When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.
I’ve been on a few of those in my time.
And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.
For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.
Did I say ‘Iron Horse’? Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.
It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast
But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay. I’m sure it’s happened more than once.
Then…
Are you inclined to go?
A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.
An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?
There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation. Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.
But, you never know. Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.
Hang about. Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?
I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!
Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.
I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?
Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.
Right now.
I pick up the pen.
Character number one:
Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing. Still me, but with a twist. Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance. Yes, I like that.
We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.
He had a wife, which brings us to,
Character number two:
Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons. It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated. There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.
Character number three:
The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.
Oops, too much, that is my old boss. He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him. Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him. Last name Benton. He will play a small role in the story.
Character number four:
Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.
More on her later as the story unfolds.
So far so good.
What’s the plot?
Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers? No, that’s been done to death.
Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world. Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people. That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people! There will be guns, and there will be dead people.
There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around. That’s better.
Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.
All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.
Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work. He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks. The phone rings. Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down. He’s needed. A few terse words, but he relents.
Investigations of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage, the police thought I had murdered my own wife, though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months, the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last time I saw Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months, I was barely functioning, to the extent that I had all but lost my job and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in that she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened became our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each other about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realise that all she had was her work; personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police, and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone, then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
The One Place to Make Your Copenhagen Stopover Unforgettable
Have you ever found yourself with just one day in a city you’ve always dreamed of exploring? That’s exactly the magic of a Copenhagen stopover. Whether you’re en route to another destination or squeezing in a quick European getaway, this Danish capital offers a taste of hygge, history, and vibrant culture—all in a compact, walkable city.
But with limited time, how do you choose just one spot to capture the essence of Copenhagen? You could wander through colourful Nyhavn, explore the historic Tivoli Gardens, or marvel at the futuristic architecture of the Opera House. Yet if you’re looking for a truly memorable experience—one that blends history, culture, and breathtaking views—there’s one place that stands above the rest: The Rundetårn (The Round Tower).
Why The Rundetårn?
Built in the 17th century as an astronomical observatory, The Round Tower is more than just a historic landmark—it’s a journey through time. Unlike most towers with steep staircases, Rundetårn features a unique, gently sloping spiral ramp that winds its way to the top. As you ascend, you’ll pass historical exhibitions, an atmospheric library hall, and even a glass floor looking down into the core of the tower.
But the real reward awaits at the summit.
The View That Steals Your Heart
When you step out onto the rooftop platform, you’re greeted with a 360-degree panoramic view of Copenhagen’s rooftops, spires, and bustling streets. From this vantage point, you can spot iconic landmarks like the Christiansborg Palace, the Church of Our Saviour, and the distant silhouette of the Øresund Bridge. It’s the perfect place to orient yourself, snap unforgettable photos, and simply soak in the city’s charm.
A Stopover Moment to Remember
What makes Rundetårn especially perfect for a one-day visit is its central location. Just a short walk from Strøget, Copenhagen’s famous pedestrian street, you can easily pair your visit with a stroll through the city’s vibrant heart, a bite of smørrebrød (Danish open-faced sandwiches), or a quick coffee in a cozy café.
Whether you visit in the morning light, under the blue afternoon sky, or during the golden hour before sunset, The Round Tower offers a moment of reflection and wonder—a chance to pause and appreciate the beauty of Copenhagen from above.
So, if you find yourself with just one day in this Nordic gem, make your way to Rundetårn. Let its spiral ramp lead you upward, and let Copenhagen unfold beneath you. It’s not just a sightseeing stop—it’s a memory in the making.
Pro Tip: Arrive early to avoid crowds, and don’t forget to look up at night if you’re in town after dark—the tower’s observatory still opens for stellar views of the cosmos.
Happy exploring, and may your Copenhagen stopover be filled with wonder!
I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense. Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.
I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.
It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.
The boy was Alan. He was about six or seven. The girl was Louise, and she was five years old. She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.
I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.
We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds. I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.
We were so happy then.
Before the tragedy.
When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell. Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.
It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children. They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.
Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.
Until one day she couldn’t.
Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand. She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it. The damage done to her was too severe.
The doctors were wrong.
She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants. It was enough to have them arrested. It was not enough to have them convicted.
Justice would have to be served by other means.
I was outside the Bannister’s home.
I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die. It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing. I had murder in mind. It was why I was holding an iron bar.
Skulking in the shadows. It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.
I waited till Archie came out. I knew he eventually would. The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go. I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.
I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.
“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me. He knew what it was, and what it was for.
It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes. He was alone.
“Justice.”
“For that slut of a sister of yours. I had nuffing to do with it.”
“She said otherwise, Archie.”
“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.” An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.
I held up the pipe. It had blood on it. Willy’s blood. “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up. He sang like a bird. That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”
“He dunnit, not me. Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.” Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.
“No, Archie. He didn’t. I’m coming for you. All of you Bannisters. And everyone who touched my sister.”
It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.
I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries. Those were the very worst few hours of my life.
She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late. If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.
If only I’d not been late…
When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood. The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.
At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told. He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.
I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy. There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.
He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone. It was a half mile walk, through a park. The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness. He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.
He didn’t.
It took an hour and a half to get the names. At first, when he saw me, he laughed. He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.
When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list. I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.
When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi. The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me. I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.
At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality. The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.
Archie could help but rub it in my face. He was invincible.
Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out. He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged. I didn’t care.
Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me. I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.
I revisited Willy in the hospital. He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come. Suffocation was too good for him.
David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters. His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful. Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered. A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.
He and I met in the pub. We got along like old friends. He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges. We shook hands and parted as friends.
Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared. I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me. He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.
When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes. I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it. He told me he was just a spectator.
I’d read the coroner’s report. They all had a turn. He was a liar.
He took nineteen bullets to die.
Then came Archie.
The same factory only this time there were four seats. Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities. She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.
Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.
A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.
Archie’s mother cursed me. I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.
Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily. The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family. I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.
He was a little more worried about his sister.
I told him it was confession time.
He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.
I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony. I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes. This time he did, it all poured out of him.
I went over to Emily. He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm. Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.
“Louise was my friend, Archie. My friend.”
Then she shot him. Six times.
To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Now I was in jail. I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession. Without my sister, my life was nothing. I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.
They were not allowed to.
For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors. I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.
Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.
Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”
When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone. They ignored me. I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.
I was beginning to think I was going mad.
I ignored him.
“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that. You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”
Death sounded good. I told him to go away.
He didn’t. Persistent bugger.
I was handcuffed to the table. The prison officers thought I was dangerous. Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that. McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.
“Why’d you do it?”
“You know why.” Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.
“Your sister. By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”
“It was murder just the same. No difference between scum and proper people.”
“You like killing?”
“No-one does.”
“No, I dare say you’re right. But you’re different, Alan. As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen. We can use a man like you.”
“We?”
“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”
I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him. It looked like I didn’t have a choice.
Trained, cleared, and ready to go.
I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.
People like me.
In a mall, I became a shopper.
In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.
On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.
At the airport, I became a pilot. I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.
I had a passkey.
I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.
That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life. Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.
Two pilots and a steward. A team. On the plane early before the rest of the crew. A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.
Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.
Me.
Quick, clean, merciless. Done.
I was now an operational field agent.
I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides. It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.
I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.
It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.
Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.
Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.
I was Barry Gamble.
I was Lenny Buckman.
I was Jimmy Hosen.
I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.
That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision. If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.
Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.
God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness. Not that day. Not any day.
New York, New Years Eve.
I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag. They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.
This time I failed.
A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…
Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her. It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.
I was done.
I’d had enough.
I gave her the gun.
I begged her to kill me.
She didn’t.
Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.
How could she? No one could know what I’d been through.
I remembered her name after she had gone.
Amanda.
I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.
Someone else had the same imperfection.
I couldn’t remember who that was.
Not then.
I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it. After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.
The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.
It was late.
People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks. Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.
A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.
He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”
Two of his friends dragged him away. He shrugged them off, squared up.
I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground. I looked at his two friends. “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”
They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk. She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.
I looked around to see where her friends were. The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.
She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.
I sat beside her. “Where are your friends?”
“Dunno.”
“You need help?”
She looked up, and sideways at me. She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state. Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Nobody.” I was exactly how I felt.
“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care. Just leave me here to rot.”
She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.
Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.
“Where are your friends?” I asked again.
“Got none.”
“Perhaps I should take you home.”
“I have no home.”
“You don’t look like a homeless person. If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.” I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.
She lifted her head and looked at me again. “You a smart fucking arse are you?”
“I have my moments.”
“Have them somewhere else.”
She rested her head against my shoulder. We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.
“Take me home,” she said suddenly.
“Where is your place?”
“Don’t have one. Take me to your place.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I’m drunk. What’s not to like until tomorrow.”
I helped her to her feet. “You have a name?”
“Charlotte.”
The wedding was in a small church. We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot. Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.
On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.
I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.
Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.
And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age. She arrived late and left early.
Aunt Agatha.
She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.
“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte. It was clear she feared this woman.
“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.
“You know why.”
Agatha looked at me. “I like you. Take care of my granddaughter. You do not want me for an enemy.”
OK, now she officially scared me.
She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.
“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.
“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”
Charlotte never mentioned her again.
Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.
Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us. Her husband was not with her this time.
Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother. She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.
We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends. For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.
I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother. It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.
Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.
Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close. I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness. We were never close.
But…
This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head. It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.
And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction. “You seem distracted,” she said.
“I was just remembering my mother. Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”
“Why now?” I think she had a look of concern on her face.
“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.
Another look and I was wrong. She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.
I was crying, tears streaming down my face.
I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.
It was like coming up for air.
It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life. I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.
And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”
I could not speak, but I think I smiled. It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye. Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.
I could hear the thumping sound of the helicopter long before it arrived, a sound I was very familiar with, one that haunted my dreams. Years fighting a senseless war with an almost invisible enemy had taken its toll.
So many of those I served with had died, during and since the war ended, ignominiously, and part of me had died with them.
As it got closer, it struck fear into my heart, just as it had them. We had treated every trip out a one-way ticket to hell, and on return, the fervent wish that the politicians and diplomats would make it so we didn’t have to go again.
If wishes were water…
It hovered, blowing everything around, until it hit the ground.
A woman in a navy jumpsuit hopped out, ran bent over towards me, then out from under the rotors, and waved it back into the sky.
Eleanor Brickneal.
Three days into the search for Rodney Brickneal, nearly two hundred deputies, national guardsmen, town folk, and family hadn’t found a sign of him.
I was not surprised. His father, a retired Admiral, said he knew the mountain like the back of his hand, and if he wanted to disappear, he would. I was sure he was actively trying to help his son disappear; after all, there was no direct evidence linking him to the murder of his wife, and even if there was, he would dismiss it as manufactured.
But it would have been useful if Richard had hung around long enough to give us his side of the story. Instead, my boss put out an APB labelling him armed and dangerous, and the chances of us getting him off that mountain alive dropped to zero.
“Billy.”
“Eleanor.” Rodney’s sister. My nemesis.
We knew each other; that is to say, I had briefly dated her in high school, and sort of stayed together until she joined the Navy, and I followed my father into law enforcement. We just wanted different things, and Richard had spent a lifetime keeping us apart.
“You should have asked for me earlier,” she shouted in my ear as the helicopter lifted off. Seconds later, it was gone, leaving the thudding sounds ringing in my ears.
“Your father vetoed it. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but it isn’t helping us find him.”
“Your boss doesn’t like him. Old running mates for Mayor. My Dad doesn’t take losing well.”
“No one does, apparently. You need a few minutes to prepare? I prepared a backpack.”
“Still hike the hill?”
“Still looking for the gold.”
She smiled. “Both of us were kidding, you know.” It was a long-standing joke between Eleanor, Richard, and I. He spun a very good tale, but I always believed he was telling the truth, especially when she backed it up.
I looked at her, putting on my serious expression. “You never kid.”
“Elly.” The Admiral caught sight of her and barked her name, enough to make her almost flinch. They were not on the best of terms, not after she brought back my son’s body from the war zone.
“Dad.”
He glared at her. Dad was a title she was only allowed to use in private. Or at least that was his idea of family respect. It was not hers.
“You didn’t need to come. We’ve got this under control.”
“He should be here, telling the sheriff he’s innocent and why, instead of running away. Only guilty people do that.”
“Look at what he’s up against, a corrupt Mayor and a sheriff with a personal vendetta. Would you?”
“You’ve got no evidence, no proof. If you convinced him to run away, then his blood will be on your hands. Unless we can get him back. Just remember, every day we wait while he plays this game, it gets worse for him. His enemies are already talking about a reward. That’ll bring out the gun-happy fortune hunters. We need to end this now. Why aren’t you out there looking for him?”
“Someone has to run this circus.”
I thought I was supposed to be doing that. I shrugged. “Then I’ll leave it in your capable hands, sir. Eleanor and I are going to find him and bring him back alive.”
…
The sounds of the camp disappeared, and the natural sound of the forest took over. The wind rustling through the leaves of the canopy, the aroma of the undergrowth, the trees, the rotting floor, still damp from the overnight storm that had washed away any chance of the dogs picking up a trail.
There was a special kind of silence once you were inside the forest, except for the occasional rustling, birds above, animals on the floor searching for food, the sound of your breathing as you picked up a path that had been recently used by something larger than a rabbit.
There were bears, but this was not the time of the year they were out. There were rumours of cats, big cats, but one hadn’t been sighted for decades. Hunters had killed them all. Hunters killed everything, including the deer, though recently I had been up here and seen a mother with her foal.
Eleanor was in front, where she always preferred to be. In charge. Even back when we were children, she had that manner and ability to manage, to assign, to be a leader and make decisions. She had always been more mature than her age suggested.
She stopped and waited until I caught up.
“I hear you’re retiring?”
“Had enough.”
She gave me that meaningful look of hers, the one where you felt like it was a full-length body scan, searching for faults.
“What happened to that never say die attitude?”
“Goodness and light are out of vogue. That last sheriff election, it was little more than a smear campaign.”
“Why didn’t you quit then?”
“People asked me not to. Not everyone believed Samson would be the best choice.”
“Yet he still won?”
“You know how it works. I couldn’t find any proof that they cheated, but finding that box of 532 votes that put him over the line, that didn’t seem right. Same ballot box that got the mayor over the line too.”
“Dad has been muttering about that too. Times have changed. Staying or leaving when you’re done?”
“Leaving. Nothing for me here now.”
Nothing but painful memories. A son killed in another senseless war, a death Emma, my companion for more years than I could remember, succumbing to the grief she could never recover from. The cancer the doctors said they had removed came back, and a year later she was gone.
Eleanor had come back for the funeral, the first time in a few years, and she had changed too. I could see it, even though from the outside she seemed the same. War did that to a soul, slowly bleeding the goodness out of you.
She took a drink from the bottle, then put it back.
“Onwards and upwards”
It was her favourite line, and often she would strike out and leave us laggers behind.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Her expression sometimes gave away what she was thinking. Rarely, but it was there if you knew what to look for. We both knew Richard better than anyone else. He had a special place, up on the mountain, one he told us about but never showed us. We both tried to follow him, but his skill in the forest was legendary. But we had an idea where it might be, even though we had looked for it.
The thing is, we may have seen it and walked right past it.
“We’re starting at the last time either of us saw him.” Then her expression changed. Surprise, or something else. “You were waiting.”
“For what?”
“Me.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t want to find him without me. You know he’s innocent.”
“I know he couldn’t have done it. It doesn’t mean he’s entirely innocent, but it’s a tick in a box. He hasn’t exactly been a good boy, you know. And Zelda, she was always courting trouble, snuggling up to the mayor.”
A look of disgust crossed her face.
“Not like that, but someone else. I suspect she was recruited. Information is the equivalent of gold these days. And reneging, well, that can be bad for your health. Maybe she accidentally found something that she was not supposed to. I don’t know all the facts.”
“I thought you were not allowed to investigate?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Does Conway know what you’ve been up to?”
“He knows I have a rapport with this town, and my reputation, and he’s not stupid.”
“Then that adds a level of complexity.” She looked around carefully, a complete 360-degree scan. Sounds in the forest were going to take on a different meaning.
“Eyes and ears peeled, Billy.”
…
Trudging through the forest was not easy, especially where you had to forge your own trail. Both our cell phones had GPS and kept us going in the right direction, though if we were being observed, it was not exactly straight.
I realised after half an hour that she was not continuously walking directly to a particular point, so if anyone was tracking us, they would hardly make sense of it. Aside from the fact that once we left the bottom of the hill area, just off the camp side and car park, we started climbing, and the path was littered with rocks, fallen branches, and trees blocking the way.
It was slow progress. We crossed trails, one rather fresh, that looked like dirt bikers made them, even though dirt bikes were banned.
After an hour, we reached a clearing which showed signs of recent activity: in the centre a fire pit, and around the edges, flattened grass indicating tents. What was particularly annoying was that whoever was there just left their rubbish lying around.
“A month, two at the most,” she said. “A long way to come just to make camp.”
“Maybe not.”
There had been rumours the mayor was courting a mining company to come up and do a survey for rare minerals that he believed were in the vicinity. He had discovered some old prospecting notes in the city archives going back a hundred years, at a time when the rare minerals were not useful for anything. Not like these days with mobile phones and computers needing resources that other countries were buying in order to monopolise the global market.
“The mayor is trying to sell off the wilderness as a mining bonanza. For him and his cronies, of course, not for the betterment of the town. Rare earth minerals, I’m told.”
“They’d be still here if they found any.”
I shrugged. “We’ll never know until it’s too late.”
There were trails leading off the clearing, and we ventured along several, but they didn’t lead to anything other than what looked like scrapings for samples and holes dug to varying depths.
“Perhaps,” I said, after finding a rather deep hole at the edge of a ravine, “they actually found that gold Richard kept referring to.”
She simply shook her head, and we set off again, once again disappearing into the undergrowth.
Time passed slowly, or it seemed like it did. We were this way, then that, then found a break in the undergrowth making progress easier. Then, through the sounds of the wind in the trees, there was another sound, like rushing water.
I knew there were several waterfalls and small lakes, and a river that snaked through the valley between two mountains, but I thought it was further away. Perhaps it was not.
We headed towards the sound, and all of a sudden came out onto a small lake and on one side, a waterfall. We were close to it, so close we could feel the drops of water being blown towards us. It was a magnificent sight; one few would get to see.
“I don’t remember seeing this before,” she said.
“True. I haven’t either, but then this was never part of the trail I took. We always took a more roundabout way, which I always thought was Richard’s way of disorientating us.”
I took several photographs. She noted the coordinates on her GPS.
We both saw what looked like a rough path leading towards the waterfall itself.
“Is that a path?”
“Only one way to find out.”
It was hazardous going because the rocks we wet and some mossy. The noise got louder, and the spray denser, and water was running down the inside of my jacket. It was cold, very cold.
“I can see a cave,” she said, then moved towards a gap between the rockface and the water.
Seconds later she disappeared.
I followed.
All of a sudden we were behind the wall of water, the sound of it thunderous, so loud I couldn’t hear what she said. She motioned to follow, and we went along a few yards, when she turned right and headed into the rockface.
It was a cave.
We pulled out the torches and switched them on. Behind the waterfall was a large cavern, and as we moved into it, the sound of the waterfall lessened. Once inside, it was like a foyer, with tunnels leading off in several directions.
I looked down at the floor and notice footprints. Several sets of tracks made by similar boots.
“This might be the secret hideaway,” I said, aiming the torchlight at the ground.
“They head into that cave.” she pointed her torch, and the beam only went so far.
I shrugged. “Curious?”
She started walking, stopped, then switched off her torch. “Kill it,” she whispered.
I did. It was not total darkness; we still had light coming from behind the waterfall, but dark enough to blend into the shadows.
“What?”
“Voices.”
…
We waited. I wanted to continue, with lights out, to see who or what was at the end, but she thought it was best to wait.
In the end, we did. For half an hour. Nothing.
“Now?”
“They might be waiting for us. They had to see the light from the torches.”
“Who do you think ‘they’ might be. Richard?”
“There were at least two voices.”
Richard and a friend, or accomplice? “If it is him, I don’t think he’s going to kill his favourite sister.”
“Not so much a favourite these days.”
There wasn’t a scenario where I thought that could be possible. “Then I’ll go, and you can wait here. I’m sure he’ll hesitate long enough before shooting me. Even he should realise I’m not his enemy.”
“He might not be in a rational state of mind.”
He might not, but then, if it was the Richard I knew, he was never irrational, just downright irritating. There was a difference.
“Give me a few minutes, then follow. Slowly.”
She put a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have to do this to impress me.”
“I tried that once, Eleanor, and it didn’t work then. It’s my job.”
With that, and the fact my eyes had adjusted to the low-level light, it made it easier to see a lot further. It was just one foot in front of the other, one hand on the wall, which was wet, and in places the water was trickling down to the floor.
And the surface water was moving slowly in the direction I was heading which meant I was heading downwards. Ten steps, then another ten. The floor was uneven, but it seemed like someone had hewn the sides and the floor to make them flatter. A hundred steps, give or take, I reached a wall, and the tunnel reached a T-intersection.
A choice of going left or right.
I carefully peered to the left and could see light at the end, perhaps another entrance. There was the slight noise of the waterfall coming from that direction. I could see nothing to the right, which meant it went further into the mountain.
Looking behind me, I could not see whether Eleanor was behind me, or even if she had followed me.
I turned the corner and started walking towards the light. Ten steps, another five; I found myself counting them, I heard a noise behind me. I thought it was Eleanor.
“Hello, Billy.”
It was Richard. He switched on his torch but kept it facing down so it didn’t blind me. It was a sign.
“Richard. I guess you aren’t going to tell me this is your special place.”
“It was. Seems every one knows about it. Why are you here?”
“I thought that would be obvious.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Running away says otherwise. The mayor and sheriff have half the town looking for you.”
“I know.”
“Who were you talking to, just before?”
He sighed. “You don’t need to know. Just like you didn’t see me. Things would have been different if you had remained sheriff.”
“Times have changed. Out with the old, in with the new. That was his catchcry and won with it.”
“He cheated. They both cheated.”
“Can you prove it?”
“My assistant told them how to. I went to Samson with the evidence, and he told me if I didn’t keep my mouth closed there would be repercussions. I told the mayor he had a corrupt sheriff, and next thing I knew, Zelda was dead, and Samson was looking for me. I just learned he has three men out in the woods. The moment I show my face I’m dead.”
“How did you assistant know how to fix the result?” Eleanor had come silently up behind us.
“Elly. What are you doing here?”
“Billy thought you would need someone around to tell you how to save yourself. I suspect now we know what you know; none of us are. Fixing elections, Rich. Is there no limit to your perfidy?”
“It was a theoretical scenario. Samson asked us to formulate ways the election might be fixed, and it was just one of a half dozen. I refused the commission; my assistant saw a way of making some quick money. He left the day after the election. Now I know why.”
“Is there another way out of this place?” Other than the one in front of us, or going back the way we came. If anyone was following us…
“Back into the mountain for about a hundred yards. There’s about a half dozen tunnels, mostly man-made, old workings. There was gold in these hills, but not enough to make money. Nowadays with the price of gold, who knows.”
“We stumbled on a clearing not far from here.”
“Prospectors. Rare earth minerals, all the rage. Conway believes it’s here. They found traces of gold instead. He’s trying to get the land rezoned for mining. I’m fighting to prevent that.”
“We’d better go.” Eleanor was not one to stand still.
He turned, stepped up to her. “It’s good to see you. I’m surprised the Navy could let you go.”
“Family. Or what’s left of it.”
He the lead, she followed and I brought up the rear.
We got twenty yards before a strong blinding light flared in front of us, and we had to stop.
“You are not going anywhere.”
It was a voice I didn’t recognise. The owner stepped out from behind and armed his rifle as he stepped towards us. I suspect he could shoot all three of us before we could get close enough to disarm him. The extra sounds from behind him told me there was more than one.
I took a step closer to stand beside Eleanor. “You do know I’m the Deputy Sheriff, and beside me is a Captain in the US Navy.”
“You could be the king and queen of England for all I care. No one will ever find you, so I hardly think I have anything to worry about. Now, the boss would like to have words, so let’s take things real slow and easy and no one will get hurt.”
Two more men came from behind the light, and each one came over to check whether we were armed. Or at least that was the plan.
“Brace,” Eleanor screamed
A second later the tunnel we had come from the waterfall exploded with a huge fire flash and rocks going everywhere. The sound of the explosion in the confined space was deafening, but prepared, it gave us the seconds we needed to overcome the three men.
They were on the ground and unconscious before the dust and rocks from the blast had settled.
“You found the explosive?” I said.
“You and your toys.”
“Just in case. All part of being a Boy Scout in another lifetime.”
“Let’s go,” Richard said. “We should shoot them, but there’s no point adding to the problems. Follow me.”
David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.
Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.
They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?
When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.
When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.
Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.
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.”
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.
But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
I guess there was more to be worried about than a few scorch marks on the side of a ship.
It did beg the question, in those milliseconds I had to pull myself together, that the agreement everyone was a party to on Earth was that we were not going to have ships with weapons, and the ability to attack one another in space, was just that, between nations on Earth.
What if there was life other than on Earth?
The person I was looking at didn’t look like an alien, or at least not one of our endless stereotypes, but what if there was life other than us, and this was a representation of it?
I guess it was time to take the first step.
“I’m assuming this is some sort of dispute over cargo, or perhaps interstellar freight lines, and if it is, there are proper channels to resolve your issues, not at the end of a laser.” I looked at the weapon in the person’s hand and it looked nothing like anything I’d seen before.
Well, not outside our weapons lab, our there on the edge of space where the occupants were not likely to get snooping visitors.
The helmet with the reflective glass panel gave no indication who was behind it.
“It is not an issue over freight.”
OK. A humanised voice, spoke slowly as if by one feeling their way around the language. Yes, English, but why didn’t they pick French or Spanish, or even Japanese? English was not exactly universal, and the translators in our ears reduced everything to our native tongue. Myrtle’s language was Italian, so she would not be hearing this in English.
“Space lane violation?”
Yes, there were lanes in space so ships didn’t crash into each other. There was some degree of civilization out her in no man’s land.
Time for a different tack.
“Just exactly where are you from?”
In that same moment I heard the Captain’s voice coming over my private communicator, in a very uncaptain like manner. “What in God’s name is that?”
Started to write a post, got so far, and another theme or idea slips in, and demands to be written first?
I’m on this nostalgia kick simply because when I turned on the TV to catch up with the latest news, it was on a channel that shows old movies.
In case you don’t realise it, I love old movies, not just those from Hollywood, but also from Britain.
What was on?
An American in Paris.
Well, it had to be one of my favourites, even though I’m not a great fan of Gene Kelly; the sheer majesty of the music more than makes up for the story in between.
Could it be said, then, that this was from the golden years of Hollywood? Such bright and cheerful movies as Singing in the Rain and An American in Paris perhaps exemplify the Hollywood musical.
Years before, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were the quintessential musical stars, followed by the likes of Judy Garland and Deanna Durbin, and later Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. A couple of musicals, in particular, come to mind, firstly, The Wizard of Oz and then High Society.
Moving into more modern times, several stand out in the 1960s: My Fair Lady and The Sound of Music. By this time, theatregoers were dining on the superb talents of Rogers and Hammerstein, and Learner and Lowe. Of the former, musicals such as Carousel, South Pacific, and The King and I were on my list of favourites.
Even later still in the 1970s, there is Funny Girl, and Hello Dolly, which have a connection to the past with its director, none other than, yes, Gene Kelly.
But it seems once the 60s had passed, the notion of the Hollywood blockbuster musical had gone, and we were left with clip shows like That’s Entertainment, put together while Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire were still alive. We still had the film versions of the stage plays, but the lustre had, somehow, gone.
Perhaps it will return, who knows, after all, everything old is usually new again, it just takes time to go full circle.
And then there those horrible things called crosswords.
There are antonyms and synonyms
Sometimes we use words we don’t know the meaning of because of their similarity with others we do
Then there one or more words that make other words as in anagrams
There are substitute words, words we use around children like fudge instead of, well you get what I mean
There’s no doubt we would be lost without words
Words are to be chosen carefully and thoughtfully
They need to be delivered in an appropriate manner, not in haste, and not in anger
We need to believe in what we’re saying before others will believe it
We need to learn how to express our feelings
We should take advantage of learning English (or any other native language) when at school
We need to start reading as soon as we can and keep up reading as we get older. One should never underestimate the power reading and writing gives us no matter who we are.
Always have a dictionary by your side. It is the most valuable book you can own.
And always remember the power of speech can at times move mountains
