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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.

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.

I remembered the car slewing sideways.

I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.

Or I could be underwater.

Everything was blurred.

I tried to focus but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.

What happened?

Why was I lying down?

Where was I?

I cast my mind back, trying to remember.

It was a blank.

What, when, who, why and where, are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.

I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.

I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.

“My God! What happened?”

I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.

I was blind. Everything was black.

“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”

Was I that poor bastard?

“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.

“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”

“What isn’t broken?”

“His neck.”

“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”

I heard the shuffling of pages.

“OR1 ready?”

“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”

“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”

Magic.

It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.

Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.

Or somewhere.

I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.

Was it night or was it day?

Was it hot, or was it cold?

Where was I?

Around me, it felt cool.

It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence. And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.

I didn’t try to move.

Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.

A previous unpleasant experience?

I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.

My grandfather.

He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way, down the same path. I could smell the smoke.

I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.

I couldn’t.

I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later the clicking of a pen, then writing.

“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk, or move, all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She had a very soothing voice.

Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.

“Everything is fine.”

Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.

“Just count backwards from 10.”

Why?

I didn’t reach seven.

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.

It rose above the disinfectant.

She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.

It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.

The next morning, she was back.

“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”

More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.

The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face, and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”

Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.

How could that happen?

That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment was the fact I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.

But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised, I could not remember my name.

I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.

I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.

Sleep was a blessed relief.

The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?

Now I knew Winifred the nurse was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat, and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”

So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.

But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.

This time I was left awake for an hour before she returned.

This time sleep was restless.

Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Others, people I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.

Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

The morning the bandages were to come off she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.

“This morning the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”

I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.

I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.

I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.

I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.

I felt the bandage being removed, and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.

Then a moment when nothing happened.

Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.

Nothing.

I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.

“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.

Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.

She wiped my eyes again.

I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.

I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.

Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.

I nodded.

“You can see?”

I nodded again.

“Clearly?”

I nodded.

“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”

I couldn’t wait.

When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring, there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.

I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.

They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.

Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.

I found it hard to believe, if he were, that he would be at a small country hospital.

“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”

Warning enough.

The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.

Then it was done.

The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with his work. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.

I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate he was available. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

She showed me.

I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.

And I still could not talk. There was a reason, he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.

“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”

A new face?

I could not remember the old one.

My memory still hadn’t returned.

…

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

One‑Day Stopover in Brussels? Make It Unforgettable with a Visit to the Grand‑Place

If you’ve only got 24 hours between flights, there’s no better way to capture the heart of Belgium than to spend it in the city’s most iconic square – the Grand‑Place (Grote Markt). Here’s why this UNESCO‑listed masterpiece should be the sole stop on your whirlwind itinerary, and how to squeeze the most magic out of every minute.

Why the Grand‑Place is the Ultimate “One‑Place” Experience

What you’ll see	Why it matters
Stunning Baroque & Gothic façades – Town Hall, Maison du Roi, the guild houses	A visual history of Brussels from the 15th‑17th centuries, all in a compact, walkable space
UNESCO World Heritage status	Guarantees the square’s preservation and its global cultural significance
A living stage – street musicians, flower carpets (every two years), and seasonal markets	The square isn’t a museum; it’s a vibrant urban theatre that changes with the calendar
Gastronomic micro‑cosm – waffles, frites, Belgian chocolate, and world‑class cafés	You taste the nation without leaving the square’s perimeter
Perfect photo backdrop – golden hour light, night illumination	Instagram‑ready views that make every traveler’s feed pop

In short: the Grand‑Place condenses Brussels’ architecture, history, food, and atmosphere into a single, unforgettable patch of cobblestones.

How to Turn a Quick Layover into a Grand‑Place Day

Below is a step‑by‑step itinerary that assumes you arrive at Brussels Airport (BRU) in the morning and depart the following evening. Adjust the times to fit your flight schedule, but keep the core sequence: arrival → transit → Grand‑Place immersion → departure.

1. Get There Efficiently (30 min)

Mode	Details
Train (Eurostar/Thalys/IC)	Follow signs to the Airport‑Brussels train station (right outside the arrivals hall). A direct IC (InterCity) train whisks you to Brussels Central in 18 minutes (≈ 5 €).
Bus (STIB/MIVB line 12 or 21)	Slightly cheaper (≈ 3 €) but slower (≈ 30 min). Take the bus to Gare Centrale and you’re already at the doorstep of the Grand‑Place.
Taxi/Uber	20‑25 min, about 35‑45 €, useful if you have heavy luggage or a group.

Tip: Buy a STIB/MIVB “15‑hour ticket” (€7.50) for unlimited metro, tram, and bus rides. It’s a bargain even if you only use it for the airport hop.

2. First Glimpse – The Square at Dawn (15 min)

Arrive just before 9 am to avoid the midday crowds.
Grab a coffee and a fresh croissant from Le Pain Quotidien on the north side; the aroma of roasted beans mingles perfectly with the morning light on the Town Hall’s spire.

3. Guided Exploration (45 min)

Free self‑guided audio tour – download the “Brussels Grand‑Place” app (available in 12 languages).
Key highlights:
1. Town Hall – climb the 87‑step tower for a panoramic view (optional, 10 min).
2. Maison du Roi – the “King’s House” façade and its intricate stone carvings.
3. Guildhalls – each tells a story (the Brewers’, the Clothiers’, the Bakers’).
Quick fact: The square’s golden “pigeon‑hole” statues were added after the 1695 bombardment, symbolising Brussels’ resilience.

4. Savour the Flavours (60 min)

Food	Where to get it	Why it’s a must
Belgian Waffle (Liège style)	Maison Dandoy (corner of the square)	Caramelized sugar crystals, warm, perfect with a shot of espresso.
Frites with mayo	Friterie René (just a block away)	The legendary double‑fried potatoes—crispy outside, fluffy inside.
Chocolate tasting	Pierre Marcolini or Leonidas kiosks	Sample a praline while you stroll; chocolate is practically a national sport.
Beer in a historic tavern	Chez Léon (nearby) – try a Trappist dubbel	Brussels is the capital of beer; you can’t leave without a glass.

Pro tip: Order a “combo” (waffle + coffee + chocolate) for a budget‑friendly, all‑in‑one treat.

5. The “Extra” Touch – Nearby Gems (30 min)

If you still have a bit of time, dip just a few steps outside the square:

Galeries Royales Saint‑Hubert – a covered arcade with designer boutiques and a quick photo op beneath its glass dome.
Manneken Pis – the mischievous bronze boy (5‑minute walk). The statue’s daily costume changes are a quirky cultural footnote.
Mont des Arts – a short tram ride up a hill for a sweeping view of the city’s skyline, perfect for sunset shots.

6. Wrap‑Up and Return to the Airport (45 min)

Grab a final Belgian chocolate bar for the flight (the “Bombe” from Pierre Marcolini makes a luxurious gift).
Board the same train back to BRU—remember to validate your ticket before hopping on the platform.

Insider Hacks for a Seamless Grand‑Place Day

Hack	How it Helps
Pre‑download the “Brussels Card” app	Gives you a 10 % discount at most cafés and priority entry to the Town Hall tower.
Carry a small foldable umbrella	Even in summer, sudden showers are common; the square’s cafés offer shelter and a great people‑watching spot.
Speak a few French/Dutch words – “Bonjour / Goedemorgen” – locals appreciate the effort and may share hidden tips.
Leave your valuables in a hotel locker if you’re doing a multi‑day trip; the square can be a pick‑pocket hotspot during rush hour.
Check the event calendar – Flower Carpet (every two years in August) or Brussels Summer Festival (July) can turn your visit into a once‑in‑a‑lifetime spectacle.

Bottom Line: One Square, Endless Memories

A one‑day stopover can feel like a blur, but the Grand‑Place offers a concentrated dose of everything that makes Brussels legendary: architectural grandeur, culinary indulgence, historic ambience, and a buzzing, friendly atmosphere—all within a 10‑minute walk radius.

So, when the clock ticks down on your layover, skip the museum hops and head straight for the heart of Brussels. Let the cobblestones, the golden façades, and the scent of fresh waffles write the story of your Belgian intermission.

Pack your camera, bring an appetite, and let the Grand‑Place turn a fleeting stop into a lifelong memory.

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

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365 Days of writing, 2026 – 27

Day 27 – Writing exercise

I was never the same

…

Making a plan, having certain expectations, taking that leap of faith that all of us are destined to do at least once, I found myself standing at the top of the Empire State Building, on the last day of the twelfth month, exactly five years after making a promise in exactly the same place, I would be there.

There was a 10 am in there, but that was flexible, because I always liked to be early.

It had been after high school graduation, after the prom, every bit the magical moment it was meant to be, with the girl of my dreams, Margaret Cates. We had spent those last years of high school together, studying hard, each helping the other achieve the grades needed to enter the best University.

There was no talk of romance, of a life together, or anything other than of being brought together, almost inseparable. We were voted the most likely to be married, and living contentedly in a house with a picket fence and three children.

Expectations were what parents had, and both of our parents were best friends, who simply chose to believe the inevitable would happen. Graduation, a combined family trip to New York to see the sights, culminating in New Year’s Eve at the top of the Empire State Building.

That was where we made the promise, no matter what, we would reconvene, that was Margaret’s word, at the same time. It was also the first time we kissed, and I think it took a week before my heart rate went back to normal.

Soon after that, Margaret left. She had been accepted into her university of choice. Her parents were surprised, mt parents were in shock.

I was not. It was the plan. Margaret had a plan for everything. There was no plan with me in it. Not in those first five years. I was sad, but not devastated.

I said to my parents, if we were meant to be, she would come back. I had to set her free.

…

My plan was there was no plan. I got the grades, and I got accepted into my University of choice.

At the end of the second year, I was in a what could only be described as a car crash, and was badly injured, to the extent that I had to put my life on hold.

I would recover, not one hundred per cent but enough to continue whatever path I’d chosen, but with some limitations. The doctor was upbeat, and my parents were upbeat.

I went home, not quite in the manner I’d intended. I was assured that life was like that, and I had to accept, accident or no accident, life was full of unexpected challenges.

…

Summer Atkins was probably the most irritating, aggravating, and ingratiating person on the planet.

She lived next door, one of five girls, the eldest, and coincidentally in my grade at high school. In fact, she was in all the grades from Elementary.

She was gawky, awkward, loud and clumsy. It was not her fault. She had a kind heart, always the first to volunteer for the worst jobs, and suffered a lot at the hands of the boys and the girls, too.

I was not pleased to say when I looked back at my time that I was one of them, and probably the only one who apologised after the prom for what had been, at times, unforgivable. The prank for the prom was probably her lowest point.

It took a week before she would come out of her room, and I came over every day to join the few who actually cared about her. After Margaret left and before I followed, we spent time together, where she asked me what she needed to do to just get to talk to a guy like me.

I thought it strange. She was talking to me, I was talking to her, we had coffee and cake at the diner, and hung out. She had no aspirations to go to college, just to help her parents look after her siblings and work on the diner. I had suggested she might want to do something for herself, and she looked at me strangely. I did not, she said, understand her.

We parted awkwardly, with this thing I had done, but what it was, I had no idea. It ended when she told me that if I was waiting for Margaret, I would be waiting a long time. How did she know anything about what my expectations were?

…

I came back home under the radar. I didn’t want anyone to know because I had set myself a high bar, and I was never going to reach it.

I felt that I had become a disappointment to my parents, and while they put on a brave face, and my siblings were polite, it was clear that they were happy for me to hide away, and my siblings were happy to see the high flyer crash and burn. Kid would be kids, I expected no less.

So when Summer unexpectedly knocked on the door, a certain element of panic went through the house. Upstairs, I heard that voice drift up the stairs with mixed emotions. I wanted to see her, but I didn’t want to see her.

Not like this. It was an odd feeling, and I couldn’t understand what fuelled it. It was Summer, she wouldn’t care, more likely revel in the fact. How the mighty had fallen.

My mother answered the door.

“Mrs Abercrombie, you look tired?” The grating tone had gone, her voice had softened, and there was genuine concern in it.

“It’s…”

She caught herself before mentioning my name. It had been a secret for about a month. I was surprised Summer had not called earlier.

My mother shifted the topic. She was good at that. “How is your father? That latest bout of chemotherapy cannot be helping the diner.”

“He’s responding to the treatment, and we’re managing. How are you faring without Allen? I’m sorry I should have come over more often.”

“It’s fine. We’re all coping with life as best we can.”

“How is Allen, if I may ask?”

That was Summer. Gets the bit between her teeth and doesn’t let go.

My mother was not one to lie. Obfuscate but not lie. Not outright. But confronted…”

“Something’s wrong,” she said in a hushed voice, so low I couldn’t barely hear her. I could virtually see my mother’s face. It had always been expressive. It’s why she could never play poker.

It went quiet for a minute or two, and I knew it was time to brace myself. Summer was the last person I wanted to see, perhaps the only one other than Margaret, not that I expected her to drop everything.

Again, I couldn’t explain why, other than showing vulnerability.

A few minutes passed while I was hoping my mother would explain that I didn’t want to see anyone, that I wanted to be better before facing the outside world. Whether Summer would accede to a request if leaving me alone was moot.

If she knew I was there, she would not hesitate to come up and remind me of the Allen of old, with the shoe now firmly on the other foot.

I tried hiding under the covers, but she had X-ray eyes. I knew she was in the room, I could feel her presence. And the scent she used was a hint of primrose. Once it was far stronger, but I suspect she had mastered the art of cosmetic use.

“You will suffocate long before I leave, Allen. I’m not the same girl you left behind. I don’t hate you. I did for a while, but then I realised you cared when all the rest didn’t. I’m sorry we parted angry.”

She sounded reasonable, far more reasonable than I expected. She should have still been angry, if not with me, but with the others.

“OK. If you don’t come out, I’ll get in there with you. You know me well enough to know I will.”

Did I know her well enough? I never took the opportunity. No one wanted to because she didn’t fit the other girls’ profile. It wasn’t like that at University, there it was simply a competition. There was dating, but it was more convenient than romance. There were not many hours left in a day for extracurricular activities.

When I peeled back the covers, it was like seeing an angel, the sun shining in the window, throwing a glow over her. Summer had changed, from the awkward, ugly diluting into a graceful Swan.

A look of concern crossed her face. Just lifting the covers was a difficult task, like most normal movements we all took for granted. It was getting easier and less painful, but it would take time.

“What happened to you?”

“A car and I had a disagreement. It won.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me. How long have you been here? What do you need? Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”

…

Summer basically glued me back together. It was, she said, one of her projects, others minding the children of silly sisters, nursing her farther past cancer, keeping up her waitress job at the diner, and just being Summer, the girl who always pitched in.

Such was the value of her help that my mother said I should marry her before someone else snapped her up. Just before I was to go back to University, I did just that, but she rejected me.

There was someone else, and he was going to propose any day.

I could respect that. Whatever I thought she might think of me, I would forever be one of those boys who made her life hell. I didn’t deserve someone like her. I just got on the train and left.

But the truth was, I was never the same again.

How could I?

I had tried to tell Margaret, but the terms of the pact were clear. 5 years, do your thing, meet and discuss. If feelings were the same, who knew what might happen?

I was disappointed I hadn’t been able to find her, but I had a story to tell.

A year after returning, I gave it up. I didn’t have the same enthusiasm, and feeling like a failure, I didn’t go home. I simply pretended everything was fine, and moved to New York and found work in a rather offbeat bookshop in Queens.

It fuelled my love of literature, and after reading anything and everything, I started writing my version of the Great American Novel. Small-town boy makes it big in the big city. A bit like my life, really.

Which brings us back to the Empire State Building.

10am.

And Margaret.

I saw her, and thought she was coming to the spot. She looked different, older, smarter, and with a touch of elegance and sophistication.

Halfway, I saw her smile and then wrap her arms around this bear of a man whom I instantly recognised. I mean, you would have to live under a rock not to know him.

Her parents were there, and a bunch of media people. The oohs and ahhs told me it was the moment he went down on one knee; it was going to be a News At 6 moment.

I was but a distant memory, forgotten in her moment of agreeing to be Mrs Albert Johnstone Gerythorn III.

I guess the employee of an eclectic bookshop was hardly a match for a multi-billionaire, or one who was soon to be.

“Sucks to be you.”

It did. That voice, the one that had grated on my nerves nearly all of my school years, came from behind me.

I knew who it was. I didn’t turn around.

“I knew it was a mistake to tell you my innermost secrets.”

“Oh, I would not have missed this for the world.”

I felt her hand slip into mine and her body move closer.

“Five years is a long time. People change.”

“People like us change, Allen. People like her do not.”

“I thought you were getting married?”

“So did I. I guess we were both wrong. Found that cute little bookshop of yours. If I didn’t know you better, I’d be guessing you’ve started that great American novel. Am I right or am I right?”

“You know me too well. You want to stay, or shall we find another circus, something a little more our style?”

“Do we have one?”

“Of course. Everyone has style.”

Then I noticed Margaret was coming towards us, a rather serious expression on her face. Had she finally recognised me?

“Excuse me, but the photographers would like to get some photos of my fiancée and me by this corner. It would be most appreciated.”

No. No sign of recognition.

Summer instead smiled sweetly, ” Of course, Margery Mugmouth, the pleasure would be all ours.”

It was Margaret’s nickname among those girls she trashed, and she instantly recognised Summer, and then me.

“Five years, to the day. You came. Have a happy life, Margaret.”

With that, we left.

A reporter, or just someone with a notepad, was scribbling frantically and then tried to head us off at the elevator. Just too late. The doors closed.

“The nerve,” Summer said. “That was our corner. Or I hope it will be.”

“So do I. Would you like to marry me?” I asked.

The elevator went silent, except for the whishing sound of it going down.

“She made a face, quite amusing, and then said, “Yes.”

People outside the elevator when it arrived thought something bad had happened, given the roar and applause, which pulled out into the foyer after it arrived.

Five years, on the last day of the last month at 10am, something did happen. I proposed to the girl of my dreams. I just hadn’t realised it until then.

…

Another excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – A sequel to ‘What Sets Us Apart’

…

It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.

On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.

She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.

It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.

When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.

“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”

“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”

It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”

“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”

It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”

Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”

Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?

“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.

“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”

“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”

And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.

She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”

“Yes, please.”

Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.

I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.

There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.

This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.

It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.

There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.

But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.

Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.

I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.

And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.

At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.

It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.

She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.

Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.

Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”

Maria nodded and left.

“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”

My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.

“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”

“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”

“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”

An apology was the last thing I expected.

“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”

“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.

“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”

It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.

Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”

“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”

“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”

That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”

“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”

“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”

“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”

“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”

I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.

Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.

She stood. “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”

I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”

She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”

That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.

No kiss, no touch, no looking back.

…

In a word: play

I’m going to play a game.

Is that a video game on the computer, or is that a board game with friends?

In reality, I didn’t play games with friends because I’m a poor loser. Especially monopoly.

But to play a game often means you take on a persona or a role, as one, or one of many.

Personally, I like role-playing games like Dungeons and Dragons.

I’m going to a play

This is a stage production of a scripted story with various people in roles.

A play can have a star, a lead actor in a pivotal role, to draw in the viewers

I’ve been to good plays and bad ones with great actors and some not-so-great ones.

A play can be hard to understand, it can be a musical with singing and dancing, or it can be rollicking good fun where the audience dances in their seats.

The worst play I ever saw was Dr Zhivago; it never seemed to end.

The best play, The Pyjama Game, with John Inman from Are You Being Served, a British comedy TV show.

I’m going to play the game

There’s a slight difference between this and the first example because it means instead of doing something your own way, you’re going to do what everyone else does, prompting the analogy, you’re going to fight fire with fire.

Yep, even the explanations can be confusing. You have to love the English language for being that.

I’m going to play a role

So many connotations to this one. For instance, I’m going to be someone I’m not. If I’m a kind person, then I’m going to pretend I’m mean.

I’m going to join a group of like-minded people and help further their cause, that is to say, together we changed the course of history, and I had a role in that.

Let’s hope it was for the betterment of mankind and not a leap towards infamy.

And of course, if you play a part in a play, it means you are pretending to be someone else. I like the idea of playing God, but that’s usually the lead actor; I’m usually the janitor, servant, or just plain dogsbody.

“The Things We Do For Love”

Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?

…

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

But can love conquer all?

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

The Cinema of my Dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 49

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

——

SS Standartenfuhrer Wilhelm Schmidt and his men were looking forward to some rest and recreation, after they completed one small but vitally important job for the Reichsfuhrer: retrieve a traitor named Meyer and bring him back to Berlin so an example could be made of him to deter others.

A simple job, several days at best, very much a holiday in itself after several long years in various campaigns.

He always wanted to visit Italy and particularly Tuscany, and they would be staying in a castle, with, he had been told, a very refined wine cellar.

He had also been told there was a possibility that the column might be attacked on its way to the castle, and he had all of his men on high alert. He was almost disappointed nothing happened. He didn’t think it would. Few resistance fighters would hardly go up against the might of a panzer, and his crack troops.

He’d said as much to the castle commander, a double agent by the name of Wallace, known as British to the British and German to the high command. Schmidt had no interest in double agents, or agents of any kind, along with the intelligence services or the Gestapo for that matter. He was here for the traitor and then gone.

They made it without incident, the main gates opened for their arrival, then closed after the panzer and trucks were parked inside.

Wallace was waiting for him.

Salutes, then, “No trouble along the way?”

“No. Should there be? I know we were warned, but all we saw were war-weary Italian women and children, and a few old men.”

“The resistance is out there, led by an Englishman by the name of Atherton. I wouldn’t underestimate him and the few resistance left.”

Schmidt thought Wallace looked rattled, a man at the end of his tether. He’d seen quite a few like him, too long at the front, jumping at shadows.

“It won’t be a problem. I’ll send out a squad of 10 and they’ll mop up anyone left. They’re probably hiding in the woods, or, if they saw the tank, shaking in their boots. Chances are they will have left if they had any sense.”

Wallace hated arrogance, and Schmidt had it in spades. There would be little point telling him that this wasn’t a battlefield, but guerilla warfare against an enemy on their home ground. The fact Jackerby had not come back, or Fernando and his men told him Atherton was picking them off, one by one, if they left the castle.

If Schmidt wanted to go wandering around outside, that was his choice. Wallace was staying inside and waiting until they mounted an attack. Or for them to realise it was going to be a stalemate. He was now no longer interested in Meyer, that was Schmidt’s problem.

Schmidt selected 9 soldiers and put his second in command in charge of them with very specific orders. If anything, other than one of their men moved, shoot it. He did not want prisoners.

The rest of the men were sent to the makeshift barracks, a building that was used as a chapel not far from where the tank and trucks were parked. The rest of the castle’s men were also there, except for those on guard duty on the ramparts, and in the cellars where there were entrances from outside.

Not that anyone could get through the iron gates that were currently locked. Atherton and whomever he had with him would not be gaining entrance to the castle from below, and those on the ramparts would pick them off long before they reached the main gate, or the walls.

At strategic points on the rampart, machine guns had been set up, and a box or two of hand grenades were available. Wallace was fairly confident there was nowhere where Atherton could gain access, despite his clandestine exploration of the castle when he first arrived.

Wallace personally checked the sentry points and alertness of the guards.

Then he went down to the cellar and the gate where the soldiers involved in what was now called ‘operation mop-up’ were waiting for darkness to fall before leaving.

Wallace came down to see them leave, not surprised by the buoyed spirits and camaraderie of men who had been working together for a long time. He envied them. With the sort of work he and the few members of his team did, there was no time for any bonding, and each lived with the fact that they could not really trust anyone, even those they worked with.

Then, in a matter of minutes, in almost silence, they were gone, and the gate was locked. With any luck, the area would be cleared of resistance and locked down in preparation for the arrival of Meyer. His handler would be captured and would inform them of the pipeline further up the chain of command, and then he could put an end to the traitors escaping.

With any luck, he might still get back to Germany as a hero.

——-

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 13

I came across this photo:

This is like so many roads off in what is known as the Gold Coast hinterland, that tract of land between the ocean and the mountain range that runs along the eastern side of the country, known as the Great Dividing Range.

This is the road that runs behind where friends of ours live, and runs on down into a valley where a river runs, and when the rains come down, floods.

It’s hard to imagine that a few hundred years ago all of this would have been tropical jungle, and intrepid explorers would be making their way north or west, just to see what was there.

I imagine in another 100 years, all of this will be gone, given over to housing, shopping malls, and factories, and anything that resembles country living will have been moved out to far beyond the mountain range and towards the what is called the ‘red’ centre.

Or over that time there is a reckoning with mother nature, and if there is, I know who I’d put my money on.

But, as for a story…

…

It was quite literally the road to nowhere.

You just had to follow it until it disintegrated into a dirt track, and then for another 20 miles before you finished up at a rusty gate attached to a dilapidated fence that surrounds the a house that was cleverly hidden behind a grove of trees, the only place I knew as home. We had no phones, no television or radio, no real contact with the outside world.

Until, one day, my fairy godmother came and rescued me.

Yes, it felt like that.

Little had I realized that there were any other people in our family, and it took until the death of my parents to find out I had grandparents, and a much larger extended family.

There had been, according to my father, no reason to leave. Or for anyone else to come, and the few that ventured to end of the road, found there was nothing to see, and no reason to stay.

For all intents and purposes we didn’t exist, and, oddly, I was content with that.

Until I decided to venture further afield, run into two people, a man and a woman, both of whom said they were related to my father, and ask me to take them back with them to meet my father,

A bad choice, but I didn’t know it at the time.

Not until my father ran them off at the point of the gun he always had with him.

He knew who they were, and it surprised me to see the change in him, from the strong silent type, to a man greatly afraid, though he would not tell me of what.

He just told me to lock myself in my room, and not to come out for anything.

I heard him leave, but not come back.

It took three days before I left that room, to find I was completely alone in the house. Outside, it was a different story. There, half way between the back door and the barn were the two people I’d brought home, both dead. A little further away were my parents, also dead.

And another man, who was leaning over my father.

I stopped when he looked up in my direction.

“You must be Jake.”

How did he know my name? I nodded, warily watching him in case I had to run.

He went from body to body, checking to see if they were still alive, then stood and turned around to look at me.

“Do you know what happened?”

“No.”

“Do you know who the other two are?”

I assumed he was referring to the visitors.

“No. The man said he was a relative, asked me to bring them here.”

“How did you…”

Escape? “My father told me to hide and not come out.” If this man was associated with the other two…

Perhaps he saw my trepidation.

“I’m a friend of your father’s, a policeman. You were supposed to be safe here.”

We were, until I brought the harbingers of death. “Not any more,” I said.

…

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 32

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

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

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

Chasing leads, maybe

I ordered breakfast to be brought to my room, then sat back and read the paper, culminating in a second cup of coffee and a half-hearted attempt at the crossword.

My mind was not sufficiently clear of all the implications of what I’d seen last night, and before that.

The first task was to go back to the office and get onto the computer to track down the address the car was registered to. It was not the flat. My guess that it was a sort of safe house. He may not have had reservations about Jan, or who she worked for, not until he became the prey.

Then it occurred to me that if Jan didn’t know where the USB was, then she had to realize he might have rumbled her perfidy. Maybe he was not as easily fooled as I first thought.

But it didn’t explain why Nobbin was in the dark over the USB’s whereabouts, as he had told me to give Nobbin a message. Perhaps there’s been a secret message behind that message.

Now, my mind was spinning out of control.

Like O’Connell/Quinley, and in accordance with more lessons on tradecraft, I too, had what I would like to have called a safe house, a small flat on the outskirts of Wimbledon.

I also had an off-site parking space that was a reasonable distance from the flat, so that if I was being hunted, the car would not lead them to my hiding spot.

There I had a shower, changed, and headed for the underground.

I took the train to Charing Cross, getting there around nine, to take the short walk to the hotel.

Not expecting to find her in the room, I used my key to let myself in.

I was wrong.

She was in bed, still asleep. Or was until I let the door slam shut.

She didn’t exactly come out from under the covers with a gun pointing at me, but I would be willing to be there was one under her pillow and her hand was on it.

“Sam?” It was uttered sleepily, the sort that would normally send a shiver down my spine. Not now.

“I hope you’re not intending to shoot me?”

“No.”

I could see her hand moving slowly withdrawing, and then watched her sit up and swing her legs over the side.

Still in basic clothes. Obviously, no time to go and get some pyjamas then.

“What happened to you?”

“Got side-tracked on what I thought might be a lead, and it wasn’t. Just a waste of time and a long night. Thought I’d come here and get some shuteye. Perhaps not. Are you going to order breakfast?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll have a pot of coffee and a paper, preferably one with a crossword.”

She rang down a breakfast order, full English, then said she was having a quick shower. I heard the water running and wondered if she was giving Severin a short report. Old trick, running water hides conversations.

Breakfast arrived at the same time as she came out of the bathroom, hair up in a towel, and in one of the hotel dressing gowns. My imagination got a five-second workout before I grabbed the paper and the coffee and sat in the corner.

She could have the desk.

“Do we know where Maury is?” I asked suddenly.

“Who?”

She hesitated before answering, a moment to give herself time to process the question, and if there were any hidden meanings.

“You know? You dropped a tracker on him.”

“Oh, him. He must have found and dumped it. It was pinging about 100 yards from the flat.”

Of course. There probably wasn’t one in the first place.

“Pity. I’d like to turn up unannounced, give him a bit of a scare.”

I went back to the crossword, keeping an eye on her, noticing every now and then giving me a sideways glance.

“Did you go anywhere after the flat?” Again sudden, out of left field.

“No. Just come straight back here. Do you want to keep the room for a few days? See what happens.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Look, I have to run an errand this morning, unfortunately, it’s not a work matter, so I’ll give you a call on my way back. You must want to talk to your people and let them know what’s happening if you haven’t already.”

I finished the coffee, folded the paper, and stood.

“At the very least,” I added, “I have to go back into the office and report to Nobbin. I’m sure he’ll be impressed with the lack of progress.”

“Won’t you run into that other fellow, what’s his name?”

“Severin?”

“Him, yes.”

“I don’t think so. His name will probably be very high on the ‘we’d like to talk to you’ list if he shows his face. Anyway, I’ve got your number.”

I deliberately waved the phone where she could see it, and the implication she could probably use it to track my movements. That might have been the case if there was a sim card in it, and it was similar to the phone she last saw me with.

It was not.

Where I was going, no one was going to follow me or find me.

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

In a word: Incline

Writing about writing a book – Day 2

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

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

Why the Grand‑Place is the Ultimate “One‑Place” Experience

How to Turn a Quick Layover into a Grand‑Place Day

1. Get There Efficiently (30 min)

2. First Glimpse – The Square at Dawn (15 min)

3. Guided Exploration (45 min)

4. Savour the Flavours (60 min)

5. The “Extra” Touch – Nearby Gems (30 min)

6. Wrap‑Up and Return to the Airport (45 min)

Insider Hacks for a Seamless Grand‑Place Day

Bottom Line: One Square, Endless Memories

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 27

Another excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – A sequel to ‘What Sets Us Apart’

In a word: play

“The Things We Do For Love”

The Cinema of my Dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 49

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 13

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 32

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One writer's experiences, and battles with words

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Why the Grand‑Place is the Ultimate “One‑Place” Experience

How to Turn a Quick Layover into a Grand‑Place Day

1. Get There Efficiently (30 min)

2. First Glimpse – The Square at Dawn (15 min)

3. Guided Exploration (45 min)

4. Savour the Flavours (60 min)

5. The “Extra” Touch – Nearby Gems (30 min)

6. Wrap‑Up and Return to the Airport (45 min)

Insider Hacks for a Seamless Grand‑Place Day

Bottom Line: One Square, Endless Memories

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Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

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1. Get There Efficiently (30 min)

2. First Glimpse – The Square at Dawn (15 min)

3. Guided Exploration (45 min)

4. Savour the Flavours (60 min)

5. The “Extra” Touch – Nearby Gems (30 min)

6. Wrap‑Up and Return to the Airport (45 min)