbled, and, like the walls, damp. There was an overbearing odour of mustiness in the room.
It was also cold, so these cells must be located not only under the old castle but underground. That meant centuries of history, and probably a ghost or two. I was sure terrible things had happened, down in these cells, not just back then but also recently.
Outside the wall, I could hear the sound of running water, so the back wall must border onto the stream. And there must be a gap, or hole somewhere for the sound to reach me, but it was too dark to see.
When night fell, it was going to be a lot worse; the light wouldn’t be affected, but it was going to get a lot colder. As it was the torchlight from the passage barely made an impact, and it took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust. And I was sure there were rats, just waiting for the dark to come out to play.
I moved the seat to beside the door and sat down, trying to make myself comfortable, in a position where I might hear them coming if they came back.
Then a voice quite near, said, “What are you here for?”
John’s search for Zoe was at an impasse, simply because it was her job to disappear and reappear at will, and he knows he’s no match for her in that regard.
So, having gone to her residence in Paris, not finding her there which was predictable, the place looked like it had not been visited in months, he concluded a short stay might help to clear his head.
Until he gets a phone call.
Kidnappers, other than the Russians, have captured Zoe, and they’re ringing him for a ransom.
Odd, because he was not the one who placed the kidnap order on her, so why would they be ringing him?
This was initiated by Zoe, no doubt playing the kidnapper by sending him to a bigger payday.
If that’s the case then John has to deduce she has faith in him to come and get her.
Which he’s going to do, but not on his own.
It’s time to call Sebastian, someone John knew would know what to do.
Or at least hope he does!
…
Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon waiting for a white knight, 3,270 words, for a total of 8,871.
Everyone always wants to change their circumstances, particularly if you are among those who are not so well off.
My father always said, whenever we complained about not having enough money to go on holiday, or buy something we needed, that there was always someone worse off than we were.
As a child, I could hardly believe that was true when it looked like everyone else had everything they wanted.
As an adult, I promised myself that I would never be in those circumstances, that I would always have enough money.
And, of course, what you want, what you would like, and what really happens are very different outcomes, and no matter how much planning, or how many contingencies plans you have in place, a single event can wreck everything.
When you open the front door and see policemen, two thoughts cross your mind. The first, they’re at the wrong place, the second, that something awful has just happened.
“George Williamson?”
It was the second.
“May we come inside?”
As I stood to one side, a thousand thoughts went through my mind until it settled on one, something had happened to Jane.
As she did on every Wednesday morning, she got up early, I made her breakfast, she kissed the tones and told them she would be back the next day, then headed for the airport for her weekly visit to hear office.
When we had to move, her company agreed to let her work from home, and it was an arrangement that worked well, she was only missing for two days a week, and a week when the annual accounting was done.
She was due back this morning.
Instead, I had to police officers in my lounge room, looking very somber.
“Something has happened to Jane, hasn’t it.” I almost couldn’t bring myself to say it.
The policewoman spoke. It was like they had drawn straws and she got the short one.
“I’m very sorry to say your wife was involved in an accident this morning, on her way to the Atlanta airport. We have just been informed she passed away.”
It was one of those moments when there were no words. In fact, I was not sure what I felt in that moment other than a great sadness.
“How?”
“We understand a car ran a red light, hit the limousine. Had she been on the other side…”
Not much consolation in speculation.
“Do you have someone you can call; do you need us to arrange for support…”
“I have a sister, I’ll call her. Thank you for coming and telling me, I guess this is not what you want to be doing at this time of the morning.”
“Part of the job, sir.”
I ushered them to the door and after reassuring them I would be OK, and getting out the phone to call my sister, they left.
The shock of it hadn’t set in. As I closed the door, my thoughts turned to the twins, now at school. They adored their mother and would be expecting her to pick them up from school.
I would have to get them before news of her death reached them. These days, with the internet, someone would find out and it would be better to hear it from me.
“George?”
My sister, Eileen. She had been amazed that I would find a girl like Jane let alone marry her. She had always expected me to be the philandering bachelor.
“Something very bad has happened?”
“Jane?”
“Killed in a car crash this morning in Atlanta. The police were just here.”
“Oh my God, George. The girls.”
“I know. I have to get to them. Can you be here when I get home? They’ll need you.”
“Sure. On my way.”
Next call, the girl’s school. I called the head Master and explained the situation, and he immediately had them brought to his office.
When I arrived, I put on my best ‘this is a happy day’ face and went in, mustering all of the courage I had to not look like something bad had happened.
The girls, of course, thought that their mother had arrived home early and come to get them. She had done it before.
They were only mildly disappointed to see me.
“Mommy not here?”
“Sorry, you have to tolerate me for a while. We have to go home and you’ve been given a day pass.”
Knowing how much they preferred not to be at school, the diversion worked.
The headmaster gave me a wan look as we left.
I fielded a hundred questions on the way home, all of which centered around what surprise Mom had in store for them, and the fact it had to be monumental since they had to go home early.
All the tome I was trying to think of a way to let them down gently, but there wasn’t one. Being blunt wasn’t the way either, they deserved the truth.
As soon as they saw Eileen, I could see the hesitation and a note of trepidation. Usually, Eileen came over when Jane was going to have an extended stay away.
“I need you two to go into the lounge and sit down. I’ll be then in a minute.”
“Is mommy’s not coming home today?”
They knew something was wrong.
“I’ll be in in a minute and will explain everything.”
At least Eileen had to foresight not to show any sign of the distress I knew she must be feeling.
When the girls had gone into the room she gave me the teary-eyed look, and a hug.
“You must be devastated.”
“It hasn’t sunk in. I’m still expecting her to walk in the door, and this is all a bad mistake.”
“The girls…”
“This is one time I hate the idea of being a father.”
“Then I’m glad you called me. You could not break this alone. They are going to be devastated.”
Everyone who knew her would be.
Once again I had to find the courage to keep it together, but at least I had support.
It went better than I expected. At first, they thought it was an elaborate prank, though I was not sure how they could think that.
Then, when they realized it was true, they, like I was when I first heard the news, were in shock, and barely able to comprehend the reality of it.
I did remember saying at one point, “I wish she was still alive, and that she would walk back through that door…” but not able to finish.
So, we just sat there, in silence, the rest of the world passing by, going about its business.
Until there was another knock on the door.
I was going to ignore it, but a nod from Eileen got me off the seat.
Perhaps the police were back to tell me it was all a big mistake, and it was someone else who’d died.
I opened the door…
…and neatly had a heart attack.
“Jane?”
A wish come true? Standing before me was a woman who looked exactly like Jane, down to the last detail, including the unmanageable whisp of hair.
“You must be George. No, not Jane, Jill, the banished evil twin. Now, where is she?”
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.
Five minutes past the appointed time, I sat on the end of the clean bed and waited. The single chair didn’t look very comfortable.
It didn’t worry me she was late, she had not specifically stated how long she would be, but to be there in an hour. If she had business with dark glasses, then she might be a while. Giving me the key to her room suggested she was not bringing him back with her.
There was a light rapping on the door, hinting at a sense of urgency. Without looking,. I opened the door, and she slid through and I closed it quickly and quietly.
“I thought you might not be coming?”
I went to switch on the light, but heard her say, “No lights.”
My eyes were already adjusted to the light, or lack of light, and I could see her standing by the door to the bathroom. Everything about her manner suggested she was ill at ease, or perhaps frightened of something or someone.
Or waiting for Vince, and had to string me along until he arrived.
“Why?”
“No one knows I’m here.”
“Not even Vince?”
“No. Especially him.”
“He was here about twenty minutes ago, went into the office and came out with a briefcase.”
“I suggest you forget you ever saw that.”
Drugs then, or protection money, or… OK forgotten. “Duly forgotten as requested.”
“Is this pace one of the Cossatino’s places?”
“If you saw Vince, then it is. It never used to be. The Benderby’s used to bring their clients here, back in the day. Vince had some of the rooms wired, you know, blackmail, that kind of stuff.”
I could imagine. I’m sure the ‘clients’ never brought their wives here to have a good time.
“Why are you staying here?”
“Can’t stay at home. Things have changed. I’m not interested in working with the family business. It’s why I left in the first place.”
Imagination running wild, I think I began feeling sorry for her. Beautiful girl, stupid men, caught in a seedy hotel. My respect for old man Cossatino just took a dive.
“Why come back then?”
“Alex. He’s a bastard, just like his father. All those Benderby’s are the same. You say you’ve got a plan that might help get him off my back?”
She took off her coat and threw it on the bed with the other clothes. It wasn’t that dark I couldn’t see her outline and had to look away.
“A possible plan. One that might kill two birds with one stone. I have to look out for Boggs because he had got himself into a mess that he doesn’t realise the full potential of yet.”
“The treasure map?”
“I wish people would stop calling it that. It’s just a piece of paper with a drawing on it. I’m sure the whole myth was concocted by Boggs’ father as another one of his schemes.”
Everyone knew Boggs father was a touch crazy and had come up with a number of schemes, some even calling the ‘get rich quick’ schemes, and one had landed him in jail. He never quite understood the nature of the schemes he’d bought off other people in the hope of getting rich himself. The treasure map, that was a new one for him, but one of his previous customers had caught up with him, and he’d not lived long enough to play this one out.
Boggs unfortunately, was doing it for him.
“You don’t think it’s real?”
“What I think is irrelevant.”
She moved closer and sat on the side of the bed, not far from me.
“So what is this plan?”
“I get you a copy of the map, you give it to Alex, see what he says. You know you can’t trust him, or anything he says.”
She was too close, so I moved, trying to look like I was not moving. But at the same moment, I had no idea what it was about her that scared me. It was apparent she hadn’t told Vince about this meeting.
“It’s a chance I have to take, and you are right, I don’t want to cosy up to Rico. I have had previous dealings with him, and he is not nice. But, if you are willing to do this for me, what do you want in return?”
The inevitable question and I think I could guess what she thought I might want. And that thought did cross my mind.
“Nothing.”
“That is not possible. All men want something.”
“I’m not all men. I owe Alex a little payback and this will be a small cog in a big wheel. If it helps you, good, but I know the Benderby’s and nothing is easy with them.”
“This plan…”
“The less you know the better.” I stood, and then moved to the door. “I’m only going to be able to see you in the early hours of the morning. I’m working an afternoon shift till midnight, and I don’t want to come here in the daylight.”
She stood and came over to join me.
“You are going to have to do something about Rico because Alex will ask him.”
It was something that also occurred to me just before she raised it. I knew there was going to be a problem, I just hadn’t realised it at the time. Now, it seemed like another of those insurmountable things.
“I’ll think of something.”
“Then soon.” She put a piece of paper in my hand. “My cell number. Send me a text before you come.”
Our hands touched briefly and it sent a shiver down my spine.
“I will.”
There was a moment, looking into her eyes where I didn’t want to leave, but fortunately, common sense kicked in, I opened the door and slipped out in the cold night air. As it shut behind me I shivered.
This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.
But, there’s more to come. Those were long flights…
And sadly when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start.
On the way back I decided to call my enemies the holy trinity. Jackerby, Johansson and Wallace. It would be interesting to see who took the lead.
Back in the main hall, I was told to sit in one of the antique chairs. No one bothered to tie me up. No need. Three of the guards were strategically placed so I couldn’t escape, or if I tried to attack any of my captors, I would be shot.
At first, it was Jackerby and three guards, men from the landing party looking no different than they would on any mission. If they were English, which they were not. No one spoke. I guess there wasn’t much to talk about. It is told me that Jackerby wasn’t the man in charge.
If there was a separate man in charge of the stormtroopers, he didn’t show himself.
By the time Johansson joined us, I’d deduced it was he who was in charge of this operation. Wallace was referring to him and was not showing his face. He was in situ, he had been left in charge of the castle, and in the ‘end of war’ scenario, using it as a staging point for filtering enemy scientists and experts who were leaving quickly before the war ended, making sure they found their way to the allied side.
Of course, since he had taken up residence, those people fleeing the war had dried up to a trickle, and it was now understandable why. Now that it was clear to me he was working for the Germans, he just wasn’t letting them all go. If they were going to lose the war, then the victors would only get some of the spoils.
The question was what was happening to everyone else who didn’t make it.
Back in London, someone realised something was going terribly wrong, and so they sent me. Someone else had said there might be a nest of traitors; another described them as double agents, on both sides of the channel.
My job was to find out what was happening, and now I had. The possibility that I might get killed in the process had been flagged as a risk, but that hadn’t been a deterrent. I had visited the castle before the war as an archaeological exercise and had been keen to come back and take another look.
Unfortunately, I had not had time to file a report, but up till now it would not be much, and given my current circumstances, I might not be able to inform them, but at least I knew the investigators in London were right.
And it looked like it was true Johansson had friends in London because my arrival had been telegraphed. One attempt to blow me up, and now, nothing less than a dozen enemy storm troopers to make sure I didn’t leave.
“London finally realise what’s going on here?”
“In a manner of speaking. They weren’t sure, but I guess we now have proof.”
“You have circumstantial proof, but basically nothing actionable. They really have nothing, and won’t until you return, or report, neither of which you are going to be able to do for a while. Not until we finish here what we started.”
I was tempted to ask what that was but knew better. Another day.
I glared at him. “Why?”
“I assume you are referring to myself being a double agent? I was caught up in London just as the war broke out. There was no question what side I was going to be on, it just meant getting into a good position, and then using it for the good of my country. There’s quite a few of us, actually.”
I didn’t doubt that.
“So you let quite a few through to set up your credentials, and now, in the dying stages of the battle, when the real experts are trying to leave, you’re preventing them.”
“Not the best solution to a problem. I’m sure, if you were standing here and losing the war, you’d be doing the same. You’d hardly want those secrets in enemy hands.”
“The war’s over. It’s just a matter of time.”
“This one, maybe. The next one we’ll win.”
I admired his confidence. It also explained the syphoning of boffins. They may have missed their opportunity in this war, but regroup somewhere and prepare, who knows what might happen in another ten years time.
No one in London had come up with this sort of doomsday scenario. We knew what they were capable of, more sophisticated air force with jet fighters, far more deadly and wide sweeping bombs, by some sort of miracle we’d stopped them this time, but the next?
“What happens now?”
“You behave, you’ll live to fight another day. You make trouble, we’ll execute you. To me, you’re just another prisoner of war, but I’m not sending you to Germany.”
Simple choice.
“Why should I believe you?”
“I am an officer of the army, who serves his country with pride and honour. You have my word; that should be enough.”
Oddly enough, I believed him.
“I assume my accommodation awaits?”
A flick of his hand, and Jackerby and two guards, escorted me out of the room.
I had thought surrender was going to be a lot more difficult than that.
It was a routine call, that a man was behaving strangely in a shopping mall. It was passed from mall security to the local police, and then, when the man became agitated and produced a weapon, they called in the next line of police, and they called us.
At the scene, I counted 12 police cars, marked and unmarked, a van, SWAT, several fire and rescue trucks, and a host of bystanders, all crowding at the barrier that was set far too close to the exit.
“You don’t mind if I take the lead on this one?” Josephine had been my partner for the last six months, at first training on the job, then started taking cases. This would be her second.
“Not at all. You’re ready.”
It was a relief, the last event was difficult, long, and both mentally and physically exhausting, but we saved the wife and two children. There was never going to be an option to save the husband. I realized too late that it had always been his aim to be killed by the police, and sadly, two trigger-happy deputies were only too happy to oblige. A bad day all around, in the end.
Logistically, the mall had been emptied in a brief window when the man was engaged in talking to the local police, except for two shop assistants. When the man realized what was happening, he had taken them both as hostages. Had he not, we would have had a quiet afternoon. Now, deputies were stationed inside the ball, cutting off an easy retreat, outside the front entrance, and one inside, but pinned down.
While we were en route, the local negotiator had been establishing communications with the perpetrator, and this had been completed when we got there.
The perpetrator had fired off seven shots, and it was estimated that he may have up to 12 remaining shots. Based on the seven shots fired, it was assumed he was a very good shot, even though he had not hit anyone.
Nor had he made any demands, other than to suggest they find a proper negotiator, which was odd because the one in situ was one of the best in the country.
Josephine had been waiting for me to finish my observations, and, when I joined her, she dialed the perpetrator’s number.
“At last.” Male, agitated, angry perhaps, but definitely on the edge. The fact that he hadn’t threatened or harmed the hostages yet told me there was a chance this might be resolved.
“My name is Josephine McTrantor, can you start by telling me your name?”
“Is Oliver Strand there?”
That was me. Surprise number one.
She looked at me, and I shrugged. It was her negotiation. “I will be handling the negotiations today, sir, but it would be helpful if I had a name?”
“He is there. I want to talk to him. I don’t want to talk to anyone else. Tell him to call me when he’s ready.”
The line went dead.
“Well, that’s a little unusual,” the local police commander muttered. He had been observing events from a distance, although he still had overall control of the situation. “Your fame precedes you, Mr. Strand.”
“What would you like to do, sir?” Josephine looked as though she would be more than happy to pass this on.
I held out my hand, and she put the phone in it. “I suppose we should find out what he wants. The trouble is, he hasn’t been making wild demands or threats, just getting our attention. It makes me think there’s something else in play.”
I dialed the number.
When he answered, he said, “This better be Oliver Strand.”
“It is,” I said, “but you have me at a disadvantage. What is your name, sir?”
“Gerald Rawlings. We have matters to discuss, and I would prefer to do that in person.”
Railings. That name had some significance, but for the moment I couldn’t think where or why.
“I will arrange safe passage to a neutral place, but it can’t be in the mall.”
“I’m not leaving here. You will come to me, not the other way around. I will exchange all if the hostages and allow you to remove everyone else, but only once you are here, with me. You have an hour to comply otherwise the hostages die.”
Once again the phone went dead.
I looked at the phone, though I’m not sure why then put it on the makeshift table. I looked at the police commander, “Well, now we know what he wants. Me.”
“You’re not going to agree to those terms, because it seems to me he has an ax to grind.”
Then it hit me. He did. I knew the name was familiar. He had what I presumed to be a brother, Axel Rawlings. Two years before, another hostage situation, one that could have been avoided, only by the time we were called I’m, two hostages were dead, and there was nowhere for Axel to go, even if he surrendered, which he didn’t.
I had made progress, but some overzealous marksman took the shot, without my permission, and a tragedy followed, compounded by the fact the officer in question got off without any charges.
Now the past had caught up to the present. I could have avoided that tragedy with a little more effort. I wasn’t going to let history repeat itself.
“He does, and I know what this is about.”
Josephine looked concerned. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“No, but if I don’t, then this is going to go down exactly the same as it did with his brother.” I took the phone and dialed the number. “Ten minutes, Gerald. Be sure you honor your part of the deal.”
To the others, “I expect you all to remain on standby, but under no circumstances is anyone to take any shots unless I say so. Is that clear?”
A nod from both.
Time enough to steel myself before going in. I gave Josephine my gun, and they fitted a mike. At least someone would be listening this time.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 