Looking for something to suit my mood.
I’ve been reading the headlines and it seems that nothing else is going on except COVID 19, bar a plane crash, and residual fallout from the explosion in Beirut.
All bad news unfortunately, so I need to find something uplifting.
There’s nothing like a walk in the park on a bright sunny day.
Is there?
What could possible happen?
Month: January 2022
An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress
It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t. It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…
She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room. It was quite large and expensively furnished. It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.
Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917. At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.
There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.
She was here to meet with Vladimir.
She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.
All her knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, who life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first tie she met, or even the second.
That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.
It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years. She had been there one, and still hadn’t met all the staff.
They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.
It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords, if this was a fencing match.
They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity. She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.
The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined. After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.
Then, it went quiet for a month. There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited. She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.
A pleasant afternoon ensued.
And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.
By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends. She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy. Normally for a member of her rank it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.
She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful. In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open, and file a report each time she met him.
After that discussion she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit. She also formed the impression the he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.
It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine. She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.
A Russian friend. That’s what she would call him.
And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue. It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.
Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour. It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.
So, it began.
It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.
She wasn’t.
It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms. When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.
Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report. After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.
But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report. She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.
It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen. Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.
And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.
She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room. She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.
Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.
There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit. She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.
Later perhaps, after…
She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.
A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival. It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality. A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.
The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.
She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.
A smile on her face, she opened the door.
It was not Vladimir. It was her worst nightmare.
…
© Charles Heath 2020
The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 18
Here’s the thing…
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
The pier had been moving gently up and down in response to a passing speed boat that had flouted the minimum speed law, like most of the speed boat owners.
On board the boat, the movement was more pronounced, and it was a bad time to remember that I get seasick, even standing on the pier. My stomach was suddenly queasy.
Boggs was standing by the hatch that led down below. It was locked with a big padlock so there was no way we were getting below. Along the side of the boat was a raised section with windows, but there were curtained off, and the material was faded and looked dirty.
Boggs walked along the narrow walkway to the bow and tried the hatch in the middle of the foredeck.
I noticed the boat was tied to the pier fore and aft with some think rope and funny looking knots. I don’t think I’d make a very good sailor. I looked up to the top of the mast and it made me feel dizzy. It was a long way up.
Behind me was an area where people could seat, and further back a large wheel which I assumed was how the boat was steered. I could just see Rico standing behind it, captain’s hat on, looking all business-like.
“There’s nothing to see here,” I said, turning back towards Boggs, who was now coming along the other side of the cabin. One slip and he’d be in the ocean. I looked over the side and it didn’t look very deep. I could even see some small fish swimming near the pylon that was covered below the waterline with seaweed.
Boggs stopped at the last window, then knelt down and peered in.
“What do you see?”
“There’s someone in there?”
“Rico?”
“No. I saw him leave earlier. Someone else.”
“You know who it is?”
“No. Never seen him before. A guy in a suit. Not the sort of person I’d expect Rico to know, or have as a friend.”
“What’s he doing?”
Boggs changed his position to get a better look. “He’s just sitting…oh my God, there’s blood.”
“Where?”
I moved quickly over to where Boggs was crouched. “Give us a look?” Curiosity was overtaking concern.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” Boggs said over and over.
I pulled out my phone and dialled 911. When they asked me who I wanted, I said Police. Then I looked over at the fishing shop and saw Rico and his friends coming back.
“Boggs.”
He ignored me, trying to get a better view.
“Boggs. It’s Rico.”
Then the policeman answered, “What’s the nature of your emergency?”
“Dead man on a boat, Eden’s Landing, Pier 5, a boat called ‘Freedom Runner’. And you’d better hurry.”
“Why?”
“Because the owners coming and he doesn’t look happy.”
Then to Boggs, “We got to get the hell out of here, now.”
But, by that time, there was nowhere to go. Rico had seen us and was all but running to cut off our escape.
© Charles Heath 2019
‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view
I’m not a fan of romance novels but …
There was something about this one that resonated with me.
This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.
I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all gave one time or another.
For the the main characters Harry and Alison there is others issues driving their relationship.
For Alison, it is a loss of self worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.
For Harry it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.
Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.
When it all come to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.
But is it all the truth?
What would we do in similar circumstances?
Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.
And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.
…
Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8
…
In a word: Mark
A teacher will mark a test in order to give the student a mark out of 100. Yes, to mark a test means to ascertain right and wrong answers and score it accordingly, and getting a mark out of 100 could determine a great many different outcomes at school.
Whereas a mark on your clothes could mean you’ve been playing with fire, rolled in the mud or if much older having a salacious affair with an unexplainable lipstick mark on your collar.
A mark is someone that a con man believes will be easily deceived.
A mark is a catch in certain types of football.
You can have an identifying mark on some item of property.
it’s literally the x marks the spot for someone who cannot write, i.e. make your mark
There can be a mark on a rope that indicates the depth of water.
And many, many more…
But not to be confused with marque, which could be the make or model of a particular type of car
Or marc with is the refuse of grapes after being pressed
Motive, means, and opportunity – Motive
I’m working on a novella which may boringly be called “Motive, Means and Opportunity” where I will present a chunk of information from which you if you want to, can become the armchair detective.
Here’s the first part, the so-called Motive
So, here’s the thing…
I said it. Not once, in the heat of the moment, but more than once, to several different people. I wanted James Burgman dead.
Why?
Because I knew he was the man sleeping with my wife, Wendy.
I’d long suspected she was having an affair, you know the signs, not where you expect her to be, making excuses where none were necessary if she was doing what she said she was, and disappearing for hours without an explanation.
And I knew James Burgman was an old boyfriend, a discovery that was made quite by accident. In fact, I followed her one night, not because I was suspicious, but worried for her safety.
That was where I saw her meet him with more than just a friendly handshake.
I had to say it made me feel gutted.
But would I kill him?
It was not worth the problems it would cause me to do so, and, when push came to shove, neither of them were worth it. I knew, even if he was out of the way, she would not stay with me.
That train had left the station about a year ago when our only son had been killed in a senseless road accident.
© Charles Heath 2019-2020
I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 10
Now, that was unexpected…
…
Like everyone who was in that artificially silent environment that was the flight deck of a shuttle, unexpected sounds caused unexpected results.
The Engineer cursed.
The Pilot, Myrtle, hesitated for a moment, as if not quite sure what to do, highlighting the fact she had not been in such a situation before, but quickly recovered, and brought up the incoming object on screen.
Note to self: amend the training program to allow for random objects to come out of nowhere.
We all looked at the object. Myrtle should have been taking us into the freighter, but had got overawed by the not easily identifiable ship approaching.
“Our ship will take care of the problem,” I said. “Take us into the freighter.”
As if surprised that she should be asked to do so, she realised it was not her job to be staring at the screen, and muttered, “Oh, yes,” before resuming our passage.
Another note to self: Proper command structures and language should be used at all times.
A minute or so later we were in the cargo bay and the cargo doors were closing. Once closed and the atmosphere adjusted, the deck would become a hive of activity.
There was still a static picture of the craft on the screen, and it was one I’d seen before, an old vessel that dated back over a hundred years. I’d seen it in a space museum on the moon.
I was tempted to ask the Captain what was happening, but knew that to interrupt would not be worth the reprimand.
The engineer had seen one before too. “You don’t see those craft very often, if at all. Or this far out in space. They only had a limited trave distance, didn’t they?”
“Unless someone had been tinkering.” Several had been built as exploration ships, but the majority were freighters, used to build the outer colonies on the nearest planets.
A new drive would enable it to travel to the outer rim of our galaxy, but not much further if there were no readily available fuel supplies. Those that were available were tightly regulated by space command.
Cargo doors closed, deck pressurised, suddenly the whole deck was alive with people and machinery, our people meeting with the freighter crew and arranging for the cargo for Venus to be loaded. Myrtle was to stay with the shuttle, monitoring the loading.
I went down the ramp and was greeted by the first officer of the freighter, a chap I’d once served with, Jacko Miles. Jacko loved being in space, but no longer interested in the machinations of Space Command. The simple life of a freighter first officer was all he desired.
Except his face, right now, had the visual lines of worry.
“What happened?” We were past the usual introductions, and general bonhomie.
“Stopped, boarded, and a crate removed.”
“What was in the crate?”
“No one is saying, but whatever it was, it must have been important to attack us for it.”
My private communicator vibrated in my pocket. The captain was calling, and didn’t want anyone else listening in.
“Just give me a moment,” I said taking the communicator out of my pocket and answering the call. “Yes sir?”
“We have a problem.”
And in that moment, I had to agree with him. Jacko now had his hands in the air, and behind him were two people with handheld weapons trained on him, and me.
…
© Charles Heath 2021
My disdain for some reporters, and reporting these days
It is sometimes quite trashy and that’s saying something!
Having been a journalist in a previous lifetime, and one that always believed that the truth mattered, it didn’t take long to realize that journalists should never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
Newspapers, and all other forms of media, will only write what they believe will sell, or what they think the public wants to read. The truth, sadly, is not the first thing on the reader’s mind, only that someone is to blame for something they have no control over, and it doesn’t matter who.
And the more outlandish the situation, the more the public will buy into it.
This, I guess, is why we like reading about celebrities and royalty, not for the good they might do, but the fact they stumble and make mistakes, and that somehow makes us feel better about ourselves.
Similarly, if the media can beat up a subject, like the corona-virus, and make it worse than it is, then people will lap up the continuing saga, as it relates to them, and will take one of two stances, that they believe the horror of it, and do as they’re asked, or disbelieve it because nothing can be that bad, and ignore it and the consequences of disobedience. knowing the government will not press too hard against the non-compliers simply because of democracy issues it will stir up.
That is, then the media will get a hold of this angle and push it, and people will start to think disobedience is a good thing, not a bad one.
So, our problems of trying to get a fair and balanced look at what the coronavirus is all about is nigh on impossible. We are continuously bombarded with both right and wrong information, and the trouble is, both sides are very plausibly supported by facts.
And that’s the next problem we have in reporting. We can get facts to prove anything we want. It’s called the use and abuse of statistics and was an interesting part of the journalism degree I studied for. We were told all about statistics, good and bad, and using them to prove the veracity of our piece.
I remember writing a piece for the tutor extolling the virtues of a particular person who was probably the worst human since Vlad the Impaler, using only the facts that suited my narrative. I also remember the bollocking he gave me for doing so but had to acknowledge that sometimes that would happen.
The integrity of reporting only went as far as the editor, and if the editor hated something, you had to hate it too. This is infamously covered in various texts where newspaper publishers pick sides and can influence elections, and governments. It still happens.
So, the bottom line is, when I’m reading an article in the media, I always take it with a grain of salt, and do my own fact-checking, remembering, of course, not just to fact check to prove the bias one way of the other, but then get a sense of balance.
We have state elections coming up where I live, but it does not sink to the personal sniping level as it does in the US, we haven’t sunk that low yet, but we haven’t got past the sniping about all the wrongs and failed promises of the government of the day, or the endless tirade against the opposition and how bad a job they did when they were previously in government.
You can see, no one is talking about what they’re going to do for us, no one is telling us what their policies are. It’s simply schoolyard tit for tat garbage speak. What happened to the town hall meeting, a long and winding speech encompassing the policies, what the government plans to do for its people in the next three years, and then genuinely answering questions?
Perhaps we should ban campaigning, and just get each party to write a book about what they intend to do, and keep them away from the papers, the TV, and any other form of media, in other words, don’t let them speak!
And don’t get me started about the drivel they speak in the parliament. Five-year-olds could do a better job.
OK, rant over.
Inspiration, Maybe – Volume Two
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
Perhaps it was.
© Charles Heath 2020-2021
Coming soon. Find the above story and 49 others like it in:
Searching for Locations: Hong Kong
Sometimes the experiences we have often find their way into stories. This was certainly one of them:
Remarkably, the Peninsula Hotel experience began at the arrival gate.
The moment we stepped out of the air bridge and into the terminal building, a representative of the Hong Kong airport was waiting with a card with our name on it. She was there, with driver and electric car (sometimes called a golf cart) to ease our way through the immigration and baggage formalities.
No walking for us, which was fine by me. It’s a train ride and a long walk from the gate to immigration. And after all the sitting on the airplane, walking was not the first thing I was looking forward to.
The drive took a few minutes, slowed down by many other passengers walking towards the same destination, most wondering why two relatively young people like us (even if we are in our 60’s) were getting a ride.
After clearing immigration, which took very little time, and where there was a very short queue considering the number of arrivals they handle, we were met on the other side by our airport representative, and taken to the baggage carousel.
Another simple process, our bags were almost waiting for us. From there we exited customs, and out representative handed us over to the representative of the hotel. I thought he was the driver.
He took us through to the limousine lounge and directly to our car, a very clean shiny new looking green Rolls Royce, the ultimate in the airport to hotel transportation.
Inside it was immaculate, and astonishing, and very, very comfortable. I could image the Queen riding in the back of one. It took about 30 to 40 minutes, one of the quietest, most smooth rides I’d ever had, and worth every cent we paid for it.
The bucket list now has one less item on it.
The arrival at the hotel was effortlessly handled. We were met by two of the check-in staff and escorted to our room on the fourth floor.
There was just enough time to take in the amazing foyer, front entrance and twin staircases leading to a mezzanine floor, before getting into a waiting elevator and taken to our floor. As an aside, the mirrors in the elevator were like something out of a hall of mirrors, you look into the mirror and see dozens of yourself looking back.
It’s an effect I’ll have to take a photo of.
We have been upgraded, and out room is larger than the one originally allocated. It has a view of the Space Museum, the Veranda Cafe roof, and parts of Hong Kong harbor. It is overcast and raining so it does not matter about the view.
It’s Hong Kong, and that view will change every hour.
Formalities over, we are left standing in stunned silence.
We have arrived.
They say getting there is half the fun.
They’re wrong.
Or at least in the case of the Peninsular Hotel they are.
If just getting to the hotel via the signature Green Rolls Royce is any indication, there had to be a lot more in store.
We booked a room in the ‘old’ hotel and it was categorized as ‘deluxe’. The Peninsula adds a whole new meaning to the word Deluxe. If this was one of their lower priced rooms, then I’d love to see their better rooms.
But the room itself is not the sum of the experience; it is also the aura within the building, the service, which is quiet and unassumingly polite and unobtrusive. You are ushered from the front door, held open by a very elegantly dressed concierge, to your room without so much as a heartbeat.
The details, well, they are mere details that cause no concern, all taken care of before you arrived. We arrived early, before the advertised check-in, and this fazed no one. Room available, tired travelers sigh in relief, knowing a hot shower and several hours sleep would not be possible.
I was more than pleasantly surprised, and exploring the hotel would have to wait.
For a few hours anyway.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 