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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.

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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

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

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, 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 time 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’ service in Moscow, soon to be returning home after 10 years.  She had been there one 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 were 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 interested in her, and Vladimir was.

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 platonic 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 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 would 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 she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed that he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, as always, in 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, the people, and the conversations she overheard were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But on this visit, 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, 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 on 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 minibar and took out the bottle of champagne left there for them, a treat Vladimir arranged 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 about 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 rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Helsinki

Discover Helsinki Beyond the Usual: 5 Hidden Gems to Explore

Helsinki, the vibrant capital of Finland, is renowned for its architectural splendour, vibrant art scene, and serene access to the archipelago. Yet, beyond the iconic Senate Square and the UNESCO-listed Suomenlinna, there’s a trove of offbeat experiences waiting to be uncovered. If you’re eager to venture off the well-trodden path, here are five lesser-known treasures to add to your Helsinki itinerary.

1. Stroll Through the Helsinki Botanical Garden (Kaisaniemi)

Tucked near the parliament building in Kaisaniemi, this haven of greenery offers a tranquil escape from the city’s hustle. Established in 1855, the garden spans 5.6 hectares and features a glasshouse housing over 12,000 plant species from around the world. In summer, the lush herb garden and seasonal flowerbeds are a riot of colour, while autumn brings fiery foliage. A peaceful walk here is the perfect way to appreciate Helsinki’s natural beauty without the crowds.

Pro Tip: Combine your visit with a constitutional at the adjacent Parliament Square (Kanssakuntori) for a slice of Helsinki’s political and ecological charm.

2. Unwind on Ulvila Cathedral Island

Just a short bus and ferry ride from central Helsinki lies Ulvila, a quiet island known for its historic cathedral and serene atmosphere. Once the favoured retreat of Finnish presidents, this hidden gem is accessible via a scenic 40-minute ferry ride. Explore the 17th-century Ulvila Church, stroll through its secluded cemetery, or simply soak in the views of the surrounding archipelago. With no restaurants or shops, it’s a spot to disconnect and reconnect with nature.

Pro Tip: Pack a picnic to enjoy on the island’s rocky shoreline, where the Baltic Sea shimmers under the midnight sun in summer.

3. Shop for Local Crafts at the Kadu Market

Nestled in Helsinki’s Design District (Kadu), the Kadu Market is a weekly pop-up paradise for design lovers. Held every Saturday in the summer and on weekends during winter, this market showcases handmade crafts, vintage finds, and locally sourced Nordic products. From organic skincare to handcrafted jewellery, it’s a vibrant window into Helsinki’s creative community.

Pro Tip: Stay afterwards to explore Kadu’s boutique shops and cafés, like the cozy Apartment 42 café, known for its Instagram-worthy sundaes.

4. Get Lost in the Kiasma Museum of Contemporary Art

Helsinki’s modern art scene is on full display at Kiasma, a striking building designed by American architect Steven Holl. The museum’s ever-changing exhibits blend international and Finnish art, often pushing boundaries with avant-garde installations. Its unique, glass-clad structure and spiral layout make it a visual treat, while the free guided tours (in multiple languages) offer deeper insights into the works.

Pro Tip: Visit during the museum’s opening hours (weekends often have extended hours) to fully absorb the atmosphere without the weekday rush.

5. Picnic in Rastila Park, Helsinki’s Oldest Public Park

Founded in 1838, Rastila Park is a green oasis nestled between the Baltic Sea and Helsinki’s city centre. This lesser-known park is ideal for solo walks, family outings, or a quiet picnic on its grassy lawns. The park’s modest charm lies in its simplicity—think ancient trees, children playing on the playground, and the distant hum of the city. It’s a rare spot where Helsinki’s past and present coexist harmoniously.

Pro Tip: Pair your visit with a stop at Kahvila Rastila, a nearby café serving excellent Nordic-inspired dishes.

Final Thoughts

While Helsinki’s landmarks are undeniably captivating, these hidden spots offer a more intimate and personal experience of the city. Whether you’re wandering through a historic island, discovering modern art, or simply relaxing in nature, these destinations showcase Helsinki’s diversity and depth. Pack your curiosity, embrace the unexpected, and let the road less travelled reveal itself.

Ready to explore Helsinki beyond the usual? These five spots are waiting to become your favourite stories.

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey.  Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there.  She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions.  Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife.  Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

…

lovecoverfinal1

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 192/193

Days 192 and 193 – Writing exercise

…

I woke to the sound of a very large explosion, yet it wasn’t exactly that; it was the blood-curdling scream that came after.

It wasn’t panic I felt in those few seconds of silence that followed the scream.  It was like I knew it was going to happen, and I could feel a sense of utter calm come over me.

I got out of bed and threw on the nearest clothes near me, then the coat at the back door where I had hung it the previous evening, and the torch I had left nearby in case I needed it.

I did.  It was still dark outside, but dawn would soon be here.  It was also cold, colder than it should be for the last days of winter.  At least it was not snowing.  Snow had a way of making things more difficult than they should be.

My first instinct was to go out via the back door.  Looking across the backyard, I could see other neighbours stirring, internal house lights going on.

From the front I could hear vehicles and then saw the kaleidoscope of red and blue flashing lights on police cars and the sound of an approaching fire engine.

I took in all the movement and sounds that carried on the night air, disjointed pieces of conversation, the murmur of people talking quietly as they headed towards their front gates.

I stepped down off the veranda and went up the side of the house, and as I came out at the front wall I could see the majority of activity was further down the street, outside, if I was not mistaken, the Johnson residence.

A few more steps and I was on the sidewalk, the full extent of the scene apparent.  The cars and truck were outside the Johnson place.

It was no surprise.

The police made regular visits because the Johnson children were prone to getting into trouble, a polite way of saying they were thieves, liars, bullies and troublemakers. 

Old man Johnson, the patriarch of the clan, had once greeted me with a hunting rifle.  To say he terrorised the neighbourhood was an understatement.

My next door neighbour was on his sidewalk, watching.  He had come out with a weapon ready to defend himself if necessary.

“It’s a war zone,” he said, shaking his head.

“I don’t see any bomb craters,” I said, thinking it might lighten the mood.

“I hear someone had enough of that family and tried to blow them up.”

Unlikely, but the neighbours, some at the end of their tether with the Johnson children, would be happy if that was the case.

Riley, my neighbour one house along from me but further away, came to join us.

He too has an opinion: “I hope those fools just blew up their basement meth lab, and they’re all dead.”

As he said it, three ambulances sped past on their way to the bomb/meth lab site.

“The Johnsons are just bad people, and I don’t believe they have either a meth lab or enemies that would want to blow them up.”

Mrs James from over the street came over.  She knew everything that happened in the street, sometimes before it happened.

“Herbert says it was a gas leak. Someone struck a match…”

It was a rational explanation, but then Herbert said that his garden had been overrun by aliens three mornings ago.  Saw them himself, he said, and had to fight them off with a samurai sword.

He’d been out before dawn sweeping the path with an old broom, brandishing it at an invisible enemy.

Herbert should be in a facility; such was the deterioration of his sanity.  In my last conversation with him, he asked me if I had seen the lizard people too.

Riley and Herbert were not talking at the moment, an innocent remark at the last block party getting under Riley’s skin.

“Herbert…”

I interrupted before he said something he would later regret, “I’ll go down and see what’s really going on.  I suspect it is probably something perfectly explainable, and we are all only too willing to call it something else.”

“I’d take care,” Foredyce, the man everyone loved to hate, simply because he had money he couldn’t explain adequately.  “I hear Johnson has the police in his back pocket.”

Odd that I thought, after leaving him, that it was more like he had the police in his back pocket.

…

Seconds later I ran into a policeman who was setting up perimeter tape, the sort that had the words “Do Not Cross”.  He didn’t let me cross, so I stood against the tape as a personal act of defiance.

Two police cars had been angled so that traffic could not pass in the street, and the same was happening a hundred yards away.

Other police were shunting spectators back to their properties.  I was now one of about a dozen that had come to the line, people I recognised from block parties, but didn’t speak to often.

There were also people I didn’t know or recognise.

I think one was a reporter.  I had seen her photo in the paper, though I couldn’t be sure.  I looked around, but I couldn’t see the film crew she usually had in tow.

My cell phone vibrated; an incoming message.
“When they leave, come.”

I replied with the appropriate emoji and just got my phone back in my pocket before the reporter, or whoever she was, burrowed her way through the small group to end up next to me.  She hadn’t exactly tried to bump me out of the way, but I was going to defend my territory if she tried.

She had her cell phone in her hand, ear pods and a vacant expression.  If I was to guess, she was listening in on the police band.

She moved slightly, and I gently nudged back.

Her attention went from the broadcast to me, a scathing look.

“What are the police saying this is?” I asked, before she could remonstrate.

“What?”  Abrupt.  It reminded me of an article I’d read where she had been accused of being over zealous in the gathering of information, got her facts wrong, published and caused an innocent person trouble.

“What are the police saying?”

“Don’t you have better things to be doing than rubber necking?”

“And you do, barging your way like an out-of-control motor bus.”  It was the best I could come up with at short notice.

That was when I realised those who had been behind her had drifted away to find better vantage points.

“Of course, these clowns are news.”

“Those clowns are trouble.”

“More than you know.”

I’d noticed a woman talking to several police officers outside the front of the house, then scanning the rope line, and eventually stopping, and looking fiercely at me, or more likely the woman I was standing with.  A few more words with another officer, she started walking towards us.

“You have a friend in the police.”

“Not exactly.”

The woman gave me a glare and nodded to the woman beside me, then lifted the tape line.  I watched them walk along the perimeter until no one could overhear them.

I watched two paramedics come out with a gurney with a body bag on it, and then transfer the bag to the ambulance, then go back into the house.

One dead person.  How many were there?

The paramedics repeated the process four times, then they drove off.  Four collections.  Four dead, or four smuggled away.

I saw the reporter see the last person loaded, exchanged what I thought were heated words, then came back walking quickly.

She seemed annoyed.

“What did the cops say?”  I thought I’d ask.  I might get an answer.

“Nothing.  It was staged to get them away.  There’s an assassin coming, or already here; they don’t know.”

“More likely an angry mob of neighbours, me included.  I hope they’re not coming back.”

She shook her head then headed towards her car.  I guess she was going to follow the ambulance and see where they were being taken.

With the ambulance leaving, the police cars gradually left until there was only one, belonging to the local sheriff’s department.

The deputy was in the process of retrieving the perimeter tape.  The emergency, if it could be called that, was over. 

I knew him.  He had found one of my kids being a jackass at the mall and brought him home after giving him a warning.  He could have locked him up, but chose a less problematic way of dealing with the problem.  Telling us and we handed out the punishment.

“Ned.”

“Mr Raven.  Not a lot going on here now.”

“What happened?”

“County and federal stuff.  We just get to clean up the mess they left behind.”

“The Johnsons?”

“Best not to know.  They won’t be giving you or anyone around here any more trouble.”

“Dead.”

“Exactly, if you get my drift.”

In other words, taken away to end up in another town to annoy them.  I could hear in his tone that he would have preferred to shoot them.

“Good.”

“Trust me.  There’s nothing more to see.”

“Is it alright if I go and see where some of my tools Johnson borrowed are?  If he’s not coming back, he won’t need them.”

“No.  I guess you’re right.”  He shrugged.  “I can’t see why not.  The place is empty; just try not to touch anything that’s not yours.”

…

I didn’t go via the front.  There were still a few people waiting, for what, though, was not clear, but perhaps they thought the Johnsons might come back.

Instead, there was an alley behind that line of properties, recently built as our estate got bigger, with our road the closest to the farming land behind it.

The man who had owned it had sold a few acres to raise funds to keep the farm going.  It wouldn’t be for much longer; a local businessman was planning a much larger housing development with a mall and a public park ready for the influx of workers needed for a huge distribution centre.

That was a more interesting story than the Johnsons; the centre was looking to use robots built at a high-tech robot assembly plant nearby, part of a technology park.

Maybe.

All manner of propositions were being tossed about by local politicians, each claiming they were saving our town.

At the back fence line to the Johnsons’ property, I peered through the crack in the fence, the one I think they used to keep an eye on people, saw no one in the rear yard and went in.

It was a short distance from the back fence to the rear veranda, and once inside the structure, built to add more space to the house to have outdoor cooked meals in summer and keep dry and warm in winter.

I waited and listened to see if there was anyone still in the house.  Peering through the kitchen windows, overlooking the veranda, I couldn’t see anyone, but they had left the lights on when they left.

I let five minutes pass, then knocked.  Not loudly, just enough that if there was anyone inside they’d hear it.

Someone did; a moment later the back door opened slightly and a hissed, “get in here,” was issued.

I just got through the door when it was closed again. A woman old enough to be my daughter was standing by the door, out of line of sight.

“You took your time.”

“It was just a little busy out there.  Are you ready?”

“I was never ready for this.  He sure as hell didn’t tell me his father was a rat, and we would be dragged across the country because of his mistakes.”

I got a call about a week ago from my sister, who lives on the other side of the country.  Her daughter had married the son of a CEO.  She had always maintained there was something odd about him, and when he had to go into hiding, it confirmed her suspicions.

She had just learned that her daughter had moved to my city, and asked her mother for help to get away from them.  She called me.

She said she had drawn a line under the experience and wanted out, and away from her husband, who wouldn’t take it kindly to her leaving.  Thing was, she was under no obligation to stay, and her life was in danger.

I was not sure what I could do, but Eloise wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I still hadn’t found them, or recognised the daughter when I went looking for her at the mall.  It had been a long shot, until the explosion.

I went to the front of the house, and peered through the cracks in the shutters.  The deputy was leaning against his car, smoking.  Several people were still standing around. Talking and gesturing, looking at the walls as if they could see through them.

I came back.  We could go out the back door but not go to the front of the house.

“How did you get away from the others?” 

“I told them I wasn’t going with them.  John wasn’t happy about it, but I was tired of running, looking over my shoulder.”

“You still will be.  You can’t just go back to your old life.”

“I’m nothing to them.  It’s the old man they want.  He was the one who dobbed them in.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

She gave me a look of exasperation.  I don’t think she was willing to accept the truth just yet.  As much as I couldn’t believe they simply left her behind.  Not if they cared about her safety.

There was a knock on the front door, not loud, but loud enough.

“Are you expecting someone, anyone?”

“No.”  The exasperation had changed to desperation.  She looked genuinely scared.

The knock was louder and more impatient.

“Hide.  I’ll see who it is.”

She went up the passage and out of sight.  I waited; the next knock now signalling the person on the other side’s next step was to kick the door down.

I took a deep breath and opened the door.  I was expecting the deputy.  It was the reporter.

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

She barged past me, looking in every direction.

“Don’t play dumb.”

I looked at her, and realised her demeanour had changed completely.  I was mistaken as to her identity.

“You are the assassin.”

She glared at me, that same severe expression as before.  “Are you naturally stupid, or what?”

“You’d be surprised if I told you.”

She shrugged.  “Leave now, and I’ll forget you were here.”

In that moment we both heard a noise, a box or case hitting the ground.  Next second she had reached into her voluminous handbag, and I could just see the shape of a gun.

Next second I shot her gun hand then upper leg; she went down, and I was stepping towards her carefully, gun aimed at her head.

Good thing I remembered to bring a silenced weapon, just in case.

The girl came running up the passage and stopped when she saw the reporter, or more likely assassin.

“You,” she said, recognising the assassin. 

“What can I say?  It pays better.”

The girl reached into the assassin’s handbag and pulled out the gun.

I was still processing the fact they knew each other.

She aimed it at the woman on the ground.  I thought it surprising she was not screaming.  I knew what it was like to get shot in the hand.

“Why are you after me?  I did nothing to upset anyone.”

“Guilt by association.  You’re on their list.  Kill me, and they’ll just send someone else.  Let me go, and I’ll forget I saw you.”  She turned to look at me.  “Who the hell are you?:

“Ex Cop.  I thought I’d settled into retirement.  Now I’m going to have to go after some more bad people.  I’m going to give you a choice.  Tell me who sent you or die.  And don’t go with the I got an anonymous call who didn’t leave his or her name.”

“You and I both know who it was.  He gave four of us the assignment.  One fails; there are three others.  And no, I don’t know who the other three are.”

“Were you ever a reporter?”

“Yes.  Gets me places others can’t.  Not very good though, but it doesn’t matter.  This was going to be my last job.  One way or another.  Do what you have to.”

I shrugged.  I wasn’t that sort of person

My sister’s daughter was.  Spending time with the Johnsons had turned her into a monster. Or maybe living with her mother.

Or…

“You were left behind specially for this reason.  You didn’t really need me.”

She looked down at the dead reporter.  “Cleaning up after their mess.  You’re right, though; I didn’t.  My mother said you were always a horrible child that made her life hell.  It seemed like a two birds with one stone moment.”

She aimed the gun at me.

“I’ll tell mother you said hi.”

Pity.  Killers who like the idea of announcing their intentions never get to live long lives.  I’d met a few and recognised the signs.  Added to the fact my sister never liked me and I thought it odd she had wanted me to do anything for her other than die.

Another reason why I brought the gun.

She was dead before she hit the ground.  It was a waste of life, and I hated killing people.  It was basically why they retired me early.  I wouldn’t get tough on the criminals.

This was a waste of two lives.  Reporter/assassins and wannabe bad girls.  I took my gun and cleared any fingerprints. I was not new to the game of ensuring no evidence pointed the gun to me, then staging the scene so it looked like the two of them killed each other.

Been there and done that a few times.

It was, all in all, a very strange situation. 

I had two calls to make.

My sister answered on the second ring.  “Tell me you killed the bastard.”

I rang my sister on her daughter’s phone, suspecting she would answer the way she did.  The number was on speed dial.  “She might have, had she been smarter, but she was as dumb as you are.  She got killed by an assassin before she could shoot me.  Don’t tell me your plan was for her to assume I’d come, and then kill me.”

“Caught in the crossfire, it seemed good at the time.”

“You never considered the consequences of your actions, never have.  She lived long enough to ask God to rain fire and hell down on me.  I guess that sort of hatred was fed to her by you.”

“You were always such a selfish, self-righteous pain.”

“You were always telling us mere mortals how common and useless wrong we were.  I think the self-righteous label belongs elsewhere.  But whatever was supposed to happen didn’t.  I’m sorry for your loss.  I doubt we will be speaking again.”

I put the phone back where it belonged after bricking it.  There would be a record of a phone call to her mother but not what it was about.  I had no doubt she would try to implicate me, but what did I have to gain?

Her attempt to smear me would fail.

Then I went out the front door, slightly panicky and calling for the deputy.  He saw me and came over, and there, with just the right hint of breathless panic, I related the story of what happened.

He went in and checked them immediately, then called for backup.  He went through all the right steps for a crime scene, asking all the right questions.

Then, over the next three hours, I had those same questions plus more asked over and over.  At least the police department and the sheriff himself knew I was a decorated big-city police officer who knew the ropes, and remembered not to contaminate the scene, but if stray prints were found, there was a legitimate reason.

After that I was free to go, but be available if there were more questions.  There would be, if they did a thorough job.  Not to implicate me; but get a clearer idea why they shot each other.

Then there was only one call left.

A last phone call, one I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to make, and wouldn’t if my niece had left with the rest of her new family.

No one answered the phone.  I just said, “Target four dispatched, debt paid.  You now have a new enemy.”

That was it.  The receiver of the call would know exactly what the message meant.  I looked at my watch.  Just enough time to get home for the family Zoom call.

Who said life in the countryside was going to be boring?

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at:  https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaines at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaines frequently visited and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’.  It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over.  It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half-frown, half-smile, Alison was looking stunning.  It had been months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary.  On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to.  She had adored it and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars get on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds of silence, and many more gasps.

I even had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room.  Once more, I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me.  Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others out there who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight.  She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once, I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together.  It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement.  Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with a permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and a designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it.  Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out, she had straightened it.  And took the moment to look deeply into my soul.  It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me.  A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.”  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’, but I accepted it with good grace.  Sometimes, Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand.  I guessed she was talking about the new job.  “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely.  “There are no secrets between Al and me, are there, Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al.  I tried it once and was admonished.  But it was interesting that her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not.  It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil.  As I understood it, the Blaines were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaines thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realised I was looking at both of them.  I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand.  And yet, apparently, Alison did.  I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets.  Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us.  It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me.  We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?”  Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face.  It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind.  Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realised it would be churlish, even silly, if I made a scene.  I knew what I wanted to say.  I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine or upsetting Alison.  This was not the time or the place.  Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing.  If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decided there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control.  “It’s the little things.  They all add up until one day …”  I shrugged.  “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real?  Or, I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me.  I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points.  It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted.  “Alison was off to get some studying in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up and immediately got the ‘shut up, you fool’ look that cut that line of conversation dead.  Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose.  Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend.  “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation.  I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show.  I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass, gathering some courage and turned to him.  “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up.  You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realised I had spoken.  He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed.  Or perhaps it was deliberate.  She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me.  “Yes.  Elaine said something or other about it.  But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week.  Perhaps I got it wrong.  I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”  I shrugged as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again.  “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart.  It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; she might have been telling me lies.  If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect.  Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows.  Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details.  “You sure you want to do that?”

At last, the voice of reason.  “Me?  No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him.  Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him.  “Jimmy, between you and me, I haven’t as yet decided one way or another.  To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay who recently moved into the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognised the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago.  Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker.  I felt sick, faint, and wanted to die all at the same moment.  “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time.  Too busy with work, I expect.  I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted, and I knew I had to keep it together.  I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down.  I sucked in some deep breaths and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown.  Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth.  It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction.  It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and me.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, but it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact that I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough that the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.  She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points.  Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine.  She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly.  I chose to ignore her and pretend nothing had happened, rather than tell her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’.  I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent-up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me.  It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, that Jimmy came looking for me.  I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse.  When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was, but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which, to a large degree, it was for the other three.  But I had achieved what I set out to do: to play them at their own game, watching the deception once I knew there was one, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree.  It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaines back to the Upper West Side.  But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer.  She showed concern for my health and asked me what was wrong.  It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it.  Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2026

Sunday In New York

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 37

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 with 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…

…

Johannsen hadn’t signed up for this. He’d been in the room when Leonardo reported to Wallace, to tell him that the villagers had been neutralised, and he brought the ring leaders of the so-called resistance to the castle.

By his reckoning, Leonardo and his men had killed probably 20 or so people who had nothing to do with the war, other than try to live around the war going on in their backyard.

In fact, when he had arrived at the castle, the intention was to work with the locals and the resistance to facilitate the onward movement of prized defectors. Until Jackerby arrived, and the dynamic changed.

Johannsen hadn’t realised that Wallace was a double agent, not until it was too late.

The thing of it was, Wallace thought he was a double agent too, a belief Johannsen had taken extreme care not to dispel. And, where it was possible, he had tried to help those caught up in Wallace’s trap.

Wallace was already in situ at the castle when Johannsen arrived with another four men to join those already there, on order from London to vet the incoming defectors. Those four he had met at the plane, and he hadn’t realised they were not who they were supposed to be. By the time the four who had been replaced were found, it was too late to stop the mission.

That brought the complement to 10 including Wallace and himself. Then he received a message, one he assumed was from Thompson, advising the arrival of a further 5, Jackerby and four soldiers.

He soon discovered that those orders were false.

When Jackerby reported to Wallace, and the fact Wallace sent him out of the room, he stayed behind, hidden, to listen to the conversation. There he discovered he was in the midst of an enemy operation that had enlisted a number of double agents across Euprope from the German Army.

He then tried to warn Thompson in a coded message, but that had been substituted by Wallace with another, causing another lamb to be sent to the slaughter, Atherton. When Jackerby first arrived, he advised Wallace, not Johannsson, that Atherton was not one of them, so an attempt was made on,his life, but failed.

For a while that was the equivalent of throwing a cat among the pigeons.

By the time the paratroopers arrived, there was no effort to hide who they were or what they were doing. The castle was, for all intents and purposes, a Nazi stronghold, there to collect and execute defectors. All he had to do was play his part, and try not to rouse the suspicions of Jackerby, whom, it seemed, trusted no one.

Wallace wasn’t all that interested in being as suspicious as Jackerby, who had to be gestapo, or worse, one of the SS.

But luck was on Johansson side when he took a plan to Wallace that would essentially free Atherton, and then have Atherton lead them to the other resistance. It was also a master stroke to select Burke, a simple man who liked to think everything was his idea.

That Atherton had got away was no fault of his, but those charged with following him. Jackerby had tried to mess with him, but Wallace intervened, telling Jackerby that he had had missing people too and should be out there looking for them.

With any luck, Johansson thought, they would be dead, a likely result since none of them had come back yet.
Now, all he could do was sit and wait for Atherton and whoever was left from the resistance to come and stop Wallace, and especially Jackerby.

Johansson knew that Atherton had a good working knowledge of the castle’s architecture, because on one occasion they had discussed archaeology. Johansson was not an archaeologist, but had worked with one and an assistant, before the war, at several digs.

He was hoping Atherton had a idea where there might be a secret entrance to the castle. It was old, and in his spare time, he had been pacing out room measurements, looking for nooks and crannies, and anything else that would be useful.

He had found a room full of swords, not exactly in fighting condition, but might be useful in a situation that called for a weapon. After all, he had taken a few sword fighting lessons at the university.

He had traversed several stone passageways, found two different passageways from the upstairs down to the radio room, and beyond that, where there was an exit or entrance, what in modern terminology would be called the tradesman’s entrance.

It was for all intents and purposes, a back door.

He had also gone around the whole perimeter of the outer castle wall, looking for holes. When he thought about it, leaving holes in the wall was asking for trouble because the idea was to keep people out, not to leave quickly and quietly in the middle of a siege.

And this castle had seen a few sieges in its time. More than once if he could travel back in time, he would have like to see what it was like 200 years ago, or more.

But there were only three entrances or exits that he knew of. There were no grates on the ground, or anywhere within 20 yards of the exterior wall, or conveniently hidden in the surrounding forests.

He was also sure there were hidden passageways inside the castle that must go somewhere, a result of checking internal measurements of rooms, and a few came up oddly short a few yards.

Still down in the dungeon on another of his subterfuges, the new arrivals guard had just appeared.

“The woman is awake.”

“Thanks.”

Now, if he could just get some sense out of her.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect them.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half-brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 38

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.

…

Before we embarked on the great driving expedition, for which I was beginning to think might be harder than it seemed to Boggs’ one-track mind, we decided to go and check out the mall, and if, indeed, there was an underground river, or, at the very least, if his flooding theory was correct. 

We were going to need very old clothes, and when I left the next morning, my mother noticed it.

“I’m going to do some gardening with Boggs.  He came up with this notion we could help out at the old folk’s home.”

“That’s a nice thought.”

And it was a lie I knew would eventually come back to bite me.  My mother hadn’t exactly told me to stop seeing Boggs, because she was beginning to think his mental capacity had been diminished after the beating.

It was a logical and perfectly acceptable reason for his odd behavior.

I went directly to Boggs’ house, and he was waiting for me.  From there it was about twenty minutes, to a spot where he knew the surrounding fence had a hole big enough for us to crawl through.

It was odd seeing the place again, sitting out a few miles from the town, looking forlorn.  At the front entrance, off the road specially built between it and the town, there were miles of cyclone fencing, with signs alternately telling people to keep out on threat of prosecution for trespass, and more recently, hazard signs proclaiming the whole area was unsafe.

From where we’d stopped, we could see the carpark, enough for hundreds of cars, a bus terminus, a taxi rank, and the front façade of the shopping center, mostly looking like the front of a castle, with towers and ramparts.

There had been auxiliary plans for a medieval theme park at one stage, that would have blended in with the mall buildings, but that had to be abandoned, even though the land allocated to it was stable.  Or so a surveyor said.

We continued on until we reached the side leading to the marina.  From this vantage point looking one way, there was the ocean, and the other, the damage to the side of the mall buildings, the cracks, and, in places, where the roof had collapsed.

This would be the first time I’d set foot in the place since it had been a mall.

It had been popular, and there was always plenty of people shopping, eating and drinking, going to the cinemas, or just having a day out.  There had also been a museum dedicated to the naval days.

Now there was nothing.

It was ironic that as many of the castles in the British Isles that had been reduced to rubble, that was exactly what was going to happen here if someone didn’t take a bulldozer to the lot and level it out.

And that might happen sooner rather than later.  This was reputed to be the site of many a disappearance of a local person.  Three girls, two men, and a boy were supposedly hidden somewhere inside the mall, but the bodies had never been found.

I was thinking of those missing people when I said, with a degree of trepidation, “Do you really want to do this?  I mean, if you’re sure there’s an underground waterway here, I’ll happily take your word for it.”

Boggs just shook his head.  “You’re the last person I’d expect to chicken out.”

“It not that.”

“Isn’t it?  I can go by myself if you’re worried about getting hurt.”

“No.  You and me together.  I have to learn to fight those fears.”

Another look, then, “OK.  “Just a little further.”

Another minute or so, we reached a large rusting cylinder which had an almost illegible sign on it say the tank held inflammable liquid.  I tapped on the metal and it sounded empty.  I guess as part of the shut down they would have had to drain the tank.  I followed the tangle of pipes that ran slightly downhill for about 20 yards and then saw the opening in the fence Boggs had referred to.

We left our bikes behind the tank, among some bushes.

We then walked down to the fence line where the pipes passed through, and Boggs pulled back the chain wire.  A closer look showed it had been cut halfway up, making it easy to slip by, easier if there were two people along for the visit.

“Did you cut the fence,” I asked him.

He didn’t answer.  I guess he wanted me to think he had.

“Have you been here before?”

“Through here, yes.  A few times.”  He held the wire away and I climbed through.  I did the same for him on the other side, and he joined me.  The two halves melded back together so from a distance no one could tell the fence had been tampered with.

From the fence, we had to cross the access road to the marina, and across a carpark, now overgrown with weeds, and bushes, with the odd tree springing up through the cracks in the concrete.

The wall, when we reached it, was where several large cracks joined, and part of the wall had fallen away leaving a hole large enough to crawl through.  I put my head through the crack and could barely see anything.  There was light coming from the seaward side, but on the other, it was inky darkness.

There was also a very disturbing aroma, like freshly laid concrete crossed with the smell of a garage repair shop.  Years of spilled oil and grease.

“Is it safe?”  I asked.

Boggs shrugged.  “It could all fall down at any moment.  You read the signs on the fence.  Basically, this is, on one hand, cheating death.  On the other, we could be on the verge of an interesting discovery.”  Then, without another word, he went through the gap and inside. 

A few seconds later, I could see the light from his cell phone.

I shrugged.  If anything happened, like the building falling on me, I probably wouldn’t feel it.  And he was right, we could be on the verge of an interesting discovery.

I followed him inside and slid down the broken concrete and bricks to a dirty but solid-feeling floor, where Boggs was waiting, the light from his phone pointed in the direction of a storefront.

And looking at a dummy still dressed in clothes left behind.

I couldn’t help but think I’d seen that style of clothes somewhere before.

© Charles Heath 2020

The 2am Rant: There are days when everything annoys you

I wanted to write a bit about how my day was going, and then I got angry.  It was a slow fuse because most of what I was angry about I’d been reading this morning.

And, yes, it’s about political leaders, those in power and those in opposition, and how inept they are in a crisis.

Listening to our opposition leader, briefly before I turned him off to watch a rerun of McHale’s Navy, it annoyed me that he had no answers to offer, only criticism.

Unfortunately, he’s not alone in the world.

Political leaders tended to blame everyone else for problems of their own making, whether it was when they were once in power, which happens a lot, or once they’re in opposition, conveniently forgetting they, too, hoped that by ignoring the problem, it might go away.

Or that the long-suffering public will have forgotten.  That’s why we have pugnacious journalists who remember for us.

The incompetence of the people who are supposedly in charge beggars belief.

Oh, God, I’m back on my soapbox.

Forgive me.

I’ll shut up about it now.

I’m trying to imagine what it’s like in the cold because it’s the height of summer here.  It’s not helping my imagination,  so let’s try…

It’s cold today, about 14 degrees Celsius, when it’s usually 27 degrees Celsius.  The sun is letting us down, and I suppose I should be grateful that we are not suffering from an ice age.

To be honest, I was seriously considering lighting the log fire.  Instead, we have reverse cycle air-conditioning, which is probably, in the long run, cheaper.

Have you seen how much it costs to buy wood?

But…

That could have made it difficult to write.

Not to come up with inspiration, but literally write, because my office is colder than a chiller room.  My beer in storage out here is colder than it is in the fridge.  Well, that sounded better in my head than on paper, but you get what I mean.

So, instead of writing, I sat down and binge-watched Sweet Magnolias, a light-hearted series from Netflix, which is of the same vein as Chesapeake Shores, etc, and more the sort of program I’d expect from Hallmark.

It was good.  It hooked me.

Three sets of lives intertwined in a large town in middle America perhaps.  I heard Charleston mentioned so perhaps it was in South Carolina.

The good thing about it?  Not one mention of political stupidity.

Just good old-fashioned heartache and trials and tribulations of trying to live your life, bumping up against the obstacles life throws up at you.

The town was called Serenity, so there’s a pun in there somewhere.

Maybe I’ll get some writing done tomorrow.

What I learned about writing – Navigating the beta reader jungle

Navigating the Beta Reader Journey: Finding Your Tribe and Embracing the Feedback

You’ve poured your heart, soul, and countless hours into your manuscript. The final word is typed, the last paragraph polished (for the tenth time), and the initial exhilaration of “The End” begins to fade, replaced by a new, exciting, and slightly terrifying question: What now?

For many authors, the answer is: beta readers.

Beta readers are your book’s first audience. They’re not editors, but rather regular readers who offer fresh eyes and honest feedback on the story, characters, pacing, and overall impact before you dive into professional editing. Think of them as your secret weapon for uncovering blind spots and ensuring your manuscript truly shines.

But how do you find these elusive, invaluable individuals? And once you do, what should you expect from the experience? Let’s dive in.

Part 1: The Great Beta Reader Hunt – Finding Your Tribe

Finding the right beta readers is less about luck and more about strategic searching and clear communication. Here are some of the best places to look:

  1. Online Writing Communities:
    • Goodreads Groups: Many groups are specifically dedicated to beta reading and critique. Search for “beta readers,” “critique partners,” or your specific genre.
    • Facebook Groups: Similar to Goodreads, there are countless author and writer groups. Be sure to read group rules before posting your request.
    • Reddit: Subreddits like r/betareaders, r/DestructiveReaders (for advanced critiques), and r/writing often have threads or dedicated days for seeking feedback.
    • Dedicated Critique Sites (e.g., Scribophile, Critique Circle): These platforms operate on a credit system, where you earn credits by critiquing others’ work, which you then use to get critiques on your own. This ensures active participation and reciprocal feedback.
  2. Writer Friends & Networks:
    • Author Buddies: If you have author friends (even if they write in different genres), they can be excellent beta readers because they understand the writing process. You can even swap manuscripts.
    • Local Writing Groups: Check your local library, community centre, or independent bookstores for writing groups. These often have members eager to lend an eye.
    • Conference Connections: Anyone you’ve met at writing conferences or workshops could be a potential beta.
  3. Your Existing Audience (with caution):
    • If you have an email list, a strong social media following, or a blog, you might ask your most engaged readers.
    • Caveat: Ensure they understand they’re giving constructive criticism, not just fan praise. Make it clear you’re looking for honest feedback to improve, not just compliments.

Preparing Your “Beta Reader Ask”:

Before you send out that SOS, have these ready:

  • A concise Blurb/Synopsis: Something that hooks potential readers and accurately describes your book.
  • Genre & Word Count: Crucial for attracting readers who enjoy your type of story and have the time to commit.
  • Target Reader Profile: Who is your ideal reader? This helps betas assess if they’re a good fit.
  • Specific Questions: What kind of feedback are you looking for? (e.g., “Did the plot twists land?” “Were the characters believable?” “Was the pacing consistent?” “Where did you get confused or bored?”)
  • Timeline: Be realistic. A novel usually takes 2-4 weeks for a thorough read.
  • Desired Format: Do you want comments directly in the document, a questionnaire, or a general email?

Part 2: Embracing the Feedback – What to Expect

You’ve found your betas, sent out your manuscript, and the feedback starts rolling in. This is where the real growth happens, but it can also be an emotional rollercoaster.

Expect a Mix of Feedback:

  1. The Good:
    • Validation: Someone loved your villain! A scene you adored resonated with them. This is fuel for your writing soul.
    • Clarity: They pinpointed exactly where something clicked, or where they understood your intentions.
    • Big Picture Insights: They spotted a plot hole, identified a character whose motivations were unclear, or suggested a pacing adjustment that makes perfect sense. This is gold.
  2. The Challenging (But Necessary):
    • Conflicting Opinions: One beta loves a character, another finds them annoying. One thinks a scene is too long, another wishes it were longer. This is normal! Not every reader will agree, and it’s your job to find the common threads and decide what resonates with your vision.
    • Areas of Weakness: They might point out plot inconsistencies, underdeveloped subplots, or moments where tension sags. These aren’t personal attacks; they’re opportunities for improvement.
    • Honest (Sometimes Blunt) Language: Some readers are more direct than others. Try to detach emotion and focus on the substance of the feedback.
  3. The Less Useful:
    • Line Edits/Typos: While appreciated, this isn’t their primary job. Don’t base major revisions on these.
    • Vague Statements: “I just didn’t like it.” Without specifics, this is hard to act on.
    • Personal Preferences vs. Objective Issues: “I don’t like fantasy” isn’t helpful if you wrote a fantasy novel. Focus on feedback that points to structural or storytelling problems, not just taste.

How to Process Beta Reader Feedback:

  • Take a Deep Breath: It’s your baby, and hearing criticism can sting. Give yourself time to cool down before responding or making decisions.
  • Don’t Defend: Listen, read, absorb. Thank them for their time and honesty. This isn’t a debate.
  • Look for Patterns: If multiple betas point out the same issue (e.g., “The beginning was slow,” “I didn’t understand why Character X did that”), that’s a signal to pay serious attention.
  • Trust Your Gut (Ultimately): You are the author. While beta feedback is crucial, you don’t have to implement every suggestion. It’s your story. Weigh the advice against your artistic vision.
  • Keep Perspective: Beta readers are giving you their time and opinion for free (usually). Their goal is to help you make your book better.

Beta readers are an invaluable part of the writing journey, bridging the gap between your solitary creation and the wider world of readers. By proactively seeking them out and approaching their feedback with an open mind, you set your manuscript up for its best possible chance of success. Happy hunting, and happy revising!