Category: blogging

Writing a book in 365 days – 364

Day 364

Writing exercise

His loneliness bothered him less than the reasons for it.

…

“It happened when I was very young.  I wasn’t brought up this way; that was forced on me by people I thought I could trust.”

The psychiatrist had been working for weeks now, trying to get to the nub of the matter, and perhaps if I had decided not to play a game with them, she might have got there.

But when did I ever make anything easy for them?

“So, you have trust issues?”  She scribbled a few notes on a page near the end of the book.  It was the sum total of my life, according to her.

And the material she would use to write her assessment.

Looking back, that one moment when I finally lost, that one moment of rage that sent me off the metaphorical reservation, there would be consequences.

For her, my last statement could be construed as a major breakthrough, passing through the gate and onto where the grass is greener.

Of course, in reality, it was nothing like that.  I simply had another argument with my parents and left, their strict and stifling rules about how we should behave, and live our lives finally too much.

They could have compromised, as they had for my brother, but they didn’t.

I could see that self-satisfied half smile and understood what it meant.  The longer this had gone, the quicker she had started disappearing down a rabbit hole.

She worked for the department.  She had analysed and buried good people over small mistakes, with what I had told the ivory tower dwellers was a lack of experience or understanding of the nature of our work.

For her, snapping as we sometimes did, was a form of release from doing what no one else would, work that is vital and necessary.  It’s just when there’s collateral damage, the bosses are antsy.

Civilians always seemed to find themselves getting in the way, accidentally, and for that, I blamed the mobile phone culture.  Take phones off people, and they wouldn’t become zombies, they’d be aware of what’s going on around them, and then I wouldn’t be in this chair in front of a one-person execution squad.

That was the truth of the matter.

She simply said I was shifting blame.

Finished scribbling, she looked up.  “Tell me more.”

Pen was poised, expression expectant.

I hesitated for a moment longer before I spoke, an indication of whether she was smart enough to interpret as me taking a moment to work out which lie she would buy.

“My parents simply up and left one night, leaving me alone in the house.  Gone, not a word, not an indication, nothing.  Just simply gone.”

“And before that, how were they?”

“Normal.  Like I said, no indication anything had changed.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven.”

“And what happened next?”

As if she didn’t know what would happen to an abandoned seven-year-old with no other relatives, or none that they looked for, because the child welfare officer at the time was taking children and selling them to the highest bidder.

It had been my second job for the department.

Nasty people came in all shapes and sizes and backgrounds, but this person was a chameleon, someone no one would suspect, which is how she got away with it for so long.

“I was put in the system.  You know how that works, and you can guess what happened to me.  Not what is on the reports, but I’m not going to spell it out for you.  Those memories are buried.”

The nod was acceptance, because my story was the same as many others that came before her.  Candidates who came from broken homes, abandoned, or simply maltreated to a point where they had to be removed.

And sent to Joe’s Diner, to have all that hate and rage twisted into an effective tool against those who had harmed them.  Tapping into that basic raw instinct of killing, maiming and destroying anything or anyone that put them there.

My story was slightly different.  I ended up in jail, framed for something I didn’t do, by a small-town sheriff protecting his son, the real perpetrator.  I was minding my own business, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I was rescued from one form of torture only to finish up in another, but the end result was the same.

It eventually broke us and brought us here.

…

I knew the mention of buried memories was, for her, manna from heaven.  A bone she was going to pick at, because in her teaching and subsequent experience, that’s where the key to our problems lay.  In the past.

We had to confront our demons head-on, make the connection ourselves, and start the gradual healing process, somewhere far away and isolated, and preferably to never see another weapon or bad guy again.

I jokingly told the director the only way that would happen was to be put in a pine box six feet under.  That’s when the memories would truly be buried.

It was hard to tell if he thought I was joking or not, but it must have weighed on him, the number of cases like mine.  Just reading the executive summary of the cases before the briefing began made people physically ill, and those were just words on paper.

“Of course, you know that isn’t going to cut it.  You have to be forthcoming in all aspects of this investigation, and it would help your case to remember that.”

Threats no less.  Perhaps the director had told her that I was going to be the one she wasn’t going to crack.  Just as he was wont to tell anyone who would listen that I was his best agent.

I wasn’t.  Not by a long chalk.  That was Andreas.  Even I was scared of him.  He was the best, the best of the best.

Until he wasn’t.

He let his guard down for a fraction of a second.  Less than a fraction of a second.  An eternity in terms of vulnerability.

Another case of shattered trust.

…

Perhaps somewhere in all of the narrative she had put together over the last six weeks was the truth. 

In training, we were told that when interrogated, everyone grounds their stories with elements of truth because when asked over and over and over, it’s too hard to remember all of the lies, particularly after a long and painful torture session.

This was the more subtle form of torture.  She was looking for inconsistencies, lies, half-truths, and stories worthy of the best thriller writers.

Our whole life was a collection of stories, our cover identities with back stories to suit the person.  Butcher, baker, candlestick maker.

Gambler, billionaire, financier, mercenary, average Joe. 

When you wake up in the morning, it takes a moment to remember who you are today, and it’s not Harry Wells, the name I was given the day I was born.  He died a long time ago.

Now it was Joshua Bergen.  Yes, Joshua.

“Let’s start again, shall we?  From the top.  Why did you think you’re here?”

Yep, here we go again.

“I believe we’ve covered this ten times, perhaps more, before.  If there are inconsistencies, just ask specific questions.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Asking the same thing over and over and expecting a different result is the definition of madness.  You do know that?”

Perhaps she didn’t, at least not in this context.  Her expression had changed to one of annoyance.  She liked to be the one running the session.

“Again.”  Short, sharp.

“No.  Like Chinese whispers, we both know stories change each time they’re related, otherwise if it was exactly the same, you’d think that it was rehearsed.”

“What I think is irrelevant.”

“It isn’t, though.  He needs to know what happened because, like me, there was more going on than he was led to believe; that he was a pawn in someone else’s game.”

“A setup?”

“Someone else is looking for a scapegoat.  Either him or me, it doesn’t matter.  Just another breach of trust, being told one thing and it turns out to be something else entirely.”

Like that last assignment, a total botch, or so it seemed.

Collateral damage happens, but this time it extended to the wife of a Cabinet minister who was believed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Only I knew the true story, that she was there to hand over her husband’s secrets.

I was there to talk to a high-level public servant who had asked Rawlins for clandestine assistance in a delicate matter.  It was not to meet up with the woman; she arrived unexpectedly and in a highly agitated state.

It was clear to me who she was and what was going on between them.  Except before a word was exchanged, he shot her, turned the gun on me, and I shot him.

The woman was barely alive when I reached her, but with enough time to say just above a whisper, “he is a Russian spy, and I’m not the only one he is blackmailing.”  There was more, but she was out of time and life.

Ten seconds later, the SAS kicked the door in, and I had six guns pointed at me.  Given their first impression of the scene before them, I was lucky to still be alive. 

“What was your mission?”

“To assist the public servant.  Favours owed.  Whatever he needed.”

“Did you shoot the woman?”

“No.  Ballistics will prove it.”

She shook her head.  “No.  They won’t.  Both shots, man and woman, came from your weapon.”

That was impossible.  I only fired one shot.  Except as everyone in the department knew, the boffins could manufacture evidence to suit any narrative.  Write me out of the script, or in.

“So, as you say, a setup.  Someone wants to take Rawlins down.”

“Or you, if you don’t tell me the truth.  Why was she there?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“Well, that’s the problem.  It is that simple.  I know Rawlins doesn’t believe in coincidences, neither do I, for that matter, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“Why did you shoot the target?”

“He shot the woman before she went to speak, then turned the gun on me.  Reflex action.  I can’t tell you why he took that action, but it stopped her from doing or saying anything.  I did not shoot the woman; I had no reason to.  She just burst into the room, indicating she’d met him before, and expected him to be there.”

There was a knock on the door, and without waiting to be asked, Rawlins came in.  A nod in the woman’s direction, she closed the notebook, picked up her bag and left, closing the door behind her.

I knew Rawlins had been watching, and I suspected she had an earpiece where he was suggesting what to ask.

He would also be observing and analysing.

He didn’t sit.

“She said something to you, in those last few seconds.”

Why didn’t it surprise me that the target’s room was under surveillance?  Rawlins obviously suspected the target had an agenda.  That he had waited so long for me to volunteer to tell him was the interesting part.

“Why would you think it would be significant?”

“We suspected she was having an affair.  Her husband did and told his head of security.  He told us.  They weren’t having an affair, were they?”

“From what I saw, it was very definitely an affair.”

“He shot her, without a moment’s thought.”

“Hence, we will never know.  If he hadn’t aimed the gun at me, we might have got to find out,  but I think now, seeing you here, this whole episode was staged to get rid of two problems, a double agent and a treasonous wife, without having to bear the dirty linen in public.”

Rawlins sat in the recently vacated seat.

“A satisfactory result for an unsatisfactory problem.  Two birds with one stone.”

“The minister?”

“Heartbroken, but his personal assistant is helping him get over the crisis.”

“Life goes on?”

“As indeed it always will.  I hate feeding you to the dogs, but you know what it’s like in the new age intelligence landscape.  Transparency.  Access to psychological help to avoid trauma, stress leave, so there’s less room for errors.  A week’s leave, I’m afraid.  Talk to Mandy, she’ll set it up.  So, just what did Melanie say in that last dying breath?”

“Told me to remind her husband to feed Chester, their new cat.  I think she thought more of that cat than her husband.”

Rawlins laughed.  “Of course, she didn’t say that.  We will talk about this again.  When you get back.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on.  Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter.  He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing.  Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain.  He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile.  We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it.  Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.

Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster.  We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility.  The car was empty, and no indication where he went.

Certainly not up the road.  It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit.  Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up.  Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly.  “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”  available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1

In a word: Fire

I have not yet had the privilege, or otherwise of being fired, but the meaning of the word fire is to get removed unceremoniously from your job.

Donald Trump used to use it a lot on The Apprentice, e.g., “You’re fired”.  And unbelievably, I used to like that show.

But…

Fire can be quite hot, something you can sit in front of on those chilly winter nights, whether it be a gas fire, or a wood fire, my preference.

Then there’s a phrase, set fire to, which can be good or bad depending on what eventually gets burned.

I have on the odd occasion had someone fire my imagination, a good thing being a writer.

To feel the fire in the back of your throat when drinking neat whiskey is so much better when it is an expensive brand

Then there’s the fire in your heart driving patriotism, but make sure it is for the right reasons.

If you have a gun, then when you pull the trigger, you fire it.  Just be sure not to be pointing it the wrong way or anyone.

A good indication is when you hear the words, ready, aim, fire.  Especially if you are in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Napoleon can attest to that, it is alleged!

You can,

fire off a message, hopefully, a nice one

fire questions rapidly at someone (but not a politician, they must have time to answer anything, but the question asked)

or accidentally fire someone up by saying the wrong thing

or fire a piece of pottery, and in saying that, the best I could do was an awkward mug.

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence, after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable, calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 20

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

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

And, so, it continues…

 

Wallace was furious, and despite his attempts to stay clear of his commanding officer, Thompson discovered he couldn’t hide forever.

“Where is Atherton?”  Wallace asked the moment Johannsson walked into the room.

It was a question he couldn’t answer and had been equally as furious as Wallace when he learned of what had happened.  It was not supposed to go the way it did.  Atherton was to lead them to the remnants of the Resistance, and then Burke and Richardson had orders to kill them all.

The first part of the plan had worked as Burke had said it would.  It was his idea to ‘break’ Atherton out and then he would lead them to the resistance.  London would know where they were, and Atherton would also know, nay not exactly where they were, but how to contact them.  There were only about six left, according to Leonardo.

But he had been wrong before.  He’d labelled the remnants of the resistance as useless but to his chagrin discovered they were anything but.  He had three dead men to prove it.  And given the restraints on his current mission, he couldn’t go into the village and execute a like number of villagers for those men.

That would give away the fact they were not British, but Germans in disguise.  Best, he had been told, to let the matter be until their current mission was completed.  Then, Wallace told him, he could do what he liked with the villagers.

But like all plans, this one had gone awry.  Burke had lost Atherton approaching the village, and a thorough search of every building hadn’t found him.  Atherton, according to Burke, had completely disappeared.

Now Wallace was on the warpath because he didn’t like loose ends and not one as dangerous as Atherton.

“My men lost him by the time they reached the village.  They did a thorough search but he wasn’t there.”

“And you believe that?”

“I trust my men.  Atherton is a fully trained soldier with a few extra tricks up his sleeve, otherwise, London would not have sent him out.  There is a positive in this if he’s out of the way he can’t stir up any trouble.”

“But those so

Called remnants of the resistance can, and I assure you, will.  And more so now they know that we’re not exactly the British liberators they were hoping for.”

“You can’t believe that he found them.  We’ve seen none of them since Leonardo defected.  He told us he killed them all.”

“Well, he’s a liar.  Here’s an idea, get him and tell him to take his men down the hill and find them.  Promise him anything, as long he brings back Atherton and the rest of them dead or alive, preferably dead.  Unless you think you can do a better job.”

“Sir…”

A soldier came running in, then stood to attention until Wallace addressed him.  “What is it?”

“Carmichael hasn’t returned.”

“What do you mean, hasn’t returned.  I thought everyone was confined to the castle?’  He turned around to look at Johannsson.  “What the devil is going on?”

“Some men don’t exactly respond well to curfews.  Carmichael was one of them.”

“Carmichael?  Isn’t he the one who knows the Reich Marshall by sight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now he’s missing.  You still don’t think there is resistance out there, and making us look like monkeys?  This has Atherton written all over it.  How much did he find out?  I thought you had that situation covered.”

“I couldn’t exactly put him under house arrest, could I, not unless you wanted to hand out a sign that said German outpost.”

“Don’t get snippy with me Johannsson. Just get a team of five or six and find the bastard.  And while you’re at it, find this Carmichael.  Take those two fools that lost him, and if you accidentally shoot them, we’ll call them casualties of war.”

“Yes, sir.”  And how long before I share their fate, he thought.  Blame was transferable, so he’d kick it down the line.  “Jackerby,” he yelled out.  I’ve got a job for you.”

© Charles Heath 2019

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 3

Three

There was no going back down the stairs, or using the elevator, because there was nothing down below but people who wanted to kill me, and there were no other means of leaving the building other than by the helicopter that just landed.

And there was a distinct possibility that those down below were slowly moving upwards, to join those who had just arrived, a move designed to make sure I would never leave the building.  Except they had no way of knowing their team upstairs had been eliminated.

That left us with one and only one way of getting away from the building.

“We’re going.  Now,” I said, heading towards the open door where the pilot had just got out.

She seemed surprised.  “How?  In that?”  She was pointing at the helicopter.

“Come on.”  I climbed into the pilot’s seat, ran a quick check, then started the take-off procedure.

She came over just as the main rotor started spinning.  She climbed in and was about to close the door.

“Toss your phone,” I said.

“What?”

It was getting noisy.

I picked up one of the two guns I had and pointed it at her.  “Toss your phone.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Stopping them from tracking us.  Toss it.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“We’ll see.”

She tossed the phone out the door the closed it.  I put my gun down, and now ready for take-off, I took a deep breath and lifted the craft off the pad.

Amy looked furious.  But she had a gun and she could have used it to stop me leaving and she didn’t.   Not yet anyway. She put on a headset and glared at me.  I could feel her glare boring into me.

“Where are we going?”

Fortunately the pilot conveniently left the flight plan in the side door panel, and listed the takeoff and landing as the Downtown Manhattan Heliport, a training flight for a new pilot, but it had been anything but that, a quick hit and run landing and take off from a prohibited rooftop helipad, though how they obtained permission was a question no doubt answered when I called up control.

But it was going to be where I imagine I was to be taken if captured, the least likely scenario after my hotel had been stormed with the only outcome possible, and where my assailants would be picked up after a successful kill.

It made going there not an option, but I would have to appear like I was heading there until I came up with an alternate plan. At the very least I could head for the river.

Before I answered Amy, I had the aircraft controllers to deal with because I hadn’t notified them, I was departing the building, and was, momentarily an unidentified flying object.

I managed to convince them I was the pilot, but there were a few tense moments where I had to explain what had happened in what the previous pilot had been an emergency, and that he had to set down or crash.  I told them it had something to do with the tail rotor and if they were tracking me, they’d pick up the erratic flight we were taking.

After another few tense moments, they told me to return to the take-off point and then asked me for the reassurance I’d make it back, and that we were heading for Downtown Manhattan which was part of the flight plan, but stumbled over the reason for leaving early.  From the tenor of the controller’s voice, I got the impression we would be landing in trouble, so I needed another landing site.

“Somewhere other than where they’re expecting us.  If we’re lucky and I don’t crash into the river.”

“Do you really know how to fly this thing?”

Admittedly the way I was struggling to keep the craft under control, the controls required deft handling and that was difficult considering the shakes I’d acquired back at the hotel.

“For both our sakes, let’s hope I can.  We can’t go back to Downtown Manhattan where they will be waiting for us.  Any ideas about an alternative?”

“If you hadn’t thrown my phone away, I might be able to help you.”  She was still angry with me.

I had noticed when I got in that the pilot had left his phone on the console and had seven missed calls.  No doubt those waiting were getting anxious as to how their mission was running.

I handed it to her.  “Use this, its owner won’t be needing it.”

By her expression, and after an attempt to unlock it, it wasn’t looking good.  But, if she was as clever and resourceful as I thought she was, then that phone wouldn’t present a problem.

Then it started ringing or vibrating instead.  Somehow from disconnecting the call, she was able to break in and get the dialing screen.  From there she was able to get the internet, and a minute later said, “There’s a landing on the river, off West 30th street.  You’re heading in the right direction.”

Directions given, she made another call, to her superior.

There were no introductions.  “Yes, we got out, using the helicopter that brought in a kill squad.”

The next question would be where we were, and this would determine how much I could trust her, or that her mission priority was keeping me alive.

“Not sure, sir.  We’re kind of flying by the seat of our pants, but at least it’s over the water, and the control tower is not happy.”

Silence while she listened, then, “Not a good idea.  They’ll be watching you, and it’s best we remain footloose for as long as we can.  I’ll let you know when we land.  What happened in court?”

I saw a faint smile.  “Bet he wasn’t happy about that.  See you soon.”

I didn’t ask.  I just saw the helipad, and now had to make out that we still had problems, which might be a little difficult because I’d been ignoring the controller’s request for me to head towards Downtown Manhattan.  I had told him once that I was having difficulty maintaining level flight, but I was staying over the river, just in case.  But, a helicopter in trouble would get emergency services mobilized, so wherever we landed, we were going to have a reception party and unwanted guests.

Latanzio’s people would be looking and listening intently for our whereabouts, and that of an errant helicopter that would not be going back to where it should.  They’d know how many landing sites there were, how close, and how much pressure we would be under to land.  For all we knew, there might be a sniper waiting at each of the heliports.  Fanciful thinking maybe, but this was a very well-organized hit, and there would be contingency plans in place.

I could see the teleport landing and headed towards it, trying to make it look like it was going to be a difficult landing.

I didn’t have to try very hard.  There was a gusty wind making the craft pitch and had under light hands on the controls.

I could see an ambulance and fire truck just back from the landing site, lights flashing.  The controller had predicted there might be a problem, which meant if we touched down there were going to be awkward questions.

“That was quick,” Amy said.  She too had noticed The reception committee.

Oddly, I didn’t see a police car, or that is to say, a car with blue flashing lights.  Would the FBI be there?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of light, and instinctively pulled the stick sideways and went into a deep sideways descent, just as a loud pinging noise came above the whine of the turbine.

A bullet, which if I hadn’t gone into evasive mode would have hit the engine, or worse, one of us.

“What the hell was that?” She yelled, looking around, thinking it was a problem with the helicopter.

“Someone is shooting at us.  Hang on.”

I pulled the stick in the opposite direction, at the same time getting away from the shooter as fast as possible.  The turn had a ghastly effect on my stomach, and I thought, for a moment, I was going to be violently ill.  Amy had also turned a shade of white too.

We were finally out of range, skimming about 100 feet above the water’s surface, slowing down after the panic, and looking for a spot, any spot, to put down and get away.

There, in the distance a car park blocked off and being repaired, but enough space to land.  I could hear the controller screaming in my ear demanding an explanation for my rapid and dangerous departure, but I didn’t have time to explain, nor would he believe me, not if he hadn’t heard the shots fired in our direction.

There were several workmen standing to one side, watching the arrival of a concrete truck as I came in low over their heads and set the craft down about fifty feet from them.

I shut the engine down and waited a minute before opening the door and jumping out, keeping low under the still-spinning rotor blades, and Amy joined me.

One of the crew started coming towards us, two others were taking photos of the helicopter with their cell phones and another was making a call, either to friends or the police.

“We have to go,” I said.  “No time to talk to the locals.  What you need to do is find someone who can hide us until we think of a next move.”

We ran towards the road and then dodged traffic to get to the other side.  We didn’t have time to wait for lights, or the traffic to stop.  Twice I was nearly hit by a moving car, instead, the squeal of rubber on tar.

On the other side, and temporarily safe, Amy was on her phone.

“Calling for backup or a ride?”

“Actually no.  I have a friend or a friend, you know the sort.  I think he can help us, but you might not like it.”

What was not to like if he could save us from the Latanzio’s.

“Call.  Anything is going to be better than acting as a live target.”

The call connected.  “Joe, are you busy at the moment?  No?  Good.  I need you to bring Hollywood to New York.  Today.”

…

© Charles Heath 2024

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job? – Episode 3

I’ve had time to think about the next part of this opening sequence.

Long plane rides that leave in the dead of night are always conducive to working through plotlines because being on a plane in economy, the chances of getting any sleep is nigh on impossible.

And yet, this time the impossible is possible, which means that sleeping has overtaken the thinking process, and it will have to wait till I’ve woken up.

Of course, as usual, being in this interesting situation has provided another tangent, which is doing the impossible.  It reminds me of a saying I once heard, ‘if you want the impossible it will take some time if want a miracle, that will take a little longer’.  Temper that with ‘how long is a piece of string?’

When we last visited our intrepid wannabe hero, we were left with a cryptic ‘is anyone ever in the wrong place at the wrong time?’

Sometimes, but not for our particular hero.

It could be worse, I told myself, while the paramedic cleaned up my cuts and abrasions and gave me a concussion test, which, I suspect, might not quite discover if I was or not.  But, at that moment, it didn’t matter.

I’d lost the person I’d been assigned to keep under surveillance.

It was meant to be a doddle, but of course, no one could ever predict what the conditions might be in any exercise, and whilst I was one part of a team effort, it had been on my watch, and I only realized what it was that I’d been doing when a voice in my ear started asking for an update, because it was coming up to the changeover.

I was surprised the noise of the explosion hadn’t been transmitted to the others.  I waited till the paramedic had finished, a minute at most.

“I got caught up in an explosion, a couple of over-enthusiastic bank robbers, and taken down.  The target was ahead of me.”  I gave the team leader the exact location of where I’d last seen the target, then waited.

If the team was functioning properly, one of the other three should have been close enough to predict where the target would be at the change-over point.

“Are you alright?”  It was a question I’d expected earlier.

“Got caught in the aftershock got a few cuts and abrasions, and a ringing in my ears, but otherwise ok.  The paramedics want me to go to the hospital to be checked over, mainly for a concussion, but I’m ok to resume if you want.”

A minute, or two, of silence, then, “Do as they say.  We have the target still under surveillance.”

And that was it, what I regarded as a massive failure, despite the circumstances.

I watched the paramedics load the battered policeman onto a gurney and head towards the ambulance.  I went over to the cuffs and picked them up.  A souvenir of the event, if nothing else.

Lights flashing and siren wailing it left, heading for the hospital.

I took a last look at the scene and started walking away in the direction I was originally heading, and once past the perimeter, walked through the group of bystanders who’d gathered to watch the event unfold.  On the other side, I stopped, took another look back at the scene, and did the proverbial double take.

Standing not ten yards from me was the target.

And a quick look in every direction for the members of the surveillance team showed none of them was anywhere near the target.

I spoke quietly into the communication device.

“Target, I repeat, the target is in sight.  Is anyone nearby by?”

Silence.

So we now have a dilemma, if there is no answer from the team, are they maintaining radio silence, or is something more sinister afoot?

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 363

Day 363

Writing exercise … Between a rock and a hard place…

…

It was the very definition of being between a rock and a hard place.

What were the odds that Helena would be the one who got stuck with the one client for whom things would go sideways?

Not that anything was assured in any of the scenarios that were supposed to have been carefully constructed so that the clients got the full experience.

The biggest problem was that the client never read the fine print and realised that people were playing roles and those roles didn’t include certain services, and then complained bitterly.

She did not offer full service.  She was not expected to.  That costs more, and other employees would.

This gig was an accompanying role, leading to the next phase, and providing assistance.  As an agent’s contact would be in a foreign country.

It wasn’t about the nursing of what was quite obviously someone who had either been drugged or was on drugs, though her initial thought was that he had been affected by someone who slipped him a tainted drink.

Certainly, during her initial observation, he had arrived at the bar after being dropped off by a taxi, the usual method, and came in. 

He’d stopped just inside the doorway and ran his eyes over the layout, as any spy would, checking the clientele and the exits in a scan that might be interpreted by anyone watching as looking for his blind date.

Scan over, exits covered, he selected a table that had a complete view of everyone coming and going and sitting.  A waitress came over and asked what he wanted, and went back to the bar.

Among the instructions for this phase, he was to order two glasses of Scotch on ice.

He did not look like he might have after taking the serum, or that he was in any difficulty.

Five minutes passed before the waitress returned with the two glasses and put them on the table.  He paid the waitress, and she walked over to another table where a man was sitting, cap low over his eyes, and fur-lined coat still zipped up.

People usually took their coats and hats off before sitting.  This guy didn’t.  Why?

He finished his drink and then glanced over at the new arrival.  He was waiting.  Again why?

The new arrival picked up one of the glasses and swirled the liquid around in the bottom of the glass.  She could hear the tinkle of the ice against the glass from where she was sitting.

Satisfied, perhaps, he downed the contents and put the glass back on the table.

That’s when the man in the cap and zipped-up coat left.

For her, it was time to meet the target.

After half an hour, where the introduction had gone to script, they talked like two people had just met in a bar, then they left.

Then it happened. 

Whatever had caused the problem wasn’t the serum going wrong.  That was a lie.  Whatever happened, happened because they took that drink, the drink brought by the waitress, a waitress who had disappeared after the man she visited left.

And the man she visited was obviously involved with what just happened.  And what just happened wasn’t part of the scenario.  And what her supervisors were telling her was not exactly the truth either.

Something was very, very wrong.

Walking back into the room, letting the door close, and noticing him missing was concerning.

Until she realised that the balcony window was open.

“Robert?”

A second later, there was a very loud bang, something cracking into the wall outside on the balcony.

That was followed by another loud bang, then a lesser bang, followed almost immediately by another.

She heard him yell, “Don’t come out.”

“What is…” She was cut off by the sound of exploding glass as the glass panel beside the sliding door shattered.

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

She had been walking towards the sliding door as the panel beside it exploded, and she felt the passing projectile that just missed hitting her.  Some glass fragments did not, and she could feel the cut on the side of her head stinging.

“Are you.. “

“Alive, for now.  Call.”

She picked up his cell phone and pressed the emergency button that flashed up when she swiped the screen, then seconds later got an operator who took the details.

A minute later, sirens filled the area, and by the time she stumbled onto the balcony, a car had pulled up at the bottom of the street.

Sitting against the wall, blood leaking from a wound in his upper arm, the target was ashen and starting to slump sideways.

What else could go wrong?

It was time to run.  This, whatever this was, was not what she signed up for.  This was not the scenario she had been briefed on.

There was nothing she could do for him.  She was not trained in first aid, and whatever his problem was, first aid wouldn’t fix it.

He needed a battlefield medic.

A glance over the balcony, the last thing she should have done, showed a policeman directing officers all over the place, and worst of all, he was looking up, and she looked down.

She cursed under her breath.

“Run, now.”  She muttered to herself.

Into the room, a quick look.  What had she touched?  No time to think.  She headed straight for the door, opened it, and ran into a huge policeman who gathered her up in a bear hug.

She kicked and screamed and clawed, but it was of no use.  Another policeman arrived, along with an ambulance crew and a SWAT team, the first to help the bear, and the others into the room. 

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Quito

Quito, the capital of Ecuador, is located in the northern Andes Mountains, nestled in a valley on the slopes of the Pichincha volcano, about 25 miles south of the equator, making it one of the world’s highest capital cities at roughly 9,350 feet in elevation. 

  • Region: Sierra (Highlands) of Ecuador, part of the Andes mountain range.
  • Key Landmark: Situated on the Pichincha volcano‘s eastern slopes.
  • Equator: Very close to the Equator, with a monument marking the line just outside the city. 

Beyond Quito’s major landmarks, there are many unique, local experiences and attractions to explore. These include visiting bohemian neighbourhoods, a renowned pre-Columbian art museum, and local food markets. 

Alternative Cultural Experiences

  • Explore La Floresta: This bohemian neighbourhood is known for its vibrant street art, independent galleries, and hip cafes and restaurants. A popular spot is the indie cinema, Ocho y Medio, which screens avant-garde and foreign films.
  • Wander through La Ronda: This charming, narrow cobblestone street in the historic centre truly comes alive at sunset with local art galleries, artisan workshops (like coppersmiths and traditional hat makers), cafes, and live music.
  • Visit Museo Casa del Alabado: Located in the Old Town, this private museum houses an impressive and well-curated collection of pre-Columbian art and archaeological pieces, providing deep insight into Ecuador’s ancestral heritage.
  • Check out the street art: The La Floresta and La Mariscal neighbourhoods feature an evolving outdoor gallery of murals and graffiti that reflect contemporary social and political themes.
  • Experience local markets: For an authentic slice of daily life, visit the Mercado Central or Mercado Artesanal La Mariscal. The Central Market offers inexpensive, traditional Ecuadorian food (try the locro de papa or horno) and fresh juices, while the Artisan Market is perfect for shopping for handicrafts, textiles, and jewellery. 

What I learned about writing – Gertrude Stein’s literary landscape

Gertrude Stein: The Unlikely Architect of Modernism

When we think of literary giants of the early 20th century, names like T.S. Eliot, Virginia Woolf, or Hemingway often come to mind. But what about Gertrude Stein? The same woman who hosted glittering salons in Paris, who championed avant-garde artists like Picasso, and who coined the phrase “rose is a rose is a rose”? While she may not be the first name that leaps to mind in discussions of the novel, Stein’s influence on modernist literature—and her own experimental writing, such as Paris, France—proves she was a force no less transformative than her contemporaries.

The Salonnière and the Literary Scene

Gertrude Stein was first and foremost an impresario of modernism. Her Salons in Paris became the epicentre of a literary and artistic revolution, where writers, painters, and thinkers collided. Thinkers like Jean Cocteau, Ezra Pound, and Alice B. Toklas (her lifelong partner) rubbed shoulders with artists like Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse. Critics often dismissed her as an eccentric or a socialite with a passing interest in the arts. After all, wasn’t she the one who bought a “worthless” Picasso painting and declared, “One must be intelligent to recognise modern art”? But Stein’s genius lay not in critiquing art so much as incubating it.

Her salons weren’t just parties—they were laboratories for modernist ideas. By giving emerging artists a space to breathe and a writer like Hemingway someone to idolise, Stein helped shape the creative currents of her era. She understood that art thrives in community, and her role as a curator of talent was arguably as significant as her contributions as a writer.

The Paradox of a “Poor Writer” with a Masterpiece

Herein lies the irony: Stein, who famously said she knew “more about writing than any living person,” was also criticised for being a “bad” writer. Her work was dense, repetitive, and often baffling—a far cry from the narrative clarity of Hemingway, whom she mentored. Yet, her novel Paris, France (published posthumously in 1940 but written in the 1930s) is a testament to the rewards of her unconventional approach.

Paris, France is not a novel in the traditional sense. It is a sprawling, poetic meditation on the city of Paris, rendered in a stream of fragmented sentences, lists, and obsessive repetitions. Consider this passage:

“Paris is Paris is Paris is Paris is Paris.”

At first glance, it reads as a tautology—or a joke. But beneath the surface, Stein’s repetition becomes a kind of incantation, a way of peeling back layers of language to reveal the essence of a place. She is not describing Paris as a tourist might (“the Eiffel Tower is beautiful”); she is dissecting the act of perception itself. Her prose forces readers to slow down, to sit with ambiguity, and to find meaning in the accumulation of language, even when it resists neat interpretation.

What Paris, France Teaches Us

Stein’s work defied the conventions of the novel, but in doing so, she exposed the limits of those conventions. Paris, France teaches us that literature can be more than a narrative; it can be a linguistic experiment, a philosophical inquiry, or even a form of art criticism.

Her approach mirrors the Cubist paintings hanging in her apartment—breaking down form to reconstruct it anew. In this way, Stein bridges the gap between modernist literature and visual art, insisting that language, like paint, can be reimagined. For readers willing to embrace the challenge, Paris, France becomes a lesson in how to observe the world with fresh eyes.

Legacy: The Muse, the Mentor, the Mysterious Voice

Gertrude Stein’s legacy is a mosaic of contradictions: she was a shy woman who became a social maven, a Jewish American expatriate who celebrated European modernism, and a writer whose cryptic prose both alienated and inspired. Hemingway dedicated A Moveable Feast to her, calling her “the only one of the older generation who had any real understanding of what writing was.” Yet, in death, Stein has been alternately romanticised and relegated to the footnotes of modernist studies.

But perhaps it’s time to revisit Stein not just as a patron of greats or a stylistic oddity, but as a literary provocateur who dared to ask: What is the role of language? What is the role of the artist? Her novel Paris, France is just one example of her answer—a work that reminds us that creativity often thrives in the margins, in the spaces between clarity and chaos.

In the end, Gertrude Stein holds a unique place in the literary landscape. She taught us that art is not always about skill or structure, but about the courage to see differently. And in that, she was a modernist to the core.