Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledgedthat something had happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive, she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realises is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
Get to the Point, Make ‘Em Laugh, and Ignore Fay Weldon (A Little Bit)
Let’s rip the bandage off right away: The most boring book wins literary contests.
That gem of a quote comes from the fiercely witty British novelist Fay Weldon. And honestly? She wasn’t wrong. Think about the last time you read a critically acclaimed, prize-winning heavyweight novel. Did it feel like a brisk jog through a comedy club, or did it feel like trudging through an intellectual swamp of heavy metaphors, agonizing grief, and sentences that stretch across three paragraphs?
Exactly.
We live in a culture obsessed with efficiency. Get to the point! Cut the fluff! Give me the TL;DR! But writing—especially the kind of writing you actually want to read and write—often rebels against this sterile efficiency.
So, what is the ultimate writing philosophy? Should we cut straight to the chase and inject a healthy dose of humor, or should we embrace the sprawling, solemn boredom that wins awards? Let’s dive in.
The Cult of “Get to the Point” (And Why Humor is Our Savior)
In the digital age, attention spans are shorter than a TikTok loop. If your opening paragraph doesn’t hook the reader, introduce a conflict, and promise emotional payoff, they’re gone. Click. Back to Instagram.
Because of this, modern copywriters, bloggers, and even fiction writers are told to get to the point. Brevity is king.
The Problem: Being purely concise is dangerously close to being boring. A user manual is concise. A tax form gets straight to the point. Nobody stays up until 3:00 AM crying over the IRS instructions.
The Solution: Humour.
Humour is the spoonful of sugar that helps the conciseness go down. It’s the human element. When you get to the point while making the reader snort coffee out of their nose, you’ve won. You’ve respected their time (by not rambling) while entertaining their soul (by being funny).
If Fay Weldon says boring books win prizes, humour is the rebellion against the prize committee. It says: I want people to actually enjoy this.
Why Fay Weldon Was Right About “Boring” Books
Let’s not throw Fay under the bus just yet. She knew the literary establishment’s inner workings better than most.
Literary prizes—think of the Booker, the Pulitzer, or heavy-hitting academic nods—often reward gravitas. A book about a happy couple who communicate well, pay their mortgage on time, and occasionally go to brunch does not win awards. Why? Because it lacks suffering and significance.
To win a literary contest, a book usually needs:
Misery: Preferably historical, existential, or deeply psychological.
Slow pacing: Often disguised as “rich atmospheric development.”
Sentences that require a semicolon and a master’s degree to decode.
Weldon’s warning is a liberation for everyday writers. She is essentially telling us: Stop writing for the judges in ivory towers. Write for the human beings on the subway.
If your book is so thrilling, funny, and fast-paced that it disqualifies you from winning a dusty trophy in a wood-paneled room in London or New York… take it as a compliment.
Can You Have It All? (Point + Humor + Depth)
Is it a zero-sum game? Must we choose between being a humor-filled, punchy writer who people actually read, and a solemn literary genius who wins medals that nobody checks out at the library?
Not necessarily. The sweet spot of modern writing lies in the intersection of clarity, wit, and depth.
You can get to the point quickly, keep the reader laughing, and still deliver a profound emotional punch. Think of authors like David Sedaris, Nora Ephron, or Kurt Vonnegut. They didn’t write boring, prize-winning snoozefests. They wrote punchy, hilarious, deeply moving works that outlived the prize committees anyway.
How to Apply This to Your Writing:
Respect the reader’s time: Get to the point. Don’t spend three pages describing a tree unless that tree is plotting a murder.
Disarm with wit: Use humour as a vehicle for truth. If you have a heavy point to make, a joke is the best shock absorber.
Ignore the gatekeepers: If you write something genuinely entertaining, fast-paced, and funny, the literary establishment might sniff at it. Let them. You’ll be too busy having an audience to notice.
The Verdict
So, what is the best thing to do?
Fay Weldon gave us great advice: don’t write the boring book just to impress the critics. But we also don’t need to live in a world of purely rushed, hyper-efficient bullet points, either.
The best thing to do is write the book you would want to read. Get to the point, make ’em laugh, and leave the boring, prize-winning misery to the people who enjoy sitting in silence.
What’s your take? Do you prefer a laugh-out-loud page-turner, or do you secretly love a 600-page historical epic about melancholy? Let us know in the comments below!
Investigations of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage, the police thought I had murdered my own wife, though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months, the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last time I saw Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months, I was barely functioning, to the extent that I had all but lost my job and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in that she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened became our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each other about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realise that all she had was her work; personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police, and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone, then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
Two events happened simultaneously.
The door opened, a figure dressed in black appears and Jennifer grabbed her from behind and took her weapon then shoved her to the ground in the middle of the room, at the same time the USBs exploded in the microwave oven.
I went over to the figure and removed the balaclava, whilst Jennifer closed the door after a quick glance outside.
It was Jan. Why wasn’t I surprised.
“Just whose side are you on,” she said, grimacing, and holding her shoulder after it hit the floor very hard.
“You’re lucky it was Jennifer. If it had been me, I might have strangled you by accident. Why are you here?”
“The same as you?”
“No, in this flat. I never told you anything about Jo.”
Jan looked over at the other woman sitting up against the wall, not exactly looking too well now. She would need an ambulance soon. Jan, probably sooner.
“It might have prevented this if you had. It’s probably the only reason why you’re still alive, we needed you to lead us to her. That’s Anna, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And the data drives?”
“Kind of destroyed, which is where such information should end up.”
“It was not yours to do that.”
“No. But left in the hands of people like you, where would it end up? I’m sorry, but with all the lies and deception going on, I couldn’t trust anyone to do the right thing.”
My phone rang.
I looked at the screen. Private number. No prizes for guessing who.
“Dobbin?”
“What is going on in there?”
“Target practice. Want to come and join the fun?”
“Is Jan alright?”
“She’ll live for now, but she is going to need medical assistance soon. It’s up to you.”
“I’m coming up?”
“If you bring anyone else, they’re dead.” I hung up.
I went over to the microwave, took out the remnants of the drives and flushed them down the toilet. Just in case.
When I came back there was a knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” I said to Jennifer. “But if there is anyone else, shoot them.
Gun ready, I opened the door. He had his hands where I could see them. “Come in and join the fun.”
Jennifer had him covered, just in case.
I closed the door.
Dobbin looked at Anna. He knew who she was.
“O’Connell is next door, dead. Did Jan shoot him?”
“Hello, I’m in the room, Sam. I did not.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“You have this all wrong, Sam. We are not the bad guys,” Dobbin said.
“Well, if you are, and you’re lying, which is about all you have done since I first met you, you won’t be. The USBs have been destroyed.”
Of course, in that instant, I realised that I may have been played again. Anna had given up the location too easily, despite the threats of bodily harm, which if push came to shove, I might not have followed through on. And if Anna surmised that, what was to stop her from having decoys just in case she was found? Come to think of it, she didn’t seem very disappointed when I destroyed them.
A woman capable of torturing and murder was capable of anything, and she had proven herself very capable so far.
And, worse, Dobbin didn’t seem too upset at the news.
I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense. Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.
I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.
It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.
The boy was Alan. He was about six or seven. The girl was Louise, and she was five years old. She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.
I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.
We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds. I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.
We were so happy then.
Before the tragedy.
When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell. Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.
It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children. They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.
Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.
Until one day she couldn’t.
Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand. She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it. The damage done to her was too severe.
The doctors were wrong.
She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants. It was enough to have them arrested. It was not enough to have them convicted.
Justice would have to be served by other means.
I was outside the Bannister’s home.
I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die. It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing. I had murder in mind. It was why I was holding an iron bar.
Skulking in the shadows. It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.
I waited till Archie came out. I knew he eventually would. The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go. I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.
I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.
“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me. He knew what it was, and what it was for.
It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes. He was alone.
“Justice.”
“For that slut of a sister of yours. I had nuffing to do with it.”
“She said otherwise, Archie.”
“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.” An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.
I held up the pipe. It had blood on it. Willy’s blood. “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up. He sang like a bird. That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”
“He dunnit, not me. Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.” Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.
“No, Archie. He didn’t. I’m coming for you. All of you Bannisters. And everyone who touched my sister.”
It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.
I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries. Those were the very worst few hours of my life.
She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late. If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.
If only I’d not been late…
When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood. The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.
At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told. He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.
I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy. There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.
He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone. It was a half mile walk, through a park. The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness. He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.
He didn’t.
It took an hour and a half to get the names. At first, when he saw me, he laughed. He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.
When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list. I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.
When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi. The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me. I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.
At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality. The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.
Archie could help but rub it in my face. He was invincible.
Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out. He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged. I didn’t care.
Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me. I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.
I revisited Willy in the hospital. He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come. Suffocation was too good for him.
David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters. His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful. Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered. A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.
He and I met in the pub. We got along like old friends. He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges. We shook hands and parted as friends.
Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared. I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me. He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.
When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes. I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it. He told me he was just a spectator.
I’d read the coroner’s report. They all had a turn. He was a liar.
He took nineteen bullets to die.
Then came Archie.
The same factory only this time there were four seats. Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities. She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.
Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.
A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.
Archie’s mother cursed me. I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.
Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily. The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family. I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.
He was a little more worried about his sister.
I told him it was confession time.
He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.
I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony. I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes. This time he did, it all poured out of him.
I went over to Emily. He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm. Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.
“Louise was my friend, Archie. My friend.”
Then she shot him. Six times.
To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Now I was in jail. I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession. Without my sister, my life was nothing. I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.
They were not allowed to.
For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors. I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.
Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.
Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”
When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone. They ignored me. I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.
I was beginning to think I was going mad.
I ignored him.
“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that. You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”
Death sounded good. I told him to go away.
He didn’t. Persistent bugger.
I was handcuffed to the table. The prison officers thought I was dangerous. Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that. McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.
“Why’d you do it?”
“You know why.” Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.
“Your sister. By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”
“It was murder just the same. No difference between scum and proper people.”
“You like killing?”
“No-one does.”
“No, I dare say you’re right. But you’re different, Alan. As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen. We can use a man like you.”
“We?”
“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”
I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him. It looked like I didn’t have a choice.
Trained, cleared, and ready to go.
I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.
People like me.
In a mall, I became a shopper.
In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.
On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.
At the airport, I became a pilot. I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.
I had a passkey.
I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.
That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life. Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.
Two pilots and a steward. A team. On the plane early before the rest of the crew. A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.
Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.
Me.
Quick, clean, merciless. Done.
I was now an operational field agent.
I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides. It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.
I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.
It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.
Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.
Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.
I was Barry Gamble.
I was Lenny Buckman.
I was Jimmy Hosen.
I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.
That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision. If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.
Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.
God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness. Not that day. Not any day.
New York, New Years Eve.
I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag. They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.
This time I failed.
A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…
Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her. It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.
I was done.
I’d had enough.
I gave her the gun.
I begged her to kill me.
She didn’t.
Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.
How could she? No one could know what I’d been through.
I remembered her name after she had gone.
Amanda.
I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.
Someone else had the same imperfection.
I couldn’t remember who that was.
Not then.
I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it. After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.
The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.
It was late.
People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks. Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.
A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.
He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”
Two of his friends dragged him away. He shrugged them off, squared up.
I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground. I looked at his two friends. “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”
They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk. She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.
I looked around to see where her friends were. The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.
She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.
I sat beside her. “Where are your friends?”
“Dunno.”
“You need help?”
She looked up, and sideways at me. She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state. Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Nobody.” I was exactly how I felt.
“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care. Just leave me here to rot.”
She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.
Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.
“Where are your friends?” I asked again.
“Got none.”
“Perhaps I should take you home.”
“I have no home.”
“You don’t look like a homeless person. If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.” I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.
She lifted her head and looked at me again. “You a smart fucking arse are you?”
“I have my moments.”
“Have them somewhere else.”
She rested her head against my shoulder. We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.
“Take me home,” she said suddenly.
“Where is your place?”
“Don’t have one. Take me to your place.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I’m drunk. What’s not to like until tomorrow.”
I helped her to her feet. “You have a name?”
“Charlotte.”
The wedding was in a small church. We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot. Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.
On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.
I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.
Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.
And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age. She arrived late and left early.
Aunt Agatha.
She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.
“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte. It was clear she feared this woman.
“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.
“You know why.”
Agatha looked at me. “I like you. Take care of my granddaughter. You do not want me for an enemy.”
OK, now she officially scared me.
She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.
“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.
“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”
Charlotte never mentioned her again.
Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.
Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us. Her husband was not with her this time.
Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother. She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.
We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends. For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.
I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother. It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.
Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.
Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close. I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness. We were never close.
But…
This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head. It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.
And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction. “You seem distracted,” she said.
“I was just remembering my mother. Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”
“Why now?” I think she had a look of concern on her face.
“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.
Another look and I was wrong. She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.
I was crying, tears streaming down my face.
I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.
It was like coming up for air.
It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life. I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.
And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”
I could not speak, but I think I smiled. It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye. Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.
I’m guessing no one ever wanted to think about criminals in space.
With the Chief Engineer working on the status and availability of our propulsion unit, and the status of the ship’s systems after the jump to a speed that was probably never considered at design time. All the heads of departments had reported back little or no damage other than crew blackouts. And, a systematic check of all crew by the medical staff showed no one had suffered any side effects. Well, none that were showing in the last hour or so.
That gave me some time to consider just how it might be possible for pirates to exist.
The cost was astronomical, to the point where many governments had pooled their resources to get where we were now, scraping at the edges of our so-called known galaxy. There were just too many zeros at the end of the numbers that simply represented the investment in the ship I was on.
But the thought of criminal activity, that wasn’t on the radar, well, not mine anyway.
As we progressed with new ships replacing the old, it was not hard to assume that someone with a lot of money and will could get their hands on an old ship or two, and find people who were willing to commit crimes, particularly if they were already at a penal colony under limited supervision.
Perhaps they had hoped to stay off the radar, but unfortunately ran into us, a ship that could move as fast as they could, and chase them down. Of course, that led to another thought, right at that moment, one that told me that it was not in their best interests to have us reporting their existence.
if what I thought to be true, was, then it would simply be a matter of destroying their ships and sending them back to Mars, but they still had a bargaining chip, our nuclear scientist. We had to rescue her first.
And I thought meeting aliens was going to be difficult.
…
It was time to have a chat with Lt Colonel Baxter about this ship’s capabilities, defense-wise, and rather than summon him to the bridge, I thought a low-key approach might be better.
He was expecting me.
“You’ve spoken to O’Mara?” O’Mara was the scanning specialist.
“I assume the previous captain had been briefed on the possibility we might run into pirates?”
It felt weird calling them pirates because most of history portrayed them as being on the high seas.
“It was mentioned in passing. We were never expected to run into any, but aside from that, there’s very little intelligence on them. We’re only just hearing about the breakout at the Mars mining outpost.”
“Sounds like bad luck. Of all the places in space we can go, we had to end up in the same sector. Have you spoken to your superiors back home?”
From what I had read on the trip to join ship, the military were on board for defense purposes, if we needed to be defended, otherwise our own security people would take care of any problems we encountered. We were not on a mission to seek out trouble, but explore, particularly galaxies beyond our own.
Our mission was not to get involved problems like pirates, labour disputes, or matters that were the providence of the so-called space police. The need for such an authority had only just been recognised, and being new, were still in the throes of getting ships and personnel, and a workable frame of reference.
“I have. Their preference is for us to stay on mission, and not engage, unless of course, we’re attacked.”
“At which point we can retaliate.”
“With full force and effect, yes, but only as a last resort. I recognize the need to rescue our crew member, but if it means compromise, perhaps it’s best not to engage. That being said, I believe O’Mara has a plan to rescue her without causing any problems.”
He could have mentioned that, but I suspect he didn’t want to come to me with something that might not work.
“Just the same, I would like you on the bridge while we’re within hailing distance of what O’Mara informs me, are pirate ships.”
Of course, literally, that might mean I’m standing at the top of a craggy cliff looking down at a bed of rocks. One that would hurt a lot if I landed there.
Metaphorically speaking, there are many connotations of what that precipice might be.
It might mean, in an argument, you’re about to say something you’ll regret or can’t take back.
It might mean you are one action away from turning into someone you never thought you’d become, and doing something you thought you’d never do.
It might mean you are one thought or idea away from solving a problem. Like the title of your next book. Or the formula to create a warp drive.
Or perhaps a simpler problem, like where the money is coming from to pay next week’s bills.
My precipice?
The next plotline for my current NaNoWriMo project.
And, no, I’m not usually one of these writers who plan the whole novel before writing it.
But for me, ideas like this just happen, and I usually write my stories in the same manner as it would be for the reader, not knowing what will happen next.
So…
It’s cold and wet at the top of the cliff…
Damn! Just had an idea. Got to take that leap of faith.
“Nothing Turns Out Quite in the Way You First Thought It Would”: Unraveling Agatha Christie’s Masterclass in Misdirection
“Nothing turns out quite in the way you first thought it would.”
If there is a single sentence that encapsulates the entire literary legacy of Agatha Christie, the Queen of Mystery, this is it. While not penned as a plot synopsis, this sentiment serves as the heartbeat of every locked-room murder, every gathering of wealthy suspects in a snowbound mansion, and every ticking-clock international conspiracy she ever crafted.
Christie didn’t just write whodunits; she wrote masterclasses in human expectation. She understood that the human brain loves patterns, leaps to conclusions, and is easily blinded by its own biases.
In this post, we’re going to explore why this philosophy defines Christie’s enduring genius, how she used it to trick generations of readers, and what this truth about life and storytelling can teach us beyond the final chapter.
The Anatomy of a Christie Twist: Playing with Perceptions
Why do we fall for Agatha Christie’s tricks time and time again? Because she understood the difference between seeing and observing—a distinction famously highlighted by her most brilliant creation, Hercule Poirot.
When we pick up a mystery novel, we enter a silent contract with the author. We want to solve the puzzle. We gather the clues, analyse the alibis, and try to outsmart the detective. But Christie’s brilliance lies in subverting the very tools we use to solve her puzzles.
1. The Obvious Suspect vs. The Unseen Observer
In classics like The Murder of Roger Ackroyd or And Then There Were None, Christie sets up an expectation. She presents a clear suspect or a traditional formula, luring us into a false sense of security. We think we know the rules of the game.
Then, she pulls the rug out from under us. The narrator is the killer. The person we thought was dead is actually running the show. The least likely person—often the unassuming governess, the quiet doctor, or the bumbling sidekick—turns out to be the mastermind.
2. Psychological Misdirection
Christie rarely relied on cheap tricks or hidden clues revealed only on the final page. Instead, she used psychological misdirection. She played on our societal prejudices and assumptions:
We assume the butler didn’t do it because that’s a cliché. (Until Christie makes the butler do it—or makes us suspect him so thoroughly that we miss the real culprit).
We dismiss the elderly spinster or the eccentric foreign detective as harmless.
We assume people act out of rational, linear motives (greed, jealousy), when in reality, human emotion is messy, contradictory, and entirely unpredictable.
By the time the truth is revealed in the drawing-room denouement, we are left staring at the page, muttering, “Of course! It was right there the whole time!”
Life Imitates Art: Why Nothing Ever Goes to Plan
Beyond the realm of fiction, Christie’s words—“Nothing turns out quite in the way you first thought it would”—resonate deeply with the human experience.
How often do we map out our lives with the precision of a Poirot timeline, only for reality to hand us a completely different script?
Career paths twist and turn into unexpected industries.
Relationships evolve in ways we never anticipated during the first flush of romance.
Challenges we dread turn out to be catalysts for our greatest growth, while moments we expected to bring pure joy sometimes carry unforeseen complexities.
We live in a constant state of plotting. We form hypotheses about our careers, our friends, and our futures. And yet, life is the ultimate mystery writer. It loves a good plot twist.
Rather than viewing this unpredictability with fear, Christie’s work invites us to embrace it. The thrill of a mystery isn’t knowing the ending from page one; it’s the journey of discovering that the truth is far more intricate, surprising, and fascinating than we ever could have imagined.
Lessons from the Queen of Crime
What can we take away from Agatha Christie’s philosophy of unexpected outcomes? Here are three ways to apply the Queen of Crime’s wisdom to daily life:
Question Your Assumptions: When faced with a problem, pause. Are you reacting to the facts, or are you reacting to your preconceived notions about how things should be?
Expect the Unexpected: Rigidity leads to frustration. When life deviates from your master plan, treat it not as a disaster, but as an intriguing plot twist.
Look for the Unseen Clues: Sometimes, the most important details in our lives are the ones we dismiss as insignificant. Pay attention to the quiet moments, the subtle shifts, and the perspectives you usually overlook.
The Enduring Magic of the Unexpected
Agatha Christie remains the best-selling fiction writer of all time for a reason. She tapped into a universal truth: we are endlessly fascinated by the gap between what we expect and what actually happens.
Whether she was writing about cyanide in a teacup or the winding, unpredictable nature of human fate, Christie reminded us that certainty is an illusion. The real magic happens in the twists, the turns, and the stunning realisations that change everything we thought we knew.
So, the next time life doesn’t turn out quite the way you thought it would, channel your inner Hercule Poirot. Adjust your lapel, embrace the complexity of the puzzle, and get ready for a brilliant twist.
What is the biggest plot twist life has handed you so far? Did it turn out better—or stranger—than you first thought? Let’s discuss in the comments below!
One‑Day Stopover in Lima? Make It Unforgettable With a Visit to Plaza Mayor
If you’ve only got 24 hours in Peru’s bustling capital, there’s one spot that will let you taste its history, culture, and culinary magic all at once: the historic heart of the city—Plaza Mayor.
Why Plaza Mayor is the Perfect One‑Stop Destination
What you get
How it fits a tight schedule
A UNESCO‑listed heritage zone – Colonial palaces, a cathedral, and the Government Palace all within a few blocks.
No need to hop between neighborhoods; everything is foot‑accessible.
Iconic photo‑ops – Colorful façades, the famous “Basilica of San Francisco” bell tower in the background, and the central “Fuente de la Victoria.”
Capture the city’s essence in minutes, leaving more time for food and souvenirs.
Culinary micro‑cosmos – Street vendors selling anticuchos, ceviche to go, and artisanal chocolate.
Sample authentic Peruvian bites without a long sit‑down lunch.
Free or low‑cost entry – Most buildings can be admired from the outside; the Cathedral interior is a modest ticket.
Keeps your budget intact for that extra pisco sour.
In short, Plaza Mayor is Lima’s “must‑see‑in‑an‑hour” that also gives you a genuine feel for the city’s soul.
Arriving at Plaza Mayor: The Logistics
From the Airport (Jorge Chávez International – LIM)
Taxi / Ride‑share: 20‑30 min (≈ S/ 30‑40). Use a reputable app (Beat, Cabify) or the official airport taxi desk.
Bus “Airport Express”: Free, stops at the Central Station (Estación Central). From there, hop on a Metropolitano bus (Line 1) to Plaza Mayor (stop Plaza San Martín).
Best Time to Go
Morning (08:00‑10:30): Light, fewer crowds, and the city’s iconic “Lima sunrise” casts a golden glow on the stone façades.
Late afternoon (16:00‑18:00): The plaza comes alive with street performers, and you’ll catch the sunset over the Pacific in the background of the Government Palace’s balcony.
What to Wear
Light layers (Lima’s climate is mild, 18‑24 °C).
Comfortable walking shoes—cobblestones can be uneven.
The 3‑Hour Itinerary That Packs a Punch
08:30 – 09:15 | Stroll Around the Square
Start at the Cathedral of Lima – Enter for a quick 10‑minute peek at the baroque altar and the tomb of the famed painter José Gálvez.
Walk clockwise: admire the Palacio de la Municipalidad, the elegant Palacio de Gobierno (guard change ceremony at 10 am if you stay a bit longer), and the Casa de la Literatura Peruana (pop‑in for a coffee and a literary souvenir).
09:15 – 10:00 | Culinary Pit‑Stop
Anticucho stand (skewered beef heart) – ≈ S/ 10 for a tasty bite.
Ceviche “to go” from Ceviche La Mar kiosk (fresh, portable, and perfect for a waterfront vibe).
Pisco sour at the historic Bar “La Casa del Pisco” – a quick 5‑minute sip to kick‑start your day.
10:00 – 10:45 | Dive Deeper – Guided Mini‑Tour
Free walking tours run daily (check the kiosk near the plaza). Guides will whisk you through the hidden stories of “El Cabildo” and the “El Cristo del Pacífico” statue.
If you prefer a solo pace, grab an audio guide from the Tourist Information Centre (S/ 5) and wander at your own rhythm.
10:45 – 11:30 | Cultural Finale
Visit the Museum of the Central Bank of Peru (just a block away). A quick 30‑minute look at pre‑Columbian artifacts and colonial silverwork ties together the narrative of Lima’s past.
Take a final photo at the Fuente de la Victoria—the fountain’s bronze lion is a beloved Instagram spot.
Total time: ~3 hours, leaving you ample room for a quick hop to Miraflores or the airport for your onward flight.
Bonus: Extending the Magic (If Time Allows)
Option
Why It Works After Plaza Mayor
Walk to the “Parque de la Exposición” (5‑min) – Beautiful gardens, a historic glass pavilion, and occasional art fairs.
Keeps you in the historic zone while adding a green pause.
Cross to the “Barranco” district (taxi, 10 min) – Bohemian murals, the Bridge of Sighs, and a sea view.
Gives you a taste of Lima’s modern, artistic side.
Head to “Miraflores” (Metropolitano, 20 min) – The clifftop “Parque del Amor” and the spectacular Circuito Mágico del Agua light show.
Ideal for a sunset finale and a last‑minute souvenir hunt.
Quick Checklist for the One‑Day Stopover
Passport & boarding pass – Keep them handy for airport re‑entry.
S/ 50 cash – Small vendors and taxi rides still prefer cash.
Light rain jacket – Lima’s “garúa” (mist) can appear unexpectedly.
Portable charger – Your phone will be busy with photos, maps, and the audio guide.
Travel‑size sanitiser – Public plazas are bustling; stay safe.
Wrap‑Up: Why Plaza Mayor Beats All Other Options
In a city where the modern skyline competes with centuries‑old stone, Plaza Mayor is the single point where history, architecture, and flavour intersect. It lets you:
Walk through time (from the Spanish conquest to modern Peruvian identity).
Taste the nation (quick bites of ceviche and pisco).
Snap stunning photos without a long trek across traffic‑choked avenues.
So, if your itinerary says “Lima, 24 h,” set your compass to Plaza Mayor. One stop, endless stories, and a day that will feel far richer than the minutes on the clock.
Ready to Make Your Layover Legendary?
Book your taxi, grab a map, and let Plaza Mayor be the heartbeat of your Lima adventure.
Got a different favourite stopover spot in Lima? Drop a comment below—let’s keep the conversation (and the travel inspiration) rolling!
David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.
Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.
They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?
When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.
When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.
Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.
08:30 – 09:15 | Stroll Around the Square
09:15 – 10:00 | Culinary Pit‑Stop
10:00 – 10:45 | Dive Deeper – Guided Mini‑Tour
10:45 – 11:30 | Cultural Finale
