Category: Creative Writing

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense.  Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan.  He was about six or seven.  The girl was Louise, and she was five years old.  She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds.  I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell.  Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children.  They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand.  She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it.  The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants.  It was enough to have them arrested.  It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die.  It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing.  I had murder in mind.  It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows.  It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out.  I knew he eventually would.  The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go.  I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me.  He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes.  He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours.  I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.”  An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe.  It had blood on it.  Willy’s blood.  “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up.  He sang like a bird.  That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me.  Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.”  Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie.  He didn’t.  I’m coming for you.  All of you Bannisters.  And everyone who touched my sister.”

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries.  Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late.  If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood.  The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told.  He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy.  There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone.  It was a half mile walk, through a park.  The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness.  He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names.  At first, when he saw me, he laughed.  He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list.  I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi.  The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me.  I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality.  The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face.  He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out.  He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged.  I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me.  I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital.  He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come.  Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters.  His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful.  Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered.  A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub.  We got along like old friends.  He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges.  We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared.  I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me.  He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes.  I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it.  He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report.  They all had a turn.  He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats.  Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities.  She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me.  I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily.  The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family.  I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony.  I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes.  This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily.  He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm.  Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie.  My friend.”

Then she shot him.  Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

Now I was in jail.  I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession.  Without my sister, my life was nothing.  I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors.  I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone.  They ignored me.  I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that.  You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good.  I told him to go away.

He didn’t.  Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table.  The prison officers thought I was dangerous.  Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that.  McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.”  Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister.  By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same.  No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right.  But you’re different, Alan.  As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen.  We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him.  It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible.  People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot.  I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life.  Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward.  A team.  On the plane early before the rest of the crew.  A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless.  Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides.  It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision.  If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness.  Not that day.  Not any day.

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag.  They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her.  It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she?  No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it.  After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks.  Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away.  He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground.  I looked at his two friends.  “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk.  She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were.  The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her.  “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me.  She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state.  Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.”  I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care.  Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person.  If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.”  I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again.  “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder.  We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one.  Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk.  What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet.  “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

The wedding was in a small church.  We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot.  Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age.  She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look.  “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said.  It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte.  It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me.  “I like you.  Take care of my granddaughter.  You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us.  Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother.  She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends.  For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother.  It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close.  I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness.  We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head.  It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction.  “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother.  Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?”  I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong.  She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life.  I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled.  It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye.  Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

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365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 224

Day 224 – The trashy novel

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Guilty Pleasures & Best-Sellers: Why “Trashy” Novels Sell (Even When They Make No Sense)

Let’s be honest: we’ve all done it. We’ve stood in an airport bookstore, eyes scanning the spinning racks, and pulled out a paperback with a neon-hued cover, an impossibly sculpted torso, or a plot synopsis that sounds like a fever dream.

We roll our eyes. We scoff at the clunky dialogue. We lambast the predictable tropes and inherently “bad” writing qualities. And then… we buy it. We devour it in a single sitting, hidden behind a polite book cover or glowing dimly on our phone screens at 2:00 AM.

The phenomenon of the “trashy” novel is undeniable. But it goes deeper than mere guilty pleasures. History—and modern publishing data—shows that even when authors intentionally write disjointed, hastily stitched-together, multiple-author novels that make absolutely no sense, they still sell far better than anyone could possibly imagine.

Why? What is the dark magic behind the poorly written page-turner? As a copywriter and consumer psychologist, let’s dissect the anatomy of the trashy novel and uncover why we keep feeding the beast.

1. The Psychology of Cognitive Relief

High-brow literature demands work. When you pick up a Booker Prize winner, you are signing up for an intellectual workout: dense metaphors, unreliable narrators, deeply nuanced character arcs, and social commentary that leaves you pondering the human condition.

Sometimes, we are too tired for that.

Trashy novels offer cognitive offloading. Because the stakes are immediately clear, the villains are cartoonish, and the prose requires zero decoding, the brain can finally switch off. It’s the literary equivalent of eating a bowl of sugary cereal while watching Saturday morning cartoons. There is no guilt in low-stakes entertainment—only pure, unadulterated escapism.

2. Emotional Fast Food (The Dopamine Loop)

Good literature builds tension slowly, like a masterclass in suspense. Trashy novels, however, operate like a slot machine. They hit you with constant, cheap dopamine spikes.

  • A shocking betrayal on page 3? Ding!
  • An implausible romance trope introduced by page 10? Ding!
  • A cliffhanger at the end of every single chapter? Jackpot.

Even when a book is disjointed or nonsensical—especially when multiple authors contribute in a chaotic, Frankenstein-esque fashion—the pacing rarely slows down. If plot logic gets in the way of a sensational scene, trashy fiction simply discards the logic and moves straight to the next explosion, bedroom scene, or plot twist. Our brains are wired to chase that next hit of resolution, even if the overall story is falling apart at the seams.

3. The Power of Subverted Expectations and Camp Value

Sometimes, a book doesn’t sell in spite of making no sense; it sells because it makes no sense.

We live in an era that deeply appreciates camp. Think of the runaway success of The Room in film or the viral TikTok reviews of wildly unhinged self-published romance novels. When a book is so convoluted, absurd, and disconnected from reality that it crosses the threshold of “bad” and enters the realm of the surreal, it becomes an event.

Readers love to be in on the joke. Sharing the most ridiculous excerpts on social media creates a viral marketing loop. A nonsensical, multi-author disasterpiece becomes a badge of honour to read, talk about, and mock lovingly with friends.

4. The Illusion of Speed and Instant Gratification

Modern attention spans are fractured. We scroll through TikTok feeds featuring thirty-second clips of entirely unrelated content, jumping seamlessly from a recipe to a comedy sketch to a DIY project.

In many ways, the disjointed, multi-author, wildly chaotic “trashy” novel mirrors the modern digital feed. Because it lacks a rigid, slow-burning traditional structure, it reads like a rapid-fire sequence of viral moments. For readers accustomed to fast-paced digital consumption, traditional pacing can feel agonisingly slow. Trashy novels keep the velocity high, ensuring you never get bored—even if you have no idea who the secondary antagonist is anymore.

5. Zero Pretentiousness, Total Accessibility

Literary snobbery can be exhausting. The moment a book feels like it’s trying to teach you a lesson or prove how smart the author is, a wall goes up for many readers.

Trashy novels have zero pretension. They make no promises other than to entertain you for a few hours. This radical accessibility makes them universally appealing. You don’t need a degree in English literature to enjoy a book about billionaire shadow-beasts fighting rogue cyborg assassins. You just need a pulse and a willingness to suspend your disbelief—way, way up in the stratosphere.

The Verdict: Long Live the Trashy Read

We may continue to mock them in polite literary circles, but the trashy, nonsensical, hastily assembled page-turner isn’t going anywhere. It fulfils a primal human need for stories that thrill, shock, and entertain without demanding too much in return.

So, the next time you find yourself sliding a trashy paperback onto the checkout counter, don’t blush. You aren’t falling victim to bad taste—you’re simply participating in a time-tested tradition of joyful, unapologetic escapism.

What is the most delightfully ridiculous “trashy” novel you’ve ever secretly loved? Let’s talk about it in the comments below!

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The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 13

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

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

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

Am I working for anyone now?

 

So, there I was, walking along the street, hands in pockets, trying to look like my whole world hadn’t come crashing down on me when a car pulled over to the side of the road.

I may have been down in the dumps but not that far that I wasn’t still aware of what was going on around me, the training had been that good, so I hung back a little from the curb and waited to see if was me they were after, or just some lucky rich person being dropped off.

And ready to disappear into the crowd, not that there was one, but there were three exits available and within momentary reach if necessary.

I watched the rear window go down slowly then saw a familiar face.

Nobbin.

“Get in Mr Jackson.  We have more to talk about.”

I hesitated like anyone with the training I had would, as any person with common sense would too, I guess.

“It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.”  He sounded reassuring.

A glance into the car showed only him and the driver, who was getting out of the car.  I watched him come around to the curbside and put his hand on the door handle.

“Sir,” he said.

He opened the door.  Nobbin had moved to the other side.

I shrugged, then got in.  A thought: how many people had got into cars such as this, and were never seen again?”

It was not a statistic that reached any of the newspapers.  Only the end result, a body washed down the Thames, with no indication of who it was, or where they came from, and no identification, or means of identification available.

The door closed, the driver went back to the front of the car, and then gently eased the car out into the traffic.

“I’m sorry for the theatrics surrounding this meeting, but it is necessary.  I’m sure you were told of the need for secrecy in this matter, and I’m just reinforcing that.”

“Just who are you?  And, for that matter, those people back in that building?  Or, if it’s not too hard to wrap your head around, who the hell have I been working for?”

“Good questions, all.  At least now I can speak freely.  As you can, Mr Jackson.”

“Except I have no idea who’s side you’re on, I’m on, or anyone for that matter.  This is not what I signed up for.”

“Well, to put some perspective on your situation, Mr Jackson, you were not supposed to live to tell about it.  It was an operation that was created with one purpose in mind, to find an agent named

William O’Connor, and kill him.  And everyone in the team assigned to the task.”

“By Severin and Maury?  If so, why didn’t they kill me in the alley along with this O’Connor?”

“That is a mystery to all of us.”

“And those people back in the room.  Who the hell were they?”

“Operations.  Trying to find out how a sub-section could be created and function within their purview and not be detected.  That’s what it was, run by two agents who had been expelled a few months back, but who were clever enough to work around all of the safeguards, recruit four agents, and then go after the man who caused the end of their careers.”

“Simple, it seems.”

“Very.  And, if it had not been for you, we would never have known who or why.”

“Perhaps we should be thankful there was an explosion then, otherwise we’d all be dead.”

“Or not, because as far as I know, that was part of the operation, designed to take the target, you and the surveillance member behind you.  It only did a third the job.  It didn’t go off at the critical moment.  No one was seriously hurt, by the way.”

“The policeman?”

“Critical but stable.  He’ll survive.”

“The police who were accusing me of being the bomber?”

“Our people trying to delay you, so our man could get away.  Seems they trained you better than we expected.  Did O’Connor say anything to you?”

“There wasn’t much time before I found him, and Severin shot him.”

“Anything at all?”

“He knew who I was.”

“Then he knew the whole team, and who was running it.”

“He killed two of them.”

“In self-defence.  They were not only surveillance but also assassins.  Different training before they joined your group.”

I had thought there was something odd about them.

“Anything else,” he asked again.

“Yes.  He said to tell you he found something he should, and that the evidence is…  And that’s when he was shot.  He didn’t tell me where it was.”

“He didn’t have to.  We had set up three prearranged drop sites, so it must be in one of those.  Here’s my card.”

He handed me a white card with a name and a phone number.  The name was not Nobbin.

“If this Severin contacts you again, call me.  I am available any hour of the day or night on that number.”

“If he doesn’t?”

“Then you will hear from me in the not too distant future.  The fact you’re a survivor tells me you are resourceful and have the makings of a good agent, one I can use in my department.”

“And those others back at the office?”

“You won’t hear from them again.”

The car stopped outside an underground staircase.

“This is your stop, Mr Jackson.  Thank you for your co-operation.”

Perhaps my career wasn’t in tatters.  I got out of the car, and watched it leave before heading for the underground, his card safely tucked away in my pocket.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.

But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.

I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 69

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 installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

With Nadia seeking gold at the beach at The Grove

…

I was waiting to be picked up at the bus depot by Nadia, trying to keep out of the public eye, knowing very few people I knew would be there at that hour.

It was early for me, not long after getting home from the night shift, with just enough time to change and get something to eat at the diner a block from the depot.

Nadia didn’t understand my obsession with anonymity, but being seen with her was just going to raise questions, and, if either my mother or Boggs found out, that would be two very interesting conversations.

I just didn’t need the aggravation.

I was not sure what to wear so I dug out the clothes I wore to a farm that a friend of my mothers owned and my mother had graciously offered my services.  It hadn’t been such a bad day, but it was hard work.

The clothes had the added advantage of making me almost invisible among the many seasonal workers currently in town.

I nearly missed her because I had been looking for her usual car, but when a large pickup truck pulled up at the curb where I was standing, it took a moment to recognize her behind the wheel.  A very unglamorous plain Jane, without make-up and her hair a mess, or so it looked to me.  I knew well enough not to make a comment.

The truck was battered and seen better days, but the engine sounded like that of a racing car.  A Cossatino’s getaway car.  Oddly, I could imagine her behind the wheel waiting for a team of bank robbers, fuelled no doubt by the many old movies I’d seen in my younger days.

I climbed up into the cabin and she had driven off before the car door was closed

“Are we in a hurry?”

“No parking zone.  Don’t need the sheriff’s deputies giving us a hard time.”

No, indeed.

“Where’s your car?”

“Too recognizable.  Where we’re going it’s better not to be recognized.”

That didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.  I knew it was going to be somewhere along the coastline, her idea to see if any more of the gold coins had fallen out of the treasure chests as they were being brought ashore.

The question was, was there any part of the coastline that hadn’t been surveyed?  That was when it occurred to me she might be headed for that stretch of coastline that belonged to The Grove, split by the coast road, either side of the road fenced off and signs telling people they would be shot on sight if caught trespassing.

There had been rumors of shootings but nothing ever made it to the sheriff’s office.  I hoped she told someone where she was going if that’s where she was taking me.

“You’re quiet this morning?”

“Just got off shift, and a little tired.”

“You should have said something.  I didn’t think…”

“It’s fine.  You’re currently the one ray of light on a very dark horizon.”

She looked sideways at me.  “That is a compliment.”

“I hope you take it that way.  With Boggs on some sort of crusade, my mother giving me dating tips, and Benderby hanging around, being with you Breaks the gloom and doom.” 

I turned slightly to get a better look at her.  If it was anyone else, I could fall in love with her, but knowing a Cossatino was a dance with the devil, and dangerous for your health.

“Well, I’m glad I bring some light into someone’s life.  It seems I can’t do anything right at home.”

“Why did you come home.  It seems to me you were happier away from this place.”

“Reasons I now think were stupid.”  There was a finality in her tone that warned not to go any further with it.

Instead, we were passing the old mall and I saw the transformation.  Fort Knox would be easier to get into.

“Do you know what’s going on at the old mall?”

“The Benderby’s are demolishing it, mainly because they have to, and do a lot of remediation, whatever that is, before they build the new marina and condos. They’re going to tap into the retirement market.”

That premise, according to a financial market magazine left on my desk, and which made interesting reading, was the next gold mine for those who had the foresight, and the financial means.

Benderby had both, and in another article, which to me at the time seemed to be profiling Benderby, opining the fact some of the new rich had not all made their fortunes legitimately, harking back to the war days and profiteering.  Had Benderby’s father and his before him, plowed this path to success, and the son and grandson found other Illegitimate means like drugs and worse to perpetuate it?

Was it possible, in this day and age to make a fortune without crossing the line somewhere?  No one could link Benderby to anything crooked, but rumors, there were plenty, including the mall, and the fact it was a huge insurance write-off.

Lenny seemed to think so, but cleverly, never quite put what he thought into words.

“Lucky them,” I muttered.

Several miles past the mall, she turned off the main road onto a track that had not been used for some time, heading towards the ocean

I could see now why we were in the truck.  A car would not be able to make it without getting bogged.  It was wet and muddy, with pools of water forming in ruts. 

When we hit a couple and got soundly shaken up, she slowed down.  Then, suddenly, the ocean came into view, and the track headed for the cliff, veering at the last minute, and going down the side of the hill until at the bottom we stopped outside a weather-beaten shack about the size of a large room.

She switched off the engine and let the silence surround us until I could just hear the sound of waves breaking on the rocky shoreline.

“Welcome to my castle.”

There was a whimsical expression on her face.

I opened the door and climbed out, in an instant the temperature dropped 10 degrees, and the effect of the wind almost knocking me over.

She slammed the door shut and went to the door of the shack, unlocking, then opening the door, then switching on a light, giving the inside a gloomy yellowish aura.  She motioned me to go in, then followed behind closing the door, and immediately it was much quieter.

“Not much of a castle.”

“It is when you want to get away from the rest of the family.  It used to be a bathing shack, but the waters around here got too treacherous for swimming, and it fell into disrepair.  I had it fixed up and this is where I come when I want to disappear.”

It didn’t look like it had been used in a while, a thin film of dust settled in everything, and smudged footprints on the floor, showing recent signs of habitation.  Two metal detectors were sitting on the table.

“It’s like a different world to be in when you have the family I have.”

“They don’t know about this place?”

“They probably do, but it’s been a wreck for years, and no one ever comes here, not anymore.  I found it one day, wandering along the coastline, exploring the boundaries of The Grove.  This is the southernmost tip.  There’s one on the northernmost tip too, where the building is much larger and used for storage.”

Say no more, I thought.  The Cossatino’s were allegedly smugglers on top of everything else, and that’s probably where the smuggled good were stored.  This part of the coastline was treacherous at best, with underwater reefs and craggy rocks along the cliff line.  There were some sandy stretches, but it was hard work to reach them, and at a guess, Nadia knew how to get there without slipping and falling.

Boats could only get within 50 years of the shoreline before the possibility of being dashed on the rocks, and for that reason, Boggs told me, that whole beachfront could not have been used by the pirate to bring his treasure ashore.

The little I’d seen from where the truck was parked verified that, at least for this section.

“But we’re here to check for gold coins, see if there is a possibility the treasure cane ashore somewhere along the Grove’s shoreline.  I know the consensus of opinion said it’s not possible, but from my explorations, I reckon there are at least a dozen spots where a longboat could land, especially if you came on the tide.”

That, I was guessing, was high tide, and it may have been a coincidence when the pirate arrived on this shore.

“The reefs would be submerged and even more dangerous.”

“There are ways.  I’ve been out there in a canoe once or twice with Vince, looking for passageways.  And, before you jump to any conclusions, I’m not a smuggler, and we may have been once, but an accident ten years ago put paid to that.  We lost four of the family, and six others in a hair-brained night landing in rough weather.”

I remembered a piece in the paper, the coastguard had been trailing a large yacht with suspected drugs aboard, waited until the Cossatino’s had transferred to the longboat that had gone out to meet the yacht, then chased it to the reef where a navigation mistake saw the longboat hit the reef, sink with all the evidence, and all but Vince had drowned in the heavy surf.

“Vince was lucky.”

“Vince was an idiot then and a bigger idiot now.  It made him believe he was invincible.  He’s not.  But let’s not talk about him, or the rest of them, we’re not exactly on speaking terms at the moment.”

She went to the table and picked up one of the metal detectors and held it out.  “Yours.”

I came over and took it, and it was heavier than I expected.

She picked up the other.  “Ready?”

For anything, I thought, then nodded.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The 2am Rant: Children are all the same

They just live in different houses

…

It’s quite remarkable to discover that your children are not unique.

For years I thought that we had spawned monsters that had quite likely come from another planet because the other children in the family seemed so different.

I didn’t realise that the parents had issued death threats if they so much as looked sideways while out.

It was where I suddenly realised that parents of children if taken at their word, could be mass murderers, or at the very best, the worst kind of bullies.

The threats of violence that they used, in any other circumstances would elicit a rather lengthy jail sentence.

I was guilty of it myself, and such threats had come to roll off the tongue so easily that you didn’t really know you were doing it.

If you don’t do this, I’ll kill you. There’s no thought to the significance of this statement, or the consequences if you were to actually do it.

No wonder the children just look at you like you’re deranged.

Of course, there are fewer murderous ways of dealing with the problem, but the sad fact is they have probably driven you into a blind rage and just past into that zone where you really have no idea what you’re saying.

Been there too.

But the revelation that all the other parents are the same, that you see them threatening their children with death or worse.

Then, after they’ve grown up and moved on as all children do, they return on odd occasions for Sunday lunch and there you begin to learn the stuff they did when younger that you never knew about

It’s seeming a rite of passage for all children, and it’s odd to hear others discussing it, especially when you hear someone else referring to their children the same as you do.

Did they come from the same planet too?

That’s when a friend told me the truth of the matter. All children are the same, they just live in different houses.

Ain’t that the truth!

What I learned about writing – Where the hell do I start?

Beyond the Spark: Laying the Foundation for Your Literary Masterpiece

That brilliant novel idea just hit you, didn’t it? It’s a lightning bolt of inspiration, a fully formed world, or a character whispering their story in your ear. The urge to sit down and pour it all onto the page is intoxicating, exciting, almost overwhelming. You can already see your name on the cover, taste the triumph, imagine the world devouring your words.

Hold that thought. Just for a moment.

Because before you dive headfirst into crafting the next blockbuster novel that’s going to take the world by storm, there are things to do. Essential groundwork. A foundation to lay. Think of it not as delaying the inevitable, but as strengthening the very ground your literary edifice will stand upon.

We’re talking about the critical “Where,” “How,” and “When” of your writing journey. As for the “Why”? You already know that. The burning desire to create, to tell this story, is your fuel. So, let’s focus on the practical necessities, before even one word is written.

The “Where”: Crafting Your Creative Sanctuary

Your physical and digital environment play a monumental role in your ability to focus and produce. This isn’t just about having a desk; it’s about optimizing your space for creativity.

  • 1. Your Dedicated Writing Space:
    • Physical Location: Whether it’s a quiet corner of your spare room, a dedicated office, or even a specific table at your local coffee shop – designate a primary writing spot. This helps train your brain to enter “writing mode” when you’re there.
    • Ergonomics & Comfort: Invest in a comfortable chair and a desk setup that supports good posture. You’ll be spending hours here. Back pain is a creativity killer.
    • Minimize Distractions: Clear clutter. Turn off notifications. Let family/housemates know your boundaries when you’re in this space. Consider noise-canceling headphones.
  • 2. Your Digital Arsenal:
    • Reliable Hardware: A computer or device that runs smoothly and won’t constantly crash. Nothing kills momentum faster than technical issues.
    • Writing Software: Choose your weapon. Word processor (Microsoft Word, Google Docs), dedicated writing software (Scrivener, Ulysses, Novelflow), or even just a text editor. Understand its features and how it can aid your specific process (outlining, character sheets, research integration).
    • Cloud Backup System: This is NON-NEGOTIABLE. Dropbox, Google Drive, OneDrive, iCloud – pick one and use it religiously. Imagine losing hundreds of hours of work. Don’t let it happen.
    • Internet Access (and Discipline): Necessary for research, but ensure you have strategies to avoid its inherent distractions (website blockers, dedicated writing apps).

The “How”: Your Strategic Blueprint

This is where the magic of planning happens. Before you write a single scene, you need to understand the world you’re building and the journey you’re taking your readers on.

  • 1. Solidify Your Core Concept (The Logline): Can you summarize your novel in one compelling sentence? This is your North Star. It helps you stay focused and reminds you of the story’s essence.
  • 2. Outline & Structure:
    • Plot Arc: Will you follow a three-act structure, hero’s journey, Snowflake Method, or something else? Decide on a general framework.
    • Chapter Breakdown: Even if it’s just a rough idea of what happens in each key section, having a skeletal outline gives you direction and prevents getting lost.
    • Key Plot Points: Identify your inciting incident, rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution.
  • 3. Character Development:
    • Protagonist & Antagonist: Go deep. What are their motivations, fears, desires, backstories, quirks? What is their character arc?
    • Supporting Characters: Understand their roles, relationships, and how they contribute to the plot and theme.
    • Character Bibles: Create detailed profiles for your main players.
  • 4. World-Building (If Applicable):
    • Rules & Logic: For fantasy/sci-fi, establish the laws of your world. Magic systems, technology, societal structures, history, geography. Consistency is key.
    • Sensory Details: What does it look, sound, smell, feel like? Start sketching out the atmosphere.
  • 5. Research Strategy:
    • Identify Needs: What do you really need to research? Historical facts, technical details, cultural nuances?
    • Resource Gathering: Create folders for articles, books, images, and links. Don’t go down endless rabbit holes yet, but know where to find the answers.
  • 6. Goal Setting:
    • Overall Word Count Target: What’s a realistic length for your genre?
    • Milestones: Break down the big goal into smaller, manageable chunks (e.g., Act 1 complete, first half done).

The “When”: Carving Out Your Creative Time

Even the most brilliant idea and the most detailed plan are useless without dedicated time. This isn’t about finding time; it’s about making time.

  • 1. Establish a Consistent Writing Routine:
    • Time Block: Identify the best time of day for you to write – when you’re most alert, least distracted, or most creative. Block it out in your calendar.
    • Consistency is King: Try to write at the same time every day, or at least every writing day. This builds a habit and signals to your brain that it’s “work time.”
  • 2. Set Realistic Deadlines:
    • Draft Completion: When do you want to finish the first draft? Break it down into weekly or monthly goals.
    • Accountability: Share your deadlines with a trusted friend, writing group, or mentor.
  • 3. Prepare for Your Session:
    • Clear the Decks: Before your writing time, handle urgent emails or small tasks that might nag at you.
    • Fuel & Hydration: Have water, coffee, or a healthy snack ready.
    • Review Your Plan: Briefly revisit your outline or what you intend to write during that session to get your mind oriented.

These aren’t obstacles; they’re launchpads. By investing time in these pre-writing essentials, you’re not just preparing to write a novel; you’re setting yourself up for success, minimizing roadblocks, and ensuring a smoother, more productive creative journey.

So, take a deep breath, savor that brilliant idea, and then roll up your sleeves. Your masterpiece awaits its well-laid foundation.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 223

Day 223 – Writing exercise

…

There’s no looking away when the proverbial hits the fan.

You hope that it’s never going to happen, and when it does, training kicks in, but there is always that shred of doubt, and that’s all it takes.

One time infinitesimal shred…

In what I believed to be an empty building, I was going through the plan, waiting for the seconds to tick down.

Then I heard a door close.  You know the type, one with a device that automatically closes it after you walk through.  The one that, if set properly, you don’t hear the door shut.

The one that I heard because it wasn’t set properly, or hadn’t been checked recently, and that last six inches gave out and banged as the door hit the jamb.

Which meant someone else was in the building.

I wanted to believe that it was someone leaving, but I knew no one was supposed to be there.  Not tonight.  Not at two am, because the night watchmen had just finished their rounds and were settling in to their packed lunches.

Who was it, and why were they there?

…

This mission required stealth and precision.  Three experts had gone over the building layout, the personnel who worked there, and the place where what I was supposed to take was easily removed.

The building expert had played his part.  He’d been spot on with the sensors and detection traps, and the doors and locks.

I was in the last position before advancing to the room that held the safe that held the objective.

The personnel expert had failed his job.  There was someone in the building who shouldn’t be.

Other than me.

That made the mission far more difficult.  But as I crouched in position, I had time to realise that no one could factor in a random element, a scenario that should have been considered but was missed.

Or maybe it hadn’t.

Maybe it had been overlooked deliberately, and was in the mix because I was supposed to be able to handle random situations.

It was just such a scenario that had got Eloise canned from the program.  She had been bitter about it, saying she had been the only one whose test had a random factor, that she had been deliberately targeted.

I had thought that too, because she had been very good, worked twice as hard, and had been the only girl.

Damn.  Now I was thinking about her and not the mission, a real problem.

I felt a buzz on my wrist, the watch computer vibrating to tell me it was time to move.

Phase 2

Down the corridor, sticking close to the wall, to the end and turn right.  The camera covering the entrance to the room would be off; that is, the red light would be out.

The surveillance monitoring guy would cut the camera at precisely the moment I reached the corner, giving me five seconds to get in the room.

Oddly, there was no surveillance in the room.

I reached the end, another buzz, five seconds, no red light, into the room and made sure the door didn’t slam shut. 

Just.

“Hello, Will.”

I think I did have a heart attack.

…

Eloise.  Larger than life, and looking very suave in all black.

She always could distract me.

“What the..”

I remembered to speak in hushed tones.  Surveillance didn’t know if the room was bugged, but others were, and it was assumed it might be.

My silence had been disturbed when she spoke, even if it was not very loud.

“You’re being set up.”

“How the hell did you know I would be here?”

“Dargers.”

Dargers was the reason I had got into the program,  the one who had been my mother’s handler and had been there when she died, on the job.

“Why?”

“Because you’re getting closer to the truth about your mother.    Fletcher’s in hospital fighting for his life.  Something happened just after you met.”

That was yesterday.  I’d seen another associated with her last mission, but they were still OK.  Or were they?

“You just got here?”

“No.  Been waiting.”

“I heard a door close just before I got here.”

“Then they’re coming for you.  We have to go.”  She handed me an envelope.  “The prize.  I don’t think it has the value you were led to believe.”

Probably not.

…

It came as no surprise that Eloise had neutralised the surveillance and cleared the path.  Or that she knew more about the organisation, because she had been a top-flight private investigator before signing on.

Before the end of the first week, she had categorised everyone: hopefuls and instructors.  That she even spoke to me was a surprise.  There were far more candidates who were more interested in her, but as the training progressed, I thought she hung out with me because she decided I was safe.

I never got to ask her why.

But I shared in her assessments and rode on her coat-tails, learning more from her than most of the instructors.  I still couldn’t understand why I survived the cut, and she didn’t.

Working with her once again only reinforced just how good she was.

Objective achieved; it was a matter of two people working together being better than one, simply because I couldn’t be in two places at once.  That’s when I opened the door; my instinct was to look left, and the threat was on the right.

The first threat, that is.

Our training had taught us that where there was one assassin, there was likely to be more, depending on the degree of danger you presented.  I found it hard to believe I could be a threat, but then I had been a little loose in who I questioned about my mother’s death.

It was a taboo question, but being immersed in the world she once excelled in had provided a unique opportunity.  I just didn’t think I would ruffle any feathers so quickly, or at all.

There were three would-be assassins.  We didn’t shoot to kill, which was our training, because we would be killing our own people, people who we had most likely trained with, or worked with.

Then there was the revelation.

There was another way in and out of the building that I had not been told about, and that in itself told me all I needed to know.

The briefing supervisor was compromised, or hadn’t been given the full brief.

Once out of the building, Eloise faded into the night as if she had never been there.  There had been no time for small talk, as much as I needed that one fleeting touch of hands as she left.

It reminded me that having feelings, or attachments, was at best a curse and at worst a death sentence in this job, if it was a job I wanted to take up, and those feelings I had for Eloise, having been rekindled, were going to make it impossible.

She had said as much about herself when she had left, not saying where she was going or what she was going to do. 

I had tried to put her out of my mind.

…

If this had been a normal operation, in and out, the package would simply be dropped off, and I would relocate and await the next mission.

This hadn’t been normal.

I had a cell number to call if anything went wrong.  The operations supervisor would have been aware of what had happened, and I would be called in for a debriefing.

I had a feeling Browning would be waiting on the end of the line to curate the fallout.  Dead people could be explained away; live people could talk.

I chose to sit on it until morning.  Uppermost in my mind was the fact that if the mission had gone the way Browning’s had planned, I would be either dead or captured, and sitting in a dark room somewhere awaiting interrogation.

I could still end up there.

Now, when I called, he would have to pretend that everything was fine, though there would be doubts as to how I did manage to escape what, in his mind, was meant to be an inescapable trap.

I dialled the number on the untraceable cell Eloise had given me.  The one I got for the mission was tracking my movements.  Those movements ended in the safe room.

Davidson couldn’t help himself when he answered.

“Where did you get that device?”

“I had reason to believe the mission device was compromised, as per training.  There was an unexpected visitor on the building, just before the ‘go’ signal.  Someone knew I was there.  I figured the cell was compromised and dumped it.”

“We had no prior intel of rogue movements, and our devices are secure.”

“Random factors, sir.  It’s what got a trainee tossed out of the program.  Remembered it at the last moment.  Saved me, by the way.  Three assassins tried to eliminate me.”

As if he wouldn’t know that he had three of his agents in the hospital wondering why they were not dead.

He sounded quite calm, which in a sense was disconcerting.

It was good that my training had taught me to trust no one, not even the people I worked for.

“Three?”  His incredulous tone was almost believable.

“Not unexpected, if you remember the briefing.  The organisation does contract some very nasty mercenaries as guards for their perimeter and internal security.”

“And you took care of them.”

“I believe so.  They weren’t shooting back.”

There was a moment’s silence while he digested that piece of information before asking the question he should have asked at the beginning.”

“Did you get what you were sent for?”

“Yes.”

“Then await further instructions on where you are to deliver the package.”

The line went dead.

Since the cell phone I was using was untraceable, he couldn’t send a team to eliminate me, but just to be safe, I powered it down and removed the SIM card, then changed locations.

I wasn’t going to wait to be summoned or hunted down.

…

The organisation I worked for was one of several that worked under the umbrella of the main intelligence service. 

These groups had their offices scattered about the city, hiding behind what could easily be mistaken for legitimate businesses. 

The one I worked for, and run by Davidson, lived in a large sandstone turn-of-the-century building that also had lawyers, doctors and insurance agents.  It was odd turning up at the office and mingling with a very strange collection of civilians.

While it provided the sort of cover we needed, and it gave Davidson the sort of autonomy and control over who knew what he was doing, he wanted to be without the prying eyes of those he reported to; it wasn’t the most secure.  I often wondered what would happen if a shootout came to the corridors.

It hadn’t yet, but there was always a first time.

Being away from the ultra secure central operations centre, security was not as ting, and Davidson’s mall cop security set up, the brain child of his brother-in-law who was a locksmith, was adequate but not bulletproof.

It took me a week to find all the weak spots, the black holes in CCTV coverage, and the door codes, at least those beyond what was issued on our personal key cards.

And to discover that there was another way in that didn’t require a key card, and if Davison had got a proper security assessment, he would have discovered just how insecure the office was.

His office.

When sweeping the roof during my own security inspection I discovered a I discovered a hatch door that gave access to the roof, and below that, an attic, disused, that ran the length of the building.  It was once the servants’ quarters for each of them.

There were some very interesting comments on the walls.

There were back staircases that led to each floor, and invisible doorways so they could mysteriously come and go without being seen.

There was another, the one I would be using.  Davidson was a fresh air lover and had one of the windows in his office half open, playing havoc with everyone’s air conditioning.

He could be annoying like that.

I waited until he went to his one o’clock briefing, entered by the windows, and sat in his seat.  I had no interest in rifling through the drawers or poking around in the filing cabinets.

At precisely five minutes past two he came in, closed the door behind him, and then stopped.

I would have thought he’d notice me before then.

“You need to do something about security.  I, for one, wouldn’t feel safe if just about anyone could wander in off the street.”

His usual scowl turned a shade darker.  “You’re not just anyone, are you?”

I looked at the man who controlled so many lives, to do with as he pleased.  He wasn’t that man when my mother was killed in action, but he was her liaison in the field.  That much I’d discovered before the walls went up.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

His cell phone rang.  The puzzled expression on his face told me he was not expecting a call.

He took his phone out of his top pocket and looked at the screen, shook his head, and disconnected the call.

A few seconds later, a red dot from a laser sight appeared on the wall behind me. I knew there was something there when his expression changed, and then we both watched it until it appeared on his chest before disappearing.

“Is this some sort of sick joke?”

His cell phone rang again.

“Not me.  I think you might want to answer it.  Someone wants to get your attention.”

Who, though? I didn’t know.  I had not arranged anything.

He answered it.  “Whoever you are, you are in more trouble than you can imagine possible.”

Whoever was on the end of the call said something to him; his expression changed, this time to one I’d never expected from a man like him.

He pushed a button on the screen, and it came to life.

“You know better than to go into the lion’s den by yourself.”

Eloise.

“I had it covered.”

“Now you do.”

The red laser light reappeared.

Recognition flickered.  “Morgan.  You’re working with him?”

“Saving him from you, Davidson.  And still working on what I’m going to do about you killing a friend of mine, the same one who intimated to Blake that you were his mother’s liaison on that last mission.  You made a mistake.  It cost her her life, just part of the mess you’ve been cleaning up ever since.  Last night you went too far.”

“You haven’t got all of the facts.”

“I spoke to Richardson, just before he passed.  It was an illuminating discussion, one that answered several questions I had.”

If his expression was going to be an indication of his mood, then just the mention of Richardson brought fear.

“That’s impossible.”

“No.  What was impossible is that I found him.  You did a very good job of hiding him away, so far north he’s almost at the North Pole.  You even changed his name, Ralph Weimar.  You also figured out who I was, didn’t you?”

“A guess at best.  Your tradecraft gave you away.  Isabel Jenkins.”

“Harold Jenkins, another of your losses.”

Jenkins.  I knew that name from somewhere.

His shoulders slumped slightly, as if accepting that whatever he had been doing was over.

“So, not that any of what you think you know is relevant or even happened, what are you going to do?”

“End it.”

I saw the red dot focus on Davidson and then watched him die. 

I didn’t expect what happened next.  The dot moved to me. I thought I heard the bullet leave the gun just before it hit me, and in that fraction of a second before the pain came, it was lights out.

…

I think the miracle was that I was still alive.

I don’t remember anything from the moment Davidson was shot until I just woke, slowly focusing on a water stain on the roof above me.

It felt like I’d been hit by a truck. Or worse, one of those old steam locomotives.

There was an odd perfume aroma in the room, one that seemed familiar.  It was there, on the tip of my tongue.

That was overwritten by another memory, the one where I suddenly associated my predicament with being shot, which led to remembering those last few seconds in Davidson’s office, and then Eloise.

“There he is.”

Eloise.

“What happened?”

“You were saved from a fate worse than death.”

Another memory.  I was in Davidson’s office.  Then another: the realisation I didn’t have an exit strategy.  I was going to confront him … and then what?

“How?”

“You had to be a victim.  Davidson didn’t survive; he wasn’t meant to.  He had to pay for his mistakes.  You, though, you don’t deserve what they would have done to you.  He may have been a murderer, but he did get results.  We both knew there is no real honour in the job we would have had to do.  Don’t go back, even if they ask you.”

“Why are you doing this?  How did you know…?”

“I like you, have done since the first time I saw you.  You know me.  I can see through just about anyone.  And probably because your first words were not ‘babe’, ‘date’ and ‘fuck’.”

“I was going to ask you if you wanted a coffee and a chat once, but thought twice about it, then decided not to.  You had enough admirers.”

She smiled.  “I’m glad I’m out of it.  It was a mistake, but a good one.  I met you.  Come work with me. I’m going back to being a Private Detective.  LA or Hollywood.  Maybe New York.  Who knows.  We can just get on the next train out and see where it takes us. What do you say?”

“How long will I be here?”

“A couple of days.  It’s a clean wound, nothing damaged.  You can thank me later.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Here.  Told them we’re about to be married and I wasn’t letting you out of my sight.  It amuses them. I kinda like the sound of it.  But it takes two to tango, so I can wait until you’re back on your feet, and we’ll see how good we can dance together.  Now, the doctor would like to talk to you, then the police.  I’ll be right here if you need me.  OK?”

“Dance?”  Perhaps there was a little confusion.

“Tango.  Yes.  Tango, Alpha, November, Golf, Oscar.”

I felt a surge of adrenalin run through me, and my mind cleared, taking a quick glance around the room, and ending on Eloise, only she was not Eloise, she was Baxter, Captain, my team leader, and I was Reynolds, Lieutenant, undercover.

She had just issued an Agent down signal, which I assumed to be me.  Protocol Five was instituted, and I was to follow her lead.

Something must have gone terribly wrong.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Accra

The Accra You Haven’t Seen: 5 Unique & Uncrowded Tourist Spots

Accra, Ghana’s dazzling coastal capital, is a city that pulses with life. From the vibrant beats of highlife music to the aromatic symphony of street food, every corner offers an adventure. But with adventure often comes a crowd. The usual suspects—the Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum, the bustling Arts Centre, the sun-soaked Labadi Beach on a Sunday—are rightfully famous, but they can sometimes feel overwhelming.

What if you could peel back a layer of the city and find the spaces where its true, quiet soul resides? Places brimming with distinctive character, history, and beauty, yet blissfully free from the tourist throngs?

Forget the long lines and the jostling crowds. Here are the top five visitor attractions in Accra that offer a richer, more intimate encounter with the city.

1. For the Soulful Historian: The W.E.B. Du Bois Centre

Tucked away in the serene residential neighbourhood of Cantonments is a place of profound historical significance and hushed reverence: The W.E.B. Du Bois Memorial Centre for Pan-African Culture. This isn’t just a museum; it was the final home of Dr. William Edward Burghardt Du Bois, the iconic American civil rights activist and Pan-Africanist who spent his final years in Ghana.

What Makes It Distinctive: The centre offers a deeply personal journey into the life of a giant. You can walk through his preserved study, see his personal library, and visit his simple yet moving grave, which lies in the peaceful courtyard alongside the tomb of his wife, Shirley Graham Du Bois. It’s a place for quiet reflection, not just sightseeing, offering a powerful connection to the global quest for African liberation.

Why It’s Not Crowded: It’s often overshadowed by the larger, more centrally located monuments. Its scholarly nature naturally attracts a more contemplative crowd, meaning you can often have the entire space to yourself to absorb its powerful history.

Pro Tip: Give yourself at least an hour. The exhibits are detailed and the atmosphere invites you to slow down and read, reflect, and appreciate the legacy of this incredible figure.

2. For the Art Lover: Artists Alliance Gallery

If the chaotic, beautiful energy of the Arts Centre market feels like too much, there is a sublime alternative. Located near the Tetteh Quarshie Interchange, the Artists Alliance Gallery is a magnificent three-story haven for Ghanaian art.

What Makes It Distinctive: This is not a market; it’s a curated gallery experience. Housed in a beautiful, traditional-style building, it features an astounding collection of high-quality art, from intricate contemporary paintings and sculptures to stunning Ashanti kente cloth and ancient beads. All pieces are for sale, and there’s no pressure to buy. You can simply wander through the airy rooms and appreciate the sheer breadth of Ghanaian creative talent.

Why It’s Not Crowded: Many tourists flock to the bargain-hunting vibe of the main Arts Centre, leaving this gallery as a hidden gem for those in the know. Its tranquil, almost museum-like atmosphere is a welcome escape.

Pro Tip: Even the building itself is a work of art. Be sure to explore the courtyards and every floor, as each one hosts different styles and mediums of work.

3. For the Nature Seeker: Legon Botanical Gardens

Need a break from the concrete and traffic? Head to the Legon Botanical Gardens, a sprawling green oasis located within the University of Ghana campus. This isn’t your typical “garden”; it’s a vast, natural reserve offering a genuine breath of fresh air.

What Makes It Distinctive: The gardens are a destination for both relaxation and light adventure. You can wander through the lush forests, spot exotic birds, and enjoy the serene scenery around the central lake. For the more active, there are rope courses, canopy walks, and canoeing. It’s the perfect place for a family picnic, a romantic stroll, or some peaceful solo time with a book.

Why It’s Not Crowded: Its sheer size means that even on a busy day, the crowds dissipate across the lawns and trails. It feels less like a tourist spot and more like a local’s secret escape from the city heat.

Pro Tip: Go in the late afternoon when the sun is less intense. The golden light filtering through the trees is absolutely magical.

4. For the Beach Escapist: Bojo Beach

While Labadi and Kokrobite beaches have their charms, they can get packed. For a truly unique seaside experience, take a short trip to Bojo Beach Resort. What makes it special is its location—it sits on a pristine strip of land between a lagoon and the Atlantic Ocean.

What Makes It Distinctive: The adventure begins the moment you arrive. You are taken across the calm waters of the Densu Delta in a small wooden boat to reach the beach resort. This short journey immediately sets a festive, exclusive tone. On one side, you have the tranquil lagoon, and on the other, the roaring Atlantic. It’s the best of both worlds, with cleaner sand and a far more relaxed vibe than the main city beaches.

Why It’s Not Crowded: The boat crossing naturally filters the crowds, creating a more intimate and exclusive atmosphere. It feels like you’ve discovered your own private island paradise just minutes from the city.

Pro Tip: Plan to spend a few hours. Rent a relaxing beach hut, enjoy a freshly prepared meal at the restaurant, and take a dip in both the lagoon and the ocean.

5. For the Inquisitive Explorer: The Forts of Ussher Town

Everyone knows about Jame Town’s vibrant street art and boxing gyms, but fewer take the time to explore its deep, layered history. Beyond the iconic lighthouse lie the Forts of Ussher Town: James Fort and Ussher Fort.

What Makes It Distinctive: These forts are a poignant and powerful reminder of Ghana’s role in the transatlantic slave trade. While not as large as the castles in Cape Coast or Elmina, their history is just as significant. Walking through the dungeons and standing on the ramparts, with the crashing waves of the Atlantic below, is an incredibly moving experience. They also offer some of the most stunning, uncrowded panoramic views of Accra’s coastline.

Why It’s Not Crowded: They are often missed by standard tour itineraries that focus on the more monumental sites. The forts can sometimes be under renovation or have limited access, adding to their mysterious, overlooked quality. Always check if they are open to visitors before you go.

Pro Tip: Hire a local guide from the Jamestown community. Their personal stories and historical knowledge will bring the stones of these forts to life in a way no guidebook ever could.

Discover Your Accra

The true heart of Accra isn’t found only in its busiest plazas or on its most popular beaches. It lives in these quiet corners, these spaces of reflection, creativity, and natural beauty. By stepping off the beaten path, you’re not just avoiding a queue; you’re choosing to connect with the city on a deeper, more authentic level.

So next time you’re in Accra, dare to explore. Your greatest adventure might just be where the crowds aren’t.

Happy exploring

In a word: Top

Spinning like a …  yes, had a few of those dizzy spells, especially after too much to drink.  It’s where you say, ‘stop the world, I want to get off’.

And, ages ago, I think it was a musical production.

But…

Top, well, there’s sides, a bottom, and a top.  Have you been to the top of the world? I think I’ve been to the bottom, and it’s not the poles I’m talking about.

But then the top of something is the highest point, such as a mountain.  For some odd reason, I’ve never had the inclination to climb to the top of a mountain, but I’m guessing the view from the top of Mt Everest would be interesting.

Are you at the top of your game?

We say this when a player or athlete is winning or playing at their best.  I just keep hoping this year will be when the Maple Leafs will be playing at the top of their game.

Especially when I personally attend Scotiabank Arena in Toronto.

If you read thrillers, then you’ll know the assassin is always about to top someone, that is to say, kill them.

Will you top up my drink?  It’s where someone asks you how many glasses of wine you’ve had, and the correct answer is one; it just never got empty!

Can you put the top back on the bottle?

I’m headed straight to the top of the company.  The roof, maybe, certainly not as CEO.

Top gear, aside from being a motoring show on TV, could also be third, fourth, or fifth gear, depending on the type of gearbox.

And, of course, there are about another hundred ways it could be used.

Confusing, to say the least.

Have you another?  Let me know…