Category: Books

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 36

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

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

And, so, it continues…

…

Jackerby came back and sat down.  It was clear he was annoyed his lunch was interrupted.

“Atherton’s not among those Leonardo brought back.”

Johannsen silently breathed a sigh of relief.  While he was still outside there was hope he would not get hurt.  If he had the sense to keep his head down.  Anyone else, Johannesen would not have cared.

“Who did Leonardo bring in?”

“Some woman called Martina, the one he says is in charge of the resistance.  He said he raided their last stronghold, killed everyone except the three people he knew were in the resistance.  They’re now in the dungeons.”

“We should be down there asking questions.”  A pointed glare from Wallace carried the message, what are you doing here?

“No use.  He nearly killed them, and it’ll take a while for them to recover.”

“To find out where Atherton is?”

“It seems that was the least of his concerns.  Apparently, she apparently humiliated him so he was more interested in payback.”

“It wouldn’t be hard to humiliate a fool like him,” Johannsen muttered.

Wallace glared at him.  “You should have more faith in our Italian friends, Richard.”

“My faith in him extends only to the fact he will drink the cellar dry.”

Wallace shrugged.  “Once he’s served his purpose…” and left it at that.  “Have you got onto London and asked them for further information on Mayer?”

“I think, by now, they would have tumbled to what’s going on here.  Especially after I saw Atherton come out of the radio room just before Jackerby arrived.  I asked the operator, and he gave me a coded message, but it’s not like any code I’ve seen.”

“And you’re telling me this now?”

“At least he didn’t smash it, which is what I would have done.  We haven’t heard any more from High Command other than to say the traitor was thought to be heading for Innsbruck and coming over the mountains near the Brenner Pass.  They’ve got people looking, but nothing as yet.”

“Now we’ve lost Carmichael, do we have a description of him?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  At least something is happening.”


After lunch, Johannsson went down to the dungeon to check on the prisoners.  Wallace had assigned their ‘welfare’ to him.  It was a difficult assignment seeing they arrived both exhausted, weak, and then subjected to an initial interrogation that determined whether or not they got medicines or food.

Most were left to starve.  Any women were sent to the soldier’s barracks, where they were out of his control.  None had ever come back, and he was ordered not to go check on them.

All told, there were 12 still in cells, with three due to be executed later that day.  All had worked in an armaments factory and had admitted to having information about the bombs that were being dropped over England.

Another six had yet to say what information they had, and had been subjected to severe torture, the handiwork of two of Jackerby’s men, and who Johannsen thought had been trained by the Gestapo.  In fact, he believed they were Gestapo, and that Jackerby, though he didn’t have the uniform, was a ranking SS officer.

Not a man to cross.  Leonardo would find that out soon enough.

The most recent three, the resistance fighters were put in separate cells next to each other.  The guards had been told to listen to any conversations they had, and report.  As yet, none of them had spoken.

Considering the condition they arrived in, that was no surprise.

He stood outside the cell holding the woman they called Martina.

The leader.

She hadn’t moved from the moment she had been dropped there.

A guard appeared beside him.

“Nothing yet?” Johansson asked him.

“I doubt they’ll speak again.  If that’s what Leonardo does to his so-called countrymen; I’d hate to see what he does to his enemies.”

“You let me know if she says anything.”

The soldier nodded, then went back to his station.

The other two were men, one old, one younger.  An odd group to be part of the resistance.  The woman he could understand and was the key. 

He now believed Atherton would come to rescue her.  Like any good British soldier, his empathy would be his downfall.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 9

Nine

If I had deliberately wanted to flush out the people following us, and eventually lose them, I would never have thought of renting a car at a suburban shop.  I had to wonder what James Bond would have done in similar circumstances.

But it worked.

Driving out of the carpark onto the main street, it wasn’t difficult to see several people caught unawares.  And on their cell phones making calls.

And it was Emily’s last-minute brainwave to cover the car’s registration plates so if they were to take a photo, they would not be able to track it.  Well, not straight away.  It was she who said London had a lot of CCTV cameras, but on the way to the carpark, she had checked out where they were, those that she could readily identify, and we could avoid.

Something I learned about Emily that I didn’t know; she was a computer nerd, and a hacker of sorts, not one of those dark web experts, but she knew enough to dig around in places most people wouldn’t go looking.

That skill might just come in useful.

And, for a few minutes, maybe an hour, we revelled in the thought we may have outwitted them, whoever ‘them’ was.

It was late afternoon when we finally found a hotel with a carpark, a long way from Cecile’s flat in Earl’s Court, and on the other side of the Greater London region in Mile End Road, not very far from the Stepney Green underground station, the result of Emily searching the web for a hotel with a carpark, and near public transport.

She also had our luggage delivered from the airport a little less than two hours from the moment she made the call.  I think I may have remarked that I might just employ her as my travel agent when I started my European odyssey, but she had fallen asleep, way past exhausted.

I wasn’t far behind her.  We had a long day tomorrow, if today was anything to go by.

I woke to the smell of coffee and that more interesting aroma of burnt toast.

There were shopping bags on the table, and it looked as though Emily had been up and around for a while.

I looked at my watch, it was not much past seven, and not an hour I found myself up back home.  I had an apartment in the city, and it was a ten-minute walk to the office, so early rising was not a necessity.  My parents lived in the suburbs, and more than an hour by public transport, and two by car.  It was the reason I moved.  I didn’t want to spend quarter of my life travelling to and from work.

Of course, London was so much larger than where I came from, and definitely not a place I would want to live, or work, despite the advantages that Cecile had tried to impress upon me.  And don’t get me get started on driving around London.  Yesterday had been harrowing, and left me, at times, shaken.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Emily put a coffee plunger on the table, two cups, a plate of toast, bowls, and the cereal that was my favourite, though how she knew was anyone’s guess.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I like to get some exercise every morning, so I combined it with a shopping expedition

I had not attended this type of domesticity in a long time, at least not since I left home.  I had grown accustomed to being on my own, and that might have contributed to Cecile and I drifting apart.  It probably also had a lot to do with my awkwardness with girls, and rather than try to get over it, I just avoided them.

But, somehow, Emily was different, perhaps because she was younger and hadn’t been blunted by the vicissitudes of life.  She had finished school, and as far as I was aware, didn’t have a real job, preferring to spend her time pottering in her father’s office.

I had thought, much like in an 18th century romance novel, she was waiting for the right man to marry, but there were not too many of those running around these days.

Something else I just realised; how well I seemed to like being at ease in her company, much more so than when I was with Cecile, always on my guard not to say or do the wrong thing.

“I find going to a grocery store a trial, which is why I eat out a lot.”

She shook her head.  “You’re just lazy, like everyone else your age.  Convenience over practicality.  And you should think about doing some exercise.”

I could feel the eyes of the appraiser upon me and shivered.  It was good that I could not read her thoughts, but if I could, perhaps some might be considering those extra pounds that had found their way onto my frame after I stopped playing tennis and squash.

“I promise I’ll think about it.”

“Better still, I don’t think it’s all that safe to be jogging the streets in this neighbourhood early in the morning, so you can come with me as my protector.”

She saw my look of disdain, or was it the thought of having to exercise.

“Cheer up, I don’t go very fast.”

The sound of the phone vibrating on the table interrupted that thought, and conversation.

It was a private number, so I assumed it was the man from the day before.

“Yes?”

“Trafalgar Square, by the column, 12:30 pm today.”

It was the man’s voice.

“We’ll see you there.”

The call was disconnected.  Short and to the point.

“We have a lunch date.”

Before I could reach out to pick up my cup of coffee, the phone rang again.

Also a private number, I assumed it was the man ringing back with a change of plans.

“Yes?”

“We need to talk.”

A woman’s voice this time, not one that was familiar.

“About what?”  I was surprised, and didn’t have time to work on a better comeback.

“Your Cecile.  She is over her head.”

Aside from stating the obvious, who was this woman, how did she know about Cecile, and more important, how did she know my cell number?

“Who the hell are you?”

“The London end of the team that recruited her.  Time is of the essence, so we’ll come to you.  We’ll be there in half an hour.”

That line went dead before I could ask another pertinent question, how did she know where we were?

“Who was that?”  Emily had been oblivious to the turmoil I was feeling.

“Someone else who wants to talk about Cecile.”

“Who?”

“No idea, but the word reruited popped up, whatever that might mean.”

“Here?  No one knows we’re here.”

“Exactly.”

“Perhaps we should leave, like, right now.”

“No.  I have a feeling that we might find out what Cecile is up to.”

And, in the back of my mind, several small, associated details clicked into place.  At the time they didn’t make any sense, but now, in a bigger context, and given the circumstances, I think I knew now why she had come.

And, more importantly, I realised she had been dropping breadcrumbs for me to follow long before she had left.

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 19

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Nothing good ever comes of snooping

 

I jumped down from the first level of the fire escape, halfway down an alley which was empty.  Keeping close to the wall so I couldn’t be seen, I headed back towards the main street, and then to a café not far from the front of the building.

Would Fred call in the police?  Surely at the very least, he would have to call an ambulance, finding an unconscious woman on the floor of a trashed flat.  He would also have to report the break-in, so I waited.

And waited.

No ambulance came.  If she had been unconscious and he’d reported it, there would be an almost instant response.  Unconscious bodies were given high priority.

After an hour passed, and no sign of a police car, or any police on foot, I thought there might be a crime wave going on, and it was taking time for the police to get there.

The fact no ambulance had turned up told me she must have regained consciousness, obviating the need for medical help.

Two hours, still nothing.

Three hours, I was left with the assumption, Jan didn’t want Fred to call the police.  It would be interesting to know what those reasons were.

My plan was to wait until she came out and follow her.  Beyond that, I would be making it up as I went.  After three hours, I had to switch cafes because of the looks the girl who made the coffee was giving me.

Apparently, people didn’t spend three hours drinking four cups of coffee unless they were working on their computer or reading a book, or paper, none of which I had.

It forced a move to another café further away and with an indistinct view of the front door, so I had to be extra vigilant.

As dusk was falling, a man nearer the doorway accidentally dropped his cup, and, when I looked up to see what the commotion was about, I saw what looked like Jan leaving, and, lucky for me, heading my way on the opposite side of the street.

Time to go back into surveillance mode.

She had changed into different clothes, and something else, though I wasn’t quite sure what it was that made her look different.  It almost made me think I’d got it wrong, and it was someone else.

Then, when she walked past me, not 20 feet away, I knew it was her.

What was different, she had suddenly become a brunette with long hair than the original shoulder-length blonde hair.  A change in persona.  Not the sort of thing a normal person did.  Unless, of course, she had a night job, one which she didn’t want anyone to recognise her.

I followed from the other side of the street.

Around a corner, past an underground station entrance, which was a huge bonus because she wasn’t going anywhere by train, not that it would matter to me.  It would if she caught a taxi.

Once or twice she looked behind her, on the same side of the street.  She looked over the other side too, in a careless sort of manner, but I was well hidden in plain sight because she wouldn’t recognise me as her assailant.

Around the corner, down another street, then stopped at a bus stop.  Still not a problem because there was no bus in sight.  On the way, I’d bought a copy of the evening paper and strolled up to the stop and sat down.  She gave me a once over and then ignored me.

The bus came and we got on.  She went upstairs I stayed downstairs, easier to get off at the same stop without raising her suspicions.

It was heading into the city, via Putney.  I had time to read the news, nothing of which was interesting, and keep one eye out for her.  She got off the bus without glancing in my direction at Putney and walked to the railway station.

After she headed for the platform, I checked where she might be going, and the service ended at Waterloo station if she went that far.  I waited a few minutes, then went down to the platform just as a train arrived.

She got on about halfway along, and I remained at the end.  I resisted the urge to move closer to her carriage where I could maintain visual contact, but since there was only one in this surveillance team, I had to be careful she didn’t see me.

The train terminated at Waterloo, and everyone had to get off.  For a few minutes, I thought I’d lost her among the other passengers.  Then I just managed to catch a glimpse of her going through the platform exit gate out into the station.

By the time I had got there, she was gone.

When you lost sight of the target, don’t panic.  And don’t act like someone who just lost a target because that will bring attention to yourself.  Take a long careful look in every direction, then move in the last direction you saw the target heading.

I did everything in accordance with my training.

The problem with Waterloo station?  There are several exits, and an entrance to the underground in the direction she had been heading.

Anyone could lead me in the wrong direction.

I went upstairs to a café, and looked down on the station floor, taking advantage of the height.

Until I felt something prodding me in the back, and a voice behind me saying, “Who are you, and why are you following me?”

Jan.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 13

Day 13 – Writing exercise

All the days just ran together in one long blur.  Wake, dress, go to work, come home, read, sleep, repeat.  Then everything changed…

…

I got out of bed and went over to the closet.

Seven sets of work clothes, seven sets of leisure clothes, I picked one of the work sets and went to the bathroom.

No need to be more selective.  Each of the work and leisure sets was all the same.  Work tan, leisure blue.  Women wore green and pink.

We all looked the same.

On the yellow bus, picking up the factory workers each morning and dropping them off at night, it was a sea of tan and green.

Everyone read the same newspaper in the morning and sat quietly at night.

At work, I sat at a desk, one of two hundred, symmetrically arranged, just far enough apart to prevent idle conversation.  That happened in the canteen where a thousand people congregated for lunch.

Some single people lived in dormitories, and married people lived in houses.  Everything was supplied.  Everything was regulated.  It had been the same as long as I could remember.

That day I came home, changed into the leisure set, went for a walk, spoke to the others in the park where there was a walking track, a playground for children, and picnic tables.

A healthy lifestyle was a healthy, happy worker.

Why then wasn’t I happy?

…

I woke up, went to the closet and picked a work set.  It didn’t matter which one it was.

The newspaper was shoved through a slot in the door as it was every morning at the same time.

The eggs cooked perfectly, the toast cooked perfectly, and the coffee percolated perfectly.  I resisted the urge to open the newspaper and start reading, remembering protocol.

Dining utensils in the dishwasher, clean the surfaces, and ready to leave for work.  The bus was never late or early.  The walk to the bus stop is two minutes and twenty seconds.

I opened the door, ready to step out.

Standing there, in the way, was a young woman.  Odd that she was in the men’s dormitory.  Odder still, she was wearing yellow, not green.

“You are not in regulation clothing,” I said, not ‘how are you?’ or ‘ who are you?’, which would sound more appropriate.

“You’re not who I’m looking for.  Who are you?”

Clocks were everywhere, reminding us of the importance of time.  The time had passed, and now I would miss the bus.

The paperwork was going to be horrendous.

“Johnny five.  You?”

“Melinda Seventy-Two.  I was looking for Alfred thirty.”

Alfred Thirty had been the previous occupant of my space.  He had died, or so we had been told.  It was in the newspaper, and we believed everything that appeared in it.  There was no reason not to.

“Did you not see the report in the newspaper about a month ago?”  His death had afforded me a promotion and larger quarters.

“I don’t believe anything I read in that rag.”

That was seditious and could get her into trouble if anyone heard her.

“You’d better come in.  You cannot be saying stuff like that out loud.”

She looked at me like I was mad, then shrugged and stepped in.

I looked up and down the passage, then closed the door.

“Just me being in here can cause you trouble.”

We were allowed visitors, but at specific times and with the appropriate permission slips.  She was right.  The mountain of paperwork was piling up.

She was not from this district.  The different coloured suit told me she was not from this area.  People were not allowed out of their areas unless they had a travel pass.  I doubted she had one.

“How did you get here?”

“The tunnels.”

I’d heard about the tunnels, that they were an urban myth.  There were service conduits, but they were not big enough for people to travel through.

It was in the newspaper.  Someone had started spreading the rumours that people could travel from area to area via an extensive tunnel system created when the districts were being built.

An urban myth created by troublemakers.  There had been a few in the beginning after the great calamity that destroyed everything.

We were rebuilding the world, a better world where everyone coexisted in harmony.  A happy life, a happy world.  We all believed it.

“They don’t exist.”

“Because they tell you.  They tell you everything, and everything is a lie.  You are a slave to their lies.”

Who was this woman?  She sounded like a revolutionary; some had been around when I was a child.  My father had been on the tribunal that tried them as traitors and sent them to the penalty settlement.  Had she escaped?

“Are you a revolutionary?”

“I am just the same as you. I do what I’m told.  Or did.”  She took a note out of a pocket and handed it to me.

It said:  You do not have to bow to oppression.  Go to Tan-Green, speak to Alfred thirty.  Take the 387 tunnel.”

“The 387 tunnel?”

“I work in Engineering.  We use the tunnels to move around under the district to repair the services.  I did what was asked.  Where is Alfred thirty?”

“Gone.  Dead.  Can’t help you.  I have to go.  Late.  I have to go.”  I could not wait for her to decide what she wanted to do.

I left.

…

I caught the next bus.  It had different people.  I don’t know why I thought there was only one bus, the bus I took every morning.

They all had the newspaper and were reading it.  No conversation.

Why, all of a sudden, did it matter?  Had she affected me that much?

I arrived at work and swiped my key card.  It was what gave me access to my dorm, the bus, the building and my workstation.

A moment after I swiped my card, I was approached by a security guard.  It had never happened before; in fact I had never seen a security guard before.

“You are late, Johnny Five.  Why?”

What did it matter?  I was here, ready to work.  Perhaps the hesitation in answering was causing difficulty.  Should I mention the girl?

“Overslept. Sorry.”

A minute passed, during which it seemed he was waiting for instructions, then, “Proceed.”

I went into the room and walked slowly to my workstation, past about another 20 clerks.  I noticed that some glanced up then went back to work, others lingered, intrigued by the anomaly.

By the time I sat down, the room was back to normal.

For half an hour.

…

The supervisor sat in a room that overlooked the floor, taking in all of the clerks.

We all had to be in that room once, the day we started work, and it was an interesting view.  And intriguing to wonder how long it took to become a supervisor.

Or what exactly the supervisor did, though they too had a workstation.

No one had seen the supervisor leave that room, or come, or go.  She was always in there when we arrived, and still there when we left.

Today, she came down to the floor, walking from the invisible door under the window, then across the floor, walking up the middle of the room, then turning into my row, and then stopping at my workstation.

It had never happened to anyone else.

“Shut down your workstation and accompany me, please.”

I did as I was told.  She waited until the station switched off and then headed back to the invisible door.  By this time, most of the others had stopped and watched us cross the floor.

At the invisible door, she turned and said, “Back to work.”

She waited until their attention was back on their workstations, then opened the door, we passed though and it silently closed behind us.

Two security guards were waiting.

“You will be reported to Maintenance on Level Sun Basement Seven.  The guards will take you.”

“Why?”

“That is not a question I can answer.  I do as I am told, as should you.  Your key card had been programmed with the appropriate authority.”

Whatever that meant

One guard took the lead, the other followed.  I don’t know why, but at one point, waiting at the elevator lobby, I was entertaining the thought of running.  Not where, or why I would want to, but running.

Nor where I would run to.  It was a very strange feeling.

We went down to Sub Basement 7, and when the doors opened, a different guard was waiting.  My escorts stayed in the lift.

I stepped out, and the doors closed.

The new guard said, “This way “

There was only one.  Perhaps down here, they didn’t think they needed two.

We went down a long corridor to the end, to a door that said ‘Maintenance Five’.  The guard scanned a key card, and the lock clunked.

He opened the door and stood to one side.  “Please wait inside.  An engineer will see you shortly.”

I went in, and the door closed behind me.  The room had a chair and a table.  I looked around the room.  It was a square box, brightly lit, with CCTV.

I waited fifteen minutes before another door, behind the desk, and Melinda seventy-two stepped into the room.

“You.”  I recognised her immediately.

“Me.”

“Why?”

“That’s a word you are not supposed to use.  You know that.  Why do you?”

I thought about the question.  It was something that bothered me, too.  It was in the protocol manual. We accepted that everything we did had a reason and that we didn’t need to know why, only that it was to be done.  Years of work had gone into creating workable systems.

“Curiosity “

“There’s a saying….”

“Yes.  I am aware of it.”

“Then you are one of the more recent classes.  Can you tell me, if you had a choice and there were no restrictions, where you would like to go?”

It was not something I thought about.  No one did. But there was a word invoked, in that very moment, a word I’d not used before.  “Sanctuary.”

She smiled.  “And so it will be.  I knew you were different.  We have a special job for you, Johnny five.  Repeat after me, MGS34RYPLM.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.  Repeat the code.”

“MGS34RYPLM.”

There was a moment when my eyes closed, everything went dark, and a second later, everything in my head changed.

“Who are you?”

I looked over at the girl.  I knew instantly who she was.  “Elizabeth.  How are you?”

“All the better for seeing you, Dad.  Everything you had set in place is ready.  I’m sorry it took so long to find you.”

“No matter.  I’m here now.  Let the revolution begin!”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

What I learned about writing – Scams are rampant, especially now with AI

I received this from the “Verashelpfhelp bookclub” the other day:

Hello,

Am Vera, and I coordinate the ShelfHelp Book Club based in Southeast London. We host vibrant monthly gatherings where a diverse community of readers comes together to explore books that inspire meaningful, thoughtful conversation. Each session is intentionally structured; members vote on titles in advance and arrive prepared for rich, engaged discussion.

We would be delighted to feature your book in one of our upcoming meetings. Our “Spotlight Sessions” focus on a single title, allowing members to delve deeply into its themes and perspectives. Our team manages all aspects of the process from establishing reading timelines to guiding the discussion, ensuring your book receives the thoughtful attention it deserves.

ShelfHelp Book Club has built a strong reputation as an enthusiastic and supportive reading community. Because members read ahead and actively participate, every featured book benefits from genuine engagement and meaningful conversation.

If you’re open to it, I would welcome the opportunity to discuss featuring your book in an upcoming session. I am confident it would be a rewarding experience for our readers.

Warm regards,
Vera

Of course, flattered, I replied:

I am curious about this opportunity. What do you need from me?

To which the following was sent:

Hello,

Thank you so much for your openness and curiosity. That truly means a lot, and I appreciate you taking the time to ask.

At ShelfHelp Book Club, everything we do is rooted in one simple belief: books deserve readers who will truly sit with them, feel them, and talk about them with care. We have grown into a community of over 12,000 active readers who do not just read to finish a book, but read to understand it, reflect on it, and share what it stirred in them.

When an author’s book is featured, it becomes the heart of one of our Spotlight Sessions. Readers commit to your work intentionally. They explore its themes, relate them to their own lives, and engage in thoughtful discussion that gives the book space to breathe and be appreciated. Many authors tell us this kind of focused attention feels deeply rewarding because their words are not rushed past or forgotten.

Our team supports the entire process from start to finish. We coordinate the schedule, guide reader engagement, prepare thoughtful discussion prompts, and ensure your book is presented with clarity, respect, and professionalism. You can simply focus on being the author while we make sure your work is experienced the way it deserves to be.

Authors who participate often gain more than visibility. They gain genuine readers, meaningful feedback, word-of-mouth recommendations, and long-term supporters who continue to talk about the book long after the session ends. It becomes more than a feature. It becomes a connection.

To reserve your place in our upcoming Spotlight Sessions, there is a $105 reservation fee. This secures your slot and allows our creative team to immediately begin preparing your book’s promotional materials so it can be introduced to our readers with care and intention.

Let me ask you something. What do you imagine could happen if your book landed in the hands of over 12,000 readers who are ready to dive deep, reflect honestly, and talk about what your story or message awakened in them?

If this feels aligned with what you want for your book, I would be happy to send you the reservation link now so we can secure your spot immediately and begin working on your book’s presentation right away.

I would love to continue this journey with you.

Warm regards,

Vera

It has everything in it that an up-and-coming author wants to hear, and by the end of the email, they are reaching for the credit card, anxiously wanting to jump on board – only it’s a well-crafted scam:

The “shelf help” or “book club” scam is a prevalent, increasingly AI-driven scheme targeting indie and newly published authors with fraudulent offers of promotion. These scams often use flattering, personalised-sounding emails to trick authors into paying “fees” for inauthentic “spotlights” or “features”. 

How the Book Club Scam Works

  • Initial Flattery: Scammers send warm, unsolicited emails claiming that a “book club” or “reading group” has chosen your book for a feature, often praising it profusely to build rapport.
  • The “Ask”: After establishing rapport, the scammer requests a payment, often called an “administration fee,” “spotlight fee,” “coordination fee,” or “participation fee” to cover the cost of the event.
  • Fake Evidence: The emails are often generated by AI and may falsely claim that hundreds or thousands of members will discuss your book.
  • The Disappearance: Once the fee is paid, the scammer either disappears or pressures the author to pay for additional, expensive “marketing services”. 

Common Red Flags

  • Unsolicited Contact: The contact comes out of nowhere, usually from a generic Gmail, Hotmail, or Yahoo account.
  • Unusual Payment Requests: Legitimate book clubs do not charge authors to read or discuss their books.
  • AI-Generated Content: The praise is generic, and they cannot provide specific details about your book’s content.
  • Vague Details: The club cannot provide a link to a group page, photos of past events, or verify their membership.
  • WhatsApp or Other Messaging Apps: Scammers often move conversations to WhatsApp to avoid detection. 

How to Protect Yourself

  • Never Pay for Book Club Appearances: Legitimate clubs are free, and it is a privilege for them to have an author attend, not the other way around.
  • Verify Everything: Search for the book club online. If no credible online presence exists, it is a red flag.
  • Ignore and Report: Block the email and report it to your email provider, the Authors Guild, or relevant writing forums.
  • Do Not Send Free Files: Scammers may try to harvest your manuscript files. 

Note: If you have been contacted, it is recommended to check with organisations like Writer Beware for the latest information on specific scam names. 

“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 – 13

Day 13 – Writing exercise

All the days just ran together in one long blur.  Wake, dress, go to work, come home, read, sleep, repeat.  Then everything changed…

…

I got out of bed and went over to the closet.

Seven sets of work clothes, seven sets of leisure clothes, I picked one of the work sets and went to the bathroom.

No need to be more selective.  Each of the work and leisure sets was all the same.  Work tan, leisure blue.  Women wore green and pink.

We all looked the same.

On the yellow bus, picking up the factory workers each morning and dropping them off at night, it was a sea of tan and green.

Everyone read the same newspaper in the morning and sat quietly at night.

At work, I sat at a desk, one of two hundred, symmetrically arranged, just far enough apart to prevent idle conversation.  That happened in the canteen where a thousand people congregated for lunch.

Some single people lived in dormitories, and married people lived in houses.  Everything was supplied.  Everything was regulated.  It had been the same as long as I could remember.

That day I came home, changed into the leisure set, went for a walk, spoke to the others in the park where there was a walking track, a playground for children, and picnic tables.

A healthy lifestyle was a healthy, happy worker.

Why then wasn’t I happy?

…

I woke up, went to the closet and picked a work set.  It didn’t matter which one it was.

The newspaper was shoved through a slot in the door as it was every morning at the same time.

The eggs cooked perfectly, the toast cooked perfectly, and the coffee percolated perfectly.  I resisted the urge to open the newspaper and start reading, remembering protocol.

Dining utensils in the dishwasher, clean the surfaces, and ready to leave for work.  The bus was never late or early.  The walk to the bus stop is two minutes and twenty seconds.

I opened the door, ready to step out.

Standing there, in the way, was a young woman.  Odd that she was in the men’s dormitory.  Odder still, she was wearing yellow, not green.

“You are not in regulation clothing,” I said, not ‘how are you?’ or ‘ who are you?’, which would sound more appropriate.

“You’re not who I’m looking for.  Who are you?”

Clocks were everywhere, reminding us of the importance of time.  The time had passed, and now I would miss the bus.

The paperwork was going to be horrendous.

“Johnny five.  You?”

“Melinda Seventy-Two.  I was looking for Alfred thirty.”

Alfred Thirty had been the previous occupant of my space.  He had died, or so we had been told.  It was in the newspaper, and we believed everything that appeared in it.  There was no reason not to.

“Did you not see the report in the newspaper about a month ago?”  His death had afforded me a promotion and larger quarters.

“I don’t believe anything I read in that rag.”

That was seditious and could get her into trouble if anyone heard her.

“You’d better come in.  You cannot be saying stuff like that out loud.”

She looked at me like I was mad, then shrugged and stepped in.

I looked up and down the passage, then closed the door.

“Just me being in here can cause you trouble.”

We were allowed visitors, but at specific times and with the appropriate permission slips.  She was right.  The mountain of paperwork was piling up.

She was not from this district.  The different coloured suit told me she was not from this area.  People were not allowed out of their areas unless they had a travel pass.  I doubted she had one.

“How did you get here?”

“The tunnels.”

I’d heard about the tunnels, that they were an urban myth.  There were service conduits, but they were not big enough for people to travel through.

It was in the newspaper.  Someone had started spreading the rumours that people could travel from area to area via an extensive tunnel system created when the districts were being built.

An urban myth created by troublemakers.  There had been a few in the beginning after the great calamity that destroyed everything.

We were rebuilding the world, a better world where everyone coexisted in harmony.  A happy life, a happy world.  We all believed it.

“They don’t exist.”

“Because they tell you.  They tell you everything, and everything is a lie.  You are a slave to their lies.”

Who was this woman?  She sounded like a revolutionary; some had been around when I was a child.  My father had been on the tribunal that tried them as traitors and sent them to the penalty settlement.  Had she escaped?

“Are you a revolutionary?”

“I am just the same as you. I do what I’m told.  Or did.”  She took a note out of a pocket and handed it to me.

It said:  You do not have to bow to oppression.  Go to Tan-Green, speak to Alfred thirty.  Take the 387 tunnel.”

“The 387 tunnel?”

“I work in Engineering.  We use the tunnels to move around under the district to repair the services.  I did what was asked.  Where is Alfred thirty?”

“Gone.  Dead.  Can’t help you.  I have to go.  Late.  I have to go.”  I could not wait for her to decide what she wanted to do.

I left.

…

I caught the next bus.  It had different people.  I don’t know why I thought there was only one bus, the bus I took every morning.

They all had the newspaper and were reading it.  No conversation.

Why, all of a sudden, did it matter?  Had she affected me that much?

I arrived at work and swiped my key card.  It was what gave me access to my dorm, the bus, the building and my workstation.

A moment after I swiped my card, I was approached by a security guard.  It had never happened before; in fact I had never seen a security guard before.

“You are late, Johnny Five.  Why?”

What did it matter?  I was here, ready to work.  Perhaps the hesitation in answering was causing difficulty.  Should I mention the girl?

“Overslept. Sorry.”

A minute passed, during which it seemed he was waiting for instructions, then, “Proceed.”

I went into the room and walked slowly to my workstation, past about another 20 clerks.  I noticed that some glanced up then went back to work, others lingered, intrigued by the anomaly.

By the time I sat down, the room was back to normal.

For half an hour.

…

The supervisor sat in a room that overlooked the floor, taking in all of the clerks.

We all had to be in that room once, the day we started work, and it was an interesting view.  And intriguing to wonder how long it took to become a supervisor.

Or what exactly the supervisor did, though they too had a workstation.

No one had seen the supervisor leave that room, or come, or go.  She was always in there when we arrived, and still there when we left.

Today, she came down to the floor, walking from the invisible door under the window, then across the floor, walking up the middle of the room, then turning into my row, and then stopping at my workstation.

It had never happened to anyone else.

“Shut down your workstation and accompany me, please.”

I did as I was told.  She waited until the station switched off and then headed back to the invisible door.  By this time, most of the others had stopped and watched us cross the floor.

At the invisible door, she turned and said, “Back to work.”

She waited until their attention was back on their workstations, then opened the door, we passed though and it silently closed behind us.

Two security guards were waiting.

“You will be reported to Maintenance on Level Sun Basement Seven.  The guards will take you.”

“Why?”

“That is not a question I can answer.  I do as I am told, as should you.  Your key card had been programmed with the appropriate authority.”

Whatever that meant

One guard took the lead, the other followed.  I don’t know why, but at one point, waiting at the elevator lobby, I was entertaining the thought of running.  Not where, or why I would want to, but running.

Nor where I would run to.  It was a very strange feeling.

We went down to Sub Basement 7, and when the doors opened, a different guard was waiting.  My escorts stayed in the lift.

I stepped out, and the doors closed.

The new guard said, “This way “

There was only one.  Perhaps down here, they didn’t think they needed two.

We went down a long corridor to the end, to a door that said ‘Maintenance Five’.  The guard scanned a key card, and the lock clunked.

He opened the door and stood to one side.  “Please wait inside.  An engineer will see you shortly.”

I went in, and the door closed behind me.  The room had a chair and a table.  I looked around the room.  It was a square box, brightly lit, with CCTV.

I waited fifteen minutes before another door, behind the desk, and Melinda seventy-two stepped into the room.

“You.”  I recognised her immediately.

“Me.”

“Why?”

“That’s a word you are not supposed to use.  You know that.  Why do you?”

I thought about the question.  It was something that bothered me, too.  It was in the protocol manual. We accepted that everything we did had a reason and that we didn’t need to know why, only that it was to be done.  Years of work had gone into creating workable systems.

“Curiosity “

“There’s a saying….”

“Yes.  I am aware of it.”

“Then you are one of the more recent classes.  Can you tell me, if you had a choice and there were no restrictions, where you would like to go?”

It was not something I thought about.  No one did. But there was a word invoked, in that very moment, a word I’d not used before.  “Sanctuary.”

She smiled.  “And so it will be.  I knew you were different.  We have a special job for you, Johnny five.  Repeat after me, MGS34RYPLM.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.  Repeat the code.”

“MGS34RYPLM.”

There was a moment when my eyes closed, everything went dark, and a second later, everything in my head changed.

“Who are you?”

I looked over at the girl.  I knew instantly who she was.  “Elizabeth.  How are you?”

“All the better for seeing you, Dad.  Everything you had set in place is ready.  I’m sorry it took so long to find you.”

“No matter.  I’m here now.  Let the revolution begin!”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta readers 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 to 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

…

In a word: will

Now that I’ve hit the age of 65, I now have to give some consideration to creating a will.

You know, that document that specifies which child gets what, or if you think any or all of them don’t deserve what’s left of the hard-earned millions, which cat or dog will inherit a fortune.

A will is both a reason for siblings or beneficiaries to kill to get a reward or the fact you have to make one so that the state doesn’t inherit your fortune.

This is only one use of the word.

Another might be that it’s possible to have something like the will to carry on.

Carry on what?

Life, a marriage, a business relationship.

Does it require will power, or is it a matter of where there’s a will there’s a way?

I will come over. I will turn up tomorrow.

In this sense, it is promoting futility.

Of course, seeing is believing.

And as a bit of self-serving advertising, I’m going to promote a new story, actually titled, The Will.

Inheritance can resolve monetary problems, and not only that, set one of the siblings up financially for life. All they have to do is wrest the family home from the dying fingers of a mother who had seen it all.

Into the mix comes the grandson, a man who sometimes is a son but mostly a grandson, someone who doesn’t fit in, who doesn’t want to follow family tradition, and who prefers to go to his grandmothers rather than going home to his family.

He is constantly appalled at his mother’s lack of respect for her mother and suddenly finds himself in the middle of a battle between his grandmother and her daughter, his mother, over the family estate.

Who will win?

That’s a question that will be answered when you read the book.