The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 22

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.

An unlikely ally?

When we were far enough away, not far from the bridge that crossed the Thames towards the Houses of Parliament, and with the London Eye in the foreground, I slackened my pace.  There were enough people around to afford us cover if Maury and his team realised quickly enough what we had done to escape.

“What now?” she asked.

“Go back to your people, tell them you’ve been compromised, but only on the basis that your flat was tossed, don’t mention Nobbin or Severin unless you feel compelled you have to, and make sure you don’t go back to the flat.  Both of them will have it staked out by now.”

“And what are you doing to do?”

“Try and play them off against each other, which probably won’t work.  I’m not nearly good enough at this caper yet.  Unfortunately, I’m going to have to talk to both of them and tell them I’m onto McConnell, though that will hardly be a surprise to either of them.  After that, find somewhere safe to figure out what to do next.”

“Who was that back at the station?”

“A chap called Maury, and I think he’s one of Severin’s hatchet men.  He was one of those who trained me and several others.”

“You do realise what you’re saying?”

“That my situation is so screwed up, yes, I know.”

It was when I stopped to think about it.  Trained by a rogue group no one knew about, or so they said, and transferred to another group, but not told about it, well, not officially, anyway.

“Maybe we should keep each other’s back.  I mean, if what you say is true, if I go back to my people and tell them about this, it’s likely I’ll be putting a target on my back too.”

True.  I had considered that, but not that we might team up.  It would introduce a third group to the game, and it might be one too many, or act as a catalyst leading to catastrophic consequences.

“What are you saying?”  I asked her, just in case I was misinterpreting what she was saying.

“I’m not safe, you’re not safe, together we might be.  I might have something useful about O’Connell, but I wouldn’t know if it was useful of not.  You at least know what to look for, and basically who to avoid.  Who knows, we might make a great team.”

We might.  But it would have to be predicated on trust, and, right now, I was not sure if I could trust her.  That pen thing, she might have precipitated it, and was working with Severin.  It seemed logical in the circumstances.

But what was that saying, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer?  I’d soon find out.

“Ok.  What do you think we should do first?”

“Find a hotel, an obscure one, nearby, and you call your so-called friends, and see what happens, as you said.”

I nodded.  “Sounds like a plan.”

And, I thought to myself, ideal for her if she was insinuating herself into my world, much the same as she had in O’Connell’s case.  In was now in my nature to suspect everyone and everything, because a few words of one lesson came back to haunt me.  We trust people because we instinctively want to believe them, and in this line of work, the people we come across are good and sincere storytellers.

It was a question of how much truth they weaved into their story, that made it believable.  I wanted to believe her, but the facts, circumstantial or otherwise, pointed me in the other direction.

I would have to wait and see and make sure I was prepared for the worst.

It was Jan’s idea t stay near the Charing Cross station in a hotel that I would not normally stay in because of the cost.  I let Jan do the check-in and when we arrived at the room, I discovered she hadn’t booked two rooms, but a Studio Suite with two single beds and a sofa bed.

Apparently, we were brother and sister, which made sense after I had overheard some of the conversation with the check-in clerk.  I didn’t hear what her excuse was for lack of luggage.  Perhaps the airline had lost it, but I had to admit the girl could think on her feet.

Once inside the room, it felt cramped, but the beds looked comfortable, and it had a minibar.

“Before you make any calls, you need to disable the GPS in your phone.”

“They’ll still be able to track it.”

“Not if you are on it for a short period, and we are outside the hotel.”

Well, before that I need a drink.”

“So, do I.  Give me a minute to freshen up and we’ll go down to the bar.  It’ll be a lot cheaper than the minibar.  Then I think we both need to get some supplies.”

I wondered if this is what it was like to be married.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 16

Day 16 – The right characters for the story

How to Find the Right Characters for Your Story: Moving Beyond Stereotypes

In the world of storytelling—whether you’re crafting a suspenseful spy thriller, a gritty crime drama, or an intimate character-driven novel—the characters you choose make or break the narrative. We’ve all read (or watched) stories where the suave, indestructible spy slips through laser grids and dispatches villains with one-handed elegance. And sure, that’s fun. But after a while, we start to wonder: is that all there is?

It’s fine if your spy is a one-man, indestructible killing machine. James Bond, Jason Bourne, and Ethan Hunt have paved the way—and earned their place in pop culture. But isn’t that kind of character one-dimensional? Can’t they feel fear, doubt, or regret? And what about the criminals they pursue? Are they simply evil for the sake of drama, or do they have motives, dreams, and inner conflicts of their own?

If we want our stories to resonate, to linger in readers’ minds long after the final page, we need to go deeper. We need to find the right characters—not just the flashy ones.

Step 1: Start with Motivation, Not Archetype

The easiest path to a cardboard cutout character is to begin with a trope: the stoic hero, the seductive femme fatale, the deranged villain. Instead, ask: What does this character want—and why?

A spy doesn’t just save the world because it’s Tuesday. Maybe they’re driven by guilt over a past failure. Or perhaps they’re trying to protect someone they love. Even a hardened intelligence agent might secretly fear that their actions have made them less human.

Similarly, a criminal isn’t evil just because the plot demands it. What led them down this path? Was it poverty, betrayal, a system that failed them? A villain who believes they’re the hero of their own story is infinitely more compelling than one who twirls a moustache and cackles into the void.

Step 2: Embrace Contradictions

Real people are full of contradictions—and so should your characters be.

Imagine a hitman who volunteers at an animal shelter on weekends. A corrupt cop who’s raising their nephew alone and wants to give him a better life. A genius terrorist who plays classical piano and writes love letters to their mother.

These contradictions humanise. They force readers to question their assumptions. And that’s where deeper engagement begins.

When we give characters opposing impulses—love and fear, duty and desire, cruelty and compassion—we unlock psychological depth. These are the traits that make characters memorable.

Step 3: Avoid Monolithic Labels

Criminals are not inherently villainous. Heroes aren’t inherently good. Moral alignment should be fluid, not fixed.

Consider real-world complexities. A man who robs banks to pay for his daughter’s medical treatment isn’t a saint, but can we call him purely evil? A soldier who follows orders may be “just doing their job,” but what happens when those orders cross ethical lines?

By challenging stereotypes, you invite nuance. A spy doesn’t have to be emotionally detached—they might be hyper-observant precisely because they’re lonely. A femme fatale doesn’t need to manipulate for power; maybe she’s been manipulated her whole life and is finally seizing control.

Step 4: Let Characters Evolve

The right characters aren’t static. They change—sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically. Growth (or regression) is key to authenticity.

Your indestructible spy might start out as a cold operative, but what if, over the course of the story, they begin to question the cost of their actions? What if they hesitate before pulling the trigger—and that hesitation changes everything?

Likewise, a criminal might start as an antagonist but reveal layers of vulnerability, forcing the protagonist (and reader) to reevaluate what “justice” really means.

Step 5: Listen to Your Characters

Many writers say their characters “tell them what to do.” That might sound mystical, but it’s really about immersion. Once you’ve built a foundation, let go of control. Ask: What would this person really do in this situation? Even if it derails your outline, that authenticity breathes life into fiction.

Sometimes the right character reveals themselves not in grand monologues, but in quiet moments—a hesitation before a lie, a nervous habit, a song they hum when alone.


Final Thought: The Right Character Isn’t Perfect—They’re Human

Finding the right characters for your story isn’t about casting a hero who fits the mould. It’s about creating people we recognise—flawed, conflicted, and real. Even in the most fantastical settings, emotional truth is what connects us.

So next time you’re tempted to write the flawless spy or the irredeemable villain, pause. Ask yourself:
Who are they when no one is watching?
What keeps them awake at night?
What do they wish they could change?

Answer those questions, and you won’t just find the right characters for your story—you’ll create ones your readers will never forget.

If I only had one day to stop over in – New York – what would I do?

A One-Day Stopover in New York: Making Memories at the Unforgettable High Line

Travelling, by its very nature, is about discovery. But what do you do when time is truly limited? Imagine this: You’re sitting on a transatlantic flight, mid-Atlantic, with a layover in New York City. Your window seat offers a bird’s-eye view of the East River, and the next 24 hours are yours to craft a moment you’ll remember. One place. One day. One memory. What do you choose?

If you’re like me, you’ll go where the past and present dance together, where nature defies urban grit, and where art whispers to the soul—The High Line.

Why the High Line?

The High Line is a 1.45-mile-long elevated linear park built on a disused railway track. Converted from an industrial relic to a lush, living mosaic of wildflowers, art, and urban soul, it’s the epitome of New York’s reinvention. Unlike museums that demand hours or skyscrapers that require reservations, the High Line is free, open-air, and designed for the kind of slow, sensory experience that sticks with you long after the plane takes off.

What to Do (and See) in One Day

1. Walk the Wild Path
Start at the southernmost point near Gansevoort Street, where the park blends with the Meatpacking District. The path is a tapestry of native plants and grasses, curated to feel like a meadow in the sky. As you stroll, pause at Spur—a small extension of the park with a glass-walled café and breathtaking views of the Hudson Yards and the Hudson River. It’s like watching the city from a secret balcony.

2. Encounter Living Art
The High Line isn’t just a garden; it’s an art gallery in motion. Over a dozen open-air installations line the route, from Marcel Duchamp’s Bicycle Wheel to the whimsical Curl by Sarah Sze. The programming changes seasonally, so even if you’ve been before, there’s always something new. Pro tip: Keep an eye out for the Chambers Street Poetry Spots—poems etched into the paving stones, blending literature with the cityscape.

3. Marvel at the City’s Skyline
The park’s vantage points are priceless. At the Hudson Yards Terminal, look down into the massive Vessel structure and the glowing facades of the area’s towers. At the Diller–vonn Imhoff Courtyard, see the juxtaposition of modern art with the Lower West Side. And when the sun sets, don’t miss the Standard High Line rooftop—order a cocktail and watch the Empire State Building glisten in the distance.

4. Sip and Savour
Post-walk, refuel with a coffee at The Porch, the Spur’s airy café, or enjoy a globally inspired snack from The High Line’s food kiosks (they rotate seasonal vendors). For a deeper dive, venture to nearby Chelsea Market across the 10th Avenue Connector for soups, sushi, or sweet treats.

5. End with a Ferry Ride
Time your exit at the northern end near 34th Street. Take the Hudson River Ferry (free with a MetroCard) for a 20-minute voyage past the Statue of Liberty, the Vessel, and the glittering East River. It’s the perfect finale—a different perspective of the city, one that feels like a hidden New York only insiders know.

Why This Day Stands Out

The High Line isn’t just a place; it’s an experience of contrasts. It’s the crunch of gravel underfoot versus the silence of a hidden garden. It’s a city that breathes, where art and ecology thrive in harmony. Unlike ticking off landmarks, this stopover invites you to feel the pulse of New York, not just observe it.

When your time runs out, and you’re back in the airport, you’ll leave with more than photos: You’ll have memories of the way the sunlight filtered through the willows, the scent of wild thyme in the air, and the realisation that even in the most crowded city in America, there’s a place to find peace.

A one-day stopover in New York should be memorable. With the High Line, it will be.

What I learned about writing – Three rough, flawed drafts are better than nothing

Find Your Voice by Writing—Not by Waiting

Why Practice, Not Planning, Is the True Path to a Unique Writing Voice

There’s a myth that haunts every aspiring writer: Before I can write, I need to get it right.

We tell ourselves we need to study the masters—their sentence structures, their narrative arcs, their perfect dialogue. We pore over query letter templates, craft elaborate character backstories, and plan chapter outlines with military precision. We believe that if we can just prepare enough, analyse enough, or emulate enough, then—then—we’ll finally have a voice worth sharing.

But here’s the truth no one wants to admit:
Your voice doesn’t come from planning. It comes from writing.

Not from reading how Stephen King builds tension.
Not from reverse-engineering a Margaret Atwood paragraph.
Not from polishing a pitch before the first sentence of your novel exists.

Your voice develops through practice—through showing up and putting words on the page, even when they’re messy, clichéd, or downright terrible.

The Myth of the Perfect Start

We often treat our writing like a performance we must rehearse endlessly before stepping on stage. We think we need to “find” our voice before we begin, as if it’s a hidden object buried under research and technique. But voice isn’t something you discover in books or templates.

Voice is born in the doing.

It’s in the flawed first draft where you overwrite dramatic scenes.
It’s in the clumsy dialogue that somehow reveals a character’s vulnerability.
It’s in the thousand bad sentences that eventually—inevitably—teach you what a good one feels like.

The only way to develop a voice is to write enough that the artifice falls away. When you’ve filled notebooks with false starts and deleted 20,000 words, something shifts. You stop trying to sound like someone else. You stop asking, What would my favourite author do? and start trusting, This is what I think. This is how I say it.

Why Practise Beats Planning Every Time

Studying technique has its place—it’s valuable. But technique is a tool, not the source of your voice. You can study every brushstroke of Van Gogh’s paintings, but you’ll never paint like him by analysis alone. You paint like yourself by painting—by making mistakes, by experimenting, by trying and failing and trying again.

Writing is the same.

Each sentence you write—whether brilliant or banal—shapes your natural rhythm, your tone, your perspective. Even “bad” writing teaches you more than passive study ever can. It reveals your tics, your obsessions, your blind spots, and eventually, your strengths.

Voice emerges through accumulation. Through repetition. Through the invisible, daily work of putting words in order.

Embrace the Awful First Draft

Anne Lamott famously wrote about the “Shitty First Draft”—and she wasn’t being harsh. She was being honest. Most great writing begins as a mess. And that’s not a failure. It’s a necessity.

When you accept that your early work will be imperfect, you free yourself to write anything. You stop waiting for permission. You stop curating your thoughts to fit someone else’s idea of “good.” You begin to trust your instincts—and that’s where voice lives.

So stop waiting.

Stop over-planning.
Stop over-analysing.
Stop waiting for confidence.

Just write.

Write when you’re uninspired. Write when you’re uncertain. Write when you’re convinced it’s all garbage. Write especially when it’s garbage.

Because on the other side of those messy, imperfect pages is you—your authentic voice, emerging not from a plan, but from practice.

The Only Assignment That Matters

Your only job today isn’t to write beautifully.
It’s to write.

Put words on paper.
Make mistakes.
Fail forward.

Your voice isn’t waiting to be found.
It’s waiting to be used.

And it will grow—stronger, truer, and unmistakably yours—every time you let it speak.

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

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

Discovering Canberra’s Hidden Gems: Top Five Adventures on the Road Less Travelled

Canberra, Australia’s capital, is often celebrated for its iconic landmarks like the Australian War Memorial and Parliament House. Yet, beyond the well-trodden paths lies a treasure trove of hidden gems waiting to be uncovered. For travelers seeking a more authentic and offbeat Australian experience, here are five unique adventures to explore in and around Canberra.


1. Tidbinbilla Nature Reserve: A Wild Encounter with Australia’s Flora and Fauna

Tucked in the scenic Tidbinbilla Valley, this 8,600-hectare wildlife sanctuary offers a serene escape from the city. Home to over 130 species of native animals, including kangaroos, koalas, and wallabies, Tidbinbilla is a haven for nature lovers. Take a guided wildlife tour to spot nocturnal animals like the elusive bilby or join a ranger-led walk to learn about the reserve’s conservation efforts. The reserve’s picturesque landscapes and peaceful atmosphere make it a perfect day trip. Admission is by donation, supporting the reserve’s vital work.


2. National Arboretum ACT: A Journey Through Trees and Time

While the Australian National Botanic Gardens are popular, the National Arboretum, located 15 km south of Canberra, is a less-known haven for tree enthusiasts. This 120-hectare living museum features over 150 types of trees from around the world, including the vibrant Great Gymea Lily (the world’s tallest flowering plant). Explore themed trails like the “Koala Zone” or take a peaceful stroll through the “Mourning Glory Tree Walk,” which blooms with pink flowers. The arboretum’s peaceful groves and art installations make it a unique spot for reflection and photography.


3. The Spinning Wheel Sculpture Park: Queanbeyan’s Quirky Art Haven

A short 15-minute drive from Canberra, Queanbeyan’s Spinning Wheel Sculpture Park is a whimsical celebration of art and creativity. Hosted by the Queanbeyan Artists Group, this ever-changing exhibition features over 100 sculptures in an eclectic mix of styles and materials. Wandering through this free-entry park feels like stepping into a fairytale, with interactive installations like a giant teacup and a rotating wheel inviting playful exploration. It’s a feast for the senses and a must for art lovers.


4. Lanyon Homestead: Stepping into Australia’s Pioneering Past

Nestled in the suburbs of Narrabundah, Lanyon Homestead offers a glimpse into Australia’s colonial heritage. This 1837 sandstone cottage and its surrounding heritage gardens are preserved as a living museum. Self-guided tours reveal stories of early settlers, while the formal gardens, filled with native plants and historic artifacts, provide a tranquil setting. The homestead also hosts seasonal events like harvest festivals and open-air concerts. Admission is by donation, and it’s a delightful way to connect with Canberra’s rich history.


5. Yidnek Indigenous Walking Tour at the National Museum of Australia

For a profound cultural experience, join the Yidnek Indigenous Walking Tour at the National Museum of Australia. This immersive 90-minute guided tour, led by Ngunnawal Elder Uncle Kevin Smith, explores the museum’s exhibits through the lens of the local Indigenous community. Learn about the deep connection between the Ngunnawal people and the Molonglo River, along with stories of resistance, resilience, and contemporary life. While the museum is well-known, the Yidnek tour offers a rare, in-depth perspective that’s often overlooked. Booking in advance is recommended.


Final Thoughts: Canberra’s Secret Side Awaits

From encounters with native wildlife to quirky art parks and cultural revelations, Canberra’s road less travelled offers experiences that enrich the soul and broaden horizons. Whether you’re chasing nature, history, or art, these hidden treasures promise memories to last a lifetime. So, venture beyond the usual spots and let Canberra surprise you.

Practical Tips:

  • Transport: Most of these attractions are accessible by car. Public transport options are limited, so consider carpooling or using ride-sharing apps.
  • Seasonal Considerations: Check weather and seasonal events for optimal visits.
  • Reservations: Some experiences, like the Yidnek tour, require advance booking.

Embrace the adventure—Canberra’s hidden heartbeat is waiting for you. 🌿✨

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 16

Day 16 – The right characters for the story

How to Find the Right Characters for Your Story: Moving Beyond Stereotypes

In the world of storytelling—whether you’re crafting a suspenseful spy thriller, a gritty crime drama, or an intimate character-driven novel—the characters you choose make or break the narrative. We’ve all read (or watched) stories where the suave, indestructible spy slips through laser grids and dispatches villains with one-handed elegance. And sure, that’s fun. But after a while, we start to wonder: is that all there is?

It’s fine if your spy is a one-man, indestructible killing machine. James Bond, Jason Bourne, and Ethan Hunt have paved the way—and earned their place in pop culture. But isn’t that kind of character one-dimensional? Can’t they feel fear, doubt, or regret? And what about the criminals they pursue? Are they simply evil for the sake of drama, or do they have motives, dreams, and inner conflicts of their own?

If we want our stories to resonate, to linger in readers’ minds long after the final page, we need to go deeper. We need to find the right characters—not just the flashy ones.

Step 1: Start with Motivation, Not Archetype

The easiest path to a cardboard cutout character is to begin with a trope: the stoic hero, the seductive femme fatale, the deranged villain. Instead, ask: What does this character want—and why?

A spy doesn’t just save the world because it’s Tuesday. Maybe they’re driven by guilt over a past failure. Or perhaps they’re trying to protect someone they love. Even a hardened intelligence agent might secretly fear that their actions have made them less human.

Similarly, a criminal isn’t evil just because the plot demands it. What led them down this path? Was it poverty, betrayal, a system that failed them? A villain who believes they’re the hero of their own story is infinitely more compelling than one who twirls a moustache and cackles into the void.

Step 2: Embrace Contradictions

Real people are full of contradictions—and so should your characters be.

Imagine a hitman who volunteers at an animal shelter on weekends. A corrupt cop who’s raising their nephew alone and wants to give him a better life. A genius terrorist who plays classical piano and writes love letters to their mother.

These contradictions humanise. They force readers to question their assumptions. And that’s where deeper engagement begins.

When we give characters opposing impulses—love and fear, duty and desire, cruelty and compassion—we unlock psychological depth. These are the traits that make characters memorable.

Step 3: Avoid Monolithic Labels

Criminals are not inherently villainous. Heroes aren’t inherently good. Moral alignment should be fluid, not fixed.

Consider real-world complexities. A man who robs banks to pay for his daughter’s medical treatment isn’t a saint, but can we call him purely evil? A soldier who follows orders may be “just doing their job,” but what happens when those orders cross ethical lines?

By challenging stereotypes, you invite nuance. A spy doesn’t have to be emotionally detached—they might be hyper-observant precisely because they’re lonely. A femme fatale doesn’t need to manipulate for power; maybe she’s been manipulated her whole life and is finally seizing control.

Step 4: Let Characters Evolve

The right characters aren’t static. They change—sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically. Growth (or regression) is key to authenticity.

Your indestructible spy might start out as a cold operative, but what if, over the course of the story, they begin to question the cost of their actions? What if they hesitate before pulling the trigger—and that hesitation changes everything?

Likewise, a criminal might start as an antagonist but reveal layers of vulnerability, forcing the protagonist (and reader) to reevaluate what “justice” really means.

Step 5: Listen to Your Characters

Many writers say their characters “tell them what to do.” That might sound mystical, but it’s really about immersion. Once you’ve built a foundation, let go of control. Ask: What would this person really do in this situation? Even if it derails your outline, that authenticity breathes life into fiction.

Sometimes the right character reveals themselves not in grand monologues, but in quiet moments—a hesitation before a lie, a nervous habit, a song they hum when alone.


Final Thought: The Right Character Isn’t Perfect—They’re Human

Finding the right characters for your story isn’t about casting a hero who fits the mould. It’s about creating people we recognise—flawed, conflicted, and real. Even in the most fantastical settings, emotional truth is what connects us.

So next time you’re tempted to write the flawless spy or the irredeemable villain, pause. Ask yourself:
Who are they when no one is watching?
What keeps them awake at night?
What do they wish they could change?

Answer those questions, and you won’t just find the right characters for your story—you’ll create ones your readers will never forget.

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

In a word: Meat

We all know what meat is, the flesh of an animal like cattle, pigs, sheep, even goats.

It can be used to describe a pie, such as a meat pie, but the odd thing is that it doesn’t have to have 100% meat in it.

It can be used in the context of humans, depending on when you eat certain types of food that will put meat on your bones.

Meat can also be used to describe the fleshy part of nuts, fruit, or eggs.

Then there’s the meat of the matter, which is the crux or basis of the argument or message you want to get across.

And a rather interesting if not obscure meaning is to describe a favorite occupation or activity.

Another form of the word is meet; what we do at a coffee shop, on a date, at a pub, or any number of different places.

We can gather together for a meeting, such as a board of directors or a committee.

It can be used to describe an athletic or swimming carnival.

How about you meet me halfway, in a negotiation, not on a long road trip

To dole out or allot something like punishment, is to mete it out.

Good thing then, we don’t live in the dark ages, all manner of bad punishments were meted put to the serfs.