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.
Beyond the Spark: Laying the Foundation for Your Literary Masterpiece
That brilliant novel idea just hit you, didn’t it? It’s a lightning bolt of inspiration, a fully formed world, or a character whispering their story in your ear. The urge to sit down and pour it all onto the page is intoxicating, exciting, almost overwhelming. You can already see your name on the cover, taste the triumph, imagine the world devouring your words.
Hold that thought. Just for a moment.
Because before you dive headfirst into crafting the next blockbuster novel that’s going to take the world by storm, there are things to do. Essential groundwork. A foundation to lay. Think of it not as delaying the inevitable, but as strengthening the very ground your literary edifice will stand upon.
We’re talking about the critical “Where,” “How,” and “When” of your writing journey. As for the “Why”? You already know that. The burning desire to create, to tell this story, is your fuel. So, let’s focus on the practical necessities, before even one word is written.
The “Where”: Crafting Your Creative Sanctuary
Your physical and digital environment play a monumental role in your ability to focus and produce. This isn’t just about having a desk; it’s about optimizing your space for creativity.
1. Your Dedicated Writing Space:
Physical Location: Whether it’s a quiet corner of your spare room, a dedicated office, or even a specific table at your local coffee shop – designate a primary writing spot. This helps train your brain to enter “writing mode” when you’re there.
Ergonomics & Comfort: Invest in a comfortable chair and a desk setup that supports good posture. You’ll be spending hours here. Back pain is a creativity killer.
Minimize Distractions: Clear clutter. Turn off notifications. Let family/housemates know your boundaries when you’re in this space. Consider noise-canceling headphones.
2. Your Digital Arsenal:
Reliable Hardware: A computer or device that runs smoothly and won’t constantly crash. Nothing kills momentum faster than technical issues.
Writing Software: Choose your weapon. Word processor (Microsoft Word, Google Docs), dedicated writing software (Scrivener, Ulysses, Novelflow), or even just a text editor. Understand its features and how it can aid your specific process (outlining, character sheets, research integration).
Cloud Backup System: This is NON-NEGOTIABLE. Dropbox, Google Drive, OneDrive, iCloud – pick one and use it religiously. Imagine losing hundreds of hours of work. Don’t let it happen.
Internet Access (and Discipline): Necessary for research, but ensure you have strategies to avoid its inherent distractions (website blockers, dedicated writing apps).
The “How”: Your Strategic Blueprint
This is where the magic of planning happens. Before you write a single scene, you need to understand the world you’re building and the journey you’re taking your readers on.
1. Solidify Your Core Concept (The Logline): Can you summarize your novel in one compelling sentence? This is your North Star. It helps you stay focused and reminds you of the story’s essence.
2. Outline & Structure:
Plot Arc: Will you follow a three-act structure, hero’s journey, Snowflake Method, or something else? Decide on a general framework.
Chapter Breakdown: Even if it’s just a rough idea of what happens in each key section, having a skeletal outline gives you direction and prevents getting lost.
Key Plot Points: Identify your inciting incident, rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution.
3. Character Development:
Protagonist & Antagonist: Go deep. What are their motivations, fears, desires, backstories, quirks? What is their character arc?
Supporting Characters: Understand their roles, relationships, and how they contribute to the plot and theme.
Character Bibles: Create detailed profiles for your main players.
4. World-Building (If Applicable):
Rules & Logic: For fantasy/sci-fi, establish the laws of your world. Magic systems, technology, societal structures, history, geography. Consistency is key.
Sensory Details: What does it look, sound, smell, feel like? Start sketching out the atmosphere.
5. Research Strategy:
Identify Needs: What do you really need to research? Historical facts, technical details, cultural nuances?
Resource Gathering: Create folders for articles, books, images, and links. Don’t go down endless rabbit holes yet, but know where to find the answers.
6. Goal Setting:
Overall Word Count Target: What’s a realistic length for your genre?
Milestones: Break down the big goal into smaller, manageable chunks (e.g., Act 1 complete, first half done).
The “When”: Carving Out Your Creative Time
Even the most brilliant idea and the most detailed plan are useless without dedicated time. This isn’t about finding time; it’s about making time.
1. Establish a Consistent Writing Routine:
Time Block: Identify the best time of day for you to write – when you’re most alert, least distracted, or most creative. Block it out in your calendar.
Consistency is King: Try to write at the same time every day, or at least every writing day. This builds a habit and signals to your brain that it’s “work time.”
2. Set Realistic Deadlines:
Draft Completion: When do you want to finish the first draft? Break it down into weekly or monthly goals.
Accountability: Share your deadlines with a trusted friend, writing group, or mentor.
3. Prepare for Your Session:
Clear the Decks: Before your writing time, handle urgent emails or small tasks that might nag at you.
Fuel & Hydration: Have water, coffee, or a healthy snack ready.
Review Your Plan: Briefly revisit your outline or what you intend to write during that session to get your mind oriented.
These aren’t obstacles; they’re launchpads. By investing time in these pre-writing essentials, you’re not just preparing to write a novel; you’re setting yourself up for success, minimizing roadblocks, and ensuring a smoother, more productive creative journey.
So, take a deep breath, savor that brilliant idea, and then roll up your sleeves. Your masterpiece awaits its well-laid foundation.
The Accra You Haven’t Seen: 5 Unique & Uncrowded Tourist Spots
Accra, Ghana’s dazzling coastal capital, is a city that pulses with life. From the vibrant beats of highlife music to the aromatic symphony of street food, every corner offers an adventure. But with adventure often comes a crowd. The usual suspects—the Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum, the bustling Arts Centre, the sun-soaked Labadi Beach on a Sunday—are rightfully famous, but they can sometimes feel overwhelming.
What if you could peel back a layer of the city and find the spaces where its true, quiet soul resides? Places brimming with distinctive character, history, and beauty, yet blissfully free from the tourist throngs?
Forget the long lines and the jostling crowds. Here are the top five visitor attractions in Accra that offer a richer, more intimate encounter with the city.
1. For the Soulful Historian: The W.E.B. Du Bois Centre
Tucked away in the serene residential neighbourhood of Cantonments is a place of profound historical significance and hushed reverence: The W.E.B. Du Bois Memorial Centre for Pan-African Culture. This isn’t just a museum; it was the final home of Dr. William Edward Burghardt Du Bois, the iconic American civil rights activist and Pan-Africanist who spent his final years in Ghana.
What Makes It Distinctive: The centre offers a deeply personal journey into the life of a giant. You can walk through his preserved study, see his personal library, and visit his simple yet moving grave, which lies in the peaceful courtyard alongside the tomb of his wife, Shirley Graham Du Bois. It’s a place for quiet reflection, not just sightseeing, offering a powerful connection to the global quest for African liberation.
Why It’s Not Crowded: It’s often overshadowed by the larger, more centrally located monuments. Its scholarly nature naturally attracts a more contemplative crowd, meaning you can often have the entire space to yourself to absorb its powerful history.
Pro Tip: Give yourself at least an hour. The exhibits are detailed and the atmosphere invites you to slow down and read, reflect, and appreciate the legacy of this incredible figure.
2. For the Art Lover: Artists Alliance Gallery
If the chaotic, beautiful energy of the Arts Centre market feels like too much, there is a sublime alternative. Located near the Tetteh Quarshie Interchange, the Artists Alliance Gallery is a magnificent three-story haven for Ghanaian art.
What Makes It Distinctive: This is not a market; it’s a curated gallery experience. Housed in a beautiful, traditional-style building, it features an astounding collection of high-quality art, from intricate contemporary paintings and sculptures to stunning Ashanti kente cloth and ancient beads. All pieces are for sale, and there’s no pressure to buy. You can simply wander through the airy rooms and appreciate the sheer breadth of Ghanaian creative talent.
Why It’s Not Crowded: Many tourists flock to the bargain-hunting vibe of the main Arts Centre, leaving this gallery as a hidden gem for those in the know. Its tranquil, almost museum-like atmosphere is a welcome escape.
Pro Tip: Even the building itself is a work of art. Be sure to explore the courtyards and every floor, as each one hosts different styles and mediums of work.
3. For the Nature Seeker: Legon Botanical Gardens
Need a break from the concrete and traffic? Head to the Legon Botanical Gardens, a sprawling green oasis located within the University of Ghana campus. This isn’t your typical “garden”; it’s a vast, natural reserve offering a genuine breath of fresh air.
What Makes It Distinctive: The gardens are a destination for both relaxation and light adventure. You can wander through the lush forests, spot exotic birds, and enjoy the serene scenery around the central lake. For the more active, there are rope courses, canopy walks, and canoeing. It’s the perfect place for a family picnic, a romantic stroll, or some peaceful solo time with a book.
Why It’s Not Crowded: Its sheer size means that even on a busy day, the crowds dissipate across the lawns and trails. It feels less like a tourist spot and more like a local’s secret escape from the city heat.
Pro Tip: Go in the late afternoon when the sun is less intense. The golden light filtering through the trees is absolutely magical.
4. For the Beach Escapist: Bojo Beach
While Labadi and Kokrobite beaches have their charms, they can get packed. For a truly unique seaside experience, take a short trip to Bojo Beach Resort. What makes it special is its location—it sits on a pristine strip of land between a lagoon and the Atlantic Ocean.
What Makes It Distinctive: The adventure begins the moment you arrive. You are taken across the calm waters of the Densu Delta in a small wooden boat to reach the beach resort. This short journey immediately sets a festive, exclusive tone. On one side, you have the tranquil lagoon, and on the other, the roaring Atlantic. It’s the best of both worlds, with cleaner sand and a far more relaxed vibe than the main city beaches.
Why It’s Not Crowded: The boat crossing naturally filters the crowds, creating a more intimate and exclusive atmosphere. It feels like you’ve discovered your own private island paradise just minutes from the city.
Pro Tip: Plan to spend a few hours. Rent a relaxing beach hut, enjoy a freshly prepared meal at the restaurant, and take a dip in both the lagoon and the ocean.
5. For the Inquisitive Explorer: The Forts of Ussher Town
Everyone knows about Jame Town’s vibrant street art and boxing gyms, but fewer take the time to explore its deep, layered history. Beyond the iconic lighthouse lie the Forts of Ussher Town: James Fort and Ussher Fort.
What Makes It Distinctive: These forts are a poignant and powerful reminder of Ghana’s role in the transatlantic slave trade. While not as large as the castles in Cape Coast or Elmina, their history is just as significant. Walking through the dungeons and standing on the ramparts, with the crashing waves of the Atlantic below, is an incredibly moving experience. They also offer some of the most stunning, uncrowded panoramic views of Accra’s coastline.
Why It’s Not Crowded: They are often missed by standard tour itineraries that focus on the more monumental sites. The forts can sometimes be under renovation or have limited access, adding to their mysterious, overlooked quality. Always check if they are open to visitors before you go.
Pro Tip: Hire a local guide from the Jamestown community. Their personal stories and historical knowledge will bring the stones of these forts to life in a way no guidebook ever could.
Discover Your Accra
The true heart of Accra isn’t found only in its busiest plazas or on its most popular beaches. It lives in these quiet corners, these spaces of reflection, creativity, and natural beauty. By stepping off the beaten path, you’re not just avoiding a queue; you’re choosing to connect with the city on a deeper, more authentic level.
So next time you’re in Accra, dare to explore. Your greatest adventure might just be where the crowds aren’t.
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
Beyond the Pyramids: 5 Hidden Gems in Cairo for the Discerning Traveler
Cairo, the bustling capital of Egypt, is synonymous with ancient wonders and crowded tourist hotspots. Most visitors flock to the iconic Pyramids of Giza, the Egyptian Museum, and bustling Khan El Khalili Bazaar—and for good reason. But beyond the well-trodden paths lies a quieter, more intimate Cairo, rich in history, art, and authenticity. For travellers seeking unique experiences without the crowds, here are the top five lesser-known visitor attractions in Cairo that offer distinctive charm and unforgettable moments.
1. The Coptic Cairo (Old Cairo)
Why it stands out: A peaceful enclave of early Christian heritage tucked behind the Roman fortress of Babylon.
While many tourists pass through en route to other sites, Coptic Cairo remains surprisingly uncrowded, despite housing some of Egypt’s most ancient churches and religious artifacts. Wander through narrow cobblestone streets and visit the Hanging Church (Al-Muallaqa), built atop Roman fortress gates, or step into the Church of St. Sergius and Bacchus, believed to be a resting place for the Holy Family during their flight into Egypt.
Don’t miss the Coptic Museum, a serene treasure trove of early Christian art, manuscripts, and textiles that tell the story of Egypt’s Christian roots. The quiet ambience, combined with centuries-old spirituality, makes this area a contemplative retreat in the heart of the city.
Pro tip: Visit early in the morning to enjoy the golden light filtering through the ancient arches and minimal foot traffic.
2. Manial Palace (Al-Manial Palace)
Why it stands out: A stunning blend of Ottoman, Persian, Moorish, and European architectural styles, set in a lush garden oasis.
Overlooked by most tour itineraries, Manial Palace is a 20th-century marvel built by Prince Muhammad Ali Tewfik. Located on the banks of the Nile in the suburb of Manial, the palace feels like a fairy-tale retreat. Its opulent interiors—complete with hand-painted ceilings, intricate mosaics, and royal artifacts—offer a glimpse into royal life during Egypt’s final days as a monarchy.
The surrounding gardens, with fountains, pavilions, and botanical displays, make it a perfect picnic spot or quiet escape from the urban rush.
Why it’s special: Unlike the crowded museums downtown, Manial Palace sees few visitors, allowing you to explore at your own pace, without guides or tour groups crowding your view.
3. Al-Azhar Park
Why it stands out: A 74-acre urban paradise offering panoramic views, Ottoman-era restoration, and a breath of fresh air.
Built on a former garbage dump, Al-Azhar Park is one of Cairo’s greatest urban renewal success stories. Opened in 2005, this beautifully landscaped park offers walking paths, man-made lakes, and shaded gardens. It’s a favourite spot for local families on weekends, but during weekdays, it’s peaceful and nearly empty—ideal for quiet reflection or photography.
From the elevated terraces, you get a stunning bird’s-eye view of Islamic Cairo, including the minarets of historic mosques like Al-Rifa’i and Sultan Hassan. The park also houses Restaurant @ the Tower, offering fine dining with a view, and the Aga Khan Museum, which explores Islamic art and culture.
Bonus: The park supports community initiatives, making your visit both enjoyable and socially responsible.
4. The Museum of Islamic Art
Why it stands out: One of the world’s most comprehensive collections of Islamic artifacts, housed in a striking 19th-century building.
Despite its global significance, the Museum of Islamic Art reopened in 2017 after years of restoration and still remains off the radar for many tourists. Inside, you’ll find over 100,000 artifacts spanning over 1,300 years—ranging from intricately designed metalwork, Qur’ans, textiles, ceramics, and astrolabes.
The building itself—a former 1881 school—exudes old-world elegance, and the spacious galleries allow you to explore without the usual museum crowds. Highlights include the Mamluk-era brass trays, Ottoman calligraphy, and rare wooden minbars (pulpits) from Cairo’s historic mosques.
Insider fact: The museum’s renovation was a joint effort between Egypt and international institutions, preserving not just artifacts, but architectural heritage.
5. The Graeco-Roman Museum (in Cairo – Misr University for Science and Technology)
Why it stands out: Though the original Alexandria branch is better known, this satellite museum in 6th of October City offers a rare focus on Greco-Roman Egypt.
Located just outside central Cairo, this modern museum presents a fascinating chapter of Egypt’s history when Greek and Roman influences merged with ancient Egyptian traditions. The exhibits include statues of Cleopatra, Roman busts, funerary practices, and everyday objects that illustrate cultural fusion.
The location on a university campus ensures low visitor numbers, making it a peaceful place to explore. The museum also features interactive displays and educational installations, appealing to both history buffs and casual visitors.
Why go? It’s a chance to see another side of Egypt—one shaped by Mediterranean empires yet deeply rooted in Pharaonic traditions.
Final Thoughts: Rediscovering Cairo’s Quiet Soul
Cairo is more than crowds and commotion. These five under-the-radar attractions reveal the city’s layered identity—spiritual, artistic, and historically rich—without the overwhelm of mass tourism. Whether you’re wandering through Coptic alleyways, strolling palace gardens, or marvelling at Islamic masterpieces, these hidden gems offer something truly distinctive.
Next time you’re in Cairo, skip the line and venture off the beaten path. The city’s quieter corners are waiting to whisper their stories.
Traveller’s Checklist:
Visit early in the day to avoid even small crowds.
Carry water and sun protection—Cairo heats up quickly.
Respect local customs, especially in religious sites.
Consider hiring a local guide for deeper insight, even at quieter spots.
Let Cairo surprise you. Sometimes, the most memorable moments come not from the loudest landmarks, but from the quiet ones that time forgot.
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.
In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.
Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.
Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.
She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.
Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.
All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.
Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”
Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!
“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.
He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.
“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.
“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.
“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.
Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”
They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.
Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.
His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.
Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.
No. That wasn’t possible.
Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.
It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.
“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”
At least we agree on that, she thought.
It was obvious he was running away from something as well.
Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.
After getting through this evening first.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”
A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.
Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”
Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.
She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”
She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.
Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.
Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.
Was that what she was expecting?
Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.
Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.
On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.
This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.
Rebellion was written all over him.
The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.
“Mr Henshaw?”
He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.
“Then my name is Michelle.”
Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.
“Staying long?” she asked.
“About three weeks. Yourself?”
“About the same.”
The conversation dried up.
Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.
Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.
“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”
Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”
“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”
You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.
“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.
“Yes, so do I.”
Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.
It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.
Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”
“By car.”
“Did you drive yourself?”
And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.
“After a fashion.”
He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.
And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.
“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.
“Whatever for?”
“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”
“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.
“Do you drive?”
“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”
The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.
“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.
“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.
“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.
“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.
He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.
“I’m a purser.”
“A what?”
“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”
“I see.”
“And you?”
“I was a model.”
“Was?”
“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.
As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.
“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”
“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”
Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.
Dinner over, they separated.
Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.
But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.
Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.
She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.
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 prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Was I working for a ghost?
I sat in that room for an hour.
I had no doubt someone was on the other side of the mirrored wall, watching me, analysing my body language. I hoped I hadn’t given any indication that Nobbin was a name that I recognised, or knew, but I was still new to this game, and as much as I tried to perfect it, I still didn’t think I had a poker face.
More than likely I had a ‘tell’.
There was something else I had to worry about, and that was what approach this Dobbin would take. For instance, did he know that I had met up with the man in the alley, and stretching that big if, did he know who the man in the alley was, and was he one of ours.
Of course, that was another problem I had, and that was recognising who ‘ours’ were. It seems the people I knew, were not the same people who were really running the place.
Or, paradoxically, were these people, interlopers, trying to get intel on the group I was supposedly working for. But they hadn’t disavowed me, so I must be working for someone they approved or knew of.
An hour and a half, and I was beginning to think this might be another game by my previous interrogators. I was glad not to be on the other side of the mirror, trying to work out what I was ‘telling;’ them. Once, I’d got up and stared directly into the mirror, thinking I might be able to see who was behind it. I also thought of tapping it to see if I could get a reaction.
And, in fact, I was about to do that very thing when Nobbin walked through the door and closed it behind him.
I saw him do a quick check of the room, from the floor to the roof, and stopping briefly at the mirror, before sitting down.
“We probably have an audience for this discussion,” I said, inclining my head towards the mirror.
“You might be right, but I did ask for a clean slate, and if anyone is considering recording or viewing this interview, there will be dire consequences.” Looking at the mirror, he added, “I made that very clear at the highest level.”
He then looked back at me. “Your name, I believe, is Sam Jackson?”
“Yes.” My current working name, that is. Once deployed to the field we started using aliases, and my first and current alias was Sam Jackson. But how they made the passport look old and used for that legend was interesting, yet not a question anyone would answer.
“You were recently assigned to a surveillance team, for this man.”
He’d brought a folder with him and pulled out a photograph of the man I’d cornered in the alley.
“Is that him?”
Was there a right or wrong answer here?
“Yes.”
“Who was leading this operation?”
“A man named Severin.”
“Describe him.
I did.
It evoked no reaction. Nobbin had a poker face. In fact, I was beginning to think it was etched in stone.
“Do you know who he is?” I asked.
“No. But we will find out. Thank you for your time.”
He stood, gave me one last look, and left the room.
I waited a minute, and then followed him out, where a security officer was waiting to escort me out of the building.
On the steps outside, security pass returned, I wondered if that was then end of my tenure with that organisation. Or whether I actually had any tenure in the first place.
A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.
A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?
A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.
A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.
After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.
From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them 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.
…
With Nadia seeking gold at the beach at The Grove
…
I was waiting to be picked up at the bus depot by Nadia, trying to keep out of the public eye, knowing very few people I knew would be there at that hour.
It was early for me, not long after getting home from the night shift, with just enough time to change and get something to eat at the diner a block from the depot.
Nadia didn’t understand my obsession with anonymity, but being seen with her was just going to raise questions, and, if either my mother or Boggs found out, that would be two very interesting conversations.
I just didn’t need the aggravation.
I was not sure what to wear so I dug out the clothes I wore to a farm that a friend of my mother’s owned and my mother had graciously offered my services. It hadn’t been such a bad day, but it was hard work.
The clothes had the added advantage of making me almost invisible among the many seasonal workers currently in town.
I nearly missed her because I had been looking for her usual car, but when a large pickup truck pulled up at the curb where I was standing, it took a moment to recognise her behind the wheel. A very unglamorous plain Jane, without make-up and her hair a mess, or so it looked to me. I knew well enough not to make a comment.
The truck was battered and seen better days, but the engine sounded like that of a racing car. A Cossatino’s getaway car. Oddly, I could imagine her behind the wheel, waiting for a team of bank robbers, fuelled no doubt by the many old movies I’d seen in my younger days.
I climbed up into the cabin and she had driven off before the car door was closed
“Are we in a hurry?”
“No parking zone. Don’t need the sheriff’s deputies giving us a hard time.”
No, indeed.
“Where’s your car?”
“Too recognisable. Where we’re going, it’s better not to be recognised.”
That didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. I knew it was going to be somewhere along the coastline, her idea to see if any more of the gold coins had fallen out of the treasure chests as they were being brought ashore.
The question was, was there any part of the coastline that hadn’t been surveyed? That was when it occurred to me she might be headed for that stretch of coastline that belonged to The Grove, split by the coast road, either side of the road fenced off and signs telling people they would be shot on sight if caught trespassing.
There had been rumours of shootings, but nothing ever made it to the sheriff’s office. I hoped she told someone where she was goin,g if that’s where she was taking me.
“You’re quiet this morning?”
“Just got off shift, and a little tired.”
“You should have said something. I didn’t think…”
“It’s fine. You’re currently the one ray of light on a very dark horizon.”
She looked sideways at me. “That is a compliment.”
“I hope you take it that way. With Boggs on some sort of crusade, my mother giving me dating tips, and Benderby hanging around, being with you breaks the gloom and doom.”
I turned slightly to get a better look at her. If it were anyone else, I could fall in love with her, but knowing a Cossatino was a dance with the devil, and dangerous for your health.
“Well, I’m glad I bring some light into someone’s life. It seems I can’t do anything right at home.”
“Why did you come home. It seems to me you were happier away from this place.”
“Reasons I now think were stupid.” There was a finality in her tone that warned not to go any further with it.
Instead, we were passing the old mall, and I saw the transformation. Fort Knox would be easier to get into.
“Do you know what’s going on at the old mall?”
“The Benderby’s are demolishing it, mainly because they have to, and do a lot of remediation, whatever that is, before they build the new marina and condos. They’re going to tap into the retirement market.”
That premise, according to a financial market magazine left on my desk, and which made interesting reading, was the next gold mine for those who had the foresight and the financial means.
Benderby had both, and in another article, which to me at the time seemed to be profiling Benderby, opining the fact some of the new rich had not all made their fortunes legitimately, harking back to the war days and profiteering. Had Benderby’s father and his before him ploughed this path to success, and the son and grandson found other Illegitimate means like drugs and worse to perpetuate it?
Was it possible, in this day and age, to make a fortune without crossing the line somewhere? No one could link Benderby to anything crooked, but rumours, there were plenty, including the mall, and the fact it was a huge insurance write-off.
Lenny seemed to think so, but cleverly, never quite put what he thought into words.
“Lucky them,” I muttered.
Several miles past the mall, she turned off the main road onto a track that had not been used for some time, heading towards the ocean
I could see now why we were in the truck. A car would not be able to make it without getting bogged. It was wet and muddy, with pools of water forming in ruts.
When we hit a couple and got soundly shaken up, she slowed down. Then, suddenly, the ocean came into view, and the track headed for the cliff, veering at the last minute, and going down the side of the hill until, at the bottom, we stopped outside a weather-beaten shack about the size of a large room.
She switched off the engine and let the silence surround us until I could just hear the sound of waves breaking on the rocky shoreline.
“Welcome to my castle.”
There was a whimsical expression on her face.
I opened the door and climbed out, in an instant, the temperature dropped 10 degrees, and the effect of the wind almost knocked me over.
She slammed the door shut and went to the door of the shack, unlocking it, then opening the door, then switching on a light, giving the inside a gloomy yellowish aura. She motioned me to go in, then followed behind, closing the door, and immediately it was much quieter.
“Not much of a castle.”
“It is when you want to get away from the rest of the family. It used to be a bathing shack, but the waters around here got too treacherous for swimming, and it fell into disrepair. I had it fixed up, and this is where I come when I want to disappear.”
It didn’t look like it had been used in a while, a thin film of dust settled in everything, and smudged footprints on the floor showed recent signs of habitation. Two metal detectors were sitting on the table.
“It’s like a different world to be in when you have the family I have.”
“They don’t know about this place?”
“They probably do, but it’s been a wreck for years, and no one ever comes here, not anymore. I found it one day, wandering along the coastline, exploring the boundaries of The Grove. This is the southernmost tip. There’s one on the northernmost tip too, where the building is much larger and used for storage.”
Say no more, I thought. The Cossatino’s were allegedly smugglers on top of everything else, and that’s probably where the smuggled goods were stored. This part of the coastline was treacherous at best, with underwater reefs and craggy rocks along the cliff line. There were some sandy stretches, but it was hard work to reach them, and at a guess, Nadia knew how to get there without slipping and falling.
Boats could only get within 50 years of the shoreline before the possibility of being dashed on the rocks, and for that reason, Boggs told me, that whole beachfront could not have been used by the pirate to bring his treasure ashore.
The little I’d seen from where the truck was parked verified that, at least for this section.
“But we’re here to check for gold coins, see if there is a possibility the treasure cane ashore somewhere along the Grove’s shoreline. I know the consensus of opinion said it’s not possible, but from my explorations, I reckon there are at least a dozen spots where a longboat could land, especially if you came on the tide.”
That, I was guessing, was high tide, and it may have been a coincidence when the pirate arrived on this shore.
“The reefs would be submerged and even more dangerous.”
“There are ways. I’ve been out there in a canoe once or twice with Vince, looking for passageways. And, before you jump to any conclusions, I’m not a smuggler, and we may have been once, but an accident ten years ago put paid to that. We lost four of the family, and six others in a hair-brained night landing in rough weather.”
I remembered a piece in the paper, the coastguard had been trailing a large yacht with suspected drugs aboard, waited until the Cossatino’s had transferred to the longboat that had gone out to meet the yacht, then chased it to the reef where a navigation mistake saw the longboat hit the reef, sink with all the evidence, and all but Vince had drowned in the heavy surf.
“Vince was lucky.”
“Vince was an idiot then and a bigger idiot now. It made him believe he was invincible. He’s not. But let’s not talk about him, or the rest of them, we’re not exactly on speaking terms at the moment.”
She went to the table and picked up one of the metal detectors and held it out. “Yours.”
I came over and took it, and it was heavier than I expected.
It’s always a good thing to get that across, especially if you work for an organisation that could misinterpret what that opinion is, or generally have an opposing opinion. Of course, by saying your opinions are your own, you’re covering yourself from becoming unemployed, but is this a futile act?
Perhaps it’s better to not say anything because everything you say and do eventually finds its way to those you most want not to hear about it; perhaps one of the big negatives of the internet and social media.
And…
It seems odd to me that you can’t have an opinion of your own, even if it is contrary to that of the organisation you work for, and especially if their opinion has changed over time. An opposing opinion, not delivered in a derogatory manner, is expected to spark healthy debate, but it doesn’t always end up that way.
I’m sure there are others out there that will disagree and use the overused word, loyalty’. Perhaps their mantra will be ‘keep your opinions to yourself’.
This, too, often crops up in personal relationships, and adds weight to the statement, ‘you can pick your friends but not your relatives’.
I’m told I have an opinion on everything, a statement delivered in a manner that suggests sarcasm. Whether it’s true or not, isn’t the essence of free speech, working within the parameters of not inciting hate, bigotry, racism, or sexism, a fundamental right of anyone in a democracy?
Seems not.
There’s always someone out there, higher up the food chain, with an opinion of their own, obviously the right one, and who will not hesitate to silence yours. But, isn’t it strange that to silence you, they have to use leverage, like your job, to get theirs across.
Well, my opinions are in my writing, and whether or not you agree with them or not, I’m sure you will let me know. In a robust but respectful manner.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 