Category: Author

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 17

As we all know, writing by the seat of your pants is almost the same as flying by the seat of your pants, a hazardous occupation.

As it happens, I like writing this way because like the reader, I don’t know what to expect next.

And equally, at times, you can write your self into a corner, much like painting, and then have to go back, make a few changes and//or repairs and then move forward.

It’s part of the writing process, only in this case, the changes occur before you’ve finished the novel, if you finish.  Quite often a lot of writers get only so far, then the manuscript hits the bottom drawer, to be brought out on a distant rainy day.

Or your cat has mocked your writing ability one too many times.

Therefore, we’re winding back to Episode 16, and moving forward once again, from there.

Why didn’t it surprise me that Nobbin was playing all ends against the middle if that was the expression?  What really bothered was that he wasn’t prepared to tell me the truth or trust me to help find the missing information.  But he had known I might become interested and do some investigating of my own.

Perhaps Nobbin feared Severin might track me down, as he had, and if I had found the USB, run the list of losing it to his foe.

Nor was it a surprise that someone else, namely Severin, was after the information, and he would have access to everything Nobbin did, and he was equally disadvantaged.  It was either Severin or one of his agents, that was caught in O’Connell’s flat and found ‘Josephine’ there.

I didn’t believe her name was Josephine, or that she lived in the flat next door.  And I didn’t think Severin had found anything going by the way the flat had been turned over, and the fact it looked like no one had lived there.

Having now dealt with both men, I was still on the fence about who was on the right side and who was on the wrong side, or whether they were both of questionable character.  What made it difficult to understand was how Severin could run an operation inside the organisation.  Surely someone knew about it, or from a high level, sanctioned it?

Knowing I would not be interrupted this time, I went back up to the third floor, and into O’Connell’s flat, a simple job since the front door was still unlocked.  The girl had assumed it was no value to them which told me she had already searched the place before being attacked.

Just in case anyone was likely to return, or there was another party interested in O’Connell, I locked the door from the inside.  At least no one had yet crashed through the door, smashing the lock and timber.

I stood in the middle of the main room, and did a slow 360-degree turn, looking at everything intently.  The thing with searches like this, it was more likely the object of any search was hidden in plain sight.  The usual places, such as the freezer, sections of fridges, stashed in bottles or packets in the pantry, under beds, inside mattresses, pillows, or under blankets, or with a form of glue on the inside of televisions or computers would prove fruitless.

We were taught to hide things such as USB sticks where they would be least expected to be found, such as a toy on a keyring, tossed in a bowl of pens, pins, clips, or other small insignificant items that all looked uninteresting.

My first thought was in the pocket of a coat in the closet, but all his clothes were strewn over the floor in the bedroom showing signs of being turned out.  Perhaps the searcher or searchers had thought like me.

There was no keyring in the kitchen or the bedroom, no was there any sort of stand inside the door, a place to put mail, and other items such as keys.  If there were any, they would have been on him when Severin had him killed.  I had not found, not felt, any in his pockets, not unusual for an agent in the field.  If you were captured or killed, you wanted nothing on you that could identify you or what you were doing.

Next I thought, a hidden compartment.  I was not going to predict he had a safe in the flat, but just in case, I did search thoroughly where one might be located.  The cheap watercolour on the wall hid nothing but some discoloured wallpaper.

I checked all the skirting boards, and inside walls of the robes, but there was nothing.  I also checked the robes thoroughly for false backs, or sides, or compartments hidden in the roof.  The floor was made from wood, so I checked to see if there were any loose boards, but in the end, considered that was a ruse used only in the movies and on television.

An hour later, I was no wiser as to where it could be, if at all, in the flat, but, looking around, it was certainly now a little more organised because in checking everything in case the previous searchers had missed anything, I’d put everything neatly in stacks.

And, no, there was nothing under the bed.  The previous searchers had thought of that too.

But, in one corner of the main room, there was a desk that had been completely turned out, papers were strewn everywhere.  There had been a computer, now missing, because there was a cable running from the printer, and a power cable in the wall, both running into thin air.

The papers yielded nothing of interest, other than he was researching a holiday to Russia and Poland. 

For two.

A break.  There was a significant other.  I made a more serious search of the papers that I’d gathered up off the floor and found a shred of a quickly torn up piece of paper, of which only this piece remained.  A name:  Jan, scribbled on it, with half another word ‘ord’.

Did this Jan also live in this block?  Did she work at the same place?  There were a hundred variations of that theme, but it was a start.  He might have trusted the USB to her safekeeping without telling her what it was, and it was possible she didn’t know he was dead.

I’d noticed that O’Connell’s death had been reported as a John Doe on the wrong end of an alleged mugging, the small dismissive paragraph on page seven reported the body was missing when police went to investigate a pool of blood in an alley, along with several other crimes of which police were seeking further information.  That alley hadn’t any CCTV cameras, so Severin knew he could easily shoot O’Connell without anyone knowing it was him.

There was nothing else of interest in the documents, other than the holiday, if it was a holiday, was to be in a month’s time.

My work was done.  I had a lead.  It was time to leave.

Except for one small problem.  Someone was knocking on the door.

© Charles Heath 2019-2022

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 10/11

Days 10 and 11 – Writing exercise

Standing over the grave, staring down at the coffin that held the body of my wife, there was only one question.  “Just who the hell were you?”

…

I was there when Mary Antoinette Davis died.  I wasn’t expecting it, but who does, at any time?

It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.  Simple, fast, a blink of an eye, and she was gone.

It wasn’t fair, but then, most of life isn’t.  It hands you a deck of cards, and you put them in the order you want them to be in.  And sometimes you get it right, and sometimes you get it wrong.

Like that morning.

The same as every other morning when Mary was home.  We slept in till ten, wandered around the house for an hour, had coffee, toast and marmalade, home-made by the neighbour next door.

Dress and go shopping, or sometimes to the cafe to have tea and scones.

Not this morning.

It was to the village grocery shop.

It had been raining.  The side of the road was wet, so we were walking on the edge of the road when there were no cars.

And then, within sight of the shop front, a car came, rather fast, and we got out of the way.

Just.

But she slipped on the wet grass and fell down.  Shaken.  She thought she had hit her head, feeling a little faint, but then, after a few minutes, she was back to her old self again.

We bought oranges, apples, some rhubarb, and bananas.  A fruit salad.

Then it happened.  I turned to pay Silvia, the storekeeper, and when I turned back, Mary had collapsed on the floor.

Quietly.

Not panicking, thinking it might be some residual effect from the slip, I took her hand and squeezed it, saying, “Are you alright?”

There was no response.

I shook her shoulder gently, but there was still no response.

I turned back to Sylvia.  “Please call an ambulance.  This might be serious.”

I heard her go over to the telephone and dial the number.  I turned back and decided to test for a pulse.  Not that I could remember how.

That was when Doc Adams came in, saw Mary on the ground, and came straight over.  He had been her doctor for most of her life.

“What happened?”

“She slipped and fell outside, avoiding a speeding car, and I think she hit her head, but she wasn’t dizzy for long.  She just collapsed just now.”

I watched him as he checked everything I’d forgotten to, and then for a pulse.  He was shaking his head.

Sylvia yelled out, “Ambulance here in five, they were just up the road.”

Otherwise, it would take twenty from the nearest depot.

“There’s no pulse, her eyes…”

He leaned down to see if she was breathing, then started C.P.R.

I didn’t want to ask, but in that moment I felt a chill run through me.  I knew she was dead because part of me had just died with her. 

That’s when I felt the room start to turn, and moments later, nothing.

…

I woke in the small hospital in the nearest town.  It handled non-serious cases, but mostly acted as a triage centre before shipping people off to the city an hour away.

Mary wasn’t there.

Angelina, the matron, nurse, pseudo doctor when Doc Adams was not there or in transit, and general factotum, was sitting beside the bed, knitting.

Nobody ever knew what she was knitting, and they never asked.

“You’re awake?”

I hoped I was recovering from a nightmare because my first thought was horrifying if it was true.

“Mary?”

“Doc couldn’t revive her.  I’m sorry, Evan.  Doc said she had taken a blow to the temple area, found an abrasion, went back to the accident site and found the rock.  Delayed reaction, or some such.”

“She’s dead?”

“Yes.  The police will be here soon and ask you some questions.  Routine, whatever that means.  Doc had her taken to the city hospital, and you will have to go and identify her, for the record.”

She put the knitting aside and stood.  “Doc told me it would not be a good idea if you drove anywhere, just for a day. It’s been a huge shock for you, for all of us.  Doc asked me to bring you, unless…”

“It’s fine.  I don’t think I could concentrate.  How is it possible…?”

“Simple things sometimes trump the more complex.  The odds are a million to one that she would fall and hit her head in that exact spot.  A billion to one even.  I can’t believe it myself.  None of us can.”

She continued with her checks, ticking boxes and making notes with the fountain pen that Mary had given her last Christmas.  They were old friends.  Angelina had known her long before I had, and they had their secrets.

“Can I go now?”

“Sorry.  No.  Not yet.  Have to monitor you for a half hour.  Doc’s orders.

…

I felt fine, but then what I thought I knew was not what Angelina was taught to expect.  Her medical training was extensive, proving a handy backup for the Doc.

He had asked her if she wanted to go to med school; he could arrange it, but she had shied away from fully committing because she wanted better.

What could be better than being a doctor?

I would be one in a heartbeat if I had the talent, but I did not.  I was destined to be an agricultural labourer, with no qualifications and no prospects.

What I couldn’t believe was a brilliant girl who could be anything she wanted, wanted to marry me and live in the village.  When she was not away being brilliant at her real job.

She explained it to me some time ago, but it was all double Dutch to me, well, some of it anyway.  I was a little smarter than I looked, and I think Mary knew, just decided not to rock the boat.

Her friends certainly thought I was just this farmer guy, punching above his weight.  It was true, if not unexpected.  She was the belle of the ball, the pick of the crop, and I ran last in the stakes for a date.

Until I saved her from one of the upper-class boys.  That day, I became her hero and their whipping boy.  Until one day it stopped.  Henry Turbot, son of the local laird, considered her his property because his parents owned everything, even us pathetic farm workers.

And then went about proving a point.

Until he disappeared.

The mystery of the missing Henry Turbot.  The police came and asked questions until they were satisfied I had nothing to do with his disappearance.  Apparently, according to some, there was a portal near the bakery building, painstakingly rebuilt when transferred from a local Stonehenge to the common.

Somehow, he had activated it and disappeared into the ether.  People preferred mumbo-jumbo to the truth;  he had disappeared to his grandmother’s in America. 

I was the luckiest man in the village.  Now I was the saddest.

…

It was painful to visit her in the big city hospital morgue.  It was her, she was dead, and I had half an hour before she was taken to the undertaker.

The funeral was in a few days.

She had no family, so there was no one to call.  We had no family, she was unable to have children because of a riding mishap when she was younger, and I was an only child of now deceased parents.

She had friends all through the village.  They were all devastated.  Most treated me with indifference, and now she was gone, as though I didn’t exist.

I rang her work, picking a number off her phone that oddly said work.  It was strange.

“Identification?”

“It’s Mary Antoinette Davis husband.  I’m calling to tell you she died yesterday.”

“Who is this?”

Didn’t they listen?  “I’ve already told you “

Silence for a moment.  “Wait.”

I waited.  For five minutes, then a woman answered, “Who is this?”

“The husband of Mary Davis.  I’m calling the number on her phone that says work. Who are you?”

“Irrelevant.  She’s dead.”

“Yesterday.  An accident.”

“And you are,”

“Her husband.”

“Of course.  Thank you.”

The line went dead.  I put the phone down, and a minute later it looked as if self-destructed.

What the hell…

What a strange bunch of people she worked for.  But what did I know about medical research and finding cures for complex maladies?  It was ironic that a medical condition other than a serious disease killed her.

Slipping and falling on a rock.

I thought no more of it and went down to the local pub.  Rex, one of the other farmers, asked me if I wanted to talk.  I didn’t, but perhaps a drink or two might have eased the pain.

Outside the pub, I arrived at the same time as a black Audi.  I don’t know why it caught my attention.  Perhaps it was the four men sitting in it.  Suits, big, men who’d seen a few bar fights.

They didn’t get out.  I went inside.

Rex was sitting at the side of the bar where we farmers say, away from the village folk.  Rex was nibbling at the remnants of a pork pie.  There were two large ales sitting in front of him.

I went over and sat.  He slid one over.

“You should be looking sadder,” he said without looking at me.  He was watching the door.

“I am.  I’m just hiding it well.”

The ale was not bad.  It was one the publican brewed himself.  He was getting better at it.  Rex and I were his Guinea pigs.

“Shell be missed.”

“Especially by me, Rex.”

“Damn horrible way to go.  It just goes to show we can all pop off at any moment.”

If been thinking about that, the randomness of it.  I’d also been reliving the event over and over in case I missed a detail, a sign that would tell me everything wasn’t alright.

There wasn’t any.

So, we talked.  People came, and people went, some who knew her, some who didn’t.  No one had a bad word to say about her.  Her friends, though, nodded but didn’t have anything to say.

If I could read minds, they’d probably be saying it was my fault she was dead.  If it came to that, they were probably right.  If she had not come home, it would never have happened.

It was, quite literally, my fault.

…

I left the pub after one too many drinks.  I didn’t drive, I walked, and I took the back path behind the pub that cut through the thicket and the bottom of Giles’ farm, two up from mine.

It was a public access path, and there had never been any trouble about it.  There was none tonight, except that as I approached our house, I saw two men walking towards the road, and a car drove off at speed.

That was unusual for these parts.

I went around the front, and when I got to the door, I could see it was ajar slightly.  I didn’t remember leaving it unlocked or partly open.

I pushed it open and looked in.  Someone had trashed the place, tossing everything out of cupboards, off shelves, off benches,  drawers emptied, seats slashed, and the stuffing ripped out.

In the other rooms, it was worse, clothes and belongings tossed everywhere, walls smashed in with gaping holes.

Someone had been looking for something and not found it.

I called the village constable.

…

Constable Jack Dwyer was close to retirement and ready to hang up his hat; that realisation, he said, was after trying to chase down a young offender on foot.

Neither the speed nor the stamina these days for the requirements of modern policing.

He was old school.

He arrived at the door where I was waiting outside, not wanting to contaminate the crime scene any more than I already had.

I watched all the police shows and knew the jargon.

“Evan.”

“Constable.”

“Jack, please.  You and Mary are friends.” 

He had a slight wheeze from the walk from the lane up to the door.

He peered in the door, and I heard a sharp intake of breath.  “What have we here?’  He pushed the door open further and took a few steps into the room.

I followed.

“When?”

“I came home a half hour ago, so it happened in the three hours before that.  I was at the pub.  Came home, this was what I found.”

“Touch anything?”

“Very little.”

“Anything missing?”

“Nothing obvious.  Why would people be looking in walls? That strikes me as not your average thief.”

“It does not.  I’ll call it in.  This is serious.”

“Do you think it might be something to do with Mary’s death.  She was a cutting-edge researcher, brought something home?”

He shrugged.  “Can’t say.  Let the experts work it out.  Above our collective pay grade, I think.”

He went back out onto the porch and made the call.

I took another look.  I tried to recall any episodes of the dramas I watched for similar incidents.  The best I could come up with; she was a spy and had secrets hidden away, on hand in case she had to run.

And then I laughed at the stupidity of that assessment.  She was a medical researcher.  Her work took her all over the world.  She was going to cure cancer.  We spoke about it often.  If anyone could, I knew it would be her.

When I came out of the bedroom, Jack was by the front door examining it, then looked at me, “Who has a key to the front door.”

“Both of us.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.  Why.”

“This door shows no signs of tampering.  It was opened with a key.”

Mine was in my pocket.  I had her bag, collected from the hospital when I identified her.  I fetched it from the car.  The key was on a key chain with other keys we shared.

“Both accounted for.”

He shrugged.  “Can you stay somewhere else for a few days?”

“Of course.”

We went out, and I locked the door and gave him the key. 

“I’ll let you know when the forensics are done.  They should be here tomorrow.  Bad business, Mary going like that.  One in a billion, the Doc says.  I’m sorry for your loss.”

I thanked him, and he left.

I refused to believe this had anything to do with Mary’s death.

…

The funeral service was attended by everyone in the village and some from the surrounding villages.  There was no one out of place, or I didn’t recognise.

No one from her work turned up.  I had met some of her colleagues fleetingly, first names only and only briefly to the point where I wouldn’t recognise them again.

The rebuff from the telephone call still lingered, and the fact that the phone self-destructed, well, no explanation made it sound plausible.

It was a beautiful service, a tribute to the fact that everyone loved her.  I got to say a few words before I couldn’t.  Others were equally overcome by emotion.

It was a short trip from the church to the freshly dug grave, where another little service was conducted, and the coffin was lowered into the grave.

Flowers, dirt, done.  Handshakes, hugs,  muttered condolences and then nothing.  I was alone by the grave, staring down at what had been the love of my life.

Then my cell phone rang.

No name, no number.

“Hello?”

“Evan, Mary’s husband?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t go home.  Leave, now.  Don’t look back.”

“What?  Who is this?”

“I worked with Mary.  She was murdered.  They’re after me.  And now you.  They think we have it, but we don’t, and no one will believe us.  Run.  Now.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone.  That voice on the other end.  Near hysterical.

I stared down at the box in the grave.  “Just who the hell were you, Mary Antoinette Davis?”

The truth was, I didn’t know, and what I thought I knew wasn’t even remotely true.

In that moment, a montage of scenes popped into my head.  The knowing looks between friends, the nuances and double meanings of her conversations, the way the policeman, the doctor and the matron acted.  They all knew.

A loud bang that sounded very much like a gunshot came from behind me, and I jumped, almost slipping into the grave.

I ran.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Adelaide, Australia

Discover Adelaide’s Best-Kept Secrets: Top 5 Crowd-Free Gems with Unique Charms

Adelaide, nestled in South Australia’s vibrant heart, is a treasure trove of cultural richness and natural beauty. While the city is home to iconic attractions like the Adelaide Zoo and the bustling Rundle Mall, it also harbours lesser-known wonders that promise unforgettable experiences without the crowds. If you’re looking to explore Adelaide’s hidden gems, here are five distinctive spots that are rarely overrun but brimming with charm.

1. Tandanya National Aboriginal Cultural Institute: A Window into Aboriginal Heritage

Tucked away in the city centre, the Tandanya National Aboriginal Cultural Institute is Australia’s oldest and largest Aboriginal-led cultural space. This dynamic museum showcases the art, stories, and traditions of South Australia’s First Nations peoples through immersive exhibitions, from contemporary art to traditional artifacts. Unlike larger, more generic museums, Tandanya offers a deeply authentic cultural experience with a serene atmosphere that draws visitors in for meaningful exploration rather than mere sightseeing.

Why it’s crowd-free: It’s often overlooked by mainstream tourist itineraries, making it a peaceful place to immerse yourself in history and art.
Pro tip: Check out their calendar for live performances and workshops for a more interactive visit.

2. Cleland Wildlife Park: Up-Close Encounters with Aussie Fauna

For a unique wildlife adventure, head to Cleland Wildlife Park, just a short drive from Adelaide’s CBD. This sanctuary is home to native species like koalas, kangaroos, and wallabies. Visitors can feed and photograph these creatures in a natural setting, but unlike busier zoos, Cleland’s laid-back vibe and spacious enclosures keep the atmosphere intimate.

Why it’s crowd-free: Mid-week visits or early mornings ensure a quiet experience, with plenty of space to roam and connect with nature.
Pro tip: Book a guided tour to learn about conservation efforts and meet nocturnal creatures in their hideaways.

3. Adelaide Gaol: A Glimpse into Dark Historical Days

Step into the shadows of Adelaide’s past at the Adelaide Gaol, a 19th-century prison that held some of Australia’s most notorious figures. This atmospheric site blends eerie history with engaging guided tours, where tales of rebellion, harsh punishment, and resilience come to life. The gaol’s moats and rusted cells offer a tangible connection to South Australia’s colonial legacy.

Why it’s crowd-free: While it’s a historic site, its solemn focus deters mass tourism, making it ideal for history buffs.
Pro tip: Opt for the 90-minute “History Tour” to uncover lesser-known stories and enjoy the most in-depth experience.

4. Old Government House: A Quaint Royal Retreat

Set within the lush grounds of the Adelaide Botanic Garden, Old Government House is a charming colonial-era mansion that served as a residence for South Australia’s governors. The building’s neoclassical architecture and manicured gardens offer a tranquil escape, while its hidden history as a “royal retreat” adds intrigue.

Why it’s crowd-free: Tucked inside a crowded attraction, the house and garden are often overlooked by tourists rushing to see the main highlights.
Pro tip: Visit during the weekdays to enjoy guided docent tours and the peace of the surrounding rose gardens.

5. Japanese Garden (Adelaide Botanic Garden): A Zen Oasis in the City

Within the sprawling Adelaide Botanic Garden, the Japanese Garden is a serene, minimalist haven filled with koi ponds, maple trees, and sand raked in meditative patterns. Designed in the late 1980s by Hidetori Matsumura, this gem is a perfect spot for reflection or a quiet picnic, far removed from the typical tourist hotspots.

Why it’s crowd-free: Its specific location within the garden and niche appeal ensure a peaceful, crowd-free experience.
Pro tip: Bring a sketchbook or a camera—this garden is a photographer’s dream, especially during spring when the blossoms are in full bloom.

Conclusion: Adelaide’s Hidden Treasures Awaits
Adelaide’s quieter attractions offer a perfect blend of history, culture, and natural beauty without the hassle of crowds. Whether you’re exploring the Tandanya’s Aboriginal art or savouring the peace of the Japanese Garden, these spots provide a deeper, more personal connection to the city’s soul. So next time you’re in Adelaide, venture off the well-trodden path—these hidden gems are sure to leave a lasting impression.

Respect the environment and local communities by following guidelines, especially in wildlife parks and cultural institutions. Enjoy your journey! 

What I learned about writing – Point of View

Your Story’s Lens: A Guide to the Pros and Cons of Every Point of View

Ever read a book and felt like you were right there, inside the character’s head, hearing every thought and feeling every heartbeat? Or maybe you’ve felt like a fly on the wall, watching events unfold with a god-like perspective, knowing secrets the characters themselves don’t.

That shift in experience is the magic of Point of View (POV).

Choosing your point of view isn’t just a grammatical decision; it’s the single most important lens you’ll place on your story. It defines the reader’s relationship with your characters and shapes the entire narrative. Get it right, and your story will sing. Get it wrong, and you can create confusion and distance before the plot even gets going.

So, how do you choose the right lens? Let’s break down the “big four” POVs, exploring their unique strengths and weaknesses.

First Person: The “I” of the Storm

What it is: The story is told from the perspective of a character using “I,” “me,” and “my.” We experience everything directly through our senses and biases.

The Advantages:

  • Unparalleled Intimacy: This is the gold standard for creating a deep, personal connection. The reader isn’t just watching the character; they are the character.
  • A Unique Voice: First-person is the perfect vehicle for a strong, distinct narrative voice. Think Holden Caulfield’s cynical ramblings or Katniss Everdeen’s pragmatic survivalism. The voice is the story.
  • Built-in Suspense: The reader knows only what the narrator knows. This is fantastic for creating mystery, as an unreliable narrator can deliberately (or unintentionally) mislead the reader.

The Disadvantages:

  • A Limited World: The narrator can only be in one place at one time. If something important happens off-screen, they have to hear about it secondhand, which can feel clunky.
  • Risk of Navel-Gazing: Stuck in one person’s head for 300 pages can become claustrophobic. It’s easy to fall into long, repetitive internal monologues that slow the pacing.
  • Describing the Narrator: It’s notoriously difficult for a first-person narrator to describe themselves organically without sounding like they’re staring at a mirror.

Best for: Character-driven stories, thrillers, and novels where a unique, memorable voice is key.

Second Person: The “You”

What it is: The story speaks directly to the reader, casting them as the protagonist using “you.” It’s rare in fiction but powerful when done well.

The Advantages:

  • Total Immersion: This POV drops the reader directly into the action. It’s an active, engaging experience that can feel incredibly urgent and personal. It’s the foundation of “Choose Your Own Adventure” books for a reason.
  • Unconventional and Experimental: It immediately breaks the mould and signals to the reader that this is going to be a different kind of story. It can be used to create a sense of disorientation or memory loss.

The Disadvantages:

  • Can Feel Gimmicky: It’s a high-risk, high-reward POV. If the reader doesn’t connect with being told who they are, it can feel alienating and pretentious.
  • Hard to Sustain: For a full-length novel, the constant “you, you, you” can become exhausting for both reader and writer. It works best in shorter fiction or specific stylistic choices.

Best for: Short stories, experimental fiction, video games, and interactive narratives.

Third Person Limited: The Close Third

What it is: The narrator uses “he,” “she,” and “they,” but sticks closely to the perspective of a single character at a time. We see the world through their eyes, feel their emotions, and know their thoughts, but from a slightly more external voice.

The Advantages:

  • The Best of Both Worlds: It offers much of the intimacy of first person without the claustrophobia. You also get more flexibility in prose and the ability to describe your protagonist from the outside.
  • Creating Dramatic Irony: The narrator can subtly hint at things the character doesn’t yet understand, building suspense for the reader. The Harry Potter series masterfully does this with Harry’s cluelessness about certain plot points.
  • Greater Scope: You can switch perspective characters between chapters or scenes, allowing you to show parallel storylines (though you must avoid “head-hopping” within a single scene).

The Disadvantages:

  • Can Lack a Strong Voice: It can sometimes feel less distinctive than a strong first person. The narrative voice can blend into the background if not handled with care.
  • Head-Hopping Danger: The biggest pitfall is accidentally slipping into another character’s thoughts within the same scene. This disorients the reader and breaks the POV contract.

Best for: The vast majority of commercial fiction, from fantasy and sci-fi to romance and thrillers. It’s the workhorse of modern storytelling.

Third Person Omniscient: The All-Knowing Narrator

What it is: The narrator is a god-like entity who knows everything about everyone. They can dip into any character’s mind, travel anywhere in time and space, and offer commentary on the events.

The Advantages:

  • Epic Scope: This is the POV for sprawling, epic sagas. Want to show the king on his throne, the soldier in the field, and the assassin in the shadows all in the same chapter? Omniscient is your tool. Think Lord of the Rings or War and Peace.
  • Masterful Control: The omniscient narrator can build suspense on a grand scale, weaving together plot threads and creating dramatic irony that the characters themselves could never achieve.

The Disadvantages:

  • Can Feel Distant: By jumping between so many heads, it can be difficult for the reader to form a deep, lasting bond with any single character.
  • Risk of Info-Dumping: It’s easy for an omniscient narrator to simply tell the reader everything instead of showing them through scenes. This can feel like a history lesson, not a story.
  • Can Feel Old-Fashioned: While it’s making a comeback, this POV is strongly associated with 19th-century literature. It takes a very skilled author to keep it feeling fresh and modern.

Best for: Epic fantasies, historical sagas, and stories with a massive cast of characters and sprawling plots.

Choosing Your Lens

There is no “best” point of view—only the best point of view for your story. Is your tale an intimate portrait of one person’s struggle? First person might be your answer. Is it a grand, epic battle for a kingdom’s fate? You might need the power of omniscience.

Think about the experience you want to give your reader. Do you want them to be a participant, a close confidante, or an all-knowing observer? Your answer will point you to the perfect lens.

So, experiment. Try writing a scene from two different POVs and see how it feels. The choice is yours, writer. Now, go frame your perfect shot.

What’s your favourite POV to write in, and why? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at:  https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaine’s at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaine’s frequently visited, and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’.  It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over.  It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half frown half-smile, Alison was looking stunning.  It was months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary.  On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to.  She had adored it, and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars got on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds silence, and many more gasps.

Even I had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room.  Once more I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me.  Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others ‘out there’ who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight.  She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together.  It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement.  Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with the permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it.  Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out she had straightened it.  And took the moment to look deeply into my soul.  It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me.  A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.”  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’ but I accepted it with good grace.  Sometimes Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand.  I guessed she was talking about the new job.  “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely.  “There are no secrets between Al and I, are there Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al.  I tried it once and was admonished.  But it was interesting her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not.  It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil.  As I understood it, the Blaine’s were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaine’s thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realized I was looking at both of them.  I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand.  And yet, apparently, Alison did.  I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets.  Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us.  It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me.  We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?”  Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face.  It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind.  Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realized it would be churlish, even silly if I made a scene.  I knew what I wanted to say.  I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine, or upsetting Alison.  This was not the time or the place.  Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing.  If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decide there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control.  “It’s the little things.  They all add up until one day …”  I shrugged.  “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real?  Or; I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me.  I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points.  It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted.  “Alison was off to get some study in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up, and immediately got the ‘shut up you fool’ look, that cut that line of conversation dead.  Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose.  Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend.  “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation.  I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show.  I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass gathering some courage and turned to him.  “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up.  You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realized I had spoken.  He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed.  Or perhaps it was deliberate.  She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me.  “Yes.  Elaine said something or other about it.  But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week.  Perhaps I got it wrong.  I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”  I shrugged, as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again.  “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart.  It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; it was possible she was now telling me lies.  If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect.  Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows.  Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details.  “You sure you want to do that?”

At last the voice of reason.  “Me?  No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him.  Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him.  “Jimmy, between you and me I haven’t as yet decided one way or another.  To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay that recently moved in the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognized the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago.  Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker.  I felt sick, faint, and wanting to die all at the same moment.  “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time.  Too busy with work I expect.  I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted and I knew I had to keep it together.  I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down.  I sucked in some deep breaths, and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown.  Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth.  It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction.  It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and I.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.  She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points.  Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine.  She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly.  I chose to ignore her, and pretend nothing had happened, instead of telling her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’.  I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me.  It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, Jimmy came looking for me.  I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse.  When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which to a large degree it was for the other three.  But I had achieved what I set out to do, and that was to play them at their own game, watching the deception, once I knew there was a deception, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree.  It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaine’s back to the Upper West Side.  But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer.  She showed concern for my health, asked me what was wrong.  It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it.  Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

Sunday In New York

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Perth, Australia

Discover Perth’s Hidden Gems: Top 5 Under-the-Radar Attractions with Unique Charm

Perth, Australia, is often celebrated for its stunning beaches and vibrant culture, but for those seeking quieter, more distinctive experiences, the city and its surroundings harbour lesser-known treasures. These five attractions offer a blend of natural beauty, history, and artistry—without the usual tourist crowds. Perfect for travellers craving serenity and authenticity, here’s where to explore Perth’s hidden side.

1. Bold Park: Eucalyptus Groves and Botanical Wonders

Tucked between the Swan River and the Darling Scarp, Bold Park is a sprawling oasis of 580 hectares of native flora, walking trails, and historic landmarks. While it’s larger than many realize, its size ensures it’s often overlooked by the average tourist. Wander through ancient jarrah and marri forests, or stroll the Daly-Douglas Bridge for panoramic views of the river. The park’s crowning jewel is the Botanic Garden and Perth Zoo, but venture deeper for peaceful spots like the Chinese Garden of Friendship—a tranquil blend of art and horticulture. Bold Park is perfect for picnics, birdwatching, and immersing yourself in WA’s unique ecosystem.

2. South Perth Foreshore: Scenic River Serenity

Just a stone’s throw from the city centre, the South Perth Foreshore offers a picturesque riverside escape. This 2.5-kilometre promenade along the Swan River is ideal for a leisurely walk or bike ride, with breathtaking bridges, art installations, and sweeping views of the city skyline. Unlike the busier northern foreshore, this area is rarely packed, making it a prime spot for yoga, photography, or a quiet sunset. Don’t miss the Hassell Bridge at dusk—its illuminated arches reflect beautifully on the water, creating a postcard-perfect scene.

3. Karrakatta Cemetery: A Garden of History

Step into the past at Karrakatta Cemetery, WA’s original burial ground and a living museum of colonial history. Established in 1829, this peaceful garden cemetery is the resting place of Western Australia’s founding figures, including Premier John Forrest and pioneering women like Lady Frederick Broome. Its serene paths and historic monuments offer a unique glimpse into the region’s past. The cemetery’s ornate design and lush greenery make it a fitting tribute to those who shaped Perth. It’s also a birdwatcher’s haven, with native species thriving in the quiet environment.

4. Perth Institute of Contemporary Arts (PICA): Modern Art with a Side of Serenity

For art lovers, PICA is a must-visit. Located in the heart of Perth, this contemporary art space hosts cutting-edge exhibitions, performances, and installations that often fly under the radar of typical tourist itineraries. The venue’s sleek architecture and thoughtfully curated collections create an atmosphere that’s both inspiring and understated. PICA’s indoor-outdoor spaces and rooftop views of the city add to its charm. With smaller crowds than the Art Gallery of WA, it’s a perfect spot to engage with Australia’s modern art scene at your own pace.

5. Kings Park’s Secret Spots: Beyond the Main Attractions

While Kings Park is Perth’s largest park and a major draw for wildflower season, its lesser-known nooks remain uncrowded. Skip the main lawns and trek to the Pinjarra Hills for peaceful bushwalking or the Garden of Resilience, a 1.5-hectare native plant garden showcasing WA’s environmental efforts. The Culturama (open for three months each spring) offers interactive Indigenous art workshops and a cultural hub with a relaxed vibe. These hidden corners of Kings Park provide a chance to connect with nature and local heritage without the crowds.

Why Explore These Gems?

Perth’s less-crowded attractions often highlight the city’s unique identity—whether through history, art, or natural beauty. By venturing beyond the usual spots, travellers can experience a more intimate side of Western Australia, free from the hustle and bustle of mainstream tourism.

Next time you’re in Perth, take the path less travelled. Discover where eucalyptus groves meet contemporary art, and history mingles with serene landscapes. These hidden spots not only showcase the city’s diversity but also reinforce why Perth is more than just a gateway to the West Australian coast—it’s a destination with layers waiting to be uncovered.

Have you visited any of these underrated attractions? Share your favourite hidden gems in the comments below! 🌿✨

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 10/11

Days 10 and 11 – Writing exercise

…

Standing over the grave, staring down at the coffin that held the body of my wife, there was only one question.  “Just who the hell were you?”

I was there when Mary Antoinette Davis died.  I wasn’t expecting it, but who does, at any time?

It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.  Simple, fast, a blink of an eye, and she was gone.

It wasn’t fair, but then, most of life isn’t.  It hands you a deck of cards, and you put them in the order you want them to be in.  And sometimes you get it right, and sometimes you get it wrong.

Like that morning.

The same as every other morning when Mary was home.  We slept in till ten, wandered around the house for an hour, had coffee, toast and marmalade, home-made by the neighbour next door.

Dress and go shopping, or sometimes to the cafe to have tea and scones.

Not this morning.

It was to the village grocery shop.

It had been raining.  The side of the road was wet, so we were walking on the edge of the road when there were no cars.

And then, within sight of the shop front, a car came, rather fast, and we got out of the way.

Just.

But she slipped on the wet grass and fell down.  Shaken.  She thought she had hit her head, feeling a little faint, but then, after a few minutes, she was back to her old self again.

We bought oranges, apples, some rhubarb, and bananas.  A fruit salad.

Then it happened.  I turned to pay Silvia, the storekeeper, and when I turned back, Mary had collapsed on the floor.

Quietly.

Not panicking, thinking it might be some residual effect from the slip, I took her hand and squeezed it, saying, “Are you alright?”

There was no response.

I shook her shoulder gently, but there was still no response.

I turned back to Sylvia.  “Please call an ambulance.  This might be serious.”

I heard her go over to the telephone and dial the number.  I turned back and decided to test for a pulse.  Not that I could remember how.

That was when Doc Adams came in, saw Mary on the ground, and came straight over.  He had been her doctor for most of her life.

“What happened?”

“She slipped and fell outside, avoiding a speeding car, and I think she hit her head, but she wasn’t dizzy for long.  She just collapsed just now.”

I watched him as he checked everything I’d forgotten to, and then for a pulse.  He was shaking his head.

Sylvia yelled out, “Ambulance here in five, they were just up the road.”

Otherwise, it would take twenty from the nearest depot.

“There’s no pulse, her eyes…”

He leaned down to see if she was breathing, then started C.P.R.

I didn’t want to ask, but in that moment I felt a chill run through me.  I knew she was dead because part of me had just died with her. 

That’s when I felt the room start to turn, and moments later, nothing.

…

I woke in the small hospital in the nearest town.  It handled non-serious cases, but mostly acted as a triage centre before shipping people off to the city an hour away.

Mary wasn’t there.

Angelina, the matron, nurse, pseudo doctor when Doc Adams was not there or in transit, and general factotum, was sitting beside the bed, knitting.

Nobody ever knew what she was knitting, and they never asked.

“You’re awake?”

I hoped I was recovering from a nightmare because my first thought was horrifying if it was true.

“Mary?”

“Doc couldn’t revive her.  I’m sorry, Evan.  Doc said she had taken a blow to the temple area, found an abrasion, went back to the accident site and found the rock.  Delayed reaction, or some such.”

“She’s dead?”

“Yes.  The police will be here soon and ask you some questions.  Routine, whatever that means.  Doc had her taken to the city hospital, and you will have to go and identify her, for the record.”

She put the knitting aside and stood.  “Doc told me it would not be a good idea if you drove anywhere, just for a day. It’s been a huge shock for you, for all of us.  Doc asked me to bring you, unless…”

“It’s fine.  I don’t think I could concentrate.  How is it possible…?”

“Simple things sometimes trump the more complex.  The odds are a million to one that she would fall and hit her head in that exact spot.  A billion to one even.  I can’t believe it myself.  None of us can.”

She continued with her checks, ticking boxes and making notes with the fountain pen that Mary had given her last Christmas.  They were old friends.  Angelina had known her long before I had, and they had their secrets.

“Can I go now?”

“Sorry.  No.  Not yet.  Have to monitor you for a half hour.  Doc’s orders.

…

I felt fine, but then what I thought I knew was not what Angelina was taught to expect.  Her medical training was extensive, proving a handy backup for the Doc.

He had asked her if she wanted to go to med school; he could arrange it, but she had shied away from fully committing because she wanted better.

What could be better than being a doctor?

I would be one in a heartbeat if I had the talent, but I did not.  I was destined to be an agricultural labourer, with no qualifications and no prospects.

What I couldn’t believe was a brilliant girl who could be anything she wanted, wanted to marry me and live in the village.  When she was not away being brilliant at her real job.

She explained it to me some time ago, but it was all double Dutch to me, well, some of it anyway.  I was a little smarter than I looked, and I think Mary knew, just decided not to rock the boat.

Her friends certainly thought I was just this farmer guy, punching above his weight.  It was true, if not unexpected.  She was the belle of the ball, the pick of the crop, and I ran last in the stakes for a date.

Until I saved her from one of the upper-class boys.  That day, I became her hero and their whipping boy.  Until one day it stopped.  Henry Turbot, son of the local laird, considered her his property because his parents owned everything, even us pathetic farm workers.

And then went about proving a point.

Until he disappeared.

The mystery of the missing Henry Turbot.  The police came and asked questions until they were satisfied I had nothing to do with his disappearance.  Apparently, according to some, there was a portal near the bakery building, painstakingly rebuilt when transferred from a local Stonehenge to the common.

Somehow, he had activated it and disappeared into the ether.  People preferred mumbo-jumbo to the truth;  he had disappeared to his grandmother’s in America. 

I was the luckiest man in the village.  Now I was the saddest.

…

It was painful to visit her in the big city hospital morgue.  It was her, she was dead, and I had half an hour before she was taken to the undertaker.

The funeral was in a few days.

She had no family, so there was no one to call.  We had no family, she was unable to have children because of a riding mishap when she was younger, and I was an only child of now deceased parents.

She had friends all through the village.  They were all devastated.  Most treated me with indifference, and now she was gone, as though I didn’t exist.

I rang her work, picking a number off her phone that oddly said work.  It was strange.

“Identification?”

“It’s Mary Antoinette Davis husband.  I’m calling to tell you she died yesterday.”

“Who is this?”

Didn’t they listen?  “I’ve already told you “

Silence for a moment.  “Wait.”

I waited.  For five minutes, then a woman answered, “Who is this?”

“The husband of Mary Davis.  I’m calling the number on her phone that says work. Who are you?”

“Irrelevant.  She’s dead.”

“Yesterday.  An accident.”

“And you are,”

“Her husband.”

“Of course.  Thank you.”

The line went dead.  I put the phone down, and a minute later it looked as if self-destructed.

What the hell…

What a strange bunch of people she worked for.  But what did I know about medical research and finding cures for complex maladies?  It was ironic that a medical condition other than a serious disease killed her.

Slipping and falling on a rock.

I thought no more of it and went down to the local pub.  Rex, one of the other farmers, asked me if I wanted to talk.  I didn’t, but perhaps a drink or two might have eased the pain.

Outside the pub, I arrived at the same time as a black Audi.  I don’t know why it caught my attention.  Perhaps it was the four men sitting in it.  Suits, big, men who’d seen a few bar fights.

They didn’t get out.  I went inside.

Rex was sitting at the side of the bar where we farmers say, away from the village folk.  Rex was nibbling at the remnants of a pork pie.  There were two large ales sitting in front of him.

I went over and sat.  He slid one over.

“You should be looking sadder,” he said without looking at me.  He was watching the door.

“I am.  I’m just hiding it well.”

The ale was not bad.  It was one the publican brewed himself.  He was getting better at it.  Rex and I were his Guinea pigs.

“Shell be missed.”

“Especially by me, Rex.”

“Damn horrible way to go.  It just goes to show we can all pop off at any moment.”

If been thinking about that, the randomness of it.  I’d also been reliving the event over and over in case I missed a detail, a sign that would tell me everything wasn’t alright.

There wasn’t any.

So, we talked.  People came, and people went, some who knew her, some who didn’t.  No one had a bad word to say about her.  Her friends, though, nodded but didn’t have anything to say.

If I could read minds, they’d probably be saying it was my fault she was dead.  If it came to that, they were probably right.  If she had not come home, it would never have happened.

It was, quite literally, my fault.

…

I left the pub after one too many drinks.  I didn’t drive, I walked, and I took the back path behind the pub that cut through the thicket and the bottom of Giles’ farm, two up from mine.

It was a public access path, and there had never been any trouble about it.  There was none tonight, except that as I approached our house, I saw two men walking towards the road, and a car drove off at speed.

That was unusual for these parts.

I went around the front, and when I got to the door, I could see it was ajar slightly.  I didn’t remember leaving it unlocked or partly open.

I pushed it open and looked in.  Someone had trashed the place, tossing everything out of cupboards, off shelves, off benches,  drawers emptied, seats slashed, and the stuffing ripped out.

In the other rooms, it was worse, clothes and belongings tossed everywhere, walls smashed in with gaping holes.

Someone had been looking for something and not found it.

I called the village constable.

…

Constable Jack Dwyer was close to retirement and ready to hang up his hat; that realisation, he said, was after trying to chase down a young offender on foot.

Neither the speed nor the stamina these days for the requirements of modern policing.

He was old school.

He arrived at the door where I was waiting outside, not wanting to contaminate the crime scene any more than I already had.

I watched all the police shows and knew the jargon.

“Evan.”

“Constable.”

“Jack, please.  You and Mary are friends.” 

He had a slight wheeze from the walk from the lane up to the door.

He peered in the door, and I heard a sharp intake of breath.  “What have we here?’  He pushed the door open further and took a few steps into the room.

I followed.

“When?”

“I came home a half hour ago, so it happened in the three hours before that.  I was at the pub.  Came home, this was what I found.”

“Touch anything?”

“Very little.”

“Anything missing?”

“Nothing obvious.  Why would people be looking in walls? That strikes me as not your average thief.”

“It does not.  I’ll call it in.  This is serious.”

“Do you think it might be something to do with Mary’s death.  She was a cutting-edge researcher, brought something home?”

He shrugged.  “Can’t say.  Let the experts work it out.  Above our collective pay grade, I think.”

He went back out onto the porch and made the call.

I took another look.  I tried to recall any episodes of the dramas I watched for similar incidents.  The best I could come up with; she was a spy and had secrets hidden away, on hand in case she had to run.

And then I laughed at the stupidity of that assessment.  She was a medical researcher.  Her work took her all over the world.  She was going to cure cancer.  We spoke about it often.  If anyone could, I knew it would be her.

When I came out of the bedroom, Jack was by the front door examining it, then looked at me, “Who has a key to the front door.”

“Both of us.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.  Why.”

“This door shows no signs of tampering.  It was opened with a key.”

Mine was in my pocket.  I had her bag, collected from the hospital when I identified her.  I fetched it from the car.  The key was on a key chain with other keys we shared.

“Both accounted for.”

He shrugged.  “Can you stay somewhere else for a few days?”

“Of course.”

We went out, and I locked the door and gave him the key. 

“I’ll let you know when the forensics are done.  They should be here tomorrow.  Bad business, Mary going like that.  One in a billion, the Doc says.  I’m sorry for your loss.”

I thanked him, and he left.

I refused to believe this had anything to do with Mary’s death.

…

The funeral service was attended by everyone in the village and some from the surrounding villages.  There was no one out of place, or I didn’t recognise.

No one from her work turned up.  I had met some of her colleagues fleetingly, first names only and only briefly to the point where I wouldn’t recognise them again.

The rebuff from the telephone call still lingered, and the fact that the phone self-destructed, well, no explanation made it sound plausible.

It was a beautiful service, a tribute to the fact that everyone loved her.  I got to say a few words before I couldn’t.  Others were equally overcome by emotion.

It was a short trip from the church to the freshly dug grave, where another little service was conducted, and the coffin was lowered into the grave.

Flowers, dirt, done.  Handshakes, hugs,  muttered condolences and then nothing.  I was alone by the grave, staring down at what had been the love of my life.

Then my cell phone rang.

No name, no number.

“Hello?”

“Evan, Mary’s husband?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t go home.  Leave, now.  Don’t look back.”

“What?  Who is this?”

“I worked with Mary.  She was murdered.  They’re after me.  And now you.  They think we have it, but we don’t, and no one will believe us.  Run.  Now.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone.  That voice on the other end.  Near hysterical.

I stared down at the box in the grave.  “Just who the hell were you, Mary Antoinette Davis?”

The truth was, I didn’t know, and what I thought I knew wasn’t even remotely true.

In that moment, a montage of scenes popped into my head.  The knowing looks between friends, the nuances and double meanings of her conversations, the way the policeman, the doctor and the matron acted.  They all knew.

A loud bang that sounded very much like a gunshot came from behind me, and I jumped, almost slipping into the grave.

I ran.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

In a word: Murder

I started off thinking that murder was pretty straight forward, you know, someone pulls out a gun and shoots someone else: murder.  Of course, there are any other means of doing the same crime, by knife, poison, strangulation, or suffocation.

Or, by endless inane conversation.  Much less chance of going to jail with that one.

Its the stuff that keeps crime writers going, fictional detectives detecting and crime scene investigators analysing.

Still the fact someone might be getting away with murder, means they’ve successfully found a way to have their cake and eat it.

Come to think of it how many times have we used that word in vain, like when a child drives you to distraction, red-faced and you say with a great deal of conviction ‘you do that again I’ll murder you’.

Just make sure it doesn’t actually happen, or those words will come back to haunt you.

But this is only one aspect of using the word.

You could, if you want, scream blue murder, which is literally impossible.  In fact, what the does that really mean?

It can also refer to an onerous task or experience, hence the possibility that listening to that discussion about hot water bottles was absolute murder.

For one thing, it probably murdered an hour or two of my time.

It could also describe a comprehensive defeat, that we murdered the other side 86 to nothing.  Come to think of it, I never got to participate in such a game, so that might account for why I’d never heard it used before.

And, lastly…

Did you know it can refer to a flock of a particular type of bird, I think crows.

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

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…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

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