When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.
I’ve been on a few of those in my time.
And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.
For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.
Did I say ‘Iron Horse’? Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.
It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast
But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay. I’m sure it’s happened more than once.
Then…
Are you inclined to go?
A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.
An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?
There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation. Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.
But, you never know. Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.
Hang about. Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?
I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!
Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.
I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?
Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.
Right now.
I pick up the pen.
Character number one:
Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing. Still me, but with a twist. Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance. Yes, I like that.
We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.
He had a wife, which brings us to,
Character number two:
Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons. It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated. There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.
Character number three:
The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.
Oops, too much, that is my old boss. He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him. Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him. Last name Benton. He will play a small role in the story.
Character number four:
Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.
More on her later as the story unfolds.
So far so good.
What’s the plot?
Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers? No, that’s been done to death.
Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world. Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people. That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people! There will be guns, and there will be dead people.
There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around. That’s better.
Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.
All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.
Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work. He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks. The phone rings. Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down. He’s needed. A few terse words, but he relents.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
A Day in Venice: Making the Most of Your 24-Hour Stopover
Venice, the City of Water, is a place that has captivated the hearts of travellers for centuries. With its stunning architecture, rich history, and unique culture, it’s no wonder that Venice is a top destination for many. But what if you only have a day to spend in this enchanting city? Is it possible to make the most of your 24-hour stopover and create unforgettable memories? The answer is yes, and it all starts with visiting one iconic place: St. Mark’s Square.
The Heart of Venice: St. Mark’s Square
Located in the heart of Venice, St. Mark’s Square (Piazza San Marco) is the city’s most famous landmark and a must-visit destination for any traveller. This stunning square is surrounded by breathtaking architecture, including the magnificent St. Mark’s Basilica, the Doge’s Palace, and the Campanile di San Marco (St. Mark’s Bell Tower). As you step into the square, you’ll be struck by the sheer beauty and grandeur of your surroundings.
Why St. Mark’s Square is a Must-Visit
So, what makes St. Mark’s Square the perfect place to visit during your one-day stopover in Venice? Here are just a few reasons:
Unparalleled Architecture: The square is home to some of the most stunning examples of Byzantine architecture in the world, including the intricate mosaics and golden domes of St. Mark’s Basilica.
Rich History: St. Mark’s Square has been the centre of Venetian life for centuries, with a history dating back to the 9th century. You can almost feel the weight of history as you walk through the square.
Cultural Significance: The square is a hub of cultural activity, with street performers, musicians, and artists adding to the lively atmosphere.
Accessibility: St. Mark’s Square is easily accessible by vaporetto (water bus) or on foot, making it a convenient destination for travellers with limited time.
Tips for Visiting St. Mark’s Square
To make the most of your visit to St. Mark’s Square, here are a few tips to keep in mind:
Arrive Early: Get to the square early in the morning to avoid the crowds and enjoy a more peaceful atmosphere.
Dress Modestly: Remember to dress modestly when visiting the basilica, as it’s a place of worship.
Take a Guided Tour: Consider taking a guided tour of the square and its surrounding attractions to get a deeper understanding of the history and culture.
Enjoy the Views: Don’t forget to take in the stunning views of the square from the top of the Campanile di San Marco, which offers breathtaking vistas of the city.
Conclusion
In conclusion, St. Mark’s Square is the perfect destination for travellers with a one-day stopover in Venice. With its stunning architecture, rich history, and cultural significance, this iconic square is sure to leave a lasting impression. By visiting St. Mark’s Square, you’ll be able to experience the essence of Venice and create unforgettable memories of your time in this enchanting city. So, make the most of your 24-hour stopover and head to St. Mark’s Square – you won’t regret it!
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledgedthat something had happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive, she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realises is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
Hitting the Wall: How to Rescue a Book Series When You’ve Literally Lost the Plot
You had a vision. Book one launched with a bang. Book two built the world and deepened the character arcs. Book three delivered a satisfying, breathless climax that left readers clamouring for more.
And then came book four.
You’re halfway through the manuscript, and you’ve hit the ultimate writer’s nightmare: you have quite literally lost the plot. The pacing is dead, the characters are wandering around a narrative wasteland like confused tourists, and staring at a blank Word document makes you want to take up competitive knitting.
If your series was going gangbusters and has now slammed head-first into a brick wall, take a deep breath. You aren’t the first bestselling author to face the dreaded “middle-book slump,” and you certainly won’t be the last.
Here is your emergency guide on what happens when you hit the wall, both figuratively and literally—and how to fix it before your readers jump ship.
Phase 1: The Anatomy of the Collapse (The “Literally” Part)
First, let’s address the physical and mental reality of hitting the wall. Writing a sprawling series takes a massive cognitive toll. By book four, you are no longer just writing a story; you are managing a fictional ecosystem.
When you lose the plot literally, it usually looks like this:
The Spaghetti Plot: You’ve introduced too many subplots, and they are now tangled in a knot so tight even Alexander the Great would reach for a pair of scissors.
The Character Drift: Your protagonist is doing things purely because the plot requires them to, rather than making organic choices based on their growth.
The Middle-Book Swamp: You know where the book needs to end, and you know where it started, but the 40,000 words in the middle are a foggy morass of conversations in coffee shops and hallways that lead nowhere.
When your brain hits this wall, it’s waving a white flag. It’s telling you that your current blueprint is broken.
Phase 2: Stop Digging (The Power of Stepping Back)
The worst thing you can do when you’ve lost the plot is to force yourself to churn out 2,000 words a day of absolute nonsense just to hit a daily quota. That’s how you end up with a manuscript that requires a ruthless, tear-soaked page-one rewrite later.
1. Give Yourself Permission to Pause: Step away from the keyboard for 48 hours. Seriously. Go for a walk, read a book in a completely different genre, or binge a TV show. Let your subconscious untangle the wires without your conscious frustration getting in the way.
2. Conduct an Autopsy: Print out what you have so far—yes, actual paper. Grab a red pen and a highlighter. Read through the manuscript from chapter one of book four (or even the end of book three) to see where the train officially derailed. Ask yourself:
Where did the momentum stop?
Which character choice felt forced?
Did I introduce a shiny new plot element just to keep things moving, and did it actually ruin the pacing?
Phase 3: Rebuilding the Roadmap
Once you’ve identified the crash site, it’s time to rebuild. If you’re a “pantser” (someone who writes by the seat of their pants), congratulations: you have officially reached the limits of pure intuition. It’s time to borrow a few tools from the outliners.
Triage Strategy A: The “Back to Basics” Reset
Look back at the promise you made to your readers in books one through three. What is the core engine of this series?
Is it a romance where the tension has stalled?
Is it a mystery where the wrong clues are taking up too much oxygen?
Strip away the shiny subplots and refocus entirely on the main conflict.
Triage Strategy B: Up the Stakes (or Change the Cost)
Often, a plot stalls because the characters are safe and the conflict is abstract. Introduce a ticking clock. Force your protagonist into a corner where they have to make an impossible choice. If a scene doesn’t change the characters’ status quo or advance the central mystery/conflict, cut it.
Triage Strategy C: Bring in the Wrecking Ball
If the middle is truly unsalvageable, ask yourself the most dangerous question a writer can ask: What is the worst possible thing that could happen to my characters right now? Blow up a safehouse. Have a trusted ally betray them. Force them to abandon their current mission and pivot entirely. Sometimes, introducing a narrative earthquake is the only way to shake the plot back to life.
Phase 4: Crossing the Finish Line
Writing a long-running series is a marathon of endurance. The first three books benefited from the initial adrenaline rush of creation—the honeymoon phase of world-building and character introduction. Book four is where the real work begins.
Hitting the wall doesn’t mean you’re a bad writer; it means you’ve outgrown your current structure.
So, forgive yourself for the mess. Roll up your sleeves, grab your red pen, and go find your plot. Your readers are waiting on the other side of the wall, and they are rooting for you to break right through it.
Investigations of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage, the police thought I had murdered my own wife, though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months, the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last time I saw Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months, I was barely functioning, to the extent that I had all but lost my job and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in that she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened became our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each other about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realise that all she had was her work; personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police, and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone, then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Chasing leads, maybe
Collecting the car was easy because it was not kept near my flat. I could not afford to park nearby, and couldn’t get a permit to park on the street. I had cursed my bad luck at the time, but now it was very useful.
I spend a few hours resting in the car, stopping along the way at a park, and then, well past nightfall, I drove to the block in Oakwood Avenue, easily recognizable from the exterior photo also provided by the realtor.
Twice around the block, I stopped around the corner, past the block, and noted that I could walk back and then take cover from the trees and shrubs growing in front of, and around the building. To reach the right flat, I would have to pass down the inner side towards the rear where, hopefully, there might be a door.
Otherwise, it would have to be the hard way.
At 00:45, I left the car, and walked back to the block, keeping an eye out form people walking, or looking out their windows on either side of the street. Then, satisfied I hadn’t been seen, I ducked through the trees and quickly walked the distance from the front to the side where I stopped and waited. After a few minutes, and nothing had stirred, I started down the side of the building.
Several flats had lights on, but the curtains were drawn. Being the ground floor, I doubted whether those curtains would be open at night. It didn’t take long to be alongside the flat in question.
It was in total darkness, and the curtains had been drawn.
First problem. There was no back door. The traditional entry point would be the front door, and no doubt there was a communal back door as well. Next, I checked the windows, and those that I could see were complete glass and non-opening. Worse still they had a metal grilled across them to deter thieves.
Near the corner, leading to the rear of the building was a window, higher up and ajar. By its location, I guessed this was the bathroom or the toilet. I was hoping for the former.
It took a few minutes to unlatch the window and several more to scramble up the wall, and it through the window opening, which wasn’t much wider than me. I had to be careful not to drop any of the bottles on the inner ledge.
Once down of the other side, inside the room, it was a narrow bathroom, without a bath, and almost impossible to see. I fixed the window and put everything back on the ledge, just in case someone did a circuit of the building at a security measure.
Once inside, and after one in the morning, little stirred.
I could just faintly hear the flat owners above, hardly enough noise to be concerned about, and bringing a thought; shouldn’t they be asleep like everyone else.
It was certainly a quiet neighborhood.
I brought a small torch from the car with me and sparingly used it to find my way around. When my eyes got used to the semi-darkness, I found that the flow from small lights of appliances adequately lit the rooms.
It had two bedrooms, one empty and being used as a storeroom, a lounge room, a dining area, and the bathroom, and kitchen area. It was big enough for a couple, or even a couple with one child.
Inside what I assumed was the front door, I found several letters shoved under the door. They were addressed to Mr. Adam Quinley.
I hoped that I’d not made a mistake and broken into a flat belonging to another person. O’Connell didn’t see to me to be a Quinley, because it was an unusual name.
The dates on the letters went back a week and told me whoever the flat belonged to, they hadn’t visited it for a while. I went back to the lounge room and over to a desk. There were the familiar cords leading to no computer, but there was a printer. It meant he had a laptop he carried with him.
A laptop that no one had found. It suggested to me that he had it somewhere near him, perhaps in a car, which may be still parked in a garage, or parking station somewhere.
I searched through the neat pile of documents on the desk, and in a folder marked ‘Accounts’ and found one for the car registration, in the name of Quigley. I noted the registration and type of car, and just in case I forgot it, folded the piece of paper and put it in my pocket. It would be the subject of my next search if nothing showed up.
The next half hour I made a thorough search of the flat and found nothing of use. I checked for all the spots he might have hidden the USB, but it was not there. He had kept it somewhere else.
Done, I left the flat by the front door, and for good measure, checked his mailbox, outside, and found a number of letters. I took them and would look at them back in the car. Just as I made the tree line to walk back, a car stopped outside the building.
The door opened and I watched the driver get out of the car, stop and look up and down the street, then walk towards the front door,
By chance, the occupant of the flat above the door switched on a light in the room which, uncurtained, spilled out to shed light on the person now at the front entrance.
I recognized her immediately, just before the light was switched off and darkness took over.
I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense. Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.
I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.
It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.
The boy was Alan. He was about six or seven. The girl was Louise, and she was five years old. She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.
I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.
We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds. I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.
We were so happy then.
Before the tragedy.
When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell. Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.
It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children. They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.
Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.
Until one day she couldn’t.
Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand. She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it. The damage done to her was too severe.
The doctors were wrong.
She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants. It was enough to have them arrested. It was not enough to have them convicted.
Justice would have to be served by other means.
I was outside the Bannister’s home.
I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die. It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing. I had murder in mind. It was why I was holding an iron bar.
Skulking in the shadows. It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.
I waited till Archie came out. I knew he eventually would. The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go. I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.
I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.
“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me. He knew what it was, and what it was for.
It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes. He was alone.
“Justice.”
“For that slut of a sister of yours. I had nuffing to do with it.”
“She said otherwise, Archie.”
“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.” An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.
I held up the pipe. It had blood on it. Willy’s blood. “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up. He sang like a bird. That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”
“He dunnit, not me. Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.” Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.
“No, Archie. He didn’t. I’m coming for you. All of you Bannisters. And everyone who touched my sister.”
It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.
I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries. Those were the very worst few hours of my life.
She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late. If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.
If only I’d not been late…
When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood. The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.
At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told. He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.
I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy. There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.
He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone. It was a half mile walk, through a park. The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness. He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.
He didn’t.
It took an hour and a half to get the names. At first, when he saw me, he laughed. He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.
When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list. I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.
When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi. The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me. I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.
At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality. The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.
Archie could help but rub it in my face. He was invincible.
Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out. He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged. I didn’t care.
Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me. I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.
I revisited Willy in the hospital. He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come. Suffocation was too good for him.
David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters. His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful. Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered. A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.
He and I met in the pub. We got along like old friends. He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges. We shook hands and parted as friends.
Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared. I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me. He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.
When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes. I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it. He told me he was just a spectator.
I’d read the coroner’s report. They all had a turn. He was a liar.
He took nineteen bullets to die.
Then came Archie.
The same factory only this time there were four seats. Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities. She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.
Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.
A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.
Archie’s mother cursed me. I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.
Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily. The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family. I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.
He was a little more worried about his sister.
I told him it was confession time.
He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.
I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony. I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes. This time he did, it all poured out of him.
I went over to Emily. He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm. Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.
“Louise was my friend, Archie. My friend.”
Then she shot him. Six times.
To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Now I was in jail. I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession. Without my sister, my life was nothing. I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.
They were not allowed to.
For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors. I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.
Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.
Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”
When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone. They ignored me. I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.
I was beginning to think I was going mad.
I ignored him.
“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that. You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”
Death sounded good. I told him to go away.
He didn’t. Persistent bugger.
I was handcuffed to the table. The prison officers thought I was dangerous. Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that. McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.
“Why’d you do it?”
“You know why.” Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.
“Your sister. By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”
“It was murder just the same. No difference between scum and proper people.”
“You like killing?”
“No-one does.”
“No, I dare say you’re right. But you’re different, Alan. As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen. We can use a man like you.”
“We?”
“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”
I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him. It looked like I didn’t have a choice.
Trained, cleared, and ready to go.
I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.
People like me.
In a mall, I became a shopper.
In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.
On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.
At the airport, I became a pilot. I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.
I had a passkey.
I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.
That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life. Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.
Two pilots and a steward. A team. On the plane early before the rest of the crew. A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.
Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.
Me.
Quick, clean, merciless. Done.
I was now an operational field agent.
I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides. It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.
I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.
It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.
Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.
Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.
I was Barry Gamble.
I was Lenny Buckman.
I was Jimmy Hosen.
I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.
That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision. If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.
Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.
God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness. Not that day. Not any day.
New York, New Years Eve.
I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag. They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.
This time I failed.
A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…
Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her. It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.
I was done.
I’d had enough.
I gave her the gun.
I begged her to kill me.
She didn’t.
Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.
How could she? No one could know what I’d been through.
I remembered her name after she had gone.
Amanda.
I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.
Someone else had the same imperfection.
I couldn’t remember who that was.
Not then.
I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it. After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.
The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.
It was late.
People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks. Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.
A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.
He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”
Two of his friends dragged him away. He shrugged them off, squared up.
I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground. I looked at his two friends. “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”
They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk. She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.
I looked around to see where her friends were. The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.
She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.
I sat beside her. “Where are your friends?”
“Dunno.”
“You need help?”
She looked up, and sideways at me. She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state. Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Nobody.” I was exactly how I felt.
“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care. Just leave me here to rot.”
She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.
Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.
“Where are your friends?” I asked again.
“Got none.”
“Perhaps I should take you home.”
“I have no home.”
“You don’t look like a homeless person. If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.” I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.
She lifted her head and looked at me again. “You a smart fucking arse are you?”
“I have my moments.”
“Have them somewhere else.”
She rested her head against my shoulder. We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.
“Take me home,” she said suddenly.
“Where is your place?”
“Don’t have one. Take me to your place.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I’m drunk. What’s not to like until tomorrow.”
I helped her to her feet. “You have a name?”
“Charlotte.”
The wedding was in a small church. We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot. Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.
On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.
I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.
Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.
And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age. She arrived late and left early.
Aunt Agatha.
She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.
“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte. It was clear she feared this woman.
“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.
“You know why.”
Agatha looked at me. “I like you. Take care of my granddaughter. You do not want me for an enemy.”
OK, now she officially scared me.
She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.
“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.
“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”
Charlotte never mentioned her again.
Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.
Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us. Her husband was not with her this time.
Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother. She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.
We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends. For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.
I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother. It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.
Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.
Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close. I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness. We were never close.
But…
This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head. It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.
And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction. “You seem distracted,” she said.
“I was just remembering my mother. Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”
“Why now?” I think she had a look of concern on her face.
“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.
Another look and I was wrong. She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.
I was crying, tears streaming down my face.
I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.
It was like coming up for air.
It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life. I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.
And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”
I could not speak, but I think I smiled. It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye. Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.
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.
…
A meeting with Nadia’s father
…
I’d met Nadia’s father once, but had seen him often on the streets.
He was a man to be feared, and never went anywhere without two of his foot soldiers beside him. Perhaps that was the downside of being a crime boss, you could not be out by yourself.
Benderby was the same, but he was better at disguising them as almost normal people. Cossatino’s henchmen looked exactly what they were, armed gorillas in cheap suits.
Vince was like his father, but with younger versions, the hangers-on from school days. It crossed my mind more than once how Nadia had separated him from his minders, but I imagine she was more resourceful than he was.
We said little on the way back to the car, there was little to say. I might have disagreed with her course of action, in fact, they needed to be taught a lesson, but I knew in doing so, it put a target on her back.
And, if anything happened to Vince, she have her father to answer to. In that, I don’t think that bothered her, because, unlike Vince, she could stand up to him. It would have taken more courage than I had for her to up and leave the way she had.
Of course, it didn’t take a lot to see why. As far as her father and Vince were concerned, she was dispensible, if or when a situation warranted it. Like working with Boggs and I had no doubt prompted Vince’s reaction.
Not far from the car was another, and as we approached, a man got out of the rear. Two others got out from the front. In the receding light, it was difficult to see who it was, but since the man had two minders it had to be either Benderby or Cossatino.
I looked at Nadia, and from her expression, she knew who it was. She stopped just short of the car, and I joined her.
“It’s my father,” she said.
“How did he know where you’d be?”
“A tracker on my car.”
So, she had intended he find her, but was it her intention that he find Vince? I doubted he would be interested in what happened to Alex.
She held up her hand, and said, “I wouldn’t come too close, Dad, not if your help wants to scrape what’s left of Vince off the side of the container.”
I looked closely at her hand, and it was her mobile phone. Would that convince him she meant what she said?
“You’re not that clever Nadia.”
He took two steps, his two minders pulled out their guns and were aiming them at us.
I saw her finger move, and a second later there was a sharp bang coming from the direction of the mall.
“The next one will go off next to Vince. Unlike what he did to Sam and I, he won’t have time to think about his death. Tell your goons to put away their guns and get back in the car, or else.”
Cossatino stopped and motioned to his men to lower their weapons. They did not put them away, nor did they look like they were going back to the car.
A test of wills. Who would crack first?
I wondered if she had wired an explosive in the container. I didn’t know much about electronics, but the steel walls of the container surely would have interfered with a cell phone signal. I guess it didn’t have to be in the container.
“I get it,” he said. “I should not have told Vince to take care of the problem. I didn’t consider he would take it literally. I’m sorry. We don’t have to do this.”
“Just the fact you think I’m a problem is bad enough, but getting Vince to deal with it?”
“That was a mistake. The solution was never to hurt you, or your friends.”
“He murdered Boggs, and for what? There never was any treasure, was there?”
“Maybe once, but no. The real treasure was the maps. People will pay a small fortune for them if they believe there’s a chance of finding a trove. We couldn’t have anyone upsetting the apple cart, but killing him wasn’t what I asked for. Vince and that fool Alex took it too far, and that’s on me.”
“Literal or not, you’ve made it very clear I don’t fit into this family. I never did, did I? You only tolerated Alex because it was a way of uniting the Cossatino’s and the Benderby’s, not because you wanted me to be happy.”
“There will always be a place for you, Nadia.”
“Not while Vince is alive. He won’t let it go, no matter what you tell him.”
“You leave Vince to me.”
“No. I can’t trust you either. So, here’s the deal. Sam and I are going back to Italy. I want no part of the family. But if I see you, Vince, or anyone else I don’t like hanging around, then Isobel and the twins will pay it.”
“What are you talking about…”
At that precise moment, his phone rang, a rather odd ring tone, like one specially set for a particular person, and he answered it without hesitation.
A few seconds later, the call ended.
“You have my word nothing will happen to you, or Sam, as long as I’m alive.” He motioned to his men to go back to the car. “Have a nice life Nadia.”
He glared at her for a few seconds then followed his men to the car. The car then drove off, leaving the two of us standing alone in the increasing twilight.
I had a hundred questions, but it didn’t seem to be the right time. I went with the most obvious, “What just happened?”
“My father thought he could clean up the mess he made using me as the scapegoat. Instead, he just confessed to, and confirmed Vince and Alex’s role in Boggs’s death.” She held up her phone. “Charlene was listening in to the confessions. The sheriff should have the two boys by now, and…”
In the distance we could hear the sirens of the police cars and see the flashing lights. Cossatino had driven into a trap.
“Isobel and the twins?”
“My father’s mistress. He’s been seeing her since before my mother disappeared. He cares more for them than me, even Vince if truth be told. It’s his one weakness and guarantees our safety. We are going to Italy?”
It might not have been the thought at the top of my list at that very moment, but it was almost a definite yes. There was nothing left here for me, and the last thing I wanted was Benderby as a proxy father.
The sirens had stooped, and the flashing lights become static. Nadia looked tired, perhaps more than a little sad at the way everything had turned put. I know I was.
As for what just happened, Nadia had surprised me. I think for a moment back at the mall she really was going to leave them to die, which I might have considered no better than her brother or Alex’s actions, but she really wasn’t like any of them, and I put that down to her mother.
Something else I hadn’t realizedwas that she had a different mother, but a memory from a long distant past came back when she had mentioned her to her father, something my mother had said, more or less to say she couldn’t understand what a woman like Francesca could see in a man like him.
Perhaps she had simply up and left when she finally realized the monster she married, but it didn’t explain why she left her daughter behind. Perhaps her father was guilty of that crime too.
“I think we both need a change, and I’ve never been out of the country.” I took her hand in mine, then gave her a hug.
She was shaking, whether it was the cold or the enormity of what just happened was debatable, but for the moment it was over. There would be new storms to face tomorrow, not the least of which would be to face my mother.
“Let’s go back to the hotel. You need to get some rest.”
Perhaps not, but now seems to be an appropriate time, nearing the age of 72, to take stock.
We have achieved a lot in the last twenty or so years once the children have grown up and can look after themselves.
Unlike a lot of more modern couples who are travelling in their 20s and 30s and then having children, we chose to do it the other way around.
To me, it seemed easier to deal with teenagers when we were in our 40s rather than our 60s. With the benefit of hindsight, I can truthfully say we were right.
We were older and wiser when we travelled and more aware of the dangers around us, sometimes overlooked or ignored by a youthful devil-may-care attitude.
But, in saying that ….
No, I don’t think I’ll be getting to see Mt Kilimanjaro, observing the wild animals in the Serengeti, climbing Mt Everest, or seeing the ancient pyramids.
But, if it is ever possible before I die, I still want to go to the Greek Islands, and, Santorini is at the top of my travel bucket list.
We’ve been to London. We’ve been to Paris and Euro Disney. We’ve been to Rome and seen the ancient ruins. We’ve been to Vienna, Schönbrunn Palace, and, particularly for us, a visit to Swarovski crystal world, near Innsbruck, we’ve been to Salzburg, and been on the Sound of Music tour.
We’ve been to Florence and loved it, we’ve been to Venice and loved that too, and we’ve spent a few days in the heart of Tuscany, and want to go back for longer, much longer.
In fact, that’s the second item on the travel bucket list.
We’ve also been to Singapore and Hong Kong, at first out of necessity as an airline stopover, but then we went back to see the city and tourist, and non-tourist attractions.
I will not forget staying at the Hong Kong Conrad Hotel as a Diamond Hilton Honors member. Oh, the memories.
We’ve also stayed on the French Riviera, in a timeshare apartment in Antibes where every morning when out back you had a view of the shimmering Mediterranean if the sun was out.
Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo, the billionaire’s yachts in Antibes harbour, Monte Carlo, and ‘that’ casino, taking the same drive along the coast as Grace Kelly did in To Catch a Thief, and feeling like James Bond arriving for a new adventure, minus the half-million-dollar sports car.
But now, crashing back to earth with an extremely hard thump ….
Travel in the future is looking difficult for both of us, not only financially but from a health aspect. We are both not as sprightly as we used to be.
Yet given the restraints and if it is at all possible, aside from the Greek Islands and Tuscany, the next items on the list are:
Germany, visiting both Berlin, from a Cold War aspect, the Brandenburg gate springs to mind, and Munich at the time of the Octoberfest. As a beer drinker that is also high on my bucket list.
Scotland, more so since we’ve started watching Outlander, and besides being a beer drinker, I am also partial to a good Single Malt, the Whiskey Trail.
Ireland, because my wife’s previous name was Murphy and at some point, in the long distant past some relatives emigrated to Australia, and she would like to visit the country of her forebears.
But with the current state of the world, our health issues, and that all-important requisite money, or the lack of it, perhaps it’s time to visit other parts of our own country.
Perhaps it’s time to do a culinary trip, particularly down south. It’s practical, achievable, and safe.
The Power of Tropes: Why Cliffhangers, Third-Act Twists, and the Hero’s Quest Still Rule Storytelling
As writers, we all chase the holy grail of absolute originality. We want to craft something so entirely unprecedented that it leaves readers breathless, wondering, “How on earth did they think of that?”
However, in the pursuit of being unique, it’s easy to slip into the writing morass—that confusing, overly abstract swamp where narratives become so convoluted that they alienate the reader entirely.
The truth? Tropes aren’t the enemy of creativity; they are its foundation. Tropes are the shared language between storyteller and audience. When used skillfully, time-tested devices like cliffhangers, third-act twists, and the hero’s quest act as narrative anchor points. They keep readers turning pages while giving you a sturdy framework to inject your own voice and subvert expectations.
Let’s break down three of the most powerful storytelling tropes, exploring the distinct advantages and disadvantages of each, and how you can use them without falling into clichés.
1. The Cliffhanger: The Ultimate Page-Turner
Think of the classic serialised novels of the 19th century or modern prestige television: just as the tension reaches a fever pitch, bam—fade to black. A cliffhanger abruptly halts the narrative at a moment of high suspense, leaving the ultimate fate of the characters hanging in the balance.
The Advantages:
Instant Engagement: Cliffhangers hijack our psychological need for closure (known as the Zeigarnik effect). Readers remember uncompleted tasks and unresolved plots much better than finished ones, making it nearly impossible to put the book down.
Momentum: They bridge the gap between chapters, episodes, or books. In serialised fiction or indie publishing, a well-placed cliffhanger is your best tool for securing immediate pre-orders for the sequel.
The Disadvantages:
Reader Frustration: If overused or deployed cheaply, cliffhangers can feel manipulative. When every single chapter ends with a manufactured crisis that is immediately resolved in the next sentence, readers lose trust in the narrative stakes.
The “Cheap Trick” Trap: Relying solely on cliffhangers can mask lazy plotting. If the core narrative arc isn’t compelling on its own, a cliffhanger is just a Band-Aid slapped over a boring story.
Pro Tip: Use cliffhangers sparingly and ensure they emerge naturally from the plot. A true cliffhanger should answer one major question while brilliantly spawning two more.
2. The Third-Act Twist: The Perspective Shifter
Positioned just as the story hurtles toward its climax, the third-act twist turns everything the reader thought they knew completely upside down. Think of The Sixth Sense, Gone Girl, or Shutter Island. Suddenly, clues that were hiding in plain sight take on a terrifying or triumphant new meaning.
The Advantages:
High Re-readability: A masterfully executed twist rewards the reader. Once the secret is out, looking back at the narrative jigsaw puzzle and seeing how the pieces fit together is one of the most deeply satisfying experiences a reader can have.
Emotional Resonance: A great twist doesn’t just shock; it changes the stakes. It forces the protagonist (and the audience) to re-evaluate their journey, often elevating a standard plot into a profound thematic statement.
The Disadvantages:
The “Come Out of Nowhere” Problem: If a twist has no foreshadowing, it stops being clever and starts looking like cheating. Readers hate feeling tricked by information the author withheld just to pull a fast one.
Predictability: Conversely, because third-act twists are so ubiquitous, seasoned readers can often spot them a mile away. If your twist relies on an amnesiac narrator, a secret twin, or “it was all a dream,” genre-savvy readers will guess it by page fifty.
Pro Tip: Play fair. Hide your clues in moments of high action so the reader’s attention is divided. When the twist drops, the reader should slap their forehead and say, “Of course! It was right there the whole time!”
3. The Hero’s Quest: The Blueprint of Human Myth
From The Odyssey and The Lord of the Rings to Star Wars and The Hunger Games, the hero’s quest (often mapped out as Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey) is the undisputed heavyweight champion of storytelling structures. A protagonist is called to adventure, crosses a threshold, faces trials, undergoes a profound transformation, and returns home forever changed.
The Advantages:
Universal Resonance: The hero’s quest mirrors the human condition. We are all striving to grow, overcome obstacles, and find our place in the world. Because of this, the quest structure speaks directly to our primal emotional wiring.
Built-in Character Arcs: The structure forces your protagonist to change. By putting them through a gauntlet of external trials that reflect their internal flaws, you guarantee a deeply satisfying character arc.
The Disadvantages:
Formulaic Fatigue: Because it is so ubiquitous, the quest can easily feel paint-by-numbers. If you hit every single milestone of the Hero’s Journey without subverting any expectations, your story risks feeling like a generic clone of a thousand other books.
Scope Creep: Quests are naturally sprawling. It is very easy to get bogged down in world-building, lore, and “fetch quests” that stall the narrative momentum and exhaust the reader.
Pro Tip: Subvert the milestones. Maybe your hero refuses the call and stays home, changing their small corner of the world instead. Or perhaps the mentor figure turns out to be the ultimate antagonist. Give the familiar skeleton some entirely new skin.
Conclusion: Embrace the Tropes, Find Your Voice
Tropes are not a cage; they are tools. Cliffhangers keep the pages turning, third-act twists blow the reader’s mind, and the hero’s quest provides a resonant emotional backbone.
Don’t be afraid to lean into these time-tested traditions. Readers want the comfort of the familiar, provided you deliver it with a fresh voice, sharp prose, and genuine emotional stakes. Use these tropes as your foundation, and let your unique perspective be the architecture that brings the house down.
What is your favorite trope to write or read? Do you love a good plot twist, or do you prefer a classic epic journey? Let us know in the comments below!
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 