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.
Beyond the Big Five: Warsaw’s Hidden Gems That Will Captivate You (Without the Crowds)
Warsaw is a city that whispers tales of resilience and rebirth, and while the Royal Castle and the Old Town Market Square rightfully draw admirers, there’s a magic to be found in its less-trodden paths. If you’re looking to experience the true soul of the Polish capital without battling a sea of selfie sticks, then this list is for you. Forget the predictable queues; we’re diving into Warsaw’s top five tourist attractions that boast distinctive charm and a serene atmosphere.
Here are five must-visit spots that offer a unique perspective on Warsaw, perfect for the discerning traveller:
1. The Palace of Culture and Science – The Observatory Deck (and beyond!)
Yes, the Palace of Culture and Science is a prominent landmark, but many visitors only see its imposing exterior. The real magic for those seeking fewer crowds lies in its observatory deck on the 30th floor. While it’s a known spot, it rarely experiences the overwhelming throngs of other city viewpoints. The 360-degree panorama of Warsaw from here is breathtaking, particularly at sunset when the city lights begin to twinkle.
Why it’s distinctive: It’s not just the view; it’s the architectural style (a controversial “gift” from the Soviet Union) and the sheer scale of the building that make it a talking point. Venture beyond the deck, and you’ll find cinema complexes, theatres, and museums within its walls, offering a glimpse into Warsaw’s cultural heart without the typical tourist hustle.
2. POLIN Museum of the History of Polish Jews – Immersive Storytelling
While gaining well-deserved recognition, the POLIN Museum is often overlooked by those solely focused on pre-war history. This isn’t just a museum; it’s an immersive journey through a thousand years of Jewish life in Poland. Through stunning architectural design and innovative exhibits, you’ll walk through recreated historical spaces, interact with multimedia displays, and gain a profound understanding of a community that shaped Polish heritage.
Why it’s distinctive: The sheer scale and ambition of its narrative, covering centuries of history, art, and culture. It’s a space that educates, inspires, and often deeply moves visitors. The building itself is a masterpiece, representing a modern interpretation of Jewish heritage.
3. Łazienki Park – Royal Retreat and Artistic Haven
Łazienki Park is Warsaw’s largest green space, and while it’s a popular spot for locals, it rarely feels overrun by tourists. This 18th-century royal complex is a tranquil oasis, featuring opulent palaces, charming gardens, and an amphitheatre. The iconic Palace on the Isle, perched on a picturesque lake, is a sight to behold. You might even spot some resident peacocks strutting their stuff!
Why it’s distinctive: It’s a harmonious blend of natural beauty and neoclassical architecture. Unlike meticulously manicured gardens, Łazienki Park feels like a truly lived-in royal retreat. The open-air Chopin concerts held here in the summer (check schedules!) are a truly magical experience, usually with plenty of space to spread out.
4. The Neon Museum – A Vibrant Flashback
Step into a world of glowing colours and retro charm at the Neon Museum. This unique institution showcases remnants of the Cold War era’s communist-era neon signs, meticulously restored and displayed within a former factory. It’s a visually striking and surprisingly poignant collection that tells a story of Polish urbanism and design during a specific historical period.
Why it’s distinctive: It’s an unconventional museum dedicated to a specific, visually captivating art form. The sheer density of vibrant, luminous signs creates an unforgettable atmosphere. It’s a photographer’s dream and a fascinating glimpse into a bygone era of Polish advertising and urban character.
5. Praga District – The Authentic “Wild East”
For a truly authentic Warsaw experience, venture across the Vistula River to the Praga district. Once considered the “wild east” of Warsaw, Praga has retained much of its pre-war architectural character, with crumbling facades, hidden courtyards, and a distinct bohemian vibe. It’s a stark contrast to the meticulously reconstructed Old Town and offers a more raw, gritty, and intriguing side of the city.
Why it’s distinctive: It’s a living testament to Warsaw’s pre-war past, defying the city’s narrative of complete destruction and reconstruction. Explore its intricate street art, independent galleries, and charming cafes for a taste of Warsaw’s evolving artistic scene. Take a guided walking tour to truly appreciate the hidden stories etched into its buildings.
So, next time you find yourself in Warsaw, dare to stray from the beaten path. These five attractions offer not just unique sights, but also a chance to connect with the city’s diverse history, vibrant culture, and captivating spirit, all without the overwhelming crowds. Happy exploring!
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 fluorescent lights of the cardiology suite buzzed with the sterile hum of a greenhouse kept at absolute zero. Agatha sat on the examination table, her posture straight, wrapped in a pale blue paper gown that felt entirely too thin for the weight settling into her chest.
Across from her, Dr Harrison—a man whose salt-and-pepper hair and rimless glasses screamed “academic tenure”—swivelled a heavy monitor toward her. The screen was a chaotic scribble of green neon peaks and valleys, looking less like human biology and more like the visualizer from an illegal warehouse rave in 1996.
“Well, Agatha,” Dr Harrison said, tapping a stylus against the desk. “The mystery of your palpitations is solved. Though I suspect you aren’t going to like the answer.”
Agatha offered a practised, reassuring smile—the same one she used when she had to deal with her more recalcitrant charities seeking more funds. “Try me. I have to deal with very difficult people daily. I’ve survived worse than medical jargon.”
“You have Hypertrophic Obstructive Cardiomyopathy, or HOCM,” Dr Harrison said, his tone shifting into clinical precision. “It’s a genetic condition. The muscular wall—the septum—between your left and right ventricles has grown abnormally thick. On top of that structural bottleneck, your telemetry shows intermittent Atrial Fibrillation. Your upper heart chambers are essentially quivering instead of beating effectively, and your thickened muscle is blocking the outflow of blood to the rest of your body.”
Agatha blinked. “Thickened. Like… a muscle getting stronger at the gym?”
“Not quite,” Dr Harrison said gently. “Think of it like a highway where the lanes have suddenly narrowed, and the engine is misfiring. Your heart is working overtime just to maintain basic output. That pressure, that fatigue you’ve been feeling—it’s your heart screaming for backup.”
Agatha looked down at her hands, resting in her lap. For nineteen years, she had traded neon mesh and strobe lights for cashmere cardigans and beige throw pillows. She had raised twins on her own in a hostile environment, earned a corner office, and mastered the art of quiet, predictable suburban grace. She had buried the girl who danced on speaker stacks until dawn so deep she almost forgot she ever existed.
And now, her own biology was staging a rebellion.
“Okay,” Agatha said, her voice remarkably steady. “What does the fix look like?”
Dr Harrison leaned forward, folding his hands. “First, we adjust your lifestyle. High-intensity cardio is out. Dehydration is your enemy. But pharmacologically, we need to slow your heart rate, allow those stiff ventricles time to fill properly, and strengthen the actual force of the contraction so you don’t pass out walking to your car.”
He tapped a few keys on his keyboard and printed out a prescription sheet, sliding it across the desk.
“We’re going to start you on Digoxin, commonly known as Digitalis,” Dr Harrison instructed, his eyes locking onto hers. “Your maintenance dose will be 0.25 mg taken orally, once daily.”
Agatha committed the numbers to memory. “Digitalis. Isn’t that derived from foxglove?”
“It is,” Dr Harrison nodded, looking mildly impressed. “A potent botanical turned pharmaceutical marvel. It works by inhibiting the sodium-potassium ATPase pump in your myocardial cells, which increases intracellular calcium. The result? Your heart beats slower, but with significantly more authority. It calms the erratic electrical chaos of the AFib and forces your thick heart muscle to coordinate its rhythm.”
“Sounds delicate,” Agatha murmured.
“It is a narrow-therapeutic-index drug, Agatha. Which means the line between helpful and toxic is razor thin. You cannot afford to be casual with this.” Dr Harrison’s voice dropped an octave, turning severe. “You need to understand the stakes. If you miss doses, your AFib will return with a vengeance, your heart rate will skyrocket, and your risk of a thromboembolic stroke climbs exponentially. But if you take too much, or if it accumulates dangerously in your bloodstream, Digoxin toxicity will set in.”
Agatha met his gaze, the old adrenaline junkie in her waking up, not with panic, but with a sudden, sharp clarity. “Define toxicity.”
“Nausea, profound vomiting, visual disturbances—specifically seeing a yellow-green halo around objects, or snowy vision,” Dr Harrison recited grimly. “And worse: severe, fatal arrhythmias. Complete heart block. If your serum potassium drops, the toxicity escalates rapidly. We will be doing routine blood draws to monitor your plasma levels.”
Dr Harrison tore the script off the printer and handed it to her. “Same time every day, Agatha. No doubling up if you miss a dose. No guessing. Treat this pill with absolute respect.”
Agatha took the paper. The white slip felt heavy, a tiny anchor tethering her erratic, wild heart to the rigid demands of survival.
She stood up, untied the paper gown, and began changing back into her sensible wool trousers and silk blouse. As she zipped her boots, she caught her reflection in the small vanity mirror by the sink. Her hair was pulled back in a neat, professional chignon; her expression was calm, composed, entirely suburban.
Nobody looking at her would ever guess the truth. Not the doctors, not her client, not even her children away at boarding school. But beneath her ribs, a fierce little engine was beating out a complex, dangerous rhythm—and Agatha was ready to take the wheel.
After she left, Dr Harrison wrote up his clinical notes and then slipped a piece of paper out from under the keyboard. Earlier in the day, the head of the practice called him in for a meeting. It was about the patient who was listed at 10 am, Agatha Montgomery.
He slid a piece of notepaper torn from a pharmaceutical company’s notepad with a telephone number. “After you have seen her, call this number.”
“Why?”
“That will be between you and the person on the end of the phone.”
“What about doctor-patient confidentiality?”
“Report, as requested, and then we shall speak of it no more.” That was all he said. The meeting was over.
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.
Over the main, and desert, I told her about Siena and the Palio, painting a vivid picture of horsemanship and rivalry over the course of several hundred years, making it sound so much better than it was.
It the heat, the tight confines of the square, and the large number of people crammed in, it could be quite oppressive.
It wasn’t until after coffee arrived I decided to take a different tack and surprise her.
“You know, back in the old days, when I was working a desk, I used to do research on criminals for task forces. I longed to get out in the field, but back then you had to be a particular sort of bastard to get those jobs. I just didn’t have that mean streak.”
“Any I might know of?”
“One that springs to mind, Larry Pomisor, head of the so-called Waterville gang, though as an organization, is went downhill quickly after Larry’s father died and he took over.”
I’d been watching her carefully, and, yes, no matter how hard people tried to mask their surprise, it never works. I got the hit I was looking for.
“You’re saying he’s not a crime boss?”
“Exactly. He’s little better than a complete moron. Blames me for the death of his brother, failing to understand that he is ultimately responsible. If he hadn’t dragged him into the business, he’d still be alive today.”
“Why would he blame you?”
“He thinks I was at the scene of his brother’s death but whoever told him got their dates mixed up. But Larry is nothing if not pathological in his beliefs no matter how wrong they are.”
I could see she was processing how to deal with this turn of events. Being handed to her on a plate, exactly what Larry wanted me to talk about, I could see she was mid-way between confused and surprised. In other words, off guard.
She now had to come up with questions that were not obvious.
“Not exactly the sort of enemy you want, then.”
“No more than any of the others I’m sure are waiting in line. I was there, yes, but not when his brother was killed, he was alive when I left. It was a meeting his brother called, and we believe he was going to inform on Larry, and Larry had him killed, then pinning the blame on us, and me in particular. His brother never wanted anything to do with Waterville, but Larry never gave him the option.”
“I can’t believe that he would do that, not to his brother. No one would do that to family.”
“Like I said, everything I learned about Larry pointed to the fact he was a moron. His father hated him, and his mother moved to be as far from him as possible. She lives in Sorrento you know. His father was a piece of work, and I first met him on a domestic call-out when their neighbors reported gunshots. She had taken a beating, not the first, and not the last, and I had to say, I’d never seen anyone more relieved when the old man died.”
I wondered what Larry was making of this if he was listening in. He had once told me, in passing, in one of many visits to the parent’s house to intervene, that he would kill his father if he didn’t stop.
But, Larry was all talk and no action and did nothing to stop it. In the end, it was his wife Gabrielle, who finally ended the violence.
When it happened she called me, the most familiar face, and told me what happened. I then told her what to do, and it eventually kept her out of jail. Over the years since our paths rarely crossed, but significantly I was on her Christmas card list.
She had, when she learned I was living in Venice incited Violetta and I over for tea, and we went a few times, but the last was a long time ago.
“He doesn’t blame you for that too foes he?”
“Probably, but Gabrielle can put him straight on that. I should go and see her, it’s been a while.”
“What do you mean? Go see Larry’s mother?”
“Why not? The chances of Larry being there are remote. It’ll have to be after Cecilia goes back home. You want to come, see a bit more of Italy?”
“What?”
The shock of the conversation direction had finally caught up with her. I’d seen her glancing more than one at her phone, and equally wondering what Larry was making of it.
“Go see Larry’s mother. We’re old friends. I’m sure she’d give him a stern talking-to if she knew he wanted me dead, don’t you?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to see.”
“Of course. Too short notice.”
I gave her one of my winning smiles, just as Cecilia loomed out of the darkness and came over, dropping heavily into the seat next to me, and complaining, “Well, that was a spectacular waste of time and effort.”
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.
But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
I was surprised the alien captain was not getting impatient with the way this matter was dragging on.
If this was back on earth and we were dealing with an alien incursion, there would be a lot of shooting by short-tempered small-minded fools who only knew one way of dealing with seemingly insurmountable problems.
In that regard, these aliens were better than us, and I had to wonder if they were dealing with this problem in a manner we would understand, and if that was the case, what would have happened if my ship had not made a timely, or untimely, arrival.
It also begged the question of how either of us could move forward from this point, because the only logical outcome was to hand back the criminals.
I wonder what Nancy was thinking, the fate of diplomatic relations, if they were possible after this, in her hands.
There was also a question of what the Russian captain had been promised in return for trying to save them. It would have to be significant for him to put his vessel and its crew on the line.
I looked at the Russian Captain, not looking very comfortable, on the end of a weapon he clearly knew could kill him, or worse.
“What did they promise you?”
His mouth moved, an indication to me he was going to say they didn’t, which to me meant that it was not something he wanted to talk about in front of the Aliens.
The alien answered for him. “Technology, perhaps our secret weapons, the criminals are all people who have worked with or worked on some of our most secret projects.”
Which begged the question, what did they do wrong that they were labelled criminals.
Perhaps the alien could read my mind because he added, “and who had used that technology illegally, or tried to sell it to our enemies.”
So, a new piece of information; the alien has enemies. It raised another question, what if we had met their enemies first?
“Sir.” Number one had come back online, hopefully from the location if the so-called criminals.
“What the situation?”
“I’ve spoken to a chap named Midava, who seems to be the spokesperson for a group of seven I can see. Firstly, they are different from the captain of the vessel you are currently on. He tells me, and several of his colleagues are from a different world, as are others, who were recruited to work on advanced technology. It seems their home planets are far more advanced than the captains.”
“OK. Just hold it there for a minute.” I looked over at the Captain. His expression hadn’t changed, but he had been listening intently.
“Would you like to explain your planets existence among what it seems to me, a galaxy of other civilisations.”
“We are just part of a much larger galaxy, yes, though I would question our level of development in their eyes “
“So, these so-called criminals are from different worlds?”
“We do not discriminate, as some others do.”
There was no acrimony or anger in his tone. He was relating information, and answers to my questions, from their perspective. I realized that I could not judge these people in the same terms as I would one of my own people, and that was going to be the hardest problem we were going to have in dealing big with new people
Quite simply, they were not us.
And, equally, we had no right to judge them according to our rules.
“Sir.” Number one again.
“Yes?”
“Midava tells me they are being held against their will simply because they want to go home. Apparently, their hosts do not want their homelands to know their level of technology improvement. I think you can understand the implication.”
I could. “Thank you, number one.”
“It’s all a matter of perspective,” the alien captain said. “Other worlds, like other countries on your planet, group together in what you call blocs. They are more technologically advanced, so they deigned to ignore us, and it has taken a long time for us to become as advanced. Those people came to us and said they wanted to help us, without the knowledge of their leaders, because it was unjust. We willingly accepted it and for years the association was mutually beneficial, they got the recognition they would not get on their homeworlds, and we got the technology. This ship is one of the benefits, along with its weapons. When they wanted to go home, their work, they said, was done, and they wanted to see their families, the high council decided against it, for security reasons, and when they tried to escape, they were detained. You would call it political expediency.”
“But in an enlightened and just society such as yours, don’t you think that is wrong to deny them. I suspect as you might give a bit more thought to the matter, that telling their homeworlds what they’d done would most like condemn them to death, so I’m sure telling anyone anything about their time with you was the last thing on their minds. It’s food for thought. However, since is not my objective to interfere in your sovereign right to dispense justice in accordance with your laws, I will have the prisoners returned to you.”
“You can’t do that,” the Russian captain said.
“I can, and you will. There are far larger implications in play and if necessary, I will enforce our laws upon you, which will, if the Captain desires, hand you over as well. I suggest, to avoid trouble you give the necessary orders to your crew forthwith.”
To the alien captain, “I expected as a courtesy that you, myself, and the leader of these so-called criminals sit down and have a discussion about their options.”
“I will need to deal with the high council.”
“Then do so now, before we make any arrangements. And release my fellow captain. Using force will not give what you want, and sets a bad precedent if you seek to have any sort of relationship with us.”
A nod from the alien captain to his subordinate, and she let him go, and it was hard to tell if she was upset or not.
Both then disappeared, leaving us alone on an empty bridge, if that was what it was.
“You do realize what will happen to them when he gets them back,” the Russian captain said.
“That’s not our problem. If our roles were reversed, would you want them to weigh in on our affairs?”
“That’s not the point “
“That is the point. Were not here to tell others what to do but to hopefully forge new relations with people who have the means to help us find a place in a new galaxy. We’re here to learn and share if that’s what it takes.”
“And if they are the devil instead?”
“I’m sure you will be very well placed to discern whether they are or not, based on your own actions.”
He didn’t seem annoyed at the inference, which to me showed a marked disregard for anyone but themselves, underlying the people who had put him aboard his ship and what their purpose in getting out into the galaxy first was.
The cold war back on earth had just moved out in the galaxy, and if not now, they would eventually be a threat, not only to ourselves but anyone they came across in their travels.
“You’re making a mistake, once they get what they want they will dispense with us.”
It was a possibility, but the problem for the alien people was, we were here, now, and if he did destroy us, they had to know we knew about them and more of our ships would arrive in time, and they would be hostile, especially if we didn’t report back. And if they had been observing life on earth they’d know we would seek retribution
Perhaps that was the reason why he didn’t destroy us in the first instance.
“How long do you think they will be?” Nancy had found her voice, finally.
I’d almost forgotten she was there.
“How long do you think it would take to talk to a high council? If it’s anything like back home, it could take forever. Any ideas on how, if you get the chance, you’re going to approach setting up diplomatic relations?”
“None whatsoever, sir.”
“Good, a clean slate. Start thinking about it.”
She looked around. “You’d think there’d be a chair to at least sit down.”
This is a section of what I would call a babbling book, part of the Canungra River, in a valley that is part of the Lamington National Park in Southern Queensland in Australia.
But as we writers are only too aware, it is so much more than that.
For instance: You could have been on a hike through the forest, and by a strange quirk of fate, got lost, and after staggering around in what was circles for a day, or two, you stumble across this creek. That thirst can now be slaked!
Alternatively, following a map to where you have been told there is gold, the river you have been paddling up had slowly narrowed down to this, and is going to make the rest of the journey by land, on foot, still a long way from the spot marked with an x.
Or you could just be on holiday, and this is a swimming hole and up or downriver, the best trout fishing to be found, and one of the best kept secrets. Except, when you finally take the plunge, a body floats to the surface, and suddenly, you are in the middle of a murder mystery.
Add to the situation the fact you are miles from anywhere, and that the killer could be nearby or gone, that idyllic stay in the cabin to be at one with nature is starting to look like the weekend in hell.
I’m back to writing, sitting at the desk, pad in front of me, pen in hand.
The only thing lacking, an idea.
It’s 9:03 am, too early to start on a six-pack.
To be honest, the last thing I needed was a distraction, and, having forgotten to put my cell phone on silent, it starts buzzing, indicating there are new messages, or notifications from all those social media sites like Twitter, Facebook, WordPress, Blogger…
Then the advice from all the so-called marketing gurus starts to swirl around in my head, and instead of writing, I’m now fretting over my social media presence.
The more I read the more it bothers me that if I don’t have the right social media presence if I do not start to build an email list, all of my efforts in writing a book will come to naught.
That’s when I start trawling the internet for information on marketing and found a plethora of people offering any amount of advice for anything between a ‘small amount’ to a rather large amount that gives comprehensive coverage of most social media platforms for periods of a day, a week or a month.
I move on to the people who offer advice for a cost on how to build a following, how to build a web presence, how to get a thousand Twitter followers, how to get thousands of email followers before the launch.
The trouble is I’m writing a novel, not a nonfiction book, or have some marvelous 30-page ebook on how to do something, for free just to drive people to my site.
I’m a novelist, not a handyman so those ideas while good is not going to help me.
Yet another problem to wrestle with along with actually creating a product to sell in the first place.
Except I’m supposed to be writing for the love of it without the premeditated idea of writing for gain or getting rich quick.
What am I missing here?
So should l be writing short stories and offering them for free to drive people to my site? These would have to be genre-specific so it needs time and effort and fit into a convenient size story that will highlight or showcase my talent.
Some time ago I created a website on one of those so-called free sites, but it’s rather basic and not great. Of course, if I want it to be better, all I have to do is hand over a great wad of money I don’t have to make it better. So much for free!
I don’t think I will have a good night’s sleep again with all of these social media problems I’m having.
Oh well, back to the book. It’s time to have a nightmare of a different sort!
