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In a word: Incline

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

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

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

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

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

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

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

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

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

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

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

Right now.

 

I pick up the pen.

 

Character number one:

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

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

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

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

Character number three:

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

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

Character number four:

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

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

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.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

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

One‑Day Stopover in Oslo?  Make It Unforgettable With a Visit to the Oslo Opera House

If you’ve only got 24 hours in Norway’s capital, there’s one spot that captures the city’s spirit, history, and modern vibe in a single, unforgettable experience – the Oslo Opera House.

Why the Opera House Is the Perfect One‑Stop Choice

What you’ll loveHow it ties into Oslo’s identity
Iconic Architecture – A marble‑white “iceberg” rising from the fjord, designed by Snøhetta.It’s a bold statement of Norway’s design excellence and its close relationship with the sea.
Free Roof Walk – Climb to the roof for panoramic views of the fjord and city skyline.Offers a bird’s‑eye glimpse of Oslo’s blend of urban life and natural beauty.
Cultural Hub – Home to opera, ballet, concerts, and cutting‑edge performances.Shows Oslo’s vibrant arts scene, from classic works to avant‑garde Norwegian productions.
Central Location – Just a 10‑minute walk from the bustling waterfront Aker Brygge and the historic Gamla Oslo.Lets you easily combine the visit with a quick bite, a coffee, or a stroll through the old town.

In short, the Oslo Opera House packs art, architecture, history, and stunning scenery into a compact, easily reachable venue—exactly what a one‑day traveller needs.

How to Make the Most of Your Visit (Even If You’re On a Tight Schedule)

1. Get There in 5 Minutes

  • From Oslo Central Station (Oslo S): Hop on the Tram 12 (direction Kongens gate). It drops you off right at the Opera House after a single stop—about 3 minutes.
  • From the Airport (Gardermoen): The Flytoget high‑speed train to Oslo S, then the same tram. Total travel ≈ 25 minutes.

2. Time‑Smart Itinerary (≈ 4 Hours)

TimeActivity
0:00 – 0:20Enter & Explore the Lobby – Admire the sweeping marble staircases and the giant “Seahorse” sculpture. Grab a quick coffee at the on‑site café (the “Operabutikken” serves great espresso).
0:20 – 1:30Roof Walk – Follow the sloping ramps to the top. Walk the entire 500‑meter “runway” for three distinct viewpoints: the Oslofjord, the city’s rooftops, and the surrounding islands. Snap photos at sunrise or golden hour for epic lighting.
1:30 – 2:00Quick Cultural Bite – Pop into the Kunstner restaurant on the ground floor for a light Norwegian snack (smoked salmon on rye, or a mini “lefse”).
2:00 – 3:30Mini‑Performance or Guided Tour – Check the day‑of schedule; many days feature a free lunchtime concert in the main hall. If you prefer a deeper dive, book a 30‑minute backstage tour (available on the official website).
3:30 – 4:00Souvenir Stop – The Opera House gift shop offers beautifully designed Norwegian design items—think wool scarves, minimalist jewelry, and limited‑edition prints of the building’s blueprint.

Pro tip: If you’re traveling with kids, the roof walk is a “playground” in disguise—no tickets, no lines, just endless imagination.

3. Practical Details at a Glance

ItemDetails
Opening HoursPublic areas (roof, lobby) open 7 am – 11 pm daily. Performances and tours follow separate schedules; check operaen.no.
AdmissionFree for roof access and lobby. Concerts, operas, and tours have ticket fees (often discounted for students and seniors).
AccessibilityWheelchair‑friendly ramps all the way to the roof; elevators inside the building.
Nearby FoodAker Brygge (15‑minute walk) offers a vibrant waterfront dining scene—think fresh seafood, craft beer, and Nordic pastries.
What to WearComfortable shoes for the roof walk; a light windbreaker (the fjord can be breezy).

The “Secret Sauce” – Making It Memorable

  1. Capture the Moment – The roof’s glass‑backed edges reflect the sky, turning every photo into a living postcard. Use the golden hour (just after sunrise or before sunset) for the most dramatic contrast.
  2. Listen to the Fjord – While perched on the roof, close your eyes and listen to the gentle lapping of the Oslofjord against the pier below. It’s a surprisingly meditative pause amid a busy travel schedule.
  3. Blend Past & Future – Inside, the modern interiors sit beside a historic marble staircase that once served as a gathering place for Oslo’s elite. Feel the continuum of Norwegian culture in one space.

Bonus: If You Still Have an Hour to Spare…

A short 15‑minute stroll northwards brings you to Karl Johans gate, Oslo’s main boulevard. Pop into a bakery for a kanelsnurr (cinnamon roll) and watch locals hustle between the Parliament and the royal palace. It’s the perfect “after‑opera” slice of everyday Oslo life.

Wrap‑Up: One Day, One Icon, Endless Memories

A stopover in Oslo can feel fleeting, but the Opera House transforms those 24 hours into a vivid, multi‑sensory story—architecture that you can walk on, sea views that you can breathe in, and cultural moments you can hear.

Next time your itinerary says “just a layover,” make it a standing‑ovation layover at the Oslo Opera House.

Ready to book your runway walk? Check the official schedule, grab a last‑minute ticket for a lunchtime concert, and let Oslo’s “iceberg” welcome you home—if only for a day.

Feel free to share your Oslo Opera House experience in the comments!
Happy travels.

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

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 discovers 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.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 41

Day 41 – Writing exercise – This might be the last thing I ever tell you…

…

Here’s the thing.

You get to a point where you realise that your days are numbered.

It sneaks up on you, even though you know the end is near, but you don’t want to think about it, because it’s not time.

That last heart attack, the one the doctor warned you about if you didn’t slow down, well, thinking that it was not going to happen to you, it does.

But it’s inevitable.  Slowing down, taking it easy, it might stave off the inevitable, but it was always going to happen.

I’d lived a good life.  Not perfect.  I’d made mistakes, but we all do.  I thought that when I’d lost Elsie, my life was over.

It wasn’t.  God had other plans for me. 

But now, I felt as though my work was done.

I could relax and let whatever was coming come.

…

Father Bernard was an eternal optimist.  I guess being a priest, you had to be.

I’m sure he had seen everything, and then some.  He wasn’t much younger than I, and when I broached the subject of retirement, he always said he had a little more of God’s work to be before he departed this mortal earth.

How he could put on a happy face visiting us, poor, wretched, dying souls, was beyond me.  But it was a palliative care ward, and we were all on that last stretch, from third base to home.

I felt his approach, rather than seeing, my eyes no longer bring what they used to be.  It was followed by the gentle squeak as his bulk tried to find a comfortable position.

“Still trying to sneak up on me?” I said.

“I don’t think that’s possible.  You don’t fool me.”

I opened my eyes and waited until his face came into focus.  We were both at the end of our run.

“Can’t help trying to beat the odds.  The tribe are coming tomorrow.  They think I’m dragging this out just to inconvenience them.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Perhaps a little.  They want their inheritance. Last month, Joseph tried to convince me that the money was no use to me, given my prospects.”

“Given your prospects.  He’s a doctor now?”

“After consulting with Richards, I’m sure he’s asked if there was a way of hastening the process.  He says he needs the money.”

“Then he doesn’t know?”

My children and their children had certain expectations given to them by my eldest son, the mercenary.  I found it rather strange that he had always been expecting to cash in on the Morgan millions.  There was never a lot of money, but I expect he and the others could wait to find out how much they were getting.

And after a bad run a year ago when they all thought I was going to die, as indeed I did too, they had all slugged in anticipation of a payday, and found themselves drowning in debt.

I was surprised they hadn’t sent in an assassin.

“I told him.  I told them all.  The coffers are empty.  The last of the fortune is going to these people, though I have to say, for the premium care package, it’s pretty ordinary.”

“You could be talking to the vicar’s dog, instead of me.  Your eulogy is going to be the best you’ve ever heard.”

“How’s that going?”

“Still struggling to find anything nice about you.  I’m sure it’s out there somewhere.”

A face appeared in the doorway.  The youngest of Joseph’s brood, with seven elder siblings, she had suffered the most.  He favoured the boys, and the two girls got very little.

I felt sorry for them and helped where I could

Father Bernard dragged himself out of the chair.  “I’ll be back tomorrow.  You might need some moral support.”

He nodded to Elsie as he passed her.  She came in and sat in the recently vacated chair.

“Your dad knows you’re here?”

“I asked him to come with me.  As you can see, he didn’t.”

“He’s coming tomorrow.”

“I’m not.  Got work at the diner.”

“Maisie?”

Maisie was her older sister.  She was no longer at home, and I couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to her father.

“Swears she’ll never talk to him again.  The so-called inheritance is going to the boys.  He said we should find rich husbands if we wanted money.”

“Not what your mother would say, or be pleased about if she were still around.  A pity.  But who knows, you might become filthy rich one day.”

“If only.”

“Have you decided what you want to do?”  She had just finished high school with excellent grades.  The trouble was the fees for a college education.  Her father was never going to pay.

“It’s no use even thinking about it.  I’m never going to be able to afford it.  Not on the money I earn.”

“What if I did some juggling?”

“I don’t want you to suffer any more than you have to.  That money is for you, and your care.”

“I’m not going to be around for much longer.”

“And not spite dad?  That isn’t you, Grandpa.  You know how antsy he is about his non-existent inheritance.  They all sit around the table divvying up the spoils.  They even fight over it.”

“Well, don’t you be like them.  Like I told you, your father took the education funds your grandmother set up for you all and spent it on a failing business.  Lucky his mother had died, or she would have killed him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because there is this thing called the psychological moment, and that’s when I intend to see the look on his face.”

“Can I be there when it happens?”

“I’m sure you will be.”

…

Elsie was the only one of my grandchildren who came to see me every other day, because the hospice was on her way home between the school and her home.  Maisie came to see me less frequently but more often than all the others.

The boys clearly didn’t want to be there, but they were made to sit out five sullen minutes before they were dismissed.

Elsie thought it was sad that I was dying alone and miserable, but I said nothing could be further from the truth.  I had fellow patients and the priest continually dropping in.  And she came to see me, so I didn’t feel alone.

Joseph had a brother, Harry, and a sister, Margaret, one who had moved to the other side of the country and was relatively successful.  Harry was completely opposite to his brother, taking after his mother.

Had been to see me once, when I moved into the hospice, and I told him they’d let him know when I was about to die, so he could be there, if he wanted to.  I said it would not bother me if he missed.  Death wasn’t a pretty thing to watch.

Margaret was not that far away, but had a demanding life looking after family, the house, and work.  Times were difficult.  She was always tired but upbeat.  She had her mother’s strength.  My imminent passing was just another thing on her worry list.

That her visits were erratic was understandable.

Today, it was a surprise.

Mid afternoon, before Joseph and the tribe arrived she walked through the door.  There was an air of exhaustion about her, and something else.

My worst fear was that she would get what killed her mother.  The doctors said it was a million-to-one chance, but odds were something I never diced with.

She slumped into the chair.  In her mid forties, she was as devastatingly beautiful as her mother, but tended to hide it away.  She was born an angel and would always be one.

“I’m sure whatever it is, Marge, it can’t be that bad.”

I’d given her a few moments to gather herself.

“On a scale of one to ten, not as bad as you.  Doc Richard’s called and said the end is near.  I think he’s got his wires crossed. You look better than the last time I saw you.”

“Modern medicine.”

“Right.  If I didn’t know you better, it would be spite.  How is my darling brother?”

“Still an ass.”

She smiled.  “What went wrong?”

“Your mother used to say he took too long to come out, wasn’t ready for the world.”

“It wasn’t ready for him.  I feel sorry for his girls.”

She’s lambasted him more than once over his attitude towards them, even warned his wife before they were married.  After Elsie, she stayed for five years, then, one day, packed a bag and left.

When a trace of her could be found, the police charged him with murder, and until she finally made an appearance, briefly, he was going to spend his life in jail.

We were very glad to hand his kids back, just when he thought we’d keep them.  We probably should have.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Do you have a week?”

Of all of them, she was the only one who didn’t dance around me on eggshells.

“I can clear a spot in my hectic schedule, between the chronic gambler and the man who dreams of Amazonian women.”

She looked at me oddly, sometimes forgetting I worked as a clinical psychologist.

“Inmates.  The drugs make them delusional.  There’s also a Hollywood it girl, whatever that means.  I think Gloria didn’t want to die a cleaner.”

She shook her head.  “We are what we are.”

“In that, I beg to differ.  You have always been our little angel, and all you have to do is sit there, and I feel like I’m in heaven.”

“Stop trying to make me feel better.”

She had perked up, which is what I was hoping for. 

“You think that after you go, you’ll see Mum again?”

We’d often had long discussions on the afterlife.  It was a common theme in this place that once we’re dead, we would join our loved ones in heaven.  If we have to go to heaven.

“I’m hoping to.  Father Bernard says that I’ll be going to heaven because I have the patience of a saint.  I guess lying to a priest won’t get me to the pearly gates.”

We both pondered what any of that meant other than small talk for dying people, and I pulled out the surprise.

She saw me take it out from under the pillow.

“Is that….?”

“The fabled diary?  Yes.  Preserved and about to be presented in accordance with your mother’s wishes.”

I handed her the aged leather-bound diary that her mother had written during the gap year between high school and college, of the six months she spent in Italy and Greece seeing the ancient wonders of the world, and a whole lot more, meticulously recorded.

Margaret carefully hugged it to her, tears in her eyes, the last and most prized possession of her mother.  She had asked me to give it to her at the appropriate time. That was now.

“There is one more thing that goes with it.  You, your daughters, and both Maisie and Elsie will be going on a field trip, all of you, retracing her steps, day by day.  The funds are set aside, the travel arrangements getting there, getting around the little hotels, and the places, you just have to go to the travel agent named in the front of the book.

“It’s all in place.  Money and legalities, Mr Winter, you’ve met him.  There’s no saying no for any of you. I have made arrangements to handle both your spouses and the boys.  They will never understand the meaning of this escapade.

“Your mother always intended this to happen, just not take so long.”

It took a few minutes before she could speak.  “How, why. It’s impossible…”

“And yet its not.  It had nothing to do with the inheritance.  Winter has taken care of everything.  You simply pack a bag and get on the plane.”

“Joseph’s girls?”

“They won’t say no.  Joseph has no say, not if he wants anything from the estate.  He’s about to discover the truth if his situation, and you don’t want to be here for that.”

“I can’t believe it.  I can’t believe you had this all this time.”

“I was my most treasured possession.  Now it is yours.  My time is limited.  I have memorised every word, every nuance.  The day we met is there, and she let me off lightly.  She did not suffer fools gladly, and I was a fool back then.”

Father Bernard hovered outside the door.

“But, now you have it, Marg, treasure, because for me, that was worth more than any material wealth.  You are the master of your own and the other girls’ destinies, as your mother always intended.  I’ve seen to it that you have the means.”

She slowly rose out of her seat, took my hand, and squeezed it.

“I’m sorry, Dad, for everything.  I wasn’t the greatest of children.”

“You were your mother.  She knew the little firebrand she’d created.  It’s why you two fought so much.  Two peas in a pod.  And she loved you so very much.”

“Don’t you dare die before we han have one more chat.”  She patted the diary.  “About this.”

“No guarantees, I’m afraid.  But Joseph is coming.  Don’t let the others decline, they need to see her as I saw her, the free spirit she truly was, before children and responsibility.  It wears us all down in the end.”

…

Farther Bernard had to run interference until Margaret left, a role he relished because of Joseph’s contempt for God and the church.  He made the conversion of non-believers his mission in life.

I called him the Patron Saint of non-believers.

He came in and took the seat before Joseph and the tribe walked in.

There was no doubting the contempt in his eyes for the priest.  The priest’s greeting was very obsequious.  If Joseph expected him to leave, it wasn’t going to happen.

I called the nurse to see if a few seats could be found, and after Joseph and Lucinda had sat and the three sons told to stay put and not use their phones, I started the ball rolling.

“I’ve asked Father Bernard to act as a witness to our discussion because I think you are acting under a misapprehension about what is going to happen when I die.”

Joseph looked sullen, Lucindale furious, the others restless.

“I can imagine you lot sitting around the table divvying up the spoils.”

Lucinda rolled her eyes and elbowed Joseph.  “I told you those brats would come here and tell him everything.”

“They’re not brats, Lucy, they’re my granddaughters.  There’s a distinction.”

She simply sighed.

“So, this might be the last thing I ever tell you.  Whatever you think you’re entitled to, you’re not.  You took your mother’s money set aside for your two girls and wasted it on your boys.  When Maisie told me what you did, that was the day we changed our wills. 

“Harry and his family came to see me a few weeks back, and he asked for nothing.  He has never asked for anything. 

“Margaret has been in far more times than you have, and we spoke of old times and the battles of will.  In a way, she was more heartache and angst for your mother and me than you were, but she changed, what I like to think mellowed, and we have made peace.  She is everything your mother was, and will be everything we could have hoped for.

“Now there’s you, Joseph, and seriously, what the hell went wrong?”

He had been looking sullen from the moment he walked in.  Now, it seemed he’d heard enough.  He stood, almost knocking the chair over.

“I don’t need a lecture from a broken old man.”

“Perhaps not.  But if you want a piece of the inheritance, the price is to sit down, shut up, and take your medicine.”

He sat.

“I don’t have to.”  Lucinda, I think, just realised her ship was sailing, not coming in.

“That’s fine, Lucy.  If you walk out that door, you will be deported.  I spoke to Javier, and he wanted to know where you are.  Don’t give me a reason to tell him.”

She slumped back in her chair.  I had found out quite by accident when she used Joseph as a reference, and it had been forwarded to me by mistake, throwing up a different surname.  Her married name, back in the Philippines.  A marriage that had not ended in death, divorce or annulment.

“What’s that about?”  Joseph looked understandably angry.

He didn’t know she was trying to get members of her family into the country using his name.

“Nothing.  We’ll talk later.”

It was exhausting talking to Joseph.  The three boys had been watching and wanted to be anywhere but this room.

“I’ll make this short.  When you leave here, you go to Mr Winter.  You’ve had dealings with him so you know who he is and where he is.  Do it soon.

“There, you will be given a document to sign.  It advises that your house mortgage will be paid out, on the condition that if you break any of the conditions stated, the house becomes the property of your brother or sister.  There is no discussion on this.  You have a long history of saying one thing and doing something else.  Now you have to stick to your word.

“You will also have the balance of your main credit card paid in full, on condition that you cancel it.  That is the balance as of midday today. 

“Any others you open will be your problem.  I suggest you keep away from credit.  You will also sign a document that says you have no further claim on my estate.  I strongly advise you to accept the terms.  It’s the best you’re going to get.”

“What about the boys?”

“They’re your responsibility, not mine.”

“So the girls get something, and they get nothing.”

“Think about what you did with their education and coming-of-age funds, Joseph. That was their inheritance.  What they would have got is the repayment of what they didn’t deserve.”

“That’s not fair.”  Albert, the oldest, finally spoke.

I think that was the first time in five years he’d said a word to me.

“You need to take that up with your father.  Expectation is a bitch, Albert, and you should have followed in Maisie’s footsteps.  Make the most of what you have and rely only on your own recognisance.  The same goes for the other two.

“Now I’m done.  You don’t need to come back if you don’t want to.  Like I said, Joseph.  If you don’t accept the deal before I die, you get nothing.”

…

Winters had told me that I could set up all the disbursements before I died, so long as there was someone to manage them. 

Harry had agreed to be that person.  He had no qualms with teaching Joseph lessons in financial management, though he did say he didn’t like the idea of taking his house if he didn’t accept what I thought were reasonable terms.

Matilda, Harry’s wife, didn’t think she would go with the other women to Italy, but would visit.  She had young children who would be difficult to separate from.

Winters finally reported that Joseph had accepted the deal, but that was probably because alumina had been sent home; he had reported her himself.  But he was still unaware of the trip his girls were about to make.

Margaret had finally set up a family group chat on Facebook and got all the girls to join, and then told them of the quest she and the others were to go on.  It got complete acceptance, and plans were well in advance when Margaret and Elsie came to see me.

It was time.

Old age and a heavy tiredness came over me that morning, and it was difficult to breathe.  I had asked them not to come; I didn’t want them to see me as this old, worn-out husk of what I used to be.

Father Bernard had dropped in mid-morning and knew that the end was near.  He was ready, the accoutrements of death with him.

The girls came in with brave faces, but those facades soon broke into tears.  There were no words, and even if there were, I was too tired to say them.

They told me of their plans, that it was next month, and they were so looking towards to their adventure.  Everyone was reading the diary, getting acquainted with the places and events.  All were gaining an appreciation for the mother and grandmother they had now, and wished they had known.

That was the problem with this lifetime.  Never enough time to do the little things, to get to know the one you love, get to do those things together, but there was never enough time.

I remember the doctor saying, “Say your goodbyes now.”

I think by this time I’d drift off into a place where, just on the periphery, I could see the love of my life, holding out her hand, urging me to come to her.

When I reached her, I took her hand in mine and gave it a little squeeze.  Finally, after a sigh of relief, we were together again. 

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

In a word: Arm

Like leg, arm is a word that is mostly associated with a body part.

Like being legless, another description for being drunk, being rendered ‘armless’ means you are no threat, in a rather awful but funny way by saying it.

I guess we all have a dash of ‘sick’ humour in all of us.

However, arm can also be used to describe a part of a structure too.

It could also describe the arm of an ‘armchair’.

But…

Arm also means to give people weapons like guns, usually from an armoury.

I’m guessing that a whole lot of people with arms is an army!

You can also say that taking those weapons away would be to disarm them.

It might take the long arm of the law to do it, too.

And to disarm someone doesn’t necessarily mean to take away their arms, but to ‘charm’ them with your wit and humour.

An arm can also be a river or streams tributary, so I could say instead of staying on the main river, I’ll take the ‘named’ arm, but just remember, sometimes this can be dangerous, getting off the main route.

On a boat, there is a yardarm, and this was once used to hang seamen who committed serious crimes such as mutiny.

A call to arms was to declare war,

And lastly, an arm of the defence services could be any one of Army, Navy, Marines or Airforce.

Just steer clear of the Navy for the aforementioned reasons.

 

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 8

A trip back through memory lane.

…

We were diverting to Venus, sitting out there on screen, lonely as a cloud, if there could be clouds in space.

So, I wondered if the Captain had a special reason why I should head the team going to the freighter.

It was an opportunity to take one of the new class of shuttles, reported to be faster, more stable, and larger so that we could carry more people and cargo. It would be overkill today.

The crew assigned to collect the cargo was aboard, and my co-pilot for want of a better name was Myrtle, an officer that joined the ship with me, and had excellent qualifications.

We were going through the preflight, ready to lift off.

“First time?”

“In a shuttle, no. In space, real space, more or less.”

I don’t think I wanted to know what more or less meant.

“There’s nothing to it.”

The captain’s voice came over the speaker, “You’re cleared for departure, they’re expecting you imminently.”

“Very good, sir.”

It was never a gentle lift-off, unlike landing, and that initial jerk was an annoyance. Then engaging the thrusters, we began to move forward slowly towards the cargo door, and at the synchronised time, the doors opened and there was nothing but empty space before us.

Outside, we increased speed, turned, and flew under our ship, just to get a look at it, something I knew the people aboard might be interested in seeing, then onto the Aloysius 5 drifting off our port bow.

“Do you see what I see?” Nice to see Myrtle wasn’t blind.

“I do, and that’s worrying.”

What was it? A scorch mark on the side of the Aloysius 5, in a place where we couldn’t see it from our ship, and a direct hit on one of the exhaust manifolds. That would stop a ship dead in its tracks without wrecking it.

“Captain,” I said, hoping he was listening.

“Number one?”

“I think we have a problem.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 27

This is the staircase down to the bedroom level of a two-story holiday apartment at the Rosebud Country Club on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria Australia.

It was the first time we stayed there for a long time.

However…

Innocuous stairs leading downwards to a black hole suggest a great many other things, especially if you left your imagination run wild.

For instance:

What if you are an only child being dropped off by your parents at your creepy grandparent’s place in the middle of the woods. Imagine driving up on a cold, wintry, windy, cloudless dark night, and when you get there, this old rambling mansion looks like the coven for witches.

What if when you get to the door this creepy old man who looks more dead than alive answers the door, and when you step over the threshold you hear what seems to be a high-pitched scream coming from outside the house.

What if, when you are being taken up the staircase, every single wooden step creaks or groans, that at the top of the stairs, every painting you pass, the eyes seem to follow you.

What if, when you explore, against the express wishes of your grandfather, you come across a door that leads down into a basement. There has to be some interesting stuff down there, a torture chamber, a medical laboratory with a half-finished Frankenstein, a workshop with coffins stacked in a corner.

The possibilities are endless

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 46

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

It was all over in the blink of an eye.  The swat team had secured the scene, zip ties, and shoved me into a corner with two burly men standing over me, guns ready in case I tried to escape.

Before the next wave, I had time to consider what just happened.  Obviously, Dobbin or Jan had set the scene.  She lied about being able to track Maury, they found him, brought him back to the room, tortured him, and then killed him.  The few seconds I had to look at the body showed signs of intense interrogation.

A side benefit was to stitch me up for the crime.  The fact the police were at the door a minute after I’d arrived meant they had been waiting for me to come back.  That pointed to Jan as the informant.

But to what end.  If they considered I was the only one who could find the USB, why let me get caught by the police.

Jennifer would be safe.  She had been in the foyer a full ten minutes before I arrived, and was sitting in a corner when I passed her.  If they knew she was involved, she would have been missing.  Hopefully, she would have seen the swat team arrive, and leave.

A few minutes after the swat leader spoke into his two-way radio, a middle-aged woman and a young man in his late 20’s arrived, the woman first, the young man behind her.  A Detective Chief Inspect, or Superintendent, and Detect Sergeant.  He was too well dressed to be a constable,.  One old, one new.

The young man spoke to the swat leader, the woman surveyed the scene, looked at the body, then at me, shaking her head slightly.

I tried to look anonymous if not invisible.  The fact they had found no ID on me would not count well for my situation, or so I had been told.  Nor was the fact I preferred not to speak.

Never volunteer information.

A nod from her and the two swat guards took several steps back.  She pulled a chair over from the side of the bed, and once three feet away, sat down.

“I’m told you are refusing to answer any questions.”

“Refusing to answer and simply not talking is not the same thing.”

“You do speak.”

“When appropriate.”

“What are you doing here?”

“This is my room, along with a young lady, who as you can see, is not here.  That much you should have gleaned from the front desk.”

She pulled a card out of her pocket.  “Alan, and Alice Jones.  Not your real names I suspect., nor very original.  Do you know who the man on the bed is?”

“He told me his name is Maury, not sure of his first name, but that wasn’t his real name.  His other name was Bernie Salvin, but that might also be a fake.  He was one of two men who were in charge of my training.”

“For what?”

“I suspect it might be above your pay grade.”

If she was shocked at that statement she didn’t show it.  In fact, I would not be surprised if she had suspected it was likely it had to do with the clandestine security services.  Torture victims were not an everyday occurrence, or at least I hoped for her sake they weren’t.

She gave a slight sigh.  “And who do you work for?”

“There’s the rub.  I have no idea.  I’ve just been caught in the middle of a bloody awful mess.”

The second rule is always to tell the truth, or as close to it as possible so you don’t have to try and remember a web of lies, and trip yourself up at later interviews.  And keep it simple.

“So, no one I should be calling to verify who you are?”

“No.  Not unless you can revive the man on the bed.  I’m only new, been on the job after training for about a week.  I was part of a team running a surveillance exercise when a shop exploded and the target disappeared.  I’ve been trying to find out what happened.”

Her expression whanged, telling me she was familiar with the event.

“Do you find out anything?”

“Only that the would be a body in the shop, a journalist, that was trying to hand over some sensitive information.   I have no idea what it was, or who he was.  The target, whom I suspected was there for the handover, is now also dead. So, quite literally, two dead ends.  Do I look like someone who could do that to a man?”  I nodded in the direction of the body.

“You’d be surprised who was capable of what.  Do you have a real name?”

“I do, but I won’t be telling you.  You have my work name, that’s as much as I can volunteer.”

“A few days in a dank hole might change that.”

“A few days in a dank hole would be like a holiday compared to the week I’m currently having.”

She smiled, or I thought it was a smile.  “I daresay you might.”

There was a loud noise and some yelling coming from outside the door.  A man burst into the room, two constables in his wake.

A man I didn’t recognize.

She stood.  “Who are you?”

“Richards, MI5.”  He showed her a card, which she glanced at.  She’d no doubt seen them before.

“We’ll be taking over from here.”

“This person?”  She nodded her head in my direction.

“Leave him.  We’ll take care of him.”

“Johnson, Jacobs, let’s leave the room to them.  We’re done here.  Places to be, gentlemen.”  She nodded in my direction.  “Good luck, you’re going to need it.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022