Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the type of clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’ but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him was not the concierge, and instead brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position and then made a clunk when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the life lobby, only in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over the the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

In a word: Spark

So, as far as I’m concerned the word ‘spark’ is something that is created by a fire, and can create havoc.

But…

Another meaning is that a ‘spark’ is created by a ‘spark plug’ in order to force the pistons of an engine to drive the crankshaft

This leads to…

There is no spark in this relationship, so perhaps it’s going nowhere. No, we’re not looking for a fiery spark, but a small amount of very intense feeling

Spark?

I was watching God Friended Me last night and I’m sure like many others we were waiting to see that spark that would change their relationship from the friend zone, to something else.

And…

I think it was there. Of course, we’ll have to wait till next week to find out.

As for the word spark, well there several different meanings, one of which I am familiar with when I was young.

Being called a ‘bright spark’

Depending on who used that remark, it could either mean you were clever or you were a smart ass, which I suspect was the reference to me.

Then, moving on

Saying something inflammatory ‘sparked’ the crowd into action. A single remark can be equated to a literal ‘spark’ that can ignite a reaction.

A lynching perhaps?

And what about, once upon a time, a ship’s radio officer, he was called ‘sparks’ or ‘sparkie’, also a name that sometimes refers to an electrician.

I can see plenty of uses for this word in a story.

“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

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 59

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

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

Things are about to get complicated…

With Jan safely in custody, probably for about 15 minutes when Dobbin discovered she was in police hands, Jennifer and I were free to chase up O’Connell and maybe we would also find Anna.

It was a long shot at best.

But we had to find out more about Anna Jacovich. For that, we would have to go back to the office and talk to Joanne. I told Jennifer what I intended to do and dropped her at the safe house for some much-needed rest before we went after O’Connell.

Then, back in the car, I called the number I had for Joanne.

“Sam.”

“Memorised my number?”

“I like to know who’s calling before I answer.”

“Then this isn’t a restricted line?”

“Restricted enough.”

“I found your little toy?”

Did I hear a sigh?

“You know the world we live in Sam, trust no one not even your mother. Hard for me to trust or not trust her, she passed away when I was seven. Monica said you were good. What can I do for you?”

“A full workup on Anna Jacovich. I’m coming into the office now, and will be there in about half an hour.”

“No pressure then?”

“Not at all.”

“Try not to irritate security this time.”

I’m sure I saw a grim expression on the face of the soldier that had been there the last time I tried to run the gauntlet, and then disappointment when my card worked. I signed in and put the name of the department I was visiting down as Research.

When he asked for a name, I gave him Joanne’s. No doubt he would call her long before I got to her.

She met me at the second level of defence and then took me to a room where two folders sat at opposite ends of a table, two desk lamps shining light down on them. The rest of the room was in darkness.

When she shut the door, I said, “Please tell me there in;t a firing squad in black camouflage just waiting to shoot me.”

She smiled. “If it was more sensitive information, I’d let you read it, then have you shot. Not today.

That was a relief. Oddly, I believed that she would if the circumstances warranted it. Joanne was scary, nor scary than Jan. It’s the quiet ones you had to worry about.”

We sat.

“Read. Then I’ll answer questions.”

For the ten minutes, it took me to discover that Anna was a biochemist herself, and had worked in a not-so-secret government laboratory that had been unmasked with disastrous results, adding another dimension to the problem. I was beginning to think she might be the one who created the monster and had set her husband up to take the blame.

If that was the case, she was never going to pass it on to O’Connell or sell it to him, other than to take the money and run. If that was the case, Severin knew it was her all along, and how dangerous she was.

But and there was a big but in all of this. She needed an accomplice to get to England, which was O’Connell. Now he was no longer needed…

Yes, she would also need both Severin and Maury off her tail, and that had been taken care of.

Jan? Unless I completely misread her, it was not possible she could be the accomplice; she was doing what Dobbin requested. Or had she? Dobbin did say she was able to make executive decisions on the fly.

“The threat isn’t O’Connell. He’s just a pawn.”

“Not just a pretty face then?”

“I never regard my face as pretty.”

She shook her head. “It’s Anna. She played Severin and Maury, she played Dobbin, and she played Dobbin’s little toy soldier, O’Connell. Or Quigley I believe his real name is. I hesitate to say O’Connell played you.”

“Call a dog a dog, Joanne. If I had more experience and more information I might have seen that. You can’t keep people in the dark, and then expect miracles.”

“I’m the messenger, Sam.”

“I’ve been known to shoot messengers, just because I can.”

“Save your bullets for the bad guys.”

“How do I know you and Monica are not the bad guys?”

Another shake of the head. “OK. You’ve passed the scepticism test, Sam. Now put it away. We have to work together on this. It’s a condition for continuing to work on the case.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I don’t need to answer that. But, I get it. You’re a self-starter and will keep at it, with or without us. I can see why people like you. To me, your just another dangerous amateur.”

There were words I could say, but judging by the reek of self-aggrandisement, it would not penetrate the thick hide.

I smiled. “Not noted for your charm then.”

“No. Where is Jan?”

“Who?”

“Don’t play games, Sam. They don’t become you. You went to see Severin, but he ended up dead, and she shot him. Why?”

“You read this file?” I picked it up and dropped it on the table.

She was the sort that read the first page, the preamble, and the last page, the result or desired result.

“I did.”

“Then you know why, as for Jan, if you know I was there when Severin was shot, you’d know where Jan is.”

“She disappeared into the trees. And no doubt in the wind. You should know she’s a trained MI5 assassin on loan to Dobbin.”

Who was now in jail somewhere pending the Detective Inspectors leisure, unless she filed a report. If she did, she would be out now, and looking for O’Connell and Anna.

“Then how should I know?”

She shrugged. “I thought I’d ask. I’m not sure I like having to peel away the layers of this story one by one.”

“Be more forthcoming.” I stood. I had what I needed. “If that’s all, I’ll go on with the job.”

“O’Connell?”

“He’s probably dead by now, but I have to find him, one way or another.”

“Keep me in the loop. Monica wants to know.”

“Of course.”

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 54

Day 54 – Anger and confusion as inspiration

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When Anger & Confusion Become Creative Fuel

How the messier emotions in our lives can spark our most powerful ideas

“The best art comes from a place of discomfort.” – Anonymous

We’re taught to chase calm, to “think clearly” before we write, paint, design, or launch a new project. Yet some of the most unforgettable works—whether a novel that reshaped a generation, a song that still makes us shiver, or a startup that turned an industry upside‑down—were born from moments of angry frustration or gut‑wrenching confusion.

If you’ve ever felt a surge of irritation while stuck in traffic, or a bewildering swirl of thoughts after a heated argument, you already have a well‑spring of raw material waiting to be transformed. The trick isn’t to suppress those feelings, but to channel them.

Below, we’ll explore why anger and confusion are surprisingly fertile creative soil, look at real‑world examples, and walk through practical steps you can use right now to turn those messy emotions into compelling content, products, or art.

1. Why the “Negative” Emotions Matter

Emotion	What It Does to Your Brain	How It Helps Creativity
Anger	Triggers the amygdala, spikes adrenaline, and heightens focus on perceived threats.	Sharpens problem‑solving, fuels urgency, and pushes you to “break the rules” to resolve the tension.
Confusion	Activates the prefrontal cortex as you search for meaning and coherence.	Forces you to ask why and how, encouraging divergent thinking and novel connections.

Energy Surge – Both anger and confusion release physiological energy (adrenaline, cortisol). When redirected, that energy can become the stamina needed for long writing sessions or intense brainstorming.
Narrative Drive – Stories thrive on conflict. Anger supplies a clear antagonist (the source of frustration), while confusion supplies the mystery that keeps the audience hooked.
Authenticity – Audiences can sense when a piece is born from genuine feeling. Raw, unfiltered emotion builds trust and resonance.

2. Legends Who Turned Rage & Uncertainty Into Masterpieces

Creator	Emotion	Resulting Work	Why It Worked
Vincent Van Gogh	Deep melancholy & inner turmoil (bordering on confusion)	Starry Night	The turbulent sky mirrors his mental state, turning personal chaos into universal beauty.
Kanye West	Public outrage & indignation after award show snubs	“Yeezus” (2013)	Aggressive beats and confrontational lyrics harnessed his anger, producing one of his most daring albums.
Malala Yousafzai	Fear and outrage at oppression	I Am Malala (memoir)	The anger at injustice fueled a powerful narrative that inspired global activism.
James Dyson	Frustration with underperforming vacuum cleaners	Dyson Cyclone technology	Anger at the status quo drove relentless prototyping, resulting in a market‑disrupting product.

These stories underscore a simple truth: the more personal the friction, the more universal the impact—when you translate your private storm into public art, you give others permission to feel seen.

3. From Internal Turmoil to Tangible Output – A Step‑by‑Step Workflow

TL;DR: Capture, Clarify, Convert, Polish.

Step 1 – Capture the Spark

Immediate journal: Keep a small notebook or note‑app on hand. As soon as you feel a flash of anger or a wave of confusion, jot down:
- What triggered it? (e.g., “Stuck in endless Zoom meetings.”)
- Physical sensations (e.g., “Heart pounding, jaw clenched.”)
- One‑sentence “headline” that captures the feeling (“Enough is enough: the meeting apocalypse”).
Voice memo: If you’re on the go, record a 30‑second rant. Hearing your own tone later can reveal nuances you missed in writing.

Step 2 – Clarify the Core Question

Anger often hides a demand (“I want this to change”).
Confusion hides a gap (“I don’t understand why this happened”).
Translate each entry into a concrete question:
- “How can remote work be more humane?”
- “Why do we default to endless meetings, and what alternatives exist?”

Step 3 – Brainstorm Solutions/Angles

Set a timer (10–15 minutes) and list all possible responses—no judgment.
Use “yes, and…” improvisation technique to build on each idea.
Highlight any that feel contrarian or provocative; anger loves a good rebellion.

Step 4 – Create a First Draft

Structure: Problem (the anger/confusion) → Exploration (your research/brainstorm) → Resolution (your insight or call‑to‑action).
Write in a voice that mirrors the original emotion: short, punchy sentences for anger; meandering, question‑filled prose for confusion.

Step 5 – Cool‑Down & Polish

Take a short break (5–10 minutes) to let the adrenaline subside.
Revise for clarity: Replace raw outbursts with purposeful language while preserving intensity.
Add humanising details (an anecdote, a metaphor) to help readers connect.

4. Practical Tips for Different Creative Mediums

Medium	Harnessing Anger	Harnessing Confusion
Writing (blog, fiction, copy)	Use strong verbs (“shatter”, “explode”) and short paragraphs to replicate urgency.	Embrace open‑ended questions and fragmented sentences that mimic mental looping.
Visual Art / Design	Bold, contrasting colors (red, black) and jagged lines convey tension.	Layered textures, ambiguous shapes, or “visual riddles” invite viewers to decode the piece.
Music / Audio	Aggressive tempos, distorted instruments, lyrical repetitions (“I’m done, I’m done”).	Dissonant chords, irregular time signatures, spoken‑word interludes that ask “what’s next?”
Product Development	Identify the pain point that fuels the anger; prototype a solution that eliminates that pain.	Map out the confusion journey (user flow gaps) and redesign for clarity, turning uncertainty into elegance.
Marketing	Campaigns that call out a common frustration (“Stop waiting for support”) often go viral.	Story‑driven ads that pose a mystery (“What happens when…?”) encourage engagement and shares.

5. Avoiding the Pitfalls

Risk	Warning Sign	Mitigation
Burnout	You keep feeding on anger without rest.	Schedule “emotion detox” days (no work, just leisure).
Over‑Negativity	The final piece sounds purely bitter, alienating the audience.	Balance with hope or solution; end on a constructive note.
Unclear Messaging	Confusion remains unresolved for the reader.	Ensure the conclusion clearly answers the core question you posed.
Echo Chamber	You only share with people who agree with your rage.	Seek diverse feedback; a calm third‑party can spot blind spots.

6. A Mini‑Exercise to Try Right Now

Pick a recent moment of anger or confusion (e.g., the last time a software glitch ruined your workflow).
Write a 150‑word micro‑story that starts with a vivid line of that feeling.
- Angry example: “The screen froze, and my deadline sprint turned into a marathon of curses.”
- Confused example: “Why does the ‘Save’ button disappear right when I need it most?”
Identify the underlying demand or question.
Add a single, unexpected twist that resolves the tension in a fresh way.
Read it aloud—does the emotion still feel punchy? If not, sharpen the language.

Do this daily for a week and watch how quickly raw moments become polished ideas.

7. Closing Thoughts: Embrace the Storm

Creativity isn’t a serene garden; it’s a storm‑tossed sea where the fiercest winds generate the biggest waves. Anger and confusion are not obstacles to be sidestepped; they are compasses pointing toward the stories, solutions, and art that matter most.

When you feel that heat rising or your thoughts spiralling, ask yourself:

What is this feeling demanding of me?
What truth lies hidden beneath the confusion?

Then, grab your notebook, your sketchpad, or your laptop, and turn that turbulence into triumph.

Ready to test the theory? Share a snippet of your angry‑or‑confused‑inspired work in the comments below. Let’s turn the collective noise into a chorus of brilliant ideas.

What I learned about writing – Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?

Perhaps not in the beginning, but as time passed, yes.

In my younger years, as an awkward child who didn’t fare well in school, with the sort of boys who treated the weaker kids with aggression, and at home, where we were victims of domestic violence, it became necessary to immerse myself in another world than the one that I lived in.

That’s when I began to invent different lives, mostly generated from reading books morning, noon and night and spending any spare time in the school library, anywhere other than in the schoolyard.

Those books fuelled my imagination. I could be anyone else other than who I was, go anywhere, and do anything. The Secret Seven, The Famous Five, Biggles, Billy Bunter, all those characters that today would never get a fair chance.

Soon, those imaginings became scribbles, and the first story I wrote was one of a spy landing on a distant beach in another country and executing a mission which, when I look back, was rather strange, but it kept me busy.

Then a thousand or so books later, fuelled by Alistair MacLean, Hammond Innes, James Patterson, Clive Cussler, Steve Berry, David Baldacci, and countless others, I improved my writing skills, the story became more focused and less childish, and I decided thrillers were the go.

And when romance didn’t seem to work out all that well, I decided to write myself into one, imagining how it would be. For that, I devoured a few Mills and Boons, but when it came time to write a similar story, it got halfway, then veered into thriller territory.

I think, in that first effort, I was not the hero, but the forever-tired, always battling to stay alive and discovering the love of his life, found ways they could not be together. A bit like real life at times.

In my latest effort, I used to read stories for my grandchildren, and then foolishly one night told her I would write a better fair tale. After 11 years, much toiling and excuses for not having it done, I have finished it. 3 volumes, 1,000 plus pages, it is an epic.

Did I always want to be a writer?

Maybe I did and just didn’t realise it back when I was too young to know.

“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

‘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

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 54

Day 54 – Anger and confusion as inspiration

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