Author: aloysius5

Over the years, I have traveled extensively and kept journals, with the idea that one day all of those places would become locations in books. Notebooks filled with odd characters, people and incidents observed, and whole tracts of stories written when the on the spot inspiration has been a driving force. All of this is the basis of the first three novels, Sunday In New York, set, of course, in New York, probably my favorite city in the world, “Echoes From The Past’ equally set in New York, Brooklyn Heights and Philadelphia. The third, The Devil You Don’t, travels through Europe, starting in Geneva, moving to Rome, then Sorrento, and then to Venice. Now, my passion to write is fuelled by travel and fine dining. When I take a break from these, I get to torment my three wonderful grandchildren whom I actively encourage to read as much as they can, and more recently to also write. As for almost every other writer, I would not be able to do any of this without my wife who has put up with my moodiness, the times when I'm locked away in a room trying to push out another 2,000 words, and yet despite everything still puts up with me. I wish I could say the same for our cat. Alas, I am still trying to work out how to be his friend!

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

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

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 347/348

Days 347 and 348

Use alternative words for Good, Afraid, Trouble, Look and Quiet…

…

The question was: sum your life up in five words.

I’d heard about the show, one with a funny title that when people asked, they couldn’t quite get it exactly right, but close enough to “This was your life”.

I thought it was about dead people, odd, because I knew it was impossible to interview dead people, though those days, someone told me, anything was possible on television.

Then I thought it was about people almost at the end of their life, as a celebration of a celebrity, or someone famous.

It was a surprise to learn it was about ordinary people.

Like me. You couldn’t find anyone more ordinary, or as several people told me, utterly forgettable.

That hurt, but in a sense, they were right.

Which made me wonder just how it was that I received a letter in the mail telling me I had been selected for an episode.

Of course, I thought someone was playing a hoax, and rang them, expecting to be laughed at, but no. I was being asked to go on the show.

I have no idea why I agreed.

…

When I arrived at the studio, I was taken to an office where the executive producer told me what was going to happen: sign some papers to say I was not going to divulge details of the show before it was broadcast, and what my five words were.

They were different for each participant.

Today, they were recording five episodes. I was going to be the last.

…

My words were Good, Afraid, Trouble, Look and Quiet. I had plenty of time to think about them in relation to my story.

And that was the odd thing … I actually had a story.

“So,” the host said, in that mesmerising voice of hers that had both the audience and the objects entranced, “Tell us what the word Good means to you.”

Of course, it wasn’t just the word good, it was a better word that meant the same thing.

“It wasn’t just a good day, it was a fantastic, unbelievable day.”

I remembered it well, that last day of high school, when it was, in a lot of cases, the last time I would see my fellow classmates.

Most of them I never wanted to see again, because that final year had been marked by more lows than highs, culminating in my date for the Prom falling ill, and so I didn’t go. Then I discovered she lied, went with my so-called best friend, and made those last weeks unbearable.

So much so, I headed straight for the railway station and intended to hide at my grandmother’s house on the other side of the country.

The day started badly, arguing with my parents, arguing with my siblings, getting into three separate scuffles at school, then coming home and throwing a few things into a backpack and leaving before I saw anyone at home.

Every step from the house to the railway depot was a reminder of each betrayal, so by the time I sat in the waiting room, an hour before the train was due, I was mentally and physically exhausted.

I expected someone from home would come and try to persuade me to stay.

They didn’t.

Perhaps that was the final betrayal. The fact that not one of my own family cared whether I stayed or left.

Very few people took the train. Most people leaving town went to the airport and got a plane. There was a bus, but it took forever to get anywhere, and the train was an acceptable alternative.

I was the only one leaving town by train.

Until I wasn’t.

There were five students in that final year that I had to say shared my disposition, in that we preferred to study, get good grades and then go to college. The other three left a week before, have all gained admission to an Ivy League university.

I hadn’t applied.

The other person was Alison Breton.

She was one of those people who no one gave a second look at, or so much as a first. She was clever, and all the boys didn’t like girls who were smarter than they.

She was also plain, or so it appeared, which caused most of the boys to point out her faults, such as how she presented herself. Unlike the other girls who dressed to impress, wore make-up and looked stunning, even if it was an objectifying description, she preferred to be different.

I thought she was brave.

We barely spoke, though we were in the same study group with the three Ivy Leaguers. Two of them were keen on her, but she was not the dating sort. Or so they said.

Ten minutes before the train arrived, another person came and sat in the waiting room.

Alison Breton.

I ignored her for five whole minutes. I mean, what could I say to her?

It was where the host mentioned the second word, afraid.

It was part of the truth, and summed up how I felt about her. I was afraid of her. Afraid, or, more to the point, literally terrified.

I had imagined in my mind many times what I would say to her, fabricating long and, I thought, interesting conversations.

And if I let my imagination stretch a little further, I might have to admit I liked her, perhaps more than I should, but could and would never admit it. One humiliation by a girl in a lifetime was enough, and my completely shattered ego couldn’t take another rejection.

Five whole minutes before she said, “So you’re leaving this dump too?”

It was obvious I was, though the dump was harsh.

And then words came out that were not my own. “What’s your excuse?”

I knew the moment I tried to speak to her, it would be over. Maryanne, the betrayer, was different. I could speak to her, and because of that, I thought she was the one.

She smiled. “Probably the same as yours. James told me he loved me, but he didn’t. Apparently, I’m the subject of a bet.”

I’d heard a rumour and couldn’t believe it. Or perhaps I could. Small town, small-minded boys, one ambition, to have what they couldn’t.

“Best get out of town then.” My solution to the problem wasn’t a one-size-fits-all all.

But it was a response to the host dropping the word trouble. And then looked, and was quiet. It seemed they were all intertwining in the narrative that was unfolding.

“That doesn’t explain your desire to leave, other than the Maryanne humiliation. I guess a month away from here might make it go away.”

“It won’t. I have brothers who will never let me forget. You grow up in this place, no one forgets the trouble, or more appropriately, your legacy.”

“It’s always us quiet kids, eh, the ones who don’t make a fuss, who are studious and respectful, who don’t want to be noticed. No matter how we look or feel. I tried to be invisible.”

“It made you stand out more than the Maryannes. I was just fodder for girls like her, pandering to the mores of the football team, and you know what they were like.”

Being smart didn’t make us immune from being hurt or hoping against hope we had a chance.

We both heard the sound of the horn in the distance, a warning that the train was approaching the railway crossing, about two or three miles outside of town.

The train, like always, was running late.

She stood. “Where are you going?”

“San Francisco. My grandmother. She has a large house and many unusual friends. She was an actress once, when Hollywood was going through its black and white phase.”

“I’m going there too. My mother’s sister, though I suspect she isn’t. Maybe we can pretend we’re brother and sister, to be safe.”

I shrugged. Why not? Once we got there, I’d probably never see her again.

…

“Except,” Alison said, holding my hand, and talking to the host with that whimsical expression she had when telling others the story of how we met, “we talked and talked and fell in love, got married, have five amazing children, twelve equally amazing grandchildren, and just lived our lives. Nothing special, and yet to us, very, very special.”

And then, surprisingly, our time was up. I had expected it would take half the time allotted. Instead, it was two hours later, and no one, not any of us, had noticed.

…

‘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 there are other issues driving their relationship.

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

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

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

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

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

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

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

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

In a word: Blind

I’m sure we’ve all been blinded by the light!

Oncoming headlights, a bright light flashed in our eyes or walking into a dark room and a halogen light suddenly snaps on.

You’re still seeing red flashes for hours afterwards.

Literally, blind means you’re not able to see anything, i.e. you are visually impaired. That’s the first meaning of the word people will think of.

But…

It’s another of those words with a few other meanings, such as,

A blind is a window covering; usually it goes up and down, and some you can see through slats. Very good for nosey parkers, and subplots in stories.

Being blind to the truth means that you refuse to accept it for specific reasons, generally brought on by a belief or a prejudice

It can be a hidden enclosure from which to observe or shoot animals

And for the more interesting uses

Blind drunk, I think a lot of people have been there

Flying blind, pilots do it at night, but some of us have figuratively done it a few times, but not in a plane

And lastly, a blind tasting, where you’re not sure what you’re going to get, but usually it’s for a wine tasting, to see if you can tell what’s good and what’s swill.

Sadly I can never tell the difference, which is why I usually stick to beer.

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6^th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

newechocover5rs

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 4

This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.

But, there’s more to come. Those were long flights…

And sadly when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now in the second draft, should provide the proper start.

…

Another fifty or so feet along, I stopped at an overhead grill. The metal was showing on the tunnel side, but on the other, I could see bushes.

I think I knew where we were. This was where the road crossed a small bridge and headed towards the castle entrance. It was on the northeastern side of the old battlements, and going straight under the road would take us to the eastern wall.

Whether we could get out of the castle there remained to be seen.

I took a step and saw Jack stop and turn around to look back the way we had come. A moment later a beam of light came from the break in the roof of the tunnel. Perhaps the man had decided there might not be ghosts in the hole.

I heard the man’s voice travel up the tunnel. “Looks like a cavern of something.”

That is something he might guess to be a tunnel.

We had to go.

I moved quickly in the opposite direction, into the dark, the sound of more rocks falling from the roof following us.

After another hundred feet or so we reached a wall, a dead end to the tunnel. It looked to me that it had been bricked in the recent past because it consisted of house bricks, not cobblestones.

The surface was wet, and there was the sound of dripping nearby.

Jack sat on the floor. Nowhere to go, for him it was time to rest.

We couldn’t go back.

I pulled out a knife and poked it into the mortar, and the blade disappeared when I pushed it. The mortar was soft.

I pushed hard on the wall midway up, and it moved. I decided it might be wiser to kick at the wall, making it easier if it collapsed.

It created a hole about a foot around. Further kicking made it bigger so that I could stoop down and climb through. Jack went first, and I followed.

It came out into a clearing surrounded by trees. Through the branches, I could see the forest on the other side of a paddock.

Jack once again stopped.

Voices.

Jackerby and one of his men.

“I’m sure there used to be a drainage tunnel somewhere here. Those men got into the tunnel yet?”

“Working on making a hole so they can jump down. No long now.”

“Go back and help them. I’ll keep an eye out here in case they find the exit.”

I heard the other man leave.

A minute passed, then two. Then Jackerby said, “I know you’re there Sam. I’m alone out here, and I’m on your side.”

“Return to sender” a short story

We all make mistakes, errors of judgment, stupidly or otherwise.

I’ve made a few, just like in the words of a song that rattled around in my head for a long time after.

Regrets, I’ve had a few, but there was one that, in the end, I didn’t.

But I guess it took a while to get to that point.

Sometimes it’s hard to work out why, sometimes because it’s simply time, others, well when you look back you realize that it should have happened for so many reasons, but at the time you couldn’t see the wood for the trees.

We were in a bad place.

I’d been spending too much time traveling in a job that I had begun to hate, and I could see our relationship slipping away. It was not that neither of us cared for the other, or even stopped loving each other, it was simply the stresses of everyday life.

And it was not as if Chloe didn’t have a high-pressure job, the one she had always wanted, and the one, we agreed, nothing would get in the way if she was given the opportunity.

I was happy with that, and for her. She was as entitled to have her dream job, as I was. I thought, I think we both thought, and believed, that would be the foundation of a good relationship.

And it was, to begin with.

There’s a point where there is a catalyst, that action, or statement, or person, or moment in time that comes along like a wrecking ball, and sets a series of events in motion, and no one really knows where it’s going to land or it’s effect.

That event?

I came home early and saw an old friend of mine, Roger, leaving our house. OK, not so much a big deal, except for the send-off. Still, even then it might not be such a big deal, because I knew Chloe was a very affectionate, touchy feely sort of person.

It used to faze me, way back in the beginning, but she had said and proved, that I was the love of her life, and that others, well, she made them feel special.

I thought no more about it, of course, and I didn’t even mention it, though at the time when I did walk in the door, she seemed distracted.

And I would not have thought about it again until Roger’s wife, Melissa, called one morning, though why she would call me was a mystery, to say that she was planning to surprise Roger in Las Vegas.

OK, I was suitably surprised, thinking that she was suggesting that Chloe and I should both go and make a weekend of it. We had done it before because Melissa was a travel agent, and sometimes got airline and hotel deals that made it affordable.

I remember saying that as far as I was aware, Chloe was in Pasadena for the week at a conference.

No, she said, Chloe was coincidentally in Las Vegas, and Roger had accidentally run into her.

Should alarm bells be going off, I wondered, when that sliver of memory of him leaving popped back into my mind? No, it was just me, running around like a headless chook, failing to read her diary correctly.

I simply said, Fine, and told her to make the arrangements.

It was going to be a surprise because I hadn’t seen Chloe for two or three weeks, time seemed to pass too quickly these days, and it would be good for both of us to spend some time together, away from home and the stresses of our respective jobs.

…

I met Melissa at the airport. Unlike Chloe, she was travelling light with only a carry-on bag. I was used to moving fast and light with a bag that fitted in the overhead locker.

She had secured business class which was a treat because, in this day and age of economics, that perk had disappeared a while back and was only available to the senior staff.

Onto the fourth glass of champagne, she dropped her bombshell, whether deliberate or otherwise, I was never sure.

“It was very nice of Chloe to find Roger a job in her company.”

Did she, I thought. It was the first time I’d heard about it, and my expression must have given me away.

“You didn’t know.”

“Chloe never mentioned it, no. But it is like her.” She had also employed members of her family who, in my opinion, wouldn’t get a job anywhere else.

“Odd, don’t you think? It’s been about a year now. His company went broke, and all the employees were tossed out onto the street with nothing.”

A year was a long time to forget to tell someone. “Has it. Perhaps it just slipped her mind. She doesn’t tell me everything that goes on, nor do I want to know unless she thinks it’s important.”

Employing my best friend was important, and it surprised me that he hadn’t told me himself. He was never backward in bragging about his achievements. Odd, yes, that he hadn’t told me he’d lost his other job.

…

Melissa had found out the hotel they were staying in, which I had no idea of and didn’t ask, and it was simply a matter of telling the front desk clerk their spouses had arrived, and without question, he handed over the keys.

They were staying on different floors, which to me made sense. I wasn’t expecting they to stay together, but I had an awful feeling Melissa had.

On the floor, I went to the room and knocked on the door.

A minute later, the door opened. Chloe, still in her nightgown, and an expression that lasted a fraction of a second before it registered surprise.

“Tom!”

Any other time, I might have thought she was expecting someone else.

Then my phone buzzed, an incoming message, and I looked at it.

From Melissa. “Lobby, now.”

I looked up, thought how beautiful she still looked, and said, “Hold that thought. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Then I closed the door and headed for the elevators.

Once inside and going down, my brain finally registered what it had just seen. A woman prime for sex with that lustful look she used to have when we were first married. Yes, she had been expecting someone, only not me.

Yet, in that moment of realisation, I wasn’t mad at her or angry. She was exactly where she was because of me and my lack of consideration. I had several opportunities to toss in the job that was clearly causing us issues, and I didn’t. It was inevitable we were going to end up here.

When I stepped out of the elevator, I looked for Melissa, but she was not immediately noticeable. Then, a further scan showed she was outside and not in a good state. When I reached her, it was evident she had been crying, and she was angry.

“Is it what I think you’re going to say?”

She nodded. “When he opened the door, his first words were, “Chloe, you sly fox, back for seconds? And then nearly had a heart attack when he saw me.

“I’m sorry. But did you have an idea this might happen?”

She nodded.

It explained everything: the hints, the sadness, the trip. Obviously, she had known about it for some time.

I gave her a hug, and she melted into my arms, and we stayed that way until I saw Roger coming out of the elevator, looking around.

“Roger’s coming,” I said.

“I don’t want to see him, much less talk to him.”

“Then I’ll head him off. Do you want to go home?” Again, she nodded. “Then get a taxi to the airport, and I’ll be along in a short time. I’ll text you when I’m leaving.”

A quick look in Roger’s direction, she headed to the taxi rank, and just as Roger came out the door, her taxi departed, leaving me standing there.

He saw me coming towards him, and to give him credit, he didn’t run. It would be difficult for him to know exactly how I might react.

“Tom.”

“My best friend, Roger. I might have been able to cope if it were some random guy, but not you.”

“Look…”

If he was going to try and justify himself or make excuses, I didn’t want to hear it. “Now is not the time. I’m going to take Melissa home, and I suggest you take the time to figure out how you are going to deal with her because I’m not the problem.”

He was going to reply, but possibly thought twice about it. Instead, he shrugged. “Later then.”

I watched him go back inside. What I should have done, then, was go back to see Chloe. The thing is, I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t want the conversation to descend into blame, or worse. Better, I just head for the airport and come to grips with what I was going to do next.

…

As expected, about five minutes after the taxi had left for the airport, Chloe called.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she said. Her tone was not confident, but a little bit hesitant.

“Sorry. Roger came looking for Melissa, and seeing him, well, that just threw me.”

“I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“About?”

“Going to Pasadena. I came here to end it because it made me realise what was missing between us, and I wanted it back.”

“And if Melissa hadn’t played out her worst fears, that would have worked. The world, it seems, works in mysterious ways.”

If I thought about it, I might have had suspicions, but I was not the sort of person to let them get the better of me. And had it not been for Melissa, my ignorance would have been bliss.

“What is it telling us, then, Tom?”

“That we need to take a step back. I know that I’m to blame as much as anything else, and although you might find it hard to believe, I don’t hate you, nor am I angry with you. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I saw the signs, and I didn’t do anything about them. We’ll talk when you come home.”

I disconnected the call. My voice had broken, and I hadn’t realised just how much it had affected me, suddenly overcome with great sadness.

…

I didn’t go home.

On the plane back, I realised that where I lived was just a house. It wasn’t mine; Chloe’s success had contributed most towards it, and everything else. If I were to be objective, there really wasn’t anything of me there.

It was easy to walk away.

When Chloe came home and found me missing, she called three times before I answered. I had thought long and hard about what we had together and whether or not we could get over what had happened. Perhaps, if she hadn’t lied about where she was, perhaps if it had not been Roger, my best friend, who, by the way, was no longer my best friend, I might have considered we had a chance.

But the trust was broken, and I’d always be wondering. She was successful, she had everything she ever wanted, and she was a grown woman who had to take responsibility for her actions.

She would always be the love of my life; it’s just that I couldn’t live with her. We spoke about divorce, but it never seemed to happen. I think she always had the notion that we would eventually get back together.

We parted friends, but never seemed to travel in the same circles. On our twentieth wedding anniversary, she sent me a letter, perhaps thinking it was the only way she could speak to me. I had long since traded my old phone in for a new one, in another country.

I toyed with the idea of reading it, but in the end scrawled on it black capital letters, “Not known at this address, return to sender”. It was time to move on.

…

The 2am Rant: It’s good, it’s bad, and at times it can be very, very ugly

It was as if Microsoft Word was sent down from that place in the universe where a group of torturers sit around a table to find new ways of making our lives just that little bit more difficult.

I mean, most of the time it works really well and behaves itself.

But…

Then there are the times, usually when you are stressed about a deadline, or you are nearly at the end of what you believe to be the most brilliant writing you have ever put on paper.

Then…

Disaster strikes.

It could be the power goes off, even for just a few seconds, but it’s enough to kill the computer. It could be that you have reached the end and closed Word down, thinking that it had autosaved, all the while ignoring that little pop up that says, ‘do you want to save your work’?

It’s been a long day, night, or session. You’re tired and your mind is elsewhere, as it always is at the end.

You always assume that autosave is on. It was the last time, it has been since the day you installed it however long ago that was.

So…

When the power comes back on, you start the computer, go into Word, and it brings back all the windows you had open when the power failed, and the one with the brilliant piece you just wrote, it’s just a blank sheet.

Or up to where it last autosaved, which is nowhere near the end.

Or it didn’t save at all.

You forget the software updated recently and that always brings changes. Usually unwanted changes.

By which time you have that sinking feeling that all is lost, deadline missed, brilliant work lost, it’s the end of the world.

You promise yourself you’re going to get Scrivener, or something else, where this doesn’t happen.

Or if you’re like me, you put the cat on the keyboard and tell him to sort the mess out.

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story

The beginning, which seemed so long ago…

…

So, I have to decide on the genre. Well, that’s easy, espionage. I look up at my shelves and I can see at least six authors’ novels staring me in the face, and between them over a hundred stories.

I should get started reading, to see what it is that makes them eminently readable.

Oh, been there and done that. in fact, of a library of around three thousand books of various genres, I have read over three-quarters of them.

That includes the classics, like Dickens, Hemingway, Tolstoy and my hero Alistair Maclean.

So, where do I start…

An unassuming main protagonist, the quintessential spy who looks like anything but what he is. He’s a loner, doesn’t trust anyone, and works alone, though perhaps it’s time to throw him a partner and tell him the world is changing and not for the better.

He needs a handler who is old, crusty, never wrong, dresses impeccably, doesn’t have a life, works in a dusty dungeon, and is very, very ruthless.

Will it be a choice of saving the day or saving the girl?

Is he invincible or vulnerable?

Does he have a whiny mother, demanding girlfriend, odd friends, and even odder work colleagues?

Does he talk the talk, talk in riddles, or multi-syllable words that no one can make sense of?

And what is his real job?

…

What are my ideas for this story? I generally write spy stories or thrillers, so I’m thinking that I need to put together the typical James Bond start, where you are hanging on for dear life and not knowing where it’s going to end up.

I have one: waking up in a hotel room in the Middle East, a fan above our spy turning slowly, churning the already hot air in the room. It’s the sound of the blades turning so slowly, with a creak or groan somewhere in the revolution, that wakes him, soaked in sweat and with a horrible taste in his mouth.

The attempt to drain the bar below of cold bottled beer didn’t go so well. There’s a headache to go with that, and it was all he could manage to get to the small refrigerator where he’d put a half dozen bottles of Perrier water the afternoon before.

The first went down his throat very quickly. The second helped the two painkillers go down though for a moment it felt like they’d stuck in his throat. A monetary shudder as the pills started to dissolve.

A knock on the door has him instantly alert and hand on the gun under the pillow.

“Who is it?” He yells out, not exactly the done thing in a hotel, but the last seven days of endless heat had finally taken a toll.

And today was going to be no different. The gun slipped in his wet hand, a sign that he was not sure if he would make the shot without missing by a yard or two.

“Room service.”

“I didn’t order room service.”

Silence, and then an envelope was shoved under the door.

…

Ever woken up in another part of the world in a strange bed, in a hotel or guest house, and wondered where you are? It seems that would happen a lot if you were a road warrior.

I’m not but I still have those moments even at home in my own bed.

Is it the dreams we have that disorient us? Like mine because they take me to different places, and different situations, and above all, it takes me out of my mundane and boring existence.

It’s time to immerse myself in a more vicarious existence.

The world of a spy.

I think an action start might work better than just introducing the main character.

The last time we visited him in a hotel room, very hot, very hungover, and not very ready to work.

Why is he there?

Most espionage works during meetings with sources, informants, and important people who defect with a bag full of state secrets.

For wads of money, of course.

Where is he, right now? Perhaps it could be said he was not in a good place. A very tough few years, in the firing line, and the loss of colleagues begins to make him question everything and everyone.

There is going to be a last straw, you know, that one that breaks the camel’s back.

I’m working on his background story, a legend if you like, so I’m more acquainted with the character. I want to be able to slip into his character and be him. It makes it easier to write when you know everything about him or her.

And, yes, there will be a her.

And yes, jaded, world-weary or not, he’s not quite done with the bad guys yet.

It’s just he wishes the moments of self-doubt would get less rather than more.

…

How did it end up?

You’ll have to read the book

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Podgorica

Discovering Podgorica’s Hidden Gems: A Road Less Travelled

Nestled on the banks of the Morača River, Podgorica is often overshadowed by its mountainous neighbours and coastal rivals in the Balkans. But for those willing to venture beyond its bustling city centre, this Montenegrin capital holds a trove of quiet enchantments. If you’re craving a deeper, more offbeat experience, here are five extraordinary ways to unlock Podgorica’s soul.

1. Step Back in Time in Donja Lastva

Tucked just a short walk from the city centre, the historic neighbourhood of Donja Lastva is a labyrinth of cobblestone streets, 19th-century stone houses, and vibrant murals. Once a medieval merchant district, its peaceful atmosphere offers a stark contrast to Podgorica’s modern core. Stroll through hidden courtyards, admire the architecture, and sip a coffee at a local kafana (traditional café) to savour life at a slower pace. Don’t miss the Old Jewish Quarter, a poignant reminder of the community that once thrived here.

2. Unwind on Vrmac Hill

For panoramic views of the city and the surrounding mountains, head to Vrmac Hill. A short, family-friendly hike leads to a vantage point dominated by the Ethnographic Museum of Montenegro and a historic fort. The well-maintained trails are perfect for a morning walk or sunset picnic. In spring, the hillside bursts into colour with wildflowers, while autumn offers fiery foliage. It’s a favourite among locals, but rarely crowded with tourists.

3. Get Cultured at the Ethnographic Museum

Perched on Vrmac Hill, this quirky museum is a window into Montenegro’s rural heritage. Wander through recreated village houses filled with traditional costumes, farming tools, and folk art. The museum also hosts rotating contemporary art exhibitions, making it a fascinating blend of old and new. Pro tip: Visit on a weekday to have it mostly to yourself!

4. Shop and Savour at the Podgorica Municipal Market

For a taste of local life, head to the Podgorica Municipal Market (Pazar). Open six days a week, this bustling bazaar is a riot of colour and aroma. Sample krompiruša (Montenegrin potato soup), fresh ražnjići cheese, and fragrant herbs. Haggle for handmade crafts or pick up a jar of truffle honey from the region’s famed forests. It’s a feast for the senses—and your wallet!

5. Visit the Đurđe Krstić House – A Literary Pilgrimage

Poet and writer Đurđe Krstić (1879–1934) is Montenegro’s Shakespearean figure, and his 19th-century stone house in Podgorica is a modest tribute to his legacy. Now a museum, it’s housed in a simple, ivy-clad building where he once lived. Inside, you’ll find his personal library, manuscripts, and memorabilia. Though it’s a niche spot, it offers a poetic insight into Montenegro’s cultural heart.

Tips for Exploring Off the Beaten Path

Best Time to Go: Visit during the shoulder seasons (May–June or September–October) for milder weather and fewer crowds.
Transport: Most of these spots are walkable within the city centre, but consider renting a bike for a leisurely pace.
Taste the Local Flavour: Pair your explorations with a stop at Café Jelena or Risto – Montenegrin Cuisine for authentic, home-style meals.

Podgorica’s charm lies in its contrasts: history meeting modernity, tranquillity nestled next to the city’s pulse. By straying from the well-worn paths, you’ll uncover a city that’s unafraid to show its soul—and it’s waiting for you to discover it. So, pack your curiosity and let Podgorica surprise you, one hidden gem at a time.

Happy exploring!

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words