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.
Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right
Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.
It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.
…
John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.
They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.
After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.
But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.
What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.
So, you’ve got a layover in Lisbon—just one day to dip your toes into the magic of Portugal’s sun-drenched capital. Maybe you’re en route to somewhere else, or perhaps it’s a quick escape squeezed between commitments. Whatever the reason, you’re here now, with 24 hours to uncover a piece of Lisbon’s soul. The city is bursting with charm—colourful tiled buildings, steep hills, and the scent of pastéis de nata around every corner. But with limited time, where do you go to make that single day truly unforgettable?
Lisbon offers countless gems, from the historic Belém Tower to the lively streets of Alfama. Yet, if I had to choose one place that captures the essence of Lisbon—its beauty, its spirit, and its heartbeat—it would be Miradouro da Senhora do Monte.
Why This Spot?
Perched on one of Lisbon’s highest hills in the Graça neighbourhood, Miradouro da Senhora do Monte is more than just a viewpoint—it’s an experience. While other miradouros (viewpoints) like Portas do Sol or São Pedro de Alcântara are popular, this one feels like a local secret. It offers a breathtaking, panoramic vista of the entire city: the red rooftops cascading toward the Tagus River, the majestic São Jorge Castle, and the iconic 25 de Abril Bridge stretching into the distance. It’s peaceful, often less crowded, and provides a moment of quiet awe amidst a bustling city.
Making Your Day Memorable
Start your morning here. Grab a coffee and a fresh pastel de nata from a nearby bakery, find a spot on the wall, and watch Lisbon wake up. The soft morning light paints the city in golden hues, and you’ll hear the distant sounds of trams clattering and church bells ringing. It’s the perfect introduction to Lisbon’s laid-back yet vibrant vibe.
From there, wander through Graça’s cobbled streets, explore the historic Alfama district (just a short walk downhill), and maybe catch a live Fado performance later in the day. But it’s that serene moment at Miradouro da Senhora do Monte that will stick with you—the feeling of being on top of the world, with all of Lisbon spread out at your feet.
A Tip for the Journey
Wear comfortable shoes—Lisbon’s hills are no joke! And don’t rush. The beauty of a one-day stopover is in savouring small moments. Whether you’re travelling solo, with a partner, or with friends, this viewpoint offers a slice of Lisbon’s magic that’s both intimate and grand.
So, if you have just one day in Lisbon, make your way to Miradouro da Senhora do Monte. Let the view steal your breath, and let Lisbon steal your heart. Até logo, and safe travels
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door, so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw that the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup, and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots, and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbour and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa: the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room, which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were in the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa, behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I moved aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage, which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped into the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I were the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked, and where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I were not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage, staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me, and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today, my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed, and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect the dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed, and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts: it was either the police, alerted by the neighbours, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it were the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realised it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she were any sort of law-abiding citizen, she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good, hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed, though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished, she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
The Art of the Slow Burn: Why You Need to Hook Your Readers Early (Even When Taking Your Time)
We’ve all heard the golden rule of writing: Start with a bang. Grab the reader by the lapels on page one, throw them into a high-stakes action scene, or drop a mind-bending mystery that demands an immediate answer.
It’s solid advice. But what if your story isn’t built that way?
What if you are writing an atmospheric literary drama, an intricate, world-building-heavy fantasy, or a psychological thriller that relies on a slow, simmering escalation of tension? As writers, we often fall into the trap of believing that “taking our time” gives us a free pass to wander. We spend the first three chapters describing the weather, establishing generational family trees, or letting characters slowly drink their morning coffee.
Here is the hard truth every writer needs to hear: Some stories can take their time before sinking the hook in, but it’s best to give the reader a reason to keep turning the page.
Let’s explore how to master the delicate balance of the “slow burn” without putting your reader to sleep.
The Misconception of the “Slow Burn”
When readers pick up a slow-burn story, they aren’t looking for instant gratification—they are looking for immersion. They want to be enveloped in a rich environment or watch a relationship evolve over hundreds of pages.
However, slow burn does not mean stagnant.
Stagnation happens when nothing of emotional, psychological, or narrative consequence is happening. A slow burn, on the other hand, is about anticipation. It’s the feeling of walking down a dark hallway where you know something is waiting for you at the end. You aren’t running yet, but your senses are heightened.
If your story requires a gentle, unhurried opening, you cannot afford to be passive. You have to actively manufacture curiosity.
4 Ways to Hook Your Reader While Taking Your Time
If you aren’t starting with an explosion or a murder, what should you put on page one? How do you keep the reader invested while you lay your narrative foundation?
1. Weaponize the “Promise of the Premise”
Even if your plot is moving at a leisurely pace, the reader needs to know the journey is worth the mileage. Establish the stakes or the core question early, even if you don’t answer it for a long time.
Example: If your novel is about two people who slowly fall in love over a ten-year friendship, show a flash-forward of them at a crossroads, or establish early on that one of them is moving away forever. The reader now has a ticking clock in the back of their mind, making the slow, cozy scenes that follow infinitely more poignant.
2. Create Immediate Character Intrigue
If the plot isn’t racing forward, the characters must carry the weight. But backstory dumps won’t save you here. Instead, hook the reader with behavioral anomalies or compelling contradictions.
Introduce a character who is outwardly charming but makes a deeply unsettling observation.
Show someone reacting to a mundane situation in an entirely unexpected way.
Curiosity is an itch. If you give the reader a psychological puzzle to solve about a character on page two, they will keep reading just to figure out what makes that person tick.
3. Establish an Irresistible Atmosphere
If you are going to take your time getting to the plot, the world you are building better be a place the reader actually wants to inhabit. Atmosphere can be a powerful hook in its own right. Think of gothic horror or cozy mysteries. The pacing is often deliberate, but the sensory details—the chill in the air, the creak of the floorboards, the smell of rain on dust—create a mood so intoxicating that the reader forgets they haven’t reached the inciting incident yet.
4. Ask a Question the Reader Needs Answered
You don’t need a dead body to create mystery. You just need a gap in information. Drop a subtle hint about something that happened in the past, or introduce an unspoken tension between two characters. When a writer hints at a secret without immediately revealing it, they are playing a game of psychological chess with the reader. The reader keeps turning the page not because they are running from danger, but because they are chasing an answer.
The Golden Rule: Respect Your Reader’s Patience
Readers are generous. They will happily go on a long, winding journey with you—if they trust you.
Trust is built in the opening pages. It comes from tight prose, a distinct narrative voice, and the subtle, underlying sense that the author knows exactly where they are taking you, even if they are taking the scenic route.
Take your time, breathe life into your world, and let your characters develop organically. Just make sure that as you weave your slow-burn tapestry, you’re handing the reader a thread they can’t help but follow.
My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.
I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.
Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.
Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.
The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.
I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.
The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.
I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.
Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?
Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.
There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.
The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.
As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.
There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.
With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.
A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.
He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.
Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.
I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.
The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.
“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”
Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”
“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”
He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.
Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.
“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”
“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”
“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”
I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.
“Name of guest, sir?”
“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.
She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”
Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”
Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”
An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.
“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”
Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”
Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”
I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.
“No.”
“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”
She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”
“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.
“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”
She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.
The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”
“No. You have more than you can know.”
“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”
“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”
Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.
I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Chasing leads, maybe
…
A second later the light came on and I was temporarily blinded.
The woman had to be on the other side of the door, and coming into the room, I must have passed her. Her voice sounded quite old, so it must be the mother.
“Turn around, slowly.
I did. By that time my eyes had readjusted, and I could see a woman, still dressed, with what looked to be an Enfield WW1 rifle. Just as dangerous now as it was then, particularly at this close range.
“Mrs Quigley, I presume,” I asked. Remain polite and conversational and keep her from getting nervous.
“Who are you?”
“Sam Jackson.”
“Is that your real name?”
“Why would you presume to think it wasn’t?”
“You’re breaking into my house which means you’re a criminal, and criminals by nature are also liars. Why would I think you any different to the rest?”
Good question. “I knew your son.”
“Which one?”
“Adam.”
“He’s not here. He hasn’t been around since he gallivanted off overseas a few years back.”
“I saw him only a few days ago, in London. Not gallivanting, by the way, but with feet firmly planted on the ground.”
“He’s not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
She didn’t know he was dead, and I didn’t think it was my business to tell her. That was Dobbin’s job, and I was surprised he hadn’t. Or, I only had her word for it he hadn’t.
“Are you hard of hearing.” Get into the middle of the room.”
I moved slowly into the middle, watching her edge slowly towards the writing desk while keeping the gun aimed at me. If I tried to run for it, and if she was any sort of shot, I’d be dead before I got three, possibly four paces. If I could get a shred of surprise.
I hadn’t seen the phone on the desk, and watched her pick up the receiver, and, with the same hand, started dialing a number.
“Put it down.” Another voice, another woman, coming from the doorway.
Jennifer.
With a gun in hand, pointed at the woman.
“What if I shoot him, or you?”
“You’ll be dead before either scenario happens. Just put it down. I’m not here to shoot anyone if I can help it.”
Of course, this was just like one of those scenes out of a comedic spy film. Guns pointing in all directions.
And, true to form, a click, and a voice. “You put your weapon down.”
He appeared out of the shadows and had the gun pointed straight at Jennifer’s head at very short range.
Adam Quigley, aka O’Connell, and very much alive.
Jennifer dropped her gun, but Adam didn’t take his gun off her.
“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.
When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact that his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.
From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.
There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just several small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, point to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.
Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints at impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovers piece by piece, damning evidence that she is about to leave him for another man.
Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?
Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?
Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence are about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?
It’s not like you can pull over to the side of the road…
…
In space, it’s a little difficult to just suddenly stop.
But, given several hundred thousand kilometers, anything is possible.
Especially when there’s a request to divert to Venus.
You can’t always tell when the ship drops out of cruise speed to what could be considered a dead stop, not that a dead stop is necessarily achievable.
I was down in the mess hall when the call came from the officer of the deck for me to return. I was halfway through a half decent cup of coffee, and had just had the donut delivered.
Both now had to be sacrificed.
I looked out the window into the inky blackness of space and it was difficult to say if we were in idle mode. There was, however, another ship just off the port bow, a old cargo ship that had seen better days, and we both looked like we were drifting together.
I suspect that meant we were keeping station, much the same as we would if we were visiting a planet.
I took the elevator and arrived on the bridge where the captain was in earnest conversation with the chief engineer and chief scientist.
He looked up when he saw me approach.
“Ah, number one, there’s a team waiting down on the transport deck. The Aloysius 5 has some vital equipment and personnel on board for repairs at the mining colony on Venus, and we’ve been diverted to pick them up and take them there post haste.”
“Is the other ship out of commission?”
“A temporary issue with the drive. We’re sending an engineering team over to help with the repairs and will check their progress on the way back.”
“Yes, sir.”
Should be simple, I thought. Take one of the shuttle craft over, load up, drop the engineers, get back, head for Venus, about 5 hours from our current position. Much the same as a pleasant drive in the country.
And I needed more shuttle time.
In the elevator I was joined by one of the security staff, a gung-ho type lieutenant named Andrews. A man always looking for trouble, the sort who would shoot first and ask questions later.
Maybe it was not going to be a pleasant outing after all.
Today I decided to take some time out and read a few blogs, to see what the rest of the world is doing leading up to CampNaNoWriMo, and sometimes read some news that’s usually a few days old, not that I’m complaining.
And still working on the James Bondish piece that set my mind on fire. Last I heard, he has almost completed a successful, almost suicide, mission. There’s just a small matter of a rebel helicopter with air-to-air missiles trying to shoot down the escape plane.
I try to keep away from the news if it’s possible, but it comes at you from everywhere. My browser somehow decided to allow notifications and every few minutes a little popout slides out from the bottom right corner and tells me what’s gone wrong.
Never any good news by the way.
And yes, I have Windows 10, but I can’t be bothered reading the manual to find out how to stop them. Maybe, subconsciously, I don’t.
I never thought one man could generate so many headlines. We had one, given the nickname, the human headline, but Trump, he is in a class of his own.
I used to like watching him on The Apprentice, believe it or not.
But again I digress…
I saw the word selfish popup in a number of posts, and it reminded me that, at times writers have to be. There are only so many hours in a day, and after emails, blogs, reading, news, life, there’s very little time left to write.
So, we need to be selfish at those times. I am because when I sit down to write, there shouldn’t be any distractions. As a writer, I’m not seeking popularity, maybe one day that will come, but I’m in this writing thing because I have stories to tell and I want to get them down. Nobody may ever read them, I may never rise above mediocrity, but I am doing something I love, and very few of us out there can say that unequivocally.
Most of us have a day job or something else that consumes a great deal of our time.
Oh to be a successful author like James Patterson? But how does he do it? I guess it comes down to hard work, and a little bit of luck.
And maybe, one day, if I work hard enough, some of it might come my way.
I have seen this television program once or twice, where a television personality digs into their past, and sometimes they discover they had famous, or sometimes infamous, relatives.
I don’t think I would be so lucky, or unlucky as the case may be.
But, to be honest, I haven’t really been interested in digging into the past.
On the other hand, my older brother has a keen interest in genealogy in general, borne from a desire to find out more about our family tree.
And he has gone back to the 1600s, for the relatives who came out from England, and no, they have no transported convicts, or at least he’s not saying.
Genealogy is a rather fascinating subject, and I’ve discovered that it is taught in university as a degree. My brother has one now.
What I didn’t realise is that I’ve been playing with it for years because in writing what might be called sagas, you need to create your own set of mythical families, and then trace to forebears back in time.
I have one novel I’m writing that has required a family tree, and recently another for a story that required starting with a character who participated in the Eureka Stockade. We had to create parents, a migration from England to Australia, and then construct a family tree through to today, so we could write a story from the perspective of a fourth-generation girl at school doing a school project.
If that sounds complicated, believe me, it is. But from my granddaughter, who came up with the idea, she is very excited about it.
Much better than sitting in front of a computer playing games or a tv watching cartoons.
But once again I digress…
I have found a lot of genealogy stuff that my mother had been working on, and I’m taking it to my brother, and at the same time, l will get the latest instalment on our family.
So far, I’ve learned that I come from a combination of British relatives on both my mother’s and father’s side, the most recent being my father’s mother, who was born in England, and German from my mother’s side, her surname being Auhl.
No doubt, and with a great deal of irony, my relatives probably fought against each other in two world wars.
I’m sure more will be revealed on Wednesday.
But the more I learn, the more I feel inclined to create a fictionalised history with my family members as characters in the story. At the moment, a biographical account of the family would be reasonably boring since, as yet, no one notorious had been discovered.
