Month: June 2026

In a word: Steal

You know how it goes, somebody breaks into your house, and they steal the family jewels, which means they’ve taken something that’s not theirs.

Baseballers will be well familiar with the term steal a base because that sneaky second base runner is trying to get to third, before the pitcher fires in a curveball.

But then there’s that same thief trying to rob you, who is stealing his way downstairs.

You come across a bargain, that is, the seller doesn’t quite know what they’ve got and assumes it’s junk, that’s a steal.

On stage, one actor can steal the limelight from another.  If a film, an actor with a lesser part, can, if they’re good enough, steal the scene.

And if you’re lucky enough, you might steal a kiss, or just get slapped.

Then there’s the government, using a certain event to change the laws, and it might just steal your liberty.

This is not to be confused with the word steel, which means something else entirely, like a very malleable metal that’s low in carbon.

Or like most of our heroes, they have nerves of steel, or if they are like us, they need to steel themselves with a suitable fortification, rum is my choice.

But for me, I like the phrase, he had a steely look on his face, and it was hard to tell if that was good or bad.

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

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

The blurb:

Is she or isn’t she? That is the question!

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

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remain.

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

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

…

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon

 

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

…

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 139

Day 139 – Writing Exercise

The hall was the quietest it had been while the king was still alive.

…

There had been a hush all over the kingdom after the old king had died.  He had lived for exactly 100 years, and right up until the last day, he had been wise and imposing.

Not once in his sixty-five-year reign had there been any talk of sedition or treason.  He was fair and forceful to everyone, whatever station in life they came from.

It was more than could be said for his forebears, some of whom had been ‘terrible’.  Ivan had been a particular example.  Some had been ‘benevolent’ like George, his grandfather.  He promised his Queen he would never be like his father before him, and he wasn’t.

When it came time for the eldest child, either male or female, to take over the role of Monarch of West Lexis, you were allowed to use your own name or pick one from a set.

Those sets included Ivan, George, Richard, John and Charles.  For the girls, the names were Elizabeth, Jane, Anne, Margaret and Susannah.

In the most recent line of succession, there had been three boys, George, Walter and John, and three girls, Elizabeth, Susan and Frances.  George was the eldest boy, and Elizabeth was the second eldest.

In an unusual accident whilst conducting the annual hunt, in which men went out into the woods to kill deer to stock up on meat for winter, it was the right of the eldest son to run the hunt.

He had been, it was said when the news of the fatality had been broadcast across the land, in the wrong place at the wrong time.  And it had been the first time ever.

It had caused great sadness, and a hundred days of mourning had to pass before the new monarch was crowned.  That had happened from the day after the old king was buried in the sacred graveyard of the monarchs, a place where only the Chancellor and his personal guard knew.

Once there, and buried, only then could his mortal soul continue on its journey to the final resting place of all monarchs, Valhalla.

…

Ludrig, Superintendent of the castle guard, was about to do the morning rounds, the day after it had been proclaimed that the hundred days of mourning were over.

The sun had come up through the mountains, a bright yellow, signifying not only a brilliant start to the next day, but a good omen, that the weight of the next monarchs would begin with the blessings of the Gods.

Life was beginning to return to the castle’s main corridors and rooms, with the castle workers moving on to clean and prepare for the coronation activities before the big day.

Ludrig’s job was to oversee those activities in conjunction with the Chancellor.  He was on top of the East tower, the first to see the sun every morning, when the skies were clear.

It was this morning, and along with the second in command of the castle guard, Walther, they had stood together, swords facing the first rays until the light glinted on the metal, then swore their allegiance to the new monarch.

Elizabeth.

The king had reached Valhalla, the hundred days of mourning were complete, the people no longer had to wear black out of respect, and life could begin again.

The two men sheathed their swords.  They were as much ceremonial as they were for battle, though no one could remember the last battle West Lexis had fought with anyone.

From the top of the castle, on a good day, one could see the main castle of East Lexia, quite a distance away.  On a good day, like today.

“Wonder what they’re thinking?”

“That it’s time for celebrations.  We have the three other Lexias dignitaries coming to the festivities, and the games are promising to be the best ever.

Ludrig was the current Joust champion and had just fallen short of winning the Knight, Grand Master title, a title he had held for the last five tournaments.

It was bound to happen eventually.  He was getting old, despite being remarkably fit for his age.

“All of them are, Walther.  And I have been working on the fault that caused the loss of the title last.  Sir Samson will not get away with it again.”

“I heard he has a new bag of tricks available.”

“What new tricks?  He talks big but doesn’t show us anything.  He is, as he had always been, a windbag.
He won’t know what hit him.”

Or so Ludrig thought. It was Ludrig’s only failing, his ego that refused to believe he could never be bested.

Walther shrugged.  That was in the future.

In the meantime, it was going to be non-stop preparations.  Tournaments to be set up, names of the competitors to be collected, sport fields set up, banquets for both nobles and the commoners to be set you and food arranged.

The young queen was out of mourning and could now tour the country, and the sister countries for many discussions and political policy reviews, the way the country would be run and how it would interact with her sister countries.

He was in charge of the Queen’s escort and had to prepare for that too.  It was going to be a very busy schedule.

“Time passes far too quickly for my liking.”

“Better get to it then.”

The last rays of the sun that lowered up onto the sky before it came out from behind the hills had dissipated, and the yellow orb glowed in a clear blue sky.  The omen was predicting peace, happiness, and prosperity for all.

The separated in the guard house below, Ludwig to report to the Queen, Walther to the barracks to begin drilling the men.  The lazy days were over.

…

It was a 500-year-old story, how the four kingdoms of Lexia came into existence.  Far, far back in the almost forgotten mists of time, there used to be one single kingdom.  Lexia.

And had not a miracle occurred, there would still be one kingdom.

Or, as some would say, very quietly, it was exactly the opposite.

But whether a miracle or a judgement from the Gods, the Queen of Lexia gave birth to four children on the same day, and under Lexia’s Royal charter, the eldest child was the rightful heir.

That meant the firstborn.

That edict remained in place until the King was on his deathbed, and the Queen, along with the then Chancellor, got the King to sign a decree that all children would become Monarchs in their own right, and that Lexia would be divided into four equal kingdoms, North, South, East, and West.  All the same size, each with a central castle, and an equal share of the country’s wealth.

And so it was done.

It had worked for 200 or more years before a dispute broke out between two of the kingdoms, a battle ensued, and then was quelled by the other two, with the surrender terms negotiated, life returned to normal.

Only for one kingdom, or more importantly, the Monarch, it didn’t.

David Montgomery, King of East Lexia, was discontent with how his kingdom was made to pay for the battle he didn’t start, 300 years ago, and it had festered since through the generations.

But he did know that it was the King of West Lexia, back then, who had something to do with the settlement terms, and had managed to get away with stealing a very valuable set of jewels that belonged to West Lexia.

It was one of the original four that Lexia, when united, used for coronations.  Each of the four had been granted a set each.

There was a story somewhere in the mists of time that was the true and correct account of the Jewels of the Moonbeam, said to be part of the astrological connection to the Gods.  And as far as Mongonery was concerned, West Lexia had them, and he wanted them back.

And with the coronation of the new Queen of West Lexia, it was time for the truth to come out.

…

It was early, the first day of the pre-coronation festivities, starting with the grand tour of West Lexia.

Not that Elizabeth hadn’t been out and about during the mourning period, after all, she was still the Queen, and had only to be officially recognised by government and the church.

At long last, and thankfully, she would not have to wear black. Only those who chose to would. 

Her personal maid, Nathalie, had set out a purple dress, relatively plain in design, but spoke of elegance and majesty.  With her Princess tiara and the sapphire necklace that was inherited from her mother on the day of succession, it would let everyone know that Elizabeth was their Queen.

Nathalie had worked hard to progress to be the Queen’s personal handmaid.  It had been her goal from the moment she started as a maid in the castle. She knew one day her mistress would become Queen, and had persevered through all the tantrums and youthful exuberance and their relationship that once started very rocky, had matured into one of mutual respect.

As one of her talents, the ability to converse, listen, and understand what she was either hearing or discussing, Nathalie always had her ears open, taking in everything around her. 

Her mistress never once asked to be a spy, but was genuinely surprised that Nathalie was always well across Castle affairs, and had stories she could tell, but she had learned early that discretion was a wise master.  Sometimes, just part of a story was not the whole story.

There was always a scandal, however, and Elizabeth loved scandal, especially if it involved her brothers and sisters and nobility, simply because of their hypocrisy.  Elizabeth herself had secrets, but she made sure that she was very discreet.

Elizabeth summoned Nathalie when it was time to get ready for the Chancellor’s morning visit, starting the conversation with the same question, “What is the gossip this morning?”

Nathalie had already laid out all her mistress’s clothing ready for the mistress to approve or disapprove, which didn’t happen very often, ready to put on, piece by piece.  Sometimes it could be a laborious job.

“Your Royal Highness.”  She curtsied.  “Outside the castle, there are rumours of incursions by bandits from the south.”

“We have those all the time.  Since the famine, it has been difficult for all of us, and some people think it is easier to steal than to try to mitigate the effects by doing something about it.  We built a dam, and now have the water to grow crops during famine.  As for the incursions, we will put a stop to them.”

She had spoken to the Chancellor, and he was drawing up a proclamation.  All thieves who were caught and found guilty were not going to enjoy the same accommodations her father extended to them.

There were other interesting snippets of conversation between the two, always in hushed tones because there was no telling who was listening, as the layers went on.

“Was there anything else?”  They were up to the top layer, a sash, the tiara, jewellery, and shoes.  This morning it was taking a long time.

“Have you heard of the Jewels of the Moonbeam?”

She stopped suddenly and gripped the arm of the girl. “Where did you hear that?”

Nathalie immediately went on the defensive, thinking she had gone too far, that it was a top secret subject, and should have inferred that from the fact she hadn’t heard very much and initially wasn’t going to say anything.

Now she had stepped over that line and couldn’t worm her way out.

“Two … two soldiers walking down the street,” Nathalie stammered breathlessly, now almost terrified.

Elizabeth immediately realised she had scared her maid, obviously fearing the worst.  The Royal Children had a reputation for quick tempers and appalling behaviour, and whilst her earlier years were difficult, she had matured.

She immediately softened her look and let her go, and gently caressed the red welt forming above her wrist.  “I am sorry, Nathalie, I don’t know what came over me.  It’s a touchy subject for all of the Royal families.”

“Then I shall not mention it again.”

“No. No.  We keep no secrets between us, Nathalie.  I would like to know anything you hear.  But please don’t tell anyone else.  But this, you overheard two soldiers?  Would you recognise them again?”

Nathalie looked surprised.  “No.  They all look the same to me.”

Elizabeth had to admit she was right.  Except for a small flag on the sleeves, one kingdom could not really be identified by another.  But she knew, instinctively, that they were not soldiers from her kingdom.

“Can you remember if they said anything else?”

“That was all I heard.  They were too far away, and I wasn’t going to follow them.  You know what soldiers do to servant girls.”

She did, and that was something else she had to address with the Chancellor.

As for the Jewels, she had only just heard from the Chancellor that they would have to visit the castle strongroom where family valuables were kept, along with the Kingdom’s fortune, to try on the Coronation jewellery, also known as West Lexia’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

It was the first time she had ever heard of them.

“You must not repeat anything you heard about those Jewels.  They are a secret within a very small circle of this Kingdom.  You will never mention them again.  Am I clear?”

“I shall not, your Majesty.  You have my word of honour.”

“Excellent.  I know I can rely on you.”

They went back to finishing dressing.  Nathalie had to get home.  She had told one other person, her mother, and she was not one to hold her tongue at the best of times.

…

Walther had been summoned to the castle and the Queen’s chambers.  She needed escorting.  He brought three men, the leaders of each of the three groups that made up the guard.

It had been, he believed, the luck of the draw, his name with three others tossed into the box and to be drawn for who would be second in command.

Each of the four men was equally qualified, but Ludrig had been particularly pleased that he had drawn Walther’s name.

Walther had been his protege; he had taught him well, and unlike some of the others, was willing to learn and not improvise.

He was also intelligent and could improvise when it mattered, like in the middle of mock battles.  It made him an excellent choice for the Queen’s private guard.  It helped that she liked him, unlike his two predecessors, both of whom treated her like an errant child.

Both ended up languishing at a border guard post.

Walther believed in punctuality and respect for the uniform.  Each of his men was in ceremonial dress, but also armed, ready for anything.

A formidable force to be reckoned with.

And as they made their way from the guard’s mess to the Queen’s chambers, it was a reminder to the people that the guard were visible, available, and ready to protect the Queen and her people.

The cry, “Make way for the Queen’s guard,” was treated with the respect and reverence it deserved.

Outside the main chamber, the three guardsmen formed a line.  No one would pass unless bidden.

Walther entered when requested.

She was ready, taking two of her personal maids with her.  Walther would walk with her, half a step behind, the maids, one guard on either side of the maids and one at the rear.

Destination: the Treasury.

Ludrig had set up checkpoints and had men on guard.  It was the first real exercise since her accession.  Practice was over.

The path from the chamber required leaving the main castle and taking a path to one of the structures at the rear of the main castle, one of the granary, the middle, the church, or the other, the treasury. 

In the treasury was a vault, and in the vault were the Kingdom’s most valuable treasures.  The treasury was also where the Kingdom’s coins were struck, and they were currently creating a set of coins commemorating the coronation of the new Queen.

As far as Walther was concerned, his Queen was there to inspect the new coinage.

As expected, people turned out to see their Queen along the short path in the open.  Walther saw no hostility, but it wasn’t exactly as joyous as he thought it might be.

In fact, if someone had asked him what the general mood of the people was, it would be subdued, maybe even a little disappointed.  But alongside that, he noticed something else: men loitering.

They did not look like labourers or artisans; they were men who looked like they had military training, dressed in labourers’ clothes to hide behind.

That was far more worrisome and a matter to take up with Ludrig after this detail.

At the Treasury, they left the three-man guard at the entrance to the Treasury, and he joined the Queen, her two maids and the Chancellor who had just appeared from inside the main building.

From the entrance, they went to the vault.  The treasury guard was the only person who had a key, and by the time they reached the vault, the head of the guard, Smithton, arrived breathless.

And late.

Elizabeth was unimpressed.

The Chancellor apologised and said he would take care of the matter.  The atmosphere was quite tense. 

If it were up to Walther, he would have taken the guard and locked him up.

The vault was opened, and only the Queen and the Chancellor went in.

…

The vault was quite large and had various rooms within it for the treasures: one for gold, one for silver, one for spare utensils used throughout the castle, and another for gemstones.

And in the corner, a pedestal with a special box which held the Kingdom’s Jewels of the Moonbeam.

They were the most significant treasure in the Kingdom, used only for the Coronation of the new monarch.  Elizabeth had requested to see them.

“The necklace was one of four created at the time of the great split, each given a different colour, red, blue, green and amber.  Ours is the blue set.”

The Chancellor took out a special key and unlocked the box, as Elizabeth moved closer. 

He lifted the lid.

Both gasped.  The box was empty.

The Jewels were gone.

“Where is it?” Elizabeth asked.

“It was here the last time I looked.  I check once a month.”

“Can we have the coronation without it?”

“No.  The charter forbids it.”

Elizabeth went back to Walther.  “Seal off the castle.  No one out but let people come in.  Turn out the guard.  I want this whole castle searched from top to bottom.”  She gave him a drawing of the necklace the Chancellor had given her.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And if anyone tries to leave or gives you any trouble, lock them up.”

He nodded, then left. 

…

Charles Heath  2026

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

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

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 30

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces, and the question of who is a friend and who is a foe is made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.

…

At the end of the discussion, which began to get quite heated, I was escorted from the room and taken to another interrogation room.

Fresh from his intimidatory success with Jacobi, Lallo was, no doubt, going to try to press on his advantage with me, though I was not quite sure what it was he thought I could help him with, other than to dissuade him from his current plan.

I had to wait an hour in that small, stuffy room, considering the possibilities.  Surely he wasn’t expecting me to join his band of merry men.

When he finally came, he arrived with a folder and two bottles of cold water, one of which he gave to me before he sat down.

I took a sip of water out of the bottle after checking that the seal hadn’t been broken.  I still didn’t trust him, and with good reason, considering the trick he’d played on me.

“Now, I’m sure you saw and heard everything that happened with Jacobi.”

I nodded.

“He’s the reason your mission failed.  He met the other team on the ground and was supposed to lead them to the building where the targets were hiding.  Instead, he told the Government forces, Bahti, the plan for their rescue and their location.  It was a double-cross brought on by greed.”

“It always is.  But he’s more than likely right about the fate of the two prisoners.”

“Half dead, yes, pressed into working on a prison farm, but neither has been cracked yet.  After the last attempt at rescuing them, we cultivated new agents on the ground.  Their advice has led us being able to formulate a new attempt to rescue them.”

Had they asked my opinion long before the first attempt, I would have told them to have more than one source, particularly if they were paying handsomely for information.  It was always an opportunity for double-crossing.

There still was, but I don’t think that eventuality was factored into Lallo’s thinking.

“Who’s the fool you have in mind to lead this disaster?”

“You.”

Good thing I’d braced myself for the bad news, and it came as no surprise.  In that hour of considering possibilities, they all seemed to come back to one person.  I was the only one left who’d been there, if only for a few hours.

It had also given me time to work on an excuse not to go.

“I don’t think so…”

Lallo put his hand up to stop me.  My protestations might have worked on a reasonable man, but Lallo wasn’t reasonable.

“Well, you, too, have a choice.  Stay and be court-martialled for your failure to follow orders in the last attempt, or redeem yourself and volunteer to lead the next.”

“I did nothing wrong the last time.”

“Not according to the investigation I’ve just completed, the one that I intend to submit to the JAG if you are unwilling to follow orders.”

And there it was.  All the time I’d been in Lallo’s hands, he had been compiling a feasible case against me, just so that I could be induced to do his bidding.  I was stupid not to connect the dots long before this and shut my mouth.  Everything I had denied was the same evidence he could use against me.

In a typical military style, someone had to shoulder the blame for the previous mess.

And to be given a choice, one that made me as expendable as Jacobi, was, as far as Lallo was concerned, a masterstroke.

If I were killed in action, he would have a scapegoat he needed.  If I didn’t go, I would be court-martialled and thrown in a cell for the rest of my life.  And if I went and succeeded, he would become the golden boy in the intelligence services, and the same fate as any other scenario would befall me.  It was a lose-lose.

“You’re not throwing out any bones?”

“Don’t have to.  But you get to pick the team you want to go with you.”  He tossed a file across the table to me, and I opened it.  Several pages, with photos attached.

A who’s who of the military types that spent more time in the stockade than on the battlefield.  Men who would do anything to stay out, men who had nothing to lose.  Expendable men.

“You’re kidding?”  I looked up at him, but his expression told me he wasn’t.

“Are you sure any of these will obey orders?”

“You have my assurance they will.  We’re sending an observer, just to make sure everyone stays on mission.  You have three days to pick a team of four men, establish command, and prepare to leave.”

Something else I thought about in that hour, other than it was probably the last time I would have for reflection, was that it would have been better to die in the helicopter crash.

I waited until he left the room before I reopened the file.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2026

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself, as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters, Harry and Alison, other issues are driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact that he has a beautiful and desirable wife, his belief that she is the object of other men’s desires, and, in particular, his immediate superior’s.

Between observation, the less-than-honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, and she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, is that nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

The Cinema of My Dreams – It ended in Sorrento – Episode 52

A visit to Heidi’s mother-in-law

…

I had intended to go to the Burkehardt residence with Ceceila as backup, but that would have left Francesca to her own devices, which to me would have been to turn up at the residence unannounced.

If Francesca had wanted to leave, Cecelia would let her, and it would not surprise me if she either let her bosses know how things were going, especially in relation to Juliet, or that they would want Francesca to find her.  The other possibility is that Francesca was on her way, or already at the residence, making herself known on behalf of her employers.

That I was wrong on all counts when I rang Cecelia to see if she had left was disconcerting.  It meant another game was in play.  I was sure she had reported to her employers by now, and that they had asked her to impede us at every turn.  It just made it harder to guess why Francesca was with us.

I was stopped at the gate to the main Burkehardt residence by guards, who, I deduced from their dismissive manner, had been instructed to turn everyone away.  I asked them to tell the Mistress that I had information on the Countess Heidi von Burkehart’s whereabouts and then waited ten minutes before the gates magically opened.

If Alessandro were there, I would have some explaining to do.

I parked the car on the gravel outside the front portico and walked up the stairs to the front entrance.  The doors were open, and a man in a morning suit was waiting for me.  I’d give the gate my Detective Inspector’s name, without the Detective Inspector prefix.

“Come this way.”

It was all he said.

I followed him through to a large room off the side of the entrance hall, which looked like a library, with several full-size suits of armour.

The older Countess was waiting for me at the front of her desk.

“Mr Johnson, though I’m sure that bears no resemblance to your real name, and Detective Inspector, you definitely are not.”

“I assure you I am, but it’s just one of my jobs.  Like I told your son Alessandro back in London, they only call me when it looks like the jurisdiction is about to change.”

“You have no authority here.”

“True, but like I said, they call me in when that happens.  My other self is the one with no borders, nor do I care about jurisdiction.  I come, solve the problem, and then go.  I am only interested in the well-being of Countess Heidi.  Don’t make this into more than it is.”

“Security said you were going to be a pain, as did the people I employed to find the countess.  Perhaps I should fire them and employ you instead.”  She went behind her desk and sat down.

I sat in a chair to one side of the desk.

“It won’t do you much good to try.  I’m not doing this for the money.  I’m supposed to be retired, but I have an old boss who won’t let me go.”

“Rodby, yes.  His wife is the sister of the countess.  Fancy having a direct connection to a spy organisation.  I only just found that out, but I’m sure you knew that.  I presume your other self is a spy?”

“I wish.  The suits, the cars, the toys.”  I shook my head.  “Nothing quite as glamorous, I can assure you.  And I only just discovered the Heidi connection, too.  One of the drawbacks, we don’t always get the whole story.”  A bit too much sharing, but it was more to disarm the old lady, who looked to me still had some fire and brimstone in reserve.

“You said you have information about the countess?”

“I do.  But before I tell you, I need to know if there is anyone you have managed to make angry, or you have caused problems for, or who wants to buy this enterprise, perhaps with prejudice?”

She gave me a look that was surprise or contempt before she summoned her best angry tone to say, “That’s absurd.”

It meant one of the three suggestions was right.

“You run a very profitable and well-respected operation here.  It no doubt creates rivalry with others in the same line of business who are not as well run, perhaps.”

It had to be a business rival.  The most recent information from the research team mentioned that there were several suitors for the business after the Count died, but no one specific. 

I could see her expression soften, as if it was a problem she wanted to resolve herself, but it was not working out.  Alessandro had tried and failed to make it seem like business as usual, but a ship without a rudder soon foundered.  The uncertainty about the successor to the count had created uncertainty in the investors.

“There is one person, though I’m not sure he qualifies as aggressive, but he is incompetent.  Alberto Dicostini.  He and the count were friends and business partners until Dicostini stole from the business.  After that, they became bitter rivals.  I am sure it is he who killed my husband, and later my son, the count.  It is why my sons and daughter have such security.  He had vowed to kill us all.  He will fail, as he always does.”

And there was a possible solution to the problem.  It might have been Dicostini behind the fake countess, and if he presented her as the countess and she inherited, then what is hers would become his.  It’s almost foolproof.  The fake would have to pass the keen eyes of the Burkehardt family.  I’d seen the fake, but I hadn’t known the real one.

“You are vehemently opposed to the countess inheriting, are you not?”

“She is an incompetent fool.”

“But a member of this family, and if she were to inherit, would she keep it in the family?”

“You’d think so, but a friend told me she was going to sell it, maybe not to Dicostini, but it will have the same effect.  He will get what he wants.”

“Have you tried to convince her to do the right thing.  As far as I can tell, she is the lawful heir.”

“There is another.”

“Which did your investigators tell you about?”

“How do you know this?”

“I have one of them with me.  Not here now, but back in Sorrento.  That might not necessarily be the case.  I’m beginning to believe that she is not a legitimate heir.  I suspect that Vittoria Remano, as she calls herself these days, did have a child, but not by the Count.  And although the count said he fathered a child, I believe he never got to see anything but photos, nor living proof, just the word of a maid.”

“And the birth certificate?”

“Did you get your investigators to check it?’

“I assumed they did.”

“Then they’ve got two days before I bring the three women to the solicitor’s office for the signing.  One of them will be a woman claiming to be the countess.”

“So, you know where she is?”

I sighed.  “You’re not listening to me.”

She paused for a moment as if to go over our conversation.  Then, “You’re saying the woman you have is not the countess?”

“I’m saying I don’t know, but if it was the real countess, who was kidnapped with Mrs Rodby, why is Mrs Rodby still missing?”

…

© Charles Heath 2023

The 2am Rant: There ain’t no mountain high enough

If only it were as easy to write one line of a song as it is to write a sentence, a paragraph, or a page of a book.  Of course, if you were to ask a songwriter the same question, he or she would probably twist it around, and not without reason.

The bottom line in all scenarios, whether writing a story, writing a song, or writing a letter, at times it feels like it is like climbing a mountain.

It’s why we have waste paper bins and imaginary shooting practice sessions.  By the way, I don’t get very many scrunched paper balls in.

Curiously, we seem to categorise almost insurmountable problems in terms of climbing mountains.  Of course, I’ve yet to attempt to climb the north face of Mount Everest, but I suspect I’ll have to do a lot of practice to do so.

Maybe that’s what I need to do as a writer.  Practice, not climbing mountains.

Mountains have always been part of the metaphor for overcoming obstacles.  So, metaphorically, to overcome this ‘obstacle’, we can choose to climb over it, blow it up, or tunnel through it.

But the salient point is the same in all cases: obstacles, metaphorical or not, are not insurmountable; they just need time to find a solution.

So, in my case, there are two items to note when it comes to mountains: the first, I prefer to go through a tunnel, and the second, there’s not a mountain I’ve been up that hasn’t had a magnificent view.  Of course, getting to the top has been easy; I just hopped on the tram or the gondola.

After all, isn’t that what they’re there for?

Ok, flippancy aside, I have had to climb a few mountains of my own over the years, and, yes, it’s hard work, and, at times, I’ve wanted to give up.

But not today.  Today is a good day.

And as the title says, ‘There ain’t no mountain high enough!’

 

 

What I learned about writing – Sometimes, the best books for writers bear little similarity to their medium

The Unconventional Muse: When Your Best Writing Lesson Comes From Anywhere But a ‘How-To’ Guide

We writers are always chasing that elusive spark, that deeper understanding of human nature and narrative that elevates our work from good to truly profound. We devour books on craft, attend workshops, and pore over articles dissecting plot points and character arcs. All valuable, of course.

But what if the most potent lessons for your writing don’t come from a book with “How To Write” in the title? What if your greatest storytelling mentor isn’t a famous novelist, but a philosopher, a historian, or even a scientist?

This isn’t just a quirky idea; it’s a fundamental truth for many successful writers. Sometimes, the best books for writers bear little similarity to their medium.

Why Look Beyond the Craft?

Writers are, at heart, observers and interpreters of the human condition. We craft worlds, yes, but those worlds gain their resonance from reflecting or distorting truths about our world. To truly understand the stories we tell, we need to understand the world itself – its history, its psychology, its moral dilemmas, its scientific wonders.

This is where seemingly unrelated disciplines become invaluable. They offer different lenses through which to view conflict, motivation, and the very fabric of reality.

The Playwright, the Philosopher, and the Clash of Two Rights

Let’s take a specific example that perfectly illustrates this premise: the playwright. Should a playwright read philosophy? An emphatic yes.

Consider the profound wisdom offered by thinkers like George Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel. His work, particularly his dialectical approach to history and conflict, provides an incredible framework for understanding the deepest dramatic tensions.

For Hegel, the true tragedy – and the most compelling drama – lies not in a clear-cut battle between good and evil, but in the irreconcilable clash of two rights.

Think about that for a moment. It’s not the simple Hollywood narrative where the hero is unequivocally good and the villain is purely evil. That kind of story, while sometimes entertaining, often lacks the true grit and complexity of human experience.

Instead, Hegel pointed to the underlying issues in Greek tragedy as a case in point. Take Sophocles’ Antigone. Here, the conflict isn’t between a righteous hero and an evil tyrant. It’s between Antigone’s undeniable moral right to bury her brother, honoring the divine laws and family duty, and Creon’s equally legitimate right to uphold the laws of the state, ensuring order and preventing further rebellion.

Both characters are, in their own frameworks, right. Both are acting out of deeply held convictions and duties. And it is precisely because both are “right” that their collision is so utterly devastating, leading to a profound, unavoidable tragedy. Neither can simply concede without betraying their core identity or belief system.

A Golden Key for Every Writer

This isn’t just an academic point for philosophers; it’s a golden key for anyone crafting a narrative, whether it’s a novel, a screenplay, a short story, or even a compelling blog post.

  • Complex Characters: When your antagonists aren’t just “bad” but are operating from their own deeply held, morally defensible (to them) positions, your characters instantly gain depth. Their motivations become understandable, even if you disagree with their actions.
  • Richer Conflict: The “two rights” dilemma elevates your plot beyond simplistic good vs. evil. It forces your characters, and your readers, to grapple with true moral ambiguity, making the stakes feel far higher and more authentic. Think of a nuanced political drama, a family saga fraught with misunderstanding, or even a personal internal struggle where the protagonist is torn between two equally valid, yet conflicting, desires.
  • Deeper Themes: This approach allows you to explore profound themes about ethics, justice, loyalty, and the inherent contradictions of human existence, without needing to preach. The conflict itself becomes the exploration.

When your characters operate from their own deeply held, morally defensible positions, the story becomes infinitely more resonant because it mirrors the complexities of real life.

Broaden Your Mind, Deepen Your Stories

So, what does this mean for your reading list?

Don’t limit yourself to books on plot structure or character arcs (though those are valuable!). Dive into history, neuroscience, poetry, economics, art criticism, and yes, philosophy. Seek out texts that grapple with ethics, existence, and the nature of reality. Read the great thinkers, not necessarily to agree with them, but to understand how they thought and what they wrestled with.

You’re not just reading to learn facts; you’re reading to broaden your understanding of the human experience itself. And that, my fellow writers, is the wellspring from which truly compelling stories flow. Expand your mind, expand your world, and watch your own narratives deepen and soar.

What unconventional books or fields of study have unexpectedly impacted your writing? Share your discoveries in the comments below!