Category: Creative Writing

The 2am Rant: I think the asylum is beckoning

I’m sitting at my desk surrounded by any number of scraps of paper with more storylines, written excerpts, parts of stories, and a number of chapters of a work in progress.

Does this happen to anyone else?

The business of writing requires a talent to keep focused on the one project and silence all the other screaming voices in your head, pouring out their side of the story.

But it’s not working.

I try to be determined in my efforts to edit my current completed novel, after letting it ‘rest’ in my head for a few months.

I planned to have some time off, but all of those prisoners in my head started clamouring for my attention.  A story I started some time ago needs revising, another story I wrote last year of NANOWRIMO has come back to haunt me, and characters, well, they’re out in the waiting room, pacing up and down, ready to tell me their life stories.

Is the temporary cure coffee or wine?

Now I think I really do need a holiday

Or a trip to the asylum.  Thank God this is not the early 20th century, or I might never return.  And if it’s named Bellview, it would be just another story to be written.

The Author that went Bonkers!

Does it ever end?

What I learned about writing – You need to manage your time

It’s something that I have never been able to get a handle on, and I seem to stagger from one day to the next without getting anything done.

Over the years many people tried, some with limited success, others completely failing.  I had a boss who once sent me to time management classes and then expected me to manage my time better.  Alas, I can still see her shrugging at the impossibility of it.

The thing is, I’m one of those freeform sorts of people and I guess it goes with the star sign, Gemini.

Yes, I’ve been to quite a few of those time management courses over time, with the books and diaries seeming to want you to time manage your life.  I considered it a bit like micromanagement where your supervisor had access to the diary and put in the work, the estimated time and when it was expected to be finished.  Their idea of managing their expectations in your space.

I didn’t work well with deadlines.

But oddly enough most of the jobs I’ve had over the years have involved time management of one sort or another and I have survived, mostly due to the fact most of my managers had given up.  Stuff got done, more or less on time, so all was well.

Now, in semi-retirement, I really need something to organize my days so something gets done.  As a writer allocating 12 midnight to 2am for writing doesn’t seem to be a good idea.

Unfortunately, it is the best time for me to write.

Is anyone else out there with the same problem, and if so what was your answer to the time management problem?

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 241/242

Days 241 and 242 – Writing Exercise

…

It had been a very difficult decision to walk away from what had been my home, and not only my home but that of my brothers and sisters, but my father’s choices, after our mother died, had created an impossible situation.

My father was never the sort of man who never argued or exerted his authority.  He preferred to let his wife, our mother, do everything, and while she was alive and had the best of intentions, everything was fine

Then she got ill and died.  He was like a rudderless ship, drifting in the middle of an empty ocean.  When it became too much, my sister registered him with a group who had all suffered the same malaise.  The loss of a lifelong partner.

That’s where he met Mathilde Watson.

Everything was fine for the first few months.  He got his mojo back, and he’d found another woman who was happy to take charge.

Except …

She was only interested in what she needed for herself and her children, and simply ignored, or made it known in a less-than-subtle manner, made it known that the rest of his family were no longer welcome. 

Within a year, all four of us children by his first marriage had moved out, or more to the point, were forced out, and her three children and her parents had settled in, making themselves at home.

We tried to tell him, but in the end he believed that we were upset that he had found another wife, and didn’t want him to be happy again.  It was pure Mathilde speaking, but in the end, we simply acknowledged that he was not going to change.

Then, that first Christmas we all came back, she had engineered an argument, one I, and the others should have expected, and more to the point, should have known better than to bite, and for myself,  my last words with him were regrettable.  I didn’t stay to hear what the others had said, but our group chat on social media lit up for about a month afterwards

We had all worked hard over subsequent years to repair the damage she had inflicted, but it was too late.

For all of us.

He got ill, and Mathilde deliberately or otherwise managed to make it almost impossible for any of us to see him except at the very end, when we each got a message to come home.

At least all of us had been with him when he died.  Where Mathilde was, no one asked, and we didn’t wait around to find out.

…

Legal offices were usually austere places, where visits were rare, where I had been once to sign a set of documents at the insistence of my father’s legal representative, a man as old as he was, Ferguson.  I didn’t know of ever had another name.

To be honest I was not sure what they were, I trusted the lawyer and what my father told me, that I didn’t needed to know, just that it was ensuring we emremained a family, despite the new arrangements in his life.  I thought it odd at the time, letting us all be forced away by Mathilde.

I just put it down to strange behaviour we had come to expect from him since Mathilde came into his life.

It was not long after I left home for good, probably not my finest hour, but I had been angry,  and Mathilde, his new wife, was an easy target. I said my piece, and never went back.

Whatever it was, I never gave it another thought.

Until…

I was told he had died.  Mathilde hadn’t informed us, and as little as a few days ago, my sister had phoned him to get a report and had been told by one of her sons he was fine, and not to worry.

Clearly he had been dead for a few weeks.

Ferguson was apologetic that he had been asked by the local police to hold off informing the relatives until they had completed a preliminary investigation.

What was first thought to be death by natural causes was now contentiously labelled a potential murder.  His request was twofold: we all had to meet the Detective in charge of the case, and make a statement that would eliminate us from the investigation.

Clearly it had been communicated to my brother and two sisters because for the next hour the phone lines burned with regret, and a single potential accusation.  If he had been murdered, we knew exactly who did it.

Mathilde.

The other reason for our presence: Ferguson had a letter from our father to read as part of the will.  There were some unusual aspects related to his death that had to be worked through, but Mathilde had been asking for clarification of her position.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t control my resentment, saying that I thought that her position would have been straightforward.  She had coerced him into signing everything over to her.  It was the reason why she had created a hostile environment that none of us wanted any part of.

We could all truthfully say we had no opportunity to coerce him, not that we would.  I may have been disappointed with him and his choices, but I had wanted to believe he was happy.

I said as much to Ferguson.  I also said it was hardly worth my while, that his new family would take everything, and I didn’t ever want to see their gloating faces again.

He countered, saying my attendance would be as a favour to him and out of respect for my father.  He had cared about us, despite what had happened.

It was a matter of whether I wanted to believe it, and I chose not to, but, against my better judgement, I agreed to go.  I had to see the Detective anyway.

… 

Before arriving at Ferguson’s office, we each visited the Detective separately.  It had been suggested that we go together, but my younger brother, a junior lawyer himself, said it would look like we were colluding.

My stay was brief; he took my statement of my movements over the last three months, and any contact I’d had with the household and my father.  That was easy.  None.  He seemed surprised until I summed up the environment.  We were simply not welcome, and he had made no effort to change it.

It seemed selfish and rather pathetic that I hadn’t tried harder, but it was what it was.

Then, prior to the meeting, we met at a cafe nearby.  We were all of the same opinion: the new wife and her family would get everything, and we’d get nothing.  In my mind’s eye I could see her coaxing my father’s hand, creating a will in their favour.

We almost unanimously decided to get up, walk out and go home.  Only a simultaneous text message arriving on our cell phones stopped us.

“Important you be there at the meeting.  All will be revealed in good time.”

I shrugged.

“All in,” I asked.

Three nods.  My older sister Jeanne had the last word: “If that bitch pisses me off, I’m going to punch her lights out.”

I didn’t tell her she would have to get in line.

…

The meeting room felt crowded and unruly.

Not a surprise

All of Mathilde’s family were there.  Her, her parents, the three children and their spouses and a dozen kids.  Jeanne said they bred like rabbits.  She seemed to know a lot about Mathilde and her tribe, as she called them.

The adults all had the same expressions, the cats who’d eaten the canary and got away with it.  None of them acknowledged us when we arrived, and we just frowned at them.  There were no seats left at the table, so we gathered over by the windows.

Their children did not offer us their seats out of respect. And a conversation between Mathilde and her eldest son was clearly referencing us in derogatory terms.  The laughter was annoying.

And provocative?  Maybe.  But it wasn’t going to get a rise.

That’s when Ferguson came in.

The noise level didn’t abate, nor did he get the respect he deserved.  That’s when I saw him raise his hand and bring it down on the table with such force it caused the water in the jug to ripple.

It got their attention.

“This reading is for Albert’s four children from his first marriage, his second wife, and her three children.  No one else.  I will wait until this room is cleared before continuing.

“They are family.”  Mathilde sounded and looked offended.

“That may be, but your husband made a specific request about who may attend.  If you want to argue your case, get a lawyer and I’ll see you in court.  Otherwise, clear the room.”

I, for one, wouldn’t take issue with him.  He looked as angry as I felt.

Ferguson 1, Mathilde 0.

Her parents gathered up the children and left as requested.  A sullen silence settled over the room.  We sat at the end of the table, as far away from Mathilde and her children as we could get.

They had never accepted us as family, and all had been openly hostile towards us, mostly when our father was not home.

Mathilde glanced in our direction, then glared at Ferguson.  “What are they doing here?  They’re no longer family.  They abandoned their father, and if anyone is responsible for killing him, they are “

Ferguson glared back.  If she thought she could intimidate him, he was not a tall or heavy man, not like her sons; she was wrong.

He kept the stare going for nearly a minute until she began to squirm, when he fired the question, “Your opinion, if I get your meaning, is that you believe someone killed Albert?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Jeanne went slightly pink in the face, and I knew from experience that she was a sure sign she was about to explode.  “Not your first rodeo, eh Mathilde, trying to shift the blame.  Or should I call you Margaret?”

“What are you….”  Mathilde was gaining some colour as well.

Jeanne held up her phone.  “Detective Mandon, whom I know you are aware is investigating the suspicious death of my father,” with emphasis on the word ‘my’, “was extremely interested in the documents I gave him relating to another similar case in Ohio.  That’s where you said you came from.”

“Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong; jealousy and spite will get you nowhere.”

Jeanne put her phone down.  “You know his death is suspicious, and you’re deflecting.  Only someone with something to hide would do that.  You should have just sat there and shut up.”

She went to reply when her son, sitting next to her, put out a restraining hand and whispered in her ear.  She shook his hand off, but didn’t speak.

Ferguson looked at the combatants, calculating what it would take if a fight broke out.  Then, “The terms of the will are quite specific. If anyone sitting at this table had anything to do with Albert’s death, there’s nothing for you.”

He looked straight at Mathilde.  “You’ve been far from cooperative with the police.  You have made the claim that you should be compensated because, in your own words, ‘I have spent nearly every hour of every day for the last three months looking after him’.  Two points arise from that: the first, that no one, and especially the four children you are accusing, could have, nor anyone else, got near enough to give him a glass of water, let alone poison.  The other, again by your own admission, only you could have administered it.”

The son put another restraining hand on her and stopped her from removing it.  “You are twisting her words.”

“So you are admitting your mother lied.”

“Now you’re twisting my words.”

“No.  You just didn’t think things through before you wrote it down.”

Mathilde was now past angry.  Which, for someone who wanted to prove she was the loving and caring partner, certainly seemed agitated when the contrary was presented.

“You cooked this circus up together, didn’t you?”

My turn.  “Why didn’t you tell us when our father died?  In fact, when Jeanne called a few days after we now know he had died, one of your sons said he was still alive, and for us not to worry about him.”

She looked at her son, and he shrugged

“You got your dates mixed up.”

Jeanne, now strangely calm, said,  “I recorded the conversation, timestamped and filed away, with every other call I made.  Your son lied.  Why?”

She thought about what she would say, probably for the first time, and decided silence was a better option.

“Perhaps I might have an answer for you,” I said.  “You needed the time to try and empty the bank accounts before notifying the bank of his death.  The problem is, you couldn’t because he had to verify the transactions, a secondary process you were not aware of.  I’m guessing you saw the confirmation request but couldn’t bluff your way through it.  You knew he had several investment accounts, but he only granted you access to the everyday working account and a capped credit card.  If you killed him for his money, you failed.”

Her expression said all we needed to know.  It must have been hell in that house when she discovered she couldn’t get her hands on the main prize, about 30 million dollars.  I shuddered to think what the state of his study was after all of them ransacked it for evidence of his riches.  The paperwork would have been there somewhere, and he would not have had time to go cold before the search began.

How did I know this possible scenario?  The notifications the bank sent my father asking for his confirmation also came to me.  It was then I realised what those papers I’d signed meant.  I dug them out of the bottom of a proverbial shoebox and read them.

That’s when I realised something had happened.  He may not have been dead at the time, but totally incapacitated.  I was the only other signatory who could authorise her withdrawals.  It told me he hadn’t really trusted her completely.

“If I go home and have a look in his study, I’m willing to bet you ripped it apart looking for his access codes.  The thing is, he never wrote them down.  They died with him.”

She may have just worked out how to control her expression, but the boys hadn’t.  That house would now be little more than a rubbish tip.

Mathilde regained some composure, enough to say, “You asked us here to tell us what’s in the will.  My family needs some clarity about what arrangements he set in place for me.”

“Very well.  We’ll presume the assumption of innocence for all for the moment.  In normal circumstances, the will is quite simple in its provisions.”

An almost smug look returned to her face.

“It is important to note, before I read those provisions, the arrangements that were made some years ago, just after the death of his first wife and before he met and married you.”  Ferguson looked pointedly at Mathilde.  “At that time he decided to create a family trust, and then deposited the main investments and part of the funds from the sale of the house and several other properties into it.”

He paused, maybe to let that sink in, or to take a sigh of relief.  I remembered overhearing a conversation he had with our father over his finances, and the need to set up a trust to protect what he had and to provide for those he deemed worthy of an inheritance.

“He also created a working account where his share of the dividends from the trust’s investments were to be directed.  A few months later he transferred ownership of the trust to his four original children.”

It was a surprise to the other three, and until I got the requests for authorisation, I was equally in the dark.  Our father and Ferguson would have managed it without needing to defer to us, and his managers hip would have lapsed on his death

“What does all that mean?”  The smug look had gone, and the calculating mind had kicked in.

“It means Albert’s estate amounts to about a hundred and twenty-two thousand dollars.  The house was leased from the trust to him for a peppercorn rent as long as he lived.  Your continuing to rent the property will be at the discretion of the trustees.  Bear in mind that a tenant inspection is being carried out while you are here, as provided in the conditions of the rental agreement, and if the damages to the house exceed 5,000 dollars, you will be issued a notice of eviction.”

“You can’t do that.  He promised us he would look after us.”

“You didn’t ask the appropriate questions and made assumptions.  The rental agreement was made in his name.  He asked you if you wanted to be included on the lease agreement, but you declined.  If your name was on the rental agreement, it would be a different situation.”

“So, what do we get?”

“The car, and each a share of the 122 thousand or so in the working account and an investment account in both your names.  He had nothing else.”

One of the sons said, “And the dividends from the trusts.”

“Unfortunately, that money was at the discretion of the trustees, in his name only, and an arrangement made before you met him.  The agreement he signed with the trust was a contract of employment, which ceased on his death.  There will be some clean-up disbursements, vacation pay and possibly a bonus, but nothing significant.”

“And that’s it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“We’ll sue.”  One of the other sons, probably the first time he looked as if he was paying attention, spoke.  “There’s no way at least half of whatever is in that trust is ours.  It has to be worth millions.  He was filthy rich.  You said he was the one with the money.”

Ferguson’s phone vibrated on the desk beside the file.  He picked up the phone and checked it, reading what must have been a text.  There was just a hint of a smile.

“If you decide to sue, which is your right, of course, any bequests will be withdrawn, and we can argue our case in court.”

There were raised voices outside the office, and when we looked through the windows looking out over the foyer, there were two uniformed police officers and two detectives.

“The tox report had come back, and as I understand it, Albert died from slow poisoning. I’m not sure what the details are, but the police have searched the house and found evidence which they need you to explain how and why it’s there, and why it is in some of the food you kept in the freezer.”

Mathilde looked at the eldest son.

“What?  It’s not my fault.”

“Shut up, you fool.”

The detective was ushered in, and without another word, we left, as all four of them immediately said they would not be cooperating until they called their lawyer.

I was positive Ferguson was not going to represent them.

…

The menagerie that was Mathilde’s family was rounded up and taken away.  Ferguson was glad to see the last of them.

Legally, we had known about the trust, if push came to shove, but the reality was Ferguson kept all of the letters, documents and correspondence at his office.

Our father didn’t want to burden us with complications of investing money or managing properties. Now? Perhaps we would have to.

It was a tidy sum, and we could draw a large income from the trust if we chose.  None of it could go to his new family.  They were only entitled to a share of his assistance and the time of the wedding.

It was watertight and could not be contested.

And if she, or any of them, were convicted of murder, then it was a moot point.

Jeanne’s final remark: “She was, after all said and done, just a gold digger.  All of them. I think we owe a great deal of thanks to Mr Ferguson for his diligence in protecting us from that dreadful woman and her family.”

Even so, I had a feeling we had not seen the last of Mathilde Watson.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

If I only had one day to stop over in – Madrid – what would I do?

One Day in Madrid? Make It Unforgettable With a Single Stop at The Prado Museum

You’ve just landed in Spain’s bustling capital for a brief, 24‑hour layover. The clock’s ticking, the city’s energy is buzzing, and you want one experience that captures the soul of Madrid without feeling rushed.

Answer: Spend the heart of your day at the Museo Nacional del Prado—the world‑renowned art palace that is, in a nutshell, the cultural heartbeat of the city.

Below is a full‑fledged guide that shows why the Prado is the ideal “one‑place” itinerary, how to squeeze the most out of your visit, and where to refuel before and after your artistic pilgrimage.

1. Why the Prado Beats All Other Options

FactorHow the Prado Excels
Iconic StatusThe Prado houses over 8,600 works, including masterpieces by Velázquez, Goya, El Greco, Bosch, and Titian. It’s the museum that put Madrid on the global art map.
Central LocationSituated on Paseo del Prado, a UNESCO‑listed boulevard, it’s a short 10‑minute walk from Puerta del Sol, Atocha, and the historic centre. Perfect for quick transit.
Time‑EfficientYou can see the museum’s “highlights route” in ~2‑3 hours—an expertly curated path that ensures you don’t miss the crown jewels.
AtmosphereThe 19th‑century neoclassical building, marble staircases, and tranquil courtyards provide a serene escape from the city’s hustle—a perfect micro‑retreat during a layover.
Culinary BonusRight outside the museum are historic cafés (e.g., Café de Oriente and Café Montalbán) where you can savor a quick bite of Madrid’s famous tapas and café con leche.

In short, the Prado gives you art, architecture, history, and a taste of local life—all in one compact, easily reachable location.

2. Practicalities: Getting There & Getting In

ItemDetails
Nearest MetroLine 2 (Red) – Banco de España (2‑minute walk) or Line 1 (Light Blue) – Atocha (5‑minute walk).
Entrance Ticket€15 (adult) – includes free entry to the Royal Botanical Garden (a bonus if you have extra minutes).
Free entry on Monday‑Thursday evenings (19:00‑21:00) and on the last Saturday of each month (09:00‑14:00).
Skip‑the‑Line OptionsBuy tickets online in advance (PDF or QR code). The “Fast‑Track” ticket (€18) gives you a dedicated entry line—worth it if you land during peak tourist hours (10:00‑12:00).
Opening Hours10:00‑20:00 (Tue‑Sat), 10:00‑19:00 (Sun, Mon). Closed on Tuesdays.
Time Needed2‑3 hours for the “Highlights Route.” Add a 30‑minute coffee break if you wish.

Pro tip: If your layover lands early in the morning, head straight to the museum as soon as you clear customs. The first hour (10:00‑11:00) is usually the quietest.

3. The “Highlights Route” – A 2‑Hour Guided Walkthrough

  1. “Las Meninas” – Diego Velázquez (1656)
    Why: The quintessential Spanish masterpiece; a study in perspective and courtly intrigue.
  2. “The Garden of Earthly Delights” – Hieronymus Bosch (c. 1490‑1510)
    Why: A surreal trip through heaven, earth, and hell that sparks conversation.
  3. “The Third of May 1808” – Francisco Goya (1814)
    Why: Goya’s powerful anti‑war statement—emotionally resonant and instantly recognisable.
  4. “The Annunciation” – Fra Angelico (c. 1435)
    Why: A glimpse of early Renaissance serenity amidst the Baroque grandeur.
  5. “The Adoration of the Magi” – Titian (c. 1518)
    Why: Shows the museum’s breadth—Italian Renaissance at its vibrant best.

How to navigate: Pick up a free Map of “Highlights” at the information desk, or download the official Prado app (offline mode works with Wi‑Fi). The route is clearly signposted and takes you clockwise through the main halls, minimizing back‑track.

4. Lunch (or “Tapas‑break”) – Eat Like a Madrileño

SpotWhat to TryWhy It Fits
Café Montalbán (inside the museum’s foyer)Tortilla de Patatas + Café con lecheQuick, high‑quality Spanish staple, just steps from your next gallery.
Mercado de San Miguel (5‑minute walk)Jamón ibérico, croquetas, pimientos de padrónA foodie market with a lively atmosphere—perfect for a post‑museum stroll.
Casa Lucio (near Plaza Mayor, 10‑minute walk)Huevos rotos (broken eggs over ham)A classic Madrid dish if you have a little extra time and want to feel truly local.

If you’re watching the clock, a tapas platter at the market paired with a glass of vermut (a favourite Madrileño apéritif) will keep you under an hour.

5. Making the Most of Your Remaining Hours

Time SlotSuggested Activity
After the Prado (≈14:00‑15:30)Take a leisurely 15‑minute walk through the Retiro Park—pop into the Crystal Palace or rent a rowboat on the pond.
Early Evening (≈16:00‑18:00)Wander the Puerta del Sol and Plaza Mayor for a quick photo op and a final espresso.
If your flight is late (≥20:00)Return to the museum for the free evening session (19:00‑21:00) for a quieter, candle‑lit experience.

6. Insider Hacks – Avoid the “Layover Stress”

  1. Pack Light, Travel Smart – Use a small, anti‑theft day‑bag; large luggage can’t go inside the museum.
  2. Carry a Portable Charger – You’ll likely rely on the Prado app and digital tickets.
  3. Mind the “Siesta” – Some smaller cafés close around 14:30‑15:30; plan your main meal before then.
  4. Reserve a Taxi or ride-share in advance for the airport ride back—Madrid’s traffic can surge during rush hour (17:00‑19:00).
  5. Check Flight‑Status Alerts – Keep an eye on any gate changes; the museum is only a 20‑minute metro ride from both Barajas (T4) and Atocha stations.

7. The Takeaway: One Place, Endless Memories

A one‑day stopover in Madrid can feel like a sprint through a bustling metropolis. By centring your adventure around the Museo Nacional del Prado, you:

  • Absorb a micro‑history of Spain (from the Golden Age to modernism) in a single, inspiring venue.
  • Stay centrally located, allowing easy transitions to Madrid’s other iconic sites if time permits.
  • Enjoy a seamless blend of culture, cuisine, and convenience—the three pillars of any perfect travel day.

So, when the aeroplane doors open and the city’s pulse beckons, head straight for the Prado. Walk the halls where centuries of genius converse, sip a café in a historic courtyard, and leave Madrid with a story you’ll retell for years—all in a single unforgettable day.

Happy travels, and may your Madrid layover be as vibrant as a Velázquez brushstroke!

In a word: Cell

For those who break the law, they will be very familiar with the meaning of the word cell.  It’s a room a jail, not very big, with an uncomfortable bed, and no sharp edges.

And I’m sure the prisoners are not supplied with knives so they can dig through the mortar and remove bricks on their way to the great escape.  That, I’m sure only happens at the movies.

A cell can also be a building block in the creation of humans, animals, fish, and plants.  No doubt there are a million other things that require cells.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of this cellular activity is whether or not there is life, and therefore cells, on Mars.  I’m guessing we’ll have to wait a little longer to find out.

We can have a cell phone, which in some parts of the world is also the name of a mobile phone.

Don’t get me started on what I think of cell phones, or how intrusive they are on our everyday lives, the number of people who seem to be continually glued to the screen, or how many near misses there are in the street and crossing the road.

On the other hand cell phones in the hands of a writer are very useful because when we get flashes of story or plotlines in one of those once awkward moments, we can now jot it down on a cell phone scribbling pad.

A cell can also be used to describe a smaller unit within a larger organisation, or, if you are a thriller writer who dabbles in espionage, you will be very familiar with the concept of a sleeper cell.

Who knows, in reality, there might be some living next door to us and we would never know.  Oops, been watching too much television again.

Digging deeper into the more obscure definitions of the word cell, we come up with a single transparent sheet that has a single drawing on it, one of many that make up an animated film, or film.  If a film runs at 32 frames per second, that means there are 32 cells.

There are fuel cells

There are dry cell batteries

And as a general warning, don’t go too near cell towers or you will be a victim of radiation that might be extremely harmful to your health.

An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at:  https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaines at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaines frequently visited and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’.  It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over.  It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half-frown, half-smile, Alison was looking stunning.  It had been months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary.  On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to.  She had adored it and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars get on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds of silence, and many more gasps.

I even had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room.  Once more, I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me.  Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others out there who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight.  She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once, I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together.  It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement.  Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with a permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and a designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it.  Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out, she had straightened it.  And took the moment to look deeply into my soul.  It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me.  A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.”  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’, but I accepted it with good grace.  Sometimes, Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand.  I guessed she was talking about the new job.  “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely.  “There are no secrets between Al and me, are there, Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al.  I tried it once and was admonished.  But it was interesting that her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not.  It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil.  As I understood it, the Blaines were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaines thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realised I was looking at both of them.  I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand.  And yet, apparently, Alison did.  I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets.  Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us.  It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me.  We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?”  Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face.  It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind.  Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realised it would be churlish, even silly, if I made a scene.  I knew what I wanted to say.  I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine or upsetting Alison.  This was not the time or the place.  Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing.  If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decided there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control.  “It’s the little things.  They all add up until one day …”  I shrugged.  “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real?  Or, I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me.  I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points.  It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted.  “Alison was off to get some studying in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up and immediately got the ‘shut up, you fool’ look that cut that line of conversation dead.  Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose.  Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend.  “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation.  I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show.  I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass, gathering some courage and turned to him.  “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up.  You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realised I had spoken.  He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed.  Or perhaps it was deliberate.  She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me.  “Yes.  Elaine said something or other about it.  But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week.  Perhaps I got it wrong.  I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”  I shrugged as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again.  “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart.  It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; she might have been telling me lies.  If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect.  Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows.  Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details.  “You sure you want to do that?”

At last, the voice of reason.  “Me?  No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him.  Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him.  “Jimmy, between you and me, I haven’t as yet decided one way or another.  To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay who recently moved into the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognised the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago.  Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker.  I felt sick, faint, and wanted to die all at the same moment.  “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time.  Too busy with work, I expect.  I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted, and I knew I had to keep it together.  I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down.  I sucked in some deep breaths and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown.  Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth.  It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction.  It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and me.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, but it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact that I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough that the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.  She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points.  Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine.  She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly.  I chose to ignore her and pretend nothing had happened, rather than tell her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’.  I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent-up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me.  It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, that Jimmy came looking for me.  I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse.  When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was, but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which, to a large degree, it was for the other three.  But I had achieved what I set out to do: to play them at their own game, watching the deception once I knew there was one, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree.  It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaines back to the Upper West Side.  But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer.  She showed concern for my health and asked me what was wrong.  It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it.  Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2026

Sunday In New York

If I only had one day to stop over in – Rome – what would I do?

One Day in Rome: Making the Most of the Colosseum Experience

Rome, a city where ancient history and vibrant culture collide, can feel overwhelming in a single day. With countless landmarks vying for your attention, how do you choose just one place to make your stopover truly memorable? The answer lies in the heart of the Eternal City—The Colosseum. This iconic monument is not just a structure; it’s a portal to the past, offering a day packed with history, architecture, and a touch of Roman magic. Here’s how to turn your one day into a timeless memory.

Why the Colosseum?

The Colosseum is Rome’s most enduring symbol of imperial grandeur. Built in 80 AD, this ancient amphitheatre once hosted gladiatorial battles, epic hunts, and spectacular spectacles. Visiting it is like stepping into a living museum of Roman engineering and ambition. Unlike sprawling sites like the Vatican, the Colosseum allows you to delve deep into a singular, monumental narrative. Plus, it’s centrally located, making it a gateway to other historic treasures.

Start Your Day with a Skip-the-Line Tour

Beat the crowds and start your adventure early. Booking a skip-the-line guided tour in advance (like the Colosseum, Roman Forum, and Palatine Hill combo ticket) ensures you maximise your time and access exclusive areas like the Gladiator Hypogeum, where you can imagine the chaos of the underground staging area before battles. Early mornings (before 9 AM) are ideal for fewer crowds and cooler temperatures.

Pro Tip: Opt for a VIP tour or evening tour for a more intimate experience. The Colosseum under a sunset or moonlit sky? Unforgettable.

Explore the Roman Forum and Palatine Hill

Adjacent to the Colosseum, the Roman Forum and Palatine Hill are a must. Once the political and social heart of Rome, the Forum’s ruins—from the Temple of Saturn to the Arch of Titus—tell stories of emperors, senators, and citizens. Palatine Hill, where emperors like Augustus and Nero lived, offers a glimpse into imperial opulence. Let your imagination wander as you walk through marble colonnades and crumbling temples.

Hidden Gem: After your guided tour, stroll outside the Colosseum’s walls to the Appian Way or Circo Massimo Park for a quieter moment. The Colosseum’s silhouette from a distance is a photo opportunity you won’t want to miss.

Break for Lunch Like a Local

Rome isn’t just about history—it’s also about food. After your ancient adventure, indulge in a Roman classic at a nearby trattoria. Try Supplì al telefono (fried rice balls) or Cacio e Pepe near the Colosseum. The Centrale Food Market, just a 10-minute walk away, is perfect for a quick, authentic bite.

Afternoon: Hidden Treasures and Winding Alleys

Post-lunch, explore the neighbourhoods surrounding the Colosseum. Wander through Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II, an underrated square with fountains and modern flair. For a quieter alternative, visit Basilica di San Clemente, a stunning church with layers of history beneath its church (a Roman house church, and even a 1st-century Mithraic temple).

Evening: Sunset and Stories

End your day with a romantic walk around the Colosseum at sunset. The golden light casts a magical glow on the arches, and the atmosphere is electric. If time allows, catch a night tour—the guided stories under torchlight add a dramatic edge to the Colosseum’s tales.

Final Thoughts

While Rome is a city of endless wonders, the Colosseum offers a concentrated dose of what makes it unforgettable. By focusing on this singular icon—along with its nearby treasures—you’ll gain a deeper appreciation for Rome’s legacy while leaving with memories of grandeur, history, and a touch of local flavour.

So, whether you’re a first-time traveller or a returning explorer, let the Colosseum be your anchor. With a bit of planning, even a fleeting day in Rome can become a chapter of your eternal story.

Buon viaggio! 🍷✨

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect them.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half-brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 241/242

Days 241 and 242 – Writing Exercise

…

It had been a very difficult decision to walk away from what had been my home, and not only my home but that of my brothers and sisters, but my father’s choices, after our mother died, had created an impossible situation.

My father was never the sort of man who never argued or exerted his authority.  He preferred to let his wife, our mother, do everything, and while she was alive and had the best of intentions, everything was fine

Then she got ill and died.  He was like a rudderless ship, drifting in the middle of an empty ocean.  When it became too much, my sister registered him with a group who had all suffered the same malaise.  The loss of a lifelong partner.

That’s where he met Mathilde Watson.

Everything was fine for the first few months.  He got his mojo back, and he’d found another woman who was happy to take charge.

Except …

She was only interested in what she needed for herself and her children, and simply ignored, or made it known in a less-than-subtle manner, made it known that the rest of his family were no longer welcome. 

Within a year, all four of us children by his first marriage had moved out, or more to the point, were forced out, and her three children and her parents had settled in, making themselves at home.

We tried to tell him, but in the end he believed that we were upset that he had found another wife, and didn’t want him to be happy again.  It was pure Mathilde speaking, but in the end, we simply acknowledged that he was not going to change.

Then, that first Christmas we all came back, she had engineered an argument, one I, and the others should have expected, and more to the point, should have known better than to bite, and for myself,  my last words with him were regrettable.  I didn’t stay to hear what the others had said, but our group chat on social media lit up for about a month afterwards

We had all worked hard over subsequent years to repair the damage she had inflicted, but it was too late.

For all of us.

He got ill, and Mathilde deliberately or otherwise managed to make it almost impossible for any of us to see him except at the very end, when we each got a message to come home.

At least all of us had been with him when he died.  Where Mathilde was, no one asked, and we didn’t wait around to find out.

…

Legal offices were usually austere places, where visits were rare, where I had been once to sign a set of documents at the insistence of my father’s legal representative, a man as old as he was, Ferguson.  I didn’t know of ever had another name.

To be honest I was not sure what they were, I trusted the lawyer and what my father told me, that I didn’t needed to know, just that it was ensuring we emremained a family, despite the new arrangements in his life.  I thought it odd at the time, letting us all be forced away by Mathilde.

I just put it down to strange behaviour we had come to expect from him since Mathilde came into his life.

It was not long after I left home for good, probably not my finest hour, but I had been angry,  and Mathilde, his new wife, was an easy target. I said my piece, and never went back.

Whatever it was, I never gave it another thought.

Until…

I was told he had died.  Mathilde hadn’t informed us, and as little as a few days ago, my sister had phoned him to get a report and had been told by one of her sons he was fine, and not to worry.

Clearly he had been dead for a few weeks.

Ferguson was apologetic that he had been asked by the local police to hold off informing the relatives until they had completed a preliminary investigation.

What was first thought to be death by natural causes was now contentiously labelled a potential murder.  His request was twofold: we all had to meet the Detective in charge of the case, and make a statement that would eliminate us from the investigation.

Clearly it had been communicated to my brother and two sisters because for the next hour the phone lines burned with regret, and a single potential accusation.  If he had been murdered, we knew exactly who did it.

Mathilde.

The other reason for our presence: Ferguson had a letter from our father to read as part of the will.  There were some unusual aspects related to his death that had to be worked through, but Mathilde had been asking for clarification of her position.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t control my resentment, saying that I thought that her position would have been straightforward.  She had coerced him into signing everything over to her.  It was the reason why she had created a hostile environment that none of us wanted any part of.

We could all truthfully say we had no opportunity to coerce him, not that we would.  I may have been disappointed with him and his choices, but I had wanted to believe he was happy.

I said as much to Ferguson.  I also said it was hardly worth my while, that his new family would take everything, and I didn’t ever want to see their gloating faces again.

He countered, saying my attendance would be as a favour to him and out of respect for my father.  He had cared about us, despite what had happened.

It was a matter of whether I wanted to believe it, and I chose not to, but, against my better judgement, I agreed to go.  I had to see the Detective anyway.

… 

Before arriving at Ferguson’s office, we each visited the Detective separately.  It had been suggested that we go together, but my younger brother, a junior lawyer himself, said it would look like we were colluding.

My stay was brief; he took my statement of my movements over the last three months, and any contact I’d had with the household and my father.  That was easy.  None.  He seemed surprised until I summed up the environment.  We were simply not welcome, and he had made no effort to change it.

It seemed selfish and rather pathetic that I hadn’t tried harder, but it was what it was.

Then, prior to the meeting, we met at a cafe nearby.  We were all of the same opinion: the new wife and her family would get everything, and we’d get nothing.  In my mind’s eye I could see her coaxing my father’s hand, creating a will in their favour.

We almost unanimously decided to get up, walk out and go home.  Only a simultaneous text message arriving on our cell phones stopped us.

“Important you be there at the meeting.  All will be revealed in good time.”

I shrugged.

“All in,” I asked.

Three nods.  My older sister Jeanne had the last word: “If that bitch pisses me off, I’m going to punch her lights out.”

I didn’t tell her she would have to get in line.

…

The meeting room felt crowded and unruly.

Not a surprise

All of Mathilde’s family were there.  Her, her parents, the three children and their spouses and a dozen kids.  Jeanne said they bred like rabbits.  She seemed to know a lot about Mathilde and her tribe, as she called them.

The adults all had the same expressions, the cats who’d eaten the canary and got away with it.  None of them acknowledged us when we arrived, and we just frowned at them.  There were no seats left at the table, so we gathered over by the windows.

Their children did not offer us their seats out of respect. And a conversation between Mathilde and her eldest son was clearly referencing us in derogatory terms.  The laughter was annoying.

And provocative?  Maybe.  But it wasn’t going to get a rise.

That’s when Ferguson came in.

The noise level didn’t abate, nor did he get the respect he deserved.  That’s when I saw him raise his hand and bring it down on the table with such force it caused the water in the jug to ripple.

It got their attention.

“This reading is for Albert’s four children from his first marriage, his second wife, and her three children.  No one else.  I will wait until this room is cleared before continuing.

“They are family.”  Mathilde sounded and looked offended.

“That may be, but your husband made a specific request about who may attend.  If you want to argue your case, get a lawyer and I’ll see you in court.  Otherwise, clear the room.”

I, for one, wouldn’t take issue with him.  He looked as angry as I felt.

Ferguson 1, Mathilde 0.

Her parents gathered up the children and left as requested.  A sullen silence settled over the room.  We sat at the end of the table, as far away from Mathilde and her children as we could get.

They had never accepted us as family, and all had been openly hostile towards us, mostly when our father was not home.

Mathilde glanced in our direction, then glared at Ferguson.  “What are they doing here?  They’re no longer family.  They abandoned their father, and if anyone is responsible for killing him, they are “

Ferguson glared back.  If she thought she could intimidate him, he was not a tall or heavy man, not like her sons; she was wrong.

He kept the stare going for nearly a minute until she began to squirm, when he fired the question, “Your opinion, if I get your meaning, is that you believe someone killed Albert?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Jeanne went slightly pink in the face, and I knew from experience that she was a sure sign she was about to explode.  “Not your first rodeo, eh Mathilde, trying to shift the blame.  Or should I call you Margaret?”

“What are you….”  Mathilde was gaining some colour as well.

Jeanne held up her phone.  “Detective Mandon, whom I know you are aware is investigating the suspicious death of my father,” with emphasis on the word ‘my’, “was extremely interested in the documents I gave him relating to another similar case in Ohio.  That’s where you said you came from.”

“Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong; jealousy and spite will get you nowhere.”

Jeanne put her phone down.  “You know his death is suspicious, and you’re deflecting.  Only someone with something to hide would do that.  You should have just sat there and shut up.”

She went to reply when her son, sitting next to her, put out a restraining hand and whispered in her ear.  She shook his hand off, but didn’t speak.

Ferguson looked at the combatants, calculating what it would take if a fight broke out.  Then, “The terms of the will are quite specific. If anyone sitting at this table had anything to do with Albert’s death, there’s nothing for you.”

He looked straight at Mathilde.  “You’ve been far from cooperative with the police.  You have made the claim that you should be compensated because, in your own words, ‘I have spent nearly every hour of every day for the last three months looking after him’.  Two points arise from that: the first, that no one, and especially the four children you are accusing, could have, nor anyone else, got near enough to give him a glass of water, let alone poison.  The other, again by your own admission, only you could have administered it.”

The son put another restraining hand on her and stopped her from removing it.  “You are twisting her words.”

“So you are admitting your mother lied.”

“Now you’re twisting my words.”

“No.  You just didn’t think things through before you wrote it down.”

Mathilde was now past angry.  Which, for someone who wanted to prove she was the loving and caring partner, certainly seemed agitated when the contrary was presented.

“You cooked this circus up together, didn’t you?”

My turn.  “Why didn’t you tell us when our father died?  In fact, when Jeanne called a few days after we now know he had died, one of your sons said he was still alive, and for us not to worry about him.”

She looked at her son, and he shrugged

“You got your dates mixed up.”

Jeanne, now strangely calm, said,  “I recorded the conversation, timestamped and filed away, with every other call I made.  Your son lied.  Why?”

She thought about what she would say, probably for the first time, and decided silence was a better option.

“Perhaps I might have an answer for you,” I said.  “You needed the time to try and empty the bank accounts before notifying the bank of his death.  The problem is, you couldn’t because he had to verify the transactions, a secondary process you were not aware of.  I’m guessing you saw the confirmation request but couldn’t bluff your way through it.  You knew he had several investment accounts, but he only granted you access to the everyday working account and a capped credit card.  If you killed him for his money, you failed.”

Her expression said all we needed to know.  It must have been hell in that house when she discovered she couldn’t get her hands on the main prize, about 30 million dollars.  I shuddered to think what the state of his study was after all of them ransacked it for evidence of his riches.  The paperwork would have been there somewhere, and he would not have had time to go cold before the search began.

How did I know this possible scenario?  The notifications the bank sent my father asking for his confirmation also came to me.  It was then I realised what those papers I’d signed meant.  I dug them out of the bottom of a proverbial shoebox and read them.

That’s when I realised something had happened.  He may not have been dead at the time, but totally incapacitated.  I was the only other signatory who could authorise her withdrawals.  It told me he hadn’t really trusted her completely.

“If I go home and have a look in his study, I’m willing to bet you ripped it apart looking for his access codes.  The thing is, he never wrote them down.  They died with him.”

She may have just worked out how to control her expression, but the boys hadn’t.  That house would now be little more than a rubbish tip.

Mathilde regained some composure, enough to say, “You asked us here to tell us what’s in the will.  My family needs some clarity about what arrangements he set in place for me.”

“Very well.  We’ll presume the assumption of innocence for all for the moment.  In normal circumstances, the will is quite simple in its provisions.”

An almost smug look returned to her face.

“It is important to note, before I read those provisions, the arrangements that were made some years ago, just after the death of his first wife and before he met and married you.”  Ferguson looked pointedly at Mathilde.  “At that time he decided to create a family trust, and then deposited the main investments and part of the funds from the sale of the house and several other properties into it.”

He paused, maybe to let that sink in, or to take a sigh of relief.  I remembered overhearing a conversation he had with our father over his finances, and the need to set up a trust to protect what he had and to provide for those he deemed worthy of an inheritance.

“He also created a working account where his share of the dividends from the trust’s investments were to be directed.  A few months later he transferred ownership of the trust to his four original children.”

It was a surprise to the other three, and until I got the requests for authorisation, I was equally in the dark.  Our father and Ferguson would have managed it without needing to defer to us, and his managers hip would have lapsed on his death

“What does all that mean?”  The smug look had gone, and the calculating mind had kicked in.

“It means Albert’s estate amounts to about a hundred and twenty-two thousand dollars.  The house was leased from the trust to him for a peppercorn rent as long as he lived.  Your continuing to rent the property will be at the discretion of the trustees.  Bear in mind that a tenant inspection is being carried out while you are here, as provided in the conditions of the rental agreement, and if the damages to the house exceed 5,000 dollars, you will be issued a notice of eviction.”

“You can’t do that.  He promised us he would look after us.”

“You didn’t ask the appropriate questions and made assumptions.  The rental agreement was made in his name.  He asked you if you wanted to be included on the lease agreement, but you declined.  If your name was on the rental agreement, it would be a different situation.”

“So, what do we get?”

“The car, and each a share of the 122 thousand or so in the working account and an investment account in both your names.  He had nothing else.”

One of the sons said, “And the dividends from the trusts.”

“Unfortunately, that money was at the discretion of the trustees, in his name only, and an arrangement made before you met him.  The agreement he signed with the trust was a contract of employment, which ceased on his death.  There will be some clean-up disbursements, vacation pay and possibly a bonus, but nothing significant.”

“And that’s it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“We’ll sue.”  One of the other sons, probably the first time he looked as if he was paying attention, spoke.  “There’s no way at least half of whatever is in that trust is ours.  It has to be worth millions.  He was filthy rich.  You said he was the one with the money.”

Ferguson’s phone vibrated on the desk beside the file.  He picked up the phone and checked it, reading what must have been a text.  There was just a hint of a smile.

“If you decide to sue, which is your right, of course, any bequests will be withdrawn, and we can argue our case in court.”

There were raised voices outside the office, and when we looked through the windows looking out over the foyer, there were two uniformed police officers and two detectives.

“The tox report had come back, and as I understand it, Albert died from slow poisoning. I’m not sure what the details are, but the police have searched the house and found evidence which they need you to explain how and why it’s there, and why it is in some of the food you kept in the freezer.”

Mathilde looked at the eldest son.

“What?  It’s not my fault.”

“Shut up, you fool.”

The detective was ushered in, and without another word, we left, as all four of them immediately said they would not be cooperating until they called their lawyer.

I was positive Ferguson was not going to represent them.

…

The menagerie that was Mathilde’s family was rounded up and taken away.  Ferguson was glad to see the last of them.

Legally, we had known about the trust, if push came to shove, but the reality was Ferguson kept all of the letters, documents and correspondence at his office.

Our father didn’t want to burden us with complications of investing money or managing properties. Now? Perhaps we would have to.

It was a tidy sum, and we could draw a large income from the trust if we chose.  None of it could go to his new family.  They were only entitled to a share of his assistance and the time of the wedding.

It was watertight and could not be contested.

And if she, or any of them, were convicted of murder, then it was a moot point.

Jeanne’s final remark: “She was, after all said and done, just a gold digger.  All of them. I think we owe a great deal of thanks to Mr Ferguson for his diligence in protecting us from that dreadful woman and her family.”

Even so, I had a feeling we had not seen the last of Mathilde Watson.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 31

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

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

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

Chasing leads, maybe

 

Was it too late to admit that I was way in over my head?

Of course, it should not come as a surprise that Jan would know of his alter ego if she was the friend she said she was.  Her name was on that scrap of paper with part of the address, and I should have guessed.

Again, my lack of knowledge and training was letting me down.

Now it seemed I had both Severin and Maury, Nobbin and Josephine, and Jan all working against me.

He had more enemies that I did, which begged the question, what the hell was he in to?  What could he possibly have found that was so damaging?

Perhaps I’d find that out if or when I found the missing USB drive.

In the meantime, I had to get back to the hotel before Jan did and try and keep a straight face.

But just as I started to put the seat belt on, another figure was walking from the road towards the front door.  A man, tall, with a purposeful stride.  

The light was still on so I would get to see who it was once he reached the door.  Then I saw the front door open, and Jan standing in it.  A second later I saw the face, just as he passed through the doorway and the door shut.

Severin.

She had lied.  So, why was it making me so angry?

I should have realized the whole Maury thing was a setup.  She hadn’t called her office, she had called Severin, and he can’t have been far away to get there in the time he had.

So, why didn’t he drag me off?

Easy.  So I would see the need to keep working with Jan, and in doing so, when I found the USB I’d tell her, and the next minute I’d get whacked over the head, and lose it.

Damn.

I was being played like a finely tuned fiddle.

But at least I knew about the car and had removed any evidence and the letters that were left on the ground inside the door.  It was something, and she would not find anything to help her, even if she knew he had a car.  It meant I was one step ahead of her.

After thanking a last look at the block, I left.  Better to find somewhere else to stay, just for tonight, and then go back to the hotel in Charing Cross and see if she returned.

I found a small hotel just off Bromley Road, a short distance down Avondale Road.  Out of the way and unassuming, with car parking that couldn’t be seen from the main road.  The late hour raised an eyebrow, but I used the excuse of getting in late from the airport.  After all, it was 02:30 in the morning and I was surprised there was anyone available on the front counter.

He gave me a room tucked away in a corner where there was only one entrance, and I could see anyone coming.  I wasn’t expecting anything, but just in case I had checked the car for a tracker.

None that I could find.

I needed sleep, but lying there staring at the ceiling, I replayed the arrival of Jan at the flat, followed by Severin.  It was a reminder that I should not believe or trust anyone.

It reminded me of the words of one of the instructors who said, one morning, quite abruptly, that we were about to become the loneliest people in the world.  If we trusted anyone, even if they were from our own side, it could mean one thing and one thing only.  Death.

We could not and should not trust anyone.

We should not believe a word of anything anyone tells us.

We should not recruit anyone from outside the service because unless they could be fully vetted, they could be your undoing.

We could not have friends, and certainly no romantic interests otherwise they would be used as leverage against us.

It was the worse hour lecture we’d been given, and the instructor had told us he had left the best till last.  It was time to decide whether we wanted to go on or bail.  Several had.

I didn’t think, then, it would be a problem.

Now, I was beginning to think otherwise.

 

© Charles Heath 2020