Category: blogging

Writing a book in 365 days – 343

Day 343 – Writing Exercise

“What city is this?” he wondered out loud, looking down from a strange balcony to an unfamiliar street.

…

That might not have been the first thought that went through my mind that morning, but it had finally confirmed that I might very well be losing my mind.

What started this…

I woke.  It wasn’t any different to what had happened every morning for I believed was the last forty two years of my life.

This morning…

Not so much.  It was a room, it had two doors, and four walls, a cabinet, a TV, a painting and a window covered by heavy curtains.

OK, it was not my bedroom.

But it could be a hotel room, and since I travelled a lot, probably a hotel room in another city where we had an office.

I had been travelling a lot in recent months.

It was dark-ish, perhaps day from the light seeping in through the gaps in the curtains. 

There was an unfamiliar aroma, like the room was damp, or old, and certainly not the sort of place I usually stayed.

Then, suddenly there was a groan, and movement beside me.

I was not travelling with anyone, I do not go to bars and pick up women, I didn’t currently have a girlfriend, so who was that groaning.

I moved and felt a stabbing pain in my head.  A hangover?  Impossible.  I through off the covers and moved sideways, then looked back.

A woman, dressed thankfully, stretched out facing the other way.  I took a moment to discover I was in my forthcoming, which didn’t make sense.

Who was she?

Where did she come from?

Where the hell was I?

I went over to the window and opened the curtains, and the pain in my head was worse.  Morning light in unadjusted eyeballs hurts.

I squinted and blinked several times until I could make out shapes.  There was another door, out onto the balcony.  I stepped out and shivered.  It was freezing cold.

I looked down.  And uan nfamiliar street, an unfamiliar city.  I had no idea where I was.

“You do not have to jump, I am not that ugly,” a voice, female, accented, came from within the room.

I stepped back inside and closed the door, leaning against it.  The woman was propped up on one hand, looking at me.

She was younger than she sounded, with unruly blonde hair, not her real colour, and an exquisite face and whimsical expressions.

I had never seen her before.

“Who are you?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t even know where I am.”

“Bratislava.”

“Impossible.  I don’t even remember leaving Chicago.”

It was the last thing I remembered.  Telling my supervisor that I needed a break, and basically resigning when she refused, I packed my stuff in a box and left, handing my key card and employee ID in at the door.

So I’d finally quit.

That much I remember.  I also remembered going home and having a few drinks, then going to bed.

“You arrived yesterday afternoon.  You came to the bar where I waited tables.  You related your miserable story, drank too much, I brought you here, you asked me to stay.”

Hard to believe anyone would trust an American.

“How do you know I’m not an axe murderer?”

She laughed.  “You are not an axe murderer.  You were kind and gentle, and let me finally get a good night’s sleep in a real bed.”

“You have no home?”

“I have a home with parents, grandparents, six brothers and sisters, with no room and less privacy.  We are poor.  I work hard, but not enough for a place of my own.

“So you stay with random men who turn up at your bar.”

She looked indignant.  “I am not that sort of girl.”

“You are here with me, what sort of does that make you?”

“A friend without benefits.”

I shook my head.  I was letting the details get in the way of the main issue.  How did I finish up in Bratislava, if it was Bratislava, when the last place I’d remember was Chicago?

“Come.”  She patted the bed.  “You look stressed, and I can also give a massage.”

She sighed when I didn’t move.

“It is Sunday.  I have a day off.  You asked me to take you on a tour.  We can sleep in a little.  Get breakfast from room service.  Come, relax.”

She lay back down and pulled the sheet up, then looked at me.  I could feel the cold seeping in from the window, so I shut the curtains, shrouding the room in semi-darkness.

If she were going to rob me, she would have done something already, the same if she were going to kill me.  She was here for some other reason, and I didn’t believe for a minute I had asked her back to my room, or she would have come.

I sat on the edge of the bed and tried desperately to remember anything about the last 24 hours.  There was nothing.  Just the altercation with the supervisor, leaving, and going home.

In Chicago.  Not Bratislava.

I felt the bed move as she came over to sit next to me.  She took my hand in hers.

“You are acting very strangely.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Robert from Chicago.  Man of leisure.  Now.”

OK.  Now was the time to start worrying.  My name wasn’t Robert.  Best keep that to myself.  All I could think of was that I hadn’t quit, I was on a new operation, and somewhere, somehow, I had lost my short-term memory.

And the woman next to me could be either an enemy or a contact.

But why had I told her my actual life story, or was it part of the legend?

“I’m confused, and someone like me, that’s impossible.”

“In my line of work, you get to realise everything is impossible.  Except every now and then, a ray of sunshine appears in the middle of a blizzard.  By the way, we’re expecting snow; more snow, and just when you think that the weather will change, more snow.  Best we stay in.”

I turned to look at her.  “Who are you?”

“You know who I am, but since you have trouble remembering, I am Irina, waitress extrordanaire, sometimes tour guide, sometimes bartender, not often with time off.”

“Who brought me here…”

“When I asked you where you were staying.”

“No comment from the reception clerk?”

“He is used to odd situations and people coming and going.  It is a three-star hotel.  Sometimes spies stay in such hotels.  Personally, I have never met one.  Are you a spy?”

What an odd question to ask.  Was it a spy?  No.  Not exactly.  I used to be a courier, delivering stuff for agents at dead drops, but an actual spy?  No.

“It’s an interesting thought.  A spy with no memory of why he’s here in a strange hotel in a city he does remember getting to, with…” I shook my head.  I had no idea who or what she was.

“Me,” she finished the sentence.  “Perhaps if you go back to sleep, when you wake up, everything will be clear.”

Maybe, maybe not.

“I’m just going outside to clear my head.  If you’re still here when I come back, then I’ll know at least one part of this dream is real.”

She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

“I’ve never been part of someone’s dream before.”

I’m not sure what I felt in that moment, but it wasn’t like anything I’d felt for a long time.

“Hold that thought.”

I stood and went over to the window and felt the cold.  I hadn’t shut the door.  I stepped out onto the balcony and looked out at the old architecture and the roadway below.

After a minute or two, a gust of wind stirred up the snow on the railing and made me shiver.  From within the room, I heard the door slam shut, one of those doors designed not to stay open.

I went back inside, and she was gone.

No surprise there.  If I had been with someone like me, someone who couldn’t remember who they were and where they were, I’d get out fast, too.

I stood in the middle of the room and tried to make sense of my surroundings.  I’d given up trying to figure out how I got there.  Was there anything to identify me as this Robert?

A suitcase was on the rack for suitcases, open, and items were scattered neatly.  Clothes hanging in the closet.  A backpack is on the desk, but not open.  Wallet on bedside table, anda document folder.

I sat on the bed and opened the wallet.  Money, a credit card in the name of Robert Daniels.  Illinois driver’s licence in the same name.  A wad of money in several currencies.  A lot of US dollars.

Documents, a passport, looking authentic, not a hastily manufactured item that sometimes ended up in my possession, travel itinerary from Chicago to London to Vienna, then my own arrangements to Bratislava.  No return, but open, and a card with a cell number, Luxury Experiences.  No name.

I looked in the backpack and found a diary, no name, with a mixture of what looked like my writing and someone else’s.  Dates matched the itinerary.

Strange dates.  I remembered, now, that it had been the 5th when I left the office, the date of my sister’s birthday, and that I’d tried to call her, and the date on the itinerary for leaving Chicago was the 15th.

Ten whole days that had just disappeared.

As for today?  “Await instructions.  Keep your cell phone close.  Tour the city near the hotel, but be ready to move quickly if necessary.”

What the …?

The curtains blew inward from another gust, the cold circulating in the room.

I shivered, but this time it was not the cold.  My only memory at that time was having quit the service, and now it appeared I was at the start of a new mission.

After putting everything back where I found it, I went over to the window.  I looked out and saw that light snow was falling.

I went to close the door, then, on impulse, decided to step out and see if it was really snowing.  I was having trouble separating imagination from reality.  Another gust was accompanied by the sound of the door, then …

“Robert…”

I heard her voice and moved slightly just as something smashed into the bricks just behind where I had been standing.

A split second later, it registered, and I dropped to the floor just as another crashing sound came from where I’d just been standing.

Bullets, two, then a third into the balcony.

A sniper. 

On another building opposite, looking down.  After the fourth bullet, it stopped.

“Don’t come out,” I yelled.

“What is….”

A bullet shattered the window above me.

“Call the police, and tell them to hurry.”

If she didn’t have the sense to run and never be seen again.  I wasn’t sure, but somewhere in the back of my mind was a thought that I had just reached my use-by date.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

In a word: Under

Under by itself is a rather boring word, you know, under the moon, under the sea, under the influence, which is not hard to be if you’ve been hypnotised or after a few drinks.

Under is anything beneath something else.

But let’s add it to some other words like,

Underrated, which means it is better than what others give it credit for.

Underwear is what you would wear underneath your clothes.

An understudy is a person who takes over a lead role when the lead is incapacitated. And how many understudies are guilty of harming the lead, in order to get a big break?

And not get away with it?

Understood, an agreement that might or might not be in writing that something will happen, that is, it is understood that I will be the next president.

Or not. Who on earth would really want to be president of anything?

So in the spirit of trying to confuse everyone all of the time, I have a conundrum in the form of a question, what is the difference between under and underneath?

To me there is none, you can be under the sea or underneath the sea, or under the table or underneath the table, but then there’s another, you can be under the influence but not underneath the influence, though technically you could, if you wanted to use confusing English.

And, just to add to the confusion further, I can say that the submarine sailed under the sea, underneath the sea, but, in actual fact, it doesn’t.

What is under the sea is the sand, or sea bed, and a submarine does not plough its way through the sand, does it?

What we really should be saying is that a submarine moves through the water.

Just saying…

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense.  Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan.  He was about six or seven.  The girl was Louise, and she was five years old.  She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds.  I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell.  Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children.  They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand.  She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it.  The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants.  It was enough to have them arrested.  It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die.  It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing.  I had murder in mind.  It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows.  It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out.  I knew he eventually would.  The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go.  I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me.  He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes.  He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours.  I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.”  An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe.  It had blood on it.  Willy’s blood.  “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up.  He sang like a bird.  That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me.  Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.”  Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie.  He didn’t.  I’m coming for you.  All of you Bannisters.  And everyone who touched my sister.”

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries.  Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late.  If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood.  The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told.  He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy.  There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone.  It was a half mile walk, through a park.  The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness.  He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names.  At first, when he saw me, he laughed.  He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list.  I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi.  The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me.  I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality.  The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face.  He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out.  He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged.  I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me.  I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital.  He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come.  Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters.  His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful.  Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered.  A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub.  We got along like old friends.  He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges.  We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared.  I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me.  He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes.  I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it.  He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report.  They all had a turn.  He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats.  Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities.  She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me.  I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily.  The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family.  I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony.  I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes.  This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily.  He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm.  Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie.  My friend.”

Then she shot him.  Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

Now I was in jail.  I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession.  Without my sister, my life was nothing.  I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors.  I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone.  They ignored me.  I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that.  You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good.  I told him to go away.

He didn’t.  Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table.  The prison officers thought I was dangerous.  Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that.  McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.”  Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister.  By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same.  No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right.  But you’re different, Alan.  As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen.  We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him.  It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible.  People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot.  I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life.  Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward.  A team.  On the plane early before the rest of the crew.  A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless.  Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides.  It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision.  If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness.  Not that day.  Not any day.

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag.  They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her.  It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she?  No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it.  After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks.  Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away.  He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground.  I looked at his two friends.  “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk.  She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were.  The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her.  “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me.  She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state.  Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.”  I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care.  Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person.  If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.”  I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again.  “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder.  We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one.  Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk.  What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet.  “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

The wedding was in a small church.  We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot.  Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age.  She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look.  “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said.  It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte.  It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me.  “I like you.  Take care of my granddaughter.  You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us.  Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother.  She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends.  For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother.  It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close.  I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness.  We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head.  It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction.  “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother.  Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?”  I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong.  She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life.  I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled.  It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye.  Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

onelastlookcoverfinal2

Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 25

All stories require some form of research, quite often to place a character in a place at a particular time, especially if it is in a historical context. This series will take you through what it was like in 1914 through 1916.

…

WWI Troop Arrival and Orders in Egypt (April 1915)

The journey of an Englishman returning from Australia to enlist, travelling through the Suez Canal in April 1915, places him squarely within the initial stages of the British Empire’s military buildup in Egypt.

1. Nearest Port and Ship Delivery

The most likely final disembarkation port for troop transport ships arriving in Egypt via the Suez Canal in April 1915 was Alexandria.

  • Suez Canal Route: The ship would pass through the Suez Canal and enter the Mediterranean Sea via Port Said. While Port Said was a vital coaling and resupply station at the northern entrance of the Canal, it was primarily a commercial port and a critical point for Canal defence.
  • The Main Base: Alexandria was the primary, large-capacity deep-water port on the Mediterranean coast and served as the main base and logistic hub for the British, Australian, and New Zealand (ANZAC) forces in Egypt. Troops destined for the extensive training camps in the Cairo area (like Mena Camp near the Pyramids) were routinely disembarked at Alexandria due to its superior facilities for handling large numbers of men, horses, and materiel.

In short, the ship would transit the Canal at Port Said, but the soldier would be delivered to Alexandria.

2. Travel to Cairo and Training Camps

Yes, he would almost certainly need to go to Cairo first, or at least pass through the major military transit points near it, before reaching the training camps near the Pyramids (Mena Camp).

  • From Alexandria to Cairo: Upon disembarking at Alexandria, soldiers were typically immediately loaded onto troop trains for the several-hour journey inland. The main line ran directly to Cairo, where the primary base hospitals, advanced supply depots, and major military command were located.
  • Mena Camp: The famous Mena Camp, situated right next to the Giza Pyramids, was the principal training ground for incoming forces. Transportation from the Cairo railway station or a nearby transit point would be organised to move him to his specific unit in the camp.

3. Reporting with Special Orders

If the enlisted Englishman had “special orders,” his reporting procedure would be immediately elevated and separated from the standard mass of recruits.

  • Standard Procedure: A typical enlisted man would report to the Adjutant or a Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) of the unit he was assigned to, who would be waiting at the port or the reception depot in Cairo.
  • Special Orders Procedure: A soldier with special orders would likely be carrying them in a sealed document intended for high-level staff. He would report to:
    1. The Base Commandant or Staff Officer on Arrival: The first stop would be the Base Commandant or the senior Staff Officer of the disembarkation port (Alexandria). He would present his orders and be immediately directed to the appropriate authority.
    2. General Officer Commanding (G.O.C.)’s Headquarters: His orders would likely route him directly to the General Officer Commanding, Egypt (G.O.C. Egypt), or the Staff Officer representing the GOC at GHQ (General Headquarters) in Cairo. In April 1915, the overall command in Egypt was likely under the purview of General Sir John Maxwell, who was responsible for the troops and defences of Egypt. If the special orders related to the imminent Gallipoli campaign, he might be directed to the headquarters of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) or the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force (MEF), both of which had Staff Officers operating out of the Cairo command structure.

In summary, his path would be: Australia → Suez Canal → Disembark at Alexandria → Troop Train to Cairo → Report to GHQ Staff (or his unit in the Mena Camp area).

“People have a way of surprising you…” – A short story

Last days were supposed to be joyous, the end of your working life and the start of the rest of your life.

I’d spent the last 35 years working for the company, navigating through three buyouts, five name changes, and three restructures. I was surprised I was still employed after the last, only two years before.

But, here I was, sitting in the divisional manager’s office, my office for one more day, with my successor, Jerry, and best friend, sitting on the other side.

“Last day, what are you thinking?” He asked casually.

It might have been early, but we both had a glass of scotch, a single malt I’d kept aside for an important occasion and this seemed like one.

I picked up the glass and surveyed the contents, giving myself a few moments to consider an answer to what could be a difficult question. To be honest, the thinking had started on the subway on the way in, when I should have been working on the crossword, but instead, I was lamenting the fact that the next chapter of my life would be without Ellen.

We would have been married, coincidently, 43 years ago today, had she been alive. Unfortunately, she had died suddenly about four months ago, after a long battle with cancer.

And I still hadn’t had time to process it. Truth is, it had been work that kept me together, and I was worried about what was going to happen when it would no longer there.

To a certain extent, I was still on autopilot, her death coming in the middle of a major disaster concerning the company, one that had finally, and successfully, been brought to a conclusion with favorable results for everyone.

But what was I thinking right then, at that precise moment in time? Not something he would want to hear, so I made the necessary adjustment. “That I’m basically leaving you a clean slate, so don’t screw it up.”

I could see that was not what he wanted to hear.

He decided to take a different tack. “What have you got planned for the first day of retirement.”

He knew about Ellen and had been there for me, above and beyond what could have been expected from anyone. I owed him more than a platitude.

“Sleep in, probably, but I’m going to be fighting that body clock. It’s going to be difficult after so many years getting up the same time, rail hail or shine. But we had plans to go away for a few months, you know, the trip of a lifetime, then move. Ellen wanted to go back home for a while, now, I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”

“Then perhaps you should, or at the very least, go home for a while. You said you both come from there; who knows, being back among family might just be what you need.”

It was something I had been thinking about and had been issued an open-ended invitation from her parents to come and stay for as long as I wanted, one that I was seriously considering.

But, before I could tell him that, the phone rang.

Never a dull day…
The day went quickly, and as much as it was expected I’d hand over anything that happened to my successor, I couldn’t quite let go. There was the proverbial storm in a teacup, but it was a good opportunity to watch the man who was taking over in action. He had a great teacher, even if I said so myself.

But it was the end of the day and the moment I had been dreading. I’d asked the personnel manager not to make a big deal out of my departure, and that I didn’t want the usual sendoff, where everyone in the office came and I would find myself at a loss of words and feel like I had to speak to a lot of people I didn’t really know.

There were only about a dozen that I really knew, a dozen that had survived the layoffs and restructuring, and although there were others, I didn’t have anything to do with them. My last job took me out of the office more than being there, and so many of the other people were from offices scattered all up and down the east coast.

I’d mostly said my goodbyes to them on the last quarterly visit. Sixteen offices, fifty-odd employees who were as much friends as they were staff who worked for me. There had been small dinners and heartfelt moments.

This I was hoping would be the same.

Jerry had been charged with the responsibility of getting me to the presentation; they called it a presentation because I had no doubt there would be a presentation of some sort. I had told the CEO a handshake and a couple of drinks would suffice, and he just congenially nodded.

Jerry had taken the manager’s chair and I was sitting on the other side of the table. We’d finished off the last of the single malt, and dirt was time to go. I closed the door to the office for the last time, and we walked along the passage towards the dining room. It was a perk I’d fought hard to keep during the last restructure when the money men were trying to cut costs.

It was one of the few battles I won.

He opened the door and stood to one side, and ushered me through.

It was a very large space, usually filled with tables, chairs, and diners. Now it was filled with people, leaving a passageway from the door to a podium that had been set up in front of the servery, where a large curtain stretched across the width of the building with the company logo displayed on it.

There were 2,300 people who worked in this office and another 700 from the regional offices. By the look of the crowd, every single one of them was there.

It took fifteen minutes to get from the door to the podium. Faces of people I’d seen every day, faces I’d seen a few times a year, and faces I’d never seen before. On the podium there was a dozen more, faces I’d only seen in the Annual Accounts document, except for the General Manager and the CEO.

“You will be pleased to know everyone here wanted to come and bid you farewell,” the General Manager said.

“Everyone? Why?”

“Well, I’ve learned a lot about this company and its people over the last week, and frankly, people have a way of surprising you. And given the impact you have had on each and every one of them, I’m not surprised. So much so, they wanted to give you something to remember them by.”

A nod of the head and the curtains were pulled back, and behind them was an original 1968 XJ6 Jaguar, fully restored, a very familiar XJ6. The car had belonged to Helen and I had to sell it to help pay the medical bills. It had been a gut-wrenching experience, coming at a time when everything that was happened to her almost overwhelmed me.

“Jerry told us about this particular car, so all of your friends thought, as a fitting memory to you and of her, that we should find it and restore it. Everyone here contributed. It is our gift to you for everything you have done for us.”

So much for the usual sendoff…

—-

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

The 2am Rant: Why is writing so hard

In just about every book about how to be a good writer, there seems to be a pile of problems that at some time in a writer’s life will need to be overcome.

Writer’s block

Don’t have it.  The ideas pour out of my head like water over a waterfall

Don’t use abstract descriptions in your writing

Damn, I do that all the time

But, back to writer’s block, is that where you write 37 chapters and there the story stops?

Oops.

Plan your book and have an outline so you can write it from start to finish

Plan?  What Plan?

That only happens when I’ve written the book and prior to the first edit, I make a precise of each chapter to make sure of continuity.

Plan your characters and give them a timeline

Oh God is that why characters’ names are often changing as the story progresses.

Believe it or not, I’m working on this issue.

Manage your time.

Still can’t get it right.

Write at least a thousand words a day, no matter if it’s rubbish or not.

Does that include writing for social media?

Apparently not.

At least this is one of the requirements I follow religiously. Sometimes it’s a lot more words but a least some writing finished up either on paper in on the word processor.

Now it’s time to write those thousand words.

Look, there, I’ve at least got one part of time management under control.

Writing a book in 365 days – 342

Day 342

The Power of Language: Unleashing the Imagination

Anthony Burgess, the renowned English writer and critic, once said, “Language exists less to record the actual than to liberate the imagination.” These profound words highlight the dual nature of language, which not only serves as a tool for communication but also as a catalyst for creativity and imagination. In this blog post, we will delve into the concept of language as a liberator of the imagination, exploring its implications and significance in our daily lives.

The Limitations of Recording the Actual

Language is often seen as a means of recording and conveying information about the world around us. We use words to describe people, places, objects, and events, attempting to capture their essence and characteristics. However, as Burgess notes, language is not merely a passive recorder of reality. If it were, it would be limited to simply documenting facts and figures, without any room for interpretation, creativity, or innovation.

Liberating the Imagination

The true power of language lies in its ability to transcend the mundane and ordinary, to tap into our imagination and creativity. Through language, we can conjure up worlds, characters, and scenarios that are entirely fictional, yet eerily relatable. We can use words to evoke emotions, to paint vivid pictures, and to convey complex ideas and concepts. Language becomes a tool for self-expression, allowing us to channel our thoughts, feelings, and experiences into something tangible and meaningful.

The Role of Metaphor and Symbolism

One of the key ways in which language liberates the imagination is through the use of metaphor and symbolism. By comparing two seemingly unrelated things, we can create new meanings and associations, revealing hidden connections and patterns. Metaphors and symbols can transport us to new realms of understanding, enabling us to see the world from fresh perspectives. For example, when we describe a person as a “ray of sunshine,” we are not merely recording a fact, but rather using language to evoke a sense of warmth, happiness, and optimism.

The Importance of Imagination in Human Experience

Imagination is a fundamental aspect of the human experience, enabling us to dream, to innovate, and to create. It is through imagination that we can envision new possibilities, challenge existing norms, and push the boundaries of what is thought possible. Language, as a liberator of the imagination, plays a vital role in this process, providing us with the tools to express ourselves, to communicate our ideas, and to bring our visions to life.

Conclusion

Anthony Burgess’s statement reminds us that language is not just a utilitarian tool but a powerful catalyst for creativity and imagination. By recognising the dual nature of language, we can harness its potential to liberate our imagination, to express ourselves authentically, and to create new worlds, characters, and scenarios. As we continue to navigate the complexities of the human experience, we must prioritise the imagination, using language as a tool to inspire, innovate, and bring our most fantastical ideas to life. In doing so, we can unlock the full potential of language and unleash the imagination that lies within us all.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Stockholm

Beyond the Beaten Path: 5 Hidden Gems to Discover in Stockholm

Stockholm is a city that effortlessly blends old-world charm with modern innovation. While most visitors flock to iconic landmarks like the Royal Palace, Gamla Stan, and the Vasa Museum, there’s an entirely different side of the city waiting to be explored — one that reveals intimate neighbourhoods, local rituals, and quiet corners tucked away from the tourist trail.

If you’ve already climbed the usual sightseeing checklist — or if you simply prefer a more authentic, off-the-beaten-path adventure — here are five lesser-known experiences that offer a fresh perspective on Sweden’s capital.

1. Wander the Abandoned Beauty of Fårö Island (Just Beyond the City)

While technically not in Stockholm, Fårö — a quiet island in the Baltic Sea just a short ferry ride from the mainland — feels like stepping into a Nordic fairytale. Made famous by filmmaker Ingmar Bergman, who lived and worked here, Fårö is a tranquil mosaic of windswept beaches, ancient stone forts, and dramatic limestone caves.

Most travellers focus on Gotland’s main island, Visby, but Fårö remains relatively untouched. Rent a bicycle and explore the Fogelhushamnen nature reserve, where jagged alvar plains meet the sea. Have lunch at Högklint, a café with panoramic ocean views, and time your visit with the spring lambing season to see the island come alive. It’s a poetic detour that feels worlds away from urban life, yet is easily reachable via a day trip.

Pro tip: Combine with a stop in Ljugarn, a charming fishing village on Gotland’s northeastern coast.

2. Get Lost in the Graffiti Labyrinths of Tantolunden Tunnel

Tucked beneath a busy overpass in Södermalm lies one of Stockholm’s best-kept secrets — the Tantolunden graffiti tunnel. Unlike the curated street art of other cities, this underground corridor is a constantly evolving canvas of colour, emotion, and political commentary.

Spray-painted by local artists and rebellious youth, the tunnel pulses with raw creativity. It’s especially stunning during winter when the soft glow of streetlights reflects off icy walls, illuminating vibrant murals of wolves, goddesses, and dystopian visions.

Take the tunnel as a starting point and continue your urban exploration into nearby Hornsgatan, lined with independent boutiques, vinyl shops, and hidden cafés like Kafé Döbling, where locals sip fika in cozy nooks.

3. Soak in the Silence at Djurgårdsbrunn Canal

Forget the crowds lining the shores of Nybroviken — for a truly peaceful moment on the water, head to Djurgårdsbrunn Canal. Nestled within the expansive Djurgården island, this 18th-century waterway was once used to supply fresh water to the Royal Palace.

Today, it’s a serene escape, perfect for a morning walk or a quiet picnic. The canal is flanked by lush greenery, wooden bridges, and historic pump houses, with the occasional swan gliding past. Come summer, locals bring out folding chairs and books, unwinding in near-silence.

Pack a Scandinavian-style picnic — think crispbread, pickled herring, and lingonberry juice — and enjoy a moment of mångata, the Swedish concept of the shimmering reflection of moonlight on water. You’ll likely have the entire area to yourself.

4. Explore the Secret Soviet-Era Bunker at Lovön

Did you know Stockholm has a Cold War bunker hidden beneath an unassuming forest? Located on the island of Lovön — part of the city’s national urban park — the Klara Shelter is just one of many underground military installations built during the mid-20th century to protect government officials in case of nuclear attack.

While the original bunker in central Stockholm is occasionally open for tours, the more accessible and atmospheric option is the P1 bunker at Lovön. Officially declassified and occasionally open for public visits or special exhibitions, this labyrinthine complex could house thousands and function independently for weeks.

Even if it’s closed, the surrounding area is worth visiting — pine forests, rocky shores, and the nearby Drottningholm Palace Water Theatre, a UNESCO-listed outdoor stage dating back to the 1700s that still hosts baroque operas.

Keep an eye on events by the Stockholm City Museum — they often organise rare guided bunker tours.

5. Sip Coffee in a Converted Church: Kaffistiet @ Katarina Kyrka

In the heart of Södermalm lies Katarina Church, a stark 18th-century building with panoramic views of the city. But the real treasure is downstairs, in the crypt-turned-café known as Kaffistiet.

This intimate coffeehouse, run by Katarina Parish, feels like drinking espresso in a sacred cave. Exposed stone walls, soft candlelight, and the faint scent of incense create a meditative atmosphere. They serve single-origin beans roasted in Stockholm and homemade pastries baked daily.

Sit by a small window overlooking the graveyard and listen to soft choral music drifting from above. It’s a place where spirituality and secular calm coexist — and where you can enjoy one of the city’s best cappuccinos with a side of introspection.

Bonus: Sundays often feature live acoustic music or poetry readings — check their Facebook page for schedules.

Final Thoughts: Embrace the Quiet Side of Stockholm

Stockholm’s charm doesn’t lie solely in its famous sights — it lives in the hushed echoes of ancient tunnels, the spontaneous art on forgotten walls, and the quiet rituals of daily life that unfold beyond guidebooks.

The city rewards the curious traveller. So next time you’re in Sweden’s capital, leave the map behind. Venture into the misty islands, dive into underground art, and find peace in places where history and silence speak louder than words.

Because in Stockholm, the road less travelled doesn’t just lead to discovery — it leads to soul.

Have you found your own hidden gem in Stockholm? Share your secret spots in the comments below!

What I learned about writing – A blank mind is not writer’s block

It’s been a long time, or what seems to be a long time.

A few weeks ago I was sitting in front of the computer screen, the ever-pervasive cursor flashing on a blank piece of digitized paper, and that was as far as I got.

No, the house didn’t burn down, no major catastrophe nor family member or friend was in dire need of my help.

I just didn’t know what to write next.

I have been writing, but not necessarily in the normal sense.  I have SomNote on my phone, and when I’m waiting, usually for doctors or Government offices, I write.  A bit of this, a bit of that, but sometimes the YA novel I’m writing for, and not necessarily about, my 19-year-old granddaughter.  Other times it might be a blog post about the experience, or someone who stands out in the crowd.

I find SomNote excellent for just putting words down quickly, as narrative, or just points, emailing it my myself and rehashing it later.  It has basically been used to write the first 37 chapters of the YA novel.

But as for the other writing?

Strangers We’ve Become, the follow-up to What Sets Us Apart took a new direction.  As this is the next book to be published, and I have completed the revisions the editor asked for. we might see this finally get to the publisher.

Never let anyone tell you there’s not something else to be done after 10 edits, and re-writes.

The Things We Do For Love, a little story I wrote many years ago, is finally through its last edit and ready for the final approval from the editor, and will be ready for publication.  It will be categorized as Romantic Suspense, along with Sunday In New York.

Look for those to be released in June or July this year.

My other story, the tales of PI Walthenson, private detective, had taken a back burner for a while, as I continue to muddle through the second case, now at about 60 episodes, of which 40 odd have been published.

I have no idea how it will end, but it’s going to be fun getting there.

This is a link to the latest episode here:  https://www.walthensonpi.com/

After that, Zoe will be back.  After the trials and tribulations in The Devil You Don’t, she finds that the past she tried to leave behind had come back to bite her, in the tentatively titled ”First Dig Two Graves’, because it is about revenge and whether or not it’s best served cold.  And whether or not John’s romantic aspirations are fulfilled.

Now, I guess, it’s back to work!