Category: Book

The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 26

I have a small job

…

The trek from the car, along the red carpet, the flashing cameras, and reporters with microphones shoved in faces, was the longest 50 yards I’d ever taken.

To say I’d prefer to negotiate a minefield was an understatement.  She was polite, smiling, answering questions, and doing the red-carpet thing if that was what it was. 

I remained in the background adopting the bodyguard stance, not that of a partner or escort, guiding her on at the appropriate moment, and they left me alone.

Bodyguards were not news just an accouterment to the rich and famous.  I was glad that I fitted into the suit and didn’t look out of place.

On the other side, in that magical land of peace and quiet, an area that was reserved for the VIPs, I got a momentary look into a world that few were ever privy to.

Being a Royal Command Performance, I also got the unexpected surprise of being introduced to members of the Royal family, scary stuff indeed.  I’d only ever seen them in the papers and on TV, and oddly never in a good light.

How different they were in person.

Rodby seemed ill at ease, Martha in her element, and the countess took it all in her stride, perhaps showing that she was born into that life rather than acquiring it.

I’d found a quiet corner and Rodby it seemed had too.

“Another of your white lies comes home to roost.  You ask why I won’t come back, and this evening is all the proof you need.”

“It wasn’t anything to do with me.  Orders from above.”

“You don’t answer to anyone.”

The wry grin said otherwise.  “We all have our masters.”

“Who is she?”

At the moment she was across the room deep in conversation with one of the Royal party.

“A woman with a problem.”

And then it all became clear.  “This is low, even for you.”

“Not me.  This is Martha’s doing.  She has this unaccountable belief in you, which is surprising since I’ve never told her what it was you used to do.”

“And yet here we are.”

I was going to make a point of talking to Martha if only to dispute his account.  He could have chosen any one of a hundred more qualified people and yet here I was.  I had to believe it was not Martha’s intention for me to be here other than as a prospect for her friend the Countess.

“Indeed.”

The accompanying sigh was due to Martha making her way over to us. His brief moment of solitude was over.  I doubted Rodby had any time for what he called schmoozing, nor would he suffer the protection types that were in abundance in that room.  It reeked of wealth and privilege.

“There you two are.”

“I don’t like crowds,” I said.  At least I had a viable excuse.

She glared at Rodby.  “Go and make yourself amenable.  I want a moment with Evan.”

His dismay was complete.  I could tell he would rather face down a horde of enemy soldiers than face those people currently in the room.

After a moment where he might have considered an entirely different scenario, he thought the better of it and meandered off in the direction of the bar.

This was a Rodby I’d never seen before.

“Now, what are you doing with yourself these days?  Alan tells me you are adrift now Violetta is not there.”

How kind of him to say so.  Had I completely misjudged him, and this was going to be his pitch, by someone he knew I couldn’t say no to.

“I would not call in exactly adrift.”

“You know what I mean.  I’m sorry that I haven’t managed to catch up but I’ve been working on getting him to decide it’s time to retire.”

“I’m not sure what I could do to help you in that regard.”

“You don’t have to.  I have something else I would like you to do for me.  Heidi is one of those formidable forces that have the ability to take on the world, and beat it, but not when it comes to handling problems of her own.  The count, God bless him, used to take care of all that nonsense, but he’s not here, so, given what Alan has told me about you, nothing but glowing references I have to say, could you help her out?”

What could Rodby possibly say about me when he was sworn to secrecy?  In fact, why would he mention me to Martha above anyone else?  I was just an errand boy in terms of acquaintances.

“What exactly did he say?”

“Nothing of any importance other than to say you were a good man in a crisis.”  She smiled. “And we both know that could mean almost anything from catching a mug of coffee before it splashed over a tetchy diplomat to saving a pilotless plane about to crash into a mountain.  What I’m asking will not involve either of these scenarios or at least I hope not.”  Perhaps she just saw my expression, a mixture of curiosity and dismay.  “I’m not selling this very well, am I?”

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to sell.”

The bell rang to signify the audience to head for their seats, or in our case, a box.  Opera was so much better from the boxes, particularly when those below looked up in awe, expecting to see a celebrity.

“We’re having drinks after the opera.  We’ll talk more then.” 

Rodby was walking over with the countess.

The look on his face was priceless

© Charles Heath 2022

What I learned about writing – Cliches

So, standard practice tells us that as writers we must avoid cliches at all costs.

It’s a great idea. Because you are writing to potentially a great many people, the notion that most of them will have no idea what you are talking about, or understand the relevance, it’s best not to leave them perplexed when they read something they don’t understand.

A great example of this was many years ago when I worked with a chap who was a recent immigrant from Russia. His English was reasonable, that is, he could speak in a manner I could understand, but there were times when he stopped, searching for the English equivalent.

I would have called it a quaint accent. Others would be less accommodating.

But…

I found that I tended to speak with a lot of English idioms and cliches, some of which he did not understand, and so I spent a lot of time translating them. He was not at all ashamed of not knowing them, but wanted to.

Thus, for a few months, I became an ESL teacher and found it quite amusing, especially when he told me what the Russian equivalents were. And, yes, Russians do have their own cliches, and we westerners cop a few really interesting ones.

And, yes, I use cliches in stories, or at least until the third draft when I realise that they don’t belong, and even when they last a little longer, the editor’s blue pencil gets them every time.

But, and there’s always a but…

What if your protagonist speaks in cliches?

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 112

Day 112 – What if the book you’re writing has a similar plot and characters to another book

…

The “Accidental Copycat”: What to Do When Your Story Feels Too Familiar

We’ve all been there. You’re halfway through your manuscript, the plot is finally clicking, and then—thud. You’re scrolling through a bookstore shelf or browsing Goodreads, and you see it. A book that was published two years ago that features a protagonist agonisingly similar to yours, a plot twist you thought was genius, and a setting that feels like a carbon copy of your own world.

Panic sets in. Am I a thief? Is my book unoriginal? Should I delete the file and start over?

Take a deep breath. Before you hit “delete,” let’s unpack why this happens and why it’s usually not the catastrophe you think it is.

1. The “Great Ideas” Phenomenon

There is an old adage in the writing world: “There are no new stories, only new ways to tell them.”

Human storytelling is built on archetypes. Whether it’s the Hero’s Journey, the “Enemies to Lovers” trope, or the “Small Town Secret,” we are all drawing from the same well of universal themes. If your book feels similar to another, it’s likely because those themes resonate with the collective human experience.

If you didn’t consciously sit down with that other book open on your desk to copy it, you aren’t stealing. You are simply participating in a genre.

2. The Difference Between Trope and Theft

There is a massive difference between plot points and execution.

  • The Trope: Two characters get stuck in an elevator and fall in love.
  • The Theft: You copy the specific dialogue, the unique way one character clears their throat, the specific backstory about their dying goldfish, and the exact sequence of events down to the minute.

If you are using the same general framework as another author, you are writing in a genre. If you are using their specific, unique creative choices (their “voice,” their specific, non-trope-based world-building quirks, or their specific phrasing), that’s where the ethical line blurs.

3. Your Perspective is Your “Secret Sauce”

Even if you and another author started with the same “what if” prompt, your story will end up completely different. Why? Because you are not that author.

  • Your Life Experience: The way you describe grief, love, or a sunrise is colored by your own unique traumas, joys, and perspective.
  • Your Character Voice: Characters are the sum of their choices. If your protagonist makes a choice different from the “original” character, the entire ripple effect of the story changes.
  • Your Pacing and Tone: One author might write your shared plot as a dark, gritty noir; another might write it as a bubbly, fast-paced comedy.

4. How to Conduct a “Sanity Check”

If the similarities still bother you, perform these three steps to gain clarity:

  1. Read the “Other” Book: It sounds counterintuitive, but if you haven’t read it, you might be scaring yourself over nothing. Read it to see if the “similarities” are actually just superficial tropes.
  2. Identify the “Soul” of Your Story: Ask yourself, “What is the one thing I am trying to say that no one else can say exactly like me?” If you can answer that, lean harder into that element.
  3. Twist the Narrative: If you feel like your plot beat is too derivative, change it. Give your character a different motivation. Put the story in a different setting. Introduce an antagonist that complicates the “cliché.”

The Bottom Line

Originality isn’t about being the first person to come up with an idea; it’s about being the most authentic person to express it.

Don’t let the fear of “stealing” paralyse your creativity. If you are writing from a place of genuine passion, your voice will shine through, regardless of how many other books explore similar territory. Keep writing. The world hasn’t read your version yet—and that version is the only one that truly matters.

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

http://tinyurl.com/Amazon-SundayInNewYork

“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment, Will’s life slowly starts to unravel, and it’s obvious to him that it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule: don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 112

Day 112 – What if the book you’re writing has a similar plot and characters to another book

…

The “Accidental Copycat”: What to Do When Your Story Feels Too Familiar

We’ve all been there. You’re halfway through your manuscript, the plot is finally clicking, and then—thud. You’re scrolling through a bookstore shelf or browsing Goodreads, and you see it. A book that was published two years ago that features a protagonist agonisingly similar to yours, a plot twist you thought was genius, and a setting that feels like a carbon copy of your own world.

Panic sets in. Am I a thief? Is my book unoriginal? Should I delete the file and start over?

Take a deep breath. Before you hit “delete,” let’s unpack why this happens and why it’s usually not the catastrophe you think it is.

1. The “Great Ideas” Phenomenon

There is an old adage in the writing world: “There are no new stories, only new ways to tell them.”

Human storytelling is built on archetypes. Whether it’s the Hero’s Journey, the “Enemies to Lovers” trope, or the “Small Town Secret,” we are all drawing from the same well of universal themes. If your book feels similar to another, it’s likely because those themes resonate with the collective human experience.

If you didn’t consciously sit down with that other book open on your desk to copy it, you aren’t stealing. You are simply participating in a genre.

2. The Difference Between Trope and Theft

There is a massive difference between plot points and execution.

  • The Trope: Two characters get stuck in an elevator and fall in love.
  • The Theft: You copy the specific dialogue, the unique way one character clears their throat, the specific backstory about their dying goldfish, and the exact sequence of events down to the minute.

If you are using the same general framework as another author, you are writing in a genre. If you are using their specific, unique creative choices (their “voice,” their specific, non-trope-based world-building quirks, or their specific phrasing), that’s where the ethical line blurs.

3. Your Perspective is Your “Secret Sauce”

Even if you and another author started with the same “what if” prompt, your story will end up completely different. Why? Because you are not that author.

  • Your Life Experience: The way you describe grief, love, or a sunrise is colored by your own unique traumas, joys, and perspective.
  • Your Character Voice: Characters are the sum of their choices. If your protagonist makes a choice different from the “original” character, the entire ripple effect of the story changes.
  • Your Pacing and Tone: One author might write your shared plot as a dark, gritty noir; another might write it as a bubbly, fast-paced comedy.

4. How to Conduct a “Sanity Check”

If the similarities still bother you, perform these three steps to gain clarity:

  1. Read the “Other” Book: It sounds counterintuitive, but if you haven’t read it, you might be scaring yourself over nothing. Read it to see if the “similarities” are actually just superficial tropes.
  2. Identify the “Soul” of Your Story: Ask yourself, “What is the one thing I am trying to say that no one else can say exactly like me?” If you can answer that, lean harder into that element.
  3. Twist the Narrative: If you feel like your plot beat is too derivative, change it. Give your character a different motivation. Put the story in a different setting. Introduce an antagonist that complicates the “cliché.”

The Bottom Line

Originality isn’t about being the first person to come up with an idea; it’s about being the most authentic person to express it.

Don’t let the fear of “stealing” paralyse your creativity. If you are writing from a place of genuine passion, your voice will shine through, regardless of how many other books explore similar territory. Keep writing. The world hasn’t read your version yet—and that version is the only one that truly matters.

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta reader’s view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

…

The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 25

A small job, really?

…

Nothing Rodby did, didn’t have an ulterior motive, and as cynical as that sounded, I had to wonder what it was.

Rodby just didn’t understand I didn’t want to go back to that life of always looking over the shoulder.  Disappearing and reinventing myself with Violetta changed my life.

Now she was no longer there, it was like that cloak of invisibility had gone.  Rodby hadn’t said as much but I knew he was going to formally ask me to return to work, citing the reason I’d be better off doing something rather than dwelling on the past.

It was hard to dispute that fact.  I needed something to do.  Just existing even in a place like Venice was not living.  And finding someone else, well, I was not sure what Violetta might think, but I knew she would not want to see me like this.

I was not sure how going to the opera as a plus one was going to make a difference, and I was trying not to play down Martha’s invitation. She didn’t share her passions with just anybody, nor would she be a cohort in one of Rodby’s recruiting schemes.

He was not so circumspect

So, I dusted off the tuxedo one more time, even though I didn’t really feel in the mood for anything. Time had not made me a size too large or smaller, despite the good life I’d had over the last few years.  Italian cooking was hardly the manna dieters went to as a first choice, but then, I was not under so much pressure to stay fit.

This was in part due to the fact I didn’t forsake the fitness regime I had adopted for many years; I just didn’t go at it so hard, and it had served me well.  The suit still fitted.

The text from Rodby arrived about ten minutes before the car was due to pick me up outside the front door.  I was hoping I would not have to get a cab, expecting I would have to get myself to the Royal Opera house

When I reached the curb, the car was waiting, the chauffeur waiting to open the door for me.  My first impression, he was more a bodyguard than a chauffeur; I could just see the earpiece connecting him to an invisible army.

As the door opened, I could see there was another person in the car, and, at first sight, I thought it might be Martha, Rodby, who detested opera, somehow getting out of going, but it was not. 

It was another woman, very elegantly dressed about my age or perhaps a few years younger though she had managed to keep what must have been, in her younger days, devastating beauty.

A princess perhaps of a foreign country, she had that classical European look.  Martha knew a lot of different people, rich, poor, aristocratic, and others like me.

I climbed in and the chauffeur closed the door.

“Welcome, said the spider to the fly.”  She said it with just a hint of a smile, discernible in the light striking her just right from a streetlamp overhead.

“Rodby didn’t tell me there was another guest, so please forgive my momentary surprise.  My name is Evan Wallace, but no doubt you already knew that.”

“I did.  It was going to be my next question.  Rodby would be very annoyed if I picked up just any man off the street. I am Countess Heidi von Burkhardt, though I do not want you to use that title tonight.  I am, today, just Heidi.”

“Then just Heidi it will be.”

The car eased its way out into the traffic quietly and smoothly.  It was so quiet I could just hear the symphony playing in the background, one I’d heard before but could put a name to.  Just yet. It would come to me.

“Rodby failed to mention you would be coming to the opera.”

“He would.  Martha’s idea, she seems to have this soft spot for you, or at least that was the impression I got when she mentioned you might be coming, and I suspect she might also be dabbling in a little matchmaking.”

It wouldn’t be the first time.  She had tried finding someone for me after Violetta died, but I told her it would be too soon.  Perhaps she had assumed enough time had passed.

“There isn’t a Count?”

“There was, but he passed some months ago.  It would not have mattered though; we had an unusual and mutually agreeable arrangement.  I spent his money, and he did, well, whatever it is Counts do.  He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask, but I suspect it killed him in the end.”

“Did you love him?”  An odd question that had popped into my mind and was out before I could stop it.

“My.  Martha did warn me you could be direct; she called it refreshingly honest.”

“Sorry, sometimes the words come out before I consider whether they’re appropriate or not.  Just ignore that question “

“No.  It’s one I asked myself after his passing, and truth be told, I did. I had such romantic notions when I was young, that I was going to find a prince and marry him.  I didn’t find the prince, but I live in a castle, with turrets and towers and dungeons.  Just no dragons, except for the housekeeper.”

She shuddered. 

Cold or memories?

“You live there?”

“I did, I haven’t been back since Gustav died, but I will have to, some inheritance matters have come up, and I’ve been summoned to Bacharach to meet with the Rechtsanwalte.  Perhaps I’ll go after the opera, literally joy followed by pain.”

The car stopped and we arrived outside the Royal Opera house.  For a few seconds, the smile had disappeared, and it was replaced with a frown, no doubt brought on by the thought of facing the German legal system.

Then, as the door opened, she changed.

No one told me she was a celebrity and there would be limelight, flashing cameras, and a host of journalists.

© Charles Heath 2022

What I learned about writing – Why does someone pick up a book?

It’s an interesting question, and I’m guessing that when you start writing, it’s not the first question that pops into your mind.

Why does a person go into a bookshop to buy a book?

Do they like the idea of the tactile feel of the book in their hands? Do they like the idea of buying the hard-bound version with the hard covers, and the colourful jacket, or a full-size paperback or just the cheap small version for a lesser price, and then read and then toss away?

Do they buy books, read them, put them on the bookshelf, and admire what they have read as an accomplishment?

Are they looking for entertainment, something to take their mind off the humdrum days of going to work, going home, going to work, going home, over and over?

Do they want to read about the life they would like to have rather than the life they actually have? Like seeing them single-handedly save the world from utter destruction, after or course, car chases, jumping out of helicopters, surviving a plane crash, and rescuing damsels by the half dozen?

Do they want to read about the romance that’s missing in their lives, to have that particular man or woman that just magically appears, and you can live happily ever after, after a few ups and downs of course.

Or are they simply looking for a reference book on cooking, space, do-it-yourself, or computers?

It’s how I worked out what readers want to read, because while I’m looking for books, I observe my fellow readers, sometimes even speak to them, and what they say is very illuminating. It’s fascinating to discover every reader is different.

My visits to the bookshop were, firstly, to seek out the bargains. Then I look for my favourite authors, and by association, my favourite genres. Then I look for books in my favourite genres, but I’m always open to anything else that might take my fancy. Hardbound books are a first preference, and full-size paperbacks are second.

Then, when I have read them, they go on the shelves, one of seven bookcases, in the library, which also doubles as my writing room.

Yes, it’s time to take a few moments away from your self-imposed exile in that dusty, draughty attic, and go meet some of those readers.

And prepare to be greatly surprised.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 111

Day 111 – Writing Exercise

…

The space port, one of three on Mars, loomed on the horizon as the shuttle sped towards it.

Milo had just finished a two-year rotation at the mine, a lucrative opportunity given to him by his brother.

He had not done it out of the kindness of his heart; he had used the opportunity to send his brother away, to keep him out of trouble.

Milo had grudgingly accepted it because of the money.  And to get away from his wife, who had cheated on him during his previous rotation on Moonbase 5. 

He had come home early and found Leila with another man, the friend he’d asked to look after her while he was gone.  He had taken his remit too far.

He was unlucky in that sense, his love of offworld work keeping him away from home, and a wife who wanted her feet firmly planted on Earth.  They had no children, another of his grievances because she didn’t want them.

Perhaps it was fated to end this way.

20 minutes later, the shuttle had gone through the docking procedures and was ready to offload its human cargo.

The pilot, of course, was the latest robot technology, more human than human, the promotion material had said, less likely to make mistakes.

It didn’t say a lot for the confidence the company had in its real human employees.  Still, they hadn’t sacked any humans yet and replaced them with robots.

Yet.

The airlocks hissed, and the first door opened, and 10 passengers went in.  The door closed, and the cabin filled with steam.  Cleansing any bugs that may have hitched a ride.  The steam was sucked out, and the outer door opened.

He was among the first along the gangway and into the main hall.  At one end was the domestic spaceport.  At the other end, the interstellar spaceport, where tomorrow he would get the ship back home.

Not that he could call it home, after everything that had happened.  It was the last place he wanted to be, but he didn’t have a choice.

He would happily stay right here if he were given the opportunity.  They were always looking for workers out in the new cities and the space docks.

Life here wasn’t so bad.  In between the two were everything else, the hotels, bars, restaurants, accommodation towers and shopping mall.  There was also a cinema, sports arena, playing fields, and parkland.  All were built under a series of connected domes.  More like the old earth than the new.

He was heading for a hotel.  Check in, dinner and a few drinks at the Bar, a few hours in the casino, then rest.  There would be time to sleep on the ship.

He walked slowly, savouring those last moments.  Through the windows, he could see the stark landscape, how much of Earth was becoming. Soon, they would have to find a new planet or planets to move to.

But not in his lifetime.

…

Most people wanted to get back to Earth.  Milo was one of the few who didn’t..

He’d checked into the hotel, and the hotel had taken care of his travel arrangements.  The mining company owned the hotel, which made it easy to coordinate everything.

Dinner was provided, along with a reasonable number of drinks afterwards, and given his seniority, a sizable tab at the casino.

He’d learned long ago that he and casinos didn’t mix; he was just going for the free watered-down drinks and watching the high rollers.  And like the last time, go see a show and stay out of trouble.

He had dinner, sat at the bar, had a few bottles of beer and talked to random people: mine workers on weekend leave, mining executives lamenting being stuck on Mars, and people who had more money than sense, wanting to stay on Mars for a holiday, people who didn’t care about spending a month or so in stasis either way.

Then, a wander around the gaming floor, the bright lights, the endless noise, the people who all looked as though they didn’t have a care in the world.

Maybe they didn’t.

He was watching a woman, eye-catching mostly because of her dress, or lack of, which in a way was a diversion.  She had attracted a large group of onlookers.  The roulette wheel was spinning, the ball was dropping, and landing on her number.

Eight.

Once, eight times a second.

The croupier, a middle-aged man with white hair and a mottled beard, had a peculiar flick when sending the ball on its way. 

The first one was, clockwise, number eight.

Ten thousand at thirty-seven to one, three hundred and seventy thousand.

It was sitting on the table.

A waitress arrived with a single drink, champagne in a crystal flute with a hollow stem, the good stuff, not the rubbish they served the punters like Milo.

We waited.  If there were no other sound, a pin drop would be like a bomb going off.

“Bets, please?”  The man was slightly hoarse.  The next spin could be make or break for him.

She removed twenty-seven thousand and left ten.

On number eight.

“No more bets.”

Yes, the croupier had beads of sweat on his brow.

The ball went counterclockwise, round and round, and when it hit the first number and jumped, everyone sucked their breath until it landed.

On number eight.

The croupier called for chips.

A grey coat had been nearby, and they were joined by a blue coat and then a black coat.

A huddle, a whispered conversation, and the croupier was replaced.  A hard-faced woman, mid-thirties, with a ‘don’t make wisecracks to me’ expression took over.

“Just like the house.  Kill the winning streak by replacing the croupier.”

I turned.

The owner of the voice was a girl, on the threshold of being something more, in an elegant ball gown, looking like she had escaped a torture chamber.

“It has been known to happen.”  As many times as I’d seen it happen, she was right.

“You work for the house?”

“I’m a casual observer.  No more, no less.”  My glass was empty.

A waitress went past and exchanged empty glasses with full ones.  She took one. It was not the good stuff.

“Six hundred grand.  Not a bad night’s work.”

“She won’t quit.”  I knew the type.  It was a superstition, leave it all, don’t break the stack.

“Would you?”  She took a sip and made a face.  It hadn’t improved on the first glass.

“Oddly yes.  But I’m neither that brave or reckless.”  I would not have doubled down after the first bet.

She smiled, did a quick scan of the floor then her eyes came back to me.

“You’re not the adventurous sort?”  It was said with scepticism.  I was surprised.

Who was she and what did she want with me.  The way she was acting i suspected she was part of the floor surveillance, perhaps looking to see how the lady was possibly cheating.

“Used to be, in another life.”  Back in the day as they called it, when I tried my hand at being a policeman.  I was young and idealistic then.

“Well, I’ll give you a chance, one chance, to seek adventure.  I need a dancing partner, and you look to me you are a dancing man.  Am I right?”

She was.  Before I finally married, a girlfriend had been my partner in ballroom dancing contests, and we were very good.  Very, very good.  Until she decided another dancing partner would be more interesting.  It might have been a career, but it ended that night she left.

How could she know that I was a dancer?

“I’ve taken the requisite Arthur Murray lessons.”

“Including the Waltz?”

“It’s there somewhere in the back of my mind.  No doubt it will come back to me.”

…

Up a hallway, wide enough to be almost an avenue, and off to one side was a ballroom, with about five hundred people suitably dressed to the nines.

I looked out of place, even though my suit was being worn for the third time.  I didn’t have the white shirt, stiff collar and white bow tie.

It didn’t matter.

I had a feeling this girl was a maverick.

People created space on the floor for us.  I should have been worried, but it was not until we took the starting position i noticed we were the only pair in the circle.

The music started, and she was almost about to move when I took the lead, if it could be called that.

I loved the Waltz.  It gave you a chance to be close and apart, the ebbs and flows of the music, and the Strauss music. 

Others joined us until we had a full circle.

I concentrated on not stuffing up.

She had definitely done this before.

After switching partners, briefly, I got the redhead with the glowering eyes.  She said, in a very low voice, “You know who you’re dancing with, don’t you?”

I didn’t, and wondered if I should say so.  “No.”  I was curious.

“Literally, the boss’s daughter.”

Boss of what or whom?

She was gone before I could ask.

The dance ended, and the orchestra leaned into a cha cha cha.  I was not an exponent of the Latin dances, and she was equally willing to leave it alone.

In a quiet corner, we had drinks brought overnight almost unbidden, and I missed the secret sign she made to the staff.

“I’m told you’re the boss’s daughter.  Should I be worried?”

“I am a daughter. By definition, you’re a son.”

“But not of a boss.   My father was just a worker.”

“And you were too?”

I shrugged.  “Briefly.”

“You shrug off seven years so flippantly.”

So, she did know who I was.  That might be a problem when I remembered the spaceport mayor had a daughter, and was in trouble.  I was in the territories; her domain was this city, and the likelihood of meeting was supposedly zero.

“You’ve read words on paper.  Someone’s subjective words.  It was a long time ago.”

“We need a detective.”

“You have a police force, a sheriff, I believe.”

“People who work for the company.  People who have vested interests.  People are not interested in digging.”

“Their own grave?” 

It was an interesting conundrum.  The company that ran the mines was also responsible for maintaining the city and services, except for the small council, who were in charge.  The charter made sure that control of everything was not left in the hands of the companies, just the bills.

But they did get to recruit the staff, not the bosses.  It was a peculiarity, one that sometimes caused friction.  There had been a rash of assaults across all the cities, something the miners labelled as the result of privation and exuberance.

They had promised to fix the problem.  Perhaps they had, perhaps they hadn’t.

“We can’t fill the City Investigator role.”

Or the last one poked his nose into the wrong place and had it chopped off, along with his head.  Figuratively, that is, his death had been reported as from natural causes.

I think I now knew they was a different explanation.

“And I’m your choice?”

“You were overheard saying that you didn’t want to go home.  Here’s your chance to stay.”

“My rotations are done.  Rules are rules.”

“Rules are made to be broken.  We can use a special clause if you want to stay.”

“And die?”

“You’re fast on your feet.  A smart man knows when to change direction, retreat, regroup, and live to fight another day.  You’ve spent time with the workers, you know who, and what they were and are.  Not afraid to stick up for yourself either.  Pays good, benefits…” she smiled.

Trouble.

“Can I think about it?”

“What’s there to think about?”

A lot.  “I should go home.”

“You won’t make it home.”

It was an interesting statement, and normally it would be frightening.  It simply confirmed what I suspected.  The parting speech on earth before I came in this last rotation from my brother was ominous.

He said coming home might be detrimental to my health.

“Still want to think about it.”

She shrugged.  “I’ll be at the interstellar lounge tomorrow morning.  Don’t disappoint me.  Again.”

…

There are times when you honestly believe you’ve reached a point in your life where everything makes sense.  A point where you’ve made peace with your choices, and there’s nothing more to be done about it.

It was inevitable that Milo instinctively knew he was going to end up single again, once he realised he preferred running away from responsibility.  His brother had always said his marriage wouldn’t last, that his obsession with being off-world was going to take precedence over everything else

It did.  It just bugged him that his brother was right.

He also told him beating the guy who slept with his wife was a poor choice, and that was right too.  That was why he got Milo the gig as far away from home as possible

His brother also told him the guy’s family had a great deal of reach, and one day the tentacles of their influence would catch up with him.

It seemed like it had.

The question was which side of the fence she was on.  He cursed himself for not asking for a name, and then guessed that she would probably not give anything but an alias. 

Or maybe he had too overactive an imagination.

He hadn’t slept.  He’d kept thinking of that one Waltz, in the arms of a woman who was everything that Margery wasn’t, to the point where he had to wonder how he finished up with her.

And how impossible it was that this woman would bother to give him a second glance.  He was, when looked at in the cold, hard light of day, a miner, as rough and ready as they come.

He was everything she was not.

But for three minutes plus a few seconds, he felt every bit her equal and that they were seamless in the dance.  He may have looked out of place, but he didn’t feel out of place.

Except there was no room for him in her world.

It seemed there was no room for him in anyone’s world.

He knew what was coming.  Better to face it, or he would always be looking over his shoulder.

…

He arrived at the interstellar spaceport a half hour early.  There was a large number of earthbound travellers already there, in various stages of excitement.

It was always a thrill to get on the spaceship and experience the first few hours of the flight before the stasis phase, and then waking up about a day and a half out.  Coming into moon orbit, then docking, was one of the amazing moments, especially when getting the first sight of Earth.

He tendered his ticket at the counter, had it stamped, and was given a boarding pass.  It was like getting a plane back home.

He went to the cafe and ordered a coffee, then selected a table that gave him a view of the whole room.  He kept his back to the wall.  If anyone was coming for him, he would see them.

Halfway through the coffee, what appeared to be another passenger sat opposite.  He didn’t ask if the seat was free.

Milo glared at him.

“I’m guessing you’re Milo.”

“I’m guessing you should be minding your own business.  Would it matter if I said that the seat is taken?”

He seemed surprised.  “I didn’t think you had any friends.”

I noticed behind him a scuffle at a table near the door where two men were dragged out of their chairs and hauled away by men bigger than they were.  A similar event happened at a table by the other door.

Two exits covered.

If I tried to leave, I wouldn’t.

Then the mysterious young lady came in and sauntered across the floor.  My new friend finally realised something was going on, maybe Milo staring past him, not at him, gave it away.

He turned, and the slight shoulder slump said it all.

She had a uniform of sorts on.  Not quite the same impact as the previous evening.

The man made no attempt to move.  He looked up at her.  “Cassandra.”

“Joe.  What can I do for you?”

“There are two gentlemen over by the exit waiting to have a chat.  Don’t disappoint me by doing something silly.”

“You know me better than that.”

She gave him a face that said otherwise.  He looked like he was assessing his options for escape. They were not good.

One of her associates came over and put a hand on his shoulder.  “This way, sir.”

Not many of the others in the cafe were paying much attention.

He stood and looked down at me.  “This isn’t over.”

Milo shrugged.  “I wasn’t aware it had started, whatever it is.”

He looked at Cassandra.  “What’s the charge?”

“Interfering in a covert operation.”

“He doesn’t work for you.”

She smiled.  “Keep up, Joe.  You are usually not this sloppy.  Unless, of course, you no longer have a spy in my department.” 

A minute change in expression.

She nodded to the other officer, and he escorted Joe away.  Cassandra sat in the recently executive seat.

“Thank you, Milo.”

“For what?”

“We’ve been trying to pin something on him, but he’s very slippery.  It’s what happens with rush jobs.  I have to thank you for your help.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You verified we caught the mile on the department, and acted as a decoy so we could arrest him.  You want that job, it’s yours.”

Did he.  If that was the case, Milo wouldn’t have to go home, and he could see trouble coming.  Well, she would.

“Who exactly are you?”

“Cassandra.”

Milo gave her one of his looks, the one that said don’t dance with him.

“Acting Chief Superintendent, Detectives.  Your job.  Five years.  Staff of twenty.  Nice apartment, with stellar views of the Red Planet.”

“Are you one of the twenty?”

“XO, 21C.  I want to learn from the best.”

Milo stood and held out his hand.

She stood and took it in hers.

They shook hands.

“Welcome aboard.  Now, let’s go and interrogate some suspects.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026