When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.
I’ve been on a few of those in my time.
And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.
For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.
Did I say ‘Iron Horse’? Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.
It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast
But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay. I’m sure it’s happened more than once.
Then…
Are you inclined to go?
A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.
An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?
There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation. Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.
But, you never know. Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.
Hang about. Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?
I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!
Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.
I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?
Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.
Right now.
I pick up the pen.
Character number one:
Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing. Still me, but with a twist. Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance. Yes, I like that.
We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.
He had a wife, which brings us to,
Character number two:
Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons. It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated. There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.
Character number three:
The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.
Oops, too much, that is my old boss. He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him. Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him. Last name Benton. He will play a small role in the story.
Character number four:
Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.
More on her later as the story unfolds.
So far so good.
What’s the plot?
Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers? No, that’s been done to death.
Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world. Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people. That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people! There will be guns, and there will be dead people.
There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around. That’s better.
Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.
All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.
Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work. He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks. The phone rings. Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down. He’s needed. A few terse words, but he relents.
The Static of Solitude: Generating Electricity from the Void
In the quiet corners of our lives, we often look for grand catalysts to spark change. We wait for lightning, for a massive surge, for the dramatic shift that flips the switch from darkness to light. But as Paul Auster masterfully demonstrates in his haunting novella Ghosts, the most persistent electric tension doesn’t come from a thunderstorm. It is generated by the friction of almost nothing at all.
In Ghosts, Blue is hired by White to watch Black. He sits in a room in Brooklyn, staring out a window, day after day, waiting for something to happen. Nothing happens. And yet, the tension in the book is palpable—it is a live wire humming with a lethal, invisible current.
How does Auster generate such high-voltage suspense out of such absolute emptiness? The answer is a lesson in the physics of the human psyche: Voltage is measured by the gap, not the density.
1. The Power of the Potential Difference
In electrical engineering, voltage is the difference in potential energy between two points. If two points are identical, there is no flow. If they are vastly contrasted but held in proximity, the potential for a spark becomes infinite.
Auster creates this “potential difference” by placing Blue in a state of sensory deprivation and forced observation. By stripping away the noise of the world—the plot, the dialogue, the movement—he creates a vacuum. When you remove everything, the smallest stimulus starts to vibrate with impossible weight. A man across the street shifting his chair; the color of a notebook; the act of writing a report that says nothing. In a void, these tiny inputs act like high-frequency waves. We are conditioned to look for meaning, and when the narrative denies us that meaning, our brains begin to arc across the terminals of the story, creating heat, pressure, and electric tension.
2. The Loop of Infinite Reflection
Ghosts is a hall of mirrors. Blue watches Black, but Blue is also being watched by White (or is he?). The act of observation becomes a closed circuit.
When you generate energy from “very little,” you must create a feedback loop. In the novella, there is no external power source. The energy comes from the loop itself—the circularity of the characters’ existences. Because the characters cannot escape their roles, the tension builds internally. It is a kinetic process: the harder you try to resolve the nothingness, the more tension you generate. Auster shows us that the most exhausting, high-voltage way to live is to remain trapped in a state of unresolved surveillance.
3. The Art of the Static
Think of the static electricity you feel on a dry winter day. It’s barely visible—a tiny prick against your skin—but it is the result of a massive buildup of separated charges.
Auster writes with “static” in mind. He keeps his prose sparse, almost clinical. He doesn’t give us the “lightning strike” of a dramatic climax. Instead, he maintains a steady, low-humming current of uncertainty. By withholding information, he forces the reader to provide the energy. We are the ones who supply the voltage; we are the ones who worry, who speculate, and who feel the jump-scare of a simple sentence like, “Black is reading a book.”
Generating Your Own Spark
If you have ever felt the crushing weight of a quiet Sunday, or the agonising tension of waiting for a message that never comes, you understand the physics of Ghosts. We don’t need grand events to feel the thrill of the “electric.” We only need:
A Vacuum: Remove the distractions that act as insulators.
A Gap: Set up a situation where you are observing something you cannot influence.
The Loop: Allow yourself to ruminate on the point of contact.
In the end, Auster teaches us that “very, very little” is actually a massive reservoir of power. You don’t need a hurricane to light up the room. Sometimes, all you need is a single, solitary figure in a room, waiting for the silence to speak.
The tension isn’t in the event. The tension is in the waiting. And that, as it turns out, is enough to power an entire world.
Lisbon Beyond the Postcard: 5 Things to Do When You’ve Already Mastered the Classics
You’ve done the pilgrimage. You’ve braved the crowds on Tram 28, queued for pastéis de nata in Belém, and navigated the steep, melancholic streets of Alfama. You’ve seen the sunset from a crowded miradouro, and you’ve felt the history radiating from the Jerónimos Monastery.
Congratulations. You’ve seen Lisbon.
But the true magic of the Portuguese capital doesn’t lie on the postcard; it thrives in the quiet corners, the industrial chic neighborhoods, and the views reserved only for those willing to wander a little further.
If you’re ready to move past the tourist checklist and dive into the real Lisboa, here are the next top five, road-less-travelled experiences waiting for you.
1. Get Lost in the Green Lungs: Parque Florestal de Monsanto
What it is: Lisbon’s massive, sprawling answer to Central Park, covering over 10 square kilometers of forest, trails, and panoramic views.
The moment tourists step off the plane, they head east toward the castle or south toward the river. They forget that the city is hugged by a surprisingly wild, untamed forest park to the west. Monsanto is where locals go to truly escape the urban bustle.
Forget the crowded views from São Jorge; Monsanto offers dozens of quiet, breathtaking overlooks. The ultimate gem here is the abandoned Panorâmico de Monsanto. Once a glamorous restaurant and viewing deck built in the 1960s, it now stands as a vast, graffiti-covered ruin.
While officially decommissioned, the views from this concrete shell are genuinely jaw-dropping, offering a 360-degree perspective of the entire city, the Tagus River, and the Atlantic beyond. It requires a bus or short taxi ride to reach, making it inconvenient enough to keep the crowds away.
Why it’s “Less Travelled”: It’s outside the central walking zone, requiring dedicated transport.
The Insider Tip: Go for sunrise or sunset. Bring good walking shoes and a tripod for unforgettable photos from the Panorâmico.
2. Sail Across the Tagus for Seafood Bliss at Cacilhas
What it is: A quick, inexpensive ferry ride across the Tagus River to the industrial-chic municipality of Almada, offering arguably the best views of the Lisbon skyline.
While the famous Vasco da Gama Bridge and the 25 de Abril Bridge dominate the skyline, taking a short trip on the iconic orange Cacilheiros ferry from Cais do Sodré is a true local experience. The destination, Cacilhas, feels a world away from the busy, boutique-lined streets of Chiado.
Instead of monuments, you find authentic, old-school Portugal. Head straight for Rua Cândido dos Reis, a street lined with incredible, reasonably priced seafood restaurants (marisqueiras). Dining here means indulging in freshly caught fish, grilled to perfection, and avoiding the tourist mark-up found in the city center.
Don’t miss the chance to walk a little further to the 110-meter-tall Cristo Rei statue. While Belem Tower is beautiful, viewing the city skyline with the entire Lisbon waterfront framed across the water is a perspective few tourists ever seek out.
Why it’s “Less Travelled”: Tourists rarely leave the Lisbon side of the river unless heading to the main beaches.
The Insider Tip: Try the restaurant Ponto Final for stunning riverside dining right on the water (reservations essential) or Solar dos Nunes for a cozier, highly authentic experience.
3. Explore Tile-Soaked History at the Museu Nacional do Azulejo
What it is: The National Tile Museum, housed in the magnificent former Convent of Madre de Deus, dedicated entirely to the history and artistry of Portugal’s defining cultural expression: the azulejo (painted ceramic tile).
While every street corner in Lisbon is adorned with beautiful tiles, few visitors dedicate the time to understand the profound history behind this art form. The Azulejo Museum may not sound as instantly thrilling as a castle, but it is essential to understanding the city’s identity.
Located slightly off the beaten track in the eastern suburbs (near Santa Apolónia), the museum showcases five centuries of ceramic evolution, from Moorish influence to Baroque grandeur. The real highlight is the stunning Great View of Lisbon—a 23-meter-long panel of tiles dating from 1738, depicting the city’s skyline before the devastating earthquake of 1755.
Walking through the ornate church and the quiet cloisters of the convent offers a peaceful, meditative experience far removed from the crush of the central museums.
Why it’s “Less Travelled”: Its location is slightly inconvenient, requiring a short taxi or specific bus route.
The Insider Tip: Take time to admire the stunning, gold-leaf-laden chapel inside the former convent—it rivals those in Belém.
4. Discover the Industrial Grit of Marvila (Lisbon’s Brooklyn)
What it is: A rapidly gentrifying, formerly industrial neighborhood east of the Parque das Nações, now home to warehouses converted into craft breweries, contemporary art spaces, and cutting-edge gastronomy.
If you’re looking for Lisbon’s hip, creative heartbeat—the neighborhood where young artists and entrepreneurs are truly setting up shop—it’s Marvila. It lacks the historic charm of Alfama but makes up for it with raw, industrial energy.
This is the perfect spot for the craft beer enthusiast. Marvila boasts a strip of excellent breweries operating out of converted warehouses, including Musa and Dois Corvos. Unlike the tourist taverns, these spots offer excellent local brews, complex menus, and a true sense of community.
Beyond the beer, Marvila is home to massive art galleries and unique cultural hubs that are constantly changing, reflecting a contemporary Lisbon that is dynamic and forward-looking.
Why it’s “Less Travelled”: It’s still transitioning and is primarily a local destination, far from the central tourist loop.
The Insider Tip: Visit on a weekend afternoon to enjoy the buzzing atmosphere at the breweries when they often have food trucks or live music.
5. Trade Sintra’s Fairytale Crowds for the Coastal Calm of Ericeira
What it is: A traditional fishing town located about 45 minutes north of Lisbon, designated as Europe’s only World Surfing Reserve.
Sintra is spectacular, but during peak season, it can feel more like an amusement park than a historical site. For a coastal day trip that delivers beauty, tradition, and relaxation, head to Ericeira.
While it’s internationally famous among surfers for its diverse reef and beach breaks, the town itself maintains an incredible, whitewashed village charm. Here, you’ll find narrow, winding streets, blue-and-white houses, and excellent local bakeries selling regional specialties (ouriços and tâmaras).
The atmosphere is noticeably slower and more authentic than that of the tourist hub of Cascais. Spend the day watching the surfers at Ribeira d’Ilhas, wander through the historic center, and enjoy a spectacular ocean-view meal featuring the freshest catch of the day.
Why it’s “Less Travelled”: It requires a dedicated bus journey (or car hire) and is often overlooked in favor of the more marketed Sintra or Cascais.
The Insider Tip: Have lunch at a traditional marisqueira near the fishing port to ensure the fish was caught that morning.
The Next Chapter of Your Lisbon Story
Lisbon is a city of layers. Once you peel back the vibrant, initial layer of historic landmarks and Fado-filled taverns, you discover a deeper, more rewarding experience.
These five spots are not just alternatives; they are invitations. They invite you to slow down, cross the river, explore the urban edge, and understand the real, living pulse of one of Europe’s most exciting capitals.
Have you explored any of these hidden Lisbon gems? Share your favourite road less travelled experience in the comments below!
There’s more than one way … er, perhaps it’s better to say, there are many ways to use the word bar, which is not bad for a three-letter word.
Bar, the one you associate with drinks, in hotels, restaurants and we’ll, just bars.
Probably the best type of bar you might find me in is a Sports Bar, where you can snack on buffalo wings a tall glass of beer and watch with ice hockey in winter or baseball in summer.
It’s one I use from time to time when asked, what will we do, and the reply is often let’s go to a bar. The best bars are underground, dark and dingy, full of eclectic people, with a band playing almost passable music or better still jazz
Bar, as in the legal variety
There are so many legal references to using bar, that the one that I am most familiar with is being admitted to the bar which means that you can now practice law.
Raising the bar, if that’s possible, where the bar is that imaginary level which offers sinks very low. When someone says they’re going to try and raise the bar, you may be assured there will be a long battle ahead, simply because people generally find it hard to change.
Bar, as in we are not going to let you in here. Yes, this is the irksome one where you find yourself, often for reasons unknown, barred from somewhere or something. This may also be referred to by saying everyone may enter bar you.
Bar, as in an iron bar, the sort that is sometimes used as a blunt force object by villains to remind the victim they owe any one of a loan shark, bookie or the mafia. God help you if it is all three.
There are also iron bars of a different sort, those that are set in concrete outside a window most likely in a prison where the objective is to prevent escape.
It gives rise to an old expression, that person should be behind bars.
Then there is just a bar, such as a bar of gold, which I’m sure we’d all like to have stashed away, but not necessarily in the mattress, or the more common variety, a chocolate bar, which I have one now. What’s your favorite?
And just to add to the list of meanings you can always refer to sashes or stripes as bars.
Confused? Well, there’s still music, and the bane of yachtsmen, sand bars but I think we’ll leave it there.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
Athens: The Road Less Travelled – Your Next Five Unforgettable Discoveries
Athens. The very name conjures images of ancient wonders: the majestic Acropolis, the bustling Plaka, the grandeur of the Parthenon. And rightly so – these iconic sites are breathtaking and essential to any first-time visit. But what if you’ve already stood in awe of the Caryatids, navigated the labyrinthine streets of Plaka, or found yourself yearning for something beyond the well-trodden tourist path?
Athens is a city of layers, a vibrant tapestry where ancient history brushes shoulders with modern grit, bohemian charm, and serene coastal beauty. For the curious traveller eager to dig a little deeper, to uncover the authentic soul of this magnificent metropolis, a wealth of hidden gems awaits.
So, if you’re ready to venture beyond the postcards, here are the next top five things to do or see in Athens, proving that the road less travelled truly leads to unforgettable discoveries:
1. Lose Yourself in Anafiotika: An Island Village in the City
Nestled directly under the shadow of the Acropolis, yet often overlooked, lies Anafiotika. This tiny, picturesque neighbourhood feels like a Cycladic island village magically transplanted to the heart of Athens. Built by craftsmen from the island of Anafi who came to Athens in the 19th century to work on King Otto’s palace, they created homes reminiscent of their homeland.
Why it’s unique: Whitewashed cubic houses, impossibly narrow alleys, vibrant bougainvillea, and sleepy cats create an atmosphere of serene timelessness. It’s an oasis of calm that feels a world away from the city’s hustle and bustle, despite being just steps from the tourist throng.
What to do: Wander aimlessly. Get wonderfully lost. Discover hidden churches, admire the unique architecture, and soak in the tranquil ambience. It’s a photographer’s dream and a perfect spot for quiet contemplation.
Pro Tip: Go early in the morning or late in the afternoon to avoid the crowds and catch the best light. Allow yourself to simply be rather than rushing through.
2. Embrace the Bohemian Heart of Exarchia
For a taste of Athens’ alternative, intellectual, and slightly rebellious spirit, head to Exarchia. This neighbourhood is a vibrant hub of students, artists, and activists, known for its lively squares, independent bookstores, vintage shops, and some of the city’s most striking street art.
Why it’s unique: Exarchia offers a raw, unfiltered view of contemporary Athenian life. It’s a place of passionate debate, political murals, and a strong sense of community. It’s not sanitised for tourists; it’s authentic, edgy, and exhilarating.
What to do: Explore the captivating street art, grab a coffee at one of the bustling cafes on Exarchia Square, browse the unique bookstores (many with English sections), or catch a live music performance in a local bar. The open-air cinema, Cine Vox, is also a summer highlight.
Pro Tip: While generally safe during the day, be aware of your surroundings, especially at night. It’s a place to observe and soak in the atmosphere respectfully, rather than overtly act like a tourist.
3. Savour the Culinary & Cultural Delights of Pangrati
Just a stone’s throw from the Panathenaic Stadium (the site of the first modern Olympic Games), but much less explored by visitors, lies Pangrati. This charming, upscale residential neighbourhood is a true Athenian gem, celebrated for its fantastic food scene, stylish boutiques, and relaxed, local vibe.
Why it’s unique: Pangrati is where Athenians go to eat, drink, and socialise. You’ll find traditional tavernas serving authentic Greek dishes alongside trendy cafes, wine bars, and gourmet restaurants. It’s less about ancient ruins and more about experiencing daily Athenian life.
What to do: Embark on a self-guided food tour, hopping from ouzeri (meze bar) to taverna for delicious local specialities. Visit the Goulandris Museum of Contemporary Art for a dose of modern culture, or simply enjoy a leisurely coffee and watch the world go by in one of its leafy squares.
Pro Tip: Don’t miss the chance to try a koulouri (sesame bread ring) from a street vendor or indulge in a traditional bougatsa (custard-filled pastry) for breakfast.
4. Unwind by the Athenian Riviera & Lake Vouliagmeni
Who knew Athens had a stunning coastline easily accessible from the city centre? Escape the urban heat and discover the Athenian Riviera, a beautiful stretch of coastline dotted with beaches, marinas, and charming seaside towns. A particular highlight is Lake Vouliagmeni.
Why it’s unique: This natural thermal lake, nestled in a breathtaking setting, is a hidden wellness oasis. Its brackish waters are constantly refreshed by both the sea and underground thermal springs, maintaining a year-round temperature of 22-29°C (71-84°F). It’s home to natural fish spa therapies and is rich in minerals.
What to do: Swim in the therapeutic waters of Lake Vouliagmeni, relax on the sunbeds, or enjoy a coffee with a view. Further along the Riviera, explore the chic beaches of Glyfada or enjoy fresh seafood at a coastal taverna.
Pro Tip: Take the tram (T6 from Syntagma Square), which runs along the coast, offering scenic views and easy access to various spots along the Riviera. It’s a fantastic half or full-day escape.
5. Embark on a Street Art Safari in Metaxourgeio & Kerameikos
While Exarchia offers a glimpse, the neighbourhoods of Metaxourgeio and Kerameikos are increasingly becoming an open-air gallery showcasing some of Athens’ most powerful and poignant street art. These areas, once neglected, are undergoing a renaissance, with art playing a significant role in their transformation.
Why it’s unique: Beyond mere graffiti, you’ll discover huge, intricate murals by renowned Greek and international artists that tell stories, provoke thought, and add vibrant colour to the urban landscape. It’s a dynamic, ever-changing exhibition that reflects the pulse of the city.
What to do: Take a guided street art tour (many local companies offer them) to understand the history and meaning behind the pieces, or simply wander with an open mind and a camera. You’ll find works ranging from political commentary to whimsical fantasies. Afterwards, enjoy a drink in one of Metaxourgeio’s trendy bars.
Pro Tip: Don’t just look at the big pieces; pay attention to smaller, intricate stencils and tags that reveal hidden gems around every corner. Keep an eye out for commissioned works as well as more anarchic expressions.
Athens is a city that rewards the curious, the adventurous, and those willing to step a little off the beaten path. While the ancient marvels will always be its cornerstone, these five “next steps” offer a richer, more diverse, and deeply authentic immersion into the heart and soul of this incredible European capital. So, pack your bags, lace up your comfortable shoes, and prepare to discover the Athens you never knew existed!
What hidden gems have you discovered in Athens? Share your favourite “road less travelled” spots in the comments below!
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledgedthat something had happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive, she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realises is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The Static of Solitude: Generating Electricity from the Void
In the quiet corners of our lives, we often look for grand catalysts to spark change. We wait for lightning, for a massive surge, for the dramatic shift that flips the switch from darkness to light. But as Paul Auster masterfully demonstrates in his haunting novella Ghosts, the most persistent electric tension doesn’t come from a thunderstorm. It is generated by the friction of almost nothing at all.
In Ghosts, Blue is hired by White to watch Black. He sits in a room in Brooklyn, staring out a window, day after day, waiting for something to happen. Nothing happens. And yet, the tension in the book is palpable—it is a live wire humming with a lethal, invisible current.
How does Auster generate such high-voltage suspense out of such absolute emptiness? The answer is a lesson in the physics of the human psyche: Voltage is measured by the gap, not the density.
1. The Power of the Potential Difference
In electrical engineering, voltage is the difference in potential energy between two points. If two points are identical, there is no flow. If they are vastly contrasted but held in proximity, the potential for a spark becomes infinite.
Auster creates this “potential difference” by placing Blue in a state of sensory deprivation and forced observation. By stripping away the noise of the world—the plot, the dialogue, the movement—he creates a vacuum. When you remove everything, the smallest stimulus starts to vibrate with impossible weight. A man across the street shifting his chair; the color of a notebook; the act of writing a report that says nothing. In a void, these tiny inputs act like high-frequency waves. We are conditioned to look for meaning, and when the narrative denies us that meaning, our brains begin to arc across the terminals of the story, creating heat, pressure, and electric tension.
2. The Loop of Infinite Reflection
Ghosts is a hall of mirrors. Blue watches Black, but Blue is also being watched by White (or is he?). The act of observation becomes a closed circuit.
When you generate energy from “very little,” you must create a feedback loop. In the novella, there is no external power source. The energy comes from the loop itself—the circularity of the characters’ existences. Because the characters cannot escape their roles, the tension builds internally. It is a kinetic process: the harder you try to resolve the nothingness, the more tension you generate. Auster shows us that the most exhausting, high-voltage way to live is to remain trapped in a state of unresolved surveillance.
3. The Art of the Static
Think of the static electricity you feel on a dry winter day. It’s barely visible—a tiny prick against your skin—but it is the result of a massive buildup of separated charges.
Auster writes with “static” in mind. He keeps his prose sparse, almost clinical. He doesn’t give us the “lightning strike” of a dramatic climax. Instead, he maintains a steady, low-humming current of uncertainty. By withholding information, he forces the reader to provide the energy. We are the ones who supply the voltage; we are the ones who worry, who speculate, and who feel the jump-scare of a simple sentence like, “Black is reading a book.”
Generating Your Own Spark
If you have ever felt the crushing weight of a quiet Sunday, or the agonising tension of waiting for a message that never comes, you understand the physics of Ghosts. We don’t need grand events to feel the thrill of the “electric.” We only need:
A Vacuum: Remove the distractions that act as insulators.
A Gap: Set up a situation where you are observing something you cannot influence.
The Loop: Allow yourself to ruminate on the point of contact.
In the end, Auster teaches us that “very, very little” is actually a massive reservoir of power. You don’t need a hurricane to light up the room. Sometimes, all you need is a single, solitary figure in a room, waiting for the silence to speak.
The tension isn’t in the event. The tension is in the waiting. And that, as it turns out, is enough to power an entire world.
Investigations of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule 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 First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective 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 time I saw Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that 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 that 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 an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in that 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 became 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 other 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 realise 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 about 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.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
Marina drove the truck slowly and carefully, without the benefit of headlights on a night that have become very dark when cloud cover moved in. A good night to be out on foot, but not in a few tons of metal.
It seemed to take longer to go back to the old factory, if that was what it was, or it may have just been my imagination. Certainly, it was rather tense in the cabin.
I wondered if what Chiara had said about not trusting me had made Marina have second thoughts of taking me back. From where we were, I would have no idea where it was, and if she dropped me off, I could not find it again.
And that fear came true a few minutes later when she pulled off to the side of the road, near some trees, and stopped, turning off the engine.
The silence crept over us like a fog.
Such was the atmosphere I found myself whispering, “What’s wrong.”
“Lights. Appearing briefly and disappearing. Like someone is following us.”
She sat still for about five minutes, looking intently at the rear vision mirrors, and at times turning around to stare of the small window at the back of the cabin.
I did too, but I couldn’t see anything, nor had I, but I hadn’t thought to look in the rear vision mirrors because I thought we were safe. How wrong I was, to assume that. If there was one lesson I should learn from what I was doing, was that I should know what’s going on around me and that at no time could I ever believe I’m safe. The moment I did and let my guard down, I would be dead. I’d been told that in London, and in a relaxed moment, I’d forgotten it. How many others had done the same and died?
A shake of her head, she got out of the truck, and quietly closed the door. I did likewise and joined her at the rear.
“What’s happening?”
“I’m going to check back over the road, see if there’s anyone following us. There have been too many instances of lights for it to be coincidental.”
“Since we left the church?” In thinking that, it meant that either Chiara or Enrico may have inadvertently, or deliberately, told someone about the meeting.
I hope it’s just my imagination, but it was shortly after we left I saw the first light.”
“Could be a local farmer stumbling around at night.”
“It could, but no one is that silly to be caught out after dark. There was a curfew, and most of us like to believe there still is.”
She looked back down the road, but all I could see was inky blackness. The moon was still hidden by dark clouds above, and it looked like there was going to be rain.
“I’ll come with you.”
“You’d be better off staying here. The last thing I need is a soldier stomping around in the dark.”
Thanks for the compliment, I thought. “Then I’ll have to be quiet, and try not to stomp.”
Even in the darkness I could feel rather than see the scowl on her face.
“As you wish, but don’t get in my way, and don’t make me shoot you.”
Short and wiry, she was built for stealth and speed, unlike the bulky soldier I was. Not that I was overfed and fat, but I was still a larger target than she was. I could just see her outline in front of me, and she was moving very quietly.
I was trying very hard to emulate her.
Then I saw it. A light going on briefly, then off, definitely in the direction we had just come from.
She had stopped and I nearly ran into her.
“You were right,” I said quietly.
“I was hoping I wouldn’t be.”
So had I. The last thing we needed was trouble, trouble that would have to be eliminated. She couldn’t have anyone else knowing about their hiding places, and meeting points.
A few minutes further along, we both heard a strange sound at the same time.
A wheel scraping against a fender? There was no engine noise. It became louder, then we saw what it was. Someone riding a bicycle. Close to the edge of the road so as to remain hidden from view because of the turns in the road, which would account for seeing the light at odd times. At the front, there was a light that was taped to show only a thin slit of light.
I saw her look around, then take hold of a long branch that had recently fallen off one of the trees, pared it down, and then waited. I could see what she was going to do.
When the bike came alongside, moving slowly because it was up a hill, and the rider was labouring hard, she poked the stick through the spokes of the front wheel, the rider just seeing her at the last moment, and not being able to avoid her.
The result was predictable, the rider went flying over the handlebars and crashed into the hard ground with a thud and a loud grunt.
My role was to jump on the rider so he, or she, couldn’t escape. Marina was right behind me and jammed a dirty rag in the persons mouth as I held them very tightly under me.
“Now what?”
This was not going to work for very long as the person under me was beginning to kick and thrash about. In a few seconds, the gag would be spat out and the silence would be shattered.
I heard the gun before I saw it, a whooshing sound near my ear just before it hit the head of the captive, and suddenly there was no more movement or sound.
“A moment’s silence.”
We rolled the figure over, and looked at the face, just visible in the near darkness. We had just been blessed with a shard of moonlight for a few seconds.
A man.
“You know him?” she asked.
Another look, just as the clouds shut off the light, and I thought so.
“One of the soldiers from the castle. How would he know we were meeting at the church?”
“He might not. Nor might he be following us, but just unlucky.”
“How so?”
“Chiara sometimes entertains men from the castle. Part of our eyes and ears. She was not part of the resistance when Fernando was in charge so they would just use her like any other enemy soldier would.”
“So this was a mistake. If he doesn’t return, then they’ll get the wrong idea.”
“Unfortunately. He has to be dealt with.”
“Killed?”
“No time to get squeamish on me. He’s an enemy soldier.”
An enemy I preferred to be some distance away from before shooting to kill. Up close and personal makes it so much harder.
“Come on. Grab his shoulders. There’s a gully over there, so we can make it look like he ran into a tree, tipped off the bike and hit his head on a rock.”
“Or a gun.”
“A few hits with a rock will fix that. I’m sure there’s no one up there that can do autopsies on bodies.”
No, there wasn’t. I just hoped I was not going to be the one that had to hit him.
Ten minutes later it was done.
We carried him to the gully, and at a suitable place laid the body as if it had landed off the bike and onto the rocks, where Marina picked up a large one and hit him several times with a lot of force the last making a sickening sound, and the blow that killed him.
I went back and collected the bicycle and staged it to meet the crash criteria, and then left.
For all intents and purposes, he had died falling off his bike after wandering off the road in the dark.
Both of us hoped it would not cause Chiara any trouble.
And, it was the first person I’d seen killed up close, and I doubted, in the coming days it would be the last. It was not a sight I was going to forget in a hurry.
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.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 