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.
Known only to a few, there is a legend that a ship named the ‘Flying Dutchman’ left Nazi Germany in the last weeks of the war and set sail for America, escorted by U-boats, under a different name. Aboard was a trove of treasure and gold worth a ‘king’s ransom’.
It was said that it had been sent to a group of American Nazis to create the Fourth Reich at an appropriate time. Over the years since many expeditions off the coast had searched, but found no trace of the vessel or the treasure.
In other words, it was just a legend created to boost tourism.
…
Fast forward to 2024. Our intrepid private detective, Harry Walthenson, overhears a conversation at Grand Central Station. It was the oddness of the message that caught his attention. An investigation turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and he thinks no more about it.
Then Harry is kidnapped, interrogated, and asked questions over and over about a date and a place, why he went there, and when he could not give satisfactory answers, he was beaten half to death and left for dead on a rubbish heap. He was lucky that it was a living space for homeless men; otherwise, he would have died.
In the aftermath, he once again gives it no more thought.
…
After resolving his first case successfully, there’s no rest. Harry’s angry mother comes to his office and demands that he find out where his father has gone. She believes he has run off with a mistress, not for the first time.
Perhaps it was not the wisest decision she has made, because Harry promises to investigate, and adds that she might not like what he finds.
He soon discovered he does not like what he finds, that his father’s friends, a cabal formed at University, have two who are his mother’s current lovers, and another, a criminal blackmailing his father.
Felicity, now his partner, working on a different case, and trying to get answers, uncovers a crime family involved in guarding a disused warehouse on the docks, where she believes Harry had been taken for interrogation, and subsequently dumped nearby to die.
Why are they up to? What is so important that the empty warehouse needs guarding? Who is employing them?
Harry, following up on the death of the blackmailer, traces his death back to an enforcer employed by his grandfather. His mother’s grandfather was a pre-war industrialist who made his fortune in war munitions and shipbuilding.
He was also a member of the American Nazi party.
When Harry also discovers a logbook belonging to a so-called wartime Liberty ship the “Paul Revere” in brackets ‘Freiheitskämpfer’, hidden by his father, and written in a code that is not readily identifiable.
It is no longer a matter of a father who has run off with his mistress; it is a very frightened man in fear of his life, running from a group who will stop at nothing to get the logbook back. And when Harry discovers a family connection to the group, it becomes a race against time to decode the log and find his father before his grandfather does.
…
Coming soon: Harry Walthenson’s new adventure – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’
One Day in Stockholm: The One Place You Must Visit for an Unforgettable Day
Stockholm is a city of islands, innovation, and timeless beauty—but what if you only have one day? Whether you’re en route to another destination or squeezing in a whirlwind visit, a short stopover in Sweden’s capital can still be magical. With limited time, the key is to focus on one standout experience rather than rushing between sights.
So, if you have just one day in Stockholm, make it memorable by visiting:
Gamla Stan – The Beating Heart of Stockholm
Gamla Stan, Stockholm’s Old Town, isn’t just a historic district—it’s a living storybook. Founded in the 13th century, this island neighbourhood weaves together medieval charm, royal history, and vibrant culture in a way that captures the essence of Sweden.
Why Gamla Stan?
Timeless Atmosphere: Wander through narrow cobblestone lanes, past buildings in shades of gold and rust, under lantern-lit passages that feel frozen in time.
Compact & Walkable: Perfect for a day visit, you can explore key highlights on foot without feeling rushed.
History at Every Turn: From the Royal Palace to Stortorget square (home to the iconic colorful merchant houses), history isn’t behind glass here—it’s all around you.
Must-Do in Gamla Stan
Stortorget Square – Snap a photo by the iconic row of old merchant houses, and soak in the atmosphere of the oldest square in Stockholm.
The Royal Palace – Even if you don’t go inside, witnessing the daily Changing of the Guard (at 12:15 PM on weekdays, 1:15 PM on Sundays) is a spectacle of tradition.
Mårten Trotzigs Gränd – Walk down Stockholm’s narrowest street (just 90 cm wide) and feel the medieval pulse of the city.
Fika like a Local – Pop into a classic café like Chokladkoppen on the square for coffee and a cinnamon bun—fika is a ritual here.
Make It Memorable
Get Lost on Purpose: Put away the map for an hour. Discover hidden courtyards, antique shops, and artisan boutiques.
Listen to Stories: Join a short walking tour—many are free or tip-based—and hear tales of kings, legends, and Stockholm’s rise from the water.
Sunset Views: End your day by walking to the water’s edge for views of the surrounding islands. In summer, the golden light over Gamla Stan is pure magic.
Practical Tips for Your Stopover
Transport: From Arlanda Airport, take the Arlanda Express (20 minutes) to Central Station, then it’s just a short walk or metro ride to Gamla Stan.
Luggage: Use left-luggage services at the airport or Central Station to travel light.
Timing: Arrive early to beat crowds, especially in summer. Even with just 5–6 hours, you can experience Gamla Stan fully.
One day in Stockholm doesn’t have to be a checklist. By choosing Gamla Stan, you immerse yourself in the soul of the city—where every corner whispers a story, and a single afternoon can feel like a journey through centuries.
So, on your next stopover, step into the charm of the Old Town. Sometimes the most memorable travels aren’t about seeing everything—but about fully experiencing one perfect place. Hej då and happy travels!
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
Day 37 – Do writers need to be interested in everything
…
Is the Accomplished Writer Someone Who Is Interested in Everything?
Introduction
When you flip through the pages of a novel that feels almost cinematic, or when a nonfiction essay makes you see the world in a new light, you’re often witnessing the work of a writer who seems to know everything. From the delicate anatomy of a hummingbird’s wing to the gritty economics of a 19th‑century railway boom, the writer’s knowledge appears boundless.
That impression fuels a common myth: “If you want to be an accomplished writer, you must be interested in everything.”
Is this hyper‑curiosity a prerequisite for literary greatness, or merely a romantic exaggeration? In this post, we’ll unpack the myth, explore the real relationship between curiosity and craft, and give you practical takeaways for your own writing journey.
1. The Appeal of the “Jack‑of‑All‑Trades” Writer
1.1. Breadth as a Narrative Engine
A wide knowledge base gives a writer an arsenal of storytelling tools. When you can weave together disparate subjects—say, a scientist’s obsession with quantum entanglement and a chef’s pursuit of umami—you create surprising juxtapositions that keep readers hooked.
Example: Don DeLillo’s novels are peppered with references to pop culture, physics, and corporate jargon, turning his prose into a kaleidoscope of modern life.
Result: Readers feel that the author “gets” the world, and they trust the narrative to transport them across it.
1.2. Credibility and Authority
When a writer can cite accurate details, it builds legitimacy. In nonfiction, especially, expertise (or the appearance of it) can be the difference between a bestseller and a footnote.
Example: Malcolm Gladwell isn’t a psychologist, sociologist, or historian, yet he commands authority because he consistently digests research from each field and reframes it in accessible stories.
2. Why “Everything” Is a Misleading Goal
2.1. The Curse of the “Polymath‑Trap”
Trying to master everything leads to shallow knowledge, which can manifest as:
Superficiality: Dropping jargon without context, leaving readers confused.
Inconsistent Voice: Switching tones every time you switch subjects erodes narrative cohesion.
“A writer who knows a little about many things is often less effective than a writer who knows a lot about one thing.” – Haruki Murakami (paraphrased)
2.2. Depth Trumps Breadth in Most Genres
Literary Fiction: The emotional truth of a character’s inner life often outweighs how many facts you can slip in.
Genre Writing (e.g., mystery, sci‑fi): World‑building thrives on focused expertise. A detective novel benefits more from a deep dive into police procedure than from an encyclopedic survey of kitchen appliances.
2.3. The Opportunity Cost of Over‑Curiosity
Every hour you spend chasing a new hobby is an hour you could be honing your prose, revising drafts, or reading the works that inspired you. The best writers allocate their curiosity strategically, not indiscriminately.
3. What Successful Writers Actually Do
Writer
Primary Interests
How They Leverage Curiosity
Toni Morrison
African‑American history, music, mythology
Integrated cultural memory into layered narratives.
Neil Gaiman
Folklore, comics, film
Cross‑medium storytelling, creating a mythic voice.
J.K. Rowling
Classical mythology, alchemy, education
Built a richly detailed magical world anchored in real‑world concepts.
Rebecca Solnit
Geography, politics, art history
Combines seemingly unrelated topics to reveal hidden connections.
George R.R. Martin
Medieval history, anthropology, linguistics
Constructs a believable fantasy realm through meticulous research in specific fields.
Key Takeaway: Each writer has a core constellation of interests that they explore deeply, while allowing peripheral curiosities to spark fresh ideas.
4. The Science of Curiosity and Creativity
Neuroscience: Studies show that divergent thinking—the ability to generate many possible solutions—strengthens when the brain forms connections across unrelated concepts.
Psychology: The “Broaden‑and‑Build” theory (Barbara Fredrickson) posits that positive emotions, often triggered by curiosity, expand our mental repertoire, giving us more raw material for creative work.
In plain terms: Being curious does help you write better—but you don’t need to be curious about everything. You just need enough variety to keep the mental pathways open.
5. How to Cultivate a Productive Curiosity (Without Going Overboard)
Identify Your “Anchor Interests.”
List 3–5 subjects you love (e.g., vintage photography, urban gardening, Renaissance art).
Make a habit of reading news, books, or podcasts in these areas weekly.
Adopt a “Research‑First” Mindset for Projects.
Before you start a story, ask: What knowledge does the world need?
Set a research budget (e.g., 5 hours) and focus on depth, not breadth.
Cross‑Pollinate Intentionally.
Pair two unrelated interests (e.g., marine biology + corporate law) and brainstorm story premises.
Use the “Random Prompt” method: Write a one‑sentence logline that forces you to combine the two.
Limit Consumption, Amplify Production.
For every hour spent watching a documentary, write at least 300 words.
This “ratio rule” ensures curiosity fuels output rather than replaces it.
Maintain a “Curiosity Journal.”
Jot down fleeting questions (“Why do some birds migrate at night?”).
Review monthly; pick one that resonates and research it thoroughly.
6. Frequently Asked Questions
Question
Short Answer
Do I need a formal education in every field I write about?
No. A disciplined research process and a willingness to ask experts can substitute for a degree.
Can I become a bestselling author by focusing on a single niche?
Absolutely. Ernest Hemingway famously limited his subject matter to war, hunting, and love, yet his work is timeless.
Is it okay to write about topics I’m not an expert in?
Yes, if you do thorough research, credit your sources, and avoid misrepresentation.
How do I avoid “information overload” when I’m curious?
Set clear limits on research time per project, and prioritize depth over quantity.
Should I read only within my genre to stay “focused”?
No. Reading outside your genre fuels innovation, but keep a balance so you don’t lose sight of genre conventions.
7. Bottom Line: Curiosity, Not Everything, Makes the Accomplished Writer
Curiosity is the engine. It drives you to ask questions, seek stories, and discover connections.
Depth is the fuel. Master a few subjects enough to write with authority and nuance.
Focus is the map. Align your curiosity with the story you’re telling, rather than letting it wander aimlessly.
An accomplished writer is not a person who knows everything, but a person who knows how to learn what they need, when they need it, and then transform that knowledge into compelling prose.
Action Plan: 3 Steps to Start Today
Pick Your Anchor: Write down three topics you could talk about for hours.
Schedule a Research Sprint: Allocate a 2‑hour block this week to dig deep into one of those topics—read a scholarly article, watch a documentary, or interview an expert.
Write a Mini‑Story: Using the new knowledge, craft a 500‑word piece that integrates the information organically.
Repeat the cycle, and watch your writing evolve from “interesting” to illuminating.
Closing Thought
The next time you admire a writer who seems to have woven the universe into their pages, remember: they didn’t achieve that by trying to master everything. They mastered the art of selective curiosity—knowing what to explore, how deep to go, and, most importantly, how to turn that exploration into a story that matters.
If you adopt that mindset, you’ll be well on your way to joining the ranks of accomplished writers—without ever having to become a walking encyclopedia.
Happy writing!
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It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
It’s what I’d always expected of my teachers, having to stand up the front of the classroom and look like they were in control.
These days, not so much, but back in my day, teachers, and particularly the men, were to be feared, and stern expressions were the features of an effective teacher.
So, in this context, it means a hardness or severity of manner.
Whilst in a sense that was frightening to us kids, another form of the word also can be used to express a forbidding or gloomy appearance.
Grandfathers also have that stern look, but it’s more forbidding, more authoritarian, more severe, more austere, well, you get the picture. A six-year-old would be trembling in his or her boots.
There again, in facing up to either possibility above, you could stand firm with a stern resolve not to buckle under the pressure.
Of course, not a good idea if you’re facing a tank (with a stern-looking tank master)
Then…
If you’re standing at the end of the boat, not the front, but the rear, you would be standing at the stern of the boat, or ship.
Oddly, when issuing instructions to go in reverse, not something you would say if you were on the bridge, you would instead say, or possibly yell, full speed astern, because you’re about to hit an iceberg.
Or some idiot in a jet ski who likes to think he or she can beat the bullet (or 65,000 tonnes of a ship that has very little mobility).
It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t. It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…
She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room. It was quite large and expensively furnished. It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.
Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917. At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.
There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.
She was here to meet with Vladimir.
She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.
All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.
That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.
It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years. She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.
They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.
It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.
They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity. She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.
The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined. After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.
Then, it went quiet for a month. There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited. She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.
A pleasant afternoon ensued.
And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.
By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends. She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy. Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.
She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful. In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.
After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit. She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.
It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine. She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.
A Russian friend. That’s what she would call him.
And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue. It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.
Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour. It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.
So, it began.
It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.
She wasn’t.
It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms. When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.
Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report. After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.
But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report. She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.
It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen. Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.
And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.
She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room. She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.
Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.
There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit. She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.
Later perhaps, after…
She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.
A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival. It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality. A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.
The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.
She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.
And, getting out of the elevator, this time no erratic behaviour but still not filling me with confidence, I step onto the bridge.
The forward screen has changed.
It seems we are going to Neptune via the moon, or we were going to be passing by on our way to someplace else.
The Captain was on the bridge, obviously coming out of his day room on the news that the Chief Engineer had fixed everything.
“Ah, number one, we’ve hung around here long enough.”
He walked back to his chair and sat.
I decided to remain behind the navigator. I could see that the co-ordinates to our destination had been entered and it was Neptune, so the moon was not going to be a stop off.
The Chief engineer’s voice came over the speaker. “Ready when you are, Captain.”
I forgot, for a moment, that the Chief and the Captain had served before, and someone had mentioned the fact the captain had asked for him to be assigned to this ship.
“Mr Jacobs, take us out, slowly, and try not to bump into anything this time.”
Mr Jacobs was the second officer.
In a rather sheepish tone, Mr Jacobs said, “Taking the ship out carefully, sir.”
It was hard to tell if the ship was moving, but the tell tale sign was the movement of the objects on screen. And the fact I could see through the side windows as we moved forwards, leaving the dock superstructure behind.
Also, on the screen I could see the movements of other vessels, several freighters waiting to leave, and one coming in, but standing off until we departed.
Then, suddenly, we were in clear space.
Jacobs turned to the captain, expecting the next order.
“Let’s take it easy. Level one, when you’re ready.”
Jacobs was ready, even eager to get this ship under way. It had performed faultlessly in trials, now we were going to put it through it’s paces.
“Level one, as you wish.”
He pushed the button, there was a moment when nothing happened, then with just the slightest movement inside the bridge, we were under way.
Whilst in reality these steps go down to a very narrow space of the beach, and scattered rocks in the shallow water, so much more could be inspired by this photograph.
Further out that day, divers were out exploring about 100 yards offshore.
But, to me, it what you don’t see that gives it its fascination.
We could be anywhere along a 1,000-mile shoreline, one side a small village lazily gets through the day, on the other, a deserted and overgrown picnic spot that no one ever comes to anymore since the bypass road was built.
But it is not any of those. it’s in Mornington, Victoria, Australia, the pier that is not far from a small park, and that day, very, very busy.
It simply goes to show that sometimes a photograph can provide enough information to inspire a story.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the 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
…
A second later the light came on and I was temporarily blinded.
The woman had to be on the other side of the door, and coming into the room, I must have passed her. Her voice sounded quite old, so it must be the mother.
“Turn around, slowly.
I did. By that time my eyes had readjusted, and I could see a woman, still dressed, with what looked to be an Enfield WW1 rifle. Just as dangerous now as it was then, particularly at this close range.
“Mrs Quigley, I presume,” I asked. Remain polite and conversational and keep her from getting nervous.
“Who are you?”
“Sam Jackson.”
“Is that your real name?”
“Why would you presume to think it wasn’t?”
“You’re breaking into my house which means you’re a criminal, and criminals by nature are also liars. Why would I think you any different to the rest?”
Good question. “I knew your son.”
“Which one?”
“Adam.”
“He’s not here. He hasn’t been around since he gallivanted off overseas a few years back.”
“I saw him only a few days ago, in London. Not gallivanting, by the way, but with feet firmly planted on the ground.”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
She didn’t know he was dead, and I didn’t think it was my business to tell her. That was Dobbin’s job, and I was surprised he hadn’t. Or, I only had her word for it he hadn’t.
“Are you hard of hearing.” Get into the middle of the room.”
I moved slowly into the middle, watching her edge slowly towards the writing desk while keeping the gun aimed at me. If I tried to run for it, and if she was any sort of shot, I’d be dead before I got three, possibly four paces. If I could get a shred of surprise.
I hadn’t seen the phone on the desk, and watched her pick up the receiver, and, with the same hand, started dialing a number.
“Put it down.” Another voice, another woman, coming from the doorway.
Jennifer.
With a gun in hand, pointed at the woman.
“What if I shoot him, or you?”
“You’ll be dead before either scenario happens. Just put it down. I’m not here to shoot anyone if I can help it.”
Of course, this was just like one of those scenes out of a comedic spy film. Guns pointing in all directions.
And, true to form, a click, and a voice. “You put your weapon down.”
He appeared out of the shadows and had the gun pointed straight at Jennifer’s head at very short range.
Adam Quigley, aka O’Connell, and very much alive.
Jennifer dropped her gun, but Adam didn’t take his gun off her.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 