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In a word: Incline

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

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

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

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

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

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

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

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

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

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

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

Right now.

 

I pick up the pen.

 

Character number one:

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

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

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

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

Character number three:

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

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

Character number four:

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

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 143/144

Days 143 and 144 – Writing Exercise

…

The worst thing about arriving in a foreign country without a passport is that you can’t leave by the usual exits.

What is worse than that, if it could be said, it could get worse, is to be on the run from the local authorities for something you didn’t do, but because of your status, they’re never going to believe you.

So, the big question is, how did I get into this precarious state?

…

Richard Danvers was not a man who could be trusted.  His affability and charm were mesmerising at best, condescending as usual and untruthful at worst.  But he always managed to wheedle and cajole you into doing his bidding.

He tried to win me over with a hundred-year-old bottle of scotch.  And when that failed, he added a week’s stay at his Island paradise in the Caribbean.

I was a sucker for a hard sell.

Added to the fact I might get to see his step sister Olga, from the Russian wife his father married after Richards mother was murdered.

I had a small role in finding the person who committed the crime, and instead of maintaining anonymity, Richard found me and said he owed me.

I should have walked away.

“So, Will, still drinking that rather cheap swill you call scotch?”

Two things: Will wasn’t my real name, but the one I used for that operation.  If he thought I had another name, he never told me. The other, cheap swill to him was four hundred dollars a bottle of scotch that had been declared the best five years ago.

“To each his own, Richard.”

He shrugged, pulled a bottle out of the bottom drawer of his desk, and put it on the desk with a slight bump, just to impress.

“What do you want?”  It was the usual prelude for him wanting something. 

Somehow he assumed I was a gun for hire.

I was not.

That was the other thing about Richard: being his acquaintance came with certain obligations.  Not him doing anything for you, but you doing something for him.  When he realised what it was I did, he tried very hard to make me his fix-it man.

I told him I already had a job.  I didn’t need another.

“Nothing.  We’re going down to the island this weekend.   Sun and fun, good food, good wine, good company.  Olga said she would definitely try to come; she needs a break, and I know she likes you.”

Like?  Yes.  But he knew how to twist my arm.  Olga, with him, was my Achilles heel.

“When exactly?”  I sighed.  I guess I could suffer a week on a Caribbean island over cold, wet and miserable London while I waited for my next assignment.

I was, in fact, wondering if it was my association with him that was holding back my employability.

…

I arrived at the personal airport attached to the Elizabethan mansion that Richard had inherited from his father, and down through the generations, the land was a gift from Queen Elizabeth I.

It had a terminal, an air bridge, and could accept any aircraft up to a Boeing 737.  His fleet of two currently consisted of a Challenger and a Citation.  We were taking the Challenger.  The fact that the Citation was in told me Olga had arrived.

She would be in the Cafe.  Yes, his terminal building had a cafe.  With everything you could imagine.

She was sitting at a table overlooking the runway.  Currently, it was raining so hard that you could barely see the other side of the runway.

I pulled up a chair and sat down.  She turned and smiled.  She never got less beautiful.

“Will.”  She leaned over, and we briefly kissed.

We were not lovers, just friends, as much as I wanted more, I decided if she didn’t pursue it, I wouldn’t.  It was an unlikely match, and I doubted Richard, as the current Duke, would condone it.

She was just one more thing he could manage in his inimitable way, and she seemed content to let him.

“Olga?”

“Did he use me to get you to come?”

“What do you think?”

“Richard can be a pain.  He went on ahead yesterday, and it’s just you and me, several staff and a business associate, Nigel something or other.  You won’t have to talk to any of them. I’ll be the pilot, so you can sit up front with me.”

“Who else is going to be there?”

“That’s it.  Richard promised he’d talk business with Nigel, and said a weekend away would make a deal more likely.”

“Business and pleasure, I hope he doesn’t call in that bevy of girls like the last time.  He seriously needs to wake up.”

“You know men.  Always overcompensating.”

‘True.  His jet is bigger than yours.”

…

We were waiting on the businessman Nigel something-or-other.  Her advice was that he would be alone, but when he arrived an hour after the appointed time, putting back our departure by two hours, Olga was not happy.

Not necessarily because he was late, but because he had brought along his mistress.  Olga had met her before, and the hostility was very noticeable.

She was bossy, loud, and, as Olga muttered under her breath, mutton dressed as lamb.  Thirty-five going on fifty, going on twenty-five.

Long fake blonde hair, fake bosom, far too much make-up, smelling like she had bathed in perfume, and clothes a twenty-year-old wouldn’t be seen dead in.  The skirt was so short, well, it left nothing for the imagination.

My first contact with her, she asked:  “Who are you?”  There was no hello or name.

“I’m commonly regarded as something the cat dragged in,” was my sardonic reply, totally unappreciated.

Olga looked at her, then at me, then back to her.  “He’s the co-pilot, so let’s hope he knows what he’s doing.”

I smiled at her and wandered off.  Nigel came over to rescue his girlfriend.

Olga had a brief word with the steward who was joining us on the flight, said a few words and then headed towards the embarkation door.

I joined her, she flashed her key card, and the doors opened.  Before us was the airbridge down to the plane.

“She’s not very nice, is she?” Olga said as the doors closed behind us.”

“She is a woman of a certain sort.  It just surprises me Nigel would be the sort of man who would indulge in what clearly is trouble.”

I’d seen a lot of women like her, all over the world, though some were a lot more attractive, attached to older men as escorts or being seen.

“Nigel’s filthy rich.  She’s entitled and not of our ilk.  What did you expect?”

Not a lot.

..

It took five and a half hours, including the slight delay getting onto the island, a flight that wasn’t marred by what could have been a small problem.

Jocelyn, Nigel’s girlfriend, started hard on the champagne and then spiralled.  She could drink, but the altitude had an effect, and she got very drunk very quickly.

Private planes didn’t have the same restrictions as commercial planes, and of course, no one was going to stop her from making a fool of herself.

The island medical staff had to take her off the plane.  Nigel apologised, but Richard, who met us at the terminal, almost an extension of his house, seemed totally unperturbed by her behaviour.

It had happened before.  Olga and I watched it unfold from the cockpit.  There was no point going out and laying down the law; that was done by the steward, who was, I discovered, a man who booked no nonsense.

He was also one of Richard’s security staff, which surprised me.  There were more such officers on the island, and it made me wonder whether there was something I had missed when dealing with Richard, or I had just overlooked it because of the relationship we had developed.

I didn’t want to think my vigilance had been blinded by my desire and affection for Olga.  Walking off the plane, Olga stayed in the cockpit to finish the paperwork. The words of one of the instructors at the training farm echoed in my head: A distraction.

And my arrival on the island was not the result of a random invitation; Richard wanted or needed me to be here.

So all I had to do, now, was to find out why.

…

The others on the plane had disembarked and headed towards the main resort, each getting their room assignment and welcome folder.

I was last off and headed towards the check-in counter.  It was quite a large arrivals lounge, a hint back to when the resort was first built, and when it failed financially, Richard snapped it up at a bargain basement price as his personal Shangri-La.

The woman at the counter was dressed in the former Island resort uniform, as most of the staff did.  Behind her was a security guard, a man most people would want to meet in daylight, let alone on a dark night.

There wasn’t any real reason why there should be.

Unless Richard was expecting trouble.  Which might explain why he asked me here.

The woman, with the name Sharon on a badge, had taken a few surreptitious glances in my direction as I moved towards her.  To anyone else, it would appear her attention was buried in the computer screen.

The island had 140 rooms and huts, the latter built alongside the piers and on stilts over the water.  I was hoping for a hut.

I stood leaning on the desk for about a minute, resisting the urge to press the bell for attention.

She looked up.  “William Burbridge?”

I found it amusing that she would have to ask when I was the last non-staff member off the plane, and it was clear my name was the only one not crossed off the list.

“Yes.”

She put a folder and a key on the counter.  “Have a nice stay.”

“Thank you.”

I recognised the key number.  It was in the east wing, not far from the Dining Room.  Last time I visited, I went over the whole resort and memorised where everything was, especially the exits.

There was a welcome dinner at 7 pm. So I had a few hours to refresh that plan in my head.

Stepping out of the arrival terminal, there was a bridge that crossed the road and stretched for about five hundred yards to the upper entrance to the resort foyer.  Below was the road entrance with steps up to the foyer.

The foyer had aquariums on either side and above the centre one of two atriums, stretching upwards, acting as filtered lighting during the day.  The second was in the dining room. 

It was something to look forward to.

…

Unpacked, I had an hour to spare and did the outer resort circuit that doubled for the jogging track for the exercise freaks.

I’d done more than a few laps with both Richard and Olga in the past.  I don’t think it was going to be part of this stay.  I was here to relax, not exercise.

Nothing had changed outwardly, and I would have missed it had I not seen two men appearing out of the ground.  That was the illusion.  A close inspection revealed a staircase leading down to somewhere that would make for an interesting question, should we have a discussion about it?  Or keep to myself for a while.

Maybe the only other change that was discernible was the satellite dish about 500 yards from the main building.  I wondered briefly just what his bandwidth was.  It could not be as bad as that in my building.

I wandered slowly towards the end of the pier, and as I approached, I thought I could see the outline of another person.  Just at the point where the light was beginning to disappear, it could be difficult to see anything other than the sun settling, which I remembered was an unforgettable memory for any guests staying.

Then, about ten yards away from the end, a figure came out from behind the boats he’d and stood still, staring out to sea.  A woman. 

I didn’t break stride stepping up to her as she turned.

“Will.”

I stopped, three paces between us, trying not to look surprised.

“Harriet.”  Harriet had been my partner in the last three missions and had been reassigned after the last.  I took that to mean I was out of favour and she had moved on.  “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you?”

“Why?”

“You are consorting with the wrong sort of people.”

“Richard is an eccentric billionaire.  But harmless.”

“Perhaps I should be more worried about your attachment to Olga.”

She meant Harrigan’s worries about my friends and attachments.  I’d checked Richard on that first meeting, as had the department’s investigators.  But that was over a year ago, and I guess eccentric billionaires could get more eccentric over time.

“It’s more an acquaintance than a relationship.  I’m not of their ilk, you know.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Richard asked me to spend the week.  I was at a loose end.”

“And Olga was free?”

“Not to begin with.”  And then a thought occurred to me.  “Does anyone know you’re here?”

“Harrigan.  He’s having kittens.  Both the Danvers are on watch lists, which is why they have private planes.  It was a task trying to find out where you were taken. They filed three separate destinations.  We only found out after the plane departed.”

“Then how the hell …”

“Did I get here?   Need to know.  But since you’re here, your new mission starts now.  There’s a document that is being discussed tomorrow, labelled ‘Operation Skybeam’.”

“There’s more people coming?”

“We assume so.  I’m part of the staff, so if you see me, you don’t see me.  Don’t let us down, and keep your wits about you.  Now, back to the resort and eyes ahead.”

Spying on Richard.  That was going to be interesting.

…

Or so I thought.

Had I spent any time considering just how precarious my position was, I would not have got on the plane.  Then, if I thought a little longer on how it was my presence on that island was known, and there were agents already in place, I might have thought it somewhat of a coincidence.

That I did not, that I had got my next assignment, had clouded my rational thought processes.

But instead of weighing up all those factors, I simply went back to the main building, had dinner with Richard and Olga, and the others, and retired for the night, together, ready for what was to happen the next day.

The thing is, by the time I reached the room was suddenly very tired.  After all, it had been a long day.  A good dinner, one too many drinks in convivial company, not seeing anyone out of place, or Harriet, made it odd but not surprising.

After all, Harriet was the master of disguise.

My last thought, as my head hit the pillow, everything would sort itself out tomorrow.

…

I woke, and something was wrong.

Firstly, I didn’t wake refreshed, which was my expectation, being on the island and the fresh air pushed by a gentle breeze through the open windows.

Secondly, I didn’t open the windows before I went to sleep, so who had?

Thirdly, I had a slight headache, but the thumping sound I could hear or feel was not in my head.  Someone was knocking on my door.

I moved and groaned.  It felt like I’d been run over by a truck.  I reached down to massage the ache, and my hand ran over something wet.  I looked at my hand and saw it was bloody.

Or at least red.

I tried to sit up, just as I heard the door crash open, and a second later I had six heavily armoured police surrounding me with guns pointed at my head.

In that same instant, I saw a body next to me.  Basil’s wife, and my guess was she was quite dead, a gunshot to the head, and the gun was on the bed between us.

A voice from one of the armoured men said, in French, “Get the medics in here.”  One of the six left the room.  He looked at me. “You have a lot of explaining to do, Mr William Burbridge.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed, came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first time they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration honouring one of the Embassy officials’ service in Moscow, soon to be returning home after 10 years.  She had been there one and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked; Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and, of course, what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this were a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man interested in her, and Vladimir was.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy, and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a platonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally, for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance, it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he would remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed that he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, as always, in separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution: keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, the people, and the conversations she overheard were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But on this visit, the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully on the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the minibar and took out the bottle of champagne left there for them, a treat Vladimir arranged for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought about how Eve must have felt in the Garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was, if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2026

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 35

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

 

04:00 in Africa was an interesting time of the morning, especially after a few hours of intense rain during the night.  I could see what the Colonel meant if it had been raining because outside the barracks it was very wet.

Whilst the others appeared to get some sleep, in a much better environment than the back of an aircraft, I lay awake, at first waiting for the sound of the aircraft leaving, and then listening to the rain that started an hour or so later, followed by the sounds that came afterward.  It was never silent, and there was always that suspicion of being attacked when you’re at your most vulnerable.  I had a weapon ready, just in case.

Outside the cloud cover had gone and it looked like it would be a fine day.

When I did the headcount, I noticed Mobley was missing as agreed, and by the time we had assembled, the cars had arrived.  We would be driving ourselves in a convoy behind Monroe and the Colonel, who was no longer dressed in army fatigues, along with Jacobi and one of his guards.

For the trip, we had been supplied with the western notion of jungle wear, safari suits, that identified us not only garrulous visitors, but typical tourists hardly prepared for what was to come.  It made a good cover for a group of ‘fools’ making a documentary.  

All we had to do was get to the location for the exchange of the hostages reportedly between Aba, a town in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and somewhere on the outskirts of the Park.  It was going to be an easy drive from Uganda to Aba, then the situation might change.

I was going to be in the rear vehicle, with Leslie Davies.  The more I thought about her being assigned to this mission, it seemed she was here solely for her ability to fly anything with wings.  It was the part that was missed on her resume, perhaps for a reason, but whatever that reason was, it would become clear eventually.


We left at 04:05.  Monroe had a slight problem starting her car.

Other than exchanging a few words before getting on the plane and then getting off the plane, Davies and I had not spoken.  After half an hour of driving in silence, I decided to break the ice.

“What did you do to get nominated for this mission?”

A glance sideways gave me no indication of her thoughts, or what look was hidden behind the aviator sunglasses.  I hadn’t seen her smile, or talk to any of the other team members other than a few brief words with Monroe, likely because she was the only other female.

Even then, I didn’t get the impression they were going to be best friends.

“Best you don’t know.”

Her reply came about three minutes after I’d asked, and at a point where I assumed she was going to ignore me.

“Let’s say I’m curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“I’m not a cat.”

Another two minutes of silence, then, “Disobeyed a direct order.”

Not as bad as killing your immediate superior because you didn’t like him.  And I could sympathize.  Some orders were utterly ridiculous.

“Not a bad thing.”

“Not what the court-martial thought.”

I noticed she didn’t use sir.  I could live with that.

“You volunteer?”

“In a manner of speaking.  You?”

She raised her glasses slightly and gave me a sideways glance.

“In a manner of speaking.  Been here before, not that it was for very long, and in a different part of the country, but the powers that be deemed my experience adequate for the mission.”

“I take it the mission isn’t to take pictures of animals?”

It might.  Just not the animals you’re expecting.”


It was our lucky day.  At the Vurra customs post we were met by a Ugandan official who had been forewarned of our arrival, and whom I expect was well compensated for his work, and after going through a half-hour of paperwork, we were taken to the Congo counterpart with whom Jacobi weaved his magic.

I say lucky because the border crossing was often closed, either because of the weather, the road conditions, or the fact neither country was talking to the other, though it was more to do with the Congo villagers and their dispute over lands that stretched into Uganda.

We arrived with a number of trucks, to join a long line waiting to cross, and included were several United Nations vehicles.

Everyone seemed to take the delays and administrative diligence in their stride.

We were moving again, behind several tracks, almost an hour and a half after arriving.  All of the crates of equipment had been opened and inspected, as had our packs, and the raft of documents Monroe had been supplied.  She had a satellite phone at the ready in case we needed to make any calls, though I was not sure what Bamfield would have been able to do.

But, after a few tense moments, everyone lost interest in the documentary crew and moved onto the next vehicle.

Jacobi said it was the easiest crossing he’d made.

About a half-hour, after we had driven on our way, then my radio crackled, and Mobley reported in.  He had just crossed over and was behind us, and a number of trucks.

I got a strange look from Davies.

“Insurance,” was all I said.  “Which no one else needs to know about.”

The road was not exactly in the best of condition in places and having four-wheel drives was a help.  The lie of the land was quite flat, and we passed a lot of small villages and curious looks from the villagers.  Some parts of the road were quite bad, and we had to drive very slowly, especially where it was damp, but for the most part, it was reasonably dry and the roads were navigable.

Other times, Jacobi said, after the rains, those same roads were impossible to drive on and would often see villagers out trying to help the truck drivers keep moving.

I had expected to run into a number of soldiers, but for the first few hours after leaving the border, there wasn’t a lot to see other than flat land, villages, and people on the side of the road, along with the occasional vehicle, belying the fact it was a major road between the border and a town called Aba, a distance that was measured at about 170 kilometers.

Anywhere else in the world it would have taken about an hour and a half, but here, it was early afternoon and finally on a stretch of reasonable road into Aba.  A refuel and we’d be on our way quickly.  The first of the kidnappers appointed times was 16:00 hours and I was hoping the roads would get us there by that time.

 

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey.  Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there.  She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions.  Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife.  Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

…

lovecoverfinal1

The Cinema of My Dreams – It ended in Sorrento – Episode 57

Setting up Francesca

…

I asked Alfie to send me a track of Francesca’s movements, yes, I cloned her phone too, because I didn’t trust her, and yes, she went to see Anna at the Burkehardt’s residence.

We had a recording of her conversation, but it didn’t amount to much and Anna finished up yelling at her and kicking her out of the house.  Not literally, but if she hadn’t left the house when she did…

She was sitting at the table with her computer open.  By the way she shut it quickly, I suspect it was a video call to her boss.

“Your boss not happy with progress?”

She glared at me.

“You should go and have a talk to Anna Burkehardt.  Charming lady.”

Cecelia snorted almost too loudly on her way to the bathroom.

Francesca shrugged.  “Where have you been?”

“Looking at vines, would you believe.”

“How is that going to help?

“It’s not.  But I’ve decided you can come with me to see the countess.”

“You found her?”

“Not exactly.  She’s always been here, waiting for the day to sign the documents.  I was going to keep her away from your lot, now I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.  You can recognise her if you see her?”

“Are you saying the woman you have is not the countess?”

“No.  I’m asking if you can recognise her.”

“Of course.  We have a half dozen photographs we used, and some that deliberately disguise her in case she’s trying to be anonymous.”

“Good.  Tomorrow morning.”

That simple conversation was to see if she called her boss and they make arrangements to ‘take’ the countess into their protective custody, or, take her to Anna von Burkehardt.

As I said to Cecelia later, we would soon find out who Francesca and her people were working for.  Because of the hostility that Anne had shown towards her, I was wondering if Anna was, in fact, the one who hired them to find the countess.

“You’re going to have a busy morning tomorrow,” I said to Cecelia.  “You need to watch is leave and see if anyone follows us.”

“Do you really think they’d be that unsubtle?”

“Yes.  When large sums of money are involved.”

“And what will Anna do to her?”

“Nothing.  She’ll know straight away it’s not the real Countess, so I’m sure after they snatch her, the Countess will escape.  She can’t afford to be unmasked.  Not yet.

The fact that Cecelia didn’t tell me what I was doing was risky, told me that it was risky.

During the night, tossing and turning, with various women on my mind, I went through various scenarios, each of which had a bad outcome, the worst where Francesca became collateral damage.

This whole exercise was to see the lengths the fake Countess would go to not to be identified.  Or whether she thought her cover was good enough to fool everyone.

Except perhaps Anna.

A mother knows her daughter-in-law, especially after all that time.  A fake could not replicate the mannerisms, the speech, the idiosyncrasies, or a lifetime of just being together.

And I was banking on Francesca’s boss being greedy and putting money before ethics.  Francesca didn’t strike me as one with ethical problems, but I had read books by their covers before and been horribly wrong.

If it all blew up in my face at the very least, I could use it as an example of what not to do, but I doubt Cecelia would thank me in a hurry.

By the time I was ready to go, Cecelia had gone out for her morning run, and Francesca was ready to go and see the countess.  We had just enough time to sort out how we were going to communicate, and it was going to be amusing having Cecelia’s voice in my head.

At one point I had heavy breathing in my ear and told her it was distracting.  She simply replied that I should get out and join her and get rid of some of that retirement flab.

She did not have to be so mean, even if she was right.

I finished the coffee Cecelia had made in the percolator an hour before and tasted over-brewed, then finally stopped running scenarios that ended in disaster in my head.

“You ready?” I asked her.

I’d seen the transcript of the call Francesca made to her boss after I told her I was taking her to see the countess, and I knew the answer to that question.  It was rhetorical, but I couldn’t tell her that.

I just hoped the team that descended on us at the hotel was not a smash-and-grab type, not afraid to leave bodies behind.

© Charles Heath 2023

The 2am Rant: Driving in suburbia

It was one of those beautiful Autumn mornings, blue sky with a smattering of clouds, but a sunny day all the same.  It’s Sunday, so there is not as much traffic on the road.

Anyone with any sense would be going to their favourite coffee place and settling down to their choice of coffee and perhaps a toaster or muffin to accompany the conversation.

This is what’s happening at the cafe where we go for coffee.  At 9:00 in the morning, it is packed.  But great coffee is hard to find, and this is apparently great coffee.

It’s that in-between time before it gets windy, cold and wet, with the sort of chill you can feel in your bones, whether it’s the time when you have a barbecue in the mid-afternoon and get home before the cold sets in or take the kids to the park for some healthy exercise.

Today I have to take a drive from one side of suburbia to the other, taking a network of main roads with rather anonymous names such as North and South

We travel through the older suburbs, those with a collection of red or white bricks and timber dating back to the fifties and sixties.  They are not, for the most part, in a good state of repair, and rather than looking ramshackle, it’s more like they are slowly decaying.

Fences are rotting or falling over, extensions are like they have been glued on rather than added by an architect, and paint is either fading or missing.  For the most part, people are struggling to keep up with the cost of living and are too busy to worry about maintenance.

Some have been bulldozed and replaced, blocks are cleared awaiting new development, and others are being renovated.  Anyway, you look at them, they are still worth a great deal of money, being relatively close to the city.  But it’s a double-edged sword, worth a lot, but costing more to keep.

It’s a location we could never afford.  Because we were not affluent, we were pushed out to the less expensive outer suburbs.  This was, of course, 50 years ago, and now those outer suburbs are the new inner suburbs, and people are buying up to 50 km further out in the new estates.  When I was young, these suburbs were farms and open land.

It also surprises me that people would want to live on the main road because, with traffic as it is heading into the city, it would be difficult to leave or return by car.  At least for these people, public transport is better than in the outer suburbs.

Because it’s Sunday, my trip takes a lot less time, except for those unpredictable traffic lights, some of which I missed and took a while to cycle through the other traffic before it was our time to move.  It’s the only disappointment of the modern era, the fact that roads were never made to handle the traffic, and the fact that they now have to bulldoze homes to make way for roads.

Pity they didn’t lay down the foundations of a proper transport system, much like they have in major European cities.

What I learned about writing – When is it time to hang up the quill?

The Writer’s Crossroads: When Is It Time to Hang Up the Quill?

Imagine for a moment. You’ve been writing for years, pouring your heart onto the page, publishing works on free sites, trying to garner a following. You’ve self-published your books on Amazon, seeing them as the culmination of countless hours, endless revisions, and boundless passion.

People read your stories. Most comments are of praise, echoing the beauty of your prose, the depth of your characters, the compelling nature of your plots. Reviews are overwhelmingly 4 and 5 stars, a testament to the quality you know you possess.

But sales? Only a few every week. A trickle, not the torrent you dreamed of, not the steady stream you need to even consider this a sustainable path.

And your query letters – letters you know are nothing short of brilliant, honed to perfection, showcasing your voice and vision – always come back with the same result: rejection. A polite “not for us,” or worse, silent dismissal.

It’s a scenario many writers know intimately, a soul-crushing paradox where internal validation clashes brutally with external reality. The question starts small, a whisper in the dark, then grows into a gnawing doubt: When is the time to hang up the quill?

The Pain of the Unseen Success

This isn’t about lacking talent. Your readers tell you otherwise. This isn’t about lack of effort. Years of dedication speak for themselves. This is about the heartbreaking disconnect between the quality of your work and its market reception. It’s about the emotional toll of constant rejection despite undeniable praise. It’s about feeling invisible in a crowded, noisy world.

Before You Hang It Up: Revisit Your “Why”

Before you even consider putting down your pen for good, ask yourself one crucial question: Why do you write?

  • Is it for the joy of creation? Does the act of building worlds, crafting characters, and weaving narratives bring you profound satisfaction, regardless of external validation?
  • Is it because you have stories that demand to be told? Do these ideas bubble up inside you, insistent, needing to be set free?
  • Is it for the connection with readers? Do those few 4 and 5-star reviews, those occasional heartfelt comments, fuel your spirit enough to keep going?
  • Is it for fame and fortune? Be honest. If it’s only for the big advance, the bestseller list, or the movie deal, then the current reality is indeed devastating.

The answer to this “why” is your compass.

When NOT to Hang Up the Quill

You might not be ready to quit if:

  • The creative spark still ignites you. If writing still feels like breathing, like an essential part of who you are, then the fire isn’t out.
  • Those few readers truly matter. If those handful of steady sales, those glowing reviews, remind you that your words do touch people, however few, don’t underestimate that impact.
  • You haven’t truly explored all avenues. Have you tried different genres? Different marketing strategies (even self-taught ones)? Different writing communities? Different approaches to querying (pitching a different book, refining your synopsis)?
  • You’re still learning and improving. Every rejection, every low sale, can be a data point. Are you actively seeking to understand why things aren’t working and adjusting your approach?

When It Might Be Time to Re-evaluate (Not Necessarily Quit)

There are legitimate reasons to reconsider your path, or at least, your approach:

  • When the joy is gone, replaced by resentment. If writing has become a bitter chore, a source of constant stress and negativity, it might be time to protect your mental well-being.
  • When your “why” has fundamentally shifted. If you started writing purely for the love of it, but now find yourself only chasing external metrics that aren’t materialising, and that chase is draining you, it’s time to check in.
  • When you’ve genuinely exhausted all strategic and emotional resources. If you’ve tried everything you can think of, sought professional advice, taken breaks, and still feel utterly depleted with no hope in sight, take a step back.
  • When the opportunity cost is too high. Is the time and energy you pour into writing preventing you from pursuing other passions, or even just living a balanced life?

Beyond Quitting: What Else Can You Do?

Hanging up the quill doesn’t have to be a surrender; it can be a pivot.

  1. Take a Break, Not a Surrender: Step away for weeks or months. Let the creative well refill without pressure. Sometimes, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and new perspectives emerge.
  2. Re-evaluate Your Strategy (Ruthlessly):
    • Marketing: Are you doing anything to market your self-published books effectively? This is often the biggest blind spot for writers. Learn about Amazon ads, social media, building an author platform.
    • Genre/Market: Is your brilliant work in a niche that’s too small? Or is it hard to categorise? Sometimes, a slight shift in genre or understanding market trends can make a huge difference.
    • Query Letters: Are they truly brilliant, or simply well-written? A brilliant query letter is strategic. It targets the right agent, highlights marketability, and hints at the “hook.” Consider professional query critiques.
    • Professional Feedback: Move beyond friends and family. Invest in a professional editor or sensitivity reader who can give you objective, market-aware advice on your manuscript’s strengths and weaknesses.
  3. Redefine Success: Does success have to be a bestseller? Can it be the joy of finishing a manuscript? The connection with those few devoted readers? The personal growth you’ve experienced through the craft?
  4. Write for Yourself (Again): If you’ve been constantly chasing trends or trying to impress agents, go back to writing the story only you can tell, purely for your own satisfaction. Publish it anonymously if you wish.
  5. Explore Other Creative Outlets: Maybe your creative energy needs a different channel for a while – painting, music, coding, baking. It can refresh your writing perspective.

The Personal Journey

There’s no universal answer to “When is the time to hang up the quill?” It’s a deeply personal decision, one that only you can make. It’s not about being a “failure” if you choose to step back, nor is it about being “naive” if you choose to persist.

Listen to your writer’s heart. Does it still beat with the rhythm of stories untold? Does the mere thought of not writing feel like losing a part of yourself? If so, then perhaps it’s not time to hang up the quill. Perhaps, it’s simply time to sharpen it, to learn a new stroke, and to write a different kind of story – your own story of resilience, adaptation, and unwavering passion.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My Second Story 20

More about my second novel

…

Worthington was in a state, now realising that he had become a target, and immediately assumed it was Zoe at the end of the sniper rifle.

He considers calling John and telling him what just happened, but if Zoe was there with him… 

No, better to attend to the problems at hand.  Arabella wasn’t dead, but it had come very close.  And, he suspected, it was because he had asked her to get a drink for him, and if she had not moved, the damage would be far less.

It was important then to go to the hospital with her and make sure he was there when she woke up to explain what had just happened.  If she would ever speak to him again, that is.

Meanwhile, John is ‘collected’ at his hotel and taken to Olga.  When he wakes up in a rather quaint bedroom or what seems to be a house in the countryside, he only remembers being in the hotel, then nothing.

When he is escorted to the meeting room, it is not the sort of interrogation he was expecting, but he is fascinated with the old Russian woman who claims to be Zoe’s mentor and teacher, and says that she has no interest in harming him; she only wants Zoe back.

John works out that the woman is, in fact, Alistair’s mother and presses her for more information about Zoe.

…

Searching for locations: – Lake Louise, Canada, ice, snow, and cold

The Fairmont at Lake Louise, in Canada, is noted for its ice castle in winter.  This has been created by the ice sculptor, Lee Ross since 2007, using about 150 blocks of ice, each weighing roughly 300 pounds.

When I first saw it, from a distance, looked like it was made out of plastic  It’s not.  Venturing out into the very, very cold, a close inspection showed it was made of ice.


And, it’s not likely to melt in a hurry given the temperature when I went down to look at it was hovering around minus 10 degrees Fahrenheit.


And that was the warmest part of the day.

In a word: Fire

I have not yet had the privilege, or otherwise of being fired, but the meaning of the word fire is to get removed unceremoniously from your job.

Donald Trump used to use it a lot on The Apprentice, e.g., “You’re fired”.  And unbelievably, I used to like that show.

But…

Fire can be quite hot, something you can sit in front of on those chilly winter nights, whether it be a gas fire, or a wood fire, my preference.

Then there’s a phrase, set fire to, which can be good or bad depending on what eventually gets burned.

I have on the odd occasion had someone fire my imagination, a good thing being a writer.

To feel the fire in the back of your throat when drinking neat whiskey is so much better when it is an expensive brand

Then there’s the fire in your heart driving patriotism, but make sure it is for the right reasons.

If you have a gun, then when you pull the trigger, you fire it.  Just be sure not to be pointing it the wrong way or anyone.

A good indication is when you hear the words, ready, aim, fire.  Especially if you are in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Napoleon can attest to that, it is alleged!

You can,

fire off a message, hopefully, a nice one

fire questions rapidly at someone (but not a politician, they must have time to answer anything, but the question asked)

or accidentally fire someone up by saying the wrong thing

or fire a piece of pottery, and in saying that, the best I could do was an awkward mug.