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.

…

newdevilcvr6

In a word: Minor

It’s, on the one hand, the opposite of major, and not the military rank, but the lesser of two evils.

It was a minor misdemeanor, so you won’t be going to jail for life, just 20 years, maybe.

Or perhaps you’re referring to a child who is also known as a minor.

And, once upon a time, there was a car called a Morris Minor. I know, my father owned one.

And one of my uncles owned a Morris Major, yea, the Morris car company didn’t have much imagination.

Music-wise it is having intervals of a semitone between the second and third degrees, and others.

It is also qualifying in a subsidiary subject in college in America.

And while we’re still in America, there are the minors, a rather interesting description for the minor baseball league.

Something I remember when reading books about children in British private schools, was where there were two boys in different grades, one would have minor attached to his name, e.g. Smith minor.

The Billy Bunter books spring to mind, but the discrimination police would have them banned these days.

Of course, there’s another word that sounds somewhat similar, miner.

We all know that a miner digs ore out of the ground, a name given to a single man, or a huge corporation.

A computer program could be called a data miner.

A miner is a South American bird, and it’s also an Australian bird.

It also describes a person who obtains units of cryptocurrency using a specific computer program.

There is another variation, mynah, but that used to describe a bird.

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.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 31

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

I woke to the sound of a cracking sound behind me, and, when I rolled over, I found myself staring up the barrel of a gun.

The number one rule broken, don’t fall asleep in enemy territory.

But something else bothered me in those few seconds as I struggle to wake up and comprehend what was happening. Where was Jack? If he’d been here this would not have happened.

But still bleary-eyed from just waking up and in that initial confused state of not knowing where and when, all I could see was a uniformed shape holding the gun standing over me, and feel, in those few seconds that I was not going to survive this.

I braced myself for a bullet, wondering if death was going to be instantaneous. I had hoped I might die in a less inglorious manner.

“Sam? Is that you?”

It was a rather dumb question to be asking an enemy soldier because my mind hadn’t adjusted to the fact the soldier was not in a German uniform, nor in work clothes, but quite possibly the uniform of a soldier from the castle, and if it was, why be asking the question and not just shooting me?

Then, finally, my eyes focussed and I could see clearly who it was, and breathed a sigh of relief. Whoever it was, knew me but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. But in the next second, I saw the gun retract and the man behind it come closer and crouch down beside me.

He was not a soldier from the castle, but a soldier in the familiar British uniform. From somewhere else entirely. An Army Captain if I was not mistaken, which, for another second, I also thought was odd.

And then recognition of a face I hadn’t seen in years.

“Blinky?”

OK, so it was a strange nickname, but it was apt, William O’Reilly blinked a lot, hence the nickname. And Will had been on the same training course as I had three years before, only he had ended up in administration. Bad eyesight.

“It is you, Sam.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I dragged myself up from the ground to sit up. I did a quick scan around me, but Jack was nowhere to be found. It was not like him to desert me when trouble arrived.

“Apparently rescuing your sorry ass. Now that I’m here, I can see why the Colonel said you needed help.” He held out his hand and pulled me up.

“Forster? You work for him?”

“No, but he asked for someone who knew you by sight, and I was the only one available. Besides, I was getting sick of sitting behind a desk while the rest of you were out in the field doing heroic shit.”

I brushed the undergrowth off my uniform and straightened my clothes. It didn’t make me feel any more comfortable.

“I don’t think falling asleep is very heroic. When did the orders come through?”

“Yesterday. A message was sent and received, a rendezvous at an old church. I came with three others, including a very serious sergeant major who had absolutely no sense of humor. I saw this farm; thought I’d check it out.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t get your head shot off.”

“By the man-mountain. Nearly, yes, until I told him who I was. Said you were up here. Waiting for something?”

“Then enemy. We were hoping they turn up so we could deal with them.”

“That would be the traitors up at the castle, or the turncoat resistance members working with them? Carlo, he told me his name, he reckons it’s not happening. Said once I found you to come down and we’ll catch up with the others at this church.”

I picked up the weapon and then we headed towards Carlo’s position.

I could see the Colonel’s reasoning. Send someone I knew who couldn’t be working for the other side. It worried me that the message from Thompson hadn’t been received, because if it had, Martina would have got someone to tell us.

That she hadn’t concerned me.

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 4

Four

I’d been to London before, mot with Cecile but my parents on an end of school graduation present. My father had called it a mission to see how the other half live, and why, in his opinion our country didn’t need a Queen to be our head of state.

A Republican, not a royalist. But it had done little to change my opinion, simply because it didn’t matter to me who ran the country, all positions of any colour were equally as useless.

But I remembered the trek over London, seeing the horse guards, number 10 downing street, the houses of parliament, Westminster Abbey and Buckingham palace. A whirlwind of ancient buildings that had been in existence long before our country had been discovered.

A little of that sense of awe I had then came back when passing by Trafalgar square and heading down Whitehall as far as Whitehall place.

If we were not on a mission, I would have liked to spend more time exploring because the last time had been so quick and disjointed. My father had not been one for being a tourist. Neither, apparently, was Emily.

In sight of the hotel, I felt a shiver go down my spine, either a sign of the cold weather or there was something wrong.

I stopped suddenly and turned. Emily nearly crashed into me, eliciting a grunt between disapproval and annoyance. “What is the matter with you?”

She turned also to see what had caught my interest. She was too late, but I hadn’t. Two people, what looked to be a man and a woman, had almost managed to blend into the background, but not before I caught a glimpse of them.

They were familiar in the sense that I could swear I’d already seen them before, way back at Trafalgar square trying to act like tourists, which was what caught my attention.

“There’s nothing there, you’re jumping at shadows.”

I still kept an eye on that direction, waiting to see if they showed themselves. They didn’t, but that didn’t mean they were not there. And if they were following is, I was leading them to the hotel where if we discovered nothing, they no doubt had the resources that could.

Better I didn’t lead them there.

“Believe it or not, there’s two people following us and I’m not going to lead them to the hotel. We are going past it and onto the gardens, then along the riverside to the Houses of Parliament if we have to, to lose them.”.

It took a combination of the cold weather and luck to shake off the people following us.

In fact, by the time I realized they were no longer there, I had begun to believe it was just a case of nerves and imagination.

We’d walked quite a distance up the Embankment, almost to Westminster Abbey before coming back down Whitehall. Even with snow lightly falling, there were the intrepid tourists vying to get their photos taken with the Horseguards standing in guard duty.

It was not a job I could do in all sorts of weather, but standing still on a day that is cold, snowing, or worse raining, would be debilitating, if not impossible.

Emily had not said very much while we dodged and weaved, and, to her, it must have seemed comical. And after I said I thought we were in the clear she said, “Are you sure you’re not suffering from an overactive imagination?”

At that moment, in the middle of Whitehall with the snow coming down, her comment seemed valid. “That’s quite likely, but I honestly thought I saw someone, possibly two people more than once.”

“There’s a lot of people out and about, so seeing them more than once doesn’t necessarily mean they’re following us.”

True, but it was better to be safe than sorry. And I had a very bad feeling we were going to run into them again. Whatever Cecile had done, it had to be serious if she was trying this hard not to be found.

It didn’t take long, after walking a brisk pace in the cold, spurred on by the fact the snow was falling more densely, and it was getting harder to see anything through the white shroud before we reached the hotel again. I checked again, waiting a minute or two, just to make sure we’d got away from them before escorting Emily through the door.

Once inside, after shaking off the snow, it was considerably warmer. I notice then my hands had begun to freeze, and stepping back into warmth cause a tingling sensation through them. Another hour and they’d be iceblocks.

We took off our coats and went over to the reception counter.

The check-in clerk with the name tag ‘Wendy’, hung up the phone, the call she was on completed, then turned her attention to us.

“How may I help you?”

“I’m hoping you have a guest here named Cecile Robinson. She would have checked in four days ago. My name is James Bentley and she was expecting me.”

Wendy typed the name into the computer. It took about a minute before her expression changed, possibly indicating she’d found something.

“I’ll be just a moment.”

Without waiting for my response as she went through a door almost behind her, onto an office of sorts. I could see two people in there just before the door closed.

The reception desk manager, or security.

I just hoped she wasn’t calling the police.

…

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 14

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Was I working for a ghost?

Training sometimes was one of those things that went in one ear and came out the other. That accounted for the boring bits, but our instructors called it tradecraft.

I guess I should have taken more notice at the time.

Home was a bedsit in Bloomsbury, Not far from the Russell Square underground station, on the ground floor overlooking the small park. Sometimes, in summer I would sit there and watch the world go by, thinking there had to be more to life than waiting for an opportunity.

To do what, at the time, I didn’t know. But, when this opportunity presented itself, oddly as a rather strange ad in the help wanted pages of the newspaper, I guess the people who put it there were looking for the curious sort, with a sense of adventure.

My first impression of the job was that of a courier who would be required to travel a lot. It said, in part, “must be prepared to travel to different locations worldwide, understand the requirement of confidentiality, and must be able to respond to emergencies that might occur in the carrying out of your duties.”

To me, it spelled courier, though I rather hoped it wasn’t the briefcase handcuffed to a wrist sort and no guns.

After the first interview, I think I had guessed correctly, though, in subsequent training, the word tradecraft put a slightly different slant to the job. That, and the surveillance module, sold to us as “you need to know if you are being followed, recognise hostiles, and be able to deal with them.”

But, it was the notion that we should get out of any habits we had, those that made us predictable to an enemy, yes, they actually used the word, enemy. Like for instance, if we caught the same train, or bus, into the city. If we went to the same cafe for coffee, restaurant for lunch or dinner, met people in a pub on the same day, same time, each week.

Before all this, I found comfort in a regular schedule. I hated being late, except when the transport system let me down. I had a regular stop off on the way to the office for coffee, and usually went to the same cafe for lunch at the same time.

Inevitably I would leave home at the same time and quite often return home at the same time. OK, I was boring and predictable. Now it was a little different, with some variation in departure and arrival times, as well as the places I stopped for coffee, and lunch or dinner.

This day I was very late, after dark in fact, getting back to the flat.

I went in after checking for mail, not that anyone ever sent letters these days, unlocked my door, went in and switched on the light.

The whole of the living space had been trashed. Well, more to the point, someone had checked everywhere it was possible to hide anything, which I didn’t, and hadn’t bothered cleaning up after them.

Had they been interrupted?

If that had happened the landlady would be down in a flash the moment I walked in the door, not to commiserate on my bad luck, but to issue me with an eviction notice. Very little was tolerated in her establishment.

That she hadn’t told me that whoever did this had done it very quietly, and without anyone knowing. We had been taught the same procedures which is why I recognised the signs. This had to be done by my previous employers. The only question I had was why?

I had nothing they could possibly want.

I took a few minutes to clean up the mess so that instead of a thorough trashing, it just looked like the aftermath of a wild party, then went out to get a coffee and think about why this had happened.

Not far up the road was a cafe I went to for dinner if I wasn’t doing something else, and, lo and behold, the minute I walked in the door, there was Severin, sitting at the back half disguised by the evening newspaper.

Obviously, he’d been waiting for me.

Yes, now I understood the implications of being someone who did the same thing over and over.

There was no mistaking the invitation, and, after briefly considering ignoring him, realised that was not going to work. After seeing what happened to O’Connor at their hand, I didn’t want to join him.

I sat down. “I have to say this is an unexpected surprise.”

He put the paper down. “For both of us, I can assure you. I’ll get straight to the point. I want the USB.”

“What USB?”

“That your target was carrying, it wasn’t on him, so by elimination, not being anywhere at the crime scene, you must have it. He either gave it to you, or you took it from him. Where is it?”

I took a minute to process what he was saying. I had not seen a USB, not had he given me one, not was there one nearby. I would have seen it. No need to pretend to be surprised. I was.

“I haven’t got it.”

“He didn’t give you anything?”

“How could he, you were there just about the same time as I was. And after you shot him, he had nothing on him. Whatever you’re looking for, it must still be in the alley, or he hid it somewhere else. And since you shot him, I doubt whether you’ll ever find out.”

He shook his head and folded his paper. “If you’ve got it we’ll find out. and it will not bode well for you. And if you accidentally find it, here’s my card. Call me.”

He dropped a card on the table as he got up.

I picked it up just as he stopped and turned to give me a last look before walking out the door. There was no mistaking the intent, if they thought I had it, I’d be dead now.”

And it meant that the evidence O’Conner was referring to was on a USB. All I had to do was find it. Or Nobbin did.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 8

Day 8 – How to improve your vocabulary

…

No Textbooks, No Timetables: 5 Ways to Improve Your Vocabulary on the Fly

We’ve all been there. You’re in the middle of an important email, a compelling conversation, or a presentation, and suddenly, the perfect word is… just out of reach. It’s like a mental shimmer, a ghost on the tip of your tongue. You settle for a lesser word, and the moment passes.

In a busy world, who has time for flashcards, vocabulary lists, and scheduled study sessions? The good news is you don’t need them. Building a more powerful, precise, and impressive vocabulary isn’t about a massive time commitment. It’s about building smarter, faster habits into the life you’re already living.

Here are the five best ways to improve your vocabulary on the fly, turning everyday moments into learning opportunities.

1. Become a Context Detective

This is your number one, tool-free, anytime-anywhere superpower. When you stumble upon an unfamiliar word while reading an article, a report, or even a social media post, don’t skip over it. Pause and become a detective.

What it is: Using the surrounding words, phrases, and sentences to deduce the meaning of an unknown word.

Why it works: The brain is a pattern-matching machine. By analysing the context, you’re actively engaging with the new word rather than passively receiving it. This active effort forges a much stronger memory link than simply looking it up.

How to do it on the fly: Read the sentence before and after the word. Ask yourself: What’s the topic? Is the word being used to describe something positive, negative, large, or small? For example: “The politician’s speech was so turgid that most of the audience started checking their phones.”

Even if you’ve never seen “turgid,” you can infer it’s negative and probably means something like bloated, boring, or overly complex. Make a mental guess. This act of guessing primes your brain to remember the real meaning later.

2. Master the “Tap-and-Lookup” Rule

Being a context detective is great, but sometimes you need confirmation. This is where your smartphone becomes your best friend, not a distraction.

What it is: The immediate, reflexive action of looking up an unknown word the moment you encounter it.

Why it works: Momentum is everything. If you wait, you’ll forget. By looking it up within seconds, you connect the word directly to its context and your initial guess. This creates a complete learning package in under ten seconds.

How to do it on the fly: Keep a dictionary app (like Merriam-Webster or Dictionary.com) on your phone’s home screen. When you read a word you don’t know—whether in an email, an ebook, or a news article—literally tap and look it up right then. Read the definition, and then go back and reread the sentence with your new understanding. The “aha!” moment is instant.

3. Eavesdrop Like a Writer (or an Active Listener)

Your ears are vocabulary-building goldmines, especially in our world of podcasts, audiobooks, and YouTube videos. But you have to listen with intent.

What it is: Tuning into the language used in podcasts, interviews, and conversations to actively identify and absorb new words.

Why it works: Hearing a word used correctly—with its proper pronunciation and emotional tone—teaches you how to wield it yourself. It’s a more dynamic and memorable way to learn than just seeing it on a page.

How to do it on the fly: On your commute, during a workout, or while doing chores, replace mindless scrolling with a high-quality podcast or an audiobook on a topic you enjoy. When you hear a word that piques your interest, make a mental note (or use a voice memo to say, “Look up ‘ubiquitous'”). Later, when you can, do a quick lookup. You’ll be amazed at how often that word will pop up again now that you’re aware of it.

4. Play the Synonym Game

Improving your vocabulary isn’t just about learning new words; it’s about finding better ones for the words you already use. This is a quick exercise you can do while writing or even speaking.

What it is: Actively swapping a simple, common word for a more precise or powerful alternative.

Why it works: This method directly applies new knowledge to your communication, making it instantly practical. It trains your brain to reach for more descriptive language, moving your vocabulary from passive knowledge to an active skill.

How to do it on the fly: As you write an email or a message, identify the most basic verbs or adjectives. “We need a good plan.” Now, open a thesaurus (most word processors have one built-in, or you can use a site like Thesaurus.com). Is the plan robust, strategic, comprehensive, or ingenious? Swapping “good” for a more specific word elevates your entire sentence. Do this for just one word per email, and it’ll soon become second nature.

5. The “Use It or Lose It” Challenge

This final tip is the glue that holds everything together. A word you learn but never use is a guest who never leaves the lobby—it doesn’t become part of the family.

What it is: Making a conscious effort to use a new word within 24 hours of learning it.

Why it works: The act of retrieval—pulling a word out of your memory and using it in context—is the single most effective way to commit it to long-term memory. It builds the neural pathway that makes the word accessible in the future.

How to do it on the fly: Let’s say you looked up “turgid” during your morning reading. Your challenge for the day is to use it. It can be in a work email (“Let’s avoid turgid explanations in the client deck”), a text to a friend (“That movie was so turgid”), or even just spoken aloud to yourself. It might feel a little forced at first, but that awkwardness is your brain working hard to integrate its new tool.

Your Brain’s New Toolkit

Improving your vocabulary doesn’t require a life overhaul. It’s about shifting from passive consumption to active engagement. By combining these five “on-the-fly” habits, you create a virtuous cycle:

You listen for a new word, use context to guess its meaning, look it up to confirm, swap it into your writing, and then use it in a conversation to seal the deal.

These are small actions, but taken consistently, they transform the way you communicate and think. So, which one will you try first? The next time you’re reading, give it a go. Your future, more articulate self will thank you for it.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Kampala

Kampala’s Secret Side: 5 Uncrowded Spots with Big Character

Kampala. The name itself evokes a symphony of sounds—the friendly calls of vendors, the constant hum of boda bodas, the rhythm of music spilling from roadside bars. It’s a city that vibrates with an infectious energy. But what if you could peel back the layers of that vibrant chaos and find something quieter? Something more intimate?

While the grand mosques and bustling markets rightfully claim their place on any itinerary, Kampala holds a collection of hidden gems. These are the places where history whispers, art breathes, and tranquillity can be found without the jostle of a crowd.

Step off the beaten track and discover five distinctive Kampala attractions that offer a deeper, more personal connection to the heart of Uganda.

1. Kabaka’s Lake: The Royal Oasis

Tucked away in the suburb of Ndeeba, many visitors head straight for the Kasubi Tombs, overlooking this fascinating site just a short distance away. Kabaka’s Lake is one of Kampala’s best-kept secrets and a place of surprising serenity.

Distinctive Feature: This is no ordinary pond. It’s the largest excavated reservoir in the world, dug entirely by hand in the 1880s on the orders of Kabaka Mwanga II. The legend says he intended it to be a channel to the Indian Ocean. While his grand naval ambitions never materialised, the lake remains a remarkable feat of engineering and a tranquil green lung for the city.

Why it’s Not Crowded: It’s a local spot, not packaged heavily for tourist tours. You’ll find joggers, couples on quiet walks, and families enjoying the shade, but rarely large tour groups. It’s a place to breathe and reflect on the ingenuity of Buganda’s history.

Pro-Tip: Visit in the late afternoon. As the sun begins to set, the sky reflects beautifully on the water, and the local community comes to life, offering a perfect blend of nature and authentic city life.

2. The Baháʼí House of Worship: A Sanctuary of Light

Perched on Kikaya Hill, overlooking the city, is the stunning Baháʼí Temple. Known as the Mother Temple of Africa, this architectural masterpiece offers a profound sense of peace that feels a world away from the city’s hustle.

Distinctive Feature: It is the only Baháʼí House of Worship on the entire African continent. Its magnificent, lace-like dome and elegant gardens are designed for quiet meditation and prayer, open to people of all faiths and backgrounds. The interplay of light through the dome and the intricate patterns inside are simply breathtaking.

Why it’s Not Crowded: As a place of worship, its primary function isn’t tourism. Visitors are encouraged to come, sit, and absorb the peaceful atmosphere, which naturally limits the boisterous crowds found at other landmarks.

Pro-Tip: Allow yourself at least an hour. Don’t just take photos from the outside. Enter the main hall, find a seat, and simply enjoy the silence. The surrounding gardens are perfect for a quiet stroll with incredible views of Kampola on a clear day.

3. Nommo Gallery: Uganda’s Artistic Soul

For a dose of culture without the chaos of a hectic market, the Nommo Gallery is an essential stop. Located in a beautiful colonial-era building, it is the oldest and arguably most prestigious art gallery in Uganda.

Distinctive Feature: Run by the Uganda National Cultural Centre, Nommo showcases a diverse and rotating collection of contemporary Ugandan art. From powerful paintings and intricate sculptures to vibrant textiles and jewellery, it is a one-stop shop for understanding the country’s creative pulse. You won’t find mass-produced souvenirs here—only genuine, high-quality art.

Why it’s Not Crowded: Art galleries tend to attract a more contemplative crowd. It’s a serene space where you can take your time, engage with the art, and even chat with the curators or artists who are often on-site.

Pro-Tip: Even if your budget doesn’t stretch to a large painting, consider buying smaller items like prints, postcards, or jewellery. It’s a wonderful way to support local artists directly and take home a truly unique piece of Uganda.

4. Lubiri Mengo & the “Idi Amin” Tunnel: Echoes of History

While the Kasubi Tombs are the regal burial grounds, the Lubiri in Mengo is the Kabaka’s current palace. Much of it is still a functioning royal residence, but guided tours offer a fascinating, and often sobering, glimpse into Uganda’s royal and political past.

Distinctive Feature: The most chilling and memorable part of the tour is the underground tunnel. Allegedly built by Idi Amin during his rule as an escape route and a place to dispose of enemies, the tunnel is a dark, claustrophobic passage that powerfully connects visitors to the country’s more turbulent history. It’s an experience you won’t forget.

Why it’s Not Crowded: Tours are infrequent and must be arranged through a guide at the main gate. This informal system naturally limits the number of visitors. It lacks the infrastructure of a major tourist site, which is precisely part of its raw, authentic appeal.

Pro-Tip: Arrange your tour in advance if possible. Be respectful; this is still a significant cultural and royal site. The stories shared by the guides are often personal and powerful, so listen closely.

5. A Rooftop Vantage Point: Kampala from Above

Sometimes, the best attraction isn’t a building, but a view. Escaping the street-level noise and gaining a new perspective is one of the best ways to appreciate the scale and beauty of Kampala, nestled among its seven hills.

Distinctive Feature: A panoramic, bird’s-eye view of the sprawling city. You can see the red-tiled roofs, green patches of trees, and the distant hills that define Kampala’s landscape. It’s especially magical during the golden hour as the city begins to light up.

Why it’s Not Crowded: While popular, rooftop bars are often relaxed and spacious. The key is to go during an off-peak time, like mid-afternoon for coffee, rather than a Friday night for drinks.

Pro-Tip: Two excellent choices are the rooftop garden at The Emin Pasha Hotel (for a more classic, serene experience) or the top floor of Javas House on Acacia Avenue (Longacres). Grab a coffee, find a comfy seat, and just watch the city breathe below you.

Go Beyond the Postcard

Kampala rewards the curious traveller. By seeking out these quieter corners, you’ll discover a city with a depth and character that goes far beyond the typical tourist trail. You’ll find the soul of Uganda in its serene temples, its hidden history, and its pockets of inspiring peace.

So next time you find yourself in the “City of Seven Hills,” dare to wander. You might be surprised by what you find.

What I learned about writing – Writing great dialogue is hard

Crafting Believable Dialogue: Tips and Pitfalls to Avoid for Writers

Dialogue is both a writer’s strongest tool and their greatest temptation. When done right, it breathes life into characters, propels the plot, and immerses readers in a story’s world. But when it’s forced, lifeless, or overwrought, it can derail even the best plots. So how do writers create conversations that feel natural, engaging, and unforgettable? Let’s break down the art of dialogue and uncover how to avoid its most common pitfalls.

Why Dialogue is Tricky (And Why It Matters)

Dialogue isn’t just people talking—it’s a dance between realism and intention. Real conversations are often meandering, sprinkled with “umms,” small talk, and redundancy. But in a story, every line must earn its place. The challenge lies in balancing naturalism (making the exchange feel authentic) with necessity (ensuring the dialogue serves the story). If your characters’ words aren’t advancing the plot, revealing character, or adding emotional depth, they risk becoming filler.

How to Write Great, Unstilted Dialogue

Let Personality Speak
Each character should have a distinct voice shaped by their background, education, and temperament. A teenager’s slang, a professor’s erudite turns of phrase, or a mechanic’s blunt jargon all help readers visualise who they’re listening to.
Embrace Subtext
Rarely does anyone say exactly what they mean. Subtext—the unspoken tension beneath the words—adds layers of meaning. For example:
Stilted: “I’m angry that you broke the vase.”
Subtext-rich: “I see your footwork skills are as clumsy as ever.”
Trim the Fat
Real life includes greetings and awkward pauses (“Uh, hello, how are you—?”). In fiction, they often slow the pace. Cut small talk unless it serves a purpose (e.g., hiding tension). Instead of:
Overwrought: “How’s your mother? The weather is lovely today, isn’t it? I heard about the party…”, go for:
Pithy: “You’d better explain why you missed Mom’s birthday.”
Use Conflict to Spur Motion
Healthy dialogue has stakes. If two characters want the same thing (or want different things), their exchange becomes dynamic. Even a simple disagreement can crackle with energy if it reveals hidden desires or fears.
Interrupt, Don’t Monologue
Long speeches often feel unnatural. Break up dialogue with interruptions, actions, or interjections to maintain rhythm. Think of it like a tennis match—short, sharp, with momentum.
Read It Aloud
Stilted dialogue often reveals itself when spoken aloud. If a sentence trips off the tongue awkwardly, it likely will for readers too.

What to Avoid: Common Dialogue Mistakes

Overly Formal Speech: If your characters sound like Shakespearean scholars in a modern setting, readers will notice. Keep their language natural unless it’s part of their personality.
Identical Voices: If every character speaks the same way, they’re not characters—they’re clones. Vary sentence structures, vocabulary, and cadence.
Exposition Dumps: Avoid monologues that feel like a lecture (e.g., “As you know, the Kingdom of Orlandia fell to Zoltar in 1223…”). Weave backstory into the narrative or drop hints organically.
Unnecessarily Polite Exchanges: In real life, people get to the point. Unless a specific context demands formality (e.g., royal court intrigue!), cut the pleasantries.
Telling, Not Showing: Dialogue should reveal, not explain. Instead of “She was furious,” let her say, “You’ve got a nerve showing up here after what you did!”

Final Thoughts: Practice Makes Believable

Writing great dialogue is less about following rigid rules and more about observation. Eavesdrop on conversations (in public, of course—discreetly), study scripts of your favourite films, and read authors known for sharp dialogues (e.g., Oscar Wilde, Nora Ephron, or Neil Gaiman). Then, practice. Rewrite. Let your characters talk themselves into life.

Remember: The goal isn’t to replicate real speech perfectly—it’s to create an illusion of reality that feels true, even in a fantasy world. After all, the best dialogue doesn’t just move the story forward; it makes us feel like we’re sitting in the room, eavesdropping on something unforgettable.

Now go make your characters talk—and don’t let the struggle silence them.

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

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Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

Category: Author