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.
Zoe is now painfully reminded why she did not get involved with other people, why it was better to be responsible only for herself. It was easy, perhaps to blame John for making his own problems by not heeding her advice, but, just the same, she felt a small shred of responsibility for his current situation.
After learning that John has been kidnapped by Olga, Zoe first goes to see an old colleague, and Yuri’s friend, Dominica to interrogate her, then meets up with Yuri, and it does not end well for one of them. After telling her he’s the elusive Romanov, Yuri informs her of the fact that Olga has taken John and that Worthington is about to use John’s mother as leverage against her.
Not knowing immediately where Olga is, but believing she will not kill him because Zoe will come to her, she detours to take care of Worthington, having finally realised why he was searching for her. In another of her many disguises, room service visits his room, and Worthington gets more than dinner served up to him.
Of course, Yuri lies. He is not Romanov, and Romanov is not trying to kill her, but find her.
Who is she? Well, you’ll have to read the book to find out.
And, as for Olga, well, hell hath no fury than a woman avenging a woman avenging her son!
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.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
“That was far to bloody easy.” I heard Monroe’s voice come over the radio, not long after we left the camp.
“It was a bit easier than I thought. But I did make it quite clear if we didn’t all leave in one piece we’d reduce his camp to rubble with everyone in it.”
“He knows the territory. Something’s waiting for us out here.”
Something indeed.
Back at the camp, not only had the commander’s men search for the hidden weapons, and, when everyone checked, were still there, they had also taken off the crates with the film equipment. I was not sure what the commander was intending to do with the equipment, but what disappointed me was the fact we hadn’t taken the time to rescue the rocket launcher.
Now the commander had it.
If he bothered to search the crates properly. I suspect he was yet to do so. What we had rescued and successfully hidden were the C4 explosives and detonators. They might come in useful at the airstrip.
Just before we reached the fork in the road, where we would be turning left to head towards the airfield, and surprisingly had not run into any of the commander’s men, we stopped and let Monroe and Shurl out to make a sweep towards the airstrip, not too far away.
I also called up Mobley to see how he was.
The Colonel answered. “Everything is under control now.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “What happened?”
“The kidnappers send out a team to intercept us on the way to the airstrip. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine they would know what we were planning because they’d know we would not be retracing out steps to Uganda. Got them before they got a shot off. I suspect there are Government troops at the airstrip, it’s too important to let anything happen to rich foreigners coming to see their wildlife reserve. There are several troop carriers, and we’ve seen a few men on the outskirts patrolling. There’s several at the gate if you could call it that.”
“Is there a plane there?”
“As it happens there is. A grand old DC3. It’s not a charter plane, so I’m guessing it belongs to an overentitled American big game hunter or the photographic variety. At least I’m hoping that’s the case.”
“What do you recommend?”
“Not to storm the field. You’re going to have to find another means of getting here, preferably without any fanfare.”
My first choice was to go in and get out, with as little firefight as possible, particularly in case they started shooting at the plane. If I was reading between the lines properly, the Colonel was telling me there were more troops there than we could handle quickly and quietly.
“Very good. Can you get sight on just how many troops are there, and if you can see who’s in charge?”
“Will try.”
Monroe had been standing next to me during the exchange.
“Three in place, two more on the perimeter, if we can cover as many as possible, you might be able to take the rest from the inside.”
Secreting the weapons again, maybe. It was a possibility, but going in with hidden weapons, and then found by the guards at the gate, who would be more efficient and careful searchers than the kidnappers, it would create hostility and itchy trigger fingers.
“No. We have to find some way of letting them feel as though they have complete control of the situation. They know we’re coming; the commander would have told them.” The only reason why he was still the cat who ate the canary. He might even have told them he had some men waiting as the first line of defense.
The airstrip commander would then know we were armed and relatively dangerous.
It was time for yet another dangerous gambit.
I picked up the radio. “Colonel?”
A second later, “Sergeant?”
“Whatever happens in the next twenty minutes or so, just ignore it. It’s not much of a plan, but it will get us onto the field.”
“And then?”
“Hopefully some divine intervention.”
Monroe looked skeptical. “You’re going to just drive up to the gate and surrender?”
“Not exactly. It won’t be fait accompli until we reach the terminal, or hanger, or whatever the commander has set up as headquarters. They’ll have most of our weapons, yes. But they won’t have all of us.”
“No. But they’ll know we have a sniper, so one of you are going to have to allow yourself to be captured, just to ease their minds.”
“Leaving one of us and Mobley and the Ugandans. Can we trust them?”
“I hope so, otherwise this could go badly. But, today, I’m an optimist. We’ve got this far.”
Trying to show more confidence in the plan that I had. It was always a worry when you had to trust people you didn’t know. That had been the problem the last time. At least this time we had managed to get the hostages. It was always going to be a problem getting them out.
Monroe gave me one of her special, you’re a fool, looks. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” She then nodded in Shurl’s direction and they disappeared into the bush again.
I gestured to Davies to come over.
“Did you find out what sort of plane it is?”
“Hopefully. The Colonel tells men there’s a DC3 off the airstrip. I assume you can fly one.”
She smiled, the first time since this operation had started. “Sure can. I spent three summers putting one back together. My dad has a sort of airplane museum. A DC3, a DC4, and a Lancaster, a very sorry looking Lancaster at that. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Then try to not get shot.”
“Do my very best not to.”
Once again, it was time to go. Going into the unknown was getting to be the norm, but hopefully, this would be the last time. I didn’t consider it wise to advise the hostages, they had their own problems to worry about.
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 turned slowly, wondering just what the hell her game was, when I realised it was not her, but another man holding a shotgun and looking very aggravated.
“What do you think you’re doing?” At least that’s what I translated his Italian version into.
And I put my hands out where he could see them, noting at the same time that not only was Juliet missing, so was my gun.
“No Italian, I’m sorry. Should you be brandishing that gun?”
As I turned, he moved back. He correctly interpreted that I was going to disarm him, if /I could distract him with my not understanding Italian. He was smarter than that.
“Move.”
He had a word of English. The motioning of the gun in the direction of the back door was all he needed. It was not the first time he’d approached an intruder.
I moved slowly towards the door, opened it, and went in.
The grisly scene of the woman on the floor with blood everywhere was confronting. The man with the gun swore.
“What the hell have you done?” Not an exact translation but near enough. He was shocked.
And distracted.
But I think there was no threat from either of them. Dicostini was almost in shock, kneeling beside the woman, trying to shake her awake.
The other man put down the gun and went over to check for any sign of life. First a finger at her neck, then her writ, then hear if she was still breathing.
The gunman looked at Dicostini, “How did this happen?”
Dicostini shrugged.
“He hit her,” I said. “I saw it happen through the window. They were arguing.”
That’s when Dicostini saw me. “Who are you?”
“A private investigator hired to find the real countess. The thing is, I’m not overly worried about her, it’s the woman you took with her that’s your biggest problem?”
“What woman?”
“The countess’s sister. You snatched the two of them if you didn’t, the clowns you employed to do the job did. Her sister is the wife of the Chief of British Intelligence, and he’s about to unleash the wrath of the Gods on you. I came here to do you a favour. Tell me where they are, and I’ll walk away. No questions asked, no interest in what happened here. This is a one-time offer, and it’s about to expire.”
“What are you talking about? This is the countess’s sister.”
It was certainly not Mrs Robdy, but now in the pale light shining on that lifeless face, I could see the resemblance to the countess. It was definitely the woman I’d gone to the opera with, and later taken back to the hotel.
I could see how easily it would be to mistake the fake for the real countess … they must be twins. The thing was, no one had picked up on it, and I thought our researchers were supposed to be the best.
“How is that possible?” I had to ask.
“They were twins, separated at birth, and the mother was never told. Angelina was sent north to stay with a distant aunt who treated her as her own child, and she was never told of her true mother. I would not have known either unless my own mother told me of the deception on her deathbed.”
“So, what was this charade supposed to prove?”
“That she gets some recognition, and some of the Von Burkehardt spoils. That cow that is the countess, she has no interest in anyone but herself. Not for the traditions of this country, the people, the area, the vineyards, the wine, anything.”
“Where is she?”
“Dead, I hope. I told them I didn’t want to see her again. They did not tell me they had taken anyone else with her. It is done, over. I have no idea where they were being held. Now go. I have enough to deal with.”
I had to agree with him. How was he going to explain any of this?
I waited until I was some distance from the house, then pulled out my phone and dialled Anthony’s number.
He answered after the seventh ring. I was worried he might not.
“Two urgent matters. Tell Rodby to take the woman who’s with him into custody. Don’t ask why, just do it, now. Second, how quickly can you flood the Italian media with a missing person poster?”
“Quickly. Why?”
“Get a wanted poster together with Mrs Rodby’s face on it and a finder’s fee of a million Euros, more if you like. And put my phone number on it. Mrs Rody still carries Rodby’s VC in her handbag for good luck still?”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m good at my job. Do both those requests, then call me back in an hour or so. It’s imperative you get the missing persons poster out as soon as possible but only to two people. The lawyer fellow in Rome, I’ll send you his details if you don’t already have them, and to the Burkehardt’. All of them.”
“Only those people?”
“Yes. If I’m wrong, you’re going to find me a hiding spot somewhere in the middle of the north pole, preferably a mile or more under the ice.”
It’s like working in two offices, one uptown, and one downtown.
I have two blogs, this one, and another which is purely for writing, and generally, a lot of starts and not a lot of finishes. I get ideas, and it’s a place to store them, and give a few people some amusement at my, sometimes, improbable situations and far-fetched stories.
Here I try to be more serious.
I have the ceiling, the cinema of my dreams. Here anything is possible, like jumping from a helicopter about to explode, and survive, and get out of a sinking ship, like Houdini. Of course, there is always one time when it doesn’t work, and Houdini knows that all too well.
Over there, I have a series which I started here, long ago, where I take a photograph and write a story inspired by it. The interesting thing about that is I could probably use the same photograph over and over, and it would inspire a different tale.
I know, if I was running a writing class, everyone would see that photograph differently.
But what amazes me sometimes is the fact the story is not directly related to the theme. It got me thinking about how we view our experiences, and what triggers memories. I’ve discovered that it doesn’t necessarily happen by correlation, say, for instance, a memory of being in New York might be triggered by a visit to a cafe in Cloncurry.
I try to do one of these every day, but sometimes it’s hard work. Writing itself can be some days, particularly when the words are lurking there, behind that invisible, impenetrable, rock wall.
OK, so I’m stuck in the middle of writing a piece over there, and I’ve come over here to whinge.
But, enough. I’ll let you know what the cinema of my dreams is showing, later.
The Echo Chamber vs. The Trailblazer: Finding Your Authorial Voice
The blank page stares back, a vast expanse of possibility. As writers, we stand at a familiar crossroads, a debate as old as storytelling itself: should we meticulously study and emulate the voices of those who have come before us, or forge a path entirely our own? Should we lean into the comfortable and the familiar, or strive to create a new artistic vogue?
This isn’t just an abstract literary question; it’s a fundamental one that shapes our creative journey and ultimately, the impact of our words.
The Allure of the Echo: Why Copying Feels Right (Sometimes)
Let’s be honest, there’s a powerful temptation to mimic. When we encounter an author whose prose sings, whose characters leap off the page, or whose plot twists leave us breathless, it’s natural to want to bottle that magic.
Learning the Craft: Studying established authors is an invaluable apprenticeship. By dissecting their sentence structures, their pacing, and their use of metaphor, we learn the mechanics of compelling storytelling. It’s like a musician learning scales before composing symphonies.
Finding Your Feet: Especially when starting out, adopting a style that resonates can provide a scaffolding. It offers a sense of direction and a model to follow, reducing the paralysing fear of the unknown.
Connecting with an Audience: Sometimes, a familiar style taps into a pre-existing reader base. If you write in a genre with established conventions, a comfortable and predictable style can be a draw for those seeking that specific experience.
However, a life spent solely in the echo chamber risks becoming a pale imitation. The danger lies in mistaking appreciation for appropriation, and in becoming so enamoured with another’s voice that we silence our own.
The Audacity of the Original: Charting Your Own Course
Conversely, the call to create something new, to be the trailblazer, is equally potent. It’s the spirit of innovation, of pushing boundaries, of leaving an indelible mark that is uniquely yours.
Authenticity and Connection: A truly original voice resonates deeply because it’s born from genuine experience, observation, and perspective. Readers connect with authenticity; they feel a genuine spark when they encounter something that feels fresh and true to the author.
Innovation and Evolution: Literature, like any art form, needs to evolve. New voices bring new ideas, new ways of seeing the world, and new techniques that can invigorate the literary landscape. Think of the authors who fundamentally changed how we tell stories – they weren’t afraid to deviate from the norm.
Finding Your Unique Power: Your life experiences, your quirks, your individual way of processing the world – these are the raw materials of your unique voice. To suppress them in favour of someone else’s is to dim your own light.
The Sweet Spot: Where Familiarity Meets the New
So, where does this leave us? Is it an either/or proposition? Not necessarily. The most compelling authors often strike a delicate balance.
Influence, Not Imitation: We are all influenced by what we read. The key is to absorb those influences, to understand why they work, and then to filter them through your own unique lens. Your voice is not built in a vacuum; it’s a tapestry woven with the threads of your experiences and the inspiration you’ve drawn from others.
Mastering the Familiar to Subvert It: Sometimes, the most groundbreaking work arises from a deep understanding of existing conventions. By mastering the familiar, you gain the power to play with it, to bend it, and ultimately, to subvert it in exciting and unexpected ways.
Seeking Your “Why”: Before you choose your path, ask yourself: Why am I writing this? What is the core message or feeling I want to convey? Your “why” will often guide you towards the most authentic and impactful voice, whether it’s a whisper of the familiar or a roar of the new.
The Verdict: Cultivate Your Own Garden
Ultimately, the pursuit of a unique authorial voice is not about rejecting all external influence. It’s about engaging with those influences critically, learning from them, and then, crucially, integrating them into your own distinct expression.
Don’t be afraid to experiment. Don’t be afraid to stumble. Don’t be afraid to sound a little like yourself, even if that self is still under construction. The world of literature is rich because of its diversity. It needs your echoes, yes, but more importantly, it thirsts for your original song. So, embrace the challenge, cultivate your own garden of words, and let your unique voice bloom.
The Myth of the Blank Page: Why “Writer’s Block” Is More Than Just a Stuck Pen
Every writer knows the sensation: you stare at the cursor, blinking rhythmically against a stark white screen, and your brain feels like a locked door. You can’t find the key. You call it “writer’s block.” You blame it on the caffeine crash, the deadline pressure, or a lack of inspiration.
But have you ever stopped to wonder if the term itself is actually to blame?
If you trace the history of those two words back to their source, you’ll find that “writer’s block” isn’t a medical condition or an inevitable creative cycle. It’s a diagnosis—and one that carries a heavy, somewhat dark, psychological weight.
The Invention of a Diagnosis
For most of literary history, writers simply struggled. They had “dry spells,” they “hit a wall,” or they were “out of ideas.” Then, in 1947, a psychoanalyst named Edmund Bergler coined the term “writer’s block.”
To understand Bergler, you have to understand the era. He was working in the shadow of Sigmund Freud, and he viewed the creative process through a very specific, psychoanalytic lens. Bergler didn’t think you were stuck because you were tired or uninspired. He believed that the “block” was actually an unconscious act of self-sabotage.
According to Bergler, writers were suffering from a deep-seated, masochistic drive. He argued that the writer unconsciously sabotaged their own work to enjoy the “self-constructed defeat” of failing to write. In his view, the agony of not being able to finish a manuscript wasn’t a struggle against a narrative problem; it was a psychological compulsion to suffer.
Is This Really About Word Counts?
If we accept Bergler’s definition, then “writer’s block” stops being a productivity issue and starts being an internal conflict.
This is where things get interesting. If you’re struggling to reach your daily word count, you usually look for practical solutions: try the Pomodoro technique, change your environment, or outline your chapters more clearly. But if the problem is actually a subconscious desire to sabotage yourself, those practical fixes will never work.
By framing our struggles as “writer’s block,” we’ve inherited a diagnosis that suggests the problem lies deep within our psyche, rather than on the page. It turns a professional hurdle into a personal failing.
Moving Beyond the “Block”
Maybe it’s time we retire the phrasing. When we tell ourselves we have “writer’s block,” we are giving ourselves permission to stop. We are turning a temporary lapse in flow into an identity—a “blocked” writer.
Perhaps the next time you feel stuck, you shouldn’t ask, “Why am I sabotaging myself?” or “How do I overcome this block?” Instead, try asking:
Is this section actually necessary for the story? (Maybe you’re stuck because the narrative is heading in the wrong direction.)
Am I exhausted or burnt out? (Sometimes, the tank is just empty.)
Is my goal too big? (Breaking a chapter into 100-word segments is far less daunting than “finishing the book.”)
Writer’s block might be a useful shorthand for the frustration of the craft, but it’s worth remembering that it was invented by a man who looked for internal demons behind every closed door. You don’t have to be a masochist to struggle with a sentence. Sometimes, a hard day of writing is just a hard day of writing—no analysis required.
Next time the words won’t come, don’t blame your subconscious. Just close the laptop, take a walk, and remember: you aren’t “blocked.” You’re just in the middle of the work.
This was one of the more interesting experiences for the grandchildren as they were, as all young girls are, interested in ballet.
We thoroughly enjoyed our visit which included some time watching ballet practice.
I could not convince anyone to take the elevator back down to the ground floor as it was suspected we might be ‘attacked’ by the ‘phantom’. Certainly, the elevator was very old and I think at the time it was being repaired.
Part of the Grand Staircase in Palais Garnier Opera de Paris
The ceiling above the main staircase. The ceiling above the staircase was painted by Isidore Pils to depict The Triumph of Apollo, The Enchantment of Music Deploying its Charms, Minerva Fighting Brutality Watched by the Gods of Olympus, and The City of Paris Receiving the Plan of the New Opéra.
The ceiling of Chagall at the Palais Garnier
On 23 September 1964, the new ceiling of the Opéra Garnier was inaugurated with great pomp. It was painted by Marc Chagall at the request of André Malraux
Amphitheatre and Orchestra Pit entrance
Interior, and doorways to boxes
Box seats in the auditorium
Ornate ceilings and columns
Seating inside the auditorium
The day we were leaving Paris, was the first night of the Bolshoi Ballet. My two granddaughters were greatly disappointed at missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime, to see the Bolshoi Ballet at the Paris Opera House.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 