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In a word: Incline

When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.

I’ve been on a few of those in my time.

And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.

For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.

Did I say ‘Iron Horse’?  Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.

It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast

But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay.  I’m sure it’s happened more than once.

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.

An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?

There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation.  Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.

But, you never know.  Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

Hang about.  Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?

I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!

Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.

I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?

Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.

Right now.

 

I pick up the pen.

 

Character number one:

Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing.  Still me, but with a twist.  Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance.  Yes, I like that.

We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons.  It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated.  There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.

Character number three:

The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.

Oops, too much, that is my old boss.  He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him.  Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him.  Last name Benton.  He will play a small role in the story.

Character number four:

Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers?  No, that’s been done to death.

Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world.  Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people.  That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people!  There will be guns, and there will be dead people.

There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around.  That’s better.

Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.

All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.

Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work.  He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks.  The phone rings.  Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down.  He’s needed.  A few terse words, but he relents.

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

If I only had one day to stop over in – Geneva – what would I do?

One Day in Geneva? Make It Unforgettable With A Single Stop: The Jet d’Eau & Lakeside Walk

You’ve just landed in Geneva for a quick 24‑hour lay‑over. Your suitcase is barely unpacked, the flight‑information board is flashing “next gate,” and you’re wondering how to squeeze the essence of Switzerland’s most diplomatic city into a single day.

The answer? Spend your precious hours at the legendary Jet d’Eau – the soaring fountain that has become the emblem of Geneva, and let the lakefront promenade turn a quick lay‑over into a memory that lasts a lifetime.

Why the Jet d’Eau is the Ultimate One‑Stop Highlight

What it isWhy it matters for a 24‑hour stopover
A 140‑metre water column shooting out of Lake Geneva every 15‑30 secondsInstantly Instagram‑worthy – you can capture the perfect shot in under a minute.
Iconic skyline marker visible from the airport, train station, and most of the cityNo need to navigate a maze of museums; the fountain is a clear, unmistakable reference point.
A hub for lakeside strolls, cafés, and photo opsOne spot, endless micro‑experiences – from a coffee on the promenade to a quick dip on a public beach.
Free and open 24/7No tickets, no queues, no schedule conflicts with your flight.

In short, the Jet d’Eau delivers the “wow” factor, the cultural context, and the practical convenience that any traveler on a tight clock craves.

A 5‑Hour Itinerary Around the Jet d’Eau

Tip: Buy a single‑zone transport ticket (Swiss Travel Pass, Geneva Transport Card, or a €3 day pass). The whole route is walkable, but the tram will shave a few minutes off if you’re short on time.

TimeActivityDetails
00:00–00:30From Airport to City CentreTake the Rhônexpress (12 min, CHF 7) or the bus 36 (15 min, CHF 2). You’ll be at Gare Cornavin – Geneva’s main train station – in under 20 minutes.
00:30–01:00Coffee & Map GrabSlip into Café du Centre (a historic brasserie just a block from the station). Order a cappuccino and ask for a free city map – the staff will point you straight to the lakefront.
01:00–02:00Lakefront Walk to the Jet d’EauFollow the signs for “Lac Léman.” The promenade is flat, stroller‑friendly, and lined with palm trees, art installations, and occasional street musicians. By the time you reach the jet, you’ve already soaked up 300 + years of Geneva’s lakeside vibe.
02:00–02:30The Jet d’Eau ShowPosition yourself on the Bains des Pâquis side for the most dramatic view. The fountain blasts up to 500 L of water per second, creating a mist that catches the sun like a prism. Snap a photo, then cross the bridge for a reverse angle (the opposite side is less crowded).
02:30–03:15Quick Bite & People‑WatchingWalk to the nearby Bains des Pâquis (public bathhouse) for a classic Swiss “fondue à la fontaine.” If you’re not hungry, just grab a croissant from the tiny kiosk and enjoy the lake’s gentle breeze.
03:15–04:00Mini‑Excursion: The English Garden & Flower ClockA 5‑minute stroll west brings you to the Jardin Anglais, home to the world‑famous Flower Clock – a living tribute to Geneva’s watch‑making heritage. Snap a close‑up, then wander among the rose beds for a tranquil pause.
04:00–04:45Cultural Flash: The Palais des Nations (UN)If time permits, hop on tram line 15 one stop north to the United Nations Office. The exterior courtyard is free to enter; a quick self‑guided walk gives you the “global diplomacy” flavor of the city without a ticketed tour.
04:45–05:30Return to AirportRetrace your steps to Gare Cornavin (or the tram stop) and catch the Rhônexpress back to the airport. You’ll be at the gate with plenty of time for a final espresso.

Total time: ~5 hours (including transport buffers). This leaves you ample room for any flight‑related contingencies, a quick shower, or a brief stop at the duty‑free shops.

The Photo‑Proof: How to Capture the Jet d’Eau Like a Pro

  1. Golden Hour (6 am–8 am or 6 pm–8 pm) – The low sun makes the water plume glow with amber hues.
  2. Use a Fast Shutter (1/500 s+) – Freeze the water droplets for a crisp, crystal‑clear column.
  3. Try a Low Angle – Get down on the grass at Bains des Pâquis and aim upward; the sky becomes the backdrop, emphasising height.
  4. Nighttime Neon – After dark, the jet is lit in a soft blue, perfect for long‑exposure silhouettes of the surrounding trees.

Take one or two of these shots and you’ll have a visual story that outshines any lengthy itinerary.

What If You Have Extra Time? (Optional Add‑Ons)

Extra StopTravel Time from Jet d’EauWhy It’s Worth It
Old Town (Vieille Ville)15 min walk or 5 min tramCobblestone lanes, St. Pierre Cathedral, and the Maison Tavel (Switzerland’s oldest house).
Patek Philippe Museum10 min tramFor watch enthusiasts – the definitive showcase of Swiss horology.
Carouge12 min tram + 5 min walkA bohemian quarter with art studios, boutiques, and a Mediterranean vibe.

Even if you can’t fit them in, keep these spots on a future itinerary. The Jet d’Eau will have already given you a compelling “first impression” of Geneva’s blend of nature, elegance, and international flair.

Quick FAQs for the One‑Day Traveller

QuestionAnswer
Is the Jet d’Eau ever closed?Only for maintenance (once a year, usually in early March). Check the city’s website the day before you travel.
Do I need a swimsuit?No, unless you plan to dip into the lake at Bains des Pâquis (public baths have separate changing areas).
Is the area safe at night?Yes. The lakefront is well‑lit, patrolled, and frequented by locals and tourists alike.
Can I store my luggage?Yes – the Left Luggage facility at Gare Cornavin offers hourly rates (CHF 5 per bag).

TL;DR – One Day, One Spot, Infinite Memories

If Geneva were a book, the Jet d’Eau is its cover – bold, instantly recognisable, and impossible to ignore. By centring your lay‑over around this soaring fountain, you’ll experience the city’s natural beauty, its cosmopolitan pulse, and a slice of Swiss culture—all in a compact, hassle‑free package.

So, when your next itinerary lists “Geneva – 24‑hour stopover,” remember the simple formula:

Plane → Rhônexpress → Coffee → Lakefront Walk → Jet d’Eau → Fondue → Quick UN glimpse → Back to the plane.

Press play on that moment, snap that photo, and let the mist of the Jet d’Eau linger in your memory long after the flight lands. Safe travels! 🌍✈️

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 48

Day 48 – Writing exercise

…

I knew the moment I opened my eyes that this day was going to be different.

My life had begun to sink into a rut where everyone and everything were the same.  In fact, it was so predictable that I could recite every word spoken to me and in response for the first half hour.

So monotonous, I didn’t want to go to work today, any day, any more, ever.  Except I had to pay the rent, the bills, and eat.

How would life have been so much easier if I were a robot?

Except…

When I turned over, ready to close my eyes and forget the alarm had gone off, I saw the one thing that changed my mind in an instant.

Beth, short for Elizabeth, not Liz or Lizzy or Bethany.

The girl I had seen at work, asked about, told she was unavailable or looking for friends like me, and gave up any hope of even saying hello.

Until last night, when I was holding open the door as the masses exited, and she was last in the queue.  She thanked me, the only one, and I blushed.  Yes, the introvert got tongue-tied.

She asked me if I was going her way, which I was, and we walked.

And talked, and talked, then went for a drink, had dinner, and no, I had no idea how she finished up next to me.

It appeared she was in the same group I was in, the assistant to the assistant, the gopher, doing odd jobs and worse for people who didn’t appreciate us, a stepping stone to something better, the bottom rung of the ladder to a career.

We had a lot in common.

We both had ambitions, and these were slowly being eroded by unhelpful, demeaning, and unappreciative superiors.

Now, in the cold, hard light of day, all those plans, everything we said we would do, all those strategies to put our superiors in their place, seemed a million miles away.

Except she was still there.

And I will be honest, I had no idea how or why she was.  We did have a little too much to drink, something I never did on a workday, and something she said she didn’t do ever.

And I hoped nothing happened, anything that would ruin a fledgling relationship that had possibilities.

When I tried to edge myself out of the bed, she woke, surprised, but with a smile. 

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Anything I might have said or done that I can’t remember.”

“Good thing then that I do. Did I forget to tell you that alcohol doesn’t really affect me, other than in the moment, but it doesn’t affect my judgment.  You were silly, not stupid, and I thought it wise to tuck you in and make sure you were OK.  Now, come back and rest for a few more minutes.  I gave you my mother’s hangover cure last night, so you will be fine.”

I slid back under the covers.

“Thank you.  Normally, after that much wine, I would be a mess.”  I had to admit I felt almost normal except for a slight ache behind my eyes, perhaps from not enough sleep.

“You’re welcome.  It was interesting to discover you hate the management group as much as I do.”

“Not so much hate as to wonder how they actually made the group.  They certainly have no people skills, but at least they treat everyone the same.”

“Which is wrong?”

“Well, at the orientation, they did tell us what to expect.”  Not quite, we were told that we needed to learn quickly during the internship, and that sometimes, in high-pressure situations, we might find ourselves in trouble, especially if we had the training and forgot the lessons.

That was the sticking point.  Most of those in management failed to complete our training, usually because of time constraints or simply their lack of interest in ‘molly coddling’ as one called it.

“But there are ways of doing it, and ways of not doing it.  Perhaps we need to remind them.  Subtly.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“You said that there was last night.  You have so many ideas, and equally no idea how to make them happen.  I’ve been thinking about it, and I have a plan.”

That morning transcended any I’d had in a lifetime and taught me one very valuable lesson.  I needed to be sober and aware at all times if I wanted to impress any woman. 

I knew she was just being kind to me, even though I felt like she might like me as more than just a colleague, but I would have to impress her if I wanted any sort of chance.

It was odd that I hadn’t thought about her or any of the others in that way; such was the necessity to keep your mind on the job and keep ahead of the game.  There were a dozen of us, and we were all competing for three positions, and it was coming to the end of the trial period.

No one had an edge.  Trying to grovel didn’t work, trying to be better than the others didn’t work, and they let you make mistakes without telling you, which, in front of the group, wasn’t exactly the best way of getting any of us to stay.

Perhaps they didn’t.  Perhaps those they didn’t harass out of the job were the sort of lackeys they wanted.

And apparently, I had told her that I’d been spending a lot of my spare time studying the whole financial structure of the organisation and found that our managers had been taking the wrong path

Both of us had been working on the background papers that were to be presented to the board members, and because of that, we would be allowed to sit in. 

She had a plan, and when she stepped through it, I agreed with her that it might work.  It just depended on one particular board member, the lone woman, Sylvia.  Beth had worked with her for a week when she requested an intern from HR, one of the girls. 

And unlike management, Sylvia was interested in helping the interns and taught them some valuable lessons, and this, along with the corporate knowledge we had, was either going to win us some points or get us fired.  Either way, we both agreed it was better than keeping the status quo and would be worth it, one way or the other.

As usual, the two managers we worked for, each in a different department, were charged with conducting the presentation.

But this morning, my manager hadn’t arrived in time for the meeting, and it was handed to Beth.  He was annoyed, and those last few minutes before it was due, Beth arrived with the morning coffee run, scribbled on a piece of paper, while I distributed the papers, including those I had written that showed the true start of the business and the recommendations to put the company on a more profitable trajectory. 

My speciality at uni was rescuing poor-performing companies using alternative strategies, and I had tried to get this across to the current management group, but they had consistently ignored it.  It was no secret that the current strategy was not working, and the meeting with the board was to tell them how to overcome this.

What did an intern know?

Before it started, Beth handed out the morning coffee and cakes; what the presenters hoped would put the board members in a better frame of mind.

It did not.

He had got the orders wrong, yet another example of not listening properly, and the unthinkable happened.  He told Beth to go and sort the mess out.

Sylvia put her hand up and asked who was responsible for writing down the orders, stating plainly that what she had was not what she ordered, and that the order had been taken by the manager.

Therefore, she said the manager should sort it out.

And since he had a perfectly adequate team of interns whom the presenters no doubt had gone through the presentation with, as was required as part of the training standards of the organisation, the two interns could make the presentation in his place.

She then told him to leave.

The door closed, Beth made a précis of the manager’s presentation and then said that there was an alternative strategy available, one that was hot off the press and would be delivered by the person she described as a top of the class strategist in reviving poorly performing companies.

She then handed the floor to me, and I went through the basics and then the specifics, closing just as the manager returned.

Over coffee, four board members grilled him over the merits of the two strategies, one of course he knew about and had discounted and now had to admit was the more successful path.

If looks could kill, there would have been two dead interns.

Meeting over, we were dismissed.  The manager was kept in the room while the more senior members of management were summoned to explain how interns could possibly come up with a better strategy and why the current management team was still pursuing outdated and frankly incomprehensible methodologies.

Or at least that’s what we were told later.  Both Beth and I had decided that we would pack up and leave.  Even if we were right about our strategy, it was still the wrong way to go about it.  Board members come and go, so currying favour with them was not a successful way to get a position in the company because they couldn’t trust you to do what you were asked to do.

We both knew that. Getting a job was on merit, but when the company’s hiring staff were not apprised, well, perhaps the company was not worth working for.

That inevitable call came from HR.  It was from the same man who had conducted our interviews, the same man who basically told us we were worthless until we were forty.

It was a novel way of engendering loyalty and selling the company as a place worth working.  But that year was a difficult one, and jobs were hard to find, especially in one as prestigious to make a splash on our resumes.

We were both in the breakout area because we didn’t have a permanent office.  That would have come if we were selected to stay.

I put my phone on speaker.

“You two do realise that what you did, how you did it, was not the right way.  There are procedures and a hierarchy, and they should be followed.”

Beth was more blunt than I was, especially in dealing with her manager and purported mentor.  She said, “A hierarchy may work in a proper environment, but this isn’t where there is one.  The ideas we presented were communicated several times to the appropriate people, and they were ignored.”

“That is regrettable, but our procedures are there for a reason.”

“So the current muddle management can steal the interns’ ideas and pass them off as their own.  How are you supposed to get a position here if they deliberately stifle you?”

Good point.  I think most of us just accepted that was the way it is in the corporate jungle.

“I will agree that presenting something of a delicate.  But there is always a better way, and the two of you failed.  Regrettably, your internships are cancelled, and you will be escorted from the building by security.”

Conversation over.

Beth shrugged.  “No surprises there.  No surprise either when we read about the company seeking a Chapter 17 bailout in a few weeks.”

That comment coincided with the arrival of two security guards.  One would have been sufficient.
Of the two, one was the genial old man who took the time each morning to greet each of the employees by name, a remarkable feature given how many worked there.

What was more remarkable was the disdain and plain rudeness with which most of the staff treated him.  He shook his head.

“If I were to make a bet on you two, it would be that you would be the first to show initiative and then the first to be shown the door.”

He was not wrong in our case.  “You could have cleaned up.”

“I did, but not in the manner you would expect.”  He didn’t tell us why, but there was a wry grin and an interesting expression on Beth’s face.  Perhaps she knew.  I’d ask later.”

On the ground floor, we gave back our pass keys.  We had to sign an NDA, which was normal.  Then, after the formalities were done, I could see Sylvia come out of the elevator lobby and head over towards us.

Beth put her hand on my arm, a sign we should wait.

She saw the old man take off his cap and smiled, “It’s been a while, Miss Sylvia.”

“Too long, Archie.  Everyone fine?”

“Fine enough.  Yours?”

“Spread all over the country.  Can’t tie them down anymore.”

“No.  Kids always seem to have a sense of adventure these days.  You take care, Archie.”

She turned her attention to us.  “You two should know better, but then if you did, you wouldn’t have been here.  But, on the other hand, I’m glad you were.  As you may or may not know, I am an investor, mostly silent, and sometimes the holdings in shares get me a seat on the board.  Until this morning, I was going to sell those shares.  That presentation changed my mind.  And I heard what happened to both of you.  It’s not surprising this company is completely off the rails. Are you two looking for a job?  Of course you are.  Come and work for me.  Both of you.  I know a team when I see one.  Your first job, clean out the baggage and get this place back on track.  When I see my shares for ten times what they’re worth now, you two will get a very handsome bonus.  Do you need time to think about it?”

Beth looked at me, and I nodded.

“No.  Were in.  When do we start?”

“Now.”  Sylvia handed her a card.  “That’s the office I keep. Annabel knows you’re coming.  The paperwork will be there for your employment and your first assignment.  Welcome aboard.”

A handshake each, and she was gone.

I was shocked at how quickly your life could change.  My mother always said in troubled times that when one door closes, another one opens.

How true.

Then I saw Beth’s look of anguish.  “You do want to work with me, don’t you?”

I smiled.  “Of course, never been more certain of anything.”  I held out my hand, and she took it in hers.  “That, and whatever may follow.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself, as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters, Harry and Alison, other issues are driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact that he has a beautiful and desirable wife, his belief that she is the object of other men’s desires, and, in particular, his immediate superior’s.

Between observation, the less-than-honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, and she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, is that nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

In a word: Bore, or is that boar

I’ve had the ubiquitous pleasure of being called one, and that is, a bore.

Probably because I spend so much time telling people about the joys and woes of being a writer.

You can be a tedious bore, cooking could be a bore, and then you could bore someone to death, and then you will bore the responsibility of, yes, doing just that.

Would it be murder or manslaughter?

But, of course, there are other meanings of the word, such as, on my farm I have a bore.

No, we’re not talking about the farmhand, but where artesian water is brought to the surface, in what would otherwise be very arid land.

Or, could be the size of a drill hole, and in a specific instance the measurement of the circular space that piston goes up and down.  And if you increase the size of the bore, the more powerful the engine.

Or it could refer to the size of a gun barrel, for all of you who are crime fiction writers.

But, let’s not after all of that, confuse it with another interpretation of the word, boar, which is basically a male pig.

It could also just as easily describe certain men.

Then there is another interpretation, boor, which is an extremely rude person, or a peasant, a country bumpkin or a yokel.

I’ve only seen the latter in old American movies.

There is one more, rather obscure interpretation, and that is boer, which is a Dutch South African, who at the turn of the last century found themselves embroiled in a war with the British.

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction.  He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down.  He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup.  I stepped to the other side and so did he.  It was one of those situations.  Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic.  I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone.  I shrugged and looked at my watch.  It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk?  I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station.  What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’.  I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light.  As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini.  I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car.  It was that sort of car.  I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him.  I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on.  The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter.   Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure.  I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot.  A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring.  I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road.  I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar.   It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did.  There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me.  It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me.  As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man.  He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter.  I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in.  I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 15

Does the captain have a plan?

…

I saw the alien visitor tilt his head, as if someone had just whispered in his ear, if he had an ear that is, and then made a guttural sound.

Seconds later a beam appeared, and he or she, was gone.

“What just happened?” It was out before I could stop myself.

“I suspect he just beamed off our ship to his.”

The captain pushed a button on his desk communicator, and barked, “where is that foreign ship?”

The voice of the second officer came back, “just reappeared, then disappeared again, like it isn’t there, or we just can’t detect its presence.”

“This is like an old scifi show, sir. They have what I think was called cloaking.” It would be awesome if they did, but more awesome if we had it too.

Then another beam appeared, where the captain was sitting, and then he was gone too.

OK, now we were in trouble.

I ran to the desk and pushed that same button to get the attention of the bridge.

“That ship reappear?”

The second officer was quick to reply. “Yes.”

“And I take it, it has gone again?”

“Yes. What just happened?”

“Do a crew count, now. I’ll wait.”

In those next few moments a great many thoughts passed through my mind, not the least if which centred on one of our crew, there mostly to keep an eye on some of our systems.

The more obvious, that without the captain, I had just got a field promotion, one I was neither looking for, or had the experience or training to fulfil. I had been hoping over the next ten years to get both the trains and the experience.

After the seconds report my first action would be to call space command.

The second officers voice came back, “both the captain and Lieutenant Myers are both not aboard sir.”

I was expecting the obvious question but it didn’t come.

Lieutenant Myers was a nuclear scientist. The alien had been keeping us amused while his men captured the Lieutenant. And he was not chasing the pirates, he was the chief pirate.

Damn.

“Can we trace that ship?”

“I’ve got people working on it, but it seems so. It’s leaving a trail we can pick up on our sensors.”

“Good, get after it, and that’s an order.”

A minute later I could feel the gentle tug as we accelerated.

I pushed the button to get the second officer.

“Sir?”

“You have the bridge. Let me know our progress in about 15 minutes. I have a call to make.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 34

This is the moon, unexpectedly observable in the late afternoon.

For me, the moon provided inspiration for an episodic story I have entitled, for now, ‘I always wanted to see the planets’.

It’s about a freighter captain who gets a gig as First Officer on an exploratory starship, who by a series of inexplicable events gets promoted to captain, and has to navigate not only the outer reaches of space, but new species.

But in the back of my mind there is that expression ‘shoot for the moon’, which could mean almost anything.

It could mean going for the unobtainable, whether it be a job, or the partner of your dreams. Failing can be heartbreak. Success might mean you’d be ‘over the moon’.

Them there’s travelling to moon, perhaps the next logical step for regular people, heading off the spend a week on a moon base hotel. I’m not sure what we would see out there in space; Perhaps a UFO?

Fictionalised, a moon base might just be the meeting place for various species, and being the mystery writer I am, what if there was a murder?

As always, the possibilities are endless.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 53

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, 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.

Things are about to get complicated…

I thanked the CCTV operator and left with Joanne to go back to the third floor and Monica’s office.  Joanne had called her the moment we made the discovery, and she was there to make sure I made it.

It was a passing thought I leave, but I would not get past the soldier at the front door.

We waited for a few minutes in the outer office where an efficient personal assistant was typing faster than I could think.

A buzzing sound broke the steady keyboard sounds, and she said we could go in.

I could imagine another page and a half being entered in the time it took for us to get from the chairs to the door.

Inside, the office had wooden panelling, shelves lined with books, a minibar, benchtops covered in trinkets picked up in many travels, and strategically placed in a corner, four chairs and a coffee table.

Monica was sitting on one, and she motioned for us to sit in two others.

Was a fourth person expected?

If there was we were not waiting for them.  As soon as I was seated, she asked, “What did you find?”

She already knew, via Joanne, but perhaps this was a test.

“There were two people at the café, or perhaps one, the intermediary that O’Connell was looking for inside, and another nearby, like out the back of the café.

“I’d been too wrapped up in surviving the aftermath of the bomb to see O’Connell head for an alley near the café.  I thought it might be to check on the intermediary, but apparently, it was to meet someone else who obviously survived.”

“Anna Jacovich.”

Of course, Joanne had briefed her.  No secrets among friends.

“What do we know about her?”

Joanne answered that one, “She’s a fugitive, and Interpol is looking for her, as are the local police.”

“And she’s here?”

“If she hasn’t run.  A bomb nearby can do that.  She has to know people are out there actively trying to kill her like they did her husband.”

“He originally created the USB?”

“It looks like it.  And my guess, Dobbin was using O’Connell to act as a journalist and buy the information off her before it went to the highest bidder.  If we were to throw hypotheses out there, it’s not a stretch to believe Severin and Maury, as Westcott and Salvin, supposedly ex-department, were charged to get inside the lab and investigate the data breach, found out who it was, followed them here, and then set up an off-book surveillance group to watch the players culminating in the botched operation I was just on.  Severin wasn’t working for Dobbin but someone else, which means someone else in this department has an active interest in the breach, and who was running his or her own operation.  That wouldn’t be you would it?”

“That would be someone in a corner office.  I can barely see daylight here.  In other words, not high enough up in the food chain.  Like you, I’m staggering around in the dark.  Dobbin has a corner office.”

“Who’s in charge of matters concerning biological weapons?”

“The MOD.  Not us.”

“But you have experts.  You must come across credible threats from time to time, and I doubt you just hand it over.”

“We’re supposed to.  There is a chain of command you know.  It’s not like the movies.”

The way this operation had been running, that was exactly what I thought.

“That’s what I think I know.  Still no indication O’Connell is alive, but I suspect Dobbin does know, and just not telling.  Might also know where he is.  Perhaps while I’m trying to find him, you go over Dobbin’s head and find out.”

“Easier said than done.  You need help?”

“No.  Everyone I work with has their own axe to grind, so I’m better off alone.”

“That Jan woman?”

“Especially her.”

“OK.  Keep me, via Joanne, informed.  If you need anything, tell Joanne.”

Meeting over.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2023