Month: June 2025

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 45

A photograph of a plane sitting on the tarmac is hardly the stuff of inspiration, is it?

Or could it be?

So, firstly, it looks like it’s at a regional airport, it’s a relatively small plane, and it’s a bleak sort of day. To qualify all that, it’s at Hobart, Tasmania, a capital city of one of the southern Australian states, but not a large one, so the airport doesn’t have airbridge gates, you still get that walk-out-to-the-plane feeling.

Not fun when it’s raining.

The aeroplane is a Boeing 717, so not very large, and the photograph was taken in June, the first month of winter.

In thriller style, to escape the mainland and try to hide out, if you’re trying to hide, coming to Tasmania might just be the ticket. Or not, if you are somewhat ostentatious.

Hobart, to a certain extent, isn’t much larger than a country town on the mainland, so to hide in plain sight might be more difficult than it seems.

If, on the other hand, you;re looking for a complete change of scenery…

Then there’s the possibility of disappearing deeper into the southern mists, getting a job as a scientist on Antarctica (or maybe something else) and leave Hobart on one of the regular ships leaving there.

In thriller speak, our protagonist could swap places with a real candidate, and head south to definitely hide away, or even for some other more sinister reason.

This was possibly the plot line of an Alistair McLean story, Ice Station Zebra, only it was the north pole.

Writing a book in 365 days – 151/152

Days 151 and 152

My story so far…

..

The notion that I would be writing a book throughout this writing calendar seems at odds with the way I have approached writing books in the past.

About eight years ago, I started working on the writing of books using the NaNoWriMo method. That method, of course, does not demand that you write a book in the 30 days that make up November. What it asks you to do is try to write 50,000 words, which would make a reasonable-sized book.

To ‘win’ the prize, which is simply a certificate, all you have to do is write an average 1,667 words a day.

Not all that hard really.

Or is it more difficult than it seems?

When you are put under pressure, and have to find a plot, characters, twists and turns, and write that many words, it can finish up turning you into a mental wreck. What happens if you get ill, are called away for work, or experience some other calamity?

Despite what might or might not happen, over the past 12 years, I have managed to write 8 books, of between 50,500 words and 65,000 words. Since I’m one of those who fly by the seat of their pants, it suits me. For planners and prognosticators, you would need a couple of months before November to plan.

Writing this story, now with the working title of “A score to settle”, I’m taking the long road, thinking more about what I write, and not necessarily writing every day.

As with most of my novels, they start as a short story, which turns into a long short story, and then a novel, if the ideas keep coming.

This one, the protagonist, Alan, has been through a version of hell and comes out the other side in a hot tugid room in a seaside resort town in a pseudo-dictatorship country, run by an ever-cheerful president who is the face of the so-called benevolent ruling elite.

Behind the smiles and platitudes is the real leader, a general who runs the military and the secret police. It is a country where human rights abuses are suspected, but as with any propped-up government, people who matter tend to look the other way.

Introduce into this, the parameters for the story –

  • A human rights conference, which is at odds with the perception of the country’s objectives
  • A population that is beginning to stir, not openly revolt, but it is a work in progress
  • A missing face of the last coup d’état, who disappeared shortly after the military took over
  • The imminent return of the son of the missing leader to become the face of the next coup
  • Circumstances that will work against the ruling elite making a coup possible

It’s not our protagonist’s problem; he is just there to ensure that the keynote speaker is protected, supposedly without them knowing he is there.

On a normal, routine-of-the-mill operation, it would be at best a five-day holiday in paradise.

And that’s where the fun starts…

It’s one of those situations, that time of life, after being at the edge, on the edge, and over the edge, that our protagonist wakes up and realises that his life is no life, that he had achieved nothing but fuel nightmares with the faces of those who had died, both friend and enemy over the years.

Not a time to start speculating on what might have been when he is about to step into the breech.

Then, of course, everything changes. An assistant arrives because he believes his boss had lost faith in him, the target changes from a man to a woman, one he had to mind five years before, in a mission that went sideways. He had to contend with a police chief who suddenly takes more than a passing interest in him, and discovers the whole country is a powder keg about to blow up in his face.

And that’s just after he accidentally meets a free spirit, the ubiquitous woman in white who, in a few short questions, can see into his very soul and question everything about himself.

Perhaps the near-death experience had primed him for such an event.

The worst thing about it, where he should have enjoyed that introspective time with her, his suspicious mind treats her, and everyone around him with suspicion and alarm, as he had been trained, and it’s perhaps the most soul-destroying truth.

He can never have a relationship or friendship, or anything, while he is doing his job.

And it’s day one of the operation.

But first things first … running in the background is another plot, fuelled by the anger of one man, hell bent on destroying the organisation he works for, and particularly its leader.

Not only will the perceived enemy of his target be looking for him too, but quite literally, his own people will be trying to assassinate him for the second time.

I have to say – this is a fun story to write.

Searching for locations – Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia – 2

No, there was no fish and chips on the menu today.

In fact, we did not venture far from the apartment. The only foray outside was to find a cafe and get a decent cup of coffee and breakfast if they had a reasonable breakfast menu.

We found a quaint cafe, which appeared to be an old house converted, with tables inside and out. That aged factor gave the place atmosphere, and it seemed a lot of people agreed; there were few tables free, and it was very busy.

Like most places these days, they have QR codes on the table that allow you to get the menu us on your phone, opening up a wide selection of fare.

Since we were there for breakfast and I like bacon and eggs, I ordered a bacon and egg burger (naturally) and a flat white coffee (my usual).

The coffee was perfect, but the bacon and egg burger? Well, it would have been great if they’d dialled down the tomato relish. I’m still trying to work out why gourmet burgers have to be ruined by lashings if very sharp relish.

Needless to say, tomorrow I will be getting it without the relish. It was fine other than that.

The walk was our morning exercise, and it bothers me that as we are getting older and our mobility issues worsening, the distance was almost a challenge. For people who find going to the supermarket difficult, it’s the idea of going out that makes us think twice about going away.

Because isn’t going away all about discovering new places and visiting the sights, all of which requires, you guessed it, walking.

This walk was slow but pleasant in the morning sun. In Queensland, this is the best time of the year where the temperatures are between 21 and 25, the skies are blue, and the days are almost idyllic. It is that period before the heat and humidity come and stay for 5 months.

That same walk in two months would be physically debilitating.

It’s for this reason we now select places to go where we don’t have to walk far or do much walking at all, just be able to sit and watch the world go by.

Or, in this case, the many different people who go out for a walk during the day, and when tired of that, watch the tide come in or go out.

It might be for some people a waste of time being in a place that certainly would merit a lot more exploring, we’ve been here and done that, and much prefer, these days, to watch the world go by.

And these apartments are just the place to do that!

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 48

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 installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

—

Here’s the thing. Should I tell Boggs about the Ormiston’s?

Should I tell him that there was more than one lake?

Should I wait until I’d looked at the information that had been stored away? From the way Gwen was talking, no one had looked at Ormiston’s papers since the day they were deposited in the library, except perhaps Gwen herself.

And it helped that Gwen would not give any meaningful assistance to Alex Benderby or any of his cohorts. It seemed all she had given them was the briefest outline of the Ormiston story. She obviously didn’t mention that Ormiston had left anything behind.

Two tasks that I added to a list were, firstly, to start looking at old newspaper archives in the area for anything on Ormiston’s fruitless searches for the treasure, and find out, if possible, whether he works with a map of any sort. Nadia had mentioned the possibility of the pirate captain keeping a journal. Had he seen it, even owned it one time?

There was also the impression that Boggs’ father was not the only one involved with searching for the treasure. He had a map and it looked quite old. Was it possible it had been handed down from father to son, and just to take it a little further, had Ormiston and Boggs’ grandfather been rivals or cohorts? Indeed, a question for Boggs when I saw him.

Secondly, I would have to go around the various churches in the county and see what I could find about Ormiston’s relations. I would not be the only one, Alex would have people out there now doing just that. Whilst that information would be available at the County’s capital, but I knew from experience when I was looking into my own family’s history, getting information out of them was costly and time-consuming.

That was for my own family. Looking for someone else would, no doubt, be might in impossible, considering privacy regulations. There was more chance of gleaning information from tombstones in church graveyards the getting it from the local government.

It was a thought consuming exercise, considering everything after just a short talk with Gwen, and, about to cross a road to retrieve my bicycle, two things happened. The first, I was nearly run over and had only a blaring horn scaring me half to death as a timely warning, and second, the chance sighting of what looked like a man following me. He thought he’d managed to duck out of the way quick enough, but he hadn’t. It was the red check shirt that gave him away. Perhaps if he had been dressed more conservatively, I might have missed him.

I should have remembered that Alex wanted both me and Boggs followed.

Now he would know I went to the library, and if anyone asked, I hoped Gwen would not give away what we had been talking about.

It brought up another moment, one that sent a shudder through me. Had he seen me come and go to Nadia? I hadn’t seen anyone, and I was careful in both coming and going.

Now I would have to be even more careful.

As I checked before crossing the road towards the bicycle rack, I saw the man again, not exactly trying to hide the fact he was following me. At least I now had an advantage.

I delayed the arrival home until I knew my mother would have left for work. I’d worry about explaining myself to her later.

Boggs was waiting for me, sitting on the front steps to the house, absorbed by a new game on his phone. He looked up as I dropped my bike on the ground. I’d need it soon to go to work, and it was easier just to leave it outside the front door.

He had as combative look on his face, the sort he wore when things weren’t going his way. I was not sure if there was anything more I could have done for him. For a few years now, I had tried to be the best friend I could, and in the circumstances, I tried to be there for him. It was not as if I didn’t share his situation also being without a father, but the way in which we lost him was not the same as Boggs.

Perhaps in the last few days, or weeks, I’d changed a little, getting a job, whereas Boggs had no interest in doing so, and interacting with more and different people. Even just being with Nadia, even though it was a very bad idea, made a difference.

It was time that Boggs grew up and started taking some responsibility. It was just a case of I not wanting to be the one to tell him. So, in the meantime, I would just have to tolerate his attitude.

“What was more important than going to check on the other river.”

He decided to tackle me head-on. The truth is I forgot we were supposed to be going there this morning. It would not have happened if I hadn’t stayed with Nadia, but I wasn’t going to be able to use her as an excuse.

I decided to be nice and deflect his implied criticism. “Hello, and how are you?”

“Yada, yada. Now that you have a job, we have only a few hours every day to get stuff done. I could do this on my own, but I thought you would like to be included. In fact, you said that you needed something to liven up what was a very dull existence.”

I had, but that was before I got the job.

“Maybe you should try and get a job too. I’m sure that the treasure is not likely to be going anywhere.”

“You can’t be sure that Benderby or the Cossatino’s are not hot on the trail right now. Unless you saw something last night to the contrary.”

I was hoping he wouldn’t bring that up. No such luck. “Alex is going around in circles, and I’m not sure what the Cossatino’s think because they originally came up with the idea of selling fake maps which means they have no real idea where it is, a fact you told me.”

“Be that as it may for the Cossatino’s, but Alex is no fool.”

“Alex is a fool, Boggs. He was a fool as school, and just little more than a thug in a suit now. And like the people he hangs out with, and like Vince, if you look closely, they all lack the acumen of their fathers, and they are not necessarily running point for their families, I suspect neither Alex nor Vince had told their respective fathers of what they’re up to.”

That mollified him a little, but he was still looking combative.

“We still should be concentrating our efforts.”

“Well in that respect I have been doing some digging. What do you know about a man called Ormiston?”

It was like the sun just went behind a cloud.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

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Searching for locations – Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia – 1

I’m not going to spark a debate over what a holiday is and what isn’t, but …

We received an invitation to stay for a few days with my brother-in-law down at a coastal resort city, what is known as the Gold Coast, not far from where we live in Brisbane, about 70km north.

Not far, but some say far enough.

We come down every now and then, but before Covid, and before I retired into a more modest lifestyle, we used to stay once a month at the Gold Coast Hilton, dine at the restaurant and get luxurious massages at Eforia.

That was 2015, and this is 2023.

We are staying in a two-bedroom apartment right on the water, and it could not be better than that. Right now, I’m looking out the windows at what could only be described as an idyllic sunrise breaking over a relatively calm ocean, with the sound of waves continuously breaking on a pristine beach.

It’s just after 7 in the morning, and there are a lot of hardy souls taking their morning constitutional, some with exuberant dogs frolicking as they do at the waterline.

I’m not one of them. The thought of tackling the three fights of steps to get from the apartment to the ground floor is not so daunting going down. It is the going back up that’s the killer.

I did that trip six times yesterday moving stuff from the car to the room. By the sixth, I was done. The rest of that afternoon was watching the rain come in from the sea and towards the late afternoon, a rainbow that came with it, practically ending right on the beach in front of us.

No pot of gold, though.

The difference between staying in a hotel room and in a fully functional apartment is the fact you can cook your own food.

Whilst the nightly rate is basically the same for the room, not having to dine our every lunch and dinner can save a fortune.

The added benefit is that if you are doing this in another country, you can spend some very interesting hours in their supermarkets, or just markets looking at the different types of food they have.

We have done this in England, Italy, France, and China, to name a few. By far, the most fascinating was China. We couldn’t read the labels, so it was guess what’s in the packet.

Or not!

Of course, when on holiday, a must-do is to see the sights. After all, you don’t go on a holiday just to sit in the room…

…or on the balcony watching the waves roll in, or watch the clouds go by.

Given that neither of us is very mobile, it’s usually exactly what we do, but being with others, we will be doing some other activities.

Besides I’m one of those people who like to have a food theme whilst away, like the quest for the best meat pie, a quest for the best friend battered fish, or the best-fried potato chip.

Since we are by the sea, there will be a fish and chips moment, and though in this world of convenience, even fish and chip shops get their food in plastic bags, there are still some who batter their own fish and cut and cook their own chips.

The delight will be to find one and then savour every mouthful.

I’ll let you know if I find one.

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

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McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

Writing a book in 365 days – 151/152

Days 151 and 152

My story so far…

..

The notion that I would be writing a book throughout this writing calendar seems at odds with the way I have approached writing books in the past.

About eight years ago, I started working on the writing of books using the NaNoWriMo method. That method, of course, does not demand that you write a book in the 30 days that make up November. What it asks you to do is try to write 50,000 words, which would make a reasonable-sized book.

To ‘win’ the prize, which is simply a certificate, all you have to do is write an average 1,667 words a day.

Not all that hard really.

Or is it more difficult than it seems?

When you are put under pressure, and have to find a plot, characters, twists and turns, and write that many words, it can finish up turning you into a mental wreck. What happens if you get ill, are called away for work, or experience some other calamity?

Despite what might or might not happen, over the past 12 years, I have managed to write 8 books, of between 50,500 words and 65,000 words. Since I’m one of those who fly by the seat of their pants, it suits me. For planners and prognosticators, you would need a couple of months before November to plan.

Writing this story, now with the working title of “A score to settle”, I’m taking the long road, thinking more about what I write, and not necessarily writing every day.

As with most of my novels, they start as a short story, which turns into a long short story, and then a novel, if the ideas keep coming.

This one, the protagonist, Alan, has been through a version of hell and comes out the other side in a hot tugid room in a seaside resort town in a pseudo-dictatorship country, run by an ever-cheerful president who is the face of the so-called benevolent ruling elite.

Behind the smiles and platitudes is the real leader, a general who runs the military and the secret police. It is a country where human rights abuses are suspected, but as with any propped-up government, people who matter tend to look the other way.

Introduce into this, the parameters for the story –

  • A human rights conference, which is at odds with the perception of the country’s objectives
  • A population that is beginning to stir, not openly revolt, but it is a work in progress
  • A missing face of the last coup d’état, who disappeared shortly after the military took over
  • The imminent return of the son of the missing leader to become the face of the next coup
  • Circumstances that will work against the ruling elite making a coup possible

It’s not our protagonist’s problem; he is just there to ensure that the keynote speaker is protected, supposedly without them knowing he is there.

On a normal, routine-of-the-mill operation, it would be at best a five-day holiday in paradise.

And that’s where the fun starts…

It’s one of those situations, that time of life, after being at the edge, on the edge, and over the edge, that our protagonist wakes up and realises that his life is no life, that he had achieved nothing but fuel nightmares with the faces of those who had died, both friend and enemy over the years.

Not a time to start speculating on what might have been when he is about to step into the breech.

Then, of course, everything changes. An assistant arrives because he believes his boss had lost faith in him, the target changes from a man to a woman, one he had to mind five years before, in a mission that went sideways. He had to contend with a police chief who suddenly takes more than a passing interest in him, and discovers the whole country is a powder keg about to blow up in his face.

And that’s just after he accidentally meets a free spirit, the ubiquitous woman in white who, in a few short questions, can see into his very soul and question everything about himself.

Perhaps the near-death experience had primed him for such an event.

The worst thing about it, where he should have enjoyed that introspective time with her, his suspicious mind treats her, and everyone around him with suspicion and alarm, as he had been trained, and it’s perhaps the most soul-destroying truth.

He can never have a relationship or friendship, or anything, while he is doing his job.

And it’s day one of the operation.

But first things first … running in the background is another plot, fuelled by the anger of one man, hell bent on destroying the organisation he works for, and particularly its leader.

Not only will the perceived enemy of his target be looking for him too, but quite literally, his own people will be trying to assassinate him for the second time.

I have to say – this is a fun story to write.

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

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:

In a word: Anonymous

Which is how I feel sometimes.

It can be a paradox in that an ordinary man may strive to be recognised, that is, to rise above his inherent anonymity simply because he feels he has something more to offer mankind than just making up the numbers.

But sadly, that desire will often be met with staunch resistance, not because there’s an active campaign against him, it’s just the way of the world.

The fact is, most of us will always be anonymous to the rest of the world, but in being so in that respect it’s that anonymity we can live with.  However, it’s far more significant if we become anonymous to those around us.  And, sadly, it can happen.

It’s when we take someone for granted.

At the other end of the scale, there is the celebrity, who has finally found fame, discovers that fame is not all it’s cracked up to be.  You find that meteoric rise from obscurity an adrenaline rush, and you’re no longer anonymous.

But all that changes when you are constantly bailed up in the street by well-meaning but annoying fans when you are being chased by the paparazzi and magazine reporters who thrive not on the fact that you are famous but watching and waiting for you to stumble.

Some often forget that there’s always a camera on them, or there’s a reporter lurking in the shadows, looking for the next scoop, capturing that awkward inexplicable moment when the celebrity is seen with someone who’s not their spouse, or worse, if it could be that, they get drunk and make a fool of themselves.

Do I really want to lose that anonymity that I have?

Not really.  It seems to me like it might be the lesser of two evils.