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In a word: Incline

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

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

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

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

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

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

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

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

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

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

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

Right now.

 

I pick up the pen.

 

Character number one:

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

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

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

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

Character number three:

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

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

Character number four:

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

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 37

This is a residential tower down at the Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia, with every apartment on the beachside overlooking the ocean.

There could almost be a Die Gard scenarion going on here, but I like the idea of a drama unfolding in the penthouse, like

The husband comes home and finds the wife with her personal trainer, who is getting too personal, and he is about to thrown him over the balcony. That’s a long way down.

Uber eats arrive at the door, but it’s really two wannabe ransomers who take the daughter, tie her up, then start making absurd demands, and the daughter almost throws the two of them over the balcony.

But, not one to miss an opportunity, or get her stepmother, who is younger than her, into all sorts of trouble.

The brother of the owner, a single father is killed in a freak accident, and his son has to be taken in, brought back to the penthouse, and thinks he’s struck it rich. The conniving brat is about to be taught a lesson he’ll never forget when he discovers all is not what it seems.

Or my absolute favorite, I win the lottery, move into the apartment, and so do the other 27 layabout members of my family.

Don’t laugh, it happens…

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 56

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

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

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

Things are about to get complicated…

“Turn around and head towards the trees, we’re not very far from you,” the voice in my head said.

I turned, saw the trees and moved towards them.

“Straight ahead.”

Then I could just see her, beside one of the tree trunks, under the cover of the canopy.

For the moment we would not be seen, but if someone was looking intently, we would be seen.

Jennifer was kneeling, her knees and weight keeping the assailant on the ground.  She handed me the gun, a silenced Baretta, with the distinct aroma of a discharged bullet.

Jennifer had pulled off the balaclava.  Jan.

Not working for Severin, but Dobbin.  Or someone else?

“Who ordered the hit?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Not entirely unexpected.

I pulled out my phone and dialled the number for the Detective Inspector that had been at Maury’s crime scene.  I knew there was going to be a need to call her in the not-too-distant future.  And Jan needed to be in a safe place where she couldn’t be got at.

“Who is this?”

My number would have come up as a ‘private number’.

“We met at the hotel where Maury died.”

“The spy?”

“Of sorts.  I’m sorry to say that his companion, Severin, is also now very dead in the rotunda at the Italian Gardens at Hyde Park.  I’d get someone down here before the body is removed or found by a member of the public.”

I heard a scream and deduced it came from the rotunda.

“Too late.  Hurry before the crime scene is contaminated.”

“Where are you?”

“Nearby.  And if you’re especially quick, we have a surprise for you.”

Two constables arrived in four minutes, most likely nearby for another reason.  The Detective Inspector and her Sergeant arrived within 20 minutes, but by that time Jennifer and Jan had retreated to the car, parked away from the gardens.

Anyone seeing us heading away would have picked us for three drunken fools escorting a friend who had passed out.  Jan had struggled to get free, and it had been necessary to subdue her.

I had wanted to ask further questions, but circumstances didn’t allow it.  Not yet.

Leaving Jennifer with Jan, securely tied up, but looking like she was sleeping of a long drinking session, I went back to the crime scene just as the Detective Inspector was coming out of the rotunda.

She recognised me and called me over to the tape that separated the public from the scene.  The forensic team had just arrived and was setting up.  I doubted she would let me into the crime scene area, but I had seen enough when I’d been there with Severin.

“Why are you here, and give me a good reason not to take you into custody.”

“He called me earlier and wanted to talk.  I think he found out Maury was dead, and he was next.  I didn’t kill him, but I know who did, but I’m not sure we’re going to be able to prove it.”

“That weedy little man that saved your ass the last time?”

“Richards or Dobbin?  Either or together or one of their henchmen.  Not sure, to be honest.  All I knop is it’s possible Maury was killed during an intense interrogation.  I suspect Severin was killed to silence him.”

“Because of what?”

“I believe it is about the existence of a formula for a biological weapon.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 51

Day 51 – The Power of Silence

…

The Power of Silence: Why Saying Less Can Make Your Interviews—and Your Writing—Far More Compelling

“Silence is a source of great strength.” — Lao Tzu

In a world that rewards constant chatter, it’s easy to forget that the most memorable moments often happen when nobody is speaking. Whether you’re sitting across from a subject in a face‑to‑face interview or watching a scene unfold on the page, strategic silence can turn good material into something unforgettable.

In this post, we’ll explore:

  1. Why silence works – the psychological and narrative reasons it matters.
  2. Interview tactics – how to harness pauses, breathing space, and non‑verbal cues.
  3. Writing tricks – letting characters speak for themselves and using “silence” in prose.
  4. Common pitfalls – what to avoid when you try to be “quiet”.

Grab a notebook (or a blank document) and let the quiet speak to you.

1. The Science Behind the Pause

What Happens When You’re SilentWhy It Helps Your Audience
The brain fills in gaps – humans love pattern‑completion.Listeners/readers become active participants, constructing meaning in the spaces you leave.
Emotional intensity rises – a pause creates tension.The audience anticipates what comes next, sharpening focus on the upcoming reveal.
Trust is built – you’re not trying to steer the conversation.Interviewees feel heard, while readers sense authentic, unmanipulated dialogue.
Memory retention improves – novelty stands out.Unusual moments (a lingering silence) stick in the mind longer than a flood of words.

In short, silence is not “nothing”; it’s a catalyst that amplifies whatever follows it.

2. Interview Techniques: Let the Interviewee Own the Story

a. The “Goldilocks” Pause

  • What it is: A deliberate, 2‑5‑second silence right after a question or a key statement.
  • Why it works: It gives the interviewee mental space to think, often coaxing deeper, less rehearsed answers.
  • How to practice:
    1. Ask a question.
    2. Resist the urge to fill the void with “uh‑uh” or “so…”.
    3. Count silently (1‑2‑3…) and then listen.

Example – Instead of “What made you decide to start the company?” followed immediately by “And how did you fund it?”, try:
“What made you decide to start the company?” (pause) “Take your time.” (pause again) …and you’ll hear the story unfold organically.

b. Mirror the Body Language

  • Technique: Nod, maintain an open posture, and let the interviewee see you’re engaged without speaking.
  • Result: Non‑verbal affirmation often encourages the interviewee to keep talking, turning a silence into a “safe‑space” signal.

c. Avoid “Filler” Questions

  • Bad habit: “Do you like that?” or “Is that right?” after every answer.
  • Better approach: Let the previous answer breathe. If you need clarification, phrase it as a reflection: “So you’re saying…?” – then pause.

d. The “Quiet Re‑Ask”

When you need deeper detail, repeat the last few words of the interviewee’s answer, then stay silent.

Interviewee: “We had to scrap the original design.”
You: “Scrap the original design…?” (silence)
Result: The interviewee often fills in the missing “why” or “how”.

3. Writing Tricks: Let Your Characters Speak for Themselves

a. Show, Don’t Tell—Through Silence

  • Scene: A mother and her teenage son sit across a kitchen table after a heated argument.
  • Traditional “telling”: “She was angry, and he felt guilty.”
  • Silence‑driven “showing”:The spoon clinked against the porcelain, a rhythm that grew louder as the minutes stretched. She stared at the steam rising from her tea; he stared at the chipped edge of his mug. No one said a word.

The absence of dialogue forces the reader to infer the tension.

b. Use “Silent Beats” Between Dialogue

  • Why: They act like punctuation, letting readers absorb what was just said.
  • How: Insert a line break or a brief description of a character’s reaction.

“I’m leaving,” she whispered.

The rain thumped against the window, louder than any goodbye.

The beat gives weight to the line, turning a simple statement into a moment of finality.

c. Let Characters “Fill In Their Own Gaps”

If you give a character an ambiguous line, resist the temptation to explain it for them. Trust the reader’s imagination.

“You remember what happened that night?”

He nodded, eyes flicking to the empty doorway.

Notice we never tell the reader what he remembers. The silence invites speculation, creating deeper engagement.

d. Narrative “Silence” — The Unspoken Backstory

Sometimes the silence isn’t a pause in dialogue but a gap in the narrative. Let background details emerge gradually, through hints rather than exposition.

  • Technique: Drop a prop, a habit, or a scar and let the audience wonder.
  • Result: The story feels lived‑in, like a real person who has a past you’re only glimpsing.

4. Pitfalls to Avoid

PitfallWhy It Undermines SilenceQuick Fix
Filling gaps with narrationOver‑explaining robs the reader of agency.Use concise, vivid images instead of exposition.
Awkward, overly long pausesCan feel uncomfortable, breaking immersion.Keep silent beats purposeful—2–5 seconds in interviews, a line break or two in prose.
Assuming silence = boredomSome people mistake quiet for lack of content.Prepare with strong questions or scene stakes; silence will then feel intentional.
Using silence to avoid the tough questionLeads to shallow interviews/writing.Embrace uncomfortable topics; let the pause draw them out.

5. A Mini‑Exercise to Practice “Silence”

  1. Interview: Conduct a 5‑minute conversation with a friend about a memorable childhood event. After each question, count to five silently before responding. Record the exchange. Notice how the answers become richer.
  2. Write: Draft a scene (150–200 words) in which two characters meet after years apart. Include at least three silent beats—one before dialogue, one in the middle, one after. Compare the emotional impact to a version where the conversation is nonstop.

6. Takeaway: Silence Is Your Secret Superpower

  • In interviews, silence is a listening tool that invites deeper, unfiltered storytelling.
  • In writing, silence is a structural device that lets characters own their voice and readers fill in the emotional blanks.

When you deliberately step back—whether from a microphone or a keyboard—you create space for authenticity to breathe. And in that breath lies the resonance that makes an interview memorable and a story unforgettable.

Next time you feel the urge to fill the void, pause. Let the silence do the heavy lifting.

Ready to try it? Share your silent‑beat experiment in the comments below. I’d love to hear how a simple pause transformed your interview or manuscript!

If I only had one day to stop over in – Buenos Aires – what would I do

One Day, One Stopover, One Iconic Spot: Why Plaza de Mayo Is the Only Place You Need to Visit in Buenos Aires

You’ve got just 24 hours to soak up the spirit of Argentina’s capital. Instead of trying to cram a dozen neighbourhoods into a frantic sprint, focus on the beating heart of the city—Plaza de Mayo. With its rich history, striking architecture, and a handful of bite‑size experiences all within a few minutes’ walk, this single square will turn your layover into a truly memorable Buenos Aires story.

1. Why Plaza de Mayo Deserves the Spotlight

What makes it special?How it translates into a “must‑see” for a day‑stop
Historical epicenter – The square has witnessed the May Revolution (1810), countless presidential inaugurations, and the rise of modern Argentina.A quick walk here feels like stepping onto a living history book; you’ll understand the city’s soul in 30 minutes.
Architectural showcase – From the pink‑hued Casa Rosada to the neoclassical Cabildo and the grand Metropolitan Cathedral, styles span colonial, French‑Beaux‑Arts, and modernist.Photo‑ops galore—your Instagram feed will thank you.
Café culture – Right on the edge sits the legendary Café Tortoni, the oldest coffeehouse in the country.A perfect spot to refuel with a café con leche and a medialuna (Argentinian croissant).
Central hub – All major transport lines (Subte Line A, numerous bus routes, and the nearby Retiro train station) converge here, making it easy to reach even on a tight schedule.No time‑wasting detours—arrive, explore, and hop back on the plane.
Live atmosphere – Street musicians, political rallies, and open‑air vendors create a vibrant, ever‑changing tableau.You’ll leave with more than pictures—you’ll carry a slice of Buenos Aires life.

In short, Plaza de Mayo condenses the city’s history, culture, cuisine, and energy into a single, walkable rectangle.

2. The 3‑Hour “Plaza de Mayo Sprint” Itinerary

Even if you only have a few hours, you can cover the essentials without feeling rushed.

TimeActivityInsider tip
0:00 – 0:15Arrive & Orient – Step off the Subte (Line A) at Plaza de Mayo station. Take a moment on the main terrace to spot the iconic pink façade of the Casa Rosada.Look up to see the Balcony of the Casa Rosada—the spot where Eva Perón famously addressed crowds.
0:15 – 0:45Casa Rosada & Plaza Tour – Walk around the square, snap photos of the Monumento a los Caídos and the Obelisk of the Revolution. If you’re lucky, a guard change ceremony might be in progress.The guard ceremony occurs at 10 am on weekdays—check the schedule if you can.
0:45 – 1:20Cabildo & Metropolitan Cathedral – Pop inside the historic Cabildo (entry is free) to see the original colonial council chambers, then head next door to the Cathedral where Pope Francis was ordained.Bring a small donation for the Cathedral’s “café” (they serve a surprisingly good espresso).
1:20 – 2:00Coffee Break at Café Tortoni – Order the classic “café con leche” and a medialuna; soak up the Belle Époque interiors, complete with marble statues and vintage newspapers.Ask the staff for the “Tortoni special”—a mini‑tour of the literary figures who once frequented the place.
2:00 – 2:30Stroll Down Avenida de May – Walk the tree‑lined avenue toward Plaza San Martín, admiring the early‑20th‑century French‑style buildings.Spot the Mansard Roof of the Lloyd Palace—a great quick photo.
2:30 – 3:00Optional Quick Bite – Grab a choripán from a street vendor or a quick empanada at El Sanjuanino (just a few blocks away).If you’re a meat lover, a bite of bife de chorizo at the nearby Café Los Angelitos won’t disappoint.

Total: ~3 hours – leaving you ample time to return to the airport, freshen up, and board your next flight without stress.

3. Practical Details: Getting There & Getting Out

What you need to knowDetails
Closest airport connectionsFrom Ezeiza (EZE), a 45‑minute taxi or rideshare to Plaza de Mayo is the simplest. From Aeroparque (AEP), a 20‑minute taxi or the Aerobús to Retiro and a 5‑minute walk.
SubwayLine A (the oldest line) stops directly at Plaza de Mayo. Trains run every 5‑7 minutes; tickets cost ARS 30 (≈ US 0.16).
WalkingThe entire itinerary is a compact 1‑km loop—wear comfortable shoes.
SafetyPlaza de Mayo is a police‑patrolled zone, but stay aware of pickpockets, especially near market stalls. Keep your wallet in a front pocket.
LanguageSpanish is the default, but most staff at Café Tortoni speak basic English. Having a few phrases (“un café con leche, por favor”) goes a long way.
CurrencyArgentine pesos are cash‑friendly; most places accept cards, but have a small amount of cash for street vendors.
Time zoneBuenos Aires is UTC‑3 year‑round (no daylight‑saving).

4. Beyond the Square: If You’ve Got Extra Time

If your layover stretches to a full day, use Plaza de Mayo as a launchpad:

Nearby NeighborhoodWhy it’s worth a quick detour
San Telmo (10 min walk)Antique market on Sundays, tango cafés, and the iconic El Zanjón museum.
Puerto Madero (15 min by taxi)Modern skyline, waterfront restaurants, and the Fragata Sarmiento museum ship.
Recoleta (20 min by taxi)Famous Recoleta Cemetery (Eva Perón’s tomb) and upscale boutiques.

Even a brief 20‑minute stroll through any of these districts will deepen your Buenos Aires impression, but none will match the concentrated punch of Plaza de Mayo.

5. Capture the Moment: Photo Checklist

ShotDescription
Casa Rosada façadePink walls, iconic balcony—best in golden hour (early morning or late afternoon).
Cabildo doorwayColonial arches; frame with the flagpole for a historic vibe.
Café Tortoni interiorMarble busts, stained‑glass ceiling—look for the vintage espresso machine.
Street performerCapture the spontaneous tango or folk music that often fills the square.
Avenida de MayLeading‑line shot of the tree‑lined boulevard disappearing into the distance.

Pro tip: Use portrait mode for the architectural details and wide‑angle for the bustling square; you’ll get a professional‑looking gallery without a DSLR.

6. The Takeaway

When you have only one day to experience Buenos Aires, don’t chase every trendy barrio. Plaza de Mayo offers a microcosm of the city’s soul—history, politics, art, coffee culture, and that unmistakable Argentine buzz—all in a walkable, easy‑to‑reach spot.

By centring your layover around this iconic square, you’ll leave the capital with a story, a few unforgettable photos, and a taste of Argentine life—the perfect souvenir for a traveller on the move.

“If you want to understand a city, stand where its heart beats.”
— Your Buenos Aires adventure, distilled in a single plaza.

Ready to make your stopover unforgettable? Pack a light jacket, a camera, and an appetite for history, then let Plaza de Mayo do the rest.

Happy travels, and enjoy your fleeting yet fabulous taste of Buenos Aires!

What I learned about writing – Is there a story that matters to you?

Is there a reason why you would not want to tell it, or that if you did, some people might find it uncomfortable?

The problem is, no matter what you write, someone out there isn’t going to like it.

And there is a raft of subjects to write about that cause concern, but these are sometimes stories that have to be told.

I have one such story, and to me, the telling of it would not fit the mainstream opinion because people are very divided over it. There are reasons for this, and they are being, in my opinion, sensationalised to polarise a particular stance.

The subject: Transgenders.

Like I said, it’s a story I would like to write about, but I know what the response is going to be.

And that isn’t to say that I do not have my own biases, the baggage that we are given when we are younger, where schools and teachers teach us what is supposedly the norm, they will need to work within for the rest of their lives.

In my day, it was that the man went to work to earn a living that provided a house, food, and everything else, while the woman stayed home, had children and looked after the man.

Yes, I can hear 50 per cent of the population laughing at that one, but how different is that societal norm to that where we are now taught that transgender people are subhumans that should be scorned and abandoned because they don’t fit the definition of man or woman?

Thankfully, I grew out of that, and women can vote, work, drive cars, and do anything they desire, though it seems there is a new movement that wants to take away all those rights and go back to the Stone Age.

Again, another very touchy subject, and that will eventually prevent the possibility of writers putting forward the various viewpoints for larger discussion.

Try going back another hundred years, when women were the sub-human species, little more than a man’s possession.

This is probably the only time I will raise the subject, as an instance of what writers may or may not write about, a highlight that public opinion, fueled by people in power, does eventually affect what can be written.

It’s something that we should all be mindful of, as well as keeping an open mind.

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

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying.  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humour failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

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If I only had one day to stop over in Philadelphia, what would I do?

One Day in Philly? Here’s the One Spot That Will Make It Unforgettable

The Situation

You’ve landed at Philadelphia International Airport (PHL) with a twelve‑hour layover. The city’s historic neighbourhoods, world‑class museums, and legendary food scene are all tempting, but you only have a single day to explore. How do you decide what to see, eat, and photograph before you catch your next flight?

The answer is simple: head straight to Reading Terminal Market.

It may sound modest—a bustling indoor food hall tucked away in the heart of Centre City—but this historic market is the perfect microcosm of Philadelphia’s culture, history, and culinary pride. One visit here gives you a taste (literally and figuratively) of everything the City of Brotherly Love has to offer, all within a walkable 5‑minute radius of major sights and public transit.

Why Reading Terminal Market Beats All Other “One‑Stop” Options

What you wantReading Terminal Market delivers
Authentic Philly foodPhilly cheesesteaks, soft pretzels, scrapple, hoagie‑style sandwiches, and sweet treats from generations‑old vendors.
A quick dive into historyHoused in the 1925 Reading Railroad terminal, the building itself is an architectural landmark listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
Convenient locationSteps from the 30th Street Station (Amtrak) and a 2‑minute walk from the subway (Broad Street Line) and the Independence Hall area.
Variety for any palate35+ vendors offering everything from Amish baked goods to international cuisines—no need to pick a single restaurant.
Photo‑ready ambianceThe vaulted ceiling, original marble floors, and bustling stalls create a vibrant backdrop for Instagram‑worthy shots.

In short, Reading Terminal Market is Philadelphia in a nutshell—and you can absorb it all in just a few hours.

Crafting the Perfect One‑Day Itinerary Around the Market

Below is a step‑by‑step guide that squeezes the most enjoyment out of a 12‑hour layover while keeping stress (and travel time) to a minimum.

1️⃣ Arrival & Transit (0–45 min)

  • From the airport: Take the SEPTA Airport Line (direct rail) to 30th Street Station (≈ 12 min). Trains run every 30 minutes; a $5 off‑peak fare works for most travellers.
  • From 30th Street: Walk east 5 minutes to Reading Terminal Market. The path takes you past the iconic Reading Railroad building—a perfect first photo op.

Pro tip: If you have luggage, use the Luggage Storage service at 30th Street Station (available 24/7 for $8 per day). It frees you up to wander unencumbered.

2️⃣ Breakfast at the Market (45–90 min)

  • Must‑try: Hershel’s East Coast Deli for a classic Philly cheesesteak breakfast sandwich (steak, egg, and provolone on a roll).
  • Alternative: Rosa’s Bakery for a flaky, buttery peppercorn croissant and a cup of locally roasted coffee.
  • Why it works: Breakfast here is quick, delicious, and you’re already inside the building where the day’s adventure begins.

3️⃣ Quick History Burst (90–120 min)

  • Walk north a block to Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell (both free, but expect lines). Even a 20‑minute stroll through the historic district gives you a palpable sense of America’s founding moments.
  • Optional: If you’re short on time, simply peek at the Liberty Bell Centre’s exterior from the market’s balcony—photos are just as iconic.

4️⃣ Mid‑Morning Snack & Shopping (120–150 min)

  • Stop at: DiNic’s Roast Pork (the shop that inspired the “Philly’s Best Sandwich” on The Food Network). Grab a Roast Pork Hoagie with provolone, broccoli rabe, and a drizzle of sharp provolone mayo.
  • Shop for: Handmade Pennsylvania Dutch pretzels at Miller’s Pretzel Bakery, or pick up a box of Amish butter cookies—great souvenirs that travel well.

5️⃣ Cultural Interlude (150–210 min)

  • Visit: The Mural Arts Philadelphia collection, just a 10‑minute walk from the market (head west toward the Philadelphia Museum of Art). The neighbourhood is dotted with vibrant murals that tell stories of the city’s neighbourhoods, social movements, and artistic evolution.
  • Snap: The iconic “Rocky Steps” view from the Philadelphia Museum of Art, if you have a few extra minutes. It’s a quick climb (or use the elevator) for that classic cinematic shot.

6️⃣ Lunch – The Big Finish (210–270 min)

  • Signature meal: Pat’s King of Steaks or Geno’s Steaks (the original rivalry) are a short 5‑minute walk north on South 9th Street. Order the classic cheesesteak—thinly sliced ribeye, melted cheese, and a hearty roll.
  • If you’re feeling adventurous: Try the Philly “Italian Hoagie” from Cesar’s inside the market—layers of salami, provolone, capicola, lettuce, tomato, and onions.

7️⃣ Sweet Treat & Coffee (270–300 min)

  • Finish: A slice of cannoli from Cappuccino’s or a soft pretzel from Basset’s—both located inside the market.
  • Coffee: Grab a final cup at Joe Coffee to recharge before you head back to the airport.

8️⃣ Return to the Airport (300‑360 min)

  • Walk back to 30th Street Station, hop the Airport Line to the terminal, and allow at least 45 minutes for security screening before your next flight.

Bottom line: You’ll have sampled Philly’s most iconic foods, brushed past its founding history, and captured a handful of visual memories—all without feeling rushed.

Insider Tips for a Seamless Market Experience

TipDetails
Arrive earlyVendors are freshest in the morning; lines are shorter.
Cash & cardsMost stalls accept cards, but a few (especially smaller bakers) still prefer cash.
Ask for “cheese whiz or provolone?”The classic cheese whiz is iconic, but provolone gets the nod from locals who want a richer flavor.
Bring a reusable bagMany vendors will let you take home leftovers or purchases without extra packaging.
Watch for “Market Days”On Saturdays, a farmer’s market spills onto the adjacent streets—great for fresh produce and artisanal goods.
Stay hydratedPhiladelphia can be surprisingly warm in summer; grab a bottle of local Pennsylvania sparkling water at Tropicana.

The Takeaway: One Spot, Whole City

If you only have a single day in Philadelphia, you could spend it trying to chase every historic monument or museum. But the reality of travel—tight schedules, jet lag, and the desire for genuine experiences—means you need a hub that delivers culture, cuisine, and convenience all at once.

Reading Terminal Market does exactly that. It lets you taste Philadelphia, see its history, and feel the vibrant energy of a city that’s both rooted in the past and alive with modern flavour.

So the next time your itinerary shows a brief stopover, remember: walk into the market, eat like a Philadelphian, and walk out with a day’s worth of memories.

Quick Recap

What to DoWhereApprox. Time
Breakfast (cheesesteak sandwich)Hershel’s Deli, Reading Terminal Market30 min
Liberty Bell & Independence Hall2 blocks north30 min
Roast pork hoagie + pretzel snackDiNic’s & Miller’s30 min
Mural Arts walk & Rocky Steps viewWest toward Museum of Art30 min
Lunch (authentic cheesesteak)Pat’s or Geno’s45 min
Cannoli or pretzel + coffeeInside market15 min
Return to airport30th St. Station → Airport Line45 min

Ready to make your Philadelphia layover unforgettable? Pack a reusable bag, bring an appetite, and let Reading Terminal Market be the heart of your day.

Safe travels, and may your next stop be just as delicious!

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either 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 neighbors 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 I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact 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 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 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 become 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 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 realize 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.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 51

Day 51 – The Power of Silence

…

The Power of Silence: Why Saying Less Can Make Your Interviews—and Your Writing—Far More Compelling

“Silence is a source of great strength.” — Lao Tzu

In a world that rewards constant chatter, it’s easy to forget that the most memorable moments often happen when nobody is speaking. Whether you’re sitting across from a subject in a face‑to‑face interview or watching a scene unfold on the page, strategic silence can turn good material into something unforgettable.

In this post, we’ll explore:

  1. Why silence works – the psychological and narrative reasons it matters.
  2. Interview tactics – how to harness pauses, breathing space, and non‑verbal cues.
  3. Writing tricks – letting characters speak for themselves and using “silence” in prose.
  4. Common pitfalls – what to avoid when you try to be “quiet”.

Grab a notebook (or a blank document) and let the quiet speak to you.

1. The Science Behind the Pause

What Happens When You’re SilentWhy It Helps Your Audience
The brain fills in gaps – humans love pattern‑completion.Listeners/readers become active participants, constructing meaning in the spaces you leave.
Emotional intensity rises – a pause creates tension.The audience anticipates what comes next, sharpening focus on the upcoming reveal.
Trust is built – you’re not trying to steer the conversation.Interviewees feel heard, while readers sense authentic, unmanipulated dialogue.
Memory retention improves – novelty stands out.Unusual moments (a lingering silence) stick in the mind longer than a flood of words.

In short, silence is not “nothing”; it’s a catalyst that amplifies whatever follows it.

2. Interview Techniques: Let the Interviewee Own the Story

a. The “Goldilocks” Pause

  • What it is: A deliberate, 2‑5‑second silence right after a question or a key statement.
  • Why it works: It gives the interviewee mental space to think, often coaxing deeper, less rehearsed answers.
  • How to practice:
    1. Ask a question.
    2. Resist the urge to fill the void with “uh‑uh” or “so…”.
    3. Count silently (1‑2‑3…) and then listen.

Example – Instead of “What made you decide to start the company?” followed immediately by “And how did you fund it?”, try:
“What made you decide to start the company?” (pause) “Take your time.” (pause again) …and you’ll hear the story unfold organically.

b. Mirror the Body Language

  • Technique: Nod, maintain an open posture, and let the interviewee see you’re engaged without speaking.
  • Result: Non‑verbal affirmation often encourages the interviewee to keep talking, turning a silence into a “safe‑space” signal.

c. Avoid “Filler” Questions

  • Bad habit: “Do you like that?” or “Is that right?” after every answer.
  • Better approach: Let the previous answer breathe. If you need clarification, phrase it as a reflection: “So you’re saying…?” – then pause.

d. The “Quiet Re‑Ask”

When you need deeper detail, repeat the last few words of the interviewee’s answer, then stay silent.

Interviewee: “We had to scrap the original design.”
You: “Scrap the original design…?” (silence)
Result: The interviewee often fills in the missing “why” or “how”.

3. Writing Tricks: Let Your Characters Speak for Themselves

a. Show, Don’t Tell—Through Silence

  • Scene: A mother and her teenage son sit across a kitchen table after a heated argument.
  • Traditional “telling”: “She was angry, and he felt guilty.”
  • Silence‑driven “showing”:The spoon clinked against the porcelain, a rhythm that grew louder as the minutes stretched. She stared at the steam rising from her tea; he stared at the chipped edge of his mug. No one said a word.

The absence of dialogue forces the reader to infer the tension.

b. Use “Silent Beats” Between Dialogue

  • Why: They act like punctuation, letting readers absorb what was just said.
  • How: Insert a line break or a brief description of a character’s reaction.

“I’m leaving,” she whispered.

The rain thumped against the window, louder than any goodbye.

The beat gives weight to the line, turning a simple statement into a moment of finality.

c. Let Characters “Fill In Their Own Gaps”

If you give a character an ambiguous line, resist the temptation to explain it for them. Trust the reader’s imagination.

“You remember what happened that night?”

He nodded, eyes flicking to the empty doorway.

Notice we never tell the reader what he remembers. The silence invites speculation, creating deeper engagement.

d. Narrative “Silence” — The Unspoken Backstory

Sometimes the silence isn’t a pause in dialogue but a gap in the narrative. Let background details emerge gradually, through hints rather than exposition.

  • Technique: Drop a prop, a habit, or a scar and let the audience wonder.
  • Result: The story feels lived‑in, like a real person who has a past you’re only glimpsing.

4. Pitfalls to Avoid

PitfallWhy It Undermines SilenceQuick Fix
Filling gaps with narrationOver‑explaining robs the reader of agency.Use concise, vivid images instead of exposition.
Awkward, overly long pausesCan feel uncomfortable, breaking immersion.Keep silent beats purposeful—2–5 seconds in interviews, a line break or two in prose.
Assuming silence = boredomSome people mistake quiet for lack of content.Prepare with strong questions or scene stakes; silence will then feel intentional.
Using silence to avoid the tough questionLeads to shallow interviews/writing.Embrace uncomfortable topics; let the pause draw them out.

5. A Mini‑Exercise to Practice “Silence”

  1. Interview: Conduct a 5‑minute conversation with a friend about a memorable childhood event. After each question, count to five silently before responding. Record the exchange. Notice how the answers become richer.
  2. Write: Draft a scene (150–200 words) in which two characters meet after years apart. Include at least three silent beats—one before dialogue, one in the middle, one after. Compare the emotional impact to a version where the conversation is nonstop.

6. Takeaway: Silence Is Your Secret Superpower

  • In interviews, silence is a listening tool that invites deeper, unfiltered storytelling.
  • In writing, silence is a structural device that lets characters own their voice and readers fill in the emotional blanks.

When you deliberately step back—whether from a microphone or a keyboard—you create space for authenticity to breathe. And in that breath lies the resonance that makes an interview memorable and a story unforgettable.

Next time you feel the urge to fill the void, pause. Let the silence do the heavy lifting.

Ready to try it? Share your silent‑beat experiment in the comments below. I’d love to hear how a simple pause transformed your interview or manuscript!

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

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.

“Welcome back.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

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