Tag: Thrillers

NaNoWriMo (April) – Day 29

I know it’s premature, but I have begin thinking about the next adventure Jack is to embark on.

Six months down the track, the relationship with Rosalie founders, he is looking for something, anything, to lift him out of the sea of self pity.

Is it a case of ‘be careful what you wish for’.

It’s a hell of a title for the story, too.

Maryanne is going to come out of left field and drag him down the rabbit hole of adventure because her latest assignment, and the one that will eventually determine whether she stays or goes, requires a boyfriend as cover.

How is she going to convince Jack? Well, I’m glad you asked, that’s a very interesting story.

…

Back in the other story, the one that should be finished but isn’t….

Jack finds himself in the seedier part of London looking for McCallister and Jacob, and finds more than he bargained for.

Yes, that blockbuster cinematic ending I’ve been promising…

…

Today’s effort amounts to 2,587 words, for a total, so far, of 68,918.

More tomorrow.

The A to Z Challenge – Y is for “You’ve got it all wrong…”

How often do we make a judgment call simply on what we see?

I knew what I saw, and it looked exactly like a situation that, if you asked any ten others who witnessed it, they would agree with me.

And then there would always be one that wouldn’t.

The prosecution had made a very good case, the defense counsel had woven a brilliant tale from start to finish, and he delivered in an almost persuading tone, with the subliminal message, the defendant was not guilty.

I felt sorry for the prosecution because his delivery had been halting, filled with ums and ers and in the end, everyone, from the judge down, wanted it to end.

As for the jury, it was an odd assortment of characters, a lawyer, a builder, a plumber, a housewife, two sales staff, two clerks, a janitor, two retirees, and a motor mechanic.  I thought it would be the lawyer who would be the problem.

The trial had lasted 22 days, and over that time I noticed that groups would form, and discuss aspects of the case, each of the groups forming a different opinion.  Sometimes, the dynamics of the groups changed as more evidence and testimony was revealed.

But, I think on those first few days, opinions were made, and judgment was passed.

In my opinion, based on looking at the defendant, it could be said that she didn’t look like a murderer, nor did she seem capable of committing such a heinous act.   Having said that, as a throwaway first assumption, the lawyer nixed it in a second.  Knowing something of how these trials worked, he said there would have been a lot of careful grooming, dress down, but not to drab, look demure, not aggressive, and speak in a modulated tone, like everyday conversation.

In other words, he was basically telling us she was giving an academy award performance.

I certainly looked at her in a different light after that, but the fact remained, for some of us, that initial assessment said not guilty.

A few days before we had to deliberate, a very damning piece of video was tendered and we all watched as the defendant was shown talking to her alleged accomplice, the victim’s current girlfriend, and passing an enveloped which the defense claimed was the payoff for helping her dispose of her husband.

It seemed odd to me that someone had known she would be in that bar, perfectly placed under the CCTV camera, both women so easily recognizable.  Of course, the woman in question could not be found, and the inference was that she might also be one of the defendant’s victims.

Several people were called by the defense to assert a line of defense that the husband was a cruel man, who had treated his wife very badly indeed, to the extent her best friend remarked that she had turned up for work on several occasions with the results of what looked like a beating, and another, an ER nurse, had confirmed the defendant had visited the hospital on several occasions with lacerations consistent with what was considered spousal abuse.

Those photographs were quite confronting, but a question had to be asked, why had she not gone to the police with that evidence and let them deal with the husband.

The fact she hadn’t was one weakness in her defense.  The thing there was why the defense introduced such testimony because, to me, it confused the issue by pushing the jury into thinking she had killed him, but in mitigating circumstances.  Was she looking for a verdict of justifiable homicide?

From day two, after the lawyer had told us about how lawyers schooled their clients, I watched her carefully, when sitting beside her lawyer, or when on the stand.  There were interesting actions she made when certain events occurred, like brushing a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, like teasing it out with a slight shake of the head, in a subtle but obvious show of displeasure.  Like smoothing out the invisible wrinkles in her clothes, perfectly fitting and obviously made for her, but understated in a sense that she would stand out in a crown but not ostentatiously so.  It was almost a ritual when she came in at the start, and when she took the stand, preparing herself.

Perfectionist, maybe.  Or trying to convey a certain picture.  Certainly, in the early days before the trial began, the media had a field day with the case, whipped into an even bigger frenzy when the police finally arrested the wife for the murder of her husband.  Almost all of them said he had it coming, with page after page of revelations about a man who could not have done half the things he was accused of.

The trial by newspaper done, I suspect it was hard to find 12 unbiased men and women who could be trusted to make the right decision.  I knew 100 would be jurors had been called up.

Now, in the jury room for the third day, trying to reach a verdict, it was the lawyer trying to wrap it up.  He had a job to go back to.  So did everyone else, for that matter.

“So, in essence, we are all agreed, that she is not guilty.”

It had been an interesting change in his position on the morning of day three of our deliberation.  Before that, he wanted to hang her from the nearest yardarm.  Interestingly enough, that morning, after he had given us his reasons for changing his mind, it would have been unanimous, and over.

The thing is, I didn’t like the way he changed sides so easily or for the reasons he spoke of.

So, in that vote, I changed my decision to guilty, and watch a group of people who had been friendly suddenly become enemies.

But at that moment, that other ten didn’t interest me, it was the expression on the lawyer’s face.  He hadn’t expected the vote to go that way.  It was like he had been goading everyone into voting not guilty and weathering the storm because of his stance.  Had it been staged, had we been led down this path, and then all of a sudden, the verdict he wanted being reached?

I had to find out.

I watched the eleven raise their hands to vote not guilty.  I did not.  And immediately felt the looks of every one of those eleven on me.

“Why?” he asked.

By this time he had taken the lead, and the others had let him.  Now I suspect they would let him do the talking.

“You’ve got it all wrong.  The reasons are the same.  There are two sides to that tale you came up with this morning.  The problem I have is from being adamant she was guilty, and as you said, without a shadow of a doubt, now all of a sudden you’re having doubts.”

“So, you don’t think she’s guilty, you’re just voting that way because you suspect my motives?”

“What I think is irrelevant right now.  You need to convince me that you truly think she’s not guilty.  What is it you saw, or heard, or know that changed your mind.  It certainly had nothing to do with that so-called video in the bar being staged.  It has nothing to do with the fact they can’t find that woman so they can either verify or dispel the accusations being made she was an accomplice.   It had nothing to do with the fact you think she might have been goaded into it and was left with no other option.  In that case, it might well be a case of manslaughter rather than murder.  Is that what you’re trying to suggest?”

“I think given the evidence, or lack of concrete evidence against her, she is not guilty.”

“But given everything you have said, it seems to me you think she had some crime to answer for.”

“Hasn’t she suffered enough?”

“That might well be the case, but it doesn’t give you an excuse to murder., and there’s certainly no forensic evidence that she was defending herself against an attack at the time.  She should have taken her case to the police and have it investigated.  She chose not to, for reasons that were never fully explained.”

“And didn’t we hear that the husband had links to various police that might have made such an investigation a waste of time.  This was a woman trapped in a bad situation with no way out.”

It was a long way from where we, as jurors, were at the beginning of our deliberations.  The first vote at the end of the first day was four voted not guilty and eight voted guilty.  In the following days, a lot of arguments changed the decisions of those seven to vote not guilty, when they believed, in their own minds the defendant was guilty.

In my mind, the first instinct was usually correct.  Over time that decision was only changed because of expediency, not necessarily for the right reasons.  My first instinct was that she was, in fact, not guilty for all the reasons the lawyer cited.

“Look,” he said.  “We’ve been here for three days.  It’s an open and shut case.  Let’s vote.”

We did with the same result.  Eleven for not guilty and one against.

A hung jury.  I wasn’t going to be moved on my position, and so it went back to the court.  It was declared a mistrial and the defendant was returned to custody and a new trial was to be scheduled.

I was reading the paper’s version of events, and speculation on the result.  Several of the jurors had featured in the discussion, but none were willing to talk about the result or who was responsible for the hung jury, only that one juror had not agreed with the majority.  In some states, it was argued, it only required a majority, but in this and other states, quite rightly, it needed a unanimous decision to confer the death sentence.

Justice, it seemed to the writer of the piece, had prevailed.

They also believed that the plight of women trapped in marriages to violent men was a matter that should be looked at and that such women should be treated better in the eyes of the law.  It was not a position that I disagreed with.  What I disagreed with was the notion of jury tampering.

It was, apparently, the fifth time that a case such as this had a similar track record, that the deliberations of the jury had swung from an initial guilty verdict to not guilty at the hands of a single juror.  In each of the five cases, the circumstances were similar, the wife had endured violence by her husband, and then, in odd circumstances, the husband had finished up dead.

Someone had discerned a pattern, and this had been a test case.  In each of the other four cases, a not guilty verdict had been handed down by a jury that had also started with a majority guilty verdict, only to be worn down by a single juror with an agenda.  To get the defendant a not guilty verdict.

My job was to find out which juror it was that was there to change minds.  Then it was a case of finding links between him and four other jurors who were equally instrumental in obtaining a not guilty verdict.  In each of the five cases, there was irrefutable evidence that the defendant was, in fact, guilty of the charge, and the expectation was the legal system would prosecute them.

And then, in each of the cases, a weak prosecutor was selected, and a particular juror was selected by that prosecutor.  From there, the trail led back to a particular assistant District Attorney who had overseen each of the five cases.  The fact was, justice was not served, and four out of the five defendants had escaped justice.

Until now.

…

© Charles heath 2020-2021

An excerpt from “One Last Look”

This is currently available at Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

 

I’d read about out of body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense.  Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan.  He was about six or seven.  The girl was Louise, and she was five years old.  She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds.  I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

 

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell.  Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children.  They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand.  She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it.  The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants.  It was enough to have them arrested.  It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

 

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die.  It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing.  I had murder in mind.  It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows.  It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out.  I knew he eventually would.  The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go.  I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me.  He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes.  He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours.  I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.”  An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe.  It had blood on it.  Willy’s blood.  “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up.  He sang like a bird.  That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me.  Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.”  Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie.  He didn’t.  I’m coming for you.  All of you Bannisters.  And everyone who touched my sister.”

 

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries.  Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late.  If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood.  The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told.  He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy.  There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone.  It was a half mile walk, through a park.  The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness.  He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names.  At first, when he saw me, he laughed.  He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list.  I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi.  The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me.  I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality.  The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face.  He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out.  He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged.  I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me.  I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital.  He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come.  Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters.  His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful.  Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered.  A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub.  We got along like old friends.  He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges.  We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared.  I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me.  He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes.  I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it.  He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report.  They all had a turn.  He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats.  Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities.  She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me.  I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily.  The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family.  I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony.  I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes.  This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily.  He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm.  Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie.  My friend.”

Then she shot him.  Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

 

Now I was in jail.  I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession.  Without my sister, my life was nothing.  I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors.  I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone.  They ignored me.  I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that.  You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good.  I told him to go away.

He didn’t.  Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table.  The prison officers thought I was dangerous.  Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that.  McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.”  Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister.  By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same.  No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right.  But you’re different, Alan.  As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen.  We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him.  It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

 

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible.  People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot.  I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life.  Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward.  A team.  On the plane early before the rest of the crew.  A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless.  Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

 

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides.  It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision.  If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness.  Not that day.  Not any day.

 

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag.  They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her.  It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she?  No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

 

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it.  After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks.  Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away.  He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground.  I looked at his two friends.  “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk.  She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were.  The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her.  “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me.  She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state.  Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.”  I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care.  Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person.  If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.”  I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again.  “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder.  We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one.  Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk.  What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet.  “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

 

The wedding was in a small church.  We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot.  Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age.  She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look.  “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said.  It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte.  It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me.  “I like you.  Take care of my granddaughter.  You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

 

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us.  Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother.  She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends.  For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother.  It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close.  I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness.  We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head.  It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction.  “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother.  Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?”  I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong.  She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

 

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life.  I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled.  It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye.  Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

onelastlookcoverfinal2

An excerpt from “The Things We Do For Love”

In the distance he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow, and fearing the ravages of pent up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs. Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs. Mac coming up the stairs, and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs. Mac to show her to a table.

She was about mid-twenties, slim, long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs. Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr. Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back on his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr. Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs. Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone but made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs. Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes, they mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying?  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later she realized she’s spoken it out loud, had hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilization, and home, as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slight abrupt in manner, perhaps as a result of her question, and the manner in which she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought,  she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had actually said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs. Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

 

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no possible way she could know than anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but realized it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for very different reasons.

On discreet observance whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced and he had no sense of humor.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and rather incongruously, was he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr. Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs. Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, almost unbearably awkward.

 

Mrs. Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs. Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humor.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought, when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs. Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question, otherwise she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humor failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs. Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living,” Michelle asked in an off-hand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening had worn on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close up, didn’t hide the very pale, and tired look, or the sunken, dark ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night and then smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner now over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet the compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

 

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

lovecoverfinal1

NaNoWriMo (April) – Day 28

Whilst it seems that it’s highly possible to write 50,000 words in 30 days, it’s not necessarily as easy to write a whole book.

Well, at least for some of us.

If the book is going to be about 50,000 words, which you have planned, then I guess it’s possible. It might end up having about 70 to 90,000 words, and be edited back to 50,000, but in the interim, this story is not going to end at the prescribed time.

Of course, that might not be the outcome I had at the start of the project, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not chuffed that nearly all of it is done.

There’s two days to go, it’s not going to finish, but I will have a good idea where it’s going.

However, right at this very minute, I’m not sure how it is going to end, good or bad, for some of the characters.

…

Today’s effort amounts to 1,988 words, for a total, so far, of 66,331.

More tomorrow.

“The Devil You Don’t”, be careful what you wish for

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favor for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favor’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

newdevilcvr6

The A to Z Challenge – X is for “X marks the sport…”

I hated playing games.

I hated it when I was younger, namely because my brothers always cheated, and that had been carried through to adulthood.

Now, I just avoided them.

It left me wondering how I managed to paint myself into a corner, and agree to do the one thing I assiduously avoided.

You could chalk it up to being persuaded by a pretty girl.  Yes, I am the typical male, a sucker for a pretty face and a little flattery.

It would not have happened if I’d just gone home, instead of being asked to go and ‘just have one drink’ on the way home from work.  I used to, once upon a time, before I got sick.  But, perhaps it was a combination of cabin fever, and the monastic existence I’d adopted since that saw the one visit a chink of light at the end of a very long tunnel.

Whatever the reason, had I not gone, I would not have met Nancy.  I’d seen her before, off and on, at work, and had noted, probably with a degree of disdain that where she was, was the most noise.  You know, the one who talks loudest in the elevator, or the one who was the center of attention at a dining table.

And yet, underneath that, if or when anyone got close enough, there was something else.  Something that fascinated me.  But, having become reclusive had made me more reticent, and even though I was sitting at the same table, almost within arm’s length, I was too shy to strike up a conversation.

Until it was time to go home.  I had moved out of the way so she could get out, and as she passed me she said, “You’ve been very quiet, Brian isn’t it?”

“Yes.  And I know it’s rather lame but I don’t have as extensive knowledge of sports, which I guess I should.  Ask me about old movies, and I’m your guy.  Anyway, I pride myself on being a good listener.”

“Old movies eh.  I’ll keep that in mind.”  A smile, she went to leave, and then turned.  “Look.  I have this thing I have to go to, and I don’t want to go by myself.  It’s not a date or anything like that, I just need someone to come with me.  You might even find the people interesting.”

“I’m sure there’s someone else here more qualified than I am.”  It was lame and I was floundering.  It was not every day a girl asks you to go out with her.  Even if it was, to a certain degree, and unflattering invitation.

“They all seem to have something else to do.  Look, here’s my phone number,” she handed me a piece of paper with her cell number scrawled on it, “Call me if you change your mind.  It’s not going to be as bad as you think.”

I should not have picked up the phone.  I definitely should not have called her number.  And I knew I was going to live to regret telling her I would go to her ‘thing’.

Before I walked out the door I looked at myself in the mirror.  It seemed to be telling me, ‘you are a fool, Brian’, and I agreed.  This had disaster written all over it.  I hadn’t been out for a long time, and if anything, those few hours last evening were a sign I was not ready to face the world.  Not after being so long away from it.

A lot had changed in the fifteen months I’d been in a coma.  It was a miracle, the doctors said, that I came out of it with very little damage.  I’d lost a chunk of memories, particularly surrounding the accident, and perhaps, I’d been told, that was a good thing.  Cameron, the guy I worked with had summed up the change in a few short words, ‘you’ve gone from being the biggest dead shit in the world to something that resembles a human being’.  I didn’t remember that person, though others did.

Maybe she remembered who I was, and, if she did, that didn’t explain why she asked me.  The person Cameron described was not a person I would want to be with, so I guess the answer to my rhetorical question would soon be revealed.

Nancy was bright, talkative, and, at times, over the top.  She was the loudest in the room and the center of attention.  I wondered if the old Brian had been like that because if he was, I wouldn’t like him.  It begged the question, why did I agree to go with her?

Curiosity?  Maybe.  That I might find some people who knew the old Brian?  I certainly hoped not.

I had barely got out of the car to go and knock on her door when she came out, a small gym bag on her shoulder, dressed casually.  I had to admit, in the morning sun and surrounded by an idyllic setting, she looked almost like an angel.  She jumped in the car and all but slammed the door shut.

“You’re early.”

I looked at my watch, then the clock on the car’s dash.  Both said the same, Eight a.m. exactly.  “You did say eight a.m. and not p.m.”  I couldn’t remember what she said, not right then.

“I mean most guys who come to collect me are always late.”

“Then I guess, by inference, I not like most guys.”

She smiled, one of those impish smiles I’d come to recognize from anther woman I’d dated somewhere in a distinct past, and who was trouble.  I did, for some strange remember the night we spent in jail, though I couldn’t remember why, except the impish smile.

“I suspect you’re not.  Cam said you were different.”

“Cam did, did he?”  The mentioning of his name raised a red flag in the back of my mind.  Cameron was not above playing complex pranks and I was beginning to see indications that this might be one.  I would have to be careful.

“Not in a bad way, I mean.  He had nothing but good things to say about you, though I had the feeling there was something he wasn’t saying.  You’re not an ax murderer or anything like that?”

“Shouldn’t you have done some more research before asking me along?”  I had also heard from another source, actually, a chap named, rather aptly, Jones, who was also at the party.  He had left earlier but was still in the carpark, apparently his car parked next to mine, smoking a cigarette.  A suspicious man might say he was waiting for me.

He had some ‘sage’ advice.  “You want to be careful when you’re with Nancy.  She’s not what she seems.”

I asked him to elucidate, but, cigarette finished, he stubbed it out rather violently under his blood, and left.  He looked angry, sounded angry, and it was an angry warning.  Perhaps he was a current or, more likely, ex-boyfriend.  That ‘advice’ only added to the intrigue value.

Someone else, when he asked them about Nancy, had told him she was ‘brilliant’ with computers.  Was that in programming, or hacking, or simply data entry?  He only knew she had helped the web site programmers when the company had built its intranet.  Computers and I never got on, and I was the only one who got a weekly visit from the IT help desk, just in case.

“I did.  Do you remember anything from those fifteen months?”

“Like what?”

“They say that when you’re in a coma you can still hear people, you know, that sort of stuff.”

I thought about it for a minute.  I wasn’t one of those lucky ones, though I did have one of those out of body experiences, where I suspect I’d nearly died.  Just not my time, I’d thought, later.

“I’d like to meet the people who have that ubiquitous title of ‘they’.  They have a lot of opinions, most of which are about the unknown.”

“So would I, to be honest.  All you ever get to do is read about them.  So, are you ready?”

“For what?”

“A weekend away.  It will be fun if you want it to be.”

“Otherwise?”

“It’ll be fun.  You have my promise.”

“And where is this ‘fun’ going to be?”

“Rhode Island.  A friend of my parents, son is having a party and a few side events.  There’s about 40 of us, so there’s no shortage of interesting if sometimes eclectic people.  I’ll put the address in the GPS.”

Rhode Island, the other home of the New York rich, as well as others, and I hoped it was the others we were going to see.  The host was the son of possible millionaires, so that was an interesting description for me to mull on.  Would he be an ex?  It seemed to me that Rhode Islanders would be less likely to mingle with the paupers, and if they did it would be for their own amusement.

There was a memory on the back of his mind, that popped up, albeit briefly when she mentioned the destination.  The fact it didn’t want to come to the surface told me it was a bad memory.  One from ‘old’ Brians days.

Nancy’s beauty, manner, and the fact she was clever might just win over the son of a millionaire, an heir to a fortune, whereas it would intimidate a lesser man.  As for me, I was a means to an end, so it didn’t matter what I thought, other than it was better than staying home.

It was the house with all the cars parked out front.  Multi stories, with towers that no doubt overlooked the ocean, and extensive gardens that seemed to be shared, that blocked the sightlines from the street front to that invisible ocean.  I was will to be, once on the other side, the never-ending sound of the sea might be heard.

In winter, this would be bleak.  In summer, well, what was the saying, anyone who is anyone would be here.  Well, the sons and daughter thereof, perhaps.

I had expected the moment I parked the car she would be out, and gone, like a proverbial schoolgirl dying to get back to school after the holidays.  She was not.  She stood there, at the front of the car, and looked at the scene before us.  To me, it was just a building, with trees, shrubs, and grass around it.  To others, it was a portal into another world, one that would never be available to that 95% of the rest of the world.  It was a phrase that popped into my mind, again, randomly, that said, the top 5% of any country held as much if not more of the wealth belongs to the other 95%.

I came up beside her and looked in the same direction, at one of the towers.

“Having a Rapunzel moment?”  I hoped she had some memory of fairytales or it would seem an odd comment.

“I used to have long hair once.  But, the last time I was here, I can’t remember.  My mother’s hair was always long, some sort of hangover from hippy days, you know, the 1970s.  She was here once.  The stories she used to tell me about the houses, and the people she used to know.  I’m ready.  Are you?”

It was like a walk through the park, getting to the front door.  There was a driveway, but there must have been a rule, no cars on the property.  Or perhaps the front gate was locked and the owner had thrown away the key.

Or, more than likely, the butler, standing at the front door, welcoming guests, had it in his pocket.  He was a tall, severe-looking man, with a military bearing.  I somehow knew he was more than just the average butler.

Nancy gave him our names, and in return, he gave us a sheet of paper.  The rules and the room number where we would be staying the night.  I had thought that we would be given separate rooms, but that wasn’t the case, and it didn’t seem to worry Nancy that I would be staying with her.  The only other words he said were, “The rotunda, 11 a.m.”

The room overlooked the ocean, today more or less a millpond, and a number of yachts were out making the most of the weather.  There was a pier at the end of the property, and, yes, a reasonably large boat attached to it.   There was also a view of a croquet lawn, the rotunda beside the rose garden.  On the other side was a large pond, and seats where, no doubt on days when people like us were impinging on their solitude, they sat and contemplated how to make more money.

I didn’t realize I was that cynical.

The room had two beds, and it’s own bathroom.  She had thrown her bag on one, checked out the bathroom, then dashed past saying, “I’ll see you at the rotunda.”

I followed her down about a half-hour later, descending the stairs at a more leisurely pace, looking at the paintings on the wall as I did.  Forbears, and landscapes that were from around here.  The one with the lighthouse was of particular interest.  It brought another memory to the surface.  I’d been there before, sometime in the distant past, and it was significant.

The Butler was standing at the bottom of the stairs, having stopped there when he saw me descending.

“It’s nice to see you again, Master Brian.”

“Not Master Brian, anymore, Jeffery.  Sadly, I had to grow up.”

“We all do, sooner or later.  Pity we can’t say the same for Chester.”

“Where is he?”

“You need to ask.  I hope you’re up for a little X marks the spot.”

I groaned.  Chester and his treasure hunts.

My last memory of that he had hidden a fluffy bunny stuffed with money.  It was the weekend I had the crash the result I was told of too much booze, too much alcohol, too much of everything.  I was just glad the girl I had brought up with me had left with another chap, a decision, I told her when she visited me in hospital, was probably the wisest thing she would ever do.

I just shook my head.

“Even if you don’t think so Brian, we have missed you.”

Another look around, I sighed, then went outside.  My doctor had been right.  Coming back had stirred up the mush in my brain, those thoughts, feelings, and memories of who I was, and what I was.  And who I would never be again.

Nancy was waiting by the rotunda, talking to a more youthful version of myself, Chester.  It was an awful name, one that our mother must have come up with in one of her drug-fuelled dreams, and he had taken a ribbing at school, and a willing participant in many a fight.

Chester looked surprised to see me, no, that wasn’t surprise, but shock.

“I thought you said you would never come back.”

Nancy looked from him, then to me, then back again.

“I’m not here, Chester.  It’s just Nancy and Brian, here for the treasure hunt.  And this time there better be more than a hundred dollars in that stuffed animal.”

Chester looked confused for a moment, then smiled he brand of childish smile, that of a child that would probably never grow up, the result of what I did to him, and would spend the rest of my life trying to earn forgiveness for.

“OK.”

“What was that about?” she asked.

“Long story.  Remind me to tell you one day, if you stick around that long.”

In the background, I could hear Jeffery calling the treasure hunt participants together.

Like it had ten years ago when I came home…

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

“Sunday in New York”, it’s a bumpy road to love

“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!

Purchase:

http://tinyurl.com/Amazon-SundayInNewYork

NaNoWriMo (April) – Day 27

I want a high octane ending, and I’ve been trying to visualise it in my mind.

I’m sure it’s a lot like how a director of a movie sees the end product and then tries to translate that onto the screen.

I can see in in my head, but it’s not translating onto paper.

I’d also like to write it like that so the reader can almost be sitting in the front row seat as it all unfolds,

But in a matter of weeks our once happy travel agent has gone from dispensing advice to others on how to have a good holiday, to a man caught in the middle of storm.

People he’s only read about in papers and books had been appearing out of left field forcing him into making decisions he never thought he would have to.

He’s discovered his parents were not exactly the people he thought they were.

He’s discovered people can appear to be anything other than who they really are.

And he’s discovered he has the strength to overcome adversity.

Going back to the travel agency is going to be as boring a hell for him now.

…

Today’s effort amounts to 2,267 words, for a total, so far, of 64,343.

More tomorrow.

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