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In a word: Incline

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.

Featured

Writing about writing a book – Day 2

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.

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.

But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.

I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

If I only had one day to stop over in – Brussels – what would I do?

One‑Day Stopover in Brussels? Make It Unforgettable with a Visit to the Grand‑Place

If you’ve only got 24 hours between flights, there’s no better way to capture the heart of Belgium than to spend it in the city’s most iconic square – the Grand‑Place (Grote Markt). Here’s why this UNESCO‑listed masterpiece should be the sole stop on your whirlwind itinerary, and how to squeeze the most magic out of every minute.

Why the Grand‑Place is the Ultimate “One‑Place” Experience

What you’ll seeWhy it matters
Stunning Baroque & Gothic façades – Town Hall, Maison du Roi, the guild housesA visual history of Brussels from the 15th‑17th centuries, all in a compact, walkable space
UNESCO World Heritage statusGuarantees the square’s preservation and its global cultural significance
A living stage – street musicians, flower carpets (every two years), and seasonal marketsThe square isn’t a museum; it’s a vibrant urban theatre that changes with the calendar
Gastronomic micro‑cosm – waffles, frites, Belgian chocolate, and world‑class cafésYou taste the nation without leaving the square’s perimeter
Perfect photo backdrop – golden hour light, night illuminationInstagram‑ready views that make every traveler’s feed pop

In short: the Grand‑Place condenses Brussels’ architecture, history, food, and atmosphere into a single, unforgettable patch of cobblestones.

How to Turn a Quick Layover into a Grand‑Place Day

Below is a step‑by‑step itinerary that assumes you arrive at Brussels Airport (BRU) in the morning and depart the following evening. Adjust the times to fit your flight schedule, but keep the core sequence: arrival → transit → Grand‑Place immersion → departure.

1. Get There Efficiently (30 min)

ModeDetails
Train (Eurostar/Thalys/IC)Follow signs to the Airport‑Brussels train station (right outside the arrivals hall). A direct IC (InterCity) train whisks you to Brussels Central in 18 minutes (≈ 5 €).
Bus (STIB/MIVB line 12 or 21)Slightly cheaper (≈ 3 €) but slower (≈ 30 min). Take the bus to Gare Centrale and you’re already at the doorstep of the Grand‑Place.
Taxi/Uber20‑25 min, about 35‑45 €, useful if you have heavy luggage or a group.

Tip: Buy a STIB/MIVB “15‑hour ticket” (€7.50) for unlimited metro, tram, and bus rides. It’s a bargain even if you only use it for the airport hop.

2. First Glimpse – The Square at Dawn (15 min)

  • Arrive just before 9 am to avoid the midday crowds.
  • Grab a coffee and a fresh croissant from Le Pain Quotidien on the north side; the aroma of roasted beans mingles perfectly with the morning light on the Town Hall’s spire.

3. Guided Exploration (45 min)

  • Free self‑guided audio tour – download the “Brussels Grand‑Place” app (available in 12 languages).
  • Key highlights:
    1. Town Hall – climb the 87‑step tower for a panoramic view (optional, 10 min).
    2. Maison du Roi – the “King’s House” façade and its intricate stone carvings.
    3. Guildhalls – each tells a story (the Brewers’, the Clothiers’, the Bakers’).
  • Quick fact: The square’s golden “pigeon‑hole” statues were added after the 1695 bombardment, symbolising Brussels’ resilience.

4. Savour the Flavours (60 min)

FoodWhere to get itWhy it’s a must
Belgian Waffle (Liège style)Maison Dandoy (corner of the square)Caramelized sugar crystals, warm, perfect with a shot of espresso.
Frites with mayoFriterie René (just a block away)The legendary double‑fried potatoes—crispy outside, fluffy inside.
Chocolate tastingPierre Marcolini or Leonidas kiosksSample a praline while you stroll; chocolate is practically a national sport.
Beer in a historic tavernChez Léon (nearby) – try a Trappist dubbelBrussels is the capital of beer; you can’t leave without a glass.

Pro tip: Order a “combo” (waffle + coffee + chocolate) for a budget‑friendly, all‑in‑one treat.

5. The “Extra” Touch – Nearby Gems (30 min)

If you still have a bit of time, dip just a few steps outside the square:

  • Galeries Royales Saint‑Hubert – a covered arcade with designer boutiques and a quick photo op beneath its glass dome.
  • Manneken Pis – the mischievous bronze boy (5‑minute walk). The statue’s daily costume changes are a quirky cultural footnote.
  • Mont des Arts – a short tram ride up a hill for a sweeping view of the city’s skyline, perfect for sunset shots.

6. Wrap‑Up and Return to the Airport (45 min)

  • Grab a final Belgian chocolate bar for the flight (the “Bombe” from Pierre Marcolini makes a luxurious gift).
  • Board the same train back to BRU—remember to validate your ticket before hopping on the platform.

Insider Hacks for a Seamless Grand‑Place Day

HackHow it Helps
Pre‑download the “Brussels Card” appGives you a 10 % discount at most cafés and priority entry to the Town Hall tower.
Carry a small foldable umbrellaEven in summer, sudden showers are common; the square’s cafés offer shelter and a great people‑watching spot.
Speak a few French/Dutch words – “Bonjour / Goedemorgen” – locals appreciate the effort and may share hidden tips.
Leave your valuables in a hotel locker if you’re doing a multi‑day trip; the square can be a pick‑pocket hotspot during rush hour.
Check the event calendar – Flower Carpet (every two years in August) or Brussels Summer Festival (July) can turn your visit into a once‑in‑a‑lifetime spectacle.

Bottom Line: One Square, Endless Memories

A one‑day stopover can feel like a blur, but the Grand‑Place offers a concentrated dose of everything that makes Brussels legendary: architectural grandeur, culinary indulgence, historic ambience, and a buzzing, friendly atmosphere—all within a 10‑minute walk radius.

So, when the clock ticks down on your layover, skip the museum hops and head straight for the heart of Brussels. Let the cobblestones, the golden façades, and the scent of fresh waffles write the story of your Belgian intermission.

Pack your camera, bring an appetite, and let the Grand‑Place turn a fleeting stop into a lifelong memory.

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers.  Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier.  I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village.  I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed.  In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention.  Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back.  He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury.  He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway.  I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see, there was something about her.  It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile.  I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone.  Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model.  I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris.  The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on.  I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me.  I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin.  My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast.  With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination.  It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight.  It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch.  After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward.  I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it.  And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out.  What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land.  There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind.  If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared.  I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming.  I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in.  Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.  There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks.  It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was.  In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues.  I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing.  There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented.  The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged.  Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian.  He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties.  He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns.  He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa.  From that moment, my obscurity disappeared.  It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses.  He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door.  There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa?  For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability.  That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future.  She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her.  It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move.  The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red.  It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific.  In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid.  I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water.  It was almost mesmerising.  There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned.  The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it.  How did she do that?  I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping.  I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck.  There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black.  An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory.  The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate.  Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes.  My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No.  Not yet.”  I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak.  And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes.  “So that’s a maybe.  Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away.  Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again.  She did not move closer.

I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket.  “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe.  By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease.  “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me.  “You seem to be familiar.  Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings.  If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me.  Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.”  I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was.  “Yes, I remember now.  You made the front cover of the Economist.  You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course.  She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s.  That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family.  I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.”  Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky.  It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.”  She smiled again.  “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts.  I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me.  It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money.  He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right.  I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around.  “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head.  Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit.  “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused.  “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment.  “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave.  Instead, she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot.  To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true.  Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea.  And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct.  I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing.  I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride.  I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?”  Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me.  She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.

“No.  She is back in England, and the wedding is off.  So is the relationship.  She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her?  I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge.  No walking the plank today.  She moved towards it and sat down.  She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair.  Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else.  I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us.  After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message.  It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.”  She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her.  “But it is done, and I moved on.  Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry.  Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing.  It is none of my business.”  She shivered.  “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood and held out her hand.  Should I take it and be drawn into her web?  I thought of Sebastian.  What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet.  “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

newdevilcvr6

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 248/249

Days 248 and 249 – Writing exercise

…

When I woke I knew I was going to be on a world of pain. Whatever the head of operations was thinking when he sent Maria in as backup obviously forgot the last time he made the same mistake.

It got us both captured, simply because she wasn’t capable of remembering basic details of her cover story.

We all had bad days, but she seemed to have more than most.  And I don’t know why operations thought that she could help me.

Not in that last delicate stage.

And it was there.  The trade was being made, everyone had got over their jitters, and then Boris had to ask, why I’ll never know, where she said she came from, a question he had asked earlier with an answer that satisfied him, Bratislava.

The second time she hesitated, and that was the moment I realised she must have made it up and couldn’t remember the lie, saying, Vienna.

And two seconds later we had no trade and eight guns on us.  I was surprised we were not executed there and then.

Instead I was in a dungeon, certainly underground, damp and dank.  And cold enough to make me shiver, though I think my current situation had something to do with it as well.

At least I was not tied up, which in itself was a worry.  I didn’t think Boris was underestimating my capabilities, because he didn’t seem the sort of adversary that would.  He’d managed to survive a long time on the murky world of betrayal.

This had been our chance.

It was quite dark, and I could barely see anything, other than a shard of light coming from under the door at the top of the stairs.  The floor space, or what I could discern of it, was almost entirely taken up by boxes stacked on boxes, and random items of furniture.

I was sitting in an old lounge chair, one of three.  And when I looked harder, I could see Maria asleep in another, a short distance from me.

I suppressed the urge to strangle her.

It was not the first time we had been in this situation.  Last time, we had simply been abandoned, with a ticking time bomb.

Literally.

Who knew one of her many talents was disarming bombs?

It didn’t make up for getting us put in the building in the first place.

She stirred, but didn’t wake.

Perhaps my anger was misdirected.  I should strangle the operations officer who sent her to me after I had specifically said I would not work with her again, and that this mission needed only one person to see it through.

Or perhaps I should be disappointed in the Director, who told me that it would not happen a second time.  Which led to the supposition; were they trying to get rid of me?

I heard a thump upstairs, followed by muffled voices and shuffling feet.  Had someone come to look for us after missing the check-in after the deal was completed?

Surely operations wouldn’t compound the problem by sending an operative to rescue us.

The door at the top of the stairs rattled, then I heard the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock.  It opened and a body was shoved through the gap, sliding down the stairs to the landing.  Before the dust had settled, the door closed again.

How many other bodies were lying around down here?.

I got up, then fell back in the chair, my head suddenly spinning out of control.  I’d obviously been drugged before being thrown or carried down.

The second time I was more cautious and slowly stood up.  Less spinning, but still coming in waves, until after a few minutes it abated, and I could stand.

Another few minutes before I could get up the stairs and check the pulse of the new arrival. 

None.

I guess my hand being covered in blood told me he or she was dead.  It was hard to tell anything in the gloom.  I went back down and took the extra few steps towards Maria.

I felt for a pulse but it was not necessary.  A hand on my arm told me she was awake.  She probably had been the whole time.

“Who is he?” She asked.

“If it is a he, no idea.  And dead.”

“Why are we still alive?”

“We are of value to Boris.”

She took a moment to think about that, and perhaps how she was going to explain how this all went sideways.

“I’m sorry.”

I thought about that for a second.  “Not as sorry as you’re going to be if we get out of this.”

Perhaps I was overreacting but I was still angry.

She sighed.  “It was necessary.”

Of course.  Enough time had passed for her to formulate a story, one that I might believe.

“That’s what you said the last time.”

She let my hand go. “Be that as it may, you pissed someone off and they sent me. Believe me, if I had a choice…” She sighed again, realising it wouldn’t matter what she said. “It wasn’t my idea. I told them that if you saw me again, you’d shoot me yourself.”

I had made a similar threat to the director and the head of operations, and I thought they got the message.  I was wrong.

Or worse, this was how they removed troublesome operatives who had problems with working in a team.  Especially after they sent me to the training camp to try and eradicate the lone wolf tendency.

That’s what they called it.  The lone wolf tendency.

I flopped back in the chair and closed my eyes. I was still feeling scathing from the aftereffects of the drugs, and the disappointment of a botched operation. “Why was it necessary this time? And why was it necessary to send you, of all people?”

“They needed a distraction.”

They?  Why would they need a distraction?  Then I remembered a drinking session with one of the instructors, in a small inn near the training grounds, the day I discovered he was nursing old wounds.

Wounds that few people were aware of.

And the lamentable story of operations that were wheels within wheels, operations that operatives were given a part to play but not given the whole story, operations that came apart because the left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing.

We had to learn to compartmentalise and adapt.  That sometimes we would come up against our own people playing a role, or that we would be working around the edges of a much larger operation.  Sometimes we would be told enough; sometimes we would not.

My last operation I was not fully briefed and found myself being removed before it interfered in another much more important operation.  To me, it seemed like bad planning.

Wheels within wheels.

This suddenly felt like one of those operations.

“What else is going on here?”  Obviously they needed my exchange shut down.  Why?

“You know better than to ask me.  I know less than you. And like you I just do as I am told.”

“Last time it nearly got us killed.”  Much the same as this time.

“That wasn’t the expected outcome, well, not mine anyway.  You’ll be happy to learn that earned me a ticket to the lone wolf tendency programme.  I prefer to work alone, and I get the feeling they’re punishing me.”

I wasn’t quite at the point where I would come to that conclusion, but it was a theory with merit.  It would explain the extended hiatus ordered by the new director a year ago, rumoured to be part of a government oversight committee request for reorganisation and more transparency.

In covert intelligence operations?

We had to work in a vacuum, with little oversight and absolutely no transparency.  The former director, the man who recruited me, believed in results, not pandering to oversight committees.

The door above us rattled again.  I looked up as a key was inserted in the lock.  I turned to tell her to disappear, but she had already.  Silently.

The door opened and light flooded the room.  I was standing in the middle of what might be called a halo of light.

All i could see was a shadowy outline at the top of the stairs.

“Where’s the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The one you were talking to.”

“That was my imaginary friend. When I woke up I was alone. And then my new friend arrived. I was looking at the body, “but he’s not talking.”

He aimed his gun and fired off a round. I heard it hit the seat did just been sitting in.

“Where is she?”

I shrugged.  “If there was someone here, then they’ve gone, because when I woke up, there was no one here.  Come down, check for yourself.”

“Or I can just shoot you.”

“And then I would have no value.  You tell me how I can help you, and I’ll do my best to get it.”

“I want to know where the girl is?”

“You and me both.  I have more reason to strangle her than you, believe me.”

He came down a few steps and stopped on the landing.  I caught the movement of a shadow behind the stairs, and then nothing.  He had to come down a few more steps before she could attack.

If that was her plan.

The closer I got, the more clearly I could see him, but it was not anyone I recognised, and was not one of the men I’d been dealing with for the exchange.

Had we been taken to a different place?  It didn’t explain why we were still alive.  Boris was not the sort to keep people who crossed him alive.

“Where’s Boris? He and I still have business to conduct.”

“He is gone.  Business done.  You are lucky.  You are both worth a great deal of money, the girl more than you.  Now, enough small talk.  Where is she?”

I shrugged.  “There is no girl down here.  I looked.  Nothing but boxes, old newspapers, and furniture.  And that man you killed.  Who was he?”

“Your pathetic rescue mission.”

He took another two steps, and then crouched to peer through the stairs behind him.  The next moment he was falling backwards down the stairs, the gun going off twice, both deafening.  I grabbed the gun and yanked it out of his hand as it fired again and I could just feel the bullet graze my arm.

One kick took the fight out of him, just as another shadow appeared in the doorway.  I had to move quickly just before a volley of shots rang out.

It took almost too long to get the gun in my hand and fire back, and I was only able to get a shot off because he hadn’t moved.

If he had the outcome would have been a lot worse.  He fired again, but those were random shots, as he tumbled headfirst down the stairs and, falling on the body on the landing, dislodged it and together they landed on the floor at my feet.

I spent another bullet making sure he wouldn’t come back to life at an awkward moment.

Maria came out from behind the stairs and wrenched the gun out of the hand of the second gunman. 

“You hesitated.  Could’ve been the difference.”

She simply glared at me like I was a novice.

I shook my head.  No point explaining glaring lights and drug aftereffects to her.  Like the instructors said, there were no excuses, just dead people who missed their moment.

“You first.”  I decided to see if she baulked.

She didn’t.  The steps now clear we went up and then took up a position either side of the door.  If this was a babysitting operation, there would be only two.  If it was something else, there would be more.

She peered out; I did likewise.  There was no one in the passage.

A few minutes later we established there was no one else in the building.

There were cell phones and vehicle keys on the table, along with half eaten food and drink.  Our rescuer must have interrupted them.

Maria picked up one of the phones.  “No security.  The guy made a call to a burner about five minutes ago.  I looked at the other.  Equally insecure.  It had three numbers in its call log.

There was a text, with our photos and instructions to wait until called.  That call had been while outer captors had come to visit. 

“We should leave,” I said.

We both heard screeching tyres of several vehicles. 

“Too late.  CCTV.  Just noticed it,” she said.  “No trust in the world any more.”

The next few seconds bracing ourselves, and then machine gun fire.  Somebody decided they didn’t like us.  That lasted a minute, then stopped.  Glass, brick and wood settled and dust filled the air, thick enough to hide an onslaught.

That was the distraction so that another team could get around the back so they could attack on two fronts.

The phone in my hand rang.

Maria looked annoyed.

I answered it.  Boris’ voice.  “You apparently have angered your masters and they’ve put a price on both your heads.”

That was a shock.

“When?”

“As of the moment you broke out of the cellar.  I was not the one holding you, but I’d be foolish not to take up the contract.”

“Thanks.”

“I propose a deal though.  You get to walk away if you’ve got a half million.  I’ll tell them you’re dead, or at least as dead as I want you to be, and you have to disappear.”

‘You want to play dead, live another day?”

“How much?

“Quarter million.”

“How dead is dead?”

“No going back?”

“They’re our people out there?”

“Apparently.  Boris is offering us a way out.”

Another 30-second spray this time from the front and the back.  More dust and disintegrating building materials.  It wouldn’t be long before they came in and finished the job.

The shooting stopped.  She said, “Take it.  We’ll sort out the details later.”

“Done,” I said into the phone, just as movement came from the front, the full front on assault.

…

People do not get put on a hit list for no reason.

That reason sometimes can be very obscure.

Boris didn’t know what the reason was, only that it was an opportunity to make money.  Ideology was far less of a motivation than becoming fabulously wealthy and Boris was well on the way.

He was, by self-confession, a businessman, and he had no feelings one way of the other about whether we lived or died.

And in doing business, he had no qualms about us coming after him after the dust had settled simply because he had a code of ethics.  Twisted perhaps, but we discovered quite to our surprise he was a man of his word.

Better than some people we knew, or perhaps more appropriately. Who were more acquaintances, people we didn’t really know at all.

That quarter million bought us safety, an Academy Award-winning make-up artist who made us the best-looking corpses ever, and a ticket to a run-down, badly in need of repairs cottage somewhere in Tuscany.

We spent a lot of time covered in a different sort of building rubble, almost unrecognisable as out former selves and much liked by all those around us, although like anyone where someone new and strange moves in, they were initially wary.

Did we miss being agents pretending we were saving the world?  Yes and no.

Did we find out why we were had a hit order on us? Accidentally.

I was in London about a year later.  There was, by this time, no one who would recognise the old me, i had changed that much. 

It was at a random cafe, and I saw a man named Giles, a relative of the Director- nepotism at its worst.  He was an arrogant fool who honestly believed as the Director’s son-in-law, he had the same authority.

I cam out with a coffee in a take away cup and decided did but at his table.  It was rather crowded.

“Alan Giles, isn’t it?”

His head snapped up from the paper he was reading.

“Who are you?”

“We did Uni together.  Cambridge.  You won’t remember me, but I was that extra in the table, the one everyone ignored unutilised they needed help with assignments and exams.”

“Name?’

“You won’t remember.  No one else has.”

“Not surprising.  Go away.”

It was like he was talking to a stray dog.

“You finished up in Department F.  With your uncle.  You were always banging on about how he needed someone ofvyourvextraordinary deductive powers. Police or something.  You get that job?”

He would either tell me to mind my own business, or instead talk about himself, failing to understand the Official Secrets Act was there for a reason.

He looked at me like I was stupid.

“I run the department, have done for ages.  Did a clean out, got rid of all the dinosaurs Uncle Peter kept on.”

“Fired them?”

“God no.  You don’t fire them.  That comes back and bites you later on.  No.  We found a more permanent solution.  Well, I did.  He was going to simply put them out to pasture.”

“Poor people.”

He shook his heard.  “You don’t know the half of it.”  He caught sight of someone behind me and folded his paper. “Got to go.  Please don’t annoy me again, or there will be consequences.”

I got up just as a woman arrived.  I recognised her. Alison, the Director’s personal assistant. “Who are you?”, then stopped for a second, giving me a curious look.

I’d only met her twice.

“Do I know you, you seem familiar.”

“No.  You couldn’t.  I was at University with Alan.  He was an inspiration to all other average students.”  I tried not to dip it on to much sarcasm, but I guess I failed.

“Be off with you,” he said. 

I shrugged.  “Nice meeting you again, Alan.”

It was.  It answered a long-standing question.  Who set the dogs on us?

…

When I got back home, Maria was in the middle of making her version of fettuccine carbonara, a dish I had to say was one of my favourites.

“Get it all done?” She asked.

A slight rearrangement of our banking.  And a small unforeseen side job.

She looked up, that trademark flour coating on her clothes and smudge on her forehead.   It was hard to say if she was a better spy than a cook or vice versa.

“What needed to be done, yes.”

It had given me a few days to ponder the new life we had, and how much it meant to be alive, when if truth be known, we should not be.  It was hard to have to disappear and not put your head up.

And not be living that vicarious lifestyle.

Just before I left we had a heartfelt discussion about what we had then versus what we had now.  I think both us needed something else, but neither of us felt we could trust any agency again.

And while we had a perceived target on our backs…

Except now…

She noticed the change in my demeanour.  It was very hard to hide.

“What?  Something happened, didn’t it?”

“It was a right place right time moment. The sort you only get once in a lifetime.

I left it there for a minute.

She was holding a wooden spoon and at the end of that minute looked like she was going through throw it at me. “What?”

“I ran into Giles.”

“The Director’s nephew?  Slimy Giles?”

He held special significance for three of the female recruits.  On a visit to the training facility he thought he could use his position, inviting them to dinner with benefits.  It didn’t quite work out the way he would have liked.

Two were washed out; the third was standing opposite me.

“He picked the same cafe I did.  He had no idea who I was, other than he believed he went to uni with me.  I was asking him about the job, and he told me he was on a special commission to permanently remove the dinosaurs.  His words.  He sanctioned the operation that included a dozen good agents.”

“Tell me you returned the favour?”

I nodded.

“Good.”  She sighed.  “That target was off our backs.  He was always going to be the stumbling block if we got bored with this life.”

“Are you bored?”

“No.  Had we not been thrown together like this, and got the opportunity to discover a completely different life? I’m pretty sure I’d be dead now, going out in a blaze of glory. But sometimes I wake up and wonder if there was something else I could be doing. Every now and then.”

Boris had left a burner phone, and an offer that if we ever wanted a job, he might be able to help.  She hadn’t mentioned it, but I could feel it was in her thoughts.

“Well, Boris…”

She smiled.  I knew that smile, the cat that ate the canary.

“Speaking of Boris…”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 37

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

…

I had a change of mind before I went on an odyssey to Peaslake. I needed help, and I was going to try and convince Jennifer to help me. If she had been injured, that might be more difficult.

I caught a train and a bus to Putney and then walked the remaining fifty yards to her front door. It was a flat over the top of a shop, and, when I read the name of the shop, I thought I knew why she was there. The shop, and quite likely the building belonged to her family, not that it was her surname, but I could be hopeful.

I went up the side stairs and reached the landing. There were two doors, one with 1A on it, and one with 1B on it. Hers was 1A.

I knocked on the door.

A minute later nothing had happened.

I knocked again, this time a little harder.

There was no answer, again, but there was a movement in the flat next door, then the door opened and a scruffy young man, perhaps a university student put his head out.

“She’s not here.”

“Not here, and in no longer living here, or not here as in she is out somewhere and will be back.”

He looked at me blankly, like I’d spoken too fast, or used too many words for him to understand. Possibly he’d just woken up.

He shook his head. “Just out probably getting coffee or something. The shops on the other side of the road, three or four doors up. Can’t miss it, it smells like coffee.”

He gave me a look up and down, gauging whether or not I could be of interest to her, then went back inside his room and closed the door.

It might be a lie, but I was going to take him at his word.

I went back down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk and looked up and down both sides of the street. There was a café, on the other side, not far away.

I waited for a break in the traffic, then crossed the road.

She was inside, reading a paper, oblivious to those around her, and, in particular, those coming from outside. She should be casually keeping an eye out for trouble.

I managed to get inside and take the seat next to her before she raised her head to see who it was.

No surprise.

“You,” she said. “You made it out alive too?”

“You should be more careful.”

“I was told I was no longer employed, that the people who hired me were ex-agents with some sort of agenda.”

I glanced at the open page of the newspaper. The jobs vacant page.

“Then it might come as a bit of a surprise to realize you’re still on their books, just assigned to a different department. Same as me.”

“They told me I was redundant.”

“Who told you?”

“A woman. Monica Sherive she said her name was.”

“I spoke to her earlier this morning. I didn’t ask, but I will the next time I’m in the office. What do you remember about the assignment?”

“We were supposed to maintain surveillance on a man, no name, just a photograph. I heard you had him in sight and was about to pass him off to Adam. I didn’t hear Adam acknowledge. I heard an explosion and all hell broke loose. No point carrying on, so I left.”

And that was what saved her life. Incorrect procedure. Unless she reported in.

“Did you report to the overseer.”

“Over the radio. He told me to go. What happened to Adam and Jack?”

“Dead. Murdered by the target, I think. The target’s dead too. A chap by the name of O’Connell, though the more I find out about him, the more interesting it gets.”

I could see the cogs ticking over behind her eyes as she put one and one together. “So…”

“You should be dead too. What saved your life was just up and leaving.”

“How did you escape?”

“I didn’t. I found the target again after the explosion and followed him to an alley. When I got there he told me I was making a mistake, and then he was shot. Severin and Maury turned up, and that was it.”

“Did they kill him?”

“No. It was a sniper, and I’m still wondering why I didn’t get shot too.”

“The woman told me Severin and Maury didn’t work for the organization. How could that be? They seemed real to me. I think whatever they and we were doing became a mess that needed to be cleaned up by getting rid of everyone associated with it. I liked that job. Now I have to go back to a daily drudge job.”

“Don’t think so. Like I said, I saw your name listed as active in the same department as me, the head of which is a guy called Nobbin. I’ve met him, I’m supposed to be investigating O’Connell, who, by the way, was one of his people, who had allegedly some documents on him when he died. You feel like helping out?”

“I would, but are you sure I’m supposed to be working for these people, God, I don’t know who they are or what I was doing anymore.”

“We can go to the office and ask questions. Get this Monica and get her to tell you. But in the meantime, I had a job I need to do, and it would be better with two. Can you help?”

“If you come with me to the office?”

“Sure.”

She folded the paper and slid off the seat. “Then, let’s go.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.  That wasn’t possible.

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

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

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

At least we agree on that, she thought.

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

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

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

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

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

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

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

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

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

Was that what she was expecting?

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

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

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

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

Rebellion was written all over him.

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

“Mr Henshaw?”

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

“Then my name is Michelle.”

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

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, so do I.”

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

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

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

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

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

“After a fashion.”

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

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

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

“Whatever for?”

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

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

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

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

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

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

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

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

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

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

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

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

Dinner over, they separated.

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

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

lovecoverfinal1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 2

Back on the bridge of that rickety starship

…

The only things moving on this upcoming voyage out into the unknown, is the planets on our screen.

When we were last on the bridge, the chief engineer, yes, we still have them in the 24th century, was telling us it was a no go.

When you’re standing on a ship that cost more money than you can imagine, then double that unimaginable amount, and realise it would normally build two other smaller ships, then you can be assured that someone very high up in the chain of command, sitting in an office somewhere safe back on the planet, who may or may not be wishing they were in your place, would be anything but happy.

I was lucky that I didn’t meet that someone during the recruitment process, only later on an inspection of the ship just before the handover from the builder to Space Command.

This was not the first, but the first of a new class. Bigger, better, faster, more suitable to space travel than those that came before.

And, having several junior officers with a passion for history, one of them came up with a simile for our predicament. When new cars were created, way back in the 20th century, the first of the series always had teething problems. That’s why you wouldn’t buy the first of a series.

We didn’t have that luxury, but here’s the thing, it was based on an earlier model with a few new enhancements. It was one of those enhancements that was the problem.

A few minutes after the captain went to his quarters, his voice came over the speaker system. “Number One?”

Ok, I have a name, but trying to get the captain to use it might be difficult, what with regulations, and his rather stiff manner, each of which might get in the way.

“Sir?”

“Go down to engineering and get a report on progress.”

I could do that over the internal comms. What was going on? Belay that thought, I was not going to question an order.

“Yes sir.”

I glanced in the direction of the second officer, and he nodded, getting out of his seat. He would take charge of the bridge, even though we were going nowhere.

He walked over to my position, and I headed for the lift.

Automatic doors. It was not an innovation, but when I came aboard a week ago, they were not working properly, so using the lift to me was a leap of faith.

A few seconds later and what might have been from the top to the bottom in a skyscraper, the lift slowed, then stopped. The doors didn’t open.

Don’t panic. Just wait and breathe. There you go. The doors opened…

…onto utter chaos!

…

© Charles Heath 2021

The 2am Rant: I was just getting started when…

You know how it goes, you just get into a writing rhythm when the phone rings and it’s another of those pesky scam calls.

Or in my case not one but three, so far.

The first has to do with the NBN, which is Australia’s laughable answer to world-class internet, and which is, in reality, a complete stuff up that cost us, the taxpayers, 50 billion dollars, and for nothing.

Most nights during the peak hours, you cannot continuously stream without breaks, pixelation, or just nothing at all.  World-class?  I’m afraid not.  Perhaps I should relocate to Romania where I hear, the internet is much faster and more reliable.

Enough with the rant, the call this time around was the NBN scam, where they try logging into your computer and stealing everything, including banking information, credit card information, and the rest of your life, if it’s possible.

I have no life so they would be badly disappointed.

The second scam call is for solar panels.  Yes, they are selling solar panels, but they are the junk no one else wants, years out of date, and then charge three times what they’re worth, even when you get the government rebate.

I’ve got solar panels already, so I don’t care.  I just put the phone on the other side of the desk and let them prattle on.  They get the message eventually.

The next is for raffle tickets.  It generally relates to some form of charity, in which the caller goes through the charity’s functions chapter and verse and then tries to hit you up for ten tickets at a discounted price.

Sounds legit.  Yes, I’ve heard of the charity.  Yes, I know what it does.

But…

It’s not the real charity calling, but some scammer trying to get your credit card details, along with that all-important 3 digit cvc number.

Not today Josephine, or whatever your name was.

I’ve got an app on my phone that tells me if the caller is a scammer, and this one had red lights flashing and a large red ‘fraud’ stamped across it.

An hour later, all thoughts are gone.

I suppose I better have some lunch and try again later.

What I learned about writing – Setting goals, bad idea

Unfortunately, I’m not one of those people who work well with plans, so setting goals is not a good idea.

But…

I did make several New Year’s resolutions that I would try and do things differently each year.

Except…

This year, I set a goal to restart editing one of my novels on 1st Feb.  I thought, setting it so far into the year would be easy.

It would give me the time to clear up all the outstanding writing tasks that have been getting in the way, which are more commonly known as distractions, and be free to finally finish it.

No such luck.

Going away, spending long, sleepless hours flying from one side of the world to the other had fuelled my imagination more than I expected, and I now have three stories that need either a continuing plot outline or to be written as ideas come to me.

If only I could focus on one story at a time.

So…

I’ve been working hard on getting those stories done, and now that November is approaching, I have come up with a brilliant idea.

I’ll work on the novel then as my NANOWRIMO project.  At least I have completed every one I’ve started over the last four years.

Let’s see if I can stick to it.