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!

Writing about writing a book – Day 34

So it seems that Aitchison, the latest addition to the story, has reservations about what is or isn’t going on.  Aitchison is in charge of the security, not only the computer systems, but for everyone, and, of course, the first person the police would go and see.

It’s also time to bring in the CEO, a rather elusive character, but one who will have a great deal to do with our main character for a lot of different reasons.  But, for now, all the reader needs to know is that he exists and is very elusive for one particular reason.

Halligan is just another incidental character, significant only because he is also dead, and where there are multiple deaths, there has to be a conspiracy.  Aitchison, of course, is not what he seems, not that we know that yet, but for now, he is a man with a problem.

…

I looked Aitchison directly in the eye, so he would not think I was lying. “Since the last debacle, I rarely see Halligan, and, when I do, I can assure you the last thing he wants to do is ask for favors. My last visit was to set up a laptop on his desk, not connected to the network. Does the CEO know anything about this?”

The CEO was almost the equivalent of the invisible man. No one could remember seeing him in the office, or when he visited the last time, and it was rumoured that he was at his Nevada ranch most of the time, where he had an office. I remember setting up video conferencing for him a year or so ago, but I don’t think it had even been used.
But Aitchison was one of a few who had met him personally.

“I put a call in. He’s at a retreat with the American management team, going through some team-building exercises. I’m waiting for his call, but I think I can safely say he will deny everything and plead innocence.”

“Have the staff members been questioned?”

“Yes. No one had anything constructive to add. But one other interesting bit of information that did come out of that briefing with the Chief Inspector was that Halligan also attempted to log onto this other network. That’s why I asked you about Halligan.”

Something was not right. Halligan was dumb when it came to computers and only wanted a computer, not connected to the network. Of course, he needed a networked desktop for email, and sourcing documents, and perhaps the peek at a porn site through the internet, but that was the extent of his involvement. His knowledge of networking was solely based on the background papers I wrote for him when he needed information for meetings and conferences. He even had trouble logging into the network at times, because he kept forgetting his password.

I kept that to myself. Aitchison was probably not interested in anything that would refute his belief of what the situation entailed. He was partially wrong, but that was driven by fear.

“What did Halligan have to say about all of this?”

It was an innocent question, but it drew the sharpest reaction and gave a sudden ashen look on his face, the catalyst of his fear. The mere mention of questioning Halligan had caused him to turn white.

“He’s dead too, and conveniently cannot answer any questions. The doctor said it was a heart attack.”

“Dead? Where, when?”

“Early this morning, at home. Apparently, his wife is away, overseas visiting relatives, and neither we nor the police have been able to contact her. I only found out when I tried to call him this morning after the news about Richardson broke, and the police answered the phone.”

He poured a splash of whiskey into the glass and drank it down. If it was to settle his nerves, it wasn’t working.

“And you don’t think it was a heart attack?”

“Too convenient, far too convenient, especially so soon after the Richardson thing, and in the light of this other network logon episode. The two people who allegedly knew about this network are both dying of innocent causes? Something is going on here, and we have to get to the bottom of it before the police, Interpol or any forensic experts, if that’s what they are.”

He poured himself another liberal drink from the bottle and offered me one. I declined. Too early, and my nerves were not yet getting the better of me.

A shiver ran down my spine. I was beginning to buy into his paranoia. It was beginning to look like anyone associated with this secret network found themselves on some sort of hit list. No wonder Aitchison was jumpy. He’d obviously come to the same conclusion I did. He’d been making inquiries, and it might be enough to have his name added to the list.

Telling me about it might just be enough to add my name to that same list. I looked at the whiskey bottle and the glass. It might be time for a nerve-steadying drink.

Aitchison was still talking, and I just caught what he was saying, “… it’s your network. People will be asking questions.”

If he was trying to scare me, it was working.

He continued, “The police were rather sceptical when I said we didn’t know the network was in place. I’m to be interviewed next. You shouldn’t be far behind. Forewarned is forearmed.”

He turned to look out at the city. The view was magnificent, despite the wintry weather.
After a minute, he said, “At least there is one irrefutable fact. Richardson was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s the only explanation. I don’t believe he was trying to log into anything, but he was the victim of a random key combination or a glitch in the power supply to the system. You’ve seen it happen yourself when the power goes down momentarily and just enough time elapses to trick the computer into thinking it has to log in again. There was a brief power outage last night, during the storm. It might be worth investigating that event, and the effect on our systems.”

That was not a bad assessment, and one I hadn’t thought of.

“Then, there is something else, the Chief Inspector mentioned in passing, and that was that one of the employees claimed his building pass card had been stolen. Again, convenient, but the police are questioning him, but according to building security, that pass was used last night.”

“The person who killed Richardson?”

“If you put two and two together and get four. The police aren’t saying much, but that’s the inference I’d draw?”

“And the person with the missing card?”

“A janitor, or maintenance worker, not one of our people. He probably has a police record as long as his arm. You should go. And just a thought. If it were a desktop system connected to the in-house network, then one of our servers had to be used as a gateway. Tell me you installed those special log files when I asked you to last week?”

I had been in two minds about implementing that particular request because, in part, it went against the privacy regulations we had to adhere to.  After reading the relevant legislation and talking to a consulting security company that had advised we were well within our rights to do so, in the end, I did. And it had given several positive results immediately after its implementation, proving beneficial in tracking down people using the network incorrectly. I’m glad he remembered it. In the panic, it slipped my mind.
“Of course! How do you think I tracked down the troublemaker in Distribution?”

“Good. Start the investigation as soon as you get back to the floor, but be careful to make sure no one knows about it or what you are doing. People connected with this seem to be suffering from terminal health problems.”

I stood. I was not sure if I felt suitably inspired.

“I’ll let you know what I find.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2025

The 2am Rant: The colour purple

You would think, being one of a dozen colours that pip onto your head when asked, name a dozen colours, that it would be easy to find almost anything.

Wrong.

We are on a quest to find bridesmaid dresses in, you guessed it, any shade of purple.

We might as well be looking for gold nuggets.  In fact, we’d have a better chance of finding gold than a purple dress.

And, seven stores later, five of which are specialty fashion boutiques, sorry, no one is doing purple. Maybe a dash here or there, but it’s lost in the overall dress that may have flowers or a Picasso abstract.

OK, so the dresses are for a 15-year-old and a 12-year-old, you would think you could go to a Target, or K Mart, or Cotton On, or perhaps the Guess type of store that caters to that 13 to 25 market.

Think again.

Purple, mauve, lilac, or any shade in between just isn’t on the rack.

I suddenly consider the notion of phoning a supermodel and then convincing her to wear every shade of purple every waking hour in public, thus setting a new trend.

I’m betting that within a week, every store on the planet will have purple clothes in stock.

Of course, there is only one flaw in the master plan. I don’t know any supermodels.

So, this search is going to have a bad ending. I’m guessing the bride’s decision for purple and white as the signature color scheme was made before discovering that practically nothing comes in purple.

No the way, it was originally lilac, but that is impossible, not unless there are about 3 years before the wedding and you can get to Hong Kong to have the dresses specially made.

We’ve got about three weeks.

Yes, there’s another thing about this wedding. From announcement to the big day, is six weeks. Logistically, it can’t be done. Practically, there’s going to be a ward in the mental hospital for the wedding party, even if they pull it off.

Meanwhile, it’s back on the trail. There’s one more level to trawl, in what is a very large shopping mall.

And for the first day after the easing of many of the drastic Covid restrictions, it seems everyone for miles around has descended on this very place.

Sigh!

Then, majestically appearing through the mist…

No, not sunshine! A purple dress.

I am all astonishment. And, it’s not just one, there are several.

Hold that thought…

Alas, we find the dress, but not the colour, well, not in that store. Now it’s a matter of phoning other stores to see if they have any purple stock.

I’ll let you know what happens next!

Writing a book in 365 days – 317

Day 317

What we give up to write

…

The Unnecessary Sacrifices: What We Really Give Up To Pursue Our Trade

The narrative of the struggling artisan is deeply ingrained in our culture. The solitary writer fueled by instant coffee, the entrepreneur sleeping on their office floor, the painter eating cold beans for dinner—we romanticise the idea that true devotion requires extreme hardship.

We constantly ask ourselves: What must I tell myself I can do without in order to ply my trade?

This line of questioning often leads us to scrutinise the basic necessities of life. Do we cut food? Do we wear patched clothes? Do we forgo self-care?

The truth, however, is far more subtle and far more strategic. If your trade is a marathon, sacrificing your fuel (physical, intellectual, or emotional) is not devotion—it’s self-sabotage. To thrive, we must learn the difference between necessary austerity and counterproductive deprivation.

Here is a professional perspective on what is truly shed when we commit to our craft, and what must absolutely be protected.

1. Shedding the Myth of Monetary Deprivation

The common wisdom suggests we must sacrifice the big three: food, clothes, and looking good.

If we are being honest, very few successful professionals or skilled tradespeople literally starve themselves or wear rags. What we sacrifice isn’t the necessity itself, but the performative consumption surrounding it.

Food: Quality Over Spectacle

We don’t give up food; we give up time-consuming dining experiences and expensive ingredients that don’t increase our productivity.

The sacrifice is the elaborate lunch hour, the $15 artisanal coffee every morning, or the weekend spent trying complicated new recipes. We trade the gourmet for the pragmatic, optimising our diet for consistent energy and focus. The decision isn’t “Should I eat?” it’s “Does this meal purchase me another hour of high-quality work?”

Clothes and Appearance: Utility Over Status

The sacrifice here is not looking presentable; it is the need to impress onlookers and the time spent shopping for trends.

The dedicated professional often adopts a uniform—a set of clothes that are comfortable, reliable, and require zero decision-making energy in the morning (the classic example of Steve Jobs’ turtlenecks or Mark Zuckerberg’s grey t-shirts). This is a strategic sacrifice of bandwidth. We give up the mental effort of fashion tracking and external validation so that our finite focus can be diverted entirely to the work itself.

2. Protecting the Intellectual Engine

The most dangerous question posed by the hustle culture mindset is whether we must give up books and writing to survive.

For the modern professional—be they a coder, a writer, a consultant, or a marketer—these are not luxuries; they are fundamental operating costs.

If your trade requires cognitive skill, problem-solving, or communication, sacrificing these inputs is akin to a carpenter giving up their hammer.

Books and Reading: Fueling the Engine

We cannot afford to stop learning. When we are deep in the trenches of a trade, reading books—whether they are technical manuals, industry reports, or even great fiction—is the only way to fill the well of knowledge needed to stay competitive.

The real sacrifice is often mindless entertainment: binge-watching television that contributes nothing to our professional growth, or endlessly scrolling validated social media feeds. We trade passive consumption for active learning.

Writing: Sharpening the Tool

Whether you write code, marketing copy, or detailed client briefs, writing is how we clarify thought, document processes, and communicate value. Giving up personal writing, journaling, or even drafting non-work-related essays inhibits our ability to structure complex ideas.

The sacrifice is not the act of writing; it is the expectation of perfectionism in every draft. We sacrifice the time spent trying to make the first sentence flawless so that we can get the crucial idea down quickly and move forward.

3. The True Sacrifices: Time, Comfort, and Bandwidth

When we are truly committed to a trade, the things that disappear are not our fundamental needs, but the luxurious buffers we previously relied upon. These are the real opportunity costs:

1. The Buffer of Time

The biggest sacrifice is spontaneity and unstructured time.

If you are serious about your craft, your schedule becomes deliberately rigid. You sacrifice the freedom to say “yes” to every last-minute social invitation, because that time has already been allocated to deep work, administration, or necessary rest. This is often misunderstood as anti-social behaviour, but it is actually the strategic protection of your workflow.

2. The Comfort of Stability

The trade requires a willingness to live closer to the edge of failure. You sacrifice the comfort of guaranteed outcomes.

Every new project, every pitch, every innovative attempt carries a genuine risk of falling short. This trade demands emotional resilience and the sacrifice of the secure, predictable path for one that offers significant growth but zero guarantees.

3. The Need for External Validation

Finally, we sacrifice the energy spent chasing approval.

When you are intensely focused on the quality of your output, you stop trying to manage the fickle opinions of others. This is where the sacrifice of “looking good” truly comes into play—not physically, but professionally. We stop sacrificing genuine progress for the sake of public performance.

The Wise Exchange

The commitment to a trade is not a vow of destitution; it is a vow of strategic alignment.

The professional does not ask, “What must I suffer through?” but rather, “What non-essential things are draining the time, energy, and resources I need to excel?”

Stop sacrificing your intellectual fuel (books, learning) and your physical fuel (health, decent food). Instead, identify and eliminate the silent drains: the distraction, the excessive consumerism, the need for immediate gratification, and the fear of saying “no.”

Ply your trade, but do so from a position of strength, not starvation. Sacrifice wisely, or risk burning out before the real work ever begins.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Monte Carlo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I learned about writing – Not everyone can write a political thriller


I don’t understand politics.

The question is, do you really have to?

I mean, all you have to do is read the papers and read between the lines. It doesn’t take much imagination to find something worth writing about

For instance,

How could it possibly happen that a leader of a very powerful country becomes a spy for another?

It doesn’t seem plausible, but is it possible?

It depends, I’m guessing, on power and wealth, well, perhaps not so much the power, but money and wealth are indeed great motivators.

How could it happen when the leader is in the public eye nearly all of the time? And even if that leader has closed-door conversations, which is doubtful, he would be on his own; there would not really be an opportunity to sell out to the other side.

Even an exchange of gifts, like apartments or a dacha, wouldn’t be enough of an incentive, well, not for me anyway. But a clear path to investment in a rival country, maybe.

Perhaps then, rather than becoming a spy, the leader could adopt a policy of appeasement.

We have history to tell us how well that works, and the fact of giving concessions to another country only emboldens it to take advantage of apparent weakness, and then, hey presto, we have another war.

So…

What do we really have?

A lot of speculation and conjecture. It’s easy to construe what might be the truth from a set of circumstances and behavioural patterns of the individuals involved.

It could be likened to two cats circling each other in a cage before the fight begins.

The waters can be muddied by a constant stream of incendiary tweets which fire the readers’ imagination, all intended as a smoke screen, or feelers to see which way the wind is blowing.

Is that leader masterful and clever, or is he a naive fool?

My political thriller might have a working title of,

‘Which Way Does The Wind Blow’

I don’t usually have a title for any of the books until after the first draft, or sometimes something might spring out as it’s being written.

But, for now, let’s sit back and see which way the wind is blowing.

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.

I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Belfast

Beyond the Titanic: Five Unexpected Delights on Belfast’s Road Less Travelled

Belfast. The name often conjures images of the magnificent Titanic, its grand harbour, and perhaps a sprinkle of its complex history. And while these are undeniably essential stops, the real magic of Belfast, for those willing to venture off the beaten path, lies in its hidden gems and emerging experiences.

If you’ve “done” the Titanic and are looking for an authentic taste of this vibrant city, then strap in. We’re taking a detour down the roads less travelled to uncover the next five must-do’s and must-see’s in Belfast.

1. Dive into the Digital World at the Ulster Museum’s New Interactive Zones

While the Ulster Museum has always been a treasure trove of art, history, and natural sciences, it’s been quietly upping its game for the digital age. Forget dusty displays; venture into their newly developed interactive zones. These aren’t just for kids, though they’ll certainly love them! Imagine stepping into a virtual reality reconstruction of ancient Ulster, or engaging with cutting-edge exhibits on the science of sound and light through hands-on digital interfaces. It’s a dynamic and engaging way to connect with heritage and innovation, proving that learning can be as exciting as any adventure.

2. Explore the Artisanal Delights of the Cathedral Quarter’s Hidden Alleys

Beyond the buzzing pubs and restaurants of the Cathedral Quarter, lies a labyrinth of charming, often overlooked alleyways and courtyards. This is where Belfast’s creative pulse truly beats. Seek out independent galleries showcasing local artists, discover quirky vintage boutiques tucked away from the main drag, and stumble upon intimate coffee shops serving up exceptional brews. Keep an eye out for vibrant street art that adorns the brickwork, transforming these forgotten corners into open-air galleries. It’s an exploration that rewards patience and a keen eye for detail.

3. Get Your Hands Dirty at a Local Food Growing Project or Urban Farm

Belfast, like many modern cities, is embracing sustainability and local produce with open arms. The “road less travelled” here involves connecting with the city’s green initiatives. Look for opportunities to visit or even volunteer at a local food growing project or an urban farm. These spaces are more than just patches of land; they are community hubs fostering a deeper connection to where our food comes from. Learn about organic farming, taste freshly harvested produce, and engage with the passionate individuals who are nurturing these vital green spaces within the urban landscape. It’s a refreshing and grounding experience.

4. Uncover the Stories on the Outskirts: The Belfast Peace Walls and Community Art Tours

While the iconic Peace Walls are a significant part of Belfast’s history, venturing further afield offers a more nuanced and personal perspective. Instead of a standard tour, opt for a community-led tour focusing on the art and stories that have emerged from these areas. These tours are often run by people who have lived through the Troubles, offering raw, honest, and incredibly moving accounts. You’ll witness powerful murals that have become symbols of hope and resilience, and gain a profound understanding of the ongoing journey towards reconciliation. It’s a challenging but essential experience for anyone seeking to truly understand Belfast.

5. Experience the Buzz of a Local Gig in an Unconventional Venue

Belfast has a thriving music scene, but the real gems are often found outside the mainstream venues. Seek out local gigs in unconventional spaces. Think intimate pubs with a dedicated live music night, community centres hosting emerging bands, or even pop-up events in repurposed warehouses. This is where you’ll discover the authentic, raw talent that defines Belfast’s musical soul. The atmosphere is electric, the music is diverse, and the experience is infinitely more memorable than a crowded arena.

Belfast is a city that rewards curiosity. By stepping off the well-trodden tourist trails, you unlock a richer, more authentic, and deeply rewarding experience. So, next time you find yourself in this captivating city, dare to take the road less travelled. You might just discover your new favourite story, your most inspiring artwork, or your most unforgettable moment.

What are your favourite hidden gems in Belfast? Share them in the comments below!

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers.  Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier.  I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village.  I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed.  In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passenger’s attention.  Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back.  He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury.  He looked at her ticket then nodded dismissively, and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway.  I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see there was something about her.  It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile.  I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone.  Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model.  I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris.  The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on.  I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me.  I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin.  My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast.  With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination.  It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight.  It would give me enough time to sample the local fare, and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch.  After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward.  I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and let the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked, and what part I played in it.  And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out.  What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land.  There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would need to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later a keen military mind.  If nothing else I could ride a horse, and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no-one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared.  I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue and I had an aptitude for programming.  I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which although I hated the subject, I excelled in.  Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.  There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks.  It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer simply because of who I was.  In that time I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist, and through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues.  I knew that in building a relationship compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing.  There was a certain expectation I had to fulfill, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented.  The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged.  Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian.  He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties.  He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns.  He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa.  From that moment, my obscurity disappeared.  It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses.  He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door.  There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa?  For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her when she had a certain air of unpredictability.  That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future.  She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her.  It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move.  The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red.  It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific.  In fact, her sublime beauty was the one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact her hair was short, rather than long, and jet black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid.  I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes, before retracing my steps to the front of the ship and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water.  It was almost mesmerizing.  There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa, and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned.  The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close me without my realizing it.  How did she do that?  I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping.  I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck.  There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her particularly around the eyes, and of her hair which was jet black.  An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtle, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory.  The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent, and fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate.  Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes.  My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No.  Not yet.”  I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak.  And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanor as a little warmth reached her eyes.  “So that’s a maybe.  Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away.  Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped she turned to face me again.  She did not move closer.

I realized then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket.  “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe.  By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease.  “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side then the other, looking intently at me.  “You seem to be familiar.  Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings.  If she was, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me.  Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.”  I also didn’t mention the fact she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realized who I was.  “Yes, I remember now.  You made the front cover of the Economist.  You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course.  She was not the first who had recognized me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not the Sternhaven’s.  That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family.  I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.”  Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky.  It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.”  She smiled again.  “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts.  I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me.  It had been Sebastian on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money.  He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right.  I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around.  “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head.  Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit.  “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised, or amused.  “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment.  “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave.  Instead she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot.  To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true.  Aside from the fact this excursion was probably a bad idea.  And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignoring their natural instinct.  I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing.  I was supposed to be traveling with my prospective bride.  I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?”  Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment then came back to me.  She seemed surprised I might be traveling with someone.

“No.  She is back in England, and the wedding is off.  So is the relationship.  She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her?  I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge.  No walking the plank today.  She moved towards it and sat down.  She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair.  Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds if she used this approach with anyone else.  I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us.  After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message.  It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.”  She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her.  “But it is done, and I moved on.  Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry.  Sometimes I ask personal questions without realizing what I’m doing.  It is none of my business.”  She shivered.  “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood, and held out her hand.  Should I take it and be drawn into her web?  I thought of Sebastian.  What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet.  “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

newdevilcvr6

Writing a book in 365 days – 317

Day 317

What we give up to write

…

The Unnecessary Sacrifices: What We Really Give Up To Pursue Our Trade

The narrative of the struggling artisan is deeply ingrained in our culture. The solitary writer fueled by instant coffee, the entrepreneur sleeping on their office floor, the painter eating cold beans for dinner—we romanticise the idea that true devotion requires extreme hardship.

We constantly ask ourselves: What must I tell myself I can do without in order to ply my trade?

This line of questioning often leads us to scrutinise the basic necessities of life. Do we cut food? Do we wear patched clothes? Do we forgo self-care?

The truth, however, is far more subtle and far more strategic. If your trade is a marathon, sacrificing your fuel (physical, intellectual, or emotional) is not devotion—it’s self-sabotage. To thrive, we must learn the difference between necessary austerity and counterproductive deprivation.

Here is a professional perspective on what is truly shed when we commit to our craft, and what must absolutely be protected.

1. Shedding the Myth of Monetary Deprivation

The common wisdom suggests we must sacrifice the big three: food, clothes, and looking good.

If we are being honest, very few successful professionals or skilled tradespeople literally starve themselves or wear rags. What we sacrifice isn’t the necessity itself, but the performative consumption surrounding it.

Food: Quality Over Spectacle

We don’t give up food; we give up time-consuming dining experiences and expensive ingredients that don’t increase our productivity.

The sacrifice is the elaborate lunch hour, the $15 artisanal coffee every morning, or the weekend spent trying complicated new recipes. We trade the gourmet for the pragmatic, optimising our diet for consistent energy and focus. The decision isn’t “Should I eat?” it’s “Does this meal purchase me another hour of high-quality work?”

Clothes and Appearance: Utility Over Status

The sacrifice here is not looking presentable; it is the need to impress onlookers and the time spent shopping for trends.

The dedicated professional often adopts a uniform—a set of clothes that are comfortable, reliable, and require zero decision-making energy in the morning (the classic example of Steve Jobs’ turtlenecks or Mark Zuckerberg’s grey t-shirts). This is a strategic sacrifice of bandwidth. We give up the mental effort of fashion tracking and external validation so that our finite focus can be diverted entirely to the work itself.

2. Protecting the Intellectual Engine

The most dangerous question posed by the hustle culture mindset is whether we must give up books and writing to survive.

For the modern professional—be they a coder, a writer, a consultant, or a marketer—these are not luxuries; they are fundamental operating costs.

If your trade requires cognitive skill, problem-solving, or communication, sacrificing these inputs is akin to a carpenter giving up their hammer.

Books and Reading: Fueling the Engine

We cannot afford to stop learning. When we are deep in the trenches of a trade, reading books—whether they are technical manuals, industry reports, or even great fiction—is the only way to fill the well of knowledge needed to stay competitive.

The real sacrifice is often mindless entertainment: binge-watching television that contributes nothing to our professional growth, or endlessly scrolling validated social media feeds. We trade passive consumption for active learning.

Writing: Sharpening the Tool

Whether you write code, marketing copy, or detailed client briefs, writing is how we clarify thought, document processes, and communicate value. Giving up personal writing, journaling, or even drafting non-work-related essays inhibits our ability to structure complex ideas.

The sacrifice is not the act of writing; it is the expectation of perfectionism in every draft. We sacrifice the time spent trying to make the first sentence flawless so that we can get the crucial idea down quickly and move forward.

3. The True Sacrifices: Time, Comfort, and Bandwidth

When we are truly committed to a trade, the things that disappear are not our fundamental needs, but the luxurious buffers we previously relied upon. These are the real opportunity costs:

1. The Buffer of Time

The biggest sacrifice is spontaneity and unstructured time.

If you are serious about your craft, your schedule becomes deliberately rigid. You sacrifice the freedom to say “yes” to every last-minute social invitation, because that time has already been allocated to deep work, administration, or necessary rest. This is often misunderstood as anti-social behaviour, but it is actually the strategic protection of your workflow.

2. The Comfort of Stability

The trade requires a willingness to live closer to the edge of failure. You sacrifice the comfort of guaranteed outcomes.

Every new project, every pitch, every innovative attempt carries a genuine risk of falling short. This trade demands emotional resilience and the sacrifice of the secure, predictable path for one that offers significant growth but zero guarantees.

3. The Need for External Validation

Finally, we sacrifice the energy spent chasing approval.

When you are intensely focused on the quality of your output, you stop trying to manage the fickle opinions of others. This is where the sacrifice of “looking good” truly comes into play—not physically, but professionally. We stop sacrificing genuine progress for the sake of public performance.

The Wise Exchange

The commitment to a trade is not a vow of destitution; it is a vow of strategic alignment.

The professional does not ask, “What must I suffer through?” but rather, “What non-essential things are draining the time, energy, and resources I need to excel?”

Stop sacrificing your intellectual fuel (books, learning) and your physical fuel (health, decent food). Instead, identify and eliminate the silent drains: the distraction, the excessive consumerism, the need for immediate gratification, and the fear of saying “no.”

Ply your trade, but do so from a position of strength, not starvation. Sacrifice wisely, or risk burning out before the real work ever begins.

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

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

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the current situation?”

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

He looked in my direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was hoping for the latter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was nerves more than the cold.

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

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

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fear factor increased exponentially.

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

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

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

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

We needed a distraction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Charles Heath 2016-2020