An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 27

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

I was taken to the hospital, despite the fact the paramedics deemed that I might not be as badly concussed as they first thought. At the very least, I got a ride in the ambulance and painkilling pills that were very effective.

They kept me in the emergency department in between being taken for X-Rays, and I think something they called a CT Scan. Whatever it was, it didn’t help my claustrophobia. When that was completed, my mother was waiting in the cubicle. Benderby, looking concerned, stood behind her.

After the attendant left, he said, “I’ll be going now. Take all the time you need to recover Sam; I’ll make sure you don’t lose any wages over this. And you can be assured that it will not happen again, and we will get the people who did this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m just glad nothing worse happened to you.”

He said something to my mother in hushed tones and then left. My mother had got over her initial reaction, and a more curious look had replaced the one of fear.

“Tell me you didn’t try to apprehend those thieves yourself, Sam.”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t know there was anyone in the building until I was hit from behind. I’m not sure what they thought they were going to find there that was of any value, it’s just parts for some of the products built there.”

“People will steal anything for money these days. You should know that. Times are not as good for some. Perhaps it’s not a good idea for you to work there is this is going to happen again.”

“You heard Mr Benderby. He’ll make sure security is improved, and I suspect I was in the wrong place at the wrong time because I don’t normally go into the warehouse itself, that someone else’s purview. So, stop worrying, and go home. I’m fine.”

I wished she would go. I wanted to check if Boggs had been brought in and see what had happened to him. I also wanted to know if the perpetrator was Vince. If it was, Nadia was first on my list for a visit when I got out of the hospital.

It seemed to mollify her concern.

“Mr Benderby said to tell you if you need a ride home, to call this number,” she gave me a piece of paper with a phone number on it, “and a driver will come. He’s been very nice about everything. You will thank him.”

“I will. Yes. Now go home. Get some rest. And stop worrying about me.”

Ten minutes later, I got off the bed and stood. Well, I tried to stand, but my head wasn’t quite ready to accept that it was in command of everything else. It took only seconds for the room to start spinning, and I had to lie down again.

My reconnaissance was going to have to wait for an hour or so.

A nurse came and checked my blood pressure and pulse, both high but not off the chart, and she went off looking concerned.

A few minutes after that an orderly went by with another bed, empty but recently used, and I recognised him as another of the boys Boggs and I went to school with. He was destined for bigger things, but it seems he, too, never got out of the neighbourhood.

He saw me looking at him, stopped, and his expression told me he’d recognised me.

“Sam?”

“Angelo?”

“The same. I’ll be back after I’ve dropped off this bed. Won’t be long. I won’t ask how you are, you must be sick if you’re in that bed.”

True. And it was natural to ask, ‘How are you?’ when you see someone after having not seen them a while, even if you are in a hospital. A weird custom indeed, which occupied my thoughts till he returned.

Angelo had been the smartest kid in our class, and we had all assumed that he would become a doctor, or a lawyer, one of those jobs that made piles of money. He was also the boy whom all the girls swooned over.

Being his friend had benefits.

Unfortunately, Boggs and I, not being the two brightest kids, didn’t register on his friend’s scale. In his favour, he was not a bully like Monty was, but I guess that went with being one of the school’s star athletes, but he did simply ignore us.

Now, it seems the mighty had fallen. It was a destiny that seemed to befall anyone who came from our neighbourhood.

The same could be said for Monty, who got a sports scholarship to further his sporting career, but he too stumbled at the second hurdle, being done for performance-enhancing drugs, and banished to the boondocks from whence he came.

Now, as far as I knew, he was working for the Colosimo’s.

Angelo seemed bright enough. That impression was confirmed when he returned with two bottles of soda and handed one to me.

“Hopefully it won’t kill you,” he said, sitting down.

“Shouldn’t. I’m here because someone hit me over the head.”

“Bar fight?”

Once, in the old days, that might be the case. “If only I could take the bragging rights, but no. I work over at Benderby’s warehouse, and someone broke it. Seems I got in the way.”

“Benderby’s eh? Thought you said you’d die before ever working for them.”

True, we all said the same, in school, as naïve children who hadn’t yet learned how tough the world was going to be.

“Needs must. My mother isn’t getting any younger, and it’s a struggle. But I guess you already know that. You were going to be a doctor, not a trolley pusher.”

His shook his head. “As you say, reality trumps dreams. Education costs, my parents couldn’t raise the money, and, well, I think you know the rest.”

A minute’s silence for the death of whatever dreams we may have had passed.

“Have you seen Boggs. He’s here somewhere.”

“I saw him in ER, didn’t look too good, but I think it was mostly superficial wounds. Apparently, some unknown assailants beat him up. You two still hang out together?”

“Off and on.”

You weren’t with him when this happened.” He nodded towards the bandage on my head.

“No.” but, I thought, it was most likely the same person who inflicted both injuries. Had Boggs set us both up for some reason? It had to do with the treasure, and now Vince was in on the act.

“Does Boggs still go on about that Pirate treasure he reckons is buried here somewhere? I mean, his dad used to bang on about it, and there’s no doubt it got him killed. You reckon someone went after Boggs over it?”

Angelo hadn’t forgotten that even in school, Boggs had said he was going to be a treasure hunter when he grew up, and he had a map that would be the basis of his first quest. That same map he told me was his father’s.

That same map that had got both of us beaten up.

“Is he here, somewhere?” I asked.

“Next ward. Last I saw he was out; they gave him a sedative so he could rest.”

Squawking sounds came out of Angelo’s communicator, and only he seemed to know what it meant.

He stood. “Got to go now. Perhaps we can catch up later.”

What I learned about writing – When words become more than words

From Page to Panorama: Weaving Mythopoetic Grandeur into the Fabric of Reality

We’ve all experienced it. That moment when a skilled author transports us, not just to a place, but into a feeling, a scent, a visceral understanding of something utterly foreign yet strangely resonant. It’s the magic of descriptive writing, the alchemical process of turning mere words into sensory experiences. But what happens when we take those finely honed fictional tools and turn them towards the canvas of our own reality? What happens when we begin to weave the mythopoetic grandeur, usually reserved for fantastical realms, into the mundane fabric of everyday life?

This is where the truly transformative power emerges. It’s not about escaping reality, but about re-enchanting it. It’s about recognising that the same imaginative muscles that conjured dragons and epic quests can, with a shift in perspective, illuminate the epic within the ordinary.

The Foundation: The Art of Observational Detail

Before we can imbue our reality with mythopoetic grandeur, we must first become masters of observation. Fictional writers are meticulous. They don’t just say a character is sad; they describe the slump of their shoulders, the way their eyes lose their sparkle, the quiet tremor in their voice. They don’t just say a forest is dark; they paint a picture of gnarled branches like skeletal fingers, shafts of light like ethereal swords, the damp, earthy scent of decay and rebirth.

Applying this to real life means waking up our senses. It means noticing the way the morning light bleeds across the linoleum of your kitchen, transforming it into a pool of molten gold. It’s observing the intricate, almost alien architecture of a spiderweb glistening with dew, a delicate, ephemeral fortress. It’s listening to the symphony of a city at dusk – the distant siren a mournful lament, the laughter of children a fleeting melody, the rumble of traffic a subterranean dragon stirring.

The Alchemy: Infusing Significance and Symbolism

Once we have our raw observational material, the next step is the alchemical process of infusing it with meaning. This is where the “mythopoetic” truly takes hold. We move beyond simple description to interpretation, imbuing our observations with layers of significance and symbolism, much like ancient storytellers did.

The Mundane Becomes Mythic: A walk to the grocery store isn’t just an errand. It can be a pilgrimage through the daily labyrinth, a quest for sustenance that echoes the ancient hunts. The cashier, with their practised smile, could be a guardian of provisions, a dispenser of earthly blessings.
The Everyday Becomes Archetypal: The familiar faces we encounter can be viewed through the lens of archetypes. The wise elder at the park bench might embody the archetype of the Sage. The boisterous teenager could be the Rebel, challenging the established order with youthful energy.
The Emotional Landscape Gains Depth: Sadness isn’t just a feeling; it’s a “gathering storm,” a “heavy cloak,” a “deep well of unspoken grief.” Joy isn’t just happiness; it’s a “sunburst,” a “lightness of being,” a “song rising from the soul.”

The Grandeur: Elevating the Narrative of Our Lives

The ultimate goal is to elevate the narrative of our own lives, to recognise the inherent grandeur that often lies dormant beneath the surface of routine. This doesn’t mean fabricating events or pretending our challenges aren’t real. Instead, it’s about framing them within a larger, more resonant context.

Consider a difficult conversation. Instead of simply recalling the angry words, we can describe the “clash of wills,” the “stalemate of emotions,” the “fragile truce that followed.” A moment of quiet contemplation isn’t just zoning out; it’s “diving into the depths of the inner sea,” “listening to the whispers of the subconscious.”

Why Does This Matter?

Turning fictional descriptive skills to the rendering of real life in mythopoetic grandeur is more than just a creative exercise. It’s a way to:

Deepen our appreciation for life: By seeing the extraordinary in the ordinary, we cultivate a richer, more vibrant experience of our existence.
Foster resilience: Framing challenges as epic struggles or tests of character can empower us to face them with greater courage and determination.
Connect with something larger than ourselves: Mythopoetic language often taps into universal themes of creation, struggle, love, and loss, fostering a sense of belonging to something ancient and profound.
Communicate more effectively and evocatively: Whether in personal writing, artistic expression, or even everyday conversation, this elevated language can captivate and resonate with others.

The world around us is a vast, intricate tapestry, already rich with potential for wonder and awe. By learning to wield the tools of fictional description with conscious intent, we can begin to see the mythopoetic grandeur woven into the very fabric of our reality. We can stop being passive observers and become active, imaginative narrators of our own magnificent lives. So, open your eyes, awaken your senses, and start painting the world in hues of myth and legend. The grandest stories, after all, are often the ones happening right under our noses.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 181

Day 181 – Writing Exercise

How can you trust a person you know is telling you outright lies?

…

There’s nothing worse than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I got there by trying to prove myself among a group of four colleagues who had been working together for years.

They clearly didn’t want a fifth wheel.

And they certainly didn’t like the idea of a forcibly retired field agent looking for a quiet berth to see out his service.

The section head in charge told me quite clearly that the department had made a mistake, that his research team did not need another member, and they certainly didn’t want an ex-field agent.

He was miffed because the department head had decided my knowledge and expertise were too valuable to toss on the scrapheap.

No one else in that group had seen field service or understood those who came from it. To them, the information they provided was 100 per cent useful, when in my particular case, it was not.

In that first meeting when I arrived, and listened to the broad outline of what the team provided, I could have categorically proved that information, sometimes poorly researched, had caused actual deaths of top-line agents, and taking into account my last personal experience, it had led to me unwillingly landing on their doorstep.

Such was the arrogance, I wanted to personally throttle two of them, but I decided it was neither the time or the place. It was a matter of head down, minding my own business, and only consulting with the others when necessary.

And then only with extreme reluctance.

Which led to the seminal moment. There was a cafe not far from the office, one I discovered the day I first arrived, where I needed a strong coffee before walking through the door.

The waitress, Angelique, according to her nametag, was bright and cheerful, the exact opposite of what I was feeling. It was hard not to feel her enthusiasm, and it had lightened my mood.

So much so, I preferred to spend my morning and afternoon breaks in the cafe rather than be ignored in the cafeteria.

Sometimes the others, singly or in pairs, never the whole four at once, would come in. I deliberately sat where I could not be seen very clearly and observed them. Those conversations when they sat close enough were priceless.

Angelique brought my coffee and her surprise cake. I always let her decide which cake. Then two of my colleagues came in. They did not look happy.

Nor did they see me, but then they would have to be deliberately looking for me. They sat two tables across on the other side of a dividing hedge.

Angelique went over to them and took their order. Two cappuccinos. Perhaps the automatic coffee machine in the cafeteria had broken down.

“I’m telling you, Sandra, Roger thinks he’s a spy.”

“Roger jumps at shadows. Don’t you think it’s time to cut him loose? He’s never going to leave his wife. She controls the money.”

“He says it’s complicated.”

“All married men say that. As for Stevens, he was a spy, could still be a spy, but the reality is, good spies don’t get sent to our corner of the universe unless they failed badly.”

“You don’t think he’s been sent to see why some of the briefings were not quite up to the mark. I mean that Paris mission…”

My last job. Not up to the mark? It provided out-of-date information, a critical schedule change that was missed.

“Roger approved it. He said he checked it.”

“How, Eva? He was with you?”

“I’m not to blame here. That’s up to him to juggle things. He would have postponed, like he has before, when things get tight.”

“You need to dump him before he takes you down with him, or worse, sets you up to take the fall.”

“He wouldn’t.”

Sandra just shook her head and said nothing. The coffee arrived.

“Anyway,” Sandra said, “it might well be a moot point. Roger has a plan to get rid of him. It worked with the others, and this guy looks about ready to quit anyway.”

“You think so. I wouldn’t underestimate what he’s capable of if he were an agent. I’d like to know just how many people he’s killed.”

“You’re just morbid.”

“No. Practical. Mark my words. There’s more to him than meets the eye.”

…

I was a spy, for want of a better word. It was made very clear when the department head came to visit me before discharge from the hospital that I would not likely be sent back into the field

It was when he pitched the research job.

By then, I needed something, anything to take my mind off the nightmare.

I went to see him a few weeks later, at his request. It was the second time I’d been in his office, all dark wood and leather furniture. The polished almost made my eyes water.

The cigar smoke did.

“That position I was talking about, it has taken on a new aspect. The ops manager has completed his review of your mission and found that the briefing reference material was lacking.”

“Wrong.”

“By and large, it was right, except for several crucial details. The question he raises is whether or not it was deliberate.”

“A traitor?”

“An incompetent fool, more likely. But that’s for you to determine. We’re sending you there. I know the chap who runs it. He’s going to fight this and make your life hell.”

“So another MacCallister then.”

That was a story. The man I had to impress to get into the service. The man who failed 80 per cent of his charges in the first week. He and I were chalk and cheese.

“Worse. MacCallister knows when he’s met a worthy opponent. Roger Ballins doesn’t. He’s broken every new person we’ve sent.”

I shrugged. “He hasn’t had the Berkeley twins find his breaking point then.”

The Berkeley twins were the department’s interrogation team. We all went through what was called the ‘break test’. It was near the end of the training, and the cause of a lot of the remaining candidates failing.

“Not yet. Let’s hope it does not come to that.”

…

So, Roger had a plan. It bothered me that the two of them had no concept of what secrecy was, or had a modicum of training in how to maintain a certain level of anonymity, given the job they were doing.

It raised the question of whether they frequently discussed their research out of the office. I doubted anyone was aware of how bad security was at the section.

Especially when it involved another employee, in this case, me.

If their plan involved overloading me with work, it wasn’t working. Roger had been subtly dumping new requests in my in-tray every morning, and then asking the same afternoon what the status was on them.

The daily meetings each morning saw the others clearing requests while I was not. Roger hadn’t said anything yet, but that might be the next phase of the plan.

My first day, he’d started with the spiel that it was a tight-knit crew who had been working well together for years, and there was no need for another.

For that reason, I just didn’t get to work with any of the others, and any requests I made of them were either ignored or I was given the excuse that they were too busy.

That then led to them spreading niggling half-truths woven into far larger tales of my aloofness, inability to work in a team, confrontational attitude, and lack of interpersonal skills.

Sadly, half of that was true. I didn’t want to work with them, and even less so now after overhearing them. I wished I hadn’t.

I stewed over their comments on the short walk back to the office, and it was no surprise to find Roger waiting for me when I returned.

“Where have you been?” It wasn’t asked in the politest of tones.

I quickly glanced at the others who had their heads down.

“Out for a head-clearing walk. It’s marvellous what the London Transport diesel fumes can do for the mind.”

I couldn’t tell him I was up the road having a coffee break.

“You might think….”

It was as far as he got. The department head chose that exact moment to walk through the door. An unannounced visit.

The four others suddenly looked more alert and on their guard.

He looked at me. “Stevens, you are here. I was told operations sent you to apply your field experience to improving the relevance of the briefing papers.” He swung around and looked at Roger. “I’m sure you’ve been using Stevens as an expert resource to assist the team?”

“I … well.. I was not aware that was the intention.”

He shook his head, then turned back to me. “Just what has he been using you for?”

“Research, which is what I assumed I was here for.”

“God no. Operations assured me they would pass on my request that every briefing now has to pass through you to ensure that it’s relevant and correct from the field agents’ perspective.”

He turned back to Roger, who was almost cowering. “Operations sent me the memo, and your name was on the distribution list. Go and find it and take the time to find an excuse why you haven’t implemented a direct order. I’ll be in the cafeteria. Stevens, you’re with me.”

A last look before I followed him out, it looked like the gang of five just got a very swift kick where it hurt.

Good.

….

“Roger was a washout from the training program about ten years ago, sold operations on the idea that a person who understood the field agents’ perspective would add value to the research process. Trouble is, he was never in the field.”

“Maybe it was more about resenting the fact he was washed out.”

Coffee in the cafeteria had a very distinctive taste, and one I could see wasn’t appreciated. I wondered if that meant he would do something about it.

“Maybe he’s just an incompetent fool. What have you found out?”

“Eva did the Paris report, sent it to Roger. Thing is, they are having an affair, and if I overheard the conversation correctly, he was too busy spending time with her to check the report.”

“Are you listening at keyholes?” He seemed surprised.

I was going to tell him that spies were notorious for listening at keyholes, but thought the better of it.

“There’s a Cafe not far up the road. God knows how many others heard the same conversation. They don’t seem to know much about security.”

The surprise changed to annoyance, but that was the moment Roger came in, saw us, and came over.

He waited until he was told to sit.

“I’m sorry, sir. It was buried in a pile of requests.”

I didn’t believe him. He would have seen it and filed it, hoping no one would ever notice. Especially the department head.

“That’s the first strike, Roger. What were your conclusions in the investigation I asked for on the Paris mission? You’ve had three months.”

“We’ve been busy.”

“You told me categorically that you had sufficient staff to handle the workload. That was obviously a lie. I sent someone down to help, and you still seem to be overwhelmed. That’s the second strike, Roger.”

There was no comeback for that, and it was interesting to see someone else squirm under the intensity of the department head. Rumour had it he was once an excellent interrogator who didn’t need the usual tools of the trade.

“I … we .. “

“Go back to the office, Roger, before you register that fatal third strike. I need a little time to consider what we need to do moving forward. I have to say I’m extremely disappointed. Go.”

I doubted Roger liked the idea of being dismissed, and it was going to make my position less tenable, being present at his dressing down.

“They might all resign,” I said.

“That wouldn’t be the worst outcome. There are at least a dozen other candidates that could instantly fill their shoes.”

“I think the problem is not with the staff, it’s the person in charge.”

“Then you can take over and restore some discipline. Problem solved.”

“Temporarily.” I had no wish to be running a section full of resentful people.

“Fix this for me, and we’ll talk about where you go next.” He took another sip of his coffee and made a face. “This is terrible. We’ll have to do something about this, too.”

…

We went back to the office, and the department head sent Roger off on stress leave, then announced my promotion to acting section head.

No one said a word, but the expressions said more than words could. Each of them blamed me for his removal, and especially Eva.

After the department head left, I called a meeting. I seriously believed they would simply ignore me, but then they shuffled into the room and sat in their usual chairs.

I looked at each one of them and could feel the resentment.

I looked at Eva. “Just so you know, I was sent on that Paris mission. I was lucky, I lived. Just. Three others died, and believe me when I tell you, being there and watching them die because someone didn’t do their job properly, well, you are very fortunate I didn’t throttle you the first day I got here.”

“It was not my fault.” Petulant.

“What do you call fucking your section leader when he should be critiquing your work?”

“How…”

It was said to shock her, and it had the effect I was looking for. She was arrogant, but arrogance only lasts until the reason for it is broken. As long as Roger was there, she felt bulletproof.

Now I just had to dispel the notion I had overheard them earlier. She was clever nonetheless, and I was not going to underestimate her.

“The department carries out periodical checks on staff who are in positions where discretion is paramount. A foreign agent could quite easily use your illicit affair as leverage. You do understand what leverage is, don’t you? The internal report on your report actually suggested that you had been compromised and forced to provide flawed information.”

It was the last nail in the coffin that held her invincibility. I don’t think any of them had been told of the importance of their work.

There was still a little iron in her tone, but the facade was cracking. “I would never do that.”

“You wouldn’t have a choice. The fact that you left yourself open to the possibility is bad enough. The real problem is that your mind wasn’t on the job at hand. The fact that Roger let it happen is even worse.”

She didn’t ask the bigger question: why didn’t she get the sack, which is generally the first option in situations like this? Instead, she went with, “What’s going to happen to him?”

“You should be more worried about yourself,” Sandra said. “I told you the bastard would drag you down with him.”

Her friend was right.

“You are very lucky not to have followed him out the door. Instead, your first job will be to write a report on the complete process beyond the reference paper you wrote for the Paris Mission. I want all the sources annotated. You need to tell the truth, and it’s the only chance you will get to keep your job. Am I understood?”

I saw Sandra squeeze her hand. A tear escaped from watery eyes. The defiance was gone, replaced by recognition that she was in a very bad place.

“Understood.”

“As for the rest of you, next week you will be attending security briefings. From now on, not one word of what you do, where you work, or who you work for is to be repeated outside this office. In a month, we will be changing offices. I assume you’ve told just anyone who would listen all about this place. Now you have to tell them that the unit was disbanded and you’ve been reassigned. Security will also be a lot tighter, and breaches of it will be dealt with summarily. Anyone who does not want to stay under the new conditions can give notice by the end of the week.”

The four were visibly shellshocked.

“Any questions?”

Sandra looked at me with what I would call an unfathomable expression. I’d seen it once before, from a person I misjudged.

“How many people have you killed?”

For some reason, I had been expecting it.

“I’d like to say none, but when you are in a life-or-death moment, you are taught to make an instant decision based on the imminent threat to your life. The simple answer is only when I absolutely had to. It doesn’t pay to have too many ghosts of your enemies haunting your dreams.”

Question time over, I sent them back to work.

…

There’s an old saying, “A leopard cannot change its spots”, and unfortunately, Eva was a prime example.

I had hoped that she understood her situation, certainly she did what I had requested and wrote a report that told me that the section was lacking certain specific resources that a simple check would have uncovered.

It means that the section, when it is relocated, would have a resources manager whose sole job will be to keep everything up to date.

Aside from that, it wasn’t hard to see that she had not broken off the relationship with Roger and was in fact, reporting back to him what was happening.

Roger probably believed that he was coming back at the end of his stress leave, a question I asked the department head. A reply came back to tell me he had been reassigned.

So, he was lying to Eva, but that wasn’t really the issue. She was violating what was now a golden rule. No telling anyone the nature of our work or the existence of the office.

Which, unfortunately, led to a request to come to my office when she arrived. We had just started at the new building, where security was very tight.

She knocked on the door, a half hour after the appointed time. Some of that arrogance had returned, probably fed to her by Roger telling her that I had no real authority.

I did admonish her for lateness. I could overlook a lot of minor indiscretions so long as the work ethic was there.

Operations had received an anonymous letter about certain aspects of the section that apparently were not within the department’s guidelines.

It was supposed to be a reflection on my ineptitude in running what a functioning section was, and had now become a disparate and dysfunctional group without proper leadership.

A list of infractions followed.

As soon as she sat down, I handed her the document.

“Quite a damning expose, don’t you think?”

She glanced at the document and tossed the file back on the desk. “I wouldn’t know, it’s the first time I’ve seen it.”

“But it doesn’t relate to certain events in this office.”

“It appears so.”

“And you had nothing to do with it?”

“No.”

“And you have broken off all relations with Roger?”

A very subtle change in expression. A seasoned interrogator would pick up on it.

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“The day he left the office.”

“You do realise that when you signed your new employment contract recently, you agreed that the department can, at any time, instigate standard personnel checks to determine your security status.”

The eyes changed, just for a second. People needed time to process a question and then work on a suitable and believable response.

“That may also include a lie detector test.”

“Are you deliberately handing me grounds for a harassment case?”

I shrugged, opened the top drawer, pulled out a folder and pushed it across the desk.

“You tell me.”

First reaction, she did not want to reach for it. From the moment she uttered that previous statement until I pulled out the file, she had been smug.

She had also been lying to my face.

I was willing to accept the four of them at face value and treated them all equally and equitably. I hadn’t expected to get that particular letter, but I knew Roger well enough to know he would retaliate in some way, and that he might reach out to Eva.

“Sandra was right, Eva. Roger didn’t care that much about you, so he was willing to take you down with him. I have to say I misjudged you. I’m usually a better judge of character.”

“What’s in the file?”

“Photographs and a transcript of your conversation.”

“How many people know?”

“The Department head, head of operations and me. We were expecting it. You had to know that we would be monitoring you.”

Smug expression gone, but there was still defiance. She sighed. “What happens now?”

“You find another job. You’ve proved that you can’t be trusted, so it cannot be for any government organisation. Unfortunately, when the authorities came to arrest Roger, he decided not to come in quietly. There was an exchange of shots, and he didn’t survive. He left behind a confession that also explains your actions, and that this latest development was your idea for revenge.”

“And now he’s dead, and the lies earlier you will not believe anything I say.” She shook her head. “Am I free to go?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you are.”

“But…”

“When you leave here, you will be met by a woman. I suggest you make the time to hear what she has to say. It may be the only way you will get to see light at the end of a very dark tunnel “

She stood. “You’re scaring me, now.”

“Good, because that same woman told me that fear was going to be my only friend when the chips were down. It’s why I’m still here, and still breathing. Take some advice. Listen to her.

…

In a word: Stern

It’s what I’d always expected of my teachers, having to stand up the front of the classroom and look like they were in control.

These days, not so much, but back in my day, teachers, and particularly the men, were to be feared, and stern expressions were the features of an effective teacher.

So, in this context, it means a hardness or severity of manner.

Whilst in a sense that was frightening to us kids, another form of the word also can be used to express a forbidding or gloomy appearance.

Grandfathers also have that stern look, but it’s more forbidding, more authoritarian, more severe, more austere, well, you get the picture. A six-year-old would be trembling in his or her boots.

There again, in facing up to either possibility above, you could stand firm with a stern resolve not to buckle under the pressure.

Of course, not a good idea if you’re facing a tank (with a stern-looking tank master)

Then…

If you’re standing at the end of the boat, not the front, but the rear, you would be standing at the stern of the boat, or ship.

Oddly, when issuing instructions to go in reverse, not something you would say if you were on the bridge, you would instead say, or possibly yell, full speed astern, because you’re about to hit an iceberg.

Or some idiot in a jet ski who likes to think he or she can beat the bullet (or 65,000 tonnes of a ship that has very little mobility).

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life. Again.