Category: Blog

In a word: Murder

I started off thinking that murder was pretty straight forward, you know, someone pulls out a gun and shoots someone else: murder.  Of course, there are any other means of doing the same crime, by knife, poison, strangulation, or suffocation.

Or, by endless inane conversation.  Much less chance of going to jail with that one.

Its the stuff that keeps crime writers going, fictional detectives detecting and crime scene investigators analysing.

Still the fact someone might be getting away with murder, means they’ve successfully found a way to have their cake and eat it.

Come to think of it how many times have we used that word in vain, like when a child drives you to distraction, red-faced and you say with a great deal of conviction ‘you do that again I’ll murder you’.

Just make sure it doesn’t actually happen, or those words will come back to haunt you.

But this is only one aspect of using the word.

You could, if you want, scream blue murder, which is literally impossible.  In fact, what the does that really mean?

It can also refer to an onerous task or experience, hence the possibility that listening to that discussion about hot water bottles was absolute murder.

For one thing, it probably murdered an hour or two of my time.

It could also describe a comprehensive defeat, that we murdered the other side 86 to nothing.  Come to think of it, I never got to participate in such a game, so that might account for why I’d never heard it used before.

And, lastly…

Did you know it can refer to a flock of a particular type of bird, I think crows.

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.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Vienna

Vienna Beyond the Waltz: 5 Off-Beat Gems You Can’t Miss

Vienna. Just the name conjures images of majestic palaces, grand opera, and perhaps a slice of perfectly decadent Sachertorte. It’s a city steeped in imperial history, a classic tourist destination, and rightly so.

But what if you’ve already seen Schönbrunn, wandered the Ringstrasse, and gazed upon The Kiss? What if you’re pulling into Vienna on a road trip, looking to veer off the well-trodden tourist path and discover something truly unique?

Welcome to the Vienna that locals cherish—the road less travelled. Here are five essential, yet unconventional, things to do in the Austrian capital that will enrich your trip and leave you feeling like a true insider.

1. Dive into the Depths at the Third Man Museum

For fans of Cold War intrigue and cinematic history.

Forget typical movie museums; the Third Man Museum (Dritte Mann Museum) is a passion project run by dedicated enthusiasts. Tucked away in the less flashy 4th district (Wieden), this spot is a tribute to the iconic 1949 film The Third Man, which captured post-war Vienna’s atmosphere perfectly.

You’ll find thousands of artifacts, from original film posters, props, and scripts, to rare footage and historical documents detailing the Allied occupation of the city. It’s slightly cluttered, intensely atmospheric, and wonderfully niche. It doesn’t just celebrate the film; it gives you a fascinating look at the real city it was shot in.

  • Insider Tip: Check the opening times carefully—they are usually only open on Saturdays!

2. Take a Dip (or a Stroll) Along the Old Danube (Alte Donau)

For escaping the urban hustle without leaving the city.

When the summer heat hits, Viennese locals head not to a crowded beach, but to the Alte Donau—the horseshoe-shaped former main stream of the Danube. This tranquil area is miles away from the tourist crush and offers a refreshing, almost lakeside atmosphere right in the heart of Vienna’s 22nd district.

You can rent a rowboat, a pedal boat, or even an electric boat and enjoy the quiet waters, surrounded by charming boathouses and lush green banks. There are also several public bathing areas (known as Strandbäder) perfect for a swim.

  • Why it’s off-beat: Most tourists only see the straightened, industrial New Danube. The Alte Donau provides a glimpse into Vienna’s softer, more recreational side.

3. Seek out Hundertwasser’s Quirky Architectural Utopia

For lovers of color, curves, and defying convention.

While many tourists flock to the famous Hundertwasserhaus (a quirky apartment block), the real secret lies in visiting the other projects of the visionary Austrian artist, Friedensreich Hundertwasser.

Head to the Kunst Haus Wien, which houses a permanent exhibition of his work and is a museum designed entirely in his organic, colorful style. Afterward, explore the nearby Müllverbrennungsanlage Spittelau (Spittelau Waste Incineration Plant). Yes, an incinerator. Hundertwasser converted this industrial structure into a dazzling, gold-topped, eco-friendly fairytale castle, proving that even infrastructure can be art.

  • The Road Less Traveled Angle: While the Hundertwasserhaus is always packed, exploring these other sites gives you a much deeper appreciation for his unique architectural philosophy.

4. Experience Wine Culture in the Vienna Woods (Wienerwald)

For unparalleled views and authentic Austrian wine (Heuriger).

Did you know Vienna is one of the world’s only major capital cities with significant vineyards located within the city limits?

Skip the central bars and drive (or take the tram) to one of the picturesque suburbs nestled against the Wienerwald (Vienna Woods), such as Grinzing or the lesser-known Neustift am Walde.

Here you’ll find traditional Heuriger—rustic taverns run by the winemakers themselves. They serve their young wine (often a delightful white Grüner Veltliner) alongside simple, delicious homemade buffets (Brettljausen). The atmosphere is relaxed, the view over the city often stunning, and the experience authentically Viennese.

  • When to Go: Visit in late summer or early autumn for the best harvest atmosphere.

5. Step Back in Time at the Central Cemetery (Zentralfriedhof)

For history, grandeur, and an eerily serene experience.

A cemetery might seem like a morbid suggestion, but Vienna’s Zentralfriedhof is a sprawling, peaceful, and historically important destination that few tourists bother visiting. It’s so vast (the second largest in Europe) it even has its own bus line!

It is a beautiful park, yes, but its true draw is the honor graves (Ehrengräber). Here you can pay respects to icons like Beethoven, Schubert, Strauss, Brahms, and Arnold Schoenberg. The architectural splendor of the Art Nouveau church (St. Charles Borromeo Cemetery Church) is also breathtaking.

  • Why it’s worth the detour: It’s a profound testament to Vienna’s cultural importance and a uniquely quiet place for reflection, far from the central crowds.

Vienna offers endless classical charm, but for the true explorer on a road trip, the city rewards those who look beyond the main squares. Park your car, put on your walking shoes, and discover the quirky, colorful, and wonderfully authentic side of Austria’s imperial heart.

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 them 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 that, 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 who look like someone we knew and make the mistake of approaching them like a long-lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away from what they perceive as 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 recognise was murder. The photo of the man 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 by 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 realise 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, had 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 several other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with several 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, bulletproof 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 and 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 would still be 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 to 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 and 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 me 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 another visitor. He is from the British Embassy, I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realised 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 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 that you were shot had made it an all-around embarrassment for them.”

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

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted on speaking with you first.  I have come, basically, to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us 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 that 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, 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, who had announced herself as 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 that 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 several 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 notebook 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 apologise 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 realised 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 realised we had made a mistake and reviewed the closed-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 officers’ 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 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 wrongdoing?”

“I have apologised. 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 cooperation, Mr Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 156

Day 156 – The past is a great resource

…

The Archive of Experience: Why Your Past is Your Greatest Resource

In our modern, fast-paced world, we are obsessed with the “next.” We are constantly looking toward the next milestone, the next innovation, and the next version of ourselves. While forward momentum is essential for growth, we often overlook the most powerful tool in our arsenal for navigating the future: our own history.

The past is not merely a collection of memories or a series of “what-ifs.” It is a dynamic, living resource—a vast library of data, lessons, and patterns that, when leveraged correctly, can become the foundation for our future success.

Here is why your past is the most valuable asset you own.

1. The Laboratory of Pattern Recognition

Patterns are the language of reality. Whether in business, relationships, or personal habits, history tends to rhyme. When you look back at your past experiences—both the triumphs and the failures—you begin to see recurring themes.

Did you notice that you always thrive when you collaborate, but struggle when you’re isolated? Do you see a trend in the types of challenges that tend to derail your progress? By analysing your past, you aren’t just remembering; you are engaging in pattern recognition. This allows you to walk into new situations with a “map” that others, who haven’t done the work of reflection, lack.

2. Failure as R&D (Research and Development)

We often treat our past mistakes as sources of shame. However, in the world of professional innovation, a failed experiment is simply a piece of data that proves what doesn’t work.

When you treat your past failures as “Research and Development,” you strip away the emotional sting and replace it with objective intelligence. Every “no” you received, every project that stalled, and every lapse in judgment is a refined instruction manual for how to handle similar situations in the future. You are the only person who possesses the unique training data of your own life—don’t let it go to waste.

3. The Anchor of Resilience

There is a specific kind of confidence that comes from knowing you have survived 100% of your worst days. When the present feels overwhelming, looking back at your own history serves as a powerful anchor.

By remembering the times you felt trapped, confused, or defeated and recalling exactly how you navigated your way out, you remind yourself of your inherent resilience. The past doesn’t just show you where you’ve been; it proves your capacity to transcend adversity. It transforms the question “Can I get through this?” into “I have gotten through this before, and I will do it again.”

4. Harvesting Your “Hidden Hits”

Sometimes, we get so focused on the future that we forget the skills, passions, and insights we once possessed. Perhaps you were a great writer in college, a creative problem solver in your first job, or someone who naturally brought people together in a community group.

Modern life often causes us to prune away parts of ourselves to fit into a specific “career box.” Returning to your past allows you to rediscover forgotten talents. It is a process of harvesting the “hidden hits” of your early life and re-integrating them into your current identity to create a more well-rounded, effective version of yourself.

How to Use Your Past Effectively

To turn your past into a resource rather than a prison, you must change your relationship with it:

  • Practice Objective Reflection: Spend time journaling about past events as if you were an unbiased observer. Write down what happened, what you did, and what the outcome was.
  • Extract the Lesson: Don’t stop at the memory. Ask yourself, “What did this teach me that I am still using today?”
  • Forgive the “Past You”: Recognise that the version of you in the past was making the best decisions they could with the information they had at the time. Compassion for your past self is the key to clarity for your future self.

The Bottom Line

Your past is not a graveyard; it is a goldmine. It is where your wisdom resides and where your most authentic lessons are stored. By mining your history for its insights, patterns, and proofs of strength, you stop being a victim of your experiences and start becoming the architect of your future.

Don’t just move forward—move forward informed. Your past is waiting to tell you exactly how to win.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 47

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

…

At least the helicopter pilot hadn’t hit the fuel tanks or any of the control wires.

Because of the holes in the fuselage, we couldn’t fly any higher than between two and five thousand feet or go as fast as Davies would like, but the plane settled into a routine and got us where we wanted to go.

Just a few miles from the base, fuel almost exhausted, we got a fighter escort.

At first, I thought the base commander thought we were an unidentified flying object, mainly because something else had been hit, our communications. We couldn’t tell the base we were coming, and they only had the Colonel’s transmission of an approximate arrival time, much earlier than the actual time we were supposed to arrive.

On the ground, we were met with fire trucks, and a military escort, with weapons that could take out a mouse at one thousand yards. Just in case we were terrorists, I suppose.

We were parked in a bay away from the main terminal area and had to wait for a half-hour before we were met by Lallo. Monroe’s comment, that he was probably finishing his lunch which would be more important than meeting us, had kept us waiting.

The two abductees were the first to leave the aircraft, then Shurl’s body was removed after the doctor certified he was dead.

Then the rest of us were allowed to leave the aircraft. A bus was waiting, and everyone bar Monroe and I had boarded and been taken away. Under guard. Perhaps their service had not mitigated their prison sentences. I didn’t ask Lallo why; I’d probably not get the truth anyway.

“Good job,” he said, after watching the bus depart. “Pity, it wasn’t done right the first time.”

A compliment followed by disparagement.

“Next time you can do the job yourself,” Monroe said. “And until you’ve been in the field and actually got shot at, you’d do well to keep that trap of yours shut.”

“May I …”

“…remind me you’re my superior officer? No. I’m sure that status won’t last much longer. I’m applying for a transfer.”

He looked at me. “What about you?”

“Nothing to say, except I don’t blame her. Now, since all you’ve done is prove to me you’re an idiot, I’ll take my leave.”

In the distance I could see a large American car, the sort that proliferated in the 1950s and 1960s before petrol prices were a problem, cutting across the runway at speed. Was it the owner of the DC3 coming to see the damage?

No. When it got closer I could see Bamfield, cigar in mouth, beaming. I suppose no one felt they had the authority to tell him not to.

The car stopped behind Lallo’s jeep and Bamfield got out, then leaned against the driver’s side door and looked at us over the roof.

“James, Monroe. Still alive I see. Pity about the plane; I know the chap who owns it. He’s going to be pissed when he sees the cannon holes. What happened?”

“Bad guys,” Monroe said.

“Of course. Get in, I’ll give you a ride back to the terminal. We can talk on the way.”

Neither of us moved. If Monroe wasn’t going to suffer fools gladly, neither was I.

“Well…”

“I’d rather walk,” I said.

“We’d rather walk, sir.” With a heavy emphasis on the ‘sir’.

“Look, you did a great job, minimal losses, and we got two assets back. Everyone is happy. But, we have a small problem down in South America…”

…

© Charles Heath 2020

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live”.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

…

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 1

My mind will not rest.

Down here, it is summer, and the last few days have been rather hot; well, it is summer after all, but tonight it is particularly hot.

So, as I can’t sleep, I’m lying on the couch staring at the ceiling, otherwise known as the cinema of my dreams.

Where am I?

Well, it has to be someplace cool, of course.

 …

I have no idea where or when I got sucked into this game of searching for treasure.  Boggs had been reading a newspaper article relating to a Spaniard who had survived a shipwreck off the coast and had supposedly come ashore dragging his treasure chest, all that he could save from the sinking ship.

I think my priorities may have been slightly different.

Standing on the beach where Boggs believed the man came ashore, we looked inland at the coastal plain now overbuilt with holiday houses and apartments, behind that, some parkland, under threat from the developers, and behind that, the mountains.

I could guess what Boggs was going to say next.

“It has to be somewhere in the mountains, a cave perhaps.”

My map told me there was a mountain face for about 25 miles in either direction, rising to two to three thousand feet up.  I didn’t calculate the area, I just considered it big.

“If he came ashore here, dragging a heavy chest, and barring all of this building, he would take the most direct route inland.”

He pointed in the direction he thought the Spaniard took.

My eyes followed his arm and stopped at a beacon halfway up the hillside. 

That was a long way, pulling a heavy chest.

“Not up the hill, maybe, but somewhere along the base.”

“And don’t you think every man and his dog would have made the same assumption, and covered the ground already?”  The treasure hunt was beginning to bore me.

His expression changed, the sort that told me he might not have considered that possibility.  Boggs was like that, always thinking he had the original idea.

“Perhaps, then, a drink and more thought on the matter.”

We trudged through the soft sand to the bar just off the sand, a small place called The Spaniard.  A sign on the window said ‘Treasure Maps for sale’.

 …

Well, the bar was air-conditioned, and the beer was cold.  I have one myself and see where this cinematic experience goes.

… 

 

The 2am Rant: There’s more time for TV

The fact that winter has finally arrived and it’s the fourth day straight cold, wet, and raining – not only gives me, and a lot of others, more time to write, but it also enables us to explore a few more leisure options to fill in the time.

After all, we can hardly just keep writing endlessly.

Well, perhaps some of us could.

At first, I decided I would do some virtual travelling, you know, go to places I would never go in person, like South Africa, Kenya, Egypt, South America, you know, the sort of places I mean, the ones where you can’t get travel insurance cover, or not without mortgaging your home.

That lasted about a day. Seeing the pyramids online was not the same as being there, getting the sand blown in your face, or the tour bus being hijacked, and you spend the next three months in a dark, hot hellhole while the kidnappers negotiate with governments that refuse to negotiate with terrorists.

So far, I’m not filling in my time very well.

There are weeds to be pulled, lawns to be cut, shrubs and trees to be pruned, painting to be done, you know, all of those chores that you put off until tomorrow, knowing tomorrow will never come.

Don’t ask me to explain that.

So, we’re left with television.

Firstly, there was a series called Yellowstone, a western in a modern setting, three series worth. Yes, we watched all of them, no, didn’t like the swearing, or Beth Dutton, Rip was channelling the Duke (John Wayne), and Kevin Costner, well, his stint in Dances with Wolves stood him in good stead.

Geez, though, how much trouble can one ranch attract? Indians, speculators, developers, and an international airport? To be honest, at times it spiralled out of control, but for sheer entertainment value, it was slightly better than I thought it might be. As for Jamie, how could one person be so complicated?

Then there was another series, Away. OK, this was about as far-fetched a premise could get, and the characters, as diverse and sometimes as obtuse as any I’ve seen thrown together for over eight months. Thank god we didn’t have to suffer eight months of it.

It was good, I guess, with people being the way they are, and I’d expected in the confines of that small space for so long, they might have killed each other off one at a time, like in Lord of the Flies, but no such luck.

My favourite? The Russian. He might have been blind, but he was interesting. Just would have liked a few subtitles for us non-Ghanaian, Chinese, Russian, and Indian people.

As for White House Farm, I’m still trying to work out who killed them all, because it definitely wasn’t the daughter. It had to be the indifferent son, or at his behest. Full marks to the dogged detective, who, the last time I saw him, was a rather improbable Hercules. Funny how your impression of a performance goes back to one you’ve seen him in before.

Which is another of our viewing interests, watching a show and trying to work out where we’ve seen the actors before. Some are familiar and seem to be in everything, while others are rarely seen or remembered. I hope this is not a sign of their acting talent, or more to the point, lack of it.

At the moment, we are in the middle of Young Wallender. Those who may have seen Branagh in the Wallander series would remember this as being the most stultifying of series, filmed bleakly in a bleak country with bleak characters and bleak crimes.

Fortunately, the Young Wallender series is not as bleak, but it has dark undertones. Some might call this gritty. There are four more to go, so it can only get better.

Like jumping off a ten-storey building, it’s so far so good…

What I learned about writing – The use of idioms, those a reader will recognise and understand

Don’t Let Your Writing Get Lost in the Weeds: The Art of Using Idioms Wisely

We all want our writing to be engaging, vivid, and memorable. We strive for clarity, for that “aha!” moment in our readers’ minds. But sometimes, in our quest for impactful language, we can accidentally end up “clouding the issue.”

That’s where idioms come in. These colourful phrases, like “got it in the bag” or “bite the bullet,” can add personality and a touch of familiar flair to our prose. They’re the linguistic shorthand that allows us to paint a picture, convey a complex emotion, or express a common sentiment without lengthy explanations.

Think about it: instead of saying “we are absolutely certain of success,” “got it in the bag” instantly communicates that victory is assured. Or, “bite the bullet” is a far more evocative way to describe enduring something unpleasant than a simple “tolerate the difficulty.” These phrases resonate because they’re rooted in shared cultural understanding.

However, like any powerful tool, idioms require a deft hand. The key is balance and clarity.

The Pitfall of Obscurity:

One of the biggest mistakes a writer can make is to pepper their work with obscure idioms. While you might think a phrase like “all mouth and no trousers” perfectly captures someone’s boastfulness, if your reader has never encountered it, they’re not just confused – they’re lost. Instead of enhancing understanding, an obscure idiom creates a barrier, forcing the reader to stop and decipher your meaning, breaking the flow of your narrative. Stick to idioms that are generally well-understood by your target audience.

The Danger of Overuse:

On the flip side, too much of a good thing can be detrimental. Imagine reading a paragraph where every other sentence is an idiom. It starts to sound less like natural writing and more like a forced attempt to sound “clever.” This overuse can make your writing feel cluttered and even insincere. Readers might start to feel like they’re being bombarded with clichés rather than genuinely connecting with your message.

So, How Do You Strike the Right Chord?

  1. Know Your Audience: This is paramount. What idioms are common in their everyday language? What will they readily understand? If you’re writing for a general audience, stick to widely recognised idioms.
  2. Purposeful Placement: Use idioms when they truly add value. Do they make your point more concisely? Do they inject personality or emotion? If an idiom doesn’t serve a clear purpose, a more straightforward phrase might be better.
  3. Vary Your Language: Don’t rely solely on idioms. Blend them with clear, direct language. This creates a more natural and sophisticated writing style. An occasional idiom can shine; a constant barrage will dim their impact.
  4. When in Doubt, Leave it Out: If you’re not 100% sure an idiom will be understood, or if you’re worried about overdoing it, it’s often safer to opt for a more explicit phrasing. Clarity should always be the priority.

Idioms are valuable additions to a writer’s toolkit. When used thoughtfully and strategically, they can elevate your writing, making it more engaging and relatable. But remember, the goal is to illuminate, not obfuscate. So, use them wisely, and ensure your readers don’t end up feeling like they’ve been left “out in the cold.”