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.
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
Beyond the Cable Car: 5 Hidden Gems on Gibraltar’s Road Less Travelled
Gibraltar. The name conjures images of majestic apes, historic sieges, and a giant limestone Rock rising dramatically from the sea. And while every visitor should absolutely ride the cable car and say hello to the famous Barbary Macaques, the true magic of the peninsula lies just slightly off the beaten path.
If you’ve taken the scenic route and arrived in Gibraltar ready for deeper exploration—the kind that moves beyond the immediate tourist hotspots—you are in luck.
For the adventurous traveller hitting the “road less travelled,” here are five exceptional experiences in Gibraltar that offer history, nature, and true local flavour.
1. Conquer the Mediterranean Steps
Most tourists ascend the Rock via the cable car or a minibus tour. The road less travelled? The Mediterranean Steps (or “Med Steps”). This is not a casual stroll; it is a challenging, historic, and utterly breathtaking climb.
Starting near Jew’s Gate at the southern end of the Upper Rock Nature Reserve, this 1,800-meter-long cliffside path winds along the eastern flank, utilizing old military communication lines. You will navigate steep, rugged trails, carved stone steps, and winding tunnels.
Why it’s a hidden gem: The Med Steps provide unparalleled views of the Strait of Gibraltar, the Spanish Costa del Sol, and the coast of North Africa. Because it is physically demanding, you will share the route primarily with dedicated hikers, offering moments of profound solitude far above the crowds. It’s a truly immersive historical and natural experience that bypasses the busiest attractions.
Pro Tip:Start early in the morning before the sun gets too high, and carry plenty of water. Access to the Upper Rock requires a Nature Reserve ticket.
2. Escape to the Alameda Botanic Gardens
After the intensity of climbing the Rock or navigating the bustling Main Street, every traveller needs an oasis of calm. The Alameda Botanic Gardens, situated just below the southern entrance to the city centre, is Gibraltar’s quiet, verdant answer.
Established in 1816 by the then Governor of Gibraltar, General Sir George Don, these gardens are a meticulously maintained subtropical paradise featuring exotic plants, ancient trees, and stunning water features. The atmosphere here is entirely different from the rest of Gibraltar—it’s peaceful, shady, and deeply romantic.
Why it’s a hidden gem: It’s often overlooked in favour of faster-paced attractions. Locals frequent the gardens, but few tourists allocate enough time to wander its many paths, discover the historic cannon displays, or simply listen to the fountains. It’s the perfect place to grab a coffee, sit beneath a giant dragon tree, and reflect on the history surrounding you.
3. Delve into the Depths of the WWII Tunnels
Everyone knows about the Great Siege Tunnels—an incredible feat of 18th-century engineering. But Gibraltar’s subterranean world expanded exponentially during World War II, and exploring the lesser-known WWII Tunnels offers a deeper, grittier historical perspective.
This extensive network, built to house an entire garrison and store massive amounts of supplies, tells the story of how the Rock served as a crucial nerve centre for Allied operations. These tunnels are a stark, fascinating maze where you can truly appreciate the strategic importance of Gibraltar.
Why it’s a hidden gem: While the Great Siege Tunnels are easier to access, the WWII tunnels provide a more immersive and less crowded experience. They vividly illustrate the scale of human effort needed to defend this small territory during global conflict. Look out for the old hospital wards and control centres—it feels like stepping into a preserved time capsule.
4. Experience the Local Charm of Catalan Bay (La Caleta)
Tucked away on the eastern side of the Rock, sheltered from the westerly winds and the main port activity, lies the vibrant, pastel-hued fishing village of Catalan Bay (La Caleta).
This beautiful cove is distinctly different from the rest of Gibraltar. Historically settled by Genoese fishermen in the 18th century, it has retained a unique, tight-knit community feel. The beach is wonderfully accessible, offering soft sand and clear waters, while the handful of traditional seafood restaurants provide some of the best, most authentic dining experiences on the peninsula.
Why it’s a hidden gem: It requires a short drive or bus journey away from the hustle of Main Street, meaning many day-trippers miss it entirely. If you want to sample fresh catch-of-the-day while enjoying a tranquil seaside atmosphere and watching the local families gather, this is your spot. It feels more Mediterranean resort than busy military outpost.
5. Take a Dolphin Safari in the Bay
While the Rock is Gibraltar’s defining geographical feature, its surrounding waters are rich with life. For a truly memorable and natural experience that moves the focus from the land to the sea, book a Dolphin Safari in the Bay of Gibraltar.
The Bay is one of the best locations in the world for spotting wild dolphins. Companies operate safe, ethical tours where you have an excellent chance of encountering large pods of Common, Striped, and Bottlenose dolphins feeding and playing near the Strait.
Why it’s a hidden gem: It offers a completely different perspective of Gibraltar—viewed from the water. More importantly, it’s a pure wildlife experience that connects you with the vibrant marine ecosystem of the Strait. Watching dozens of dolphins leaping and riding the wake of the boat is a breathtaking natural spectacle often overshadowed by the terrestrial attractions.
Ready to Trace the Road Less Travelled?
Gibraltar offers so much more than its famous profile suggests. By venturing beyond the immediate tourist circuit, you unlock layers of military history, natural beauty, and local charm that define this unique territory.
So pack your walking shoes, grab your camera, and prepare to discover the Gibraltar that many miss. Which hidden gem will you seek out first?
What are your favourite spots beyond the Apes? Share your Gibraltar hidden gems in the comments below!
In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.
In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.
Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.
Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.
She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.
Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.
All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.
Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”
Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!
“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.
He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.
“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.
“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.
“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.
Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”
They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.
Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.
His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.
Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.
No. That wasn’t possible.
Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.
It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.
“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”
At least we agree on that, she thought.
It was obvious he was running away from something as well.
Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.
After getting through this evening first.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”
A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.
Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”
Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.
She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”
She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.
Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.
Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.
Was that what she was expecting?
Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.
Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.
On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.
This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.
Rebellion was written all over him.
The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.
“Mr Henshaw?”
He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.
“Then my name is Michelle.”
Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.
“Staying long?” she asked.
“About three weeks. Yourself?”
“About the same.”
The conversation dried up.
Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.
Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.
“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”
Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”
“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”
You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.
“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.
“Yes, so do I.”
Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.
It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.
Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”
“By car.”
“Did you drive yourself?”
And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.
“After a fashion.”
He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.
And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.
“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.
“Whatever for?”
“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”
“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.
“Do you drive?”
“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”
The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.
“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.
“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.
“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.
“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.
He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.
“I’m a purser.”
“A what?”
“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”
“I see.”
“And you?”
“I was a model.”
“Was?”
“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.
As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.
“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”
“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”
Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.
Dinner over, they separated.
Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.
But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.
Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.
She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.
The single, concussive crack of the chestnut limb outside was a sharp, solitary detonation.
Then came the trajectory of ruin. A heavy thud against the iron ribbing overhead. The agonising screech of structural iron under stress. And finally, the violent fracture of one frame of the glass sky, pierced by a branch.
A single, jagged shard of glass—heavy as a guillotine and clear as ice—dropped straight through the humid air of the atrium. It sliced cleanly through the heavy cotton paper pinned to the easel, bisecting the intricate, half-finished ink study of a winter-blooming orchid, crashing on the ground in an explosion of fragments. The easel shuddered but remained standing, holding a ruined masterpiece.
Ten feet away, he stood entirely frozen. He held a porcelain mixing palette in his left hand, his fingers stained with indigo and muted greens. He had stepped back only moments before, losing himself in the impossible equation of blending a colour to match the infinite, fleeting beauty of a petal. That lost moment had saved his life.
Yet, as the cold London winter rushed through the gaping wound in the roof, his lungs didn’t seize from the gradual drop in temperature. His heart didn’t race from the proximity of death. His gaze was locked entirely on the clean, violent split down the centre of his paper. The metric of his life—his self-appointed commission to preserve order against the dying of the year—had been broken in a single second. His measured breaths abandoned him.
Then, she breezed in.
She moved through the sudden draft and the falling dust of the wreckage, stepping over a glittering carpet of broken glass with the casual grace of someone walking through a meadow. She stopped not three feet from him.
Instantly, his hyper-perceptive mind was overwhelmed. In the grey, ruined skeletal light of the shattered greenhouse, she was dressed in her full ‘glad rags’—a chaotic, theatrical tapestry of textures and rich fabrics that entirely defied the bleakness of the day. With her came the aroma of her perfume. It was heavy, slightly overpowering, and instantly intoxicating. It flooded his senses, displacing the sterile smell of paint and damp greenhouse soil. He was forced to inhale her deeply.
She looked at the bisected drawing, then looked at him. She didn’t see a tragedy in the debris. To her, the falling branch, the shattering glass, and the ruined paper possessed a perfect, natural geometry. It was a milestone. A necessary destruction.
When her eyes met his, the cadence of her tone was a fluid, unmeasured rhythm that bypassed all his intellectual defences. She spoke into the cooling, turgid air, her voice acting like a literal psychological switch:
“So fair and foul a day I have not seen.”
The words clicked inside him. The switch flipped, turning him instantly into a man he had never experienced before—someone he hadn’t even known existed. The defensive, analytical armour he had worn for a lifetime dissolved in the space of a heartbeat. He didn’t check his pulse. He didn’t calculate the cost of the damage. He didn’t look back at the art.
He simply looked at her, a strange, unbidden warmth rising in his chest, and his voice came out steady, bold, and entirely unprompted by his usual caution.
“What a pleasant surprise,” he said, the words shocking him even as they left his lips. “I was hoping you might come.”
She smiled, knowing the significance of the moment completely, while he stood in the wreckage of his well-ordered life, finally learning how to breathe.
Her smile widened, but the breezy nonchalance that usually defined her didn’t falter. Instead, her eyes danced with a quiet, triumphant satisfaction. She had spent a lifetime watching him build fortress walls out of ink lines, paint colours, and stopwatch pulses, and she had just witnessed the entire structure collapse without him even trying to catch the falling pieces.
“Hoping?” she repeated, trailing the word out like a musical note as she took a half-step closer. The hem of her velvet coat swept across a shard of glass, sending a tiny, musical ring through the cold air. “My, my. The sky falls, the great work is ruined, and you are indulging in hope. Who are you, and what have you done with my philosopher?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, nor did she need one. Her tone carried that familiar, teasing rhythm, but there was an undercurrent of profound relief in it. She saw the subtle thaw in his posture, the way his shoulders had dropped, and the fierce, unblinking focus with which he was suddenly looking at her. The switch hadn’t just changed him; it had freed him.
“I suppose the universe simply grew tired of waiting for you to finish that drawing,” she murmured, gesturing with a gloved hand toward the bisection on the easel. “It has terrible manners, but excellent timing.”
With the easy, unthinking fluidity that defined her entire existence, she closed the final distance between them. It was a sequence of movements he had experienced a thousand times before over the years—her casual, tactile nature that always threatened to upend his strict boundaries.
First came the touching of hands. Her fingers, warm despite the winter draft rushing through the ceiling, brushed against his paint-stained knuckles. It was a brief, grounding friction that seemed to anchor him to the solid earth while the glass world shattered around them.
Then, she stepped fully into his space for the hug. It was the kind of embrace she gave him every time she blew back into his life—loose, effortless, and entirely unbothered by decorum. It was a gesture meant to say everything was good, that the chaos didn’t matter, and that the world, however broken, was exactly as it should be. He inhaled the full, intoxicating weight of her perfume, no longer counting the seconds of the breath, simply letting her presence fill his lungs.
As she began to pull away, she leaned in for the casual kiss on his cheek—a fleeting, habitual punctuation mark to her greetings that he had long classified as mere background noise in her breezy demeanour.
But this time, the trajectory altered.
The kiss didn’t snap back into the air. Her lips pressed against his skin, warm and soft, and then they lingered. One second. Two. A fraction of a heartbeat longer than it ever had in all the years they had known each other.
In that quiet, extended moment of contact, the casual playfulness evaporated. The lingering warmth of her lips against his cheek spoke a truth that her cryptic words had only hinted at. It was a silent, heavy admission that bypassed his intellect entirely and struck straight at his heart.
When she finally pulled back, her eyes were soft, stripped of their usual mocking shield. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. As she turned to look back at the ruined greenhouse and park staff assembling to deal with the crisis, the truth hung in the frosty air between them, absolute and undeniable: he was special to her, and his well-ordered life was officially a thing of the past.
The warmth of her lips remained branded against his cheek long after she pulled away.
Inside his mind, the intricate grid system he had spent decades constructing was dead silent. Usually, a moment like this would trigger an immediate internal panic—a frantic calculation of boundaries crossed, heart rates spiked, and the sheer logistical nightmare of letting a chaotic force into his meticulously partitioned life. His brain should have been screaming danger.
Instead, there was only the quiet, heavy realisation that the walls hadn’t just been breached; they had been made completely irrelevant. That lingering second—that tiny elongation of time—was a metric he couldn’t catalogue. It didn’t fit into a botanical sketch. It couldn’t be regulated by a slow inhale. For the first time, he didn’t want to measure the moment; he just wanted to feel it. He felt raw, exposed, and entirely alive.
“Well,” she said, her voice snapping him gently out of the silence as she looked around the glittering wreckage. “We can’t exactly stay here and slowly freeze to death, can we?”
Without a word, he began to move, but the rhythm of his actions was entirely new. He didn’t meticulously wipe down his palette or carefully layer tissue paper over his workspace. Together, they began gathering the scattered remnants of his day, sweeping the ruined sketches, the paint tubes, and the loose charcoal pencils into his old leather satchel.
It felt less like a cleanup and more like an act of containment. They were packing the raw chaos of the afternoon—the shattered glass, the scent of her perfume, the concussive crack of the tree, and the terrifyingly beautiful truth of that lingering kiss—and compressing it all down into the dark, leather vault of his bag. It was like forcing a storm into a genie’s bottle. They were corking the madness, sealing it away from the rest of the world, knowing full well that it couldn’t stay trapped forever.
He buckled the brass straps of the satchel closed. The weight of it felt different now. It was no longer a bag of tools; it was a vessel holding a volatile, magical current.
He knew that the next time they opened it—the next time she randomly blew back into his life and uncorked this shared chaos—it wouldn’t feel like a disaster at all. It would feel like a wish being granted.
He slung the strap over his shoulder, turned to her, and for the first time in his life, offered her his hand first. She took it, her fingers wrapping warmly around his, and together they stepped out of the shattered atrium and into the biting teeth of the London winter.
The moment they stepped beyond the threshold of the glasshouse, the London winter dropped its prelude and became the beast. Above them, the ancient canopy of Kew roared, a massive, thrashing roof of branches fighting the sky. Down on the path, the ground shrubs were locked in a desperate, violent battle against the elements, bending low to the gravel just to keep their roots.
She took the lead instantly. She didn’t just walk into the storm; she embraced it, her velvet coat billowing behind her like a sail, laughing as a sudden gust caught her hair. She was entirely in her element—blind to the danger of flying debris, oblivious to the frost biting at her skin.
He watched her for a single heartbeat, then reached out and gently pulled her back by the arm.
It wasn’t an act of disapproval or a desire to control her movement. It was the instinct of a man who understood that her beautiful, breezy blindness often led her straight into the teeth of trouble. There had been times before—scandals, reckless choices, nights spent wandering places she shouldn’t have been—that had elicited sharp chastisements from her family and mutual friends. They called her reckless; they called her a disaster. He simply saw someone who needed a grounding wire.
He didn’t lecture her. He simply altered his stride, placing his broader frame between her and the worst of the freezing wind, keeping his hand lightly at her waist as they fought their way toward the iron gates where his car was parked.
His car sat by the curb, a beautiful, stark contrast to the modern world around it. It was a pristine piece of post-war British engineering—a vehicle defined by heavy steel, sweeping chrome arches, and an uncompromising, mechanical geometry. It was a machine that required patience, precise double-declutching, and an appreciation for the aesthetic of a bygone era.
On paper, she wouldn’t be caught dead in something so traditional, so rigidly tied to the past. It was exactly the kind of car his conservative parents approved of, and exactly the kind her progressive circle mocked as a relic. Yet, as he unlocked the heavy passenger door, she looked at the vehicle with absolute adoration. She didn’t care about the historical status or the cost; she adored it because it was an extension of his soul. She loved the immaculate care he poured into it.
They scrambled inside, slamming the heavy doors against the tempest.
Instantly, the canopy’s roar and the howling wind cut off, replaced by the deep, insulated silence of the car’s interior. The air inside warmed rapidly, thick with the rich, comforting scent of old Connolly leather, polished walnut wood, and the intoxicating, slightly overpowering cloud of her perfume. The storm was packed away. The bottle was corked.
She didn’t waste a second. Before he could even slide his satchel off his shoulder, she turned in the leather passenger seat, her eyes bright with a sudden, chaotic spark of mischief. She looked at the massive, white-rimmed steering wheel, then looked at him.
“Can I drive?” she asked.
The proposal that she drive his pristine, post-war automobile would typically plunge a man of his rigid nature into an internal crisis. But the switch had already been flipped. Without a word, he placed the heavy brass key into her palm.
What followed completely upended his understanding of her.
He had braced himself for chaos—braced for grinding gears, late braking, and the erratic pacing that defined her walks through the world. Instead, the moment her hands gripped the white-rimmed steering wheel, a shocking transformation occurred. She didn’t fight the heavy, unassisted steering or bully the vintage gearbox; she danced with it.
She drove with a profound, instinctive care. Her footwork on the heavy clutch was precise, easing the car into motion without a single shudder, matching the engine’s revs with a mechanical intuition that rivaled his own. She respected the geometry of the machine. She anticipated the corners, navigating the rain-slicked London streets with a fluid, flawless accuracy that left him completely speechless.
Yet, it was still an extension of her nature. It was a complete contradiction.
Where he drove with a hyper-vigilant calculation—constantly monitoring the gauges, counting the distance to the car ahead, managing the drive like an equation—she drove with an effortless, breezy surrender. She wasn’t looking at the dashboard; she was looking through the glass, humming a half-remembered melody, completely at peace within the speed. She didn’t need to measure the drive to master it. Her precision didn’t come from anxiety or rules; it came from a deep, innate harmony with the moment.
Sitting in the passenger seat, watching the profile of her face illuminated by the amber glow of the walnut dashboard, he felt a quiet awe settle into his chest.
Perhaps, in some hidden, unexamined corner of his mind, he had always known she was this person. Or perhaps he was finally realising the terrifying, beautiful truth of the woman beside him: she was not just a simple gale of chaos meant to disrupt his order. She was a landscape of infinite, shifting facets. She possessed depths, hidden disciplines, and secret rooms that would take him a lifetime to unravel fully.
And for the first time in his life, the prospect of a mystery that couldn’t be neatly sketched or categorised didn’t terrify him. It felt like a lifetime he eagerly wanted to spend.
A single event driven by fate: after Ben told his wife, Charlotte, he would be home late one night, he left early and, by chance, discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.
A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?
A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.
A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.
After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.
From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.
I went in and closed the door, leaning against it. She glared at me, for a moment not recognising who it was, then the expression changed.
And it gave me a tell.
“You’re supposed to be in Venice,” she said, with a hint of amusement in her tone.
“You’re not supposed to be in here, and yet here you are.”
“It’s all part of a witch hunt. We’ve been down this road before, and like the last time, and the time before that, they’ve got nothing on me. They know it, and you should know it too, but if you’re retired, why are you here?”
“Your new best friend forever, Larry. You know he wants me dead.”
“He says you killed his brother, but he’s never said anything about killing you, just getting justice for his brother. Through the legal system.”
“Of course, he would say that. I assure you I had nothing to do with his brother’s death, but that’s another story.” I crossed to the chair and sat down, taking a moment to look at her.
Drugs, alcohol and stress had taken the shine off what had once been a stunningly beautiful young woman. The loss of her father and the betrayal of her husband had taken their toll.
“If that’s the case, perhaps you should tell me what happened so I can make up my own mind. After all, there are always two sides to a story.”
I shook my head. “That would be a pointless exercise. Let’s talk about you instead, and the reason why you’re sitting in that chair. Larry. Until you took up with him, we had no idea who you were or what you were doing and had no reason to find out. Larry, on the other hand, well, he’s shoulder deep in a shit pile of criminal activity, and my old boss, when I used to work for him, is very interested in everyone who even looks sideways at him. So, bottom line, you’re only here because of him, and because of him I know everything there is to know about.”
“So you say, but there’s nothing to know. Never was, and Larry is just a friend who’s going through a rough patch.”
“If you mean losing out on a fifty-million-pound inheritance because he killed his brother is a rough patch, then you’re right.”
“I don’t know anything about that. All I know is his wife is being difficult.”
“That’s the same line all married men use.”
Her expression sharpened, conveying annoyance. “It’s not that sort of relationship.”
“Not what his wife is telling his mother back in Sorrento. And that’s saying something considering how much Brenda hates his mother.”
A change in expression. Another tell, a nerve hit.
“How do I know this?” I asked the question for her. “Simple, and perhaps I will give you a side of the story. His mother crossed paths with one of my investigations back when I worked in intelligence as an analyst, and I got to know her quite well. As a favour, knowing I was in a position to help, she asked me to watch over his brother, her youngest son.”
I could see the question before she could ask it.
“Before you tell me I didn’t do a very good job, I was at the handoff Larry sent him to that went bad, one he was told would be a simple briefcase exchange, and ended up having to defend him in what became an impossible situation.”
“What was in the briefcases?”
An odd question, but I could see from the furrowed brow that she had seized on a significant detail.
“I don’t know and didn’t ask. In my position, it was better not to know, but you can guess. I’m sure you are aware of Larry’s interests.”
She didn’t say, but she knew. My guess had been drugs on one side and money on the other. It was anything but a simple job, and my reasoning was that Larry tried to keep it low-key, using a lesser-known courier without backup, and someone found out. With drugs and cash on that scale, it was too much of a temptation to pass up.
“Anyway, he was shot, not fatally. I patched him up, he called Larry, and I stayed with him until Larry arrived, but left before Larry saw me, for obvious reasons. If you talk to his mother, she will verify everything I said. She was still talking to him after I left, up to the point where he could see Larry coming. After that, he was DOA at the hospital. You can draw your own conclusions, but 50 million is a great incentive to use a particular situation to get rid of a problem.”
“An interesting story, as you say, but I’m not likely to be asking anyone anything because I’m just not interested in you or him.”
“As I said before, a pointless exercise. But, interested or not, you will be helping us with our problem with Larry and his explosives.”
“‘I know nothing about that.”
“Well, let’s talk about something you do know about. Emily Broadhurst, or to Wendy, Aunt May.”
The look in that fraction of a second was both malevolent and fearful.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I shrugged. “I thought you might say that.” I took out my cell phone and dialled one of the two numbers displayed. “Let’s bring them in and have a chat, see what they have to say.” A voice answered on the other end. “George. Bring them in.”
“Stop.” She glared at her lawyer. “Give us the room.”
“I strongly suggest…”
“Give me the room. Your objection is noted.”
Her lawyer reluctantly got up and left the room. She glared at the policewoman standing by the door.
“Pretend she’s not here,” I said. “She has to be here for your safety and is the very soul of discretion.” I looked up at the camera. “This is not to be recorded or observed, so camera off.” I waited until the red light below the camera went off.
I could see she was about to say something, more than likely regrettable, but understandable.
“Let me say this before you say something you will regret. You’ve been lying to me. I don’t ask questions I don’t have answers to. Because you started working with Larry, we went the extra mile on your life and operations. You were there when the crates were delivered, as was Larry himself, and he told you what was in there. So, where there’s one lie, what is there you can say that cannot be taken with a grain of salt.”
“Be that as it may…”
“No. You are the head of a criminal organisation. It might be dressed up very cleverly to look like something else, but we have a very clear view of what goes on. To be honest, we don’t care. You’re not the focus of my ex-boss’s obsession. And, believe me when I tell you, I don’t like being Larry’s target.”
“Then make him disappear.”
“Unfortunately, despite what you and others might think, we did not unilaterally kill people for no reason, and, even if I still worked for that organisation, I wasn’t able to make people disappear. The paperwork would be horrendous, along with endless external, internal and government reviews.”
“Then what do you want me to do? I’m not an informer, nor will I become an informant.” Spoken by a person who still thought they had a choice.
“You’re going to do what you negotiate with the police, who, despite your endless denials, are aware of the truth. So, first things first, you are going to ignore Larry and not proceed with any of the arrangements you may have agreed with him. You can do that with plausible deniability, telling him leaving C4 in your warehouse was not an act of good faith since the police now want your hide for it. Once again I will reiterate, I’m not interested in you, and nor is my ex-boss, so you are in a unique position to use whatever knowledge you have as leverage for your freedom.”
“And the matter you brought up?”
“Will never see the light of day, or be mentioned by anyone ever again. Unless you break our agreement. I used to have the best investigative team on the planet, and they can find anyone or anything, so if you’re thinking of running, don’t. My ex-boss will have no hesitation in destroying you and your organisation.”
“And yet you say you work for no one.”
“Haven’t for years. I retired and hoped to stay that way, but my wife died, and Larry decided to come after me. At the moment, I don’t have much to live for, so if you want to get in my bad books, believe me, you’ll not live to regret it. When I walk out of this room, don’t get in my sights.”
Known only to a few, there is a legend that a ship named the ‘Flying Dutchman’ left Nazi Germany in the last weeks of the war and set sail for America, escorted by U-boats, under a different name. Aboard was a trove of treasure and gold worth a ‘king’s ransom’.
It was said that it had been sent to a group of American Nazis to create the Fourth Reich at an appropriate time. Over the years, many expeditions off the coast had searched, but found no trace of the vessel or the treasure.
In other words, it was just a legend created to boost tourism.
…
Fast forward to 2024. Our intrepid private detective, Harry Walthenson, overhears a conversation at Grand Central Station. It was the oddness of the message that caught his attention. An investigation turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and he thinks no more about it.
Then Harry is kidnapped, interrogated, and asked questions over and over about a date and a place, why he went there, and when he could not give satisfactory answers, he was beaten half to death and left for dead on a rubbish heap. He was lucky that it was a living space for homeless men; otherwise, he would have died.
In the aftermath, he once again gives it no more thought.
…
After resolving his first case successfully, there’s no rest. Harry’s angry mother comes to his office and demands that he find out where his father has gone. She believes he has run off with a mistress, not for the first time.
Perhaps it was not the wisest decision she has made, because Harry promises to investigate, and adds that she might not like what he finds.
He soon discovered he does not like what he finds, that his father’s friends, a cabal formed at University, have two who are his mother’s current lovers, and another, a criminal blackmailing his father.
Felicity, now his partner, working on a different case, and trying to get answers, uncovers a crime family involved in guarding a disused warehouse on the docks, where she believes Harry had been taken for interrogation, and subsequently dumped nearby to die.
Why are they up to? What is so important that the empty warehouse needs guarding? Who is employing them?
Harry, following up on the death of the blackmailer, traces his death back to an enforcer employed by his grandfather. His mother’s grandfather was a pre-war industrialist who made his fortune in war munitions and shipbuilding.
He was also a member of the American Nazi party.
When Harry also discovers a logbook belonging to a so-called wartime Liberty ship the “Paul Revere” in brackets ‘Freiheitskämpfer’, hidden by his father, and written in a code that is not readily identifiable.
It is no longer a matter of a father who has run off with his mistress; it is a very frightened man in fear of his life, running from a group who will stop at nothing to get the logbook back. And when Harry discovers a family connection to the group, it becomes a race against time to decode the log and find his father before his grandfather does.
…
Coming soon: Harry Walthenson’s new adventure – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’
I was walking slowly along the passage leading to the elevator on my way back to the bridge when the First Officer’s voice broke my thoughts.
“Captain?”
“Number one?”
“Could you come to the bridge; we have a possible situation.”
“On my way.”
A ‘possible situation’ for Number One that could mean almost anything, from an engineering calamity to a standoff with 100 alien battleships. I was hoping for the calamity in engineering.
When I arrived on the bridge it was calm. Was I expecting panic?
Number one stood, relinquishing the captain’s chair.
“On screen,” he said as I crossed the deck to join him.
A magnified vision of three alien spaceships appeared ahead.
“Between us and the Princesses home planet. If we can see them, they can see us. I suspect they knew we were coming. I’ve slowed down to give us some preparation time.”
Of course. Given her reservations about going home, the time she’d been away, the fact she had been living with the enemy, and the changing of power, it was not dissimilar to events that had happened through history on our own homework.
Was it too much to expect things would be different, and better than what we had?
“What do you think, friendly or hostile?”
“We should treat every encounter as hostile until proven otherwise. A friendly response would not be three ships blocking our path.”
My sentiments exactly. “General and team to the bridge.”
A few seconds later, “Acknowledged.”
“How far away are they?”
“We could be there in 30 minutes,” the navigator said.
“Can we scan for life signs, weapons, anything?”
“Not until we’re closer. From here all we can see is their ships.”
The General and three others that made up his bridge attack team arrived on the bridge.
“What do we have?” He asked as he crossed to his station.
“Three ships waiting for us.”
“Same as the last vessel we encountered?”
“We have to get closer. You better get ready for a fight. I don’t think these people are going to be as friendly as the others.”
“You have information on these people.”
“Only from what the princess told me. They have been constantly at war with themselves and others, with ever-changing governments.” It had painted an interesting picture and one that might leave them battle-hardened or battle weary.
“Same old same old then.”
It was, at times, no different from where we came. Even with lessons learned from the past we still had pockets of war between stronger and weaker countries, these days mostly over dwindling resources.
“Let’s just hope their weapons are not superior to ours.” It was a thought that I should have kept to myself.
“I’m sure we are as well-equipped as we possibly can be, given we had no idea if or what we would or could be up against. The weapons are far superior to anything we have back home.”
Which had been the reason why in the first instance we didn’t know about, and once out here, could not get close enough back in each orbit to use them. Our masters had theoretically considered everything.
Those weapons included nuclear-tipped torpedoes designed to travel through space, high-intensity laser beams that would cut through almost anything, including the alien alloy that this ship was constructed of, and a defensive tool, the ability to absorb shock waves and explosions and laser beams, what might be called shields.
The limited tests back home showed they worked, but out here in space against aliens with superior technology, w we were you to prove their worth.
Perhaps today would be the day.
“You have the bridge Number one. Stay on course and speed and let me know when we are either hailing range.”
That would give me about a half hour. I had more questions for the princess.
This is countryside somewhere inside the Lamington National Park in Queensland. It was one of those days where the rain come and went…
We were spending a week there, in the middle of nowhere on a working macadamia farm in a cottage, one of four, recuperating from a long exhausting lockdown.
It was not cold, and we were able to sit out of the verandah for most of the day, watching the rain come and pass over on its way up the valley, listing to the gentle pitter-patter of the rain on the roof and nearby leaves.
But as for inspiration:
This would be the ideal setting for a story about life, failed romance, or a couple looking to find what it was they lost.
It could be a story about recovering from a breakdown, or a tragic loss, to be anywhere else but in the middle of dealing with the constant reminders of what they had.
It could be a safe house, and as we all know, safe houses in stories are rarely safe houses, where it is given away by someone inside the program, or the person who it’s assigned to give it away because they can’t do as they’re supposed to; lay low.
Then there’s camping, the great outdoors, for someone who absolutely hates being outdoors, or those who go hunting, and sometimes become the hunted.
I don’t like Mondays – a song lingering on the periphery of my memory, and I’m not sure who sung it.
But it’s official, I don’t like Mondays.
I’ve been procrastinating since last Thursday, telling myself I have to get the next part of one of my stories written, but I keep putting it off. I’m not sure why but it always seems like this, and I have to force myself to sit in front of the computer screen, and come up with the goods.
I didn’t do anything on Sunday, and, as a writer, I guess that’s not very good. I’m supposed to be writing a page, or a hundred or thousand words a day, just to keep the juices flowing.
I’m not in the mood. I sit and stare at the computer screen, and nothing is coming. Is this the first sign of writer’s block?
I dig out several articles on how to overcome it and start putting their suggestions into action. No. No. Maybe. No. I don’t think it’s writer’s block.
Perhaps I need some inspiration so I go to my tablet playlist, spend 10 minutes trying to find the headphones that were carelessly discarded on a seat that had a lot of other stuff on it, by one of my grandchildren the last time they were here.
And, yes, the tablet was left in the middle of playing a Minecraft video which has drained the battery. Now I can’t find the charger!
Back at the computer, holding a dead tablet, and a pair of headphones, inspiration is as far away as the mythical light at the end of the tunnel. Today perhaps it will be an oncoming express train.
Perhaps a pen and paper will work.
An idea pops into my head…
…
Is it possible the passing of a weekend could change the course of your life?
An interesting question, one to ponder as I sat on the floor of a concrete cell, with only the sound of my breathing, and the incessant screams coming from a room at the end of the corridor.
It was my turn next. That was what the grinning ape of a guard said in broken English. He looked like a man who relished his job.
What goes through your mind at a time like this, waiting, waiting for the inevitable? Will I survive, what will they do to me, will it hurt?
The screaming stops abruptly, and a terrible silence falls over the facility.
Then, looking in the direction of where the screams had come from, I hear the clunk of the door latch being opened, and then the slow nerve-tingling screech of rusty metal as the door opens slowly.
Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, no.
….
No writer’s block. But I have to stop watching late-night television.
