Category: Books

Writing a book in 365 days – 293

Day 293

Show, Don’t Tell: Painting Pictures with Your Words

We’ve all heard the writing advice: “Don’t use adjectives to describe.” It sounds like a recipe for bland, uninspired prose. “I feel terrible,” or “It was a delightful surprise” – these phrases are so common, they barely register. The instruction isn’t to eliminate description, but to evolve it. The real challenge, and immense reward, lies in crafting your words so that your reader experiences the feeling you want to convey, arriving at their own perfect description.

Think of yourself as a painter, not a labeler. A painter doesn’t just write “sad” over a canvas. They blend blues and grays, create drooping lines, and shade in hollows under the eyes. They evoke sadness through imagery, through the subtle manipulation of color and form. Your words are your brushstrokes.

So, how do you achieve this evocative power? It’s about engaging your reader’s senses and emotions, and letting them do the heavy lifting. Here’s how to move beyond tired adjectives and paint vivid pictures that resonate:

1. Embrace Sensory Details: The Five Pillars of Experience

Adjectives often serve as a shortcut to describe a sensory input. Instead of saying something was “loud,” show the impact of that loudness.

  • Instead of: The music was loud.
  • Try: The bass vibrated through the floorboards, rattling the glassware on the counter. My ears rang long after the final chord.

This immediately tells the reader about the volume and its physical, visceral effect.

  • Instead of: The food was delicious.
  • Try: The aroma of roasting garlic and rosemary filled the air, mingling with the sweet scent of caramelized onions. The first bite melted on my tongue, a perfect balance of savory and tangy.

Here, the reader can almost taste and smell the food, leading them to their own conclusion of deliciousness.

2. Focus on Actions and Reactions: What Do They Do?

How does your character, or the subject of your description, behave when experiencing a certain emotion or state? Their actions are far more telling than a simple adjective.

  • Instead of: She was angry.
  • Try: Her jaw clenched, and a muscle pulsed in her cheek. She slammed the cupboard door shut, the sound echoing through the silent kitchen. Her gaze, sharp and unwavering, bore into him.

These actions paint a picture of contained fury, a volcano ready to erupt.

  • Instead of: It was a surprising victory.
  • Try: The scoreboard blinked, then blinked again, showing the impossible score. A collective gasp swept through the stadium, followed by a roar that shook the foundations. Players stumbled over each other, faces a mixture of disbelief and elation.

The crowd’s reaction, the players’ astonishment – these are powerful indicators of surprise.

3. Use Vivid Verbs and Specific Nouns: The Building Blocks of Power

Often, a strong verb or a precise noun can carry the weight of an adjective.

  • Instead of: He was a timid person.
  • Try: He shuffled his feet, his eyes darting to the floor whenever someone spoke to him. His voice was a low murmur, barely audible above the din.

The verbs “shuffled” and “darting” create an image of hesitation and nervousness.

  • Instead of: The city was beautiful at night.
  • Try: The cityscape shimmered, a galaxy of twinkling lights against the velvet darkness. Neon signs bled vibrant colors onto the rain-slicked streets, painting fleeting masterpieces.

“Shimmered,” “twinkling,” and “bled” are much more evocative than “beautiful.”

4. Show Internal States Through Physical Manifestations: The Body Knows

Emotions often manifest physically. By describing these physical cues, you allow the reader to infer the internal state.

  • Instead of: He was nervous.
  • Try: His palms were slick with sweat, and he kept running his tongue over his dry lips. A tremor ran through his leg as he tried to stand still.

This shows the physical symptoms of nervousness.

  • Instead of: She was happy.
  • Try: A wide smile stretched across her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. She bounced on the balls of her feet, humming a tuneless melody.

The physical expression of joy is undeniable.

5. Employ Figurative Language: Similes and Metaphors

Similes and metaphors are your secret weapons for painting abstract concepts in concrete terms.

  • Instead of: The idea was terrible.
  • Try: The idea landed with the sickening thud of a lead weight in the pit of her stomach.

The metaphor clearly conveys the negative impact of the idea.

  • Instead of: The conversation was enjoyable.
  • Try: The conversation flowed like a gentle stream, each remark a smooth stone polished by friendly tides.

This simile creates a sense of ease and pleasure.

The Power of the Reader’s Interpretation

When you “show” instead of “tell,” you invite your reader into an active role. You’re not dictating their feelings; you’re providing the raw material for them to discover those feelings. This is where the magic happens. Your reader, drawing on their own experiences and emotions, will fill in the blanks with the perfect adjective, the precise nuance, the exact word that resonates most deeply with them.

So, the next time you find yourself reaching for a familiar adjective, pause. Ask yourself: What does this feel like? What does it look like? What does it sound like? What does it do? By painting with your words, you’ll create a richer, more immersive, and ultimately more unforgettable experience for your readers. Let them come to their own delightful surprise, and you’ll know you’ve truly succeeded.

“What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

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.

Find the kindle version on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

In a word: Blank

Yes, I’m drawing a blank, which means I have no idea

It seems that I do this a lot these days, perhaps one of the perils of being a writer

But…

Using blank in a story doesn’t necessarily convey the antagonist is clueless, more likely he or she just used one in a gun, put there by a person who didn’t want to get shot.

No, still drawing a blank on this one.

A blank space means there’s nothing in it, and you see a lot of these in crosswords and sudoku, even when the user has been toiling for hours

I’m thinking anyone who met me might misinterpret my blank expression, well, it’s not too expressive in the first place

Perhaps before the coin becomes a coin; it is a piece of blank metal to begin with.  How good would it be to get a one-sided coin, that’d be worth a lot?

And the very worst description of blank; having a blank piece of paper in front of you, and you really are drawing a blank!

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 5

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

I have been on an ocean voyage.

Once.

It might not seem like that when I say it was supposed to be an overnight crossing from Devonport to Melbourne in a ship called the Princess of Tasmania, and the stretch of water was Bass Strait, one of the top five worst stretches of open seas in the world.

I know that for a fact.

We had stabilisers and still corkscrewed while facing into the huge seas for eight or six hours before it subsided enough for us to continue.

Everyone was seasick.  It was a terrible crossing, and all I remember was wishing I were dead after dry reaching for hours.

So, here we are, March 1914, leaving Plymouth after a rather rough crossing from Tilbury and maintaining contact, just, with the southern British coastline, just leaving for Gibraltar, about to cross the Bay of Biscay.

Those passengers have no idea what they’re in for, but I do.  Rough seas, corkscrew motion, and questions why the Line said that the ship could handle this sort of ocean weather, and by day two, more than half the ship is down with sea sickness.

And, if you’re not, then good luck trying to eat in the dining room with the ship’s motion.

Four days later, off the Portuguese coast, a semblance of normality returns, though by this time a new benchmark for normal had to be set.  The sun is out, the weather is less blustery and wet, and the seas are calmer.

I have a copy of a seagoer’s diary for a similar ship at the same time.  For me, it would be fun.  I’m not so sure what those who had never been on a ship before might have thought of it.

At least in the second class, they were above the waterline.

…

1785 words, for a total of 8010 words.

Writing about writing a book – Day 19 Continues

I’ve just been watching Air America, a fictionalised movie of goings on that could hardly be believed as possible, and yet there is the CIA and some of the stuff they’ve done, well, it gives pause for thought.

So, I asked Google for an opinion

…

Cargo of Shadows: Unpacking the CIA’s Air America and the Vietnam War’s Dark Underbelly

The Vietnam War, a conflict already steeped in tragedy and controversy, has spawned countless legends and dark whispers. Among the most enduring is the story of Air America – a seemingly innocent civilian airline operating in Southeast Asia, but widely believed to be a clandestine arm of the CIA, flying not just supplies, but also engaging in drug trafficking, weapon running, and other “shady operations.”

So, how likely is it that the CIA had a thing called Air America running in the Vietnam War, shifting drugs and weapons, and running shady operations? Let’s unpack the layers of secrecy and come to a conclusion that’s more nuanced than a simple yes or no.

What Was Air America, Officially?

From 1950 to 1976, Air America was a U.S. proprietary airline, owned and operated by the CIA. Its official mission was to provide air support for covert operations in Southeast Asia, particularly Laos, which was caught in a brutal “Secret War” between the Royal Lao Government and the communist Pathet Lao, supported by North Vietnam.

Given that Laos was officially neutral, direct U.S. military involvement was prohibited. Enter Air America. Operating out of bases like Udorn in Thailand and Long Tieng in Laos, its pilots, often ex-military, flew everything from fixed-wing transports like C-47s and C-123s to helicopters like the Bell 204/205 (Huey).

Their supposed tasks were benign: resupplying remote outposts, ferrying personnel, evacuating refugees, and delivering humanitarian aid. But beneath this veneer of legitimacy lay a far more complex and morally ambiguous reality.

The “Secret War” and Plausible Deniability

The need for Air America stemmed directly from the CIA’s efforts to fight communism in Indochina without direct military intervention. The agency armed and advised indigenous forces, most notably the Hmong ethnic minority led by General Vang Pao, who became key allies against the Pathet Lao.

These were guerrilla fighters operating in incredibly difficult, mountainous terrain. Regular supply lines were impossible. Air America became their lifeline, delivering weapons, ammunition, food, and other necessities to sustain the fight. This aspect – running weapons and essential supplies to proxy forces – is not just likely; it is a documented and undeniable fact of Air America’s mission. That was its primary, stated (within covert circles) purpose.

The Allegations: Drugs and Shady Operations

Now, to the darker allegations:

  1. Drug Trafficking (Opium & Heroin): This is where the story gets truly controversial. The highlands of Laos were part of the “Golden Triangle,” a prime opium-producing region. Many of the Hmong, the CIA’s primary allies, were traditional opium growers. As their communities were disrupted by war, and as they fought on the CIA’s behalf, their need for income became desperate.
    • The Allegation: Air America aircraft, it is widely claimed, were used to transport raw opium and even refined heroin from remote poppy fields to larger airfields for distribution. Some accounts suggest the CIA actively facilitated this trade, either directly profiting or, more plausibly, “turning a blind eye” or even assisting the drug trade of their allies to fund their war effort and secure their loyalty.
    • The Evidence: While no smoking-gun document has ever explicitly shown the CIA itself directly running a drug syndicate for profit, numerous credible historical accounts, particularly Alfred W. McCoy’s seminal book “The Politics of Heroin: CIA Complicity in Global Drug Trafficking,” present substantial circumstantial evidence and eyewitness testimonies. McCoy argues that the CIA’s actions created an environment where drug trafficking flourished, and that Air America aircraft were indeed used to move drugs, sometimes out of necessity for their allies, sometimes as a means of payment, and sometimes simply because they were the only available transport. The U.S. State Department even acknowledged that Lao government generals, who were U.S. allies, were involved in the drug trade.
    • Likelihood: It is highly probable that Air America aircraft, wittingly or unwittingly by some of its personnel, transported opium and heroin for its allies. It is also highly probable that the CIA, at a minimum, tolerated or ignored the drug trade of its Hmong and Lao allies, understanding it was a vital source of income for them to continue fighting. Whether the CIA itself directly profited from this trade is less clear and less substantiated, but its indirect complicity in facilitating it, or at least enabling it by controlling the only air transport network, is very difficult to dispute.
  2. Shady Operations: This is a broad category, but given the nature of a covert airline operating in a secret war, it’s almost a given.
    • Personnel Insertion/Extraction: Dropping off or picking up intelligence operatives, special forces (often disguised as civilians), and allied commanders in hostile territory.
    • Intelligence Gathering: Reconnaissance flights, monitoring enemy movements.
    • Black Operations: While less commonly documented in detail, the infrastructure of Air America certainly provided the means for clandestine actions, sabotage, or psychological warfare if needed.
    • Likelihood: Undoubtedly true. These “shady operations” are exactly what a covert intelligence agency’s proprietary airline is designed for. The entire existence of Air America was a “shady operation” in itself, designed to obscure U.S. involvement.

Conclusion: How Likely?

Let’s break it down:

  • Running Air America as a CIA front airline: 100% likely. This is an officially acknowledged historical fact.
  • Shifting weapons and essential supplies to proxy forces: 100% likely. This was the core mission and extensively documented.
  • Running other “shady operations” (covert personnel transport, intelligence gathering, etc.): Extremely likely, bordering on certainty. This is standard operating procedure for a covert airline.
  • Shifting drugs (opium/heroin) for profit or as a critical part of their allies’ financing: Highly probable. While direct CIA profit is debated, the evidence strongly suggests Air America’s network was used to facilitate drug transport for its allies, and the CIA was, at minimum, complicit through tolerance or indirect assistance, seeing it as a necessary evil to maintain the war effort.

The story of Air America is a stark reminder of the moral compromises and complex realities of covert warfare. In the shadows of neutrality, an airline became an indispensable tool for a secret war, its legacy forever entwined with both heroism and the dark underbelly of the Golden Triangle’s illicit trade. It’s a testament to how far nations will go, and what lines they will blur, in the pursuit of geopolitical objectives.

You are free to make up your own mind, but it does give pause for thought…

What are your thoughts on Air America’s role in the Vietnam War? Share your perspective in the comments below!

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 28

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

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

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.

…

I was escorted to a small room that adjoined the interview room, and I was separated from the main event by a one-way mirror.

It was a cliché, but not surprising.

The interrogation room was much the same as an office, with a table, two chairs, and on the side, a cabinet, closed up, an interesting addition to what might be called a boring room.

It was currently empty, and I was the only one in this small room, sitting at a counter, looking in.  In front of me was a stack of writing pads, pens and pencils.  I wondered if I was the only party that was about to observe Lallo and the new arrival.

Five minutes passed before the door to the room next door opened and a hooded man was led in.  His hands were cuffed, and his legs had chains, standard prisoner gear.  

From the man’s manner and body language, it appeared to me as though he was surprised he was being treated so badly, and was not forcefully resistant, but wasn’t making it easy for his captors.

He was asked to sit, and when he didn’t he was forced to sit, with some force, and then his hands were locked onto the metal bar at the table.  His legs were locked to a lower bar.  A precaution in case he decided to attack his interrogator.

One thing I knew for sure, this man would not give up information willingly.

Once he was secured, one guard took up station inside the door, and the other left.  That’s when Lallo made his appearance.  He came in, put a file on the desk, nodded to the guard who remove3d the hood, and then he sat.

I’d expected to see Lallo in full uniform.  He was not.  He was, if anything, dressed casually.  The man on the other side was in a cream suit, very crumpled and slightly stained as if he had not changed during the entire journey from capture to this room.

No doubt part of his conditioning.

“Mr Jacobi, that is your name isn’t it?”

The man stared at him sullenly.  I got the impression he was usually the one asking the questions, not the other way around.

The man lifted his head and stared straight at Lallo.  It was not a look I’d want to be on the end of, but Lallo, I suspect, had been on the end of a lot worse.  And a closer inspection of his face, and features, I noticed that someone had already started the harsher form of interrogation.

“You know this already.  I am an employee of the United States Government, your Government, and you will regret treating me like this.”

“That may be so, but you have failed to define what part of the Government it is you work for.  Is it the CIA?”

Another withering stare, followed by, “You people are so incompetent, the left-hand does not know what the right hand is doing.  I require a telephone so that I can contact my liaison, and this farce will stop, and you will be reprimanded very severely.”

“I seriously doubt anyone knows you are missing yet.  Maybe after a week or so, but we know you keep to yourself, and very few people know your business, a situation, I assure you, benefits us more than it benefits you.  So I will assume you are Jacobi.”

There was a knock on the door, and Monroe came in with a small box, handed it to Lallo, and then left again.

Lallo looked in the box, then pulled out a plastic evidence bag with a mobile phone in it, and put it on the table.  “This is the phone you use to call General Bahti, your contact inside the current government.  It seems it is not registered with a telephone network in your country, but another, shall we say neutral, country.

He reached into the box and pulled out another plastic evidence bag also with mobile phone in it.  “This phone,” he held it up, “is the one you use to talk to the, shall we call them the local resistance.  It’s so much nicer than calling them rebels.”

The man’s eyes followed each bag from the box to the table.  He was almost expressionless.

Then Lallo pulled out another bag, with another phone, “This is the phone which you make and receive calls from your American contact.  It is what we call a burner phone, and was given to you, we think, on a recent visit to this country, by that contact.  I am assuming this is the person you wish to call and who will stop this farce.”

If Lallo was expecting the man to break down there and then, he was sadly mistaken.  There was little if any movement in his expression, perhaps just enough for Lallo to assume he’d got the men behind the phones correct.  That he was basically unmoved at Lallo’s revelations told me this man had a resolve Lallo was going to find hard to shake.

Lallo took the third phone out of the evidence bag and pushed it across the table towards the man.  “You can call your contact now, and you can tell him I would like to speak to him.”

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2022

Writing a book in 365 days – 291/292

Days 291 and 292

Writing exercise

…

Taking a cross-country trek together, two people discover secrets about each other.

…

It was a silly ritual, but when four of us graduated high school, we made a pact on Prom Night that we would meet up every year, New Year’s Eve, on the 81st floor lookout of the Empire State Building, every year until we couldn’t, literally the only excuse not to be there was death.

We thought it was original, but of course, lots of movies immortalised the same thing, making it a little passe. And with it, there were gaps when others didn’t make it.

I, on the other hand, had been to every one. When others didn’t, I was disappointed, but then that wasn’t the only disappointment in my life.

John Rogers, who was keen on Alison West, prom king and queen, didn’t stay together very long; their fields of study and universities meant the tyranny of distance would eventually take its toll. Daniel Franks, that was me, and Marjourie Leyton were not a couple but had gone to the prom together, because we could have been an item, but neither of us pressed it. We parted and saw each other from time to time, and now, mostly at the Empire State Building. She was the second most attended member.

We had eventually all gone in different directions, and the last time we met was at the high school reunion. The other three were married, successful, great partners and children they were proud to show off, and I, well, I was the odd one out. The girl that I wanted to marry just didn’t know I existed, and though I had tried with others, from home and away, it just didn’t have the same thing about it.

Maybe one day, before I die.

…

The cell phone rang shrilly, waking me from a restless sleep. I glanced over at the clock on the far bedside table, and it read 2:37 a.m.

I normally had it switched off overnight for just that reason, not to be woken in the middle of the night. It was always difficult to fall asleep; it was far worse if I was woken soon after.

I looked at the screen. ‘Private Number’.

No one that I would normally answer. I let it ring out and then switched it off.

Five minutes later, another cell phone rang, a phone that I had used three times in eighteen years, the last time precipitating the most anxious three weeks of my life.

It was a call I could not ignore.

I dragged myself out of bed and got to it just as it rang out. No matter, I knew who it was, and called straight back.

“Danny. Bad time?”

“Very.”

“Still a light sleeper?”

“One eye open and a gun under the pillow, some things never change. What do you want, Fred?”

“Texting an address. Extraction. You have thirteen hours and five minutes.”

After the last time he called, I thought I’d drawn a line under this sort of affair. “I don’t do this anymore.”

“You left the phone on. Naughty boy. Sorry. On your horse.”

The phone went dead.

I glared at it, then put it on the desk. It chimed. Message, the address, and when I looked it up, it was a back alley in the financial district of St Louis in Illinois. I lived in Minneapolis in Minnesota, and to get to St Louis in Missouri, and would have to take I-35 south. Easy as. It was just that it was a 9-hour drive, without breaks, so I just had enough time to get there.

I shook my head, considering I should just ring back and say I was done with him and his antics.

Should, but wouldn’t. Perhaps this was what I needed to get me out of the despondency I’d fallen into.

…

A half hour later, refreshed and ready to go, I headed to the lockup at the rear of the property I lived on and dragged the cover off the 2016 Silver Ford Fusion sedan. It was once described as the ultimate invisible car, and the reason why I owned one. It had fifteen sets of plates, and today it was running with my home state. That would change when I got to St Louis, and again, depending on where I was told to take the target.

When I reached Cedar Rapids, I stopped for an hour for coffee and breakfast of pancakes, bacon and eggs, at a diner where the place was clean, the staff were friendly, and the service was quick. The food wasn’t bad either.

Outside St Louis I changed the plates and paperwork, changed into different clothes, the sort that when the police asked a witness to describe me, it would be average height, average weight, average clothes, you know, check shirt, well-worn North Face parka, well-worn hiking boots, faded well-worn jeans, and a well-worn face that had had spent a lot of time outdoors.

The sort of person a mother wouldn’t recognise if he were standing next to her on a bus. It was the part of the training I liked the most – becoming invisible.

Then, ten minutes before the appointed time, I sent the location to a burner number, a street corner where I could stop for just long enough for someone to get in, and we could keep moving. This was a critical part of the operation and required precision timing. The only thing that could mess this up was an accident, and I’d checked the route; nothing was going to cause a problem.

At the precise moment, I stopped the car, released the door lock, and someone got in the back. They were covered, protected from the cold, and I didn’t look other than to make sure they were in and the door closed before I drove off. In all, I was there for 7 seconds.

After sending an acknowledgement text to the boss, he sent the destination. There was generally no conversation with the target; it was pick up and deliver. Food was in a hamper on the back seat. We would not be stopping for anything other than gas and restroom visits.

…

There was no communication with the target; it was just my job to take them from point A to point B, which this time, was outside Saks, Fifth Avenue, New York. I would have guessed a safe house, not a place where the target could do some indulgent shopping. I sighed inwardly.

A glance in the back told me very little, other than this time it was a woman, and that she would not be recognisable as anyone I would know or attempt to guess at. Because we both worked for the same man, she would have the same training as I had, except I didn’t get to go into the field as a primary agent; I had only qualified for work in Section 5, support services.

There had been times when I was disappointed, but sometimes running support could also be as dangerous as an agent on the ground, especially when it was a hot extraction.

At the first restroom stop, I pulled into the carpark close to the building, and she got out, taking a small backpack with her. I had not seen it when she got in, but that meant little. I waited half an hour, the maximum time before I had to go check, but she reappeared, having changed her appearance, but still as anonymous as before.

I was not meant to, but I watched her walk from the front door of the cafe, towards the car before turning to the front as she neared. It reminded me of someone from a distant past, but exactly who eluded me.

The door shut, and I drove off.

Once past the city limits, she asked, quite unexpectedly, “What’s your name?” The voice was distorted through the mask.

“Against protocol, ma’am.”

“We’re out in the middle of nowhere. Surely it doesn’t matter.”

“Not my call. The boss is insistent. No names, no conversation.”

I heard a sigh, and then she settled into the seat. The car wasn’t exactly the most comfortable, but Services had upgraded the seating, especially for the driver, knowing how long we might have to drive in a single sitting. Moving an agent was by car. Any other form of travel left a trail.

A half hour later, I heard the sounds of sleep. I would get mine after I dropped her off.

…

Darkness settled slowly until the inky blackness swallowed us up, and then it was a matter of watching the headlights of the cars opposite come and go, and the cars and trucks behind and in front pass or get passed. There was a reasonable amount of traffic, and for the first few hours of darkness, it was almost boring.

There was no movement from the back seat.

Then, “I need a break. Find some facilities.”

I checked the GPS and there was one ten minutes ahead. “Ten minutes or so.”

“Thanks.”

Ten minutes, I pulled off the main road and stopped at a BP petrol station at a place called Straughan. She got out and went inside. I filled the tank with Premium, paid the bill in cash and got back in the car.

That’s when I saw a car, sitting in the truck park, no lights, but suddenly, the flaring of a match lit a cigarette. Not enough light to see the driver’s face, but an outline. A large man in a small car.

It could be nothing.

The door opened and closed. I started the car and drove out slowly. I watched the car behind me. It didn’t move. I turned and went back the way we came to the on ramp of the I-70 and soon was back up to speed.

Back on the highway, I switched on the cruise control and relaxed. A glance every now and then in the exterior rear vision mirror showed the usual traffic, except after an hour, a set of headlights appeared a distance back and then stayed there, sometimes falling back, sometimes moving faster, but never beyond a certain point.

Damn!

It could be my imagination, but I didn’t think so. There was that car on the side of the road back at the gas station, but the fact that it had taken hours to locate us suggested only one possibility.

“Excuse me?”

A few seconds of silence, then “I thought we were not to speak.”

“True, but there might be a problem. I would like you to check everything you have and make sure there isn’t a tracking device.”

“We have a tail?”

“We might, or it might be my paranoia.”

“It’s not possible.”

“Humour me.”

I heard her mutter something under her breath, and then reluctantly search. A minute later, a sharp gasp, the window opening and then closing.

“How?” I asked.

“I was with the target, who seemed a little more anxious than usual. I left as soon as I could without raising suspicion, called the controller and requested extraction. There were other red flags, and it was time.”

“Once they realise you tossed the tracker, the excitement begins.”

I had three guns, a modified car that could outrun the car behind me, theoretically, but they had time to set up a blockage further along, depending on how desperate they were to capture my passenger. I guess we’d soon find out.

“Settle in. This could take a while.”

Except, not long after, the headlights appeared behind me again. There were two trackers. I wouldn’t bother her about the second, just wait and see what they were prepared to do. I was on a major highway, and there were a lot of trucks to use as cover.

…

At the next gas station, near Akron, I sent a text message requesting another car and a device that would knock out anything transmitting a signal, which meant we would not have any communications. That would not be a problem for the short time it took for us to get away. I also requested her to double-check everything she had with her and on, just to make sure.

I didn’t ask, and she didn’t say whether there was another device, but it was clear she had completely changed everything and left the other clothes and belongings behind.

At Akron, we changed cars.

I also made an alarming discovery. The woman in the back of my car was a girl I used to know back in high school, the one who never gave me a second look. When I did know her, it was she who had suggested, with the grades I had, that I should apply to the FBI. She didn’t say she was, but it surprised me that she suggested it.

Annabel Tyler.

Undercover agent for? I was tempted to ask, but it was not my business. She wouldn’t remember me, not if she had evolved into many different identities and personas. She probably didn’t know who she was herself.

We lost the tail. There were no more trackers, and I arrived at Saks Fifth Avenue.

When I stopped the car outside the building, she leaned forward and offered a card. It had a number scribbled on it.

“What’s this?”

“My number, Daniel. I was far too focused on turning into whatever this is I am now, and lost sight of everything that should matter. I’m tired and need a break. You call this number, and I;’ll answer, any time of the day or night.”

“Why?”

“You now know my secret, and I know yours. You are the only person I can trust. What do you think? Don’t disappoint me a second time.”

And then she was gone. Just like that. Into thin air. I put the card in my pocket and pulled out into the traffic.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Searching for locations: Old Shanghai, China

The old Shanghai refers to a small area of Shanghai that used to be walled in and remained that way until about 1912 when all but a small section of the wall was demolished.  With the advent of the concessions, Old Shanghai became the administrative center until later when it became a shopping complex.

Now it has many restored historical buildings as well as new buildings in a somewhat traditional style that has become one of Shanghai’s main tourist attractions, housing many shops and restaurants.

The “Old Town” is not exclusively old, as you still have a chance to take in the atmosphere if you wander into the quaint side streets.

But, on first viewing walking down the street towards the complex, I’m not sure I’d go as far as to say this is in reality old Shanghai, except for what appears to be a true representation of it architecturally. 

The buildings, which are shops and restaurants, are set out symmetrically, with streets, alleyways, and squares which may prove that it was specially built for the tourists, and no mechanized traffic.

Anyway…

The buildings are magnificent, and a photographer’s delight, and you’d finish up having hundreds of photos by the time you leave.  All the buildings are exquisite representations of traditional Chinese architecture. 

As for buying stuff, remember if you’re not Chinese you have the sucker tourist stamp on your forehead, so be prepared to walk away if the vendors will not bargain.  

Nothing here is worth the price tag and in our group discounts like from 130 RMB to 50 RMB and from 1 for 1,200 to 2 for 950 RMB are common.

Here common t-shirts that we can get for 3 dollars back home start at 150 RMB which is roughly 35 dollars.  It’s that kind of market.

We end up is a tea room, on the third floor of the meeting point below, and discover all the tour guides sitting around a table counting money, and I have to say it’s the most $50 notes I’ve ever seen in one place.  
It is, we were told, where they discussed ‘strategy’.

What I learned about writing – Old methodologies do not get the work done

I first started writing by longhand, still do, in fact, then graduated to my mother’s portable, then moved upwards into the electric world having a pair of IBM electric typewriters I bought form one of the places I worked as second-hand cast-offs.

Until that is, I could no longer buy ribbons for my IBM Selectric, so it had to go the way of the dinosaurs.

IT was a good thing, then, that computers and word processing software started at about the same time.

So…

I didn’t get to sit down in front of the computer, well, to write that is.  I thought I would go searching for some inspiration.

Bad idea.

It’s just that in that short distance, from, say, the couch where you were reading the latest blog posts in the WordPress reader, and the writers chair, your preparation for writing ends up getting confused at some of the pro-Trump and anti Trump bloggers, because it’s hard to find anything relevant to the man and his politics.

People seem to be radically for or radically opposed and there’s no middle ground. How does Government work in such a political climate?

But, there you are, my attention has been distracted and unless I’m about to indulge in political satire, I’m off track, with an out of balance mindset, and therefore unable to write.

Perhaps I should not read blog posts, but the newspapers.

Or not, because they all have an editorial policy that leans either and one way or another, which means their views are not necessarily unbiased.

I was a journalist once and hated the idea of having to toe the editorial line.

I’m coming around to thinking that it’s probably best left to the dark hours of the night when you would think all the distractions are behind you.  After all, isn’t that what daytime is for?

Except that’s when the ghosts come out to play.

I think.

Was that the lounge room door opening?

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers.  Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier.  I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village.  I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed.  In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passenger’s attention.  Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back.  He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury.  He looked at her ticket then nodded dismissively, and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway.  I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see there was something about her.  It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile.  I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone.  Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model.  I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris.  The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on.  I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me.  I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin.  My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast.  With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination.  It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight.  It would give me enough time to sample the local fare, and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch.  After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward.  I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and let the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked, and what part I played in it.  And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out.  What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land.  There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would need to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later a keen military mind.  If nothing else I could ride a horse, and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no-one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared.  I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue and I had an aptitude for programming.  I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which although I hated the subject, I excelled in.  Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.  There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks.  It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer simply because of who I was.  In that time I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist, and through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues.  I knew that in building a relationship compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing.  There was a certain expectation I had to fulfill, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented.  The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged.  Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian.  He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties.  He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns.  He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa.  From that moment, my obscurity disappeared.  It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses.  He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door.  There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa?  For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her when she had a certain air of unpredictability.  That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future.  She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her.  It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move.  The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red.  It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific.  In fact, her sublime beauty was the one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact her hair was short, rather than long, and jet black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid.  I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes, before retracing my steps to the front of the ship and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water.  It was almost mesmerizing.  There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa, and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned.  The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close me without my realizing it.  How did she do that?  I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping.  I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck.  There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her particularly around the eyes, and of her hair which was jet black.  An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtle, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory.  The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent, and fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate.  Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes.  My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No.  Not yet.”  I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak.  And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanor as a little warmth reached her eyes.  “So that’s a maybe.  Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away.  Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped she turned to face me again.  She did not move closer.

I realized then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket.  “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe.  By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease.  “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side then the other, looking intently at me.  “You seem to be familiar.  Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings.  If she was, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me.  Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.”  I also didn’t mention the fact she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realized who I was.  “Yes, I remember now.  You made the front cover of the Economist.  You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course.  She was not the first who had recognized me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not the Sternhaven’s.  That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family.  I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.”  Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky.  It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.”  She smiled again.  “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts.  I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me.  It had been Sebastian on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money.  He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right.  I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around.  “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head.  Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit.  “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised, or amused.  “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment.  “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave.  Instead she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot.  To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true.  Aside from the fact this excursion was probably a bad idea.  And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignoring their natural instinct.  I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing.  I was supposed to be traveling with my prospective bride.  I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?”  Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment then came back to me.  She seemed surprised I might be traveling with someone.

“No.  She is back in England, and the wedding is off.  So is the relationship.  She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her?  I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge.  No walking the plank today.  She moved towards it and sat down.  She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair.  Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds if she used this approach with anyone else.  I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us.  After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message.  It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.”  She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her.  “But it is done, and I moved on.  Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry.  Sometimes I ask personal questions without realizing what I’m doing.  It is none of my business.”  She shivered.  “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood, and held out her hand.  Should I take it and be drawn into her web?  I thought of Sebastian.  What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet.  “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

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