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.
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledgedthat something had happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive, she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realises is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
Beyond the Typical Tourist Trail: 5 Unmissable, Off‑the‑Beaten‑Path Experiences in Lima
Lima—the City of Kings—is famous for its bustling historic centre, world‑renowned gastronomy, and the dramatic cliffs of Miraflores that gaze out over the Pacific. Yet, once you’ve sampled ceviche at a top‑rated restaurant and snapped a selfie at the Plaza de Armas, you’ll quickly realise there’s a whole hidden side to Peru’s capital that most guidebooks barely mention.
If you’re the kind of traveller who loves to wander where the crowds don’t, here are five carefully curated experiences that will let you see Lima through a local’s eyes, without missing out on comfort or safety.
1. Wander the Colorful Streets of Barranco’s “Paseo de los Artistas”
Why it’s special
Barranco is Lima’s bohemian heart, but most visitors stick to the main promenade and the famous Bridge of Sighs. A short walk inland leads you to a tucked‑away lane known as Paseo de los Artistas—a vibrant corridor of murals, independent galleries, and tiny ateliers where emerging Peruvian artists showcase everything from street‑art stencils to avant‑garde sculpture.
What to do
Activity
Details
Mural hunting
Follow the “Graffiti Trail” map (available at the Casa de la Literatura kiosk). Look for the giant “Cumbia de los Andes” piece by local legend Javier “Javi” Lira.
Mini‑workshop
Many studios host free 30‑minute workshops—try your hand at pintura al óleo or corte de papel on Tuesdays at 4 p.m.
Coffee break
Slip into Café San Isidro (the tiny café with the green door) for a cup of café pasado made with beans roasted right in the neighbourhood.
Insider tip
If you’re there on a Saturday evening, the lane transforms into an impromptu open‑mic night. Bring a notebook and join the impromptu poetry circle.
2. Take a Morning Kayak on the Rimac River – “Río Verde”
Why it’s special
The Rimac River is usually known as a bustling waterway that runs past the historic centre. Few tourists realise that upstream, the river widens into a calm, emerald‑tinted stretch called Río Verde, flanked by a thin ribbon of mangrove forest. Small eco‑tour operators run guided kayak tours that reveal a different ecological face of Lima.
What to do
Early start – Depart from the Club de Regatas dock at 7 a.m. to avoid city traffic and catch the mist rolling off the water.
Spot wildlife – Look for the elusive cormorán (cormorant) nesting on the mangroves, and keep an eye out for tiny river otters (nutrias).
Picnic on the bank – Guides provide a traditional juane (rice‑stuffed banana leaf parcel) and a thermos of mate de coca for a post‑paddle snack.
Practicalities
Cost: US $35 per person (includes kayak, helmet, guide, and snack).
Skill level: Beginner‑friendly; paddles are stable, and guides are fluent in English and Spanish.
3. Explore the Pre‑Colonial Ruins of Pachacamac – A Hidden Archaeological Gem
Why it’s special
While many travellers flock to the grand ruins of Huaca Pucllana in Miraflores, the Pachacamac complex, located 30 km south of Lima, remains relatively quiet. This sacred site predates the Inca and was a major pilgrimage destination for the coastal cultures of pre‑Columbian Peru.
What to do
Guided tour – Book a small‑group tour (max 8 people) with Arqueología Viva to learn about the Ica and Nazca influences on the temple architecture.
Sunset ceremony – If you can stay until dusk, the site’s open terrace offers a spectacular view of the Pacific horizon, where local Aymara priests sometimes perform a traditional papa (offering) ritual.
Museum visit – The on‑site museum houses ceramic fragments and a reconstructed temple model that provides context to the ruins.
Travel note
Take the coastal highway (Panamericana Sur) and exit at the Pachacamac sign. Parking is free, and the entrance fee is modest (S/ 5).
4. Savour a Secret “Peruvian Street Food Tour” in the Cercado de Lima
Why it’s special
Most culinary tours focus on upscale restaurants in Miraflores or the famed Mercado de Surquillo. Yet the historic district’s narrow alleys hide a culinary underworld of anticuchos, picarones, and cuy chactado served from modest, family‑run stalls.
What to do
Dish
Where to find it
Anticuchos de corazón (grilled beef heart)
Anticuchería El Buen Sazón on Calle San Martín (open only after 9 p.m.).
Picarones (sweet potato doughnuts)
Dulcería La Senda in the Plaza de la Merced, served with chancaca syrup.
Cuy chactado (crispy guinea pig)
Puesto del Cuy near the San Cristóbal market; the vendor will slice it open in front of you.
Chicha de jora (fermented corn drink)
Small chichería behind the Casa de la Literatura, offering a tasting flight of 3 varieties.
How to join
The Lima Food Explorers collective runs a 4‑hour “Night Bites” tour every Thursday and Saturday, starting at 8 p.m. The price is US $25 per person, which includes a drink and a short cooking demo.
Safety tip
Stick to stalls that display a clean cooking area and have a visible Vigilancia Sanitaria (health inspection) sticker.
5. Unwind at Parque de la Reserva – The Secret Water Garden
Why it’s special
Everyone knows the Magic Water Circuit (Circuito Mágico del Agua), but few realise that behind the main show lies a quiet, Japanese‑inspired water garden that opens only during the early morning and late evening hours. Designed by renowned landscape architect Mario Lara, the garden features a series of koi ponds, stone lanterns, and a hidden bamboo grove.
What to do
Morning meditation – Arrive at 6:30 a.m. for a free, 15‑minute guided meditation session led by a local yoga instructor (check the park’s Facebook page for the schedule).
Photography walk – The soft morning light creates ethereal reflections; the garden’s shōji screens make a perfect backdrop for portrait shots.
Evening lantern release – On Fridays, the park hosts a community lantern‑lighting ceremony at 9 p.m., where you can write a wish on a biodegradable paper lantern and set it afloat on the central pond.
Practicalities
Entrance: Free (the Magic Circuit costs for the evening show).
Access: The garden is located behind the main fountain pavilion; look for signs pointing to “Jardín Secreto”.
How to Fit All Five Into a Long Weekend
Day
Morning
Afternoon
Evening
Friday
Kayak at Río Verde (7 a.m.)
Explore Pachacamac ruins (2 p.m.)
Magic Water Circuit (8 p.m.)
Saturday
Secret Food Tour in Cercado (10 a.m.)
Barranco’s Paseo de los Artistas (2 p.m.)
Lantern ceremony at Parque de la Reserva (9 p.m.)
Sunday
Relaxed brunch in Barranco + optional mini‑workshop
Free time for shopping or museum visit
Early flight or onward travel
If you have only one day, start with the kayak, then hop to Barrio Barranco for lunch, and finish with the secret garden at Parque de la Reserva.
Final Thoughts
Lima’s mainstream attractions are undeniably worth seeing, but the city’s true soul shines brightest in its quieter corners. From paddling on a serene river to tasting street‑food secrets that have survived centuries, these five off‑the‑beaten‑path experiences will give you a richer, more authentic connection to Peru’s coastal capital.
Pack comfortable shoes, a reusable water bottle, and an appetite for adventure—Lima’s hidden gems are waiting.
Ready to wander? Share your own lesser‑known Lima discoveries in the comments below, and let’s keep the conversation going!
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.
I remember the days when our town was like a sleepy hollow surrounded by prairies and mountains.
We had everything we needed, and the town grew at the pace that matched the natural population growth. It was quite literally that sort of town where everyone knew everyone else.
The Murphys ran the sheriff’s department, the Watersons were mayors or civic officers, the Ravellers ran the bank, and Blacks started as the blacksmith and now took care of the farm machinery and engineering. We were, for all intents and purposes, self-sufficient.
Then, little by little, that autonomy started to disappear. The fast food outlets came; a shopping mall was built, and then realtors came and built estates, claiming our town was just the place to live, away from the city rat race.
Then times changed, and the economy failed, and people found themselves struggling. It was not just us; it was everywhere.
That’s when the Montgomerys came.
…
My father was conservative, not exactly against change, just change that radically affected his way of life. He and a few others opposed the mall, the resort being built on the old Anderson ranch, and the radical redesigns of the main street.
He had watched the fast food places turn the children away from the people food, the new hotels turn the people into gamblers and drinkers, and the out-of-towners who were moving into the new estates increase the crime rate. . And the new people brought the drug scourge.
In five years the sheriff’s office had gone from a shop front with the sheriff and two deputies to ten deputies and three detectives, and a modern two-story building with a compound and jail space for twenty.
In those same five years, the original families that built our town started leaving.
My father deplored what was happening, even more so when there was nothing he could do about it. Our Sunday family gathering had turned into a gathering of the so-called founding fathers, dwindling rapidly.
Most had either died out or sold out. And in the case of my generation, with the advent of the internet and the ease of getting information, most have left to seek their fortune in the big cities, tempted by the fortunes that could be made.
He also resisted the buyout offers of his land, now very prime real estate, and held up a multi-million-dollar new resort being developed by the Montomery Corporation run by Archibald Montgomery.
A self-made man, he was quite literally larger than life. No one knew why he left New York, only that he landed in our town by mistake and took a shine to it.
His foothold started with building a castle on the old Herbertson ranch, the first of the old guard to sell out. From there he regaled the old founders with parties and then offers, buying up properties for cents on the dollar, legally and sometimes not.
He went from hero to monster in the blink of an eye. About the same time, it was realised he had bought half the town and surrounding farms. And with that sort of influence, he all but owned the mayor and the sheriff.
Then there was Archie Montgomery junior.
I finished high school with him, the eldest son, and the heir apparent. He believed he owned the town, and everything else, and everyone was his slave to do his bidding.
Those who didn’t found themselves on the wrong end of the stick.
That’s how the Thompsons, my family, became the thorn in the side that neither the father nor the prodigal son wanted or needed.
And both were the subject of conversation at lunch.
…
I looked around the tables at the twenty-two members left from the founding fathers group. The latest casualty: the town sheriff for the last 20 years, just getting voted out and replaced by one of Montgomery’s acolytes.
He was glad to retire, just not about who replaced him. The mayor, or ex-mayor, was sitting next to him, having been deposed on the same election day. Politically, the wind had shifted, and the representatives in Congress that had protected us for so long had been swept away, replaced by, well, my father had an expression that wasn’t repeatable.
Montgomery had finally won, as he said he would.
Jacob Waterson, sixth-generation resident, the last of a long line of town mayors, was sad. He had seen what was happening, and like the rest of us, could do nothing about it.
“It’s time we all just left and left them to it. We can only hold out so long. I mean, if torching the Franz property was a message, then who will be next?”
Old man Franz had refused to sell. Then suddenly his place burned down with him in it, and the investigation came back that old man Franz had basically caused the fire himself. Old wiring and out-of-date appliances. He had been warned.
The thing is, he had the wiring replaced. He just didn’t tell those who needed to know except us. It was like he knew what was going to happen.
“That fire was not caused by an electrical fault.”
The ex-sheriff was adamant and was checking the crime scene himself. No one in the county was interested, a measure of how far Montgomery’s influence had reached.
“That would be me, I’m guessing,” my father said. “Those hundred head of missing cattle turned up on the other side of the country, sold to a meat processor, with our brand overstamped. It was very cleverly done, almost unnoticeable.”
I’d seen the photos sent by the meat works when they noticed an irregularity. Too late to stop the slaughter. Too late to do anything about it.
“It’s time. We’re retiring in Florida. We got just enough to buy a condo and spend a few years cruising. Take the offer and get out, Jake.”
The sheriff was still recovering from an ambush attack that left his deputy dead and him a hospital case. He would have gone back to work if he was fit, but then he lost the election.
The campaign to depose him was very dirty. Politics was threaded through even the minor elections, and that was driving the politicised landscape, a problem we never had before the developers and new arrivals.
Pity.
I guess it was time for all of us to retire.
The conversation focussed on who was next, not what we could do about it, and I think that was the measure of our impotence. There was just not enough of us to make a change.
That’s when a lone voice at the table spoke, my sister Marianne. “They haven’t won; they were never going to win.”
An odd ethereal silence fell over the room.
“In a sense they have,” our father said.
“Not where it matters, as they will soon discover.”
“What do you mean?” Her mother looked worried. Marianne had suffered a bad few months recently with the Montgomery juniors’ bullying.
The daughter was as bad as the son.
“I put a curse on the whole family “
That was something else about Marianne that had worried me. A week or two ago I had accidentally walked in on her and four of her friends sitting inside a pentagram chanting what sounded like Latin.
Several books around them had what were supposedly spells, one she said would bring down hellfire and damnation on the Montgomeries.
Wishful thinking, I’d said, but if it made her feel better…
“Yes, dear,” her mother said. She was going to, as she had in the face of increasing agitation, just ignore it as a phase.
Then added her two cents’ worth to the conversation, “Perhaps it’s time we moved on. Nothing lasts forever, as much as we hoped it would.”
I was sure a few of those sitting around the table hoped the curse would work.
The silence lasted about another minute and a half before Harvey, one of the ranch hands, came bursting into the room and went over to our father. I heard him mutter in his ear, “There’s a fire in the town, it’s bad.”
Several of the men around the table were volunteer firefighters, surprised they hadn’t got the callout.
In a matter of seconds, Marianne and I were the only two left in the room. I would have joined the exodus, but I suspected there was more to this curse thing.
She had a curious, if not demonic, expression.
“What did you do?” A very bad feeling came over me.
“We ensured that Montgomery will never forget that despite his blind faith in his invincibility, he is as vulnerable as anyone else. Wealth and power cannot prevent the inevitability of moral justice.”
Now she was scaring me. Her conversations were scathing at best, every sentence starting or ending with a like or but.
She stood. “Come.” She held out her hand towards me. “Let us go and witness the very essence of retribution.”
I found it impossible to resist the invitation.
Perhaps she was a witch.
…
A crowd had gathered. Deputies had put up a tape line to keep them back.
As we got close, we could see the smoke billowing into the air, and on the breeze, that acrid aroma of the smoke.
The fire was in the library, attached to City Hall, old sandstone buildings built at the turn of the last century, but they were a fire hazard, so much wood and paper.
Flames were coming out of the windows and the roof. Three fire engines were fighting a losing battle, fire hoses snaking in all directions and men running, dressed in fireproof suits and breathing apparatus.
As we took up a position between two of the new families, their kids more interested in the fire trucks than the fire, we were joined by several of her friends, the girls who had been with her in the pentagram.
None spoke, but I got the feeling they knew something about what was happening.
Then we all heard a shout, coming from outside the front entrance to the library, where a firefighter in full protective gear stumbled out the doorway. “There are people inside. I heard the screams; there’s nothing we could do. It’s horrible.”
He collapsed, and two other firefighters came over and helped him over to the ambulance.
I knew then that it had to be a member or members of the Montgomery family. How they got in there, why they were in there, if they were in there, was a question more than just me would be asking.
Especially if they died in that fire.
And whether it was proven that the fire was not from natural causes and was started by someone.
I looked at my sister. Her expression was unreadable, the sort of expressionless face one would expect from a poker player. Her friends were not so good at hiding their feelings.
“You called this retribution,” I said quietly beside her.
I watched two suited firemen go into the building, and the come back out just as flames leapt through the door after them.
It was followed by a heavy cracking sound, and I think that was the roof crashing down.
No one was going to be saved, whoever was in there.
“God answered our prayers. The Montgomerys are a scourge on the landscape. If it was them, then it’s good riddance. I’ve seen enough.” She looked at the other girls. “Let’s go to the church and pray for their souls “
…
It was two days before the fire died out and the investigators went in. It took a week after that for a partial report to be leaked to the townsfolk.
Apparently my sister’s only fault was that she had cursed the family, and everyone knew she was not a witch, so she was taking credit for something she hadn’t done.
The problem was, there wasn’t anyone who could be found in the residue, as it had been expected they’d find bones or partial bones.
The firefighters had sworn he heard cries for help behind the wall of flames.
The thing is, they couldn’t find anyone, missing or otherwise, in the wreckage. But missing people there were: the whole Montgomery family.
Their cars were missing, and key possessions were missing, and their bank accounts were emptied. There was just no reason why they should leave now.
The thing is, people who had been aligned with the Montgonerys took a step back and then decided they were no longer aligned with them, and came to the former mayor and asked him to reinvent the town, back to the way it was.
No, we didn’t exactly get our town back; we had gone down a path there was no coming back from. We just had to live with it, and keep going.
And for a while it was good.
Then rumours circulated that the Montgomerys had died in the fire, all of them. Despite reports that the Montgomeries had been seen in the next County the day after the fire was extinguished.
Nothing made sense, and it became town folklore.
Until…
…
I was sitting in the lawyers’ office; the one overlooking the park outside city hall. The one they had renovated after that eventful fire sixty years ago, almost to the day.
Robert Penthaven, son of the son of the man who tended my father’s affairs, had called me and said there were details about my sister’s passing that needed clearing up.
The last time I had to sit in the chair was after my father died and my sister and I inherited the ranch. She wasn’t interested, having long moved away, but retained her interest in it.
I thought it was to formalise the passing of her interest to me. I was passing mine to my son, who thankfully wanted to be a rancher and not relocate to the city.
I’d waited almost a half hour and thought I’d nodded off because, as softly as he tried to close the door it woke me with a start.
“Sorry,” he said, dropping into the more comfortable chair behind the desk. “Simple things take much longer these days.”
He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a file, a quite thick file. An envelope was clipped to the cover. He unclipped it and slid it across the table. “For you, after she died.”
“Words from the grave.”
“Or grave words, maybe. She was a curious one, your sister. I never quite knew when she was joking or when she wasn’t.”
“Did she tell you she was a witch?”
“Among other things. She once said she was the keeper of secrets, and one in particular, one that she said she would take to the grave. We are all a bit like that; things happen, and we wish to forget. Perhaps that letter might shed some light.”
“Or tell me it’s time to stand on my own two feet. Older siblings are like that.”
I picked up the envelope and held it in my hand. One sheet, three at the most. The question was whether I wanted to read it.
I shrugged and opened it. Robert stood. “I’ll be outside if you need me.” He went out and closed the door behind him.
I unfolded the sheets. Two. Written in her spidery writing, almost illegible. She had wanted to be a doctor and settled for nurse practitioner.
She would have made a great doctor.
Kyle,
There are beginnings, there are endings, and all the rest is the consequences of life.
Sometimes it is not the life you wanted, but simply the life you get according to your choices.
I never knew what I really wanted, but it wasn’t to be raped by Archie Montgomery. Nor did any of my friends. We became The Five, who could have become victims.
We did not.
We decided to rid the world of a problem.
This is not a confession. We did not sin against natural justice. A thoroughly bad person was tried in God’s eyes and received the punishment he was due.
He burned in hell.
The shame of it was that his family tried to save him, and died in vain. It was not what we wanted; we had nothing to do with their deaths, and had they left well alone, they would have lived.
I can’t say they’re in a better place.
I can’t say we ended up in a better place, but as far as I’m concerned, I have atoned for my sins.
He never hurt another girl.
That family never hurt another soul.
Our town did not miss them, as they did not miss The Five. It was no longer our town.
If they ever pull down the library and dig new foundations, they will find them, all seven. Let’s hope that it’s not in your lifetime. It won’t be in mine, or the rest of The Five.
We have all moved on, hopefully to a better place.
Keep the secret or not, it’s up to you, but I suspect that age-old statement ‘let sleeping dogs lie’ might be appropriate here.
May your life be happy and content. The ranch is yours to leave to Kyle Junior, as it should be.
Meg.
I think I sat there staring at the pages without seeing them, feeling the tears running down my cheeks, now understanding the enigma my sister had become.
If she had told me that fateful night we were standing outside the burning library, I would not have believed her, and I don’t think I did now. There was a long list of those who wanted all of the dead. It would be easy to claim responsibility now when I couldn’t cross-examine her.
I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense. Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.
I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.
It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.
The boy was Alan. He was about six or seven. The girl was Louise, and she was five years old. She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.
I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.
We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds. I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.
We were so happy then.
Before the tragedy.
When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell. Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.
It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children. They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.
Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.
Until one day she couldn’t.
Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand. She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it. The damage done to her was too severe.
The doctors were wrong.
She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants. It was enough to have them arrested. It was not enough to have them convicted.
Justice would have to be served by other means.
I was outside the Bannister’s home.
I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die. It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing. I had murder in mind. It was why I was holding an iron bar.
Skulking in the shadows. It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.
I waited till Archie came out. I knew he eventually would. The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go. I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.
I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.
“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me. He knew what it was, and what it was for.
It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes. He was alone.
“Justice.”
“For that slut of a sister of yours. I had nuffing to do with it.”
“She said otherwise, Archie.”
“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.” An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.
I held up the pipe. It had blood on it. Willy’s blood. “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up. He sang like a bird. That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”
“He dunnit, not me. Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.” Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.
“No, Archie. He didn’t. I’m coming for you. All of you Bannisters. And everyone who touched my sister.”
It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.
I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries. Those were the very worst few hours of my life.
She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late. If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.
If only I’d not been late…
When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood. The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.
At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told. He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.
I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy. There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.
He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone. It was a half mile walk, through a park. The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness. He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.
He didn’t.
It took an hour and a half to get the names. At first, when he saw me, he laughed. He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.
When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list. I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.
When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi. The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me. I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.
At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality. The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.
Archie could help but rub it in my face. He was invincible.
Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out. He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged. I didn’t care.
Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me. I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.
I revisited Willy in the hospital. He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come. Suffocation was too good for him.
David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters. His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful. Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered. A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.
He and I met in the pub. We got along like old friends. He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges. We shook hands and parted as friends.
Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared. I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me. He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.
When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes. I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it. He told me he was just a spectator.
I’d read the coroner’s report. They all had a turn. He was a liar.
He took nineteen bullets to die.
Then came Archie.
The same factory only this time there were four seats. Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities. She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.
Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.
A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.
Archie’s mother cursed me. I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.
Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily. The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family. I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.
He was a little more worried about his sister.
I told him it was confession time.
He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.
I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony. I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes. This time he did, it all poured out of him.
I went over to Emily. He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm. Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.
“Louise was my friend, Archie. My friend.”
Then she shot him. Six times.
To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Now I was in jail. I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession. Without my sister, my life was nothing. I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.
They were not allowed to.
For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors. I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.
Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.
Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”
When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone. They ignored me. I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.
I was beginning to think I was going mad.
I ignored him.
“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that. You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”
Death sounded good. I told him to go away.
He didn’t. Persistent bugger.
I was handcuffed to the table. The prison officers thought I was dangerous. Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that. McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.
“Why’d you do it?”
“You know why.” Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.
“Your sister. By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”
“It was murder just the same. No difference between scum and proper people.”
“You like killing?”
“No-one does.”
“No, I dare say you’re right. But you’re different, Alan. As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen. We can use a man like you.”
“We?”
“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”
I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him. It looked like I didn’t have a choice.
Trained, cleared, and ready to go.
I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.
People like me.
In a mall, I became a shopper.
In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.
On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.
At the airport, I became a pilot. I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.
I had a passkey.
I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.
That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life. Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.
Two pilots and a steward. A team. On the plane early before the rest of the crew. A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.
Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.
Me.
Quick, clean, merciless. Done.
I was now an operational field agent.
I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides. It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.
I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.
It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.
Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.
Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.
I was Barry Gamble.
I was Lenny Buckman.
I was Jimmy Hosen.
I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.
That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision. If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.
Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.
God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness. Not that day. Not any day.
New York, New Years Eve.
I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag. They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.
This time I failed.
A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…
Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her. It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.
I was done.
I’d had enough.
I gave her the gun.
I begged her to kill me.
She didn’t.
Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.
How could she? No one could know what I’d been through.
I remembered her name after she had gone.
Amanda.
I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.
Someone else had the same imperfection.
I couldn’t remember who that was.
Not then.
I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it. After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.
The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.
It was late.
People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks. Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.
A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.
He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”
Two of his friends dragged him away. He shrugged them off, squared up.
I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground. I looked at his two friends. “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”
They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk. She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.
I looked around to see where her friends were. The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.
She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.
I sat beside her. “Where are your friends?”
“Dunno.”
“You need help?”
She looked up, and sideways at me. She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state. Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Nobody.” I was exactly how I felt.
“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care. Just leave me here to rot.”
She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.
Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.
“Where are your friends?” I asked again.
“Got none.”
“Perhaps I should take you home.”
“I have no home.”
“You don’t look like a homeless person. If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.” I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.
She lifted her head and looked at me again. “You a smart fucking arse are you?”
“I have my moments.”
“Have them somewhere else.”
She rested her head against my shoulder. We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.
“Take me home,” she said suddenly.
“Where is your place?”
“Don’t have one. Take me to your place.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I’m drunk. What’s not to like until tomorrow.”
I helped her to her feet. “You have a name?”
“Charlotte.”
The wedding was in a small church. We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot. Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.
On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.
I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.
Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.
And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age. She arrived late and left early.
Aunt Agatha.
She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.
“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte. It was clear she feared this woman.
“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.
“You know why.”
Agatha looked at me. “I like you. Take care of my granddaughter. You do not want me for an enemy.”
OK, now she officially scared me.
She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.
“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.
“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”
Charlotte never mentioned her again.
Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.
Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us. Her husband was not with her this time.
Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother. She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.
We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends. For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.
I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother. It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.
Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.
Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close. I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness. We were never close.
But…
This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head. It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.
And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction. “You seem distracted,” she said.
“I was just remembering my mother. Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”
“Why now?” I think she had a look of concern on her face.
“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.
Another look and I was wrong. She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.
I was crying, tears streaming down my face.
I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.
It was like coming up for air.
It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life. I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.
And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”
I could not speak, but I think I smiled. It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye. Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Is it going to be revenge or just plain bewilderment?
There were protocols to handle every situation. It’s why I was stuck in a room with a dozen others for nearly six months, learning the ropes.
That’s what Alex called it. He’d also said it was a waste of time because by the time we made it out into the field all the bad guys would be locked up. Patience wasn’t one of his virtues.
That’s why Alex didn’t make it through the first cut.
It had been a long six months but it had been worth it when ten of us out of the original intake of 24 made it. I considered myself lucky.
Now three of those men were missing, and I believed they were dead, or if not dead, incapacitated. This was our first live mission. We had been excited but held that in check. We could celebrate our first mission together, and then if it was a success.
At this moment, in my mind, it was anything but a success.
And my anger was building. I kept the target in sight, and once or twice he nearly slipped away, but I knew the area having studied the maps the day before. I liked to know what it was like on the ground, and if it was the target’s home turf, then I didn’t want him to have the advantage.
It was those little things, our instructor said, that could make a difference.
It did.
I knew or thought I knew where he was going.
At some point, I was going to have to take a chance, and head him off. It also meant I might lose him, but I had a point on the map where I believed if he didn’t go where I was anticipating, he’d still be within range to find him again.
Time.
He went right, I went straight ahead.
His most likely destination, the train station. His training wasn’t much different from mine. After a calamity, look to make an unexpected exit. There were buses, but they led basically to the same place.
Five minutes, and I’d know.
I came out on the main street that ran alongside the train tracks, the station was behind me, and he would have to pass me to get there.
There was also a dead end lane between him and me, and that was where I would corral him.
Almost a minute passed, and it was too long. Two. The thought of possibly being wrong leapt into my mind, along with the sickening feeling in my stomach of failure.
Two and a half. I took several steps in his possible direction, then I saw him turn the corner. I stepped back and out of sight. I needed him to get to the lane entrance before I made a move.
He was wary and looking around. He knew I was on his tail.
As he approached the laneway, I stepped out and started walking slowly towards him. It took a few steps before he realised it was me, and stopped. Was he surprised at my enterprise, or shocked.
Predictably he turned into the lane.
I ran.
At the entrance to the lane, I stopped and saw him reach the dead end. There was no climbing over the fence at the end,. Nor were there any ladders or climbable points either side.
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.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
A late picnic
…
We spoke no more of bloodlines, and instead spread out the surprises she had brought. Cheeses, cured meats, her mother’s creation learned long ago in the mother country, and wine from their Italian winery.
As a quirk of fate, she had lined the basket with old copies of treasure maps, and after indulging in the food and wine, looked them over.
There were six different maps, each with a different detail as to where the treasure might be buried. One had it on the edge of the lake, a lake by the way that had now disappeared, another at the foot of the hills, identified by a cutting high above the spot.
Another was on the mountainside, after following a track alongside the non-existent lake and past several buildings, one appearing to be a church.
I knew where that church was, not almost a ruin, but it was not alongside a lake or anything that might have been a lake in the past. Or it could have been another church, definitely a ruin and gone, in a different place.
This was the problem interpreting maps that were drawn, purportedly, in the late eighteenth century when the land would be pristine and roamed over by native Americans. It was why some of the maps had the word Seminole on them, to identify the land, perhaps, or the people.
While I should have been listening to the history, I didn’t, and therefore missed the fact that a lot of the Indians had died out before the pirate captain arrived with his treasure, or whatever he might have buried, if in fact, he came at all.
I was beginning to have doubts.
Of course, the Spaniards were lurking around those parts too, and they were all about treasure, especially that stolen from South America but that was centuries before. Was the pirate captain Spanish or part Spanish perhaps?
Questions, nothing but questions.
“Those coins that were found of the coast. Were they Spanish?”
“Good question.”
“It seems the Spaniards were here, once upon a time. Anything is possible.”
The joke, or irony, would be that if there was a treasure, it was off a Spanish ship that ran aground in a storm off the coast, and all of the maps and rumors were true, but for a very different reason.
That brought to mind a recent discovery of coins elsewhere in Florida, and I couldn’t help thinking that Boggs had also heard about the discovery and had conjured up in his mind that the treasure his father had been seeking existed and had embarked on this odyssey.
“I’ve got a couple of metal detectors,” Nadia said. “Maybe we should go wandering along the shoreline and see what there might be.”
“I’m sure it’s been done to death already.”
She smiled. “I’ve got nothing better to do, have you?”
“Sleeping in.”
“You can do that when you’re dead. Until then, there’s a treasure to be found. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, about 10ish.”
Treasure! I was beginning to hate it.
She tossed the leftovers into the basket and dragged herself off the floor when we finished up. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
In just about every book about how to be a good writer, there seems to be a pile of problems that at some time in a writer’s life will need to be overcome.
Writer’s block
Don’t have it. The ideas pour out of my head like water over a waterfall
Don’t use abstract descriptions in your writing
Damn, I do that all the time
But, back to writer’s block, is that where you write 37 chapters and there the story stops?
Oops.
Plan your book and have an outline so you can write it from start to finish
Plan? What Plan?
That only happens when I’ve written the book and prior to the first edit, I make a precise of each chapter to make sure of continuity.
Plan your characters and give them a timeline
Oh God is that why characters’ names are often changing as the story progresses.
Believe it or not, I’m working on this issue.
Manage your time.
Still can’t get it right.
Write at least a thousand words a day, no matter if it’s rubbish or not.
Does that include writing for social media?
Apparently not.
At least this is one of the requirements I follow religiously. Sometimes it’s a lot more words but a least some writing finished up either on paper in on the word processor.
Now it’s time to write those thousand words.
Look, there, I’ve at least got one part of time management under control.
For aspiring writers, the journey to finding one’s voice is as much about discovery as it is about study. Joan Didion, a literary icon whose career spans decades, offers a treasure trove of insights for those seeking to refine their craft. From her sharp-eyed novels to her incisive essays, Didion’s work is a masterclass in clarity, emotional resonance, and the art of observation. Let’s explore how delving into her oeuvre—comprising five seminal novels, screenplays, and countless articles and essays—can illuminate the path for emerging authors.
1. Novels: The Power of Precision and Dissecting the Human Condition
Didion’s novels—Run, River, Play It as It Lays, A Book of Common Prayer, The Last Thing He Wanted, and Marry Me—are defined by their sparse, crystalline prose and unflinching exploration of identity, disillusionment, and collapse. For a budding author, studying her work reveals a critical lesson: less is not just more—it’s everything. Didion strips language of excess, using plain, punchy sentences to evoke profound unease or beauty. “We tell ourselves stories in order to live,” she famously writes in The White Album—a philosophy that permeates her fiction, where characters are often unravelling personal myths in a disintegrating world. Aspiring writers can learn to mirror this by focusing on what isn’t said and how silence, space, and subtext amplify meaning. Her characters also serve as case studies in emotional complexity; they’re flawed, often detached, yet achingly human. How does Didion achieve this? By grounding them in precise details—a crumbling California landscape, a flicker of a smile—that anchor the surreal in the real.
2. Screenplays: Visual Storytelling and the Art of Compression
Didion’s screenplays (notably A Point of No Return and Up at the Villas) offer a different but equally valuable lesson. Adapting her own stories and others’, she demonstrates how to transform prose into visceral, visual narratives. Screenwriting demands concision; dialogue must carry weight, and scenes must be sculpted to evoke emotion without over-explaining. For an author interested in crossing genres, Didion’s screenplays are a masterclass in pacing and economy. Take Up at the Villas, adapted from her 1982 novel of the same name. The screenplay retains the novel’s cold, observational tone but distils its themes into sharp, symbolic images—a storm, a locked door—to convey what words alone might not. For writers, this is a reminder that showing, not telling, is a skill honed through ruthless editing. Studying her scripts can teach how to craft tension through structure and dialogue, even in literary works.
3. Essays and Journalism: The Alchemy of Observation and Truth-Telling
Joan Didion’s nonfiction—collected in volumes like The White Album, Slouching Toward Bethlehem, and Where I Was From—is where her genius as a writer truly shines. Her essays are micro-surgeries of culture, politics, and personal history, blending reportage with poetic reflection. How can a budding author benefit from this?
The art of the unsparingly honest narrative: Didion doesn’t flinch from ambiguity. She asks, What do we do when we can’t believe the story we’ve told ourselves? This intellectual honesty teaches writers to dig deeper, to question their own assumptions.
The marriage of personal and political: In pieces like “Los Angeles Notebook” or “On Self Respect”, Didion ties intimate self-doubt to societal decay. Aspiring authors can learn to weave the private and the public, creating work that resonates beyond the individual.
Research as storytelling: Her essays are meticulously researched yet read like lyrical journeys. Writers can study how she transforms facts into narrative threads without losing a reader’s interest.
4. Beyond Technique: Embracing Didion’s Curiosity and Courage
Perhaps the most profound lesson from Didion’s work is her relentless curiosity and willingness to confront the uncomfortable. Her writing force-feeds the idea that truth is not a destination but a process. For emerging authors, this mindset—questioning, observing, and daring to write what feels fragile or controversial—can be transformative. Didion’s essays on the Vietnam War, the Manson Family, or her own grief in The Year of Magical Thinking demand that we look at the world with both empathy and rigour.
Conclusion: Let the Questions Be the Point
Reading Joan Didion is not just about learning how to write—it’s about learning how to see. Her work challenges authors to strip away the superfluous, to wield language like a scalpel, and to embrace the messiness of human experience. For a budding writer, this is an unparalleled education. Start with her essays; they are accessible and brimming with insight. Then, move to her novels and screenplays to understand how themes translate across genres. Finally, ask yourself: What story have I been avoiding, and how can I tell it with Didion’s clarity?
In a world of noise, Didion’s voice cuts through with surgical precision. For any writer seeking to carve their own path, her work is not just a blueprint—it’s an invitation to observe, to question, and to distil the chaos of life into something that might resonate for generations.
So pick up a Joan Didion. Let her words unsettle you. Then, let me know how far you’ve come.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 