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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

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 173

Day 173 – The unrelenting thriller

…

Grab ’Em by the Throat: How to Write an Unrelenting Thriller

Legendary director Billy Wilder, the man behind Double Indemnity and Sunset Boulevard, had a simple, brutal piece of advice for storytellers: “Grab ’em by the throat and never let ’em go.”

In the world of thrillers, this isn’t just a stylistic choice—it is a functional necessity. If the reader stops to breathe, they might realise they’re holding a book. If they catch their breath, they might put it down to do the dishes or check their phone.

To create a truly unrelenting thriller, you have to treat your narrative like a chokehold. Here is how you master the grip.

1. The Hook isn’t a Suggestion—It’s a Siege

Most writers open with a scene-setter, a bit of atmosphere, or a slow burn. In an unrelenting thriller, that is a death sentence for your pacing.

Do not start with the protagonist waking up. Start with the moment their world shatters. Start with the body in the trunk, the phone call that shouldn’t be happening, or the gun pointed at their chest. The “throat-grabbing” begins on the very first page. If you spend three chapters building up to the inciting incident, you’ve already lost the reader’s adrenaline.

2. High Stakes, Higher Costs

An unrelenting thriller requires constant pressure. But pressure is meaningless if the protagonist has nothing to lose.

To keep the reader breathless, every decision your protagonist makes must cost them something. If they escape one trap, they should lose a vital tool, a piece of information, or a loved one in the process. Never let a victory be a clean one. By constantly stripping away their defences, you make the reader feel the desperation you’re trying to convey.

3. Kill the “Lull”

In screenwriting, we often talk about “beats.” In a thriller, these beats should feel like a rhythmic thumping—a heartbeat that never slows down.

If you find yourself writing a scene where two characters sit down for a long conversation to “explain the plot,” rewrite it. Move the scene to a moving vehicle. Put them in a building that’s burning down. The setting should always be working against the characters. If the scene is about information, make the delivery of that information dangerous.

4. The Principle of “Worst Case Scenario”

Whenever your protagonist thinks they’ve found a solution, present them with an even more terrifying problem.

This is the “never let ’em go” part of the Wilder philosophy. An unrelenting thriller is a series of escalating complications. Think of a staircase: every time the hero reaches a landing, they realise the stairs ahead are crumbling. Don’t give them a moment to process the last trauma before throwing the next one at them.

5. Short Sentences, Sharp Prose

The way you write affects the way the reader breathes. When you want the pace to accelerate, shorten your sentences. Use punchy, active verbs. Eliminate the modifiers that slow down the eye.

  • The long, winding, reflective sentence acts as a meditative pause, allowing the reader to lean back in their chair.
  • But this? This hits.

Use white space. Give the reader paragraphs that look like jagged shards of glass. It forces the reader’s eyes to move faster down the page, subconsciously mimicking the frantic pace of the plot.

6. The Psychological Clamp

Finally, remember that the most intense thrillers are internal. The reader needs to be gripped not just by the external danger, but by the protagonist’s psyche. We need to feel their sweat, their racing heart, and their irrational fear. Connect the reader’s nerves directly to the protagonist’s nervous system.

When your character is terrified, the reader should be checking the locks on their own doors.

The Takeaway

Billy Wilder knew that audiences are fickle. They want to be entertained, but more importantly, they want to be possessed by a story.

To write an unrelenting thriller, you must be a ruthless architect of tension. Stop being polite to your characters. Stop saving them. Keep the pressure on, keep the stakes rising, and keep your hands locked firmly around the reader’s attention span.

Don’t let go until the final period.

…

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 17

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

 …

Jack was the first to realise that Marina was coming back, hearing her outside long before I did.  He stood up and looked in the direction of where he expected to see her.

A minute later she appeared, looking and sounding out of breath, as if she had been in a hurry? 

Chased, or had some urgent news?

“Is everything OK?” I asked, waiting till she came in and shut the door behind her.

The building we were in used to be a factory or a repair shop.  The strange smell I’d picked up a few hours ago was that of machine oil.

“We need to have a chat with the two who picked you up.”

“Where are they now?”

“I’ve organised to meet them at another facility we have.  Not everyone comes here.  It’s why we are still here.  Francesco nor any of the resistance he took with him were aware of this location.

I considered myself lucky to be among the few.

“Is there a reason why I need to be there?”

“Yes.  But it’ll wait until we get there.  Let’s go.”

She had barely got in the door, nor caught her breath.  It was just enough time to collect a spare clip of ammunition for a gun she had on her, but I couldn’t see.

I followed her out into the darkness, not realising it was night, for the first time since I’d arrived, and once outside, realised that it was an underground bunker rather than a building on an allotment, so it couldn’t be easily seen from any direction.  It was surrounded by trees and bushes, looking as though they had not been tended properly for some time.

It was as much as I could see, close by because it was a moonless night.

We went up some stairs and came out in a clump of bushes, and walked several yards where there was a disguised walkway zig-zagging through the bushes.  It, too, would be hard to see from a distance.  When we came out the other side, I could just barely see a car parked under a tree, looking rather worse for wear, and I thought it had been abandoned there. 

When Marina told me to get in, I realised it was, like everything else, well disguised.

The surrounding area was that of forest and farms.  It was hard to imagine that this part of the world was in the grip of a world war, and not too far away, there was the castle, and further north, the Germans and what was left of the Italian military forces dug in for a last-ditch effort.  The tide was turning, but ever so slowly.

It was hard to imagine just how dangerous it was for those defectors to try and get through without being shot.

And, just for good measure, Marina said, there were quite a few soldiers, disguised as ordinary workers who had infiltrated the villages, and surrounding farms, and reporting back what they saw and heard.

We were, in going about in the vehicle, attracting unwanted attention, but it was why we were doing this at night, she said, perhaps gleaning from my expression the fact I was worried about getting caught.

“The people at the castle tend not to go out at night for fear of being picked off.  I’m surprised you didn’t learn this when you were there.”

“I suspect the suspended any activities from the moment I arrived.  One of the prisoners told me that all movements of people had stopped, and they were waiting to be shipped out.  Obviously, they thought I might discover what was going on.  They definitely stopped me from going below the main floor.”

“I was told you have some knowledge of the castle layout?”

“Some.  We have old plans back in London, but I suspect those would be out of date now and since the German occupation.  The only time I got to look downstairs was when I tried to escape and found an old below ground exit, then when they locked me in a cell, and then when I was set free.  It matched much of what I remember seeing on the plans.  But, I suspect there’s more because I didn’t get to see the holding cells with the other prisoners.”

“Perhaps Carlo can help you with that.”

“We spoke about it.  I think he’s going to pay them a visit and exact revenge.”

“I told him we have to wait for some reinforcements.”

“No word from London?”

“Not yet.”

We stopped and parked the car between a church and what was left of what might have been a rectory, set aside from some other buildings that looked like part of a village.  It was not that dark that I couldn’t see that several of the buildings had been bombed, minus roofs, and one had the front section reduced to rubble.  No attempt had been made to clean it up.

“German tanks,” Marina said.  “An early landing party of your army parachuted in about a kilometre behind the church.  The local commander mobilised his forces and chased them into those buildings, which, at the time, housed four families.  They were given the option to surrender.  They didn’t, so the commander gave the order to raze the buildings to the ground, with them in there.  Along with the four innocent families.  No one survived.”

“The church?”

“The commander thought it would be bad luck to destroy the house of God.  The soldiers should have hidden in there.  They shot the priest anyway.”

It seemed odd to me that any sort of group would parachute into this part of Italy for any reason, castle withstanding.  There was, as far as I knew, nothing of interest or importance here.  Perhaps I’d ask when I made it back to London.  If I made it back.

I followed her through the rubble and in through a side entrance to the church.  Inside it was dark, and Marina was using her torchlight sparingly in case someone was watching.  From what I could see, the inside of the church was untouched, but everything was covered in dust from disuse.

“No one thought to send another priest?” I asked.

“No.  When they heard what happened to the last one, they decided to wait until the war was over.  Besides, with everything that’s happened, the people around here believe God has abandoned them.”

Perhaps he had.  I know that I wasn’t all that religious to begin with, but a lot of people I knew had lost their faith in a God that allowed such tragedies to happen.

We passed through a door at the back of the church, behind the nave, and into what looked like the vestment room.  To one side was another door, and then steps down.  The church had a cellar.

At the bottom of the stairs, there was a large storage area lit by a portable lantern.

Carlo was standing to one side, his weapon ready to use.

Opposite him were a man and a woman, the woman I’d seen before, she was the one who shot me with the tranquilizer.  The man, I’d not seen him before.

 …

© Charles Heath 2019

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet them or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except, of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact that, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street who look like someone we knew and make the mistake of approaching them like a long-lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away from what they perceive as a stalker, or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then, according to the circumstances and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me, one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognise was murder. The photo of the man on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated by what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer, the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room. I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realise what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low-profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, had no children, and, according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company; I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably, more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with several other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with several other delegates at the pre-conference get-together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bulletproof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me? I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain-killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes and took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I would still be considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try to explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. A nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told me what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have another visitor. He is from the British Embassy, I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realised then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit, the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old, which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome, and he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently, for them, it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact that you were shot had made it an all-around embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologising?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted on speaking with you first.  I have come, basically, to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document, which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter that could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush-hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that?  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible, so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man, Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri or Sorrento, if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, who had announced herself as the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it: “The patient has recovered excellently, and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed, so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long, wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful, though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him. She checked the door and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then that I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have several witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed-circuit TV, we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her notebook back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti, and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologise for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you, it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest, one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger-happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realised if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry, but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest, he escaped. Once we realised we had made a mistake and reviewed the closed-circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough, no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officers’ weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you, Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrongdoing?”

“I have apologised. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank you for your time and cooperation, Mr Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 18

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

 …

The pier had been moving gently up and down in response to a passing speed boat that had flouted the minimum speed law, like most of the speed boat owners.

On board the boat, the movement was more pronounced, and it was a bad time to remember that I get seasick, even standing on the pier.  My stomach was suddenly queasy.

Boggs was standing by the hatch that led down below.  It was locked with a big padlock so there was no way we were getting below.  Along the side of the boat was a raised section with windows, but there were curtained off, and the material was faded and looked dirty.

Boggs walked along the narrow walkway to the bow and tried the hatch in the middle of the foredeck.

I noticed the boat was tied to the pier fore and aft with some think rope and funny looking knots.  I don’t think I’d make a very good sailor.  I looked up to the top of the mast and it made me feel dizzy.  It was a long way up.

Behind me was an area where people could seat, and further back a large wheel which I assumed was how the boat was steered.  I could just see Rico standing behind it, captain’s hat on, looking all business-like.

“There’s nothing to see here,” I said, turning back towards Boggs, who was now coming along the other side of the cabin.  One slip and he’d be in the ocean.  I looked over the side and it didn’t look very deep.  I could even see some small fish swimming near the pylon that was covered below the waterline with seaweed.

Boggs stopped at the last window, then knelt down and peered in.

“What do you see?”

“There’s someone in there?”

“Rico?”

“No.  I saw him leave earlier.  Someone else.”

“You know who it is?”

“No.  Never seen him before.  A guy in a suit.  Not the sort of person I’d expect Rico to know, or have as a friend.”

“What’s he doing?”

Boggs changed his position to get a better look.  “He’s just sitting…oh my God, there’s blood.”

“Where?”

I moved quickly over to where Boggs was crouched.  “Give us a look?”  Curiosity was overtaking concern.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Boggs said over and over.

I pulled out my phone and dialled 911.  When they asked me who I wanted, I said Police.  Then I looked over at the fishing shop and saw Rico and his friends coming back.

“Boggs.”

He ignored me, trying to get a better view.

“Boggs.  It’s Rico.”

Then the policeman answered, “What’s the nature of your emergency?”

“Dead man on a boat, Eden’s Landing, Pier 5, a boat called ‘Freedom Runner’.  And you’d better hurry.”

“Why?”

“Because the owners coming and he doesn’t look happy.”

Then to Boggs, “We got to get the hell out of here, now.”

But, by that time, there was nowhere to go.  Rico had seen us and was all but running to cut off our escape.

 …

© Charles Heath 2019-2026

The 2 a.m. Rant: The march of progress inevitably destroys the past.

There is this thing called the march of progress.

It can be good, or it can be bad.

But the inevitability of it means that we have to destroy our past in order to build for the future.  It’s a pity no one around a hundred years ago worked out that a certain amount of land needed to be set aside for future infrastructure, and then built around it.

The pity of it is that those same practices are with us now, and unfortunately, either the infrastructure is too costly to build because of the necessity to buy back, or it will never change.  No one, sadly, is thinking of the future.

So, all I have of my childhood years, some fifty to sixty years ago, is memories, and when I go, they will be lost forever.

I remember, a long time ago now, the many holidays I spent at my grandmother’s place in the ‘country’.  Back then, it was.

Now it is just another suburb of Melbourne.

I remember the drive, and it used to take about half an hour, perhaps longer, and as we travelled, it was mostly the countryside we saw.  Little towns like Beaconsfield, Officer, and Berwick are oases in the middle of farming land.

The last time I went for that same drive, there were endless houses.

My grandmother’s house was very large, and the land it was built on was extensive.  There used to be gardens, several garages, several old cars, and a huge workshop.

My brother and I used to spend our Christmases exploring, and on a particular one, we found some tools and decided to recover some of them.

We found a huge fountain buried beneath the overgrowth, the centrepiece a statue, part of what must have been a remarkable display.

It was like we had our own secret garden.

There was also a fernery, also overgrown.

Now, sadly, all of it is gone, and in its place is a multilane highway that follows an alternate coastal route between Melbourne and Sydney.

All I have left are the memories of a time that will never return.

Perhaps it’s time to write it all down and preserve it for future generations.

What I learned about writing – Show, Don’t Tell: Painting Pictures with Your Words

We’ve all heard the writing advice: “Don’t use adjectives to describe.” It sounds like a recipe for bland, uninspired prose. “I feel terrible,” or “It was a delightful surprise” – these phrases are so common, they barely register. The instruction isn’t to eliminate description, but to evolve it. The real challenge, and immense reward, lies in crafting your words so that your reader experiences the feeling you want to convey, arriving at their own perfect description.

Think of yourself as a painter, not a labeller. A painter doesn’t just write “sad” over a canvas. They blend blues and greys, create drooping lines, and shade in hollows under the eyes. They evoke sadness through imagery, through the subtle manipulation of colour and form. Your words are your brushstrokes.

So, how do you achieve this evocative power? It’s about engaging your reader’s senses and emotions, and letting them do the heavy lifting. Here’s how to move beyond tired adjectives and paint vivid pictures that resonate:

1. Embrace Sensory Details: The Five Pillars of Experience

Adjectives often serve as a shortcut to describe a sensory input. Instead of saying something was “loud,” show the impact of that loudness.

  • Instead of: The music was loud.
  • Try: The bass vibrated through the floorboards, rattling the glassware on the counter. My ears rang long after the final chord.

This immediately tells the reader about the volume and its physical, visceral effect.

  • Instead of: The food was delicious.
  • Try: The aroma of roasting garlic and rosemary filled the air, mingling with the sweet scent of caramelised onions. The first bite melted on my tongue, a perfect balance of savoury and tangy.

Here, the reader can almost taste and smell the food, leading them to their own conclusion of deliciousness.

2. Focus on Actions and Reactions: What Do They Do?

How does your character, or the subject of your description, behave when experiencing a certain emotion or state? Their actions are far more telling than a simple adjective.

  • Instead of: She was angry.
  • Try: Her jaw clenched, and a muscle pulsed in her cheek. She slammed the cupboard door shut, the sound echoing through the silent kitchen. Her gaze, sharp and unwavering, bore into him.

These actions paint a picture of contained fury, a volcano ready to erupt.

  • Instead of: It was a surprising victory.
  • Try: The scoreboard blinked, then blinked again, showing the impossible score. A collective gasp swept through the stadium, followed by a roar that shook the foundations. Players stumbled over each other, faces a mixture of disbelief and elation.

The crowd’s reaction, the players’ astonishment – these are powerful indicators of surprise.

3. Use Vivid Verbs and Specific Nouns: The Building Blocks of Power

Often, a strong verb or a precise noun can carry the weight of an adjective.

  • Instead of: He was a timid person.
  • Try: He shuffled his feet, his eyes darting to the floor whenever someone spoke to him. His voice was a low murmur, barely audible above the din.

The verbs “shuffled” and “darting” create an image of hesitation and nervousness.

  • Instead of: The city was beautiful at night.
  • Try: The cityscape shimmered, a galaxy of twinkling lights against the velvet darkness. Neon signs bled vibrant colours onto the rain-slicked streets, painting fleeting masterpieces.

“Shimmered,” “twinkling,” and “bled” are much more evocative than “beautiful.”

4. Show Internal States Through Physical Manifestations: The Body Knows

Emotions often manifest physically. By describing these physical cues, you allow the reader to infer the internal state.

  • Instead of: He was nervous.
  • Try: His palms were slick with sweat, and he kept running his tongue over his dry lips. A tremor ran through his leg as he tried to stand still.

This shows the physical symptoms of nervousness.

  • Instead of: She was happy.
  • Try: A wide smile stretched across her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. She bounced on the balls of her feet, humming a tuneless melody.

The physical expression of joy is undeniable.

5. Employ Figurative Language: Similes and Metaphors

Similes and metaphors are your secret weapons for painting abstract concepts in concrete terms.

  • Instead of: The idea was terrible.
  • Try: The idea landed with the sickening thud of a lead weight in the pit of her stomach.

The metaphor clearly conveys the negative impact of the idea.

  • Instead of: The conversation was enjoyable.
  • Try: The conversation flowed like a gentle stream, each remark a smooth stone polished by friendly tides.

This simile creates a sense of ease and pleasure.

The Power of the Reader’s Interpretation

When you “show” instead of “tell,” you invite your reader into an active role. You’re not dictating their feelings; you’re providing the raw material for them to discover those feelings. This is where the magic happens. Your reader, drawing on their own experiences and emotions, will fill in the blanks with the perfect adjective, the precise nuance, the exact word that resonates most deeply with them.

So, the next time you find yourself reaching for a familiar adjective, pause. Ask yourself: What does this feel like? What does it look like? What does it sound like? What does it do? By painting with your words, you’ll create a richer, more immersive, and ultimately more unforgettable experience for your readers. Let them come to their own delightful surprise, and you’ll know you’ve truly succeeded.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 171/172

Days 171 and 172 – Writing Exercise

Nighttime under the trees in that part of the forest was as dark as …..

…

The most interesting fact about the forest was that if you took all the necessary precautions, you would be safe.

One precaution: never travel alone.

Another precaution, take the weapon you are more comfortable with.

And another, don’t go on foot, take a horse.

These basic tenets were drilled into us from an early age because, as beautiful and wondrous the forest was, it was still a dangerous place.

There were more than tenets that were applicable, like if your stay was going to be longer, or if you might not get back home in time, involving food and water.

That, of course, was mostly taken care of by learning forest craft, the recognition of dangerous versus harmless animals, which could be used for food.  Recognising the trees and plants, those that could be eaten, those used for healing, and those to be left alone.

It was basic education for boys, and recently, when our king remarried after the first queen had died suddenly, it was extended to girls.

The new Queen had made it abundantly clear that girls would be afforded a number of privileges that boys were given.

These included skills such as swordmanship, using a bow and arrow, riding a horse, which only a few had access to, and participating in some less demanding tournament games.

But they could not become knights. 

The King had been reluctant to introduce such measures, and wasn’t particularly in favour of it.  Nor were the older citizens who had lived a different life and didn’t see the need for change.

That reluctance flowed down to the noblemen, the people who oversaw the King’s business in the provinces, so those changes were slow, if at all, to be implemented.

As for the boys themselves, they did not believe that girls were as strong or as smart as they were, and completely ignored any girls who tried to join their ranks.

I had no desire to be in the King’s army, nor did I know any girls who wanted to be either.  It seemed to me they just wanted to have the idea they could challenge us, not take over, but I couldn’t convince my friends.

Perhaps they just wanted something to grumble about.

…

In our household, there was my sister Elizabeth, who had no intention of doing any boy’s work, and who was what most would call a fair maiden, my brother John, who had joined the King’s army, and me, James, old enough to get a position working as a gamekeeper’s assistant, as well as other duties, in the the King’s service.

We maintained the deer herds, the pheasants and other birds, the lakes for fishing and ducks, and a host of other animals.  It also involved crops, all for the King’s table, and the castle marketplace for the people to buy.

Working in concert with the army, we kept the King’s domain free from trespassers from within and from other kingdoms.  Poachers were a regular problem.

We also maintained the King’s smaller castles scattered about the kingdom, just in case he wanted a change of scenery, or he was having a hunt with the nobles, or royals from other kingdoms.

The next trek, to the other side of the mountain, was soon, and he was taking the whole family.  No one wanted the job if they could avoid it because there was nowhere to hide.  I volunteered.  That part of the kingdom was the most picturesque.

And I knew that Rosalie, the maiden I had struck up a friendship with, was going with Princess Margaret as her handmaid, a huge promotion, and not undeserved.  She worked hard and understood that nothing came easy.

I was fully aware of why no one else wanted to travel with the Royal party; the King was a good and fair man, but his Queen and her children did not treat the servants with any respect. 

Out on parade the were model citizens; in private, they treated everyone with contempt.  I guess that was one of the privileges of being a royal, but to me, it seemed things would go better if they treated the people, especially those who worked for them, with a little respect.

I had learned to just shut them out, do as I was told, no matter how incomprehensible it was, and never engage with them, unless they spoke to me first.  Silence, I learned, was the only thing they understood.

…

John was home for a few days helping out his parents.  My father was a blacksmith and had hoped John would follow him.  It was good, honest work, but hard.  John thought being in the Army was better.

After all, there had been no battles forever, and it was not like war would be declared any time soon. Father thought he was lazy, and they argued from time to time.

My father had no such ambitions for me and was glad I joined the gamekeepers, perhaps thinking there would be some meat for dinner on occasion.  I got a rabbit or two from time to time, but that was about it.

I was not going to take a pheasant or a duck.  My job was more important.  Aside from the fact that the King treated people who worked for him and were caught thieving very harshly.  I’d seen the result of one or two who thought they could get away with it.

With the King going away, John had deliberately kept a low profile to avoid being conscripted into guard duty and travelling with the royal party.

Being in the advance party, I would be going a few days ahead of the Royal departure to help get everything ready.

My job would be to help stock the food store.

“So, have you told fair Rosalie that you’re going?”

He had caught us stealing a moment and now liked to tease me about how she was too good for her parents, and I would never allow the match.

Mother thought I had an excellent chance.  She worked in the castle kitchen as one of the cooks and had frequent contact with all the upstairs servants.  She liked Rosalie and was surprised that she didn’t take any of the princesses’ nonsense.

She was likely the only one.

Most of the servants avoided the Princess and often refused to work with her, despite the punishment.  It was better than being berated by her simply because she was in a bad mood.

“She was not all that interested, because she doesn’t expect we will have much time to be together.  I’ll be out in the forest and fields, and she will be inside tending her mistress.”

He shook his head.  “You are going to have to make your feelings known.  Besides, it’s not a woman’s place to be working long after coming of age.”

“I can’t see why she can’t do that and be married and a mother “

“You try telling that to the Princess.  Or the King.  You’d be better off chasing after a farming girl.  They don’t aspire to be something they’re not.”

She had treated him with deference, as befitting a lady’s personal handmaid, inheriting some of the family aloofness, and it annoyed him.  He had said she was no better than us, putting on airs and graces, but I disagreed.

“Perhaps I will.”

“And perhaps they’ll throw you in the dungeons for being impertinent. Mind your tongue around them.  I don’t want to plead to get you out of jail.  Now, be off with you, or you’ll be late.”

I grabbed the sack I had my travelling gear in and said my usual goodbyes and headed towards the castle on my horse.  I was lucky to get one of the best in the stable.  He wasn’t the biggest, but he was strong and had a good nature.

I was going to treat this like an adventure rather than a chore.

…

The carriages and drays were lined up outside the rear entrance to the castle, the carriages taking the servants and the drays, everything the Royals would need for their stay.

All were just about packed and ready to go.  I hitched my horse with the others and went over to the head gamekeepers who were organising their drays. 

The whole courtyard was organised chaos.

Just as I approached him, a Royal Carriage was slowly picking a path through the crowd, going to the front of the wagons.

“What’s with the Royal Carriage?  It’s a bit late for repairs,” I said.

“Good news.”  He said it in a way that I knew it was anything but good news.

“The Princess has decided to go with the advance party.  We are supposed to be leaving in an hour, that’s not going to happen.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Keep out of the Sergeant-at-Arms ‘ way.  He has to completely rearrange the guard and is on the warpath.”

He was my brother’s immediate superior and was a hard man to please.  He was about keeping his men alert and well-trained with physical exercise and war games.  He would call those not up to the mark, and John had just avoided being thrown out, a disgrace his father would not take lightly.

Eldest sons always had greater expectations on their shoulders.

I could hear the Sergeant up ahead getting his troops into the front and rear platoons.

I went up the stairs into the foyer, where there were cases, boxes and trunks everywhere and about 20 servants, almost running hither and thither.

Rosalie was nowhere to be seen, which I took to mean she was getting ready to accompany her mistress, probably with very little time to organise.

As I turned to leave, she came down the staircase from the princess’s quarters, in a fluster.  I hadn’t seen her in anything other than completely calm.

“James,” she said, loud enough for me to hear.

I turned.  “Rosalie.  I hear you’re coming with us.”

She came over, breathless from rushing about.  “Last minute.  Everything’s a little chaotic.  I’m supposed to be riding with her.  She’s not going to start out in the carriage.  She might ask you to ride with us, to tell her about the lands.  I don’t know why she would want to know.  Just be aware.  I have to go.”

So much for staying out of the way of the Sergeant at Arms.

…

Instead of starting out at first light, it was the middle of the morning.  Luckily, the cold weather was on its way out, and the warmer, sunny days were about to grace the Kingdom.

It was that part of the year when it was not too cold and not too hot, when everything was about to grow again after the winter.

All around, there were new buds on the trees, and flowers started to come out, releasing their fragrances.  Animals were coming out of hibernation and could be heard foraging for food.

Leaving this late meant we would have to break the journey in the forest, a consideration that would not have mattered except now the Princess was coming with us, provision had to be made for her overnight comfort.

The rest of us would be sleeping out in the open, not a problem for the gamekeepers; we were used to sleeping tough, but the servants at least had soft beds to sleep on.  It was going to be an interesting evening.

The procession had formed up, the soldiers at the front ready, the princess’s carriage next, five carriages for the servants, the gamekeepers, and those who wished to ride on a horse,  then fifteen drays with everything else, followed by the rear soldiers.

Everything was ready to go when there was sudden movement at the first carriage, then the Sergeant and the princess came down the procession and stopped where the gamekeepers were waiting.

“James,” the Sergeant’s voice carried an element of annoyance.

I moved out of my position, in the middle row, to stand in front of him.  “Sir.”

“Up the front.  The Princess would like your presence beside her.”

Nothing was said.  He turned and rode off.  I joined the Princess and followed him.

“There are more qualified gamekeepers who can attend to your requirements, your majesty.”

She looked sideways at me.  “I know, but you are the one I requested.”

This, of course, was going to make my life hell.  Riley, the head gamekeeper, was the one who should be up there with her, not me.

We returned to her position in the procession, in front of the carriage.  Rosalie was there on her horse, sitting confidently.  It was a surprise to discover she was a very good horsewoman, perhaps cementing her position as the Princess went for a ride most mornings.

I was on one side and Rosalie on the other, with four guardsmen as her personal escort.

The sergeant at the head of the procession gave the order, and we were off.

…

The princess was more interested in the life of her handmaiden and the man she had obviously mentioned in discussions they had, rather than ask me about land and animal matters.

Instead, she asked about my family and what I found so interesting about being a gamekeeper.  It whiled away the time as we travelled along the winding road, heading through farm land, forests and Plains, stopping briefly for lunch and resting the horses, then heading towards the mountain pass.

Part of the way was alongside the largest lake in the Kingdom, named after the King’s forebears, and stopped briefly so she could see the old summer castle on the far side, now in ruins, and accessible only by boat.

Given what I knew about the Princess, her behaviour and attitude were completely at odds with what I was led to believe.  Of course, it was the first time I had been this close or talked to her, or any of them.

We had begun the steady climb up to the pass.  Not far from it we would break before it got too dark, so the Royal tent could be raised. 

The Princess requested we go hunting to see if she could bring back dinner.  I did say that perhaps it was best left to the gamekeepers, but she said she had learned how to use a bow and arrow and shooting arrows into a round target was no incentive to improve or give her satisfaction.

She wanted to hit a moving target.

I went to get the head gamekeeper, and she stopped me.  She was tired of getting experts, rather than ordinary people, who treated her with disdain, unlike the Prince, her brother.

She was right; the head gamekeeper wouldn’t chastise her, but he made it clear he didn’t like being dismissed or disrespected.

More trouble with my bosses when we got back home then.  The Princess would soon lose interest, and I would be tossed on the scrap heap.

And much to the Sergeant’s dismay, when she told him her request and the conditions, we went hunting.  The Princess, I, and two soldiers.  If she had her way, the two soldiers would have been omitted.  She told them to keep their distance.

I’d been to the resting place recently and familiarised myself with the tracks, some of which looked like they had been used recently, and with the rock pool that was about 10 minutes ride from the main track as part of the annual review.

I was hoping the animals would come to the pool to drink at sunset, making it easy for her.

…

There were facets to the Princess that were, at least from my perspective, surprising.

The first, she had worn the sort of clothing I’d expect her brother would.  She had not worn a dress, which was normal for the Royals when travelling.

In them, from almost any angle, she could be mistaken for her brother, except for the long golden hair.  For the hunt, she had tucked it up into a plain cap.

The second, she had excellent horsemanship skills, and I guessed it was because she liked to get out of the castle.  It was another plus for Rosalie because, as she said, she could ride a horse before she could walk.  She always went riding with her mistress, rain, hail, snow or sleeting.

The third is her wanting to be able to use a bow and arrow.  By all accounts, meaning tavern talk, she was lazy and indolent, and wandered the castle and grounds looking for fault.

The girl sitting next to me on her horse, just short of the water hole, was anything but that person.  Perhaps, in this setting, she was acting differently, but I got the impression that she had relaxed into a different version.

Perhaps getting away from the stifling role she had in court, her duties, perceived or otherwise, she didn’t have to be that person.

“Why are we sitting here?”  Impatient and noisy.

“I’m listening,” I whispered.

“For what?” The horse was picking up her impatience and moved.

“Waiting to hear if any animals are nearby.  It’s a waiting game where patience and silence will be rewarded.”

A grace sideways told me that wasn’t in her playbook.

She patted the horse’s neck and whispered something in its ear, probably an insult for me.

I motioned her to move with me slowly and prepare to shoot.  Hopefully, she would realise that her window of opportunity would be very short.

We were 20 paces from the pool edge with a clear view of the front and side for a few yards.  The thicket came almost up to the rocky edge.

Then suddenly, a fawn came out of the thicket, and she shot her arrow.  A hit.  It went down.

She shrieked in delight.  The two cards thought she was in trouble and came racing up to us.  The shriek also served to scare everything else nearby away.

“Just in time,” she said to them.  “Bring it back to the camp.” Then to me, “Thank you.  I will be more patient and quieter next time.”

I was hoping there wouldn’t be a next time.  I was also hoping that we didn’t meet the foal’s mother on the way back to camp.

…

Nighttime under the trees in that part of the forest was as dark as the castle cellar without torchlight, though infinitely more scary for those not used to being out in the open.

Tent or no tent.

The guards were grumbling; there were no warm places like there had been back at the castle, and they had to suffer the cold night and the endless sounds around them.

There was little difference between a large deer and a man, though the man might be a lot quieter. 

I got to spend the meal time with Rosalie, where we all got to share the venison, appreciating that we had one of the cooks who knew how to prepare the meat, with bread brought from the castle stores.

It was a treat for everyone, most of whom did not get to have meat, except from a large pot.  There was also ale for the men on guard duty. I spent time doing a circuit of the camp, through the thicket and part of the forest.

We were carrying torches and making noise as a means of scaring off animals and men if there were any out.  It must have worked because we didn’t encounter any on our patrol.

The next morning, after some bread and a short period of exercise to get the men into shape, we packed up and continued.

The Princess, the Sargent said, was impressed with me, so I got to ride with her again.  The track over the mountain pass was as incredibly breathtaking as ever, the view going all the way to the castle, surrounded by manicured lawns and gardens and the bordering lake not far away.

It was the most picturesque of all the residences and a fitting place for a quiet stay.

It was also the place for hunting and fishing, and on the way back to camp, the Princess, very excited from the kill, said she was going after a wild boar next, to prove to her brother that she was made of stronger stuff.

I couldn’t see how that could end well.  They were very big, very heavy and didn’t die when you wanted them to.  I’d seen what they could do in the rampage and was going to have to talk her out of it.

Thank goodness, then her brother, the Prince, was waiting for us when we arrived.  She had assumed she was going to be in charge, but her father perhaps had an inkling as to her motives.

We were going to be caught in the middle of a battle between the siblings.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Belfast

Beyond the Titanic: Five Unexpected Delights on Belfast’s Road Less Travelled

Belfast. The name often conjures images of the magnificent Titanic, its grand harbour, and perhaps a sprinkle of its complex history. And while these are undeniably essential stops, the real magic of Belfast, for those willing to venture off the beaten path, lies in its hidden gems and emerging experiences.

If you’ve “done” the Titanic and are looking for an authentic taste of this vibrant city, then strap in. We’re taking a detour down the roads less travelled to uncover the next five must-do’s and must-see’s in Belfast.

1. Dive into the Digital World at the Ulster Museum’s New Interactive Zones

While the Ulster Museum has always been a treasure trove of art, history, and natural sciences, it’s been quietly upping its game for the digital age. Forget dusty displays; venture into their newly developed interactive zones. These aren’t just for kids, though they’ll certainly love them! Imagine stepping into a virtual reality reconstruction of ancient Ulster, or engaging with cutting-edge exhibits on the science of sound and light through hands-on digital interfaces. It’s a dynamic and engaging way to connect with heritage and innovation, proving that learning can be as exciting as any adventure.

2. Explore the Artisanal Delights of the Cathedral Quarter’s Hidden Alleys

Beyond the buzzing pubs and restaurants of the Cathedral Quarter, lies a labyrinth of charming, often overlooked alleyways and courtyards. This is where Belfast’s creative pulse truly beats. Seek out independent galleries showcasing local artists, discover quirky vintage boutiques tucked away from the main drag, and stumble upon intimate coffee shops serving up exceptional brews. Keep an eye out for vibrant street art that adorns the brickwork, transforming these forgotten corners into open-air galleries. It’s an exploration that rewards patience and a keen eye for detail.

3. Get Your Hands Dirty at a Local Food Growing Project or Urban Farm

Belfast, like many modern cities, is embracing sustainability and local produce with open arms. The “road less travelled” here involves connecting with the city’s green initiatives. Look for opportunities to visit or even volunteer at a local food growing project or an urban farm. These spaces are more than just patches of land; they are community hubs fostering a deeper connection to where our food comes from. Learn about organic farming, taste freshly harvested produce, and engage with the passionate individuals who are nurturing these vital green spaces within the urban landscape. It’s a refreshing and grounding experience.

4. Uncover the Stories on the Outskirts: The Belfast Peace Walls and Community Art Tours

While the iconic Peace Walls are a significant part of Belfast’s history, venturing further afield offers a more nuanced and personal perspective. Instead of a standard tour, opt for a community-led tour focusing on the art and stories that have emerged from these areas. These tours are often run by people who have lived through the Troubles, offering raw, honest, and incredibly moving accounts. You’ll witness powerful murals that have become symbols of hope and resilience, and gain a profound understanding of the ongoing journey towards reconciliation. It’s a challenging but essential experience for anyone seeking to truly understand Belfast.

5. Experience the Buzz of a Local Gig in an Unconventional Venue

Belfast has a thriving music scene, but the real gems are often found outside the mainstream venues. Seek out local gigs in unconventional spaces. Think intimate pubs with a dedicated live music night, community centres hosting emerging bands, or even pop-up events in repurposed warehouses. This is where you’ll discover the authentic, raw talent that defines Belfast’s musical soul. The atmosphere is electric, the music is diverse, and the experience is infinitely more memorable than a crowded arena.

Belfast is a city that rewards curiosity. By stepping off the well-trodden tourist trails, you unlock a richer, more authentic, and deeply rewarding experience. So, next time you find yourself in this captivating city, dare to take the road less travelled. You might just discover your new favourite story, your most inspiring artwork, or your most unforgettable moment.

What are your favourite hidden gems in Belfast? Share them in the comments below!

In a word: play

I’m going to play a game. 

Is that a video game on the computer, or is that a board game with friends?

In reality, I didn’t play games with friends because I’m a poor loser.  Especially monopoly.

But to play a game often means you take on a persona or a role, as one, or one of many.

Personally, I like role-playing games like Dungeons and Dragons.

I’m going to a play

This is a stage production of a scripted story with various people in roles.

A play can have a star, a lead actor in a pivotal role, to draw in the viewers

I’ve been to good plays and bad ones with great actors and some not-so-great ones.

A play can be hard to understand, it can be a musical with singing and dancing, or it can be rollicking good fun where the audience dances in their seats.

The worst play I ever saw was Dr Zhivago; it never seemed to end.

The best play, The Pyjama Game, with John Inman from Are You Being Served, a British comedy TV show.

I’m going to play the game

There’s a slight difference between this and the first example because it means instead of doing something your own way, you’re going to do what everyone else does, prompting the analogy, you’re going to fight fire with fire.

Yep, even the explanations can be confusing.  You have to love the English language for being that.

I’m going to play a role

So many connotations to this one.  For instance, I’m going to be someone I’m not.  If I’m a kind person, then I’m going to pretend I’m mean.

I’m going to join a group of like-minded people and help further their cause, that is to say, together we changed the course of history, and I had a role in that.

Let’s hope it was for the betterment of mankind and not a leap towards infamy.

And of course, if you play a part in a play, it means you are pretending to be someone else.  I like the idea of playing God, but that’s usually the lead actor; I’m usually the janitor, servant, or just plain dogsbody.