Category: blogging

“What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.

Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.

They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?

When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.

When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.

Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.

Find the Kindle version on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 13

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.

Am I working for anyone now?

 

So, there I was, walking along the street, hands in pockets, trying to look like my whole world hadn’t come crashing down on me when a car pulled over to the side of the road.

I may have been down in the dumps but not that far that I wasn’t still aware of what was going on around me, the training had been that good, so I hung back a little from the curb and waited to see if was me they were after, or just some lucky rich person being dropped off.

And ready to disappear into the crowd, not that there was one, but there were three exits available and within momentary reach if necessary.

I watched the rear window go down slowly then saw a familiar face.

Nobbin.

“Get in Mr Jackson.  We have more to talk about.”

I hesitated like anyone with the training I had would, as any person with common sense would too, I guess.

“It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.”  He sounded reassuring.

A glance into the car showed only him and the driver, who was getting out of the car.  I watched him come around to the curbside and put his hand on the door handle.

“Sir,” he said.

He opened the door.  Nobbin had moved to the other side.

I shrugged, then got in.  A thought: how many people had got into cars such as this, and were never seen again?”

It was not a statistic that reached any of the newspapers.  Only the end result, a body washed down the Thames, with no indication of who it was, or where they came from, and no identification, or means of identification available.

The door closed, the driver went back to the front of the car, and then gently eased the car out into the traffic.

“I’m sorry for the theatrics surrounding this meeting, but it is necessary.  I’m sure you were told of the need for secrecy in this matter, and I’m just reinforcing that.”

“Just who are you?  And, for that matter, those people back in that building?  Or, if it’s not too hard to wrap your head around, who the hell have I been working for?”

“Good questions, all.  At least now I can speak freely.  As you can, Mr Jackson.”

“Except I have no idea who’s side you’re on, I’m on, or anyone for that matter.  This is not what I signed up for.”

“Well, to put some perspective on your situation, Mr Jackson, you were not supposed to live to tell about it.  It was an operation that was created with one purpose in mind, to find an agent named

William O’Connor, and kill him.  And everyone in the team assigned to the task.”

“By Severin and Maury?  If so, why didn’t they kill me in the alley along with this O’Connor?”

“That is a mystery to all of us.”

“And those people back in the room.  Who the hell were they?”

“Operations.  Trying to find out how a sub-section could be created and function within their purview and not be detected.  That’s what it was, run by two agents who had been expelled a few months back, but who were clever enough to work around all of the safeguards, recruit four agents, and then go after the man who caused the end of their careers.”

“Simple, it seems.”

“Very.  And, if it had not been for you, we would never have known who or why.”

“Perhaps we should be thankful there was an explosion then, otherwise we’d all be dead.”

“Or not, because as far as I know, that was part of the operation, designed to take the target, you and the surveillance member behind you.  It only did a third the job.  It didn’t go off at the critical moment.  No one was seriously hurt, by the way.”

“The policeman?”

“Critical but stable.  He’ll survive.”

“The police who were accusing me of being the bomber?”

“Our people trying to delay you, so our man could get away.  Seems they trained you better than we expected.  Did O’Connor say anything to you?”

“There wasn’t much time before I found him, and Severin shot him.”

“Anything at all?”

“He knew who I was.”

“Then he knew the whole team, and who was running it.”

“He killed two of them.”

“In self-defence.  They were not only surveillance but also assassins.  Different training before they joined your group.”

I had thought there was something odd about them.

“Anything else,” he asked again.

“Yes.  He said to tell you he found something he should, and that the evidence is…  And that’s when he was shot.  He didn’t tell me where it was.”

“He didn’t have to.  We had set up three prearranged drop sites, so it must be in one of those.  Here’s my card.”

He handed me a white card with a name and a phone number.  The name was not Nobbin.

“If this Severin contacts you again, call me.  I am available any hour of the day or night on that number.”

“If he doesn’t?”

“Then you will hear from me in the not too distant future.  The fact you’re a survivor tells me you are resourceful and have the makings of a good agent, one I can use in my department.”

“And those others back at the office?”

“You won’t hear from them again.”

The car stopped outside an underground staircase.

“This is your stop, Mr Jackson.  Thank you for your co-operation.”

Perhaps my career wasn’t in tatters.  I got out of the car, and watched it leave before heading for the underground, his card safely tucked away in my pocket.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

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

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

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

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

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

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.

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

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

Then there’s the title, like

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

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

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

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

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

I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 69

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

With Nadia seeking gold at the beach at The Grove

…

I was waiting to be picked up at the bus depot by Nadia, trying to keep out of the public eye, knowing very few people I knew would be there at that hour.

It was early for me, not long after getting home from the night shift, with just enough time to change and get something to eat at the diner a block from the depot.

Nadia didn’t understand my obsession with anonymity, but being seen with her was just going to raise questions, and, if either my mother or Boggs found out, that would be two very interesting conversations.

I just didn’t need the aggravation.

I was not sure what to wear so I dug out the clothes I wore to a farm that a friend of my mothers owned and my mother had graciously offered my services.  It hadn’t been such a bad day, but it was hard work.

The clothes had the added advantage of making me almost invisible among the many seasonal workers currently in town.

I nearly missed her because I had been looking for her usual car, but when a large pickup truck pulled up at the curb where I was standing, it took a moment to recognize her behind the wheel.  A very unglamorous plain Jane, without make-up and her hair a mess, or so it looked to me.  I knew well enough not to make a comment.

The truck was battered and seen better days, but the engine sounded like that of a racing car.  A Cossatino’s getaway car.  Oddly, I could imagine her behind the wheel waiting for a team of bank robbers, fuelled no doubt by the many old movies I’d seen in my younger days.

I climbed up into the cabin and she had driven off before the car door was closed

“Are we in a hurry?”

“No parking zone.  Don’t need the sheriff’s deputies giving us a hard time.”

No, indeed.

“Where’s your car?”

“Too recognizable.  Where we’re going it’s better not to be recognized.”

That didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.  I knew it was going to be somewhere along the coastline, her idea to see if any more of the gold coins had fallen out of the treasure chests as they were being brought ashore.

The question was, was there any part of the coastline that hadn’t been surveyed?  That was when it occurred to me she might be headed for that stretch of coastline that belonged to The Grove, split by the coast road, either side of the road fenced off and signs telling people they would be shot on sight if caught trespassing.

There had been rumors of shootings but nothing ever made it to the sheriff’s office.  I hoped she told someone where she was going if that’s where she was taking me.

“You’re quiet this morning?”

“Just got off shift, and a little tired.”

“You should have said something.  I didn’t think…”

“It’s fine.  You’re currently the one ray of light on a very dark horizon.”

She looked sideways at me.  “That is a compliment.”

“I hope you take it that way.  With Boggs on some sort of crusade, my mother giving me dating tips, and Benderby hanging around, being with you Breaks the gloom and doom.” 

I turned slightly to get a better look at her.  If it was anyone else, I could fall in love with her, but knowing a Cossatino was a dance with the devil, and dangerous for your health.

“Well, I’m glad I bring some light into someone’s life.  It seems I can’t do anything right at home.”

“Why did you come home.  It seems to me you were happier away from this place.”

“Reasons I now think were stupid.”  There was a finality in her tone that warned not to go any further with it.

Instead, we were passing the old mall and I saw the transformation.  Fort Knox would be easier to get into.

“Do you know what’s going on at the old mall?”

“The Benderby’s are demolishing it, mainly because they have to, and do a lot of remediation, whatever that is, before they build the new marina and condos. They’re going to tap into the retirement market.”

That premise, according to a financial market magazine left on my desk, and which made interesting reading, was the next gold mine for those who had the foresight, and the financial means.

Benderby had both, and in another article, which to me at the time seemed to be profiling Benderby, opining the fact some of the new rich had not all made their fortunes legitimately, harking back to the war days and profiteering.  Had Benderby’s father and his before him, plowed this path to success, and the son and grandson found other Illegitimate means like drugs and worse to perpetuate it?

Was it possible, in this day and age to make a fortune without crossing the line somewhere?  No one could link Benderby to anything crooked, but rumors, there were plenty, including the mall, and the fact it was a huge insurance write-off.

Lenny seemed to think so, but cleverly, never quite put what he thought into words.

“Lucky them,” I muttered.

Several miles past the mall, she turned off the main road onto a track that had not been used for some time, heading towards the ocean

I could see now why we were in the truck.  A car would not be able to make it without getting bogged.  It was wet and muddy, with pools of water forming in ruts. 

When we hit a couple and got soundly shaken up, she slowed down.  Then, suddenly, the ocean came into view, and the track headed for the cliff, veering at the last minute, and going down the side of the hill until at the bottom we stopped outside a weather-beaten shack about the size of a large room.

She switched off the engine and let the silence surround us until I could just hear the sound of waves breaking on the rocky shoreline.

“Welcome to my castle.”

There was a whimsical expression on her face.

I opened the door and climbed out, in an instant the temperature dropped 10 degrees, and the effect of the wind almost knocking me over.

She slammed the door shut and went to the door of the shack, unlocking, then opening the door, then switching on a light, giving the inside a gloomy yellowish aura.  She motioned me to go in, then followed behind closing the door, and immediately it was much quieter.

“Not much of a castle.”

“It is when you want to get away from the rest of the family.  It used to be a bathing shack, but the waters around here got too treacherous for swimming, and it fell into disrepair.  I had it fixed up and this is where I come when I want to disappear.”

It didn’t look like it had been used in a while, a thin film of dust settled in everything, and smudged footprints on the floor, showing recent signs of habitation.  Two metal detectors were sitting on the table.

“It’s like a different world to be in when you have the family I have.”

“They don’t know about this place?”

“They probably do, but it’s been a wreck for years, and no one ever comes here, not anymore.  I found it one day, wandering along the coastline, exploring the boundaries of The Grove.  This is the southernmost tip.  There’s one on the northernmost tip too, where the building is much larger and used for storage.”

Say no more, I thought.  The Cossatino’s were allegedly smugglers on top of everything else, and that’s probably where the smuggled good were stored.  This part of the coastline was treacherous at best, with underwater reefs and craggy rocks along the cliff line.  There were some sandy stretches, but it was hard work to reach them, and at a guess, Nadia knew how to get there without slipping and falling.

Boats could only get within 50 years of the shoreline before the possibility of being dashed on the rocks, and for that reason, Boggs told me, that whole beachfront could not have been used by the pirate to bring his treasure ashore.

The little I’d seen from where the truck was parked verified that, at least for this section.

“But we’re here to check for gold coins, see if there is a possibility the treasure cane ashore somewhere along the Grove’s shoreline.  I know the consensus of opinion said it’s not possible, but from my explorations, I reckon there are at least a dozen spots where a longboat could land, especially if you came on the tide.”

That, I was guessing, was high tide, and it may have been a coincidence when the pirate arrived on this shore.

“The reefs would be submerged and even more dangerous.”

“There are ways.  I’ve been out there in a canoe once or twice with Vince, looking for passageways.  And, before you jump to any conclusions, I’m not a smuggler, and we may have been once, but an accident ten years ago put paid to that.  We lost four of the family, and six others in a hair-brained night landing in rough weather.”

I remembered a piece in the paper, the coastguard had been trailing a large yacht with suspected drugs aboard, waited until the Cossatino’s had transferred to the longboat that had gone out to meet the yacht, then chased it to the reef where a navigation mistake saw the longboat hit the reef, sink with all the evidence, and all but Vince had drowned in the heavy surf.

“Vince was lucky.”

“Vince was an idiot then and a bigger idiot now.  It made him believe he was invincible.  He’s not.  But let’s not talk about him, or the rest of them, we’re not exactly on speaking terms at the moment.”

She went to the table and picked up one of the metal detectors and held it out.  “Yours.”

I came over and took it, and it was heavier than I expected.

She picked up the other.  “Ready?”

For anything, I thought, then nodded.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The 2am Rant: Children are all the same

They just live in different houses

…

It’s quite remarkable to discover that your children are not unique.

For years I thought that we had spawned monsters that had quite likely come from another planet because the other children in the family seemed so different.

I didn’t realise that the parents had issued death threats if they so much as looked sideways while out.

It was where I suddenly realised that parents of children if taken at their word, could be mass murderers, or at the very best, the worst kind of bullies.

The threats of violence that they used, in any other circumstances would elicit a rather lengthy jail sentence.

I was guilty of it myself, and such threats had come to roll off the tongue so easily that you didn’t really know you were doing it.

If you don’t do this, I’ll kill you. There’s no thought to the significance of this statement, or the consequences if you were to actually do it.

No wonder the children just look at you like you’re deranged.

Of course, there are fewer murderous ways of dealing with the problem, but the sad fact is they have probably driven you into a blind rage and just past into that zone where you really have no idea what you’re saying.

Been there too.

But the revelation that all the other parents are the same, that you see them threatening their children with death or worse.

Then, after they’ve grown up and moved on as all children do, they return on odd occasions for Sunday lunch and there you begin to learn the stuff they did when younger that you never knew about

It’s seeming a rite of passage for all children, and it’s odd to hear others discussing it, especially when you hear someone else referring to their children the same as you do.

Did they come from the same planet too?

That’s when a friend told me the truth of the matter. All children are the same, they just live in different houses.

Ain’t that the truth!

What I learned about writing – Where the hell do I start?

Beyond the Spark: Laying the Foundation for Your Literary Masterpiece

That brilliant novel idea just hit you, didn’t it? It’s a lightning bolt of inspiration, a fully formed world, or a character whispering their story in your ear. The urge to sit down and pour it all onto the page is intoxicating, exciting, almost overwhelming. You can already see your name on the cover, taste the triumph, imagine the world devouring your words.

Hold that thought. Just for a moment.

Because before you dive headfirst into crafting the next blockbuster novel that’s going to take the world by storm, there are things to do. Essential groundwork. A foundation to lay. Think of it not as delaying the inevitable, but as strengthening the very ground your literary edifice will stand upon.

We’re talking about the critical “Where,” “How,” and “When” of your writing journey. As for the “Why”? You already know that. The burning desire to create, to tell this story, is your fuel. So, let’s focus on the practical necessities, before even one word is written.

The “Where”: Crafting Your Creative Sanctuary

Your physical and digital environment play a monumental role in your ability to focus and produce. This isn’t just about having a desk; it’s about optimizing your space for creativity.

  • 1. Your Dedicated Writing Space:
    • Physical Location: Whether it’s a quiet corner of your spare room, a dedicated office, or even a specific table at your local coffee shop – designate a primary writing spot. This helps train your brain to enter “writing mode” when you’re there.
    • Ergonomics & Comfort: Invest in a comfortable chair and a desk setup that supports good posture. You’ll be spending hours here. Back pain is a creativity killer.
    • Minimize Distractions: Clear clutter. Turn off notifications. Let family/housemates know your boundaries when you’re in this space. Consider noise-canceling headphones.
  • 2. Your Digital Arsenal:
    • Reliable Hardware: A computer or device that runs smoothly and won’t constantly crash. Nothing kills momentum faster than technical issues.
    • Writing Software: Choose your weapon. Word processor (Microsoft Word, Google Docs), dedicated writing software (Scrivener, Ulysses, Novelflow), or even just a text editor. Understand its features and how it can aid your specific process (outlining, character sheets, research integration).
    • Cloud Backup System: This is NON-NEGOTIABLE. Dropbox, Google Drive, OneDrive, iCloud – pick one and use it religiously. Imagine losing hundreds of hours of work. Don’t let it happen.
    • Internet Access (and Discipline): Necessary for research, but ensure you have strategies to avoid its inherent distractions (website blockers, dedicated writing apps).

The “How”: Your Strategic Blueprint

This is where the magic of planning happens. Before you write a single scene, you need to understand the world you’re building and the journey you’re taking your readers on.

  • 1. Solidify Your Core Concept (The Logline): Can you summarize your novel in one compelling sentence? This is your North Star. It helps you stay focused and reminds you of the story’s essence.
  • 2. Outline & Structure:
    • Plot Arc: Will you follow a three-act structure, hero’s journey, Snowflake Method, or something else? Decide on a general framework.
    • Chapter Breakdown: Even if it’s just a rough idea of what happens in each key section, having a skeletal outline gives you direction and prevents getting lost.
    • Key Plot Points: Identify your inciting incident, rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution.
  • 3. Character Development:
    • Protagonist & Antagonist: Go deep. What are their motivations, fears, desires, backstories, quirks? What is their character arc?
    • Supporting Characters: Understand their roles, relationships, and how they contribute to the plot and theme.
    • Character Bibles: Create detailed profiles for your main players.
  • 4. World-Building (If Applicable):
    • Rules & Logic: For fantasy/sci-fi, establish the laws of your world. Magic systems, technology, societal structures, history, geography. Consistency is key.
    • Sensory Details: What does it look, sound, smell, feel like? Start sketching out the atmosphere.
  • 5. Research Strategy:
    • Identify Needs: What do you really need to research? Historical facts, technical details, cultural nuances?
    • Resource Gathering: Create folders for articles, books, images, and links. Don’t go down endless rabbit holes yet, but know where to find the answers.
  • 6. Goal Setting:
    • Overall Word Count Target: What’s a realistic length for your genre?
    • Milestones: Break down the big goal into smaller, manageable chunks (e.g., Act 1 complete, first half done).

The “When”: Carving Out Your Creative Time

Even the most brilliant idea and the most detailed plan are useless without dedicated time. This isn’t about finding time; it’s about making time.

  • 1. Establish a Consistent Writing Routine:
    • Time Block: Identify the best time of day for you to write – when you’re most alert, least distracted, or most creative. Block it out in your calendar.
    • Consistency is King: Try to write at the same time every day, or at least every writing day. This builds a habit and signals to your brain that it’s “work time.”
  • 2. Set Realistic Deadlines:
    • Draft Completion: When do you want to finish the first draft? Break it down into weekly or monthly goals.
    • Accountability: Share your deadlines with a trusted friend, writing group, or mentor.
  • 3. Prepare for Your Session:
    • Clear the Decks: Before your writing time, handle urgent emails or small tasks that might nag at you.
    • Fuel & Hydration: Have water, coffee, or a healthy snack ready.
    • Review Your Plan: Briefly revisit your outline or what you intend to write during that session to get your mind oriented.

These aren’t obstacles; they’re launchpads. By investing time in these pre-writing essentials, you’re not just preparing to write a novel; you’re setting yourself up for success, minimizing roadblocks, and ensuring a smoother, more productive creative journey.

So, take a deep breath, savor that brilliant idea, and then roll up your sleeves. Your masterpiece awaits its well-laid foundation.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 223

Day 223 – Writing exercise

…

There’s no looking away when the proverbial hits the fan.

You hope that it’s never going to happen, and when it does, training kicks in, but there is always that shred of doubt, and that’s all it takes.

One time infinitesimal shred…

In what I believed to be an empty building, I was going through the plan, waiting for the seconds to tick down.

Then I heard a door close.  You know the type, one with a device that automatically closes it after you walk through.  The one that, if set properly, you don’t hear the door shut.

The one that I heard because it wasn’t set properly, or hadn’t been checked recently, and that last six inches gave out and banged as the door hit the jamb.

Which meant someone else was in the building.

I wanted to believe that it was someone leaving, but I knew no one was supposed to be there.  Not tonight.  Not at two am, because the night watchmen had just finished their rounds and were settling in to their packed lunches.

Who was it, and why were they there?

…

This mission required stealth and precision.  Three experts had gone over the building layout, the personnel who worked there, and the place where what I was supposed to take was easily removed.

The building expert had played his part.  He’d been spot on with the sensors and detection traps, and the doors and locks.

I was in the last position before advancing to the room that held the safe that held the objective.

The personnel expert had failed his job.  There was someone in the building who shouldn’t be.

Other than me.

That made the mission far more difficult.  But as I crouched in position, I had time to realise that no one could factor in a random element, a scenario that should have been considered but was missed.

Or maybe it hadn’t.

Maybe it had been overlooked deliberately, and was in the mix because I was supposed to be able to handle random situations.

It was just such a scenario that had got Eloise canned from the program.  She had been bitter about it, saying she had been the only one whose test had a random factor, that she had been deliberately targeted.

I had thought that too, because she had been very good, worked twice as hard, and had been the only girl.

Damn.  Now I was thinking about her and not the mission, a real problem.

I felt a buzz on my wrist, the watch computer vibrating to tell me it was time to move.

Phase 2

Down the corridor, sticking close to the wall, to the end and turn right.  The camera covering the entrance to the room would be off; that is, the red light would be out.

The surveillance monitoring guy would cut the camera at precisely the moment I reached the corner, giving me five seconds to get in the room.

Oddly, there was no surveillance in the room.

I reached the end, another buzz, five seconds, no red light, into the room and made sure the door didn’t slam shut. 

Just.

“Hello, Will.”

I think I did have a heart attack.

…

Eloise.  Larger than life, and looking very suave in all black.

She always could distract me.

“What the..”

I remembered to speak in hushed tones.  Surveillance didn’t know if the room was bugged, but others were, and it was assumed it might be.

My silence had been disturbed when she spoke, even if it was not very loud.

“You’re being set up.”

“How the hell did you know I would be here?”

“Dargers.”

Dargers was the reason I had got into the program,  the one who had been my mother’s handler and had been there when she died, on the job.

“Why?”

“Because you’re getting closer to the truth about your mother.    Fletcher’s in hospital fighting for his life.  Something happened just after you met.”

That was yesterday.  I’d seen another associated with her last mission, but they were still OK.  Or were they?

“You just got here?”

“No.  Been waiting.”

“I heard a door close just before I got here.”

“Then they’re coming for you.  We have to go.”  She handed me an envelope.  “The prize.  I don’t think it has the value you were led to believe.”

Probably not.

…

It came as no surprise that Eloise had neutralised the surveillance and cleared the path.  Or that she knew more about the organisation, because she had been a top-flight private investigator before signing on.

Before the end of the first week, she had categorised everyone: hopefuls and instructors.  That she even spoke to me was a surprise.  There were far more candidates who were more interested in her, but as the training progressed, I thought she hung out with me because she decided I was safe.

I never got to ask her why.

But I shared in her assessments and rode on her coat-tails, learning more from her than most of the instructors.  I still couldn’t understand why I survived the cut, and she didn’t.

Working with her once again only reinforced just how good she was.

Objective achieved; it was a matter of two people working together being better than one, simply because I couldn’t be in two places at once.  That’s when I opened the door; my instinct was to look left, and the threat was on the right.

The first threat, that is.

Our training had taught us that where there was one assassin, there was likely to be more, depending on the degree of danger you presented.  I found it hard to believe I could be a threat, but then I had been a little loose in who I questioned about my mother’s death.

It was a taboo question, but being immersed in the world she once excelled in had provided a unique opportunity.  I just didn’t think I would ruffle any feathers so quickly, or at all.

There were three would-be assassins.  We didn’t shoot to kill, which was our training, because we would be killing our own people, people who we had most likely trained with, or worked with.

Then there was the revelation.

There was another way in and out of the building that I had not been told about, and that in itself told me all I needed to know.

The briefing supervisor was compromised, or hadn’t been given the full brief.

Once out of the building, Eloise faded into the night as if she had never been there.  There had been no time for small talk, as much as I needed that one fleeting touch of hands as she left.

It reminded me that having feelings, or attachments, was at best a curse and at worst a death sentence in this job, if it was a job I wanted to take up, and those feelings I had for Eloise, having been rekindled, were going to make it impossible.

She had said as much about herself when she had left, not saying where she was going or what she was going to do. 

I had tried to put her out of my mind.

…

If this had been a normal operation, in and out, the package would simply be dropped off, and I would relocate and await the next mission.

This hadn’t been normal.

I had a cell number to call if anything went wrong.  The operations supervisor would have been aware of what had happened, and I would be called in for a debriefing.

I had a feeling Browning would be waiting on the end of the line to curate the fallout.  Dead people could be explained away; live people could talk.

I chose to sit on it until morning.  Uppermost in my mind was the fact that if the mission had gone the way Browning’s had planned, I would be either dead or captured, and sitting in a dark room somewhere awaiting interrogation.

I could still end up there.

Now, when I called, he would have to pretend that everything was fine, though there would be doubts as to how I did manage to escape what, in his mind, was meant to be an inescapable trap.

I dialled the number on the untraceable cell Eloise had given me.  The one I got for the mission was tracking my movements.  Those movements ended in the safe room.

Davidson couldn’t help himself when he answered.

“Where did you get that device?”

“I had reason to believe the mission device was compromised, as per training.  There was an unexpected visitor on the building, just before the ‘go’ signal.  Someone knew I was there.  I figured the cell was compromised and dumped it.”

“We had no prior intel of rogue movements, and our devices are secure.”

“Random factors, sir.  It’s what got a trainee tossed out of the program.  Remembered it at the last moment.  Saved me, by the way.  Three assassins tried to eliminate me.”

As if he wouldn’t know that he had three of his agents in the hospital wondering why they were not dead.

He sounded quite calm, which in a sense was disconcerting.

It was good that my training had taught me to trust no one, not even the people I worked for.

“Three?”  His incredulous tone was almost believable.

“Not unexpected, if you remember the briefing.  The organisation does contract some very nasty mercenaries as guards for their perimeter and internal security.”

“And you took care of them.”

“I believe so.  They weren’t shooting back.”

There was a moment’s silence while he digested that piece of information before asking the question he should have asked at the beginning.”

“Did you get what you were sent for?”

“Yes.”

“Then await further instructions on where you are to deliver the package.”

The line went dead.

Since the cell phone I was using was untraceable, he couldn’t send a team to eliminate me, but just to be safe, I powered it down and removed the SIM card, then changed locations.

I wasn’t going to wait to be summoned or hunted down.

…

The organisation I worked for was one of several that worked under the umbrella of the main intelligence service. 

These groups had their offices scattered about the city, hiding behind what could easily be mistaken for legitimate businesses. 

The one I worked for, and run by Davidson, lived in a large sandstone turn-of-the-century building that also had lawyers, doctors and insurance agents.  It was odd turning up at the office and mingling with a very strange collection of civilians.

While it provided the sort of cover we needed, and it gave Davidson the sort of autonomy and control over who knew what he was doing, he wanted to be without the prying eyes of those he reported to; it wasn’t the most secure.  I often wondered what would happen if a shootout came to the corridors.

It hadn’t yet, but there was always a first time.

Being away from the ultra secure central operations centre, security was not as ting, and Davidson’s mall cop security set up, the brain child of his brother-in-law who was a locksmith, was adequate but not bulletproof.

It took me a week to find all the weak spots, the black holes in CCTV coverage, and the door codes, at least those beyond what was issued on our personal key cards.

And to discover that there was another way in that didn’t require a key card, and if Davison had got a proper security assessment, he would have discovered just how insecure the office was.

His office.

When sweeping the roof during my own security inspection I discovered a I discovered a hatch door that gave access to the roof, and below that, an attic, disused, that ran the length of the building.  It was once the servants’ quarters for each of them.

There were some very interesting comments on the walls.

There were back staircases that led to each floor, and invisible doorways so they could mysteriously come and go without being seen.

There was another, the one I would be using.  Davidson was a fresh air lover and had one of the windows in his office half open, playing havoc with everyone’s air conditioning.

He could be annoying like that.

I waited until he went to his one o’clock briefing, entered by the windows, and sat in his seat.  I had no interest in rifling through the drawers or poking around in the filing cabinets.

At precisely five minutes past two he came in, closed the door behind him, and then stopped.

I would have thought he’d notice me before then.

“You need to do something about security.  I, for one, wouldn’t feel safe if just about anyone could wander in off the street.”

His usual scowl turned a shade darker.  “You’re not just anyone, are you?”

I looked at the man who controlled so many lives, to do with as he pleased.  He wasn’t that man when my mother was killed in action, but he was her liaison in the field.  That much I’d discovered before the walls went up.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

His cell phone rang.  The puzzled expression on his face told me he was not expecting a call.

He took his phone out of his top pocket and looked at the screen, shook his head, and disconnected the call.

A few seconds later, a red dot from a laser sight appeared on the wall behind me. I knew there was something there when his expression changed, and then we both watched it until it appeared on his chest before disappearing.

“Is this some sort of sick joke?”

His cell phone rang again.

“Not me.  I think you might want to answer it.  Someone wants to get your attention.”

Who, though? I didn’t know.  I had not arranged anything.

He answered it.  “Whoever you are, you are in more trouble than you can imagine possible.”

Whoever was on the end of the call said something to him; his expression changed, this time to one I’d never expected from a man like him.

He pushed a button on the screen, and it came to life.

“You know better than to go into the lion’s den by yourself.”

Eloise.

“I had it covered.”

“Now you do.”

The red laser light reappeared.

Recognition flickered.  “Morgan.  You’re working with him?”

“Saving him from you, Davidson.  And still working on what I’m going to do about you killing a friend of mine, the same one who intimated to Blake that you were his mother’s liaison on that last mission.  You made a mistake.  It cost her her life, just part of the mess you’ve been cleaning up ever since.  Last night you went too far.”

“You haven’t got all of the facts.”

“I spoke to Richardson, just before he passed.  It was an illuminating discussion, one that answered several questions I had.”

If his expression was going to be an indication of his mood, then just the mention of Richardson brought fear.

“That’s impossible.”

“No.  What was impossible is that I found him.  You did a very good job of hiding him away, so far north he’s almost at the North Pole.  You even changed his name, Ralph Weimar.  You also figured out who I was, didn’t you?”

“A guess at best.  Your tradecraft gave you away.  Isabel Jenkins.”

“Harold Jenkins, another of your losses.”

Jenkins.  I knew that name from somewhere.

His shoulders slumped slightly, as if accepting that whatever he had been doing was over.

“So, not that any of what you think you know is relevant or even happened, what are you going to do?”

“End it.”

I saw the red dot focus on Davidson and then watched him die. 

I didn’t expect what happened next.  The dot moved to me. I thought I heard the bullet leave the gun just before it hit me, and in that fraction of a second before the pain came, it was lights out.

…

I think the miracle was that I was still alive.

I don’t remember anything from the moment Davidson was shot until I just woke, slowly focusing on a water stain on the roof above me.

It felt like I’d been hit by a truck. Or worse, one of those old steam locomotives.

There was an odd perfume aroma in the room, one that seemed familiar.  It was there, on the tip of my tongue.

That was overwritten by another memory, the one where I suddenly associated my predicament with being shot, which led to remembering those last few seconds in Davidson’s office, and then Eloise.

“There he is.”

Eloise.

“What happened?”

“You were saved from a fate worse than death.”

Another memory.  I was in Davidson’s office.  Then another: the realisation I didn’t have an exit strategy.  I was going to confront him … and then what?

“How?”

“You had to be a victim.  Davidson didn’t survive; he wasn’t meant to.  He had to pay for his mistakes.  You, though, you don’t deserve what they would have done to you.  He may have been a murderer, but he did get results.  We both knew there is no real honour in the job we would have had to do.  Don’t go back, even if they ask you.”

“Why are you doing this?  How did you know…?”

“I like you, have done since the first time I saw you.  You know me.  I can see through just about anyone.  And probably because your first words were not ‘babe’, ‘date’ and ‘fuck’.”

“I was going to ask you if you wanted a coffee and a chat once, but thought twice about it, then decided not to.  You had enough admirers.”

She smiled.  “I’m glad I’m out of it.  It was a mistake, but a good one.  I met you.  Come work with me. I’m going back to being a Private Detective.  LA or Hollywood.  Maybe New York.  Who knows.  We can just get on the next train out and see where it takes us. What do you say?”

“How long will I be here?”

“A couple of days.  It’s a clean wound, nothing damaged.  You can thank me later.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Here.  Told them we’re about to be married and I wasn’t letting you out of my sight.  It amuses them. I kinda like the sound of it.  But it takes two to tango, so I can wait until you’re back on your feet, and we’ll see how good we can dance together.  Now, the doctor would like to talk to you, then the police.  I’ll be right here if you need me.  OK?”

“Dance?”  Perhaps there was a little confusion.

“Tango.  Yes.  Tango, Alpha, November, Golf, Oscar.”

I felt a surge of adrenalin run through me, and my mind cleared, taking a quick glance around the room, and ending on Eloise, only she was not Eloise, she was Baxter, Captain, my team leader, and I was Reynolds, Lieutenant, undercover.

She had just issued an Agent down signal, which I assumed to be me.  Protocol Five was instituted, and I was to follow her lead.

Something must have gone terribly wrong.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Accra

The Accra You Haven’t Seen: 5 Unique & Uncrowded Tourist Spots

Accra, Ghana’s dazzling coastal capital, is a city that pulses with life. From the vibrant beats of highlife music to the aromatic symphony of street food, every corner offers an adventure. But with adventure often comes a crowd. The usual suspects—the Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum, the bustling Arts Centre, the sun-soaked Labadi Beach on a Sunday—are rightfully famous, but they can sometimes feel overwhelming.

What if you could peel back a layer of the city and find the spaces where its true, quiet soul resides? Places brimming with distinctive character, history, and beauty, yet blissfully free from the tourist throngs?

Forget the long lines and the jostling crowds. Here are the top five visitor attractions in Accra that offer a richer, more intimate encounter with the city.

1. For the Soulful Historian: The W.E.B. Du Bois Centre

Tucked away in the serene residential neighbourhood of Cantonments is a place of profound historical significance and hushed reverence: The W.E.B. Du Bois Memorial Centre for Pan-African Culture. This isn’t just a museum; it was the final home of Dr. William Edward Burghardt Du Bois, the iconic American civil rights activist and Pan-Africanist who spent his final years in Ghana.

What Makes It Distinctive: The centre offers a deeply personal journey into the life of a giant. You can walk through his preserved study, see his personal library, and visit his simple yet moving grave, which lies in the peaceful courtyard alongside the tomb of his wife, Shirley Graham Du Bois. It’s a place for quiet reflection, not just sightseeing, offering a powerful connection to the global quest for African liberation.

Why It’s Not Crowded: It’s often overshadowed by the larger, more centrally located monuments. Its scholarly nature naturally attracts a more contemplative crowd, meaning you can often have the entire space to yourself to absorb its powerful history.

Pro Tip: Give yourself at least an hour. The exhibits are detailed and the atmosphere invites you to slow down and read, reflect, and appreciate the legacy of this incredible figure.

2. For the Art Lover: Artists Alliance Gallery

If the chaotic, beautiful energy of the Arts Centre market feels like too much, there is a sublime alternative. Located near the Tetteh Quarshie Interchange, the Artists Alliance Gallery is a magnificent three-story haven for Ghanaian art.

What Makes It Distinctive: This is not a market; it’s a curated gallery experience. Housed in a beautiful, traditional-style building, it features an astounding collection of high-quality art, from intricate contemporary paintings and sculptures to stunning Ashanti kente cloth and ancient beads. All pieces are for sale, and there’s no pressure to buy. You can simply wander through the airy rooms and appreciate the sheer breadth of Ghanaian creative talent.

Why It’s Not Crowded: Many tourists flock to the bargain-hunting vibe of the main Arts Centre, leaving this gallery as a hidden gem for those in the know. Its tranquil, almost museum-like atmosphere is a welcome escape.

Pro Tip: Even the building itself is a work of art. Be sure to explore the courtyards and every floor, as each one hosts different styles and mediums of work.

3. For the Nature Seeker: Legon Botanical Gardens

Need a break from the concrete and traffic? Head to the Legon Botanical Gardens, a sprawling green oasis located within the University of Ghana campus. This isn’t your typical “garden”; it’s a vast, natural reserve offering a genuine breath of fresh air.

What Makes It Distinctive: The gardens are a destination for both relaxation and light adventure. You can wander through the lush forests, spot exotic birds, and enjoy the serene scenery around the central lake. For the more active, there are rope courses, canopy walks, and canoeing. It’s the perfect place for a family picnic, a romantic stroll, or some peaceful solo time with a book.

Why It’s Not Crowded: Its sheer size means that even on a busy day, the crowds dissipate across the lawns and trails. It feels less like a tourist spot and more like a local’s secret escape from the city heat.

Pro Tip: Go in the late afternoon when the sun is less intense. The golden light filtering through the trees is absolutely magical.

4. For the Beach Escapist: Bojo Beach

While Labadi and Kokrobite beaches have their charms, they can get packed. For a truly unique seaside experience, take a short trip to Bojo Beach Resort. What makes it special is its location—it sits on a pristine strip of land between a lagoon and the Atlantic Ocean.

What Makes It Distinctive: The adventure begins the moment you arrive. You are taken across the calm waters of the Densu Delta in a small wooden boat to reach the beach resort. This short journey immediately sets a festive, exclusive tone. On one side, you have the tranquil lagoon, and on the other, the roaring Atlantic. It’s the best of both worlds, with cleaner sand and a far more relaxed vibe than the main city beaches.

Why It’s Not Crowded: The boat crossing naturally filters the crowds, creating a more intimate and exclusive atmosphere. It feels like you’ve discovered your own private island paradise just minutes from the city.

Pro Tip: Plan to spend a few hours. Rent a relaxing beach hut, enjoy a freshly prepared meal at the restaurant, and take a dip in both the lagoon and the ocean.

5. For the Inquisitive Explorer: The Forts of Ussher Town

Everyone knows about Jame Town’s vibrant street art and boxing gyms, but fewer take the time to explore its deep, layered history. Beyond the iconic lighthouse lie the Forts of Ussher Town: James Fort and Ussher Fort.

What Makes It Distinctive: These forts are a poignant and powerful reminder of Ghana’s role in the transatlantic slave trade. While not as large as the castles in Cape Coast or Elmina, their history is just as significant. Walking through the dungeons and standing on the ramparts, with the crashing waves of the Atlantic below, is an incredibly moving experience. They also offer some of the most stunning, uncrowded panoramic views of Accra’s coastline.

Why It’s Not Crowded: They are often missed by standard tour itineraries that focus on the more monumental sites. The forts can sometimes be under renovation or have limited access, adding to their mysterious, overlooked quality. Always check if they are open to visitors before you go.

Pro Tip: Hire a local guide from the Jamestown community. Their personal stories and historical knowledge will bring the stones of these forts to life in a way no guidebook ever could.

Discover Your Accra

The true heart of Accra isn’t found only in its busiest plazas or on its most popular beaches. It lives in these quiet corners, these spaces of reflection, creativity, and natural beauty. By stepping off the beaten path, you’re not just avoiding a queue; you’re choosing to connect with the city on a deeper, more authentic level.

So next time you’re in Accra, dare to explore. Your greatest adventure might just be where the crowds aren’t.

Happy exploring

In a word: Top

Spinning like a …  yes, had a few of those dizzy spells, especially after too much to drink.  It’s where you say, ‘stop the world, I want to get off’.

And, ages ago, I think it was a musical production.

But…

Top, well, there’s sides, a bottom, and a top.  Have you been to the top of the world? I think I’ve been to the bottom, and it’s not the poles I’m talking about.

But then the top of something is the highest point, such as a mountain.  For some odd reason, I’ve never had the inclination to climb to the top of a mountain, but I’m guessing the view from the top of Mt Everest would be interesting.

Are you at the top of your game?

We say this when a player or athlete is winning or playing at their best.  I just keep hoping this year will be when the Maple Leafs will be playing at the top of their game.

Especially when I personally attend Scotiabank Arena in Toronto.

If you read thrillers, then you’ll know the assassin is always about to top someone, that is to say, kill them.

Will you top up my drink?  It’s where someone asks you how many glasses of wine you’ve had, and the correct answer is one; it just never got empty!

Can you put the top back on the bottle?

I’m headed straight to the top of the company.  The roof, maybe, certainly not as CEO.

Top gear, aside from being a motoring show on TV, could also be third, fourth, or fifth gear, depending on the type of gearbox.

And, of course, there are about another hundred ways it could be used.

Confusing, to say the least.

Have you another?  Let me know…

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 that 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 passengers’ 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 letting 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 have needed 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 my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated 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 fulfil, 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 other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that 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 mesmerising.  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 to me without my realising 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 subtly, 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 was 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 demeanour 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 realised 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 were, 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 that 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 realised 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 recognised me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not 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 that 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 ignore 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 travelling 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 travelling 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 realising what I’m doing.  It is none of my business.”  She shivered.  “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

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

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

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

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