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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.

Featured

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

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

If I only had one day to stop over in – Lisbon – what would I do?

One Day in Lisbon: The One Place You Must Visit

So, you’ve got a layover in Lisbon—just one day to dip your toes into the magic of Portugal’s sun-drenched capital. Maybe you’re en route to somewhere else, or perhaps it’s a quick escape squeezed between commitments. Whatever the reason, you’re here now, with 24 hours to uncover a piece of Lisbon’s soul. The city is bursting with charm—colourful tiled buildings, steep hills, and the scent of pastéis de nata around every corner. But with limited time, where do you go to make that single day truly unforgettable?

Lisbon offers countless gems, from the historic Belém Tower to the lively streets of Alfama. Yet, if I had to choose one place that captures the essence of Lisbon—its beauty, its spirit, and its heartbeat—it would be Miradouro da Senhora do Monte.

Why This Spot?

Perched on one of Lisbon’s highest hills in the Graça neighbourhood, Miradouro da Senhora do Monte is more than just a viewpoint—it’s an experience. While other miradouros (viewpoints) like Portas do Sol or São Pedro de Alcântara are popular, this one feels like a local secret. It offers a breathtaking, panoramic vista of the entire city: the red rooftops cascading toward the Tagus River, the majestic São Jorge Castle, and the iconic 25 de Abril Bridge stretching into the distance. It’s peaceful, often less crowded, and provides a moment of quiet awe amidst a bustling city.

Making Your Day Memorable

Start your morning here. Grab a coffee and a fresh pastel de nata from a nearby bakery, find a spot on the wall, and watch Lisbon wake up. The soft morning light paints the city in golden hues, and you’ll hear the distant sounds of trams clattering and church bells ringing. It’s the perfect introduction to Lisbon’s laid-back yet vibrant vibe.

From there, wander through Graça’s cobbled streets, explore the historic Alfama district (just a short walk downhill), and maybe catch a live Fado performance later in the day. But it’s that serene moment at Miradouro da Senhora do Monte that will stick with you—the feeling of being on top of the world, with all of Lisbon spread out at your feet.

A Tip for the Journey

Wear comfortable shoes—Lisbon’s hills are no joke! And don’t rush. The beauty of a one-day stopover is in savouring small moments. Whether you’re travelling solo, with a partner, or with friends, this viewpoint offers a slice of Lisbon’s magic that’s both intimate and grand.

So, if you have just one day in Lisbon, make your way to Miradouro da Senhora do Monte. Let the view steal your breath, and let Lisbon steal your heart. Até logo, and safe travels

Coming soon – “Strangers We’ve Become”, the sequel to “What Sets Us Apart”

Stranger’s We’ve Become, a sequel to What Sets Us Apart.

The blurb:

Is she or isn’t she, that is the question!

Susan has returned to David, but he is having difficulty dealing with the changes. Her time in captivity has changed her markedly, so much so that David decides to give her some time and space to re-adjust back into normal life.

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remain.

In the meantime, David has to deal with Susan’s new security chief, the discovery of her rebuilding a palace in Russia, evidence of an affair, and several attempts on his life. And, once again, David is drawn into another of Predergast’s games, one that could ultimately prove fatal.

From being reunited with the enigmatic Alisha, a strange visit to Susan’s country estate, to Russia and back, to a rescue mission in Nigeria, David soon discovers those whom he thought he could trust each has their own agenda, one that apparently doesn’t include him.

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon

 

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 31/32

Days 31 and 32 – Writing exercise – Use – “I really wish you would…”

…

There is this thing with mixed messages and intentions: unintentional consequences.

My parents, God rest their souls, brought me up to take everyone at face value.  A lot of others thought this was probably the most idiotic advice any parents could give their child, but it had served me well over the years.

People were generally good.

But, as anyone with the benefit of hindsight will tell you, there’s always someone who will let you down,
someone who says one thing and means something else, someone who will take advantage of a situation, and someone who is just not capable of making a commitment.

…

Sarah and I started as interns on the same day, two of twenty, the company’s commitment to taking 10 University graduates each half year.

After each of us went through a three-month probationary period, being introduced to all facets of the five main departments, Engineering, Supply, Accounting, Management and Distribution, we were then appointed to the Department where the Head had put in a request to HR.

We became administrative assistants and started at the bottom of the selected department.  I was selected to work in Accounting, Sarah Management.

Management was a first choice, Accounting was a last choice.  She was happy, I didn’t care.  At the orientation, we were told that after two years you would be free to select a different department, provided there was a role available.

There was also the possibility of going offshore, with the company having offices in the major cities worldwide.  Those were jobs that you would be appointed to if the committee considered you suitable.  That took time, sometimes up to 10 years, and openings were rare.  People literally had to die to create an opening.

Another saying my parents often used was, slow and steady wins the race.  Some people, of course, wanted it all – yesterday!

…

It was never a foregone conclusion that Sarah and I would have a relationship; to me, it seemed like it just happened.

One day, we were sitting in the cafeteria, and she was saying her roommate was getting married, and she was on the street. The next day, she was moving in.

To her, it ticked all the boxes, and we were sort of ‘aligned’.

She was a tireless worker and put in the hours and dedication she believed would make her worth being noticed and, therefore, earn a promotion.

I was the ‘work smarter, not harder’ type and spent the time to learn every job within my level, and then understand the mechanics of the department.  I had learned that a manager, when one became a manager, was the one who understood everyone’s job, every cog in the wheel, so when I was needed, I could step in.

Most of the people I worked with either struggled with the individual workload or didn’t want extra strings to their bow.  Only those with ambition stepped out of their comfort zone.  It was an attitude I didn’t get.  They were university graduates and meant to be competitive.  After all, they had made the effort to get employment with the company?

I knew Sarah was competitive and ruthless in her pursuit of achieving the most.  If there were a board that had points on it, she would be at the top.

I admired her work ethic, but over time, not so much the ‘by any means possible’.  I thought she was lamenting the lack of co-operation from other junior executives, but gradually realised she was not above using them as steps, or sabotaging them.

Because we were living together, I realised that the others thought I was tarred with the same brush, that notorious thing called guilt by association.  And it surprised me, until the day I discovered, quite by accident, that I was also in the firing line.

That was a bad day, and one where I deigned not to go home.  Instead, I booked into a posh hotel and decided to stay there for the week.

Something else I learned: a round of promotions was coming up, and one of our group would be considered, unprecedented after just a single year into our apprenticeship.

…

After the first night alone, I was sitting at my desk.  I had chosen not to take an office but be out with the rest of the staff, because it was so much easier to gauge the mood of the people you work with, and how things were going.

It was my exercise of a variation of the ‘leaning to be a leader’ book that I was hypothetically writing.

I had come in early.

Sarah must have had a surveillance system in place that warned her when I arrived at my desk.

She could move quickly and quietly like an assassin.

“Where were you last night?”

There was never a good morning, or how did you sleep? It was business or grumpiness.  Sarah was not a morning person.

“Slumming it in a bar.”  I could have been out with another woman, like Celia from Supply, but I wasn’t.
“I had a bit too much to drink, so I staggered to a hotel.”

“A good one?”

I was used to her interrogation techniques.

“Sleazy.  Subconscious I was probably reliving a distant memory.  The place felt familiar.”

“You don’t strike me as the type.”

That was an interesting comment coming from her.  We’d never been that close to have a deep and meaningful exchange.  I shrugged.  “We all harbour a few deep dark secrets, Sarah.  Have you got any?”

She glared at me because, being a master of her craft, she knew when it was being used back on her.

“You know me.”

She didn’t sit.  She prowled, and it could be disconcerting.

“Better that you might think.  Are you here for a reason?”

“I come to see how you are.  When you didn’t come home…”

“I didn’t think it mattered.  It’s not as if we were dating.”

“We live together.”

“Not the same thing.”  I tried to keep that small amount of resentment I was harbouring from leaking out.  “We had this same conversation two years ago, and things are still the same.  If you’re after the promotion, go for it.  I’m not interested at this stage.”

She gave me another look, this time wary.  Perhaps she decided that I was exercising some subtle plan to get her guard down and usurp the position.  I wasn’t going to tell her I told HR to excuse me from it.  They were surprised and not surprised.

“Why wouldn’t you want to advance if the company thinks you can do the job?”

“I don’t think I’m ready.  One thing I’ve learned in the year here is that you’ll be given the opportunity, but they’ll pile it on.  I’m sure you can handle it, you’ve had a few difficult problems dropped in your lap and passed with flying colours.  Truth be told, you’re more focused than I am.”

Her expression changed, and she dragged a seat across from the desk next to mine and flopped in it.  She was thinking, most likely, about what my game was. 

“What are you up to?”

Of course, it was not quite what I expected, but it was a predictable reaction. 

“I don’t think like you, Sarah.  Not everyone does.  It can be good, or it can be viewed in an entirely different way than your expectations.  But you must do what you think is necessary for you.”

Perhaps that wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

“What about us?”

“I think you might have heard this before, from far wiser people than me, but it doesn’t matter if you have to sacrifice your hopes and dreams.  You’re too young and good at what you do to give up so soon.  Relationships can’t survive ambition, especially in a place like this.  It’s why I’ve tried to keep several pages back so you have that freedom.  If you feel otherwise, then maybe we can talk about it?”

She leapt out of the seat, mind made up.  I could tell that whatever it was, I wasn’t in it, and I was fine with that.

She looked at her watch, her go-tov mannerism for escaping without explanation.

“Got to go.  Meetings, deadlines.”

Or an appointment with HR.  My spy in HR just sent me an email.  She would have received the notification on her watch.  She had a full range of electronic gadgets.

Me, I was mostly old-fashioned.

…

What surprised me was a call from HR two days later, without getting the usual heads-up from my spy.

In that time I had seen Sarah several times and spoke briefly to her once.  I was still at the hotel, and i think after the last conversation, she was avoiding me

I suspect that had something to do with her two-hour meeting with one of the HR managers.  She had not seen the department head.

The head of the department was Crafton, a woman who had the nickname Crafty because you could never know what she was thinking.  If you were lucky enough to see her.

She was rarely seen, so rare that she was a legend among the staff, some of whom believed she didn’t exist, and just the thought of her being somewhere or everywhere in the building was enough to keep the staff on their toes.

For us newbies, it worked.

I went up to the executive floor, stated my business and then waited in chairs that were far more comfortable than those issued to the staff.

Everything about the executive level was amazing.  This was only the second time in a year for me.  That for a newbie was unprecedented.

A door opened in front of me, and a young, immaculately dressed lady came out.

“Mr Denver?”

“Yes.”  I stood.

“Follow me.”

We went through the door and into a fairy wonderland, or that’s how my imagination painted it.  In reality, it was a series of office suites, each with a personal assistant and another, all working so hard, none looked up.

It was as if I didn’t exist.  I probably didn’t in their eyes.

Five suites along, we stopped at a door and she knocked.  A muffled ‘Come’ filtered through, and she opened the door.

She didn’t follow me in.  One Christian ready to be thrown to the lions.  The door shut, and my fate was sealed.

Behind a huge mahogany desk was an elderly woman, older than my grandmother and she was about 80.  She fitted into the room, very much a part of it.  There were painted portraits on the wall, one of her as a teenager, a mother and daughter, and a recent one.

Milestones?

“Please sit, Evan.  People standing make me nervous.”

It was not the voice of an elderly woman.

I did as I was told.

“Do you know who I am?”

“She who does not exist?”

I don’t know why I said that, but if she were tossing me back out in the street, I would speak freely.  Of course, my tone reflected the degree of awesome, making it very shaky.

“You didn’t call me Crafty.”

“I may be stupid, but I’m not suicidal.”

She smiled.  “You’re a strange one, Evan.  To tell you the truth, an employee file crosses my desk about once every five years.  This year I got two.  You, and a pesky creature by the name of Sarah.  Tell me about her?”

What was this, a test?  It was one of those questions where there was no right answer and only wrong answers.  But, on the other hand, not answering meant a fate worse than death.

“She was one of the last group.  Hard worker, puts her head down and tail up, gets the job done.  Focussed.”

She looked at me, and I could almost see her considering and evaluating my comments.  The last told me she didn’t think I was giving her what she asked for.

A smile.  That of an assassin?

“If I asked you for your true opinion, would you give it?”

Yep.  This woman could see through a yard of solid steel and right into your soul.  If I were smart, i would leave now.

“Is it necessary?”

She smiled, one that showed a whole different character.  Warm.

“For someone placed in the most underperforming section in the whole company and turning it into the most productive and happy, you seem to have a gift for analysing human beings and figuring out how to get the best out of them.  Your opinion will be highly regarded, if it’s the truth.”

“Isn’t that sort of assessment the preview of the senior staff in Human Resources?”

“Three people from HR tried and failed, and they’ve been involved with staff collectively for 60 years.  The answer is, this time, no.  What you say will never leave this room.  But, it’s up to you whether you trust me.”

This woman was scary.  But only I felt I could trust her. 

“Surely her supervisor…”

A look silenced that line of thought.

I sighed.  “She is a good worker.  Out of all of our group, she deserves a promotion.  The qualifier is that someone needs to impress upon her that the ends do not justify the means, and to respect her fellow workers below her as well as above.”

“You live with her.”

“We share my apartment.  We do not share a bed.  It is not that sort of relationship.”

“Would you want it to be?”

“Maybe at first.  But living together shows little things that come out, sometimes after the wedding, which can be problematic.  I don’t think I could handle her ambition because she would choose that over me every time.”

“Now, that wasn’t so hard?”

“It may or may not be true.”

“It is.  She was interviewed two days ago and said as much.  Her comments about you were freely given, along with half a dozen others she perceived to be rivals.  She was not as flattering as you were about her.”

No surprise there then.  Getting the promotion by any and all means necessary was her unspoken motto.

“Doesn’t mean she’s not right.”  I don’t know why I said that, perhaps thinking I had just sunk to her level.

“You don’t know what she said.”

“I can imagine.  We have conversations, and every now and then she’d slip in a, ‘I really wish you would…’ and then tell me what I was doing writing, in her eyes.  Perhaps she thought she was helping me be a better candidate.”

“It didn’t matter.  Your supervisor said basically the same things, but sometimes people only see what they want to see, or worse, see that you’re a threat to their position.  He achieved nothing until you arrived, and then was quick to take credit for the change.  He will be leaving at the end of the month.  You will be coming up here with my section.  If you want to, that is.”

“On this floor?”

“Of course.  You’ll have a team, and the mission will be to improve staff morale and productivity.  And after that, you might get my job.”

“And Sarah?”

“We’re sending her to London for a year.  I believe, like you, she is a good worker and focused, but trampling those under her is not a good trait.  Morgan in London will sort that out.  If he doesn’t, we will let her go.  Now, be off with you.  I have to disappear into the walls.  Yes, the walls do have ears.”

She smiled at her own joke.

“Keep this to yourself.  The board will be ratifying it next week.”

On the other side of the door, where the personal assistant glanced up as i walked past, I realised I didn’t ask what the pay and perks were.  Perhaps another time.

…

Sarah and I danced around each other, never quite meeting in the middle, until she called me and asked me to come home.

I could have said no, but I was curious what she would say.  I wasn’t going to ask, just let her set the agenda.

I didn’t knock, after all, it was my place, not hers, though at times it felt like it wasn’t.  If anything was to be learned from this, it was not to be too acquiescent.  Or what I heard someone say, be a pushover.

She was sitting on the kitchen counter, which was an unusual place.  Her bags were by the door, packed and ready to go.  Travelling light for her, and especially for an extended sojourn on the other side of the Atlantic.

There was a difference in her, the scowl gone and a much lighter demeanour.  Almost as if she could finally relax.

“Thank you for coming.  I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.  I still have nine lives.”

“If I had done what I was considering, perhaps you might have spent two.”

Enigmatic and frivolous, a side of her I’d never seen before.  Was she capable of being fun-loving?

I changed the subject.  “You’re leaving.”  It was a statement rather than a question.

“You know I am.  London.  Probably to spend twelve months in the tower before being beheaded.”

“It’s not all bad.  Overseas posting.  Only for those who…”

“Are given a choice between being tossed out on their sorry ass, or promising to stop acting like they did at school.  I can fool most of the people some of the time and those who matter not at all.  I picked you as the one most likely to succeed and attached myself to your wagon.  I’m not proud of what I did, but it was all I knew about how to succeed.”  She shrugged.  “I was wrong, and I apologise.”

“You did what you thought you had to.  Right or wrong, it doesn’t matter.”

I was not sure if this was a tongue-in-cheek apology or something else.  I knew kids at school who used everyone else to get them through, by any and all means.  It took a while to see through her facade.

“Grandma told me you defended me even when you found out what I did.  Why?”

Grandma.  Don’t tell me she was related to Crafty.

“You’re a good worker, focused, except for the methodology.  In companies like this, results matter.”

“If it’s done properly.  Grandma does not like what she calls the ‘by any and all means’.”

“Who is this Grandma?”

“Crafty.  She never comes into the office, never has anything to do with the staff, except you.  She told me that if I were like you, well, you get the drift.  She told me from the beginning to work with you.  With.   I didn’t.   She says I’m lucky I’m going to London because anyone else would be fired.  She said I was a fool to take advantage of someone who clearly likes you, without knowing who you are.”

“Perhaps not as much as earlier in our apprenticeship.  I like you, and got a chance to get to know you…”

“Before you made a mistake?”

“People are who they are.  Now that you’ve told me who you are, it all makes sense.  Not a mistake, just you would have to change, and I wouldn’t ask you to do that.  Relationships that work are where both make compromises to make it work.”

“What if I said I would try?”

“Well, you have a year in London.  Penance, or an opportunity.  It’s up to you.  I might not be worth it.  I’m certainly not in your social circle, and certainly from the wrong side of the tracks.  What would Grandma think?”

“My ass is still sore from where she kicked me.  A year, huh?  You will come and see me?”

“We’ll see.  You could come and see me.”

“I don’t think so.  No allowance, only a salary, and no help finding my way.  I have to survive on my own.  It’s a bit mean, but I get it.  She’s trying to teach me some life lessons.”

She slid off the bench and stood in front of me, then kissed me on the cheek.

“It’s going to be cold and wet in London, isn’t it?”

“You’ll survive.  We all do.  And yes.  I’ll come and see you.  Now you have to go.”

I helped her down to street level and into a taxi.  No limousine for her.  It was the first day of the new and improved Sarah.

Maybe.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

In a word: Port

So, I wonder if it’s true, any port in a storm, except perhaps Marseilles.

Or, if you are a lothario-type sailor, you would have a girl in every port.

Yes, the most common definition of a port is a place where ships dock.

And, while talking of ships we don’t call the sides left and right, we call them port and starboard.  Just in case you didn’t know, port is on the left side of the ship when facing forward.

And of course, ships have portholes, i.e. windows, traditionally round and rather small.

It could be an alcoholic drink, imbibed mostly after dinner with coffee and cigars, though no one seems to smoke cigars anymore.

There is still coffee, for now.  No doubt sometime in the future someone will link it to death and dying, and it will fall out of favour, like sugar, weedkillers and asbestos.

The best port seems to come from Portugal, strange about that.

You can port a program (app in phone speak) from one platform to another, which basically means from Android to Apple IOS, but not without a reasonable amount of work.

It can also be an outlet plug on a computer that accepts cables from other devices (USB) and many years ago, a printer port, and a serial port.

In certain places in the world a port is a child’s schoolbag, a definition I was not aware of until we moved to a different state.

I’m still having a problem with it 30 years on.

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 54

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the Second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

…

When Carlo stopped, I was out of breath and gasping.  We all were.  The smoke was getting more intense.  At times it had made navigation almost impossible.

In front of us were more trees, but these looked different to those we had passed through.  I watched Carlo walk back and forth a few yards each way, then disappear into the bushes.  A minute later he put his head out and said, “This way.”

We followed him.  It was a hidden entrance down to a drain that was quite deep and headed back towards the castle one way and into the forest the other.

If the fire kept up by tomorrow the cover would be gone.

It was still a hard walk through the bushes, but we made it to a wireframe and door with a lock on it.  It looked ancient as if it hadn’t been used in decades, even longer.

Carlo produced a rather odd looking key and unlocked it.  I would have thought it was rusted shut, but appearances were deceptive.  The lock was almost new.

But the gate had not been used for a long time and it took Carlo a few minutes to force it to open.  It had rusted shut.  When it did finally move, it was with a very loud screeching sound.

We filed in and he relocked it.  Anyone thinking they heard something and came to investigate; it would end up on the other side of the gate.

So far so good.

For a moment I was back in my element, the archaeologist exploring caves, a wooden fire torch lighting the way, dampness underfoot, and the trickling of water down the walls.  All around the dankness from continual dampness.

It was easy the pretend if only for a few minutes I had not been caught up in the war, that I was on a quest for lost treasure, hidden away at the end of a labyrinth.

The reality was we were quite literally in an ancient sewer and the original builders of the castle had used an underground waterway to tap into to remove waste.  It was far more effective than modern systems and used the earth’s own ecology.

Inside the castle, the places where the waste used to drop down into the waterway had been covered over by trapdoors that were still there, and that was how we were going to gain access, through rooms that were no longer used.

We were going in via four access points, two men at each door, and mine with one of Blinkys men would be going into the area where the soldiers were camping to mop up whatever the bombs left behind, before closing off an exit.

Carlo had reserved the last one for himself and the boy, where he hoped to find Wallace and the new German commander.

Our cue to move: the bombs going off.

We just had time to get to the point and lower the trapdoors. Then climb up onto the floor and wait by the door.  From the other side, Carlo said, anyone in the castle would only see a continuation of the wall panelling.

We made it with seconds to spare.

We were closest to the bombs and the percussive effect was disorientating for a few seconds before we pushed through the door and into the smoke and dust raised by the explosions.

As the dust settled, we could see dead soldiers, and mess everywhere.  If a soldier was still alive, we shot them, systematically picking our way through the debris.  I counted thirty-one dead by the time we reached the other side, the other exit from the space.

In the distance, we could hear sporadic gunfire coming from other parts of the castle, and then, after taking up our position, near the tank, we waited.

Three soldiers came bursting out of the exit and we shot them too..

Ten minutes later Carlo yelled out, “It’s me, don’t shoot.”  Then he stepped out the door.  “It is done.”

The castle was ours.

“You wish to speak to your old commander before I execute him?

“Wallace?”

He nodded.

“Sure”

I followed him into the castle and walked through familiar passageways and rooms, much had not changed in a long time.

Wallace and the new commander were tied up in the dining room.  The remnants of a meal and several empty bottles of wine were on the table.

Wallace watched me from the doorway until I stood before him.

“I knew it was a mistake letting you go.  Jackerby was convinced you were a stupid fool who would unwittingly lead us directly to the resistance.  I told him you were cleverer than you looked.”

“And yet…”

“Perhaps I was tired of people like you being killed needlessly.  What just happened, that was a waste of human life.”

“I didn’t start the war, and for the record, I didn’t want any part of it.  Unfortunately, higher authorities deemed otherwise, and here I am.  This is not a victory to savour.”

“A victory nonetheless.”

I shrugged.  “It didn’t have to be like this, but at least we’ve weeded out a few more traitors.”

“Then no point asking for mercy?”

“No.”

With that said Carlo executed both men.

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2023

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 18

On a clear day you can see forever.

Perhaps, it just depends on what you want to see.

What I first see, looking at this view, is a horizon that is so far away, I cannot reach it.

Is that the one goal in life that I have?

Or is it time to change that goal and try to reach one that is attainable?

What sacrifice does that entail?

Does it come to pass that you must make sacrifices in order to get what you want?

It’s one of those perennial questions that has an answer, mostly, that no one wants to hear, or wants to be told.

Everything has a price. It’s whether you want to pay for it.

This subject, this situation, is manna from heaven for a writer.

So, for instance…

…

I stood on the edge of the cliff and took in the view, which on any given day could be either magnificent or like being in hell.

Today, while being majestic, it was also like being in hell.

37 days.

I didn’t think I’d last 2.  Yet here I was, having survived the worst that could be thrown at me.

The question was,  did I want to go back, did I want the life that was being offered?

Or was it time to simply walk away?

…

That, of course, is another story, and you’ll have to wait just a little longer to find out.

…

© Charles Heath 2023

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 37

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

…

I had a change of mind before I went on an odyssey to Peaslake. I needed help, and I was going to try and convince Jennifer to help me. If she had been injured, that might be more difficult.

I caught a train and a bus to Putney and then walked the remaining fifty yards to her front door. It was a flat over the top of a shop, and, when I read the name of the shop, I thought I knew why she was there. The shop, and quite likely the building belonged to her family, not that it was her surname, but I could be hopeful.

I went up the side stairs and reached the landing. There were two doors, one with 1A on it, and one with 1B on it. Hers was 1A.

I knocked on the door.

A minute later nothing had happened.

I knocked again, this time a little harder.

There was no answer, again, but there was a movement in the flat next door, then the door opened and a scruffy young man, perhaps a university student put his head out.

“She’s not here.”

“Not here, and in no longer living here, or not here as in she is out somewhere and will be back.”

He looked at me blankly, like I’d spoken too fast, or used too many words for him to understand. Possibly he’d just woken up.

He shook his head. “Just out probably getting coffee or something. The shops on the other side of the road, three or four doors up. Can’t miss it, it smells like coffee.”

He gave me a look up and down, gauging whether or not I could be of interest to her, then went back inside his room and closed the door.

It might be a lie, but I was going to take him at his word.

I went back down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk and looked up and down both sides of the street. There was a café, on the other side, not far away.

I waited for a break in the traffic, then crossed the road.

She was inside, reading a paper, oblivious to those around her, and, in particular, those coming from outside. She should be casually keeping an eye out for trouble.

I managed to get inside and take the seat next to her before she raised her head to see who it was.

No surprise.

“You,” she said. “You made it out alive too?”

“You should be more careful.”

“I was told I was no longer employed, that the people who hired me were ex-agents with some sort of agenda.”

I glanced at the open page of the newspaper. The jobs vacant page.

“Then it might come as a bit of a surprise to realize you’re still on their books, just assigned to a different department. Same as me.”

“They told me I was redundant.”

“Who told you?”

“A woman. Monica Sherive she said her name was.”

“I spoke to her earlier this morning. I didn’t ask, but I will the next time I’m in the office. What do you remember about the assignment?”

“We were supposed to maintain surveillance on a man, no name, just a photograph. I heard you had him in sight and was about to pass him off to Adam. I didn’t hear Adam acknowledge. I heard an explosion and all hell broke loose. No point carrying on, so I left.”

And that was what saved her life. Incorrect procedure. Unless she reported in.

“Did you report to the overseer.”

“Over the radio. He told me to go. What happened to Adam and Jack?”

“Dead. Murdered by the target, I think. The target’s dead too. A chap by the name of O’Connell, though the more I find out about him, the more interesting it gets.”

I could see the cogs ticking over behind her eyes as she put one and one together. “So…”

“You should be dead too. What saved your life was just up and leaving.”

“How did you escape?”

“I didn’t. I found the target again after the explosion and followed him to an alley. When I got there he told me I was making a mistake, and then he was shot. Severin and Maury turned up, and that was it.”

“Did they kill him?”

“No. It was a sniper, and I’m still wondering why I didn’t get shot too.”

“The woman told me Severin and Maury didn’t work for the organization. How could that be? They seemed real to me. I think whatever they and we were doing became a mess that needed to be cleaned up by getting rid of everyone associated with it. I liked that job. Now I have to go back to a daily drudge job.”

“Don’t think so. Like I said, I saw your name listed as active in the same department as me, the head of which is a guy called Nobbin. I’ve met him, I’m supposed to be investigating O’Connell, who, by the way, was one of his people, who had allegedly some documents on him when he died. You feel like helping out?”

“I would, but are you sure I’m supposed to be working for these people, God, I don’t know who they are or what I was doing anymore.”

“We can go to the office and ask questions. Get this Monica and get her to tell you. But in the meantime, I had a job I need to do, and it would be better with two. Can you help?”

“If you come with me to the office?”

“Sure.”

She folded the paper and slid off the seat. “Then, let’s go.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020