Month: November 2025

Writing about writing a book – Research – 8

Background material used in researching the Vietnam was and various other aspects of that period

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Professional soldiers versus the conscripts or nashos

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The Digger and the Nasho: A Comparative Analysis of the Experiences of Regular and Conscripted Soldiers in the Australian Army Task Force, Vietnam

Abstract The Australian commitment to the Vietnam War (1962-1973) was uniquely characterised by the deployment of a large contingent of conscripted soldiers, known as “Nashos,” alongside the volunteer regulars of the professional Australian Army. A pervasive national myth suggests that these two groups were seamlessly integrated, sharing identical experiences, burdens, and fates. This paper challenges that homogenised view. Through an analysis of recruitment, training, unit deployment, operational roles, and the psychosocial experience of homecoming, it argues that while regulars and conscripts were indeed tactically integrated and performed with equal distinction, significant differences in pre-deployment conditioning, perceived military purpose, and post-war societal reception created a fundamentally distinct lived experience for each group. The paper concludes that the policy of tactical integration, while militarily sound, could not erase the profound underlying distinctions between the volunteer and the compelled soldier.

Keywords: Vietnam War, Australia, Conscription, National Service, Australian Army, Military History, Civil-Military Relations, Veterans

1. Introduction

Australia’s involvement in the Vietnam War remains one of the most contentious periods in the nation’s modern history. Central to this controversy was the Menzies government’s reintroduction of conscription in 1964 via the National Service Act 1964, which required twenty-year-old males to register for a lottery-style ballot (the “birthday ballot”). Those selected were obligated to undertake two years of continuous service, which included deployment to an overseas theatre of war, specifically Vietnam. Between 1965 and 1972, approximately 63,735 national servicemen were enlisted, of whom 15,381 served in Vietnam, constituting nearly 40% of all Australian troops deployed (Dennis et al., 2008).

The official military narrative, both at the time and in subsequent decades, emphasised the seamless integration of these conscripts, or “Nashos,” into the regular army. They wore the same uniform, trained in the same institutions, and fought alongside career soldiers in the same infantry sections and platoons. This led to a public perception of a monolithic “Digger” experience. However, a deeper historiographical examination reveals a more complex reality. This paper will argue that while the Australian Army Task Force (1ATF) successfully integrated conscripts and regulars at a tactical level for operational effectiveness, the two groups’ experiences were differentiated by fundamental factors: their reasons for being there, their career trajectories, their assignment to specific corps, their psychological framing of the conflict, and their vastly different receptions upon returning home.

2. Methodological Framework and Sources

This analysis employs a comparative historical methodology, drawing upon a range of primary and secondary sources. Primary sources include official government documents, unit war diaries, and personal narratives from veterans of both groups. Secondary sources comprise scholarly military histories, sociological studies on conscription, and psychological analyses of Vietnam veterans. The paper will structure its comparison across several key domains: recruitment and training, unit deployment and corps assignment, combat experience, and post-deployment life.

3. Recruitment and Training: The Volunteer and the Conscript

The initial and most profound difference lay in the state of mind upon entry into the military.

3.1 The Regular Soldier The regular army volunteer enlisted as a career choice. Motivated by factors including family tradition, a desire for adventure, economic opportunity, or a belief in the “Forward Defence” policy and the Domino Theory, the regular made a conscious decision to become a professional soldier (McNeill, 1984). Their training was part of a long-term investment in a military profession. They often had more time to absorb military culture and skills, progressing through a system designed to retain them for years.

3.2 The National Serviceman In stark contrast, the Nasho was compelled. His entry was not a choice but a result of statistical chance. While some accepted their fate with equanimity or even enthusiasm, many others felt resentment, anxiety, or a sense of profound injustice (Edwards, 1997). Their two-year service was a finite interruption to their civilian lives—university, apprenticeships, careers. This created a “tourist” mentality, a focus on surviving their 365-day operational tour and returning to “the World.” Their initial training at Scheyville or Puckapunyal, while intense, was accelerated, designed to produce a combat-ready infantryman in a matter of months, not a long-serving professional.

This divergence in motivation and temporal perspective created an underlying psychological schism. The regular was building a life; the Nasho was serving a sentence.

4. Unit Deployment and Corps Assignment: The Myth of Total Integration

While it is true that once in Vietnam, Nashos and regulars were mixed within units, their pathways to specific roles were not identical.

4.1 The Infantry: A Forced Integration The policy of the Army was to fully integrate national servicemen into regular battalions. A typical rifle company in 6RAR or 7RAR would be a mix of regular and conscripted soldiers. In the field, on patrol, and in contact with the enemy, no distinction was made. Promotion was based on merit and vacancy; many conscripts attained the rank of Corporal or even Sergeant, leading sections or platoons that contained regular soldiers (Coulthard-Clark, 2001). In the crucible of combat, the bond of “mateship” overwhelmingly superseded the distinction between volunteer and conscript. Survival depended on mutual trust and professional competence, not one’s method of enlistment.

4.2 The Corps Divide: Voluntary Skilled Roles However, a significant difference emerged in assignments to certain specialist corps. Technical support roles—in the Royal Australian Engineers (RAE), Royal Australian Signals (RASigs), Royal Australian Army Ordnance Corps (RAAOC), and Royal Australian Electrical and Mechanical Engineers (RAEME)—were overwhelmingly filled by regular soldiers (O’Keefe, 1994). These roles required long-term training and investment, making them unsuitable for a conscript on a two-year stint. A Nasho could not train for 12-18 months to be a signals technician only to have 6 months of useful service.

Conversely, the infantry and armour (tank and APC crews), which required robust numbers and where training could be completed relatively quickly, absorbed the vast majority of conscripts. This meant that while conscripts were fully integrated into the infantry, they were significantly underrepresented in the technical and logistical support corps. Consequently, the dangerous, relentless “grunt” work of patrolling and engaging the enemy in the jungles of Phuoc Tuy province fell disproportionately, though not exclusively, to a force that was 40-50% conscripted.

5. The Combat Experience: Shared Danger, Divergent Perspectives

In the operational area, the experience of danger was a great leveller. A bullet or mine did not discriminate between a volunteer and a conscript. Patrols, ambushes, and major battles like Long Tan (1966) and Coral-Balmoral (1968) were fought by integrated units. The primary identity in combat was that of the section, the platoon, and the battalion.

Yet, the psychological lens through which this experience was filtered differed. For the regular, this was his job, the culmination of his training, and a step in his career. For the Nasho, it was often an alien, terrifying ordeal to be endured until his DEROS (Date Eligible for Return from Overseas). Historian Peter Edwards notes that conscripts frequently expressed a more instrumental view of the war: their goal was not a grand strategic victory but the more immediate objective of keeping themselves and their mates alive until their tour ended (Edwards, 1997). This did not make them less effective soldiers, but it did colour their personal narrative of the conflict.

6. The Homecoming: The Deepening Divide

The most stark and damaging difference between the two groups manifested upon their return to Australia.

6.1 The Regular Soldier For the career soldier, returning to Australia often meant returning to the supportive, insular community of an army base. His professional identity was validated within his institution. He could continue his career, often with another posting, surrounded by colleagues who understood his experience.

6.2 The National Serviceman For the Nasho, the end of his tour meant an immediate and often brutal transition. He was discharged from the army, given a suit, a pay cheque, and sent back to a society that was deeply divided over the war he had just fought. He returned not to a military community but to a civilian one where his experience was either misunderstood or met with outright hostility. He was instructed not to wear his uniform in public to avoid abuse. The societal rejection felt by many Vietnam veterans was, therefore, a burden borne disproportionately by the conscripts, who were thrust back into the civilian world that had rejected the war (Jensen, 2021). They lacked the ongoing institutional support structure of the army, leaving many to process trauma and alienation alone.

7. Conclusion

The Australian Army’s policy of integrating regular soldiers and conscripts in Vietnam was an operational success. At the tactical level, in the infantry battalions that formed the backbone of 1ATF, the distinction between “Nasho” and “Digger” was largely irrelevant to the conduct of military operations. They fought together, bled together, and achieved together with equal valour and professionalism.

However, to claim their experiences were identical is a historical oversimplification. Their journeys were bookended by profound differences. The regular began his journey with a sense of purpose and choice; the conscript began his with compulsion and interruption. While they fought side-by-side, conscripts were funnelled into the direct combat arms in greater proportion, while regulars dominated the technical support roles. Finally, and most significantly, their wars ended in utterly different ways: the regular returned to the embrace of his profession, while the conscript was cast adrift into a fractious and often hostile society.

The experience of the Australian soldier in Vietnam was not monolithic. It was a spectrum defined, above all, by the nature of one’s service. Understanding the nuanced differences between the regular and the conscript is crucial not only for historical accuracy but also for appreciating the complex and enduring legacy of the Vietnam War for Australian veterans and the nation itself. The integration was real in the jungle, but the dichotomy of choice versus chance created two distinct strands of experience within the same formidable military force.

References

  • Coulthard-Clark, C. (2001). The Encyclopaedia of Australia’s Battles. Allen & Unwin.
  • Dennis, P., Grey, J., Morris, E., Prior, R., & Bou, J. (2008). The Oxford Companion to Australian Military History (2nd ed.). Oxford University Press.
  • Edwards, P. (1997). A Nation at War: Australian Politics, Society and Diplomacy during the Vietnam War 1965-1975. Allen & Unwin.
  • Jensen, P. (2021). The Long Return: Australian Vietnam Veterans and their Endless War. NewSouth Publishing.
  • McNeill, I. (1984). The Team: Australian Army Advisers in Vietnam 1962-1972. Australian War Memorial.
  • O’Keefe, B. (1994). Medicine at War: Medical Aspects of Australia’s Involvement in Southeast Asia 1950-1972. Allen & Unwin.

The 2am Rant: A pleasant Sunday morning in suburbia

 

All I wanted was a cup of coffee.

OK, I could have made one, I have a Nespresso machine, purchased after watching an inspiring George Clooney advertisement (well, my wife bought it) but I was after something with a little more oomph!

We have a small shopping centre just up the road about a kilometre and I thought, what’s five minutes and a short drive against a cup of hot, steaming, delicious to the last drop, coffee?

That’s where any semblance of sanity ends.

I walked out the back door and forgot the car keys, so I had to go back in.  The door opens and the cat gets out.  Not so bad you think, but no, after three road kills, the cat getting out is a major catastrophe (pardon the pun).

Ten minutes later, cornered like a rat in a trap, he is back inside, I have the keys, and out in the car.  It’s a hot day, and the air conditioning isn’t working.  Damn.  It’s like 45 degrees Celsius in the car.

This is the time to give up and go back inside.  The omens are telling!

I don’t.

Our driveway is up a slight hill and usually we back the cars up so it’s easier to drive out onto the street.  We live in a corner house, and whilst it is not a busy intersection, it has been known for cars to treat it like the third chicane of a grand prix.  Late at night cars have rolled trying to make that tight corner.

I’m reversing off the driveway, too lazy the previous day to back it up, and you guessed it, Enzo Ferrari’s brother is making heavy weather in the third chicane and takes the corner wide, sliding across to the other side of the street, a) because he’s going too fast, and b) because he just saw me backing out of my driveway.

I’m having a heart attack and waiting for the bang, and he’s rapidly accelerating, smoke pouring from streaming tyres, and engine roaring in first or second as the revs pass 9000 and are redlining.

Disaster averted.  One speed junkie and daredevil happy, one old man shaken to the core.

So far I’ve travelled 10 metres.

On the radio the station is playing the James Bond theme from ‘You Only Live Twice’.

Apt, very apt.

I am now very sedately driving to the shopping centre, the road following a wide curve.  Nothing can go wrong here, until I reach the T intersection.  I stop like I do every time, and look.  No cars from the left, and one opposite me, turning into my street.

I start to turn.  The car opposite decides to do a U Turn, and I slam the foot on the brakes.  The driver of the other car is oblivious to me, happily chatting on her mobile phone.  Didn’t stop, didn’t look, didn’t care.

My heart rate is now 170 over 122, and perhaps I should be clinically dead.

Coffee is the last thing I need.

But I persevere.  How much worse can it get?

The shopping centre is not far, up to the roundabout and a right turn into the shopping centre car part.  Usually there are plenty of parking spots, today there a none.  I drive down one of the lanes, and nearly get hit but a reversing driver.  Again, not looking, or perhaps distracted by four children in the back seat.

Or the very, very loud music coming from the car.

I thought at first it was the pounding of my headache, brought on by high blood pressure.

I back up the car a) top give the driver more room to reverse out, and b) so I could turn into the spot when he vacates it.

More fool me.  The car backs out, another driver swoops in and takes the spot.

I get out to remonstrate, but he’s three feet wide and seven feet tall with a scarred face and tattoos on both arms.  Time to move on.

Yes, there’s nothing like a tall hot steaming cup of coffee on a pleasant Sunday morning.

In hell!

Writing a book in 365 days – 318

Day 318

The use of flashbacks

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The Flashback Dilemma: Craft Tool or Narrative Crutch?

Ah, the flashback. That sudden warp in the narrative, pulling us from the present action into a scene from the past. For some readers, it’s a thrilling unravelling of mystery and character. For others, it’s a jarring interruption, a moment to sigh and wonder if the story will ever get back on track.

So, is the use of flashbacks good writing or bad writing? The short answer, like with most literary devices, is: it depends entirely on how it’s executed.

A flashback, by its very nature, is a pause in the forward momentum of your story. This pause can be a powerful strategic move, deepening the reader’s understanding and enriching the narrative tapestry. Or, it can be a clumsy misstep that derails the plot and tests your reader’s patience.

Let’s break down the difference between a lazily written and a well-constructed flashback.

The Pitfalls of a Lazily Written Flashback

A lazy flashback is often a symptom of one of two things: a writer struggling to convey information, or a writer avoiding present conflict.

  1. The Information Dump: This is perhaps the most common offender. The writer needs to inform the reader about a character’s past, a world detail, or a previous event, but instead of weaving it organically into the current narrative, they simply stop the action and insert a lengthy, undigested chunk of backstory.
    • How it feels to the reader: “Why am I being told this now? Does this really matter? Can we get back to what was happening?” It breaks immersion and feels like exposition masquerading as a scene.
    • Example: A character is about to face a dragon, and suddenly, we get three pages detailing their entire childhood trauma with kittens, completely unrelated to dragons or their immediate fear.
  2. Avoiding Present Conflict: Sometimes a writer introduces a flashback not because it’s crucial to the immediate scene, but because they’re unsure how to resolve or advance the current plot point. It’s a way to hit the “pause” button on a difficult scene.
    • How it feels to the reader: Frustrating. It feels like the story is treading water, or deliberately holding back for no good reason. The tension dissipates.
  3. Lacks a Clear Trigger or Purpose: A lazy flashback often appears out of nowhere, without a clear sensory trigger (a smell, a song, a phrase) or a strong narrative reason tied to the present moment. It just… happens.
  4. Telling, Not Showing: These flashbacks often recount events rather than immersing the reader in them. They summarise, rather than allow the reader to experience the past as if it were happening now.

The Art of a Well-Constructed Flashback

A well-constructed flashback is a precision tool, used sparingly and with surgical intent. It doesn’t halt the story; it deepens it, providing vital context that reshapes the reader’s understanding of the present.

Here’s what makes a flashback effective:

  1. Purpose-Driven and Relevant: Every successful flashback serves a clear, immediate purpose for the current narrative.
    • Context: It provides a crucial piece of information that makes the current events, character motivations, or mystery suddenly click into place.
    • Character Development: It reveals the origins of a character’s present fears, desires, strengths, or flaws, adding layers to their personality. Instead of telling us a character is brave, we see a past event that forged that bravery.
    • Mystery/Suspense: It offers a tantalising clue, a half-remembered moment that hints at a larger secret, building tension and propelling the reader forward to discover more.
    • Dramatic Irony: The reader gains knowledge that the present-day characters don’t have, intensifying the stakes.
  2. Seamless Integration and Clear Transitions: An excellent flashback is often triggered organically. A scent, a sound, a familiar face, a particular phrase – something in the present moment pulls the character (and the reader) back to the past. The transition should be clear, too, whether through distinct paragraph breaks, italics, or a narrative device.
  3. Concise and Focused: Like any good scene, a flashback should only include what’s absolutely necessary. It’s not an excuse for extraneous detail. It’s a snapshot, not a whole album.
  4. Impact on the Present: The most crucial element: a good flashback changes the reader’s perception of the present story. When the flashback ends, the reader should return to the main narrative with new information, a deeper emotional connection, or a shifted perspective that makes the current events more resonant. It should propel the story forward, not bog it down.
  5. Engaging as a Scene: Treat your flashback like any other critical scene. It should have its own mini-arc, vivid details, sensory descriptions, and emotional resonance. It shouldn’t feel like a summary.

Conclusion: A Tool for the Master, Not the Apprentice

Flashbacks are neither inherently good nor bad writing. They are a powerful, but dangerous, narrative device. In the hands of a skilled writer, they can unlock profound understanding, build unbearable tension, and imbue characters with incredible depth. In the hands of a novice, they can be a clunky, confusing obstacle.

Before you insert a flashback, ask yourself:

  • Why now? Why can’t this information be revealed through dialogue, internal thought, or action in the present?
  • What vital purpose does this serve for the current story?
  • Will it clarify or confuse?
  • Will it deepen character or merely delay plot?

If you can answer these questions with conviction, then by all means, employ the flashback. Just ensure it’s a finely crafted key, not a blunt instrument, to unlock the true potential of your story.

What are your thoughts on flashbacks? Do you have a favourite example of a story that uses them masterfully, or one that fumbled the ball? Share your insights in the comments below!

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Athens

Athens: The Road Less Travelled – Your Next Five Unforgettable Discoveries

Athens. The very name conjures images of ancient wonders: the majestic Acropolis, the bustling Plaka, the grandeur of the Parthenon. And rightly so – these iconic sites are breathtaking and essential to any first-time visit. But what if you’ve already stood in awe of the Caryatids, navigated the labyrinthine streets of Plaka, or found yourself yearning for something beyond the well-trodden tourist path?

Athens is a city of layers, a vibrant tapestry where ancient history brushes shoulders with modern grit, bohemian charm, and serene coastal beauty. For the curious traveller eager to dig a little deeper, to uncover the authentic soul of this magnificent metropolis, a wealth of hidden gems awaits.

So, if you’re ready to venture beyond the postcards, here are the next top five things to do or see in Athens, proving that the road less travelled truly leads to unforgettable discoveries:

1. Lose Yourself in Anafiotika: An Island Village in the City

Nestled directly under the shadow of the Acropolis, yet often overlooked, lies Anafiotika. This tiny, picturesque neighbourhood feels like a Cycladic island village magically transplanted to the heart of Athens. Built by craftsmen from the island of Anafi who came to Athens in the 19th century to work on King Otto’s palace, they created homes reminiscent of their homeland.

Why it’s unique: Whitewashed cubic houses, impossibly narrow alleys, vibrant bougainvillea, and sleepy cats create an atmosphere of serene timelessness. It’s an oasis of calm that feels a world away from the city’s hustle and bustle, despite being just steps from the tourist throng.

What to do: Wander aimlessly. Get wonderfully lost. Discover hidden churches, admire the unique architecture, and soak in the tranquil ambience. It’s a photographer’s dream and a perfect spot for quiet contemplation.

Pro Tip: Go early in the morning or late in the afternoon to avoid the crowds and catch the best light. Allow yourself to simply be rather than rushing through.

2. Embrace the Bohemian Heart of Exarchia

For a taste of Athens’ alternative, intellectual, and slightly rebellious spirit, head to Exarchia. This neighbourhood is a vibrant hub of students, artists, and activists, known for its lively squares, independent bookstores, vintage shops, and some of the city’s most striking street art.

Why it’s unique: Exarchia offers a raw, unfiltered view of contemporary Athenian life. It’s a place of passionate debate, political murals, and a strong sense of community. It’s not sanitised for tourists; it’s authentic, edgy, and exhilarating.

What to do: Explore the captivating street art, grab a coffee at one of the bustling cafes on Exarchia Square, browse the unique bookstores (many with English sections), or catch a live music performance in a local bar. The open-air cinema, Cine Vox, is also a summer highlight.

Pro Tip: While generally safe during the day, be aware of your surroundings, especially at night. It’s a place to observe and soak in the atmosphere respectfully, rather than overtly act like a tourist.

3. Savour the Culinary & Cultural Delights of Pangrati

Just a stone’s throw from the Panathenaic Stadium (the site of the first modern Olympic Games), but much less explored by visitors, lies Pangrati. This charming, upscale residential neighbourhood is a true Athenian gem, celebrated for its fantastic food scene, stylish boutiques, and relaxed, local vibe.

Why it’s unique: Pangrati is where Athenians go to eat, drink, and socialise. You’ll find traditional tavernas serving authentic Greek dishes alongside trendy cafes, wine bars, and gourmet restaurants. It’s less about ancient ruins and more about experiencing daily Athenian life.

What to do: Embark on a self-guided food tour, hopping from ouzeri (meze bar) to taverna for delicious local specialities. Visit the Goulandris Museum of Contemporary Art for a dose of modern culture, or simply enjoy a leisurely coffee and watch the world go by in one of its leafy squares.

Pro Tip: Don’t miss the chance to try a koulouri (sesame bread ring) from a street vendor or indulge in a traditional bougatsa (custard-filled pastry) for breakfast.

4. Unwind by the Athenian Riviera & Lake Vouliagmeni

Who knew Athens had a stunning coastline easily accessible from the city centre? Escape the urban heat and discover the Athenian Riviera, a beautiful stretch of coastline dotted with beaches, marinas, and charming seaside towns. A particular highlight is Lake Vouliagmeni.

Why it’s unique: This natural thermal lake, nestled in a breathtaking setting, is a hidden wellness oasis. Its brackish waters are constantly refreshed by both the sea and underground thermal springs, maintaining a year-round temperature of 22-29°C (71-84°F). It’s home to natural fish spa therapies and is rich in minerals.

What to do: Swim in the therapeutic waters of Lake Vouliagmeni, relax on the sunbeds, or enjoy a coffee with a view. Further along the Riviera, explore the chic beaches of Glyfada or enjoy fresh seafood at a coastal taverna.

Pro Tip: Take the tram (T6 from Syntagma Square), which runs along the coast, offering scenic views and easy access to various spots along the Riviera. It’s a fantastic half or full-day escape.

5. Embark on a Street Art Safari in Metaxourgeio & Kerameikos

While Exarchia offers a glimpse, the neighbourhoods of Metaxourgeio and Kerameikos are increasingly becoming an open-air gallery showcasing some of Athens’ most powerful and poignant street art. These areas, once neglected, are undergoing a renaissance, with art playing a significant role in their transformation.

Why it’s unique: Beyond mere graffiti, you’ll discover huge, intricate murals by renowned Greek and international artists that tell stories, provoke thought, and add vibrant colour to the urban landscape. It’s a dynamic, ever-changing exhibition that reflects the pulse of the city.

What to do: Take a guided street art tour (many local companies offer them) to understand the history and meaning behind the pieces, or simply wander with an open mind and a camera. You’ll find works ranging from political commentary to whimsical fantasies. Afterwards, enjoy a drink in one of Metaxourgeio’s trendy bars.

Pro Tip: Don’t just look at the big pieces; pay attention to smaller, intricate stencils and tags that reveal hidden gems around every corner. Keep an eye out for commissioned works as well as more anarchic expressions.

Athens is a city that rewards the curious, the adventurous, and those willing to step a little off the beaten path. While the ancient marvels will always be its cornerstone, these five “next steps” offer a richer, more diverse, and deeply authentic immersion into the heart and soul of this incredible European capital. So, pack your bags, lace up your comfortable shoes, and prepare to discover the Athens you never knew existed!

What hidden gems have you discovered in Athens? Share your favourite “road less travelled” spots in the comments below!

What i learned about writing – Writing stories can be fun

There is more going on in the story front, and just to keep my mind active, or tortured, as the case may be, there are several other stories I’m working on.

In particular, there is the story with the description of what happens after an action-packed start.

Quite a lot. In the third section of the story, after being shot out of the sky, interrogated, flown into northern Nigeria, and then crossing into the Democratic Republic of the Congo to search for two men being held to ransom, our players finally made it home.

Previous attempts to rescue them had failed; this one had to succeed. It’s a matter of dealing with local militias who are tricky to deal with, and then getting out of the country after effecting the rescue.

At times, while writing it, looking at a map and using Google Earth to see what it is like, I felt like I was there looking down the barrel of a gun, and then, in the helter-skelter of getting to the evacuation point, I’m sure my heart rate had lifted considerably, particularly when the battered DC3 was about to be shot at with air to air missiles.

Just imagine this …

A DC-3 versus a very maneuverable helicopter. I was on the edge of my seat.

Next is the surveillance story where nothing is as it seems, which in the espionage business is nothing unusual. Nor is the fact that you cannot trust anyone.

It starts out as a routine surveillance operation until a shop front explodes a moment or two after the target passes it. In the ensuing mayhem, the target reappears, now in fear for his life, and our main character tracks him to an alley where he is murdered before his eyes.

Soon after, the two men whom our main character is working for appear and start asking questions that make our main character think that they had perpetrated a hit on him, and he decides that something is not right.

From there, the deeper he probes, the more interesting the characters and developments. Who was the target? What was he doing that got him killed? What does he have that everyone wants?

I’m about to start on the next phase of this story…

Then there is what I call comic light relief, the writing of stories inspired by photographs I’ve taken. Some, however, have exceeded the 1,000-word limit that I’ve set, only because I want to explore the story more, and some are spread over several stories.

The first book of stories, 1 to 50, is to be published soon. Currently, I’m working on number 148 of the third volume of stories, but number 88 is my favourite so far, simply because it involves a starship.

 

 

“The Things We Do For Love”

Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?

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Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Monte Carlo

Beyond the Boulevard: Monte Carlo’s Hidden Gems and Next Big Adventures

Monte Carlo. The very name conjures images of glittering casinos, sleek sports cars, and the sun-drenched glamour of the French Riviera. And while the iconic Grand Prix circuit and the legendary Casino de Monte-Carlo are undeniably magnificent, the true magic of this principality often lies just a whisper off the beaten path.

For the discerning traveller, the question isn’t if there’s more to Monte Carlo, but what awaits those willing to venture a little further. So, buckle up, because we’re about to unveil the next five must-do and must-see experiences that will redefine your perception of this jewel of the Mediterranean.

1. Dive into the Depths: Exploring the Oceanographic Museum’s Hidden Aquariums

While the Oceanographic Museum is a renowned landmark, many visitors focus on its impressive exhibits and historical significance. However, venture deeper into its labyrinthine halls, and you’ll discover a world teeming with vibrant marine life in its less-publicised, yet equally captivating, aquariums.

Why it’s a must-do: Imagine coming face-to-face with a mesmerising array of Mediterranean species, from schools of shimmering sardines to the majestic presence of groupers, all housed within a building perched dramatically on the cliff face. It’s an intimate encounter with the underwater world, offering a tranquil escape from the bustling streets above. Seek out the specialised tanks showcasing the fascinating biodiversity of the local waters – it’s a surprisingly serene and educational experience.

2. Ascend to Serenity: A Hike to the Jardin S an Martin and its Panoramic Vistas

Most tourists flock to the Prince’s Palace for the Changing of the Guard, but a short, pleasant stroll away lies the serene Jardin Saint-Martin. This beautifully landscaped park, perched on the very edge of the Rock, offers not just respite, but breathtaking, unobstructed panoramas that often get overlooked.

Why it’s a must-do: Forget the crowded viewpoints. Here, you can wander amongst fragrant pine trees and vibrant bougainvillea, finding your own quiet bench to soak in the sweeping vistas of the harbor, the superyachts, and the distant coastline. The juxtaposition of the meticulously manicured gardens against the wild beauty of the sea is a photographer’s dream and a soul soother’s paradise. It’s the perfect spot for a leisurely picnic or simply to contemplate the grandeur of the Riviera.

3. Uncover Artistic Treasures: The Nouveau Musée National de Monaco (NMNM) in Villa Paloma and Villa Sauber

Beyond the glitz and glamour, Monte Carlo boasts a thriving contemporary art scene, often tucked away in elegant historical settings. The Nouveau Musée National de Monaco (NMNM) is comprised of two distinct villas, each offering a unique artistic experience that transcends the typical museum visit.

Why it’s a must-do: Villa Paloma, with its stunning contemporary architecture and sculpture garden, often hosts groundbreaking exhibitions by international artists. Villa Sauber, a Belle Époque townhouse, offers a more intimate setting for exploring historical collections, temporary exhibitions, and often features engaging multimedia displays. Exploring these two gems provides a deeper understanding of Monaco’s cultural fabric, showcasing a dynamic and evolving artistic identity that might surprise you.

4. Savor Local Flavors: A Culinary Journey Through the Condamine Market

While Michelin-starred restaurants are plentiful, for a true taste of Monaco’s everyday life and authentic flavours, head to the vibrant Condamine Market (Marché de la Condamine). This bustling open-air and covered market is a sensory delight, offering a glimpse into the local culinary scene.

Why it’s a must-do: Forget tourist traps; here you’ll find fresh produce, local delicacies, and a genuine community atmosphere. Sample Socca (a delicious chickpea pancake), indulge in freshly baked Fougasse, or simply grab a coffee and people-watch as locals shop for their daily ingredients. It’s an opportunity to connect with the heart of Monaco, to taste its heritage, and to discover culinary gems that are far from the tourist trail.

5. Embrace the Outdoors: A Coastal Ramble to the Exotic Garden’s Secret Trails

The Jardin Exotique is famous for its breathtaking collection of succulents and its stunning views. However, many visitors stick to the main paths. Those willing to explore a little further will discover a network of less-trafficked trails that lead to hidden grottos and offer even more secluded viewpoints.

Why it’s a must-do: Beyond the cacti and the impressive cave dwelling, these winding paths lead you through a microclimate of unique flora, offering moments of quiet contemplation amidst nature’s artistry. Discover hidden nooks with unparalleled views of the bay, and feel a sense of discovery as you navigate these less-worn routes. It’s an opportunity to experience the natural beauty of the region away from the crowds, breathing in the fragrant air and enjoying a more intimate connection with the landscape.

Monte Carlo is a destination that rewards curiosity. By venturing beyond the iconic landmarks and embracing these less-travelled paths, you’ll unlock a richer, more authentic, and ultimately, more unforgettable experience. So, pack your sense of adventure and get ready to discover a whole new side of this legendary principality.

What are your favourite “off the beaten path” spots in Monte Carlo? Share your hidden gems in the comments below!

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

Writing a book in 365 days – 318

Day 318

The use of flashbacks

…

The Flashback Dilemma: Craft Tool or Narrative Crutch?

Ah, the flashback. That sudden warp in the narrative, pulling us from the present action into a scene from the past. For some readers, it’s a thrilling unravelling of mystery and character. For others, it’s a jarring interruption, a moment to sigh and wonder if the story will ever get back on track.

So, is the use of flashbacks good writing or bad writing? The short answer, like with most literary devices, is: it depends entirely on how it’s executed.

A flashback, by its very nature, is a pause in the forward momentum of your story. This pause can be a powerful strategic move, deepening the reader’s understanding and enriching the narrative tapestry. Or, it can be a clumsy misstep that derails the plot and tests your reader’s patience.

Let’s break down the difference between a lazily written and a well-constructed flashback.

The Pitfalls of a Lazily Written Flashback

A lazy flashback is often a symptom of one of two things: a writer struggling to convey information, or a writer avoiding present conflict.

  1. The Information Dump: This is perhaps the most common offender. The writer needs to inform the reader about a character’s past, a world detail, or a previous event, but instead of weaving it organically into the current narrative, they simply stop the action and insert a lengthy, undigested chunk of backstory.
    • How it feels to the reader: “Why am I being told this now? Does this really matter? Can we get back to what was happening?” It breaks immersion and feels like exposition masquerading as a scene.
    • Example: A character is about to face a dragon, and suddenly, we get three pages detailing their entire childhood trauma with kittens, completely unrelated to dragons or their immediate fear.
  2. Avoiding Present Conflict: Sometimes a writer introduces a flashback not because it’s crucial to the immediate scene, but because they’re unsure how to resolve or advance the current plot point. It’s a way to hit the “pause” button on a difficult scene.
    • How it feels to the reader: Frustrating. It feels like the story is treading water, or deliberately holding back for no good reason. The tension dissipates.
  3. Lacks a Clear Trigger or Purpose: A lazy flashback often appears out of nowhere, without a clear sensory trigger (a smell, a song, a phrase) or a strong narrative reason tied to the present moment. It just… happens.
  4. Telling, Not Showing: These flashbacks often recount events rather than immersing the reader in them. They summarise, rather than allow the reader to experience the past as if it were happening now.

The Art of a Well-Constructed Flashback

A well-constructed flashback is a precision tool, used sparingly and with surgical intent. It doesn’t halt the story; it deepens it, providing vital context that reshapes the reader’s understanding of the present.

Here’s what makes a flashback effective:

  1. Purpose-Driven and Relevant: Every successful flashback serves a clear, immediate purpose for the current narrative.
    • Context: It provides a crucial piece of information that makes the current events, character motivations, or mystery suddenly click into place.
    • Character Development: It reveals the origins of a character’s present fears, desires, strengths, or flaws, adding layers to their personality. Instead of telling us a character is brave, we see a past event that forged that bravery.
    • Mystery/Suspense: It offers a tantalising clue, a half-remembered moment that hints at a larger secret, building tension and propelling the reader forward to discover more.
    • Dramatic Irony: The reader gains knowledge that the present-day characters don’t have, intensifying the stakes.
  2. Seamless Integration and Clear Transitions: An excellent flashback is often triggered organically. A scent, a sound, a familiar face, a particular phrase – something in the present moment pulls the character (and the reader) back to the past. The transition should be clear, too, whether through distinct paragraph breaks, italics, or a narrative device.
  3. Concise and Focused: Like any good scene, a flashback should only include what’s absolutely necessary. It’s not an excuse for extraneous detail. It’s a snapshot, not a whole album.
  4. Impact on the Present: The most crucial element: a good flashback changes the reader’s perception of the present story. When the flashback ends, the reader should return to the main narrative with new information, a deeper emotional connection, or a shifted perspective that makes the current events more resonant. It should propel the story forward, not bog it down.
  5. Engaging as a Scene: Treat your flashback like any other critical scene. It should have its own mini-arc, vivid details, sensory descriptions, and emotional resonance. It shouldn’t feel like a summary.

Conclusion: A Tool for the Master, Not the Apprentice

Flashbacks are neither inherently good nor bad writing. They are a powerful, but dangerous, narrative device. In the hands of a skilled writer, they can unlock profound understanding, build unbearable tension, and imbue characters with incredible depth. In the hands of a novice, they can be a clunky, confusing obstacle.

Before you insert a flashback, ask yourself:

  • Why now? Why can’t this information be revealed through dialogue, internal thought, or action in the present?
  • What vital purpose does this serve for the current story?
  • Will it clarify or confuse?
  • Will it deepen character or merely delay plot?

If you can answer these questions with conviction, then by all means, employ the flashback. Just ensure it’s a finely crafted key, not a blunt instrument, to unlock the true potential of your story.

What are your thoughts on flashbacks? Do you have a favourite example of a story that uses them masterfully, or one that fumbled the ball? Share your insights in the comments below!

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense.  Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan.  He was about six or seven.  The girl was Louise, and she was five years old.  She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds.  I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell.  Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children.  They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand.  She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it.  The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants.  It was enough to have them arrested.  It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die.  It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing.  I had murder in mind.  It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows.  It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out.  I knew he eventually would.  The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go.  I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me.  He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes.  He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours.  I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.”  An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe.  It had blood on it.  Willy’s blood.  “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up.  He sang like a bird.  That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me.  Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.”  Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie.  He didn’t.  I’m coming for you.  All of you Bannisters.  And everyone who touched my sister.”

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries.  Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late.  If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood.  The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told.  He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy.  There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone.  It was a half mile walk, through a park.  The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness.  He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names.  At first, when he saw me, he laughed.  He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list.  I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi.  The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me.  I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality.  The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face.  He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out.  He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged.  I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me.  I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital.  He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come.  Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters.  His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful.  Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered.  A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub.  We got along like old friends.  He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges.  We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared.  I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me.  He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes.  I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it.  He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report.  They all had a turn.  He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats.  Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities.  She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me.  I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily.  The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family.  I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony.  I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes.  This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily.  He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm.  Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie.  My friend.”

Then she shot him.  Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

Now I was in jail.  I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession.  Without my sister, my life was nothing.  I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors.  I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone.  They ignored me.  I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that.  You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good.  I told him to go away.

He didn’t.  Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table.  The prison officers thought I was dangerous.  Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that.  McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.”  Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister.  By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same.  No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right.  But you’re different, Alan.  As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen.  We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him.  It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible.  People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot.  I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life.  Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward.  A team.  On the plane early before the rest of the crew.  A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless.  Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides.  It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision.  If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness.  Not that day.  Not any day.

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag.  They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her.  It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she?  No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it.  After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks.  Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away.  He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground.  I looked at his two friends.  “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk.  She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were.  The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her.  “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me.  She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state.  Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.”  I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care.  Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person.  If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.”  I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again.  “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder.  We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one.  Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk.  What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet.  “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

The wedding was in a small church.  We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot.  Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age.  She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look.  “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said.  It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte.  It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me.  “I like you.  Take care of my granddaughter.  You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us.  Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother.  She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends.  For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother.  It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close.  I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness.  We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head.  It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction.  “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother.  Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?”  I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong.  She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life.  I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled.  It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye.  Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

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