…

Sometimes, you don’t realise how fortunate you are until you make the mistake of taking it all for granted.

That, of course, begged the question of how dangerous it might be if you were to simply ask, what if….

My problem was that everything came too easy, not that I’m complaining, but it seemed to me that those who struggled were better equipped to deal with problems.

Again, I’m not complaining, but…

It was just a statement in the middle of an innocuous conversation with my sister, who had what seemed to be the perfect life

A husband she had known since middle school, the perfect 2.4 children, the perfect job, and the perfect life.

I, on the other hand, never found the right girl, relationships would last about a year, sometimes longer, then peter out, and there was no likelihood of children, but I did have the perfect job, running my own bookstore

It was all I ever wanted to do.

Oh, sorry, and write.  But although I could sell books, and I always had a million ideas for writing a book, I could never sit down in front of a blank page and put those million ideas down on paper.

And until I could, I would never be happy.

“And that’s why you’re a hopeless case,” Jenny said, smiling at me over the table.  “Now, pass me the salt.”

Sunday evening dinner at her apartment, with the perfect partner and perfect children, eating dinner prepared by the perfect cook.

I had just lamented again my inability to find the right one and be able to return the dining favour.

“I should learn to cook myself.”

“The day that happens, Jay is the date the works as we know it will end.  You need to get a hobby, play a sport, or go to places where you might find that special someone.  It is clear dating sites and singles bars are not the way to find Miss Right.”

I was beginning to wish that I hadn’t told her about my last disaster.

“Perhaps the girl of your dreams will walk into your bookstore and sweep you off your feet.”

Larry, the perfect husband, had that ingratiating manner of making a perfectly normal comment sound like a sarcastic retort.

To counter his thrust, I parried with, “Well, there was this dreamy young lady who came in the other day and had the most exquisite accent.  She was probably a Russian spy,”

Jenny shook her head.  “How is the next best-selling spy thriller going?”

“The same as usual.  Can’t put words on paper.”

“Perhaps you should try and act it out in real-time.  Some places can fulfil a wish, up to a certain point, for a price.”  Larry was also full of good ideas, just never remembered where he got them from.

“There you go,” Jenny said.  “Problem solved.  Now, who wants my famous Apple pie?”

It was an interesting notion that Larry raised, and one I thought about, on the way back to my apartment.  It did make me wonder how the perfect husband knew about what was essentially a fantasy-fulfilling business.

And when I searched high and low on the internet for it, or anything like it, I couldn’t find anything.  Except when I used the actual words fantasy fulfilment and came back with two women who were quite literally mind-boggling.

That I didn’t need.

That notion of acting out my story stayed in my mind and was the last thought I had before dropping into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning was the same as any other.  I got up, dressed, and went down to the cafe next to the bookstore and got a coffee and croissant.  And said hello to my sister who owned the cafe.

The two shops were part of the building that housed the shops, our apartments, and five other businesses, left to us by our parents as our inheritance.  Our little slice of New York in Brooklyn.

“How’s that search for a fantasy going?” She asked as she handed me the coffee.

“How did you.. “

“Your eyes lit up.  I could tell it made its mark.”

“I didn’t find anything.  I looked.  How does Larry know about it?”

“He knows lots of stuff about lots of stuff.  You’ll find it.  You’re just not using the right search words.  Now, be off with you. This is the rush hour, you know.”

I took the croissant from another girl and nodded, but she was already onto the best three customers, the line out the door.  Three years on a tow shed won the best cafe in the neighbourhood.

I went next door and opened the door.  I was not expecting a lot of customers because these days most people buy their books online.

My store had lots of obscure titles, out of print and first editions.  People only came. I’d they were specifically looking for something rare or hard to find.  I also sold books written by my favourite fiction authors and one day hoped to have a book signing.

That was a hope that would have less chance than my desire to write a book.

Three customers, three books each sought out at this particular obscure bookshop.  Three more five-star reviews on the internet, which probably wouldn’t mean anything in the greater scheme of things.

I didn’t need to work. The way my father had structured our inheritance gave us both a very adequate income, but Henny had insisted we didn’t become idle.  She wasn’t going to stop working, as much as Larry wanted her to because she wanted somewhere to go and something to do other than being a mother.

I liked the idea of having somewhere to go, I had several assistants who came and spent their days rearranging the shelves and keeping the dust at bay.  There were not a lot of sakes, but they didn’t care.  They had the same reverence for books as I had. We were all fighting the digital revolution in our own way.

Perry, a kid who tried to steal a book on his first visit, came from out back with a laptop in his hand.  “Found a place.”

It didn’t take long to find out he needed money for his family, so I offered him a job.  He said he knew nothing about books, I said I didn’t either when I started.

I’d told him what I was looking for and he said to leave it with him.

“Just what are you looking for.  If it’s a woman, I know if a few places, if it’s something else, there are places you just don’t want to go.”

Unlike Larry, I knew Perry knew what he was talking about.  “I have no idea what I want or what I would like.  I was hoping they might set up a few scenarios so I can do some writing.

He shrugged, then left the laptop on the desk and went back to the shelves.

Another customer came in and interrupted my search, and it took some time before we found the book he was seeking, filed in the wrong spot.  It was, I thought, an attempt by the universe to distract me from finally finding a way to start writing.

It didn’t.

I went through the list that Perry had made, and there was one place that seemed familiar, a name had heard once before in a conversation, the one time I went to the local writing group gathering at a nearby Cafe, one that wasn’t Jenny’s.

I called them.

It was an odd conversation because I had expected the person who answered the phone to announce the name of the company.  Instead, it was a simple “Hello.”.

Which left me asking if I was speaking to a representative of the StoryTime organisation.

The answer was a tentative yes as if the person on the other end of the phone wasn’t quite sure who they were working for, or it was one of the answering services who answered for a dozen different places.

Then she asked for my name and phone number and the times I would be available to talk. I gave her the information and hung up, not expecting to hear from them again.

At the end of the day, I locked the door and went up to my apartment.  Jenny had long since shut the door and had gone to collect her children from the friend who collected them from school.

Larry rarely got home before six at night, if he was not working back.

I had a container with leftover dinner from Jenny who knew I didn’t cook, often ate takeout, which was not very healthy, and insisted I eat with them most nights.  Tonight, it was chicken something.

As I got another Budweiser from the fridge, my phone buzzed, and it was an incoming message from StoryTime.  A list and a short description of the ‘products’ they were offering.

One, the romance package, where the customer meets up with a prospective target in an unusual manner, and then plays out any one of a dozen different scenarios.  Each of the scenarios will be provided, but it doesn’t necessarily need to run to the script.

Two, the romance with adventure package, where there is danger involved, and similar to the adventure package, there are a dozen different scenarios that can play out.

Three, the thriller package, is not for the faint-hearted or those with heart conditions.  Some hard work and full-on exercise will be needed.  There can be a romantic element to this, too.

A questionnaire is attached which you will be required to fill in as much as possible so we can have a good idea of what to set up as a mission biography and parameters.

It was strictly prohibited once the mission started for it to stop except for very exceptional reasons.  To date, no mission has been terminated mid-way through.  Our actors are also using these experiences to enhance their talents and sign on for the duration.

The fee paid is not refundable and covers all costs, including any necessary paperwork such as identity information required to participate.

Then it stated the price, and I nearly fell off my chair.  But if I wanted the experience, it would be worth it, or at least I hope it would be.

A quick scan of the multipage questionnaire that set the parameters of the adventure showed the level if detail they required, but not only that, was basically the level of planning I needed to do for writing the book.

Perhaps by the end of filling it out, I wouldn’t need to participate, I would have the plan I’d need meaning to do for a long time.

Of course, I picked the thriller with a touch of romance.  Running through my head at the time were the countless noir Hollywood movies of the 30s, 49s and 50s, about hardnosed private detectives like Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe, and a hankering to recreate that era, but in this day and age it was not possible

I had to pick a name and that had never been a problem, the first name of a great, great grandfather, and the last name of my mother, Alphonse Burgoine, and the theme, the search for a missing person, which I would leave to them to decide who it would be.

Various other details made up the character, a series of ticks in boxes, the most interesting, languages spoken, of which I could speak French and German like my mother who ensured I was fluent in both, and a smattering of Russian and Spanish, after my father who preferred only English to be spoken.

Other than that, It took three days to fill out that form and another seven before I sent it back and paid the fee.

The next day, I received an email that simply said,

‘Your fantasy is being constructed.  The next email will be the first instructions when you assume your character, and from then on, immerse yourself completely.

‘Everyone else associated with this construct will be in character and will ignore any comment or behaviour outside the construct.

‘You will be observed, and if there are more than three infractions, the fantasy will end.  At times, various parts of the fantasy may seem real, but they are not.  Also, always remember that other people are playing roles, and their words and actions are not to be mistaken as real.

It is important to remember that you requested this and that you should make the most of the opportunity.’

Like a Hollywood movie, I thought.

I heard nothing for a month.  I was beginning to think that it was all an elaborate scam when a new message arrived.

‘Pack for a week.’

It gave an address, the office of Bellevue Investigations, and the apartment above the office where I would be staying.  Everything I would need was there.  There were other pieces of information like the names of several others participating.

I told Perry he was in charge.  It was not for the first time.  I told Jenny the people had called and told me my adventure was about to start and packed for the week.

With no idea what was about to happen, I took a long look at the apartment, took a deep breath, stepped outside, and locked the door.

The next time I stepped through that door, I hoped I had a story to write, and not that I should have been content with what I had, and let the proverbial sleeping dogs lie.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

The trouble with being told to ‘keep it to yourself’ I’d that quite often, later, and unexpectedly, it comes back to bite you.

I was put in that position, once, by my younger sister Josephine when she started dating this charismatic older boy she met when he came to her college as a substitute teacher.

I met him once and I didn’t like him.  He was the sort of person that you just know is bad, if not evil.  I told her so, but that didn’t seem to have any effect.  Perhaps it was only men who saw it because all her friends agreed with her; he was dreamy.

It was not as if we had any idea she would do anything silly, because at college she was away, and very lax at reporting back that everything was fine, so as far as we knew it was.  Our parents had cut her some slack after she complained they were smothering her.

I thought there was a good reason for that, but she persuaded them, like she always did, to loosen the shackles as she called them.  It seemed to work, six months passed, and everything was fine.

Until…

I was going home, and I had to pass the college so thought I would surprise her with a visit.  I went to the cafeteria where she and her friends spent every waking moment only to find two of the girls she was studying with.

Jo was not there.  Two of her friends were Debbie and Anne.  I’d met them once before when I’d dropped in.  “How is she doing?” I asked, not what I was going to ask, which was, where was she?

“Oh,” Debbie said hesitantly, “I thought you knew.  She dropped out and said she was going home.  Didn’t she tell you?”

She knew I wasn’t at home and was not as regular at communicating as I should be.  It also appeared to me she knew more but was reluctant to say more.

“No.  But I’m always the last to know.  I’ll call home and talk to her.”  I knew Jo’s aversion to cell phones, so I couldn’t call her directly.  “But she did say the last time I was here, she was losing interest.  Thanks anyway.”

Walking from the cafeteria to the car park, I had a thought and made a slight detour via the main office.

There was no one at the counter, so I pressed the button on the counter and heard a distant buzzing sound.  Three or four minutes later an elderly lady shuffled out from behind a half-closed door.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes.  I’m looking for my cousin, Albert Dmitri, he’s a teacher here.”

Her facial expression told me that she recognised the name, but her manner suggested that she didn’t like him.  She looked me up and down as people do when making an assessment.

“He no longer works here.”

The way she said it told me that there would be no further discussion, and that told me everything I needed to know, and probably not what I wanted to hear.  And the look she gave me, that being ‘tarred with the same brush’ made me shiver.

My initial assessment of him was right.

“Thank you for your help, ma’am.”

I don’t think I needed to ask any more questions.  I made it to the car and was just about to get in when I heard a voice calling my name.

I looked over the car roof to see Anne walking quickly towards me.  I waited until she arrived, slightly out of breath.

She took several deep breaths before saying, “She didn’t go home, not directly.  She had told me a week before she left that Albert had invited her to stay for a few days at his chalet in Banff.  She didn’t mention it again, just told me she didn’t like school anymore and was going home.  Nothing about Albert, which made me think she went.  She did say before she left that if anyone asked about Albert and her, I should keep it to myself, that it was nothing but a flirtation.”

‘You think it was more?”

“He was obsessed with her.  Certainly, he didn’t respect the boundaries between a student and a responsible adult, and she was not the only one.  I personally now think he’s a creepy guy.  You say you haven’t heard from her?”

“I haven’t, no, which is not exactly a red flag.  I’ll get home and see if she is there.  She probably is because our parents haven’t said anything otherwise.”

“I hope so. She hasn’t called or texted or written, which considering our friendship is unusual.  Let me know when you find out.  I’d hate anything to happen to her.  I told her once she was too trusting.”

“I’m sure everything will be alright.  And thanks. “

I always felt a sense of well-being the moment I walked in the front door of what I had always called home.  It was a house that had been handed down through the generations, and one day, it would be mine.

We had never known any other address, and I had grown up here, went to grade and middle school here, and had all my friends here, and family too.

Josephine and I were the only two who had strayed from town, seeking lives elsewhere as a part of the process of living our lives, but there was never any doubt we would come home.  Our brothers had always been content to stay, aspiring only to learn or work on the ranch, marry local girls, and start families.  My turn would come, one day.

The outside world, my father said, was just a distraction.  Everything we really needed was here.  I was inclined to agree with him.

Andy Barnes, one of the farm hands, was outside tending the kitchen garden.  Coincidentally, he was Josephine’s first love, and she had promised him that when she returned, they would be married.

He would wait until the end of the world, which was how much he loved her, but with this new fellow she was smitten with, I was not sure where that plan was. I wondered if she had said anything but wasn’t going to bring it up unless he did.

He didn’t, just waving and getting back to work.

I dropped my bag in the front hall and went through to the back of the house where my mother would be, or should I say where she usually was.

On the way, I steeled myself for the expected barrage of questions, mostly centred around why I had not found a nice woman I would want to marry and start a family, and my mother was not the only one to get on that horse.

So much for the surprise, she was not there.  But there was bread in the oven, and jam bubbling on the cooktop.  She wasn’t very far away.

I went over to the jam pot and had a peek.

“Ah, there you are.”  My mother had come inside from the back doorway with a basket of vegetables.  “Andy said you had arrived.  Did you see Jo on the way?”

I had told her I would drop in.  Perhaps I should have kept that to myself and made a mental note for the next time.  “I did, and she wasn’t there.  I spoke to her friends.  Busy, busy, busy.”

“Then you didn’t find out if she was coming home for Christmas.”

“I didn’t see her, remember.  Maybe I’ll be luckier when I return.  I’ll call her but you know what she’s like.”

She looked me up and down as mothers do, checking to see if I was taller, heavier, lighter, or stressed.  Everything was stressful on the roads these days.

“I’ll leave that in your hands.  You haven’t changed.”  She said the final verdict.  “Are you still working at that dreadful place?”

I’d taken on employment in a private detective agency that seemed to only deal with divorces and scandalous affairs.  I was getting quite adept at covert surveillance.

“It’s just a job,”

“You should be doing more with your life with those three degrees and such.”

She dropped the vegetable basket on the kitchen bench and stirred the jam, then gave me a welcome hug.

The bread had a short time to go.  Fresh bread and jam were looking good.

It seemed that Jo had not told our parents anything, so she could be anywhere, but my best guess was that she had gone with Albert Dmitri.  The only lead was Banff.  I would stay a day or two, then go find her, before our parents found out what she’d done.

Before I left home, I called my boss at the investigation agency and told him my suspicions, and he agreed to do a search on Dmitri.  I had a photograph of him with Jo taken when he didn’t know I had.  The first time I tried, he got very defensive, and that was one of the red flags that started to bother me.

He said I could do it when I returned, but I told him I was in the Banff area where Dmitri had a cabin, and if that was the case, I would go there.

He asked if I needed help from one of their enforcers, men who did the hard tasks like bodyguard, or backup in certain investigations when they were dealing with violent targets.

I thought it would be a good idea.  I had no idea what to expect.  He would meet me in Banff.

I think by the time I left home, sooner than I intended, and no matter how hard I tried to hide it, my mother knew something was wrong and that it involved Jo.

She gave me one of those looks, the one that said I know you’re not telling me something, gave me a hug, and said, call me when you see Jo, and let her know we love her.

“I think she already knows that.”

“Maybe so, but since you’ve both grown up, we don’t say it often enough.”

“Then I will.  I’ll get her to call you.”

What I received in my email several hours into the trip to Banff didn’t fill me with confidence.

From the photographs, the investigation of his case uncovered four different names and employment in various provincial universities or tertiary education institutions where there were missing girls.

We might have uncovered a serial killer, or at the very least predator.

The investigation into relatives and property was ongoing, but they needed to find out his real name because all they had so far were aliases.

The Banff police had been notified of the investigation, and I was told to visit an RCMP officer who had been working on the theory that the university disappearances were connected.  He was very interested in speaking to me and was laying the necessary groundwork to make Jo an official missing person, though I had to ask him to hold off until we had more on Dmitri because we had the advantage of knowing about him and he not knowing we had that information.  Publishing it would spook him, and he would disappear.

There was more available when I arrived at the Banff police station, I had Dmitri’s real name, and the fact his father, now deceased, owned a cabin in Canmore near the Palliser Trail.  That was conveyed to me but the company agent that had been sent to help me, and we agreed not to tell the police yet.  The agent, Phillip Rogers, was going to conduct discreet surveillance on the cabin and see if he was there or anyone else.  At the very least, he was hoping to thoroughly check the cabin itself while I was talking to the Police.

The officer’s name was Hercule Benoit and was a specialist in finding missing persons.  He’d been working on what he called the university disappearances for two years and had uncovered 13 cases, some of whom simply left, for various reasons, without telling anyone, and later found alive.  Two were dead, not necessarily murdered, but there were six missing possibly dead.  For us to eliminate you from our enquiries, we will require you to tell us where you were for five specific periods in the past seven years.

Jo was one he didn’t have on his list, simply because she left after telling those closest to her what seemed to be the truth, and everyone took it for granted.  Other cases in his book had done the same, suggesting a pattern.

And yes, each could be assumed to be connected with the departure some weeks later of a teacher, young, and able, though the descriptions were different, the base details were the same, height, weight, and mannerisms.  The differencing details were hair colour and length, beard, moustache, eye colour, glasses, dress style, and speech patterns or language.

Dmitri spoke like a refined Russian immigrant.  Another had a French accent, and one had none.  To my mind, Dmitri had theatrical training and could disguise himself, and I suspect the girls he took with him altered their appearance too. I was expecting Jo to look very different.

The question would be whether she was under his spell or if she was coerced or threatened.

It was Benoit’s plan to visit the cabin where I believed we would find Dmitri.  I was not going to tell him and take Rogers with me, but I had second thoughts because it might prejudice any chance of getting the truth, or later justice if we made a mistake.

There was also the possibility that Dmitri would run once alerted we were on to him, and we’d never find him, or Jo, though right now I was more hoping that believing she would be unharmed.

So, the new plan Benoit and I would visit, and Rogers, whom I had not told Benoit about, would maintain surveillance, and if Dmitri tried to run, he would stop him.  I didn’t ask him how he would do it. It was best not to know.

Then, suddenly, we had stopped outside the cabin, next to a RAM 2500, which Rogers had texted belonged to the man in the photograph he had sent me, a man who looked like Dmitri but was externally different.

This time, he had very short blonde hair and was wearing thick glasses accentuating blindness and was about 20 to 30 pounds lighter.  Out of the business suit and dressed like a lumberjack, unless you could be positive, he was hardly recognisable.

That same man answered the door, taking in the police vehicle, the RMCP officer in uniform, which was quite daunting even for me, and then he looked at me, squinting through those glasses.

Perhaps he hoped that flicker of recognition would be hidden behind the layers of glass, but it was not.  I glared at him until she turned back to Benoit.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

“There might not be.  Do you mind if we come in, Mr Francois?”

The office had discovered that the photo of Dmitri was that of Antoine Francoise, originally from Montreal and the grandson of Albert Francoise, the heir to a fortune the family had made from the Railways and shipping.

Dmitri or Antoine didn’t need to work, and it appeared kidnapping and murdering college girls was his hobby.  Perhaps he had the belief that being rich, the laws didn’t apply to him.

“Not unless you have a warrant or evidence, I’ve done anything wrong.”

And the arrogance to go with it.  I saw Benoit’s expression change and not for the better.

“If that’s the way you want this to go, Mr Francois, so be it.” He pulled out his cell phone and started dialling a number.

Perhaps the notion of giving a dozen police crawling all over his property changed his mind.  “I’m sorry.  I can be a little prickly in the morning.  By all means, come in.” He stepped to one side, and we went in.

“Good choice.”

The cabin looked to have a main room with a kitchen, a dinner table, set for one, a fireplace and two chairs, one looking very used, the other less so, and a bedroom, door open, bed unmade, what one might expect of a single man living on his own.

“What’s this about?”

“A man with similar features to you has been identified as a suspect in a kidnapping case, well, more than one.  You are one of three men picked out of a set of photographs of male teachers who worked at various colleges and universities where girls have disappeared or been found dead.  For us to eliminate you from our enquiries, you will need to tell us where you were for five specific periods over the last seven years.”

I was watching Antoine carefully, and he was good, showing no emotional response to what was tantamount to an outright accusation.  Didn’t bat an eyelid, as the saying goes.

“That’s a particularly tall order, as you can imagine.  But, I’m sure you are well aware of who I am, and as it turns out, a philanthropist with an office and a gaggle of assistants running it, shouldn’t be too hard.  I will make a call and have that information on your desk tomorrow morning.  Is that all?”

“We’d like to have a look around?”

I watched Antoine very carefully as Benoit asked the question, and had I not been carefully watching his eyes, which flicked to a carpet square under the dining table for a fraction of a second, I would have missed it.

“Here?  There’s only two rooms, what you see is all there is.”

Benoit shrugged and perhaps conveyed the fact a demolition team could beg to differ in his expression because a moment later Antoine waved his hand, “Search away.”

Benoit missed the inference, but I didn’t.  Why use the word search when there was no reason for us to, if he was not guilty.  I would mention it to Benoit after we left.

The search took all of a minute.  There was nothing to confirm anyone, but Antione lived there, and then only temporarily.  There was a half-filled suitcase on a corner and a few items hanging in a closet.  He had not been there long nor apparently staying.

“Thank you, Mr Francois.  I will be expecting your communication tomorrow.  We will speak further on this.”

Antoine was eager to get us out the door, but she didn’t push it.  He was, in my opinion, slightly agitated and definitely guilty of something.

Of course, it might be my imagination, or simply that I wanted it to be him, inventing in my mind those two tells, but it felt like it was him because I had that creepily feeling when I saw him after opening the door, and initially reactions were usually right.

He remained on the doorstep watching us leave.  I watched him watch us.

“It’s him,” I said. “I’m sure of it.  Innocent people don’t ask for search warrants.”

“You’d be surprised. If it is, he’s long practised at being what I would call detached.  And he’s had a string of assault charges, all dismissed.  Money talks, especially lots of it.”

“What’s the next step?”

“Wait for his alibi.  He’ll already have one for each of the dates with photographic evidence.  Mark my words.  People like him have alibis before they need them.  The thing about that cabin is that it’s a manufactured scene, everything in its place, and a place for everything.  In other words, staged.  He knew we were coming.”

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

…

…

I stood on the edge of the cliff and took in the view, which on any given day could be either magnificent or the equivalent of Dante’s inferno.

Today, while being majestic, it was also like being in hell.

It was day 37.  I didn’t think I’d last the first week, yet here I was, having survived the worst that could be thrown at me.  I was one of six out of the original intake of fifty.

People who were stronger than me, smarter than me, better educated, better physically, full of confidence, and some full of themselves, unexpectedly failed.  As they fell, one by one, all shocked at being cut, and as each day passed, I was always last to go look at the list of survivors.

Every time I expected to see my name and surprised, like many others, that I was not on the list.

They wanted four, there were six of us left.  The odds were not good, not after one of the instructors told me I had to up my game, that I’d barely made the last cut.

“Hell is on earth they said,” a voice in my head, or…

I turned, Kerrilyn O’Connor.

She was my choice to succeed.  I selected her on day one as the most likely to succeed.  She looked ordinary, but under that banal exterior was the fire and brimstone, the guts and determination needed to succeed.

“Been there already, and compared to this place, it was like Shangri-La.  No, it’s what you make it.  I came with no expectations, I’ll leave with no regrets.”

“You sound like you’ve given up?”

“I’ve been paired with Wally in the final test.  We’re the two bottom candidates, and I suspect they want us to fail.”

She smiled.  It was an ongoing subject of discussion, how Wally made it past day one, let alone to the final six.  Popular belief was that he was related to some director. Yes, that was how bad he was.

“You haven’t been to the notice board, have you?”

“Is there any reason to?  I was told yesterday what my fate would be.”

“Then I suggest you pay a visit.  You might be surprised.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

There might have been more, but relationships with other candidates were strictly forbidden.  It still didn’t stop the more adventurous from trying, and over the weeks, I guess some didn’t handle the isolation very well, nor the penalty for breaking the rules.

An island you couldn’t get off.  Fifty candidates and twenty staff, and a very long swim if you wanted to escape.  The only communication was a boat, every night at six, to take away the candidates who failed.

Kerrilyn and I had an on-off thing, and if it happened, it happened.  Other than that, I was under no illusion it was anything other than dalliance.  Once she became an agent, there would be no room in her life for relationships.  Mine, either if I managed to get through.

I wasn’t going to look, but something dragged me to the noticeboard, perhaps an unconscious death wish.  It explained the odd look on her face when she said I should.  The pairings had changed, and now I was with her.

I shrugged.  I just hoped I didn’t drag her down with me.

Sitting in the briefing room, once bustling with a lot of eagerness, some over-eager recruits, waiting to learn what the task was for the day or days, there was only silence.  It was not a companionable one. If anyone could read our minds, it would be to learn that we were taking a good, long, hard look at our competition and going over their strengths and weaknesses. We all knew this was it, the end of the line.  Fail this, and you were out

We had been paired with all of them several times, times we had been told if we cared to listen, to learn everything we needed to know about them because one day we would be pitted against each other.

Today was the time to put what we learned from the instructors and what learned about each other into practice.

Three days.  It was going to be the longest test we had participated in.  We would be taken to different parts of the island, and working as a team, we had to capture the other two teams.  By any and all means at our disposal.

One pair would be safe if they fulfilled mission parameters.  It was a big island, and there was not a lot of time, as we were told; in real life, the time we had now was a luxury.

No one asked what would happen if no one succeeded.

We were blindfolded and given noise-cancelling headphones, so trying to determine where we were being taken was almost impossible.

The helicopter landed and we were hustled out, the camp commander jumping out too.  He went with us to the point beyond the rotating propeller, the stop being brief.  We didn’t know if we were first, or last.

He pointed in a particular direction and then had to yell to be heard about the helicopter’s engine.  “One mile in that direction.”

“What’s there?” I asked.

“A boat.  You get on it and don’t look back.”

“Have we washed out, sir?”  Kerrilyn knew the value of respect, unlike some of the others.

“No.  You two are the best recruits we’ve had in years.  The assessment is that you’re ready, so we’re giving you a fortnight to get over whatever it is you’re doing and report to GHQ at 06:00 on the 21st.  Congratulations.”

He shook each of our hands and then went back to the helicopter.   A minute later it was lifting off, and after three more, it was gone.

I looked at her.  “What was that about?”

“You don’t believe him?”

“That we’re the best, yes, that we’re leaving this place, no.”

“A test?”

“After 38 days I think you have the same deep-seated distrust of anyone on this island.  What was the first lesson we learned?”

“Trust no one, and let your paranoia guide you.  He said gut, but to me, it could only be one thing.  The might be a boat waiting, but we have to get to it first, and I suspect four very willing candidates will do nothing to stop us.”

“That’s a bit cynical.  Why?”

“Because they can’t make up their minds who the other two are, and they’ve left it for us.”

She shrugged.  In time she’d come around.  in the meantime, we had a boat to find.  “OK.”

Before we’d taken three steps, four bullets had thwacked into trees near us.  It was clear they’d dropped the other four near our location, and, interesting development, they were using live ammunition.  Clearly, this was a do-or-die mission, a true simulation of what it was like in the field. 

“Bastard,” she muttered.  “But if that’s the way they want to play it, it’s game on.”

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©  Charles Heath 2024

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