Investigations of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage, the police thought I had murdered my own wife, though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months, the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last time I saw Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months, I was barely functioning, to the extent that I had all but lost my job and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in that she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened became our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each other about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realise that all she had was her work; personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police, and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone, then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
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
Collecting the car was easy because it was not kept near my flat. I could not afford to park nearby, and couldn’t get a permit to park on the street. I had cursed my bad luck at the time, but now it was very useful.
I spend a few hours resting in the car, stopping along the way at a park, and then, well past nightfall, I drove to the block in Oakwood Avenue, easily recognizable from the exterior photo also provided by the realtor.
Twice around the block, I stopped around the corner, past the block, and noted that I could walk back and then take cover from the trees and shrubs growing in front of, and around the building. To reach the right flat, I would have to pass down the inner side towards the rear where, hopefully, there might be a door.
Otherwise, it would have to be the hard way.
At 00:45, I left the car, and walked back to the block, keeping an eye out form people walking, or looking out their windows on either side of the street. Then, satisfied I hadn’t been seen, I ducked through the trees and quickly walked the distance from the front to the side where I stopped and waited. After a few minutes, and nothing had stirred, I started down the side of the building.
Several flats had lights on, but the curtains were drawn. Being the ground floor, I doubted whether those curtains would be open at night. It didn’t take long to be alongside the flat in question.
It was in total darkness, and the curtains had been drawn.
First problem. There was no back door. The traditional entry point would be the front door, and no doubt there was a communal back door as well. Next, I checked the windows, and those that I could see were complete glass and non-opening. Worse still they had a metal grilled across them to deter thieves.
Near the corner, leading to the rear of the building was a window, higher up and ajar. By its location, I guessed this was the bathroom or the toilet. I was hoping for the former.
It took a few minutes to unlatch the window and several more to scramble up the wall, and it through the window opening, which wasn’t much wider than me. I had to be careful not to drop any of the bottles on the inner ledge.
Once down of the other side, inside the room, it was a narrow bathroom, without a bath, and almost impossible to see. I fixed the window and put everything back on the ledge, just in case someone did a circuit of the building at a security measure.
Once inside, and after one in the morning, little stirred.
I could just faintly hear the flat owners above, hardly enough noise to be concerned about, and bringing a thought; shouldn’t they be asleep like everyone else.
It was certainly a quiet neighborhood.
I brought a small torch from the car with me and sparingly used it to find my way around. When my eyes got used to the semi-darkness, I found that the flow from small lights of appliances adequately lit the rooms.
It had two bedrooms, one empty and being used as a storeroom, a lounge room, a dining area, and the bathroom, and kitchen area. It was big enough for a couple, or even a couple with one child.
Inside what I assumed was the front door, I found several letters shoved under the door. They were addressed to Mr. Adam Quinley.
I hoped that I’d not made a mistake and broken into a flat belonging to another person. O’Connell didn’t see to me to be a Quinley, because it was an unusual name.
The dates on the letters went back a week and told me whoever the flat belonged to, they hadn’t visited it for a while. I went back to the lounge room and over to a desk. There were the familiar cords leading to no computer, but there was a printer. It meant he had a laptop he carried with him.
A laptop that no one had found. It suggested to me that he had it somewhere near him, perhaps in a car, which may be still parked in a garage, or parking station somewhere.
I searched through the neat pile of documents on the desk, and in a folder marked ‘Accounts’ and found one for the car registration, in the name of Quigley. I noted the registration and type of car, and just in case I forgot it, folded the piece of paper and put it in my pocket. It would be the subject of my next search if nothing showed up.
The next half hour I made a thorough search of the flat and found nothing of use. I checked for all the spots he might have hidden the USB, but it was not there. He had kept it somewhere else.
Done, I left the flat by the front door, and for good measure, checked his mailbox, outside, and found a number of letters. I took them and would look at them back in the car. Just as I made the tree line to walk back, a car stopped outside the building.
The door opened and I watched the driver get out of the car, stop and look up and down the street, then walk towards the front door,
By chance, the occupant of the flat above the door switched on a light in the room which, uncurtained, spilled out to shed light on the person now at the front entrance.
I recognized her immediately, just before the light was switched off and darkness took over.
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.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
A meeting with Nadia’s father
…
I’d met Nadia’s father once, but had seen him often on the streets.
He was a man to be feared, and never went anywhere without two of his foot soldiers beside him. Perhaps that was the downside of being a crime boss, you could not be out by yourself.
Benderby was the same, but he was better at disguising them as almost normal people. Cossatino’s henchmen looked exactly what they were, armed gorillas in cheap suits.
Vince was like his father, but with younger versions, the hangers-on from school days. It crossed my mind more than once how Nadia had separated him from his minders, but I imagine she was more resourceful than he was.
We said little on the way back to the car, there was little to say. I might have disagreed with her course of action, in fact, they needed to be taught a lesson, but I knew in doing so, it put a target on her back.
And, if anything happened to Vince, she have her father to answer to. In that, I don’t think that bothered her, because, unlike Vince, she could stand up to him. It would have taken more courage than I had for her to up and leave the way she had.
Of course, it didn’t take a lot to see why. As far as her father and Vince were concerned, she was dispensible, if or when a situation warranted it. Like working with Boggs and I had no doubt prompted Vince’s reaction.
Not far from the car was another, and as we approached, a man got out of the rear. Two others got out from the front. In the receding light, it was difficult to see who it was, but since the man had two minders it had to be either Benderby or Cossatino.
I looked at Nadia, and from her expression, she knew who it was. She stopped just short of the car, and I joined her.
“It’s my father,” she said.
“How did he know where you’d be?”
“A tracker on my car.”
So, she had intended he find her, but was it her intention that he find Vince? I doubted he would be interested in what happened to Alex.
She held up her hand, and said, “I wouldn’t come too close, Dad, not if your help wants to scrape what’s left of Vince off the side of the container.”
I looked closely at her hand, and it was her mobile phone. Would that convince him she meant what she said?
“You’re not that clever Nadia.”
He took two steps, his two minders pulled out their guns and were aiming them at us.
I saw her finger move, and a second later there was a sharp bang coming from the direction of the mall.
“The next one will go off next to Vince. Unlike what he did to Sam and I, he won’t have time to think about his death. Tell your goons to put away their guns and get back in the car, or else.”
Cossatino stopped and motioned to his men to lower their weapons. They did not put them away, nor did they look like they were going back to the car.
A test of wills. Who would crack first?
I wondered if she had wired an explosive in the container. I didn’t know much about electronics, but the steel walls of the container surely would have interfered with a cell phone signal. I guess it didn’t have to be in the container.
“I get it,” he said. “I should not have told Vince to take care of the problem. I didn’t consider he would take it literally. I’m sorry. We don’t have to do this.”
“Just the fact you think I’m a problem is bad enough, but getting Vince to deal with it?”
“That was a mistake. The solution was never to hurt you, or your friends.”
“He murdered Boggs, and for what? There never was any treasure, was there?”
“Maybe once, but no. The real treasure was the maps. People will pay a small fortune for them if they believe there’s a chance of finding a trove. We couldn’t have anyone upsetting the apple cart, but killing him wasn’t what I asked for. Vince and that fool Alex took it too far, and that’s on me.”
“Literal or not, you’ve made it very clear I don’t fit into this family. I never did, did I? You only tolerated Alex because it was a way of uniting the Cossatino’s and the Benderby’s, not because you wanted me to be happy.”
“There will always be a place for you, Nadia.”
“Not while Vince is alive. He won’t let it go, no matter what you tell him.”
“You leave Vince to me.”
“No. I can’t trust you either. So, here’s the deal. Sam and I are going back to Italy. I want no part of the family. But if I see you, Vince, or anyone else I don’t like hanging around, then Isobel and the twins will pay it.”
“What are you talking about…”
At that precise moment, his phone rang, a rather odd ring tone, like one specially set for a particular person, and he answered it without hesitation.
A few seconds later, the call ended.
“You have my word nothing will happen to you, or Sam, as long as I’m alive.” He motioned to his men to go back to the car. “Have a nice life Nadia.”
He glared at her for a few seconds then followed his men to the car. The car then drove off, leaving the two of us standing alone in the increasing twilight.
I had a hundred questions, but it didn’t seem to be the right time. I went with the most obvious, “What just happened?”
“My father thought he could clean up the mess he made using me as the scapegoat. Instead, he just confessed to, and confirmed Vince and Alex’s role in Boggs’s death.” She held up her phone. “Charlene was listening in to the confessions. The sheriff should have the two boys by now, and…”
In the distance we could hear the sirens of the police cars and see the flashing lights. Cossatino had driven into a trap.
“Isobel and the twins?”
“My father’s mistress. He’s been seeing her since before my mother disappeared. He cares more for them than me, even Vince if truth be told. It’s his one weakness and guarantees our safety. We are going to Italy?”
It might not have been the thought at the top of my list at that very moment, but it was almost a definite yes. There was nothing left here for me, and the last thing I wanted was Benderby as a proxy father.
The sirens had stooped, and the flashing lights become static. Nadia looked tired, perhaps more than a little sad at the way everything had turned put. I know I was.
As for what just happened, Nadia had surprised me. I think for a moment back at the mall she really was going to leave them to die, which I might have considered no better than her brother or Alex’s actions, but she really wasn’t like any of them, and I put that down to her mother.
Something else I hadn’t realizedwas that she had a different mother, but a memory from a long distant past came back when she had mentioned her to her father, something my mother had said, more or less to say she couldn’t understand what a woman like Francesca could see in a man like him.
Perhaps she had simply up and left when she finally realized the monster she married, but it didn’t explain why she left her daughter behind. Perhaps her father was guilty of that crime too.
“I think we both need a change, and I’ve never been out of the country.” I took her hand in mine, then gave her a hug.
She was shaking, whether it was the cold or the enormity of what just happened was debatable, but for the moment it was over. There would be new storms to face tomorrow, not the least of which would be to face my mother.
“Let’s go back to the hotel. You need to get some rest.”
Perhaps not, but now seems to be an appropriate time, nearing the age of 72, to take stock.
We have achieved a lot in the last twenty or so years once the children have grown up and can look after themselves.
Unlike a lot of more modern couples who are travelling in their 20s and 30s and then having children, we chose to do it the other way around.
To me, it seemed easier to deal with teenagers when we were in our 40s rather than our 60s. With the benefit of hindsight, I can truthfully say we were right.
We were older and wiser when we travelled and more aware of the dangers around us, sometimes overlooked or ignored by a youthful devil-may-care attitude.
But, in saying that ….
No, I don’t think I’ll be getting to see Mt Kilimanjaro, observing the wild animals in the Serengeti, climbing Mt Everest, or seeing the ancient pyramids.
But, if it is ever possible before I die, I still want to go to the Greek Islands, and, Santorini is at the top of my travel bucket list.
We’ve been to London. We’ve been to Paris and Euro Disney. We’ve been to Rome and seen the ancient ruins. We’ve been to Vienna, Schönbrunn Palace, and, particularly for us, a visit to Swarovski crystal world, near Innsbruck, we’ve been to Salzburg, and been on the Sound of Music tour.
We’ve been to Florence and loved it, we’ve been to Venice and loved that too, and we’ve spent a few days in the heart of Tuscany, and want to go back for longer, much longer.
In fact, that’s the second item on the travel bucket list.
We’ve also been to Singapore and Hong Kong, at first out of necessity as an airline stopover, but then we went back to see the city and tourist, and non-tourist attractions.
I will not forget staying at the Hong Kong Conrad Hotel as a Diamond Hilton Honors member. Oh, the memories.
We’ve also stayed on the French Riviera, in a timeshare apartment in Antibes where every morning when out back you had a view of the shimmering Mediterranean if the sun was out.
Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo, the billionaire’s yachts in Antibes harbour, Monte Carlo, and ‘that’ casino, taking the same drive along the coast as Grace Kelly did in To Catch a Thief, and feeling like James Bond arriving for a new adventure, minus the half-million-dollar sports car.
But now, crashing back to earth with an extremely hard thump ….
Travel in the future is looking difficult for both of us, not only financially but from a health aspect. We are both not as sprightly as we used to be.
Yet given the restraints and if it is at all possible, aside from the Greek Islands and Tuscany, the next items on the list are:
Germany, visiting both Berlin, from a Cold War aspect, the Brandenburg gate springs to mind, and Munich at the time of the Octoberfest. As a beer drinker that is also high on my bucket list.
Scotland, more so since we’ve started watching Outlander, and besides being a beer drinker, I am also partial to a good Single Malt, the Whiskey Trail.
Ireland, because my wife’s previous name was Murphy and at some point, in the long distant past some relatives emigrated to Australia, and she would like to visit the country of her forebears.
But with the current state of the world, our health issues, and that all-important requisite money, or the lack of it, perhaps it’s time to visit other parts of our own country.
Perhaps it’s time to do a culinary trip, particularly down south. It’s practical, achievable, and safe.
The Power of Tropes: Why Cliffhangers, Third-Act Twists, and the Hero’s Quest Still Rule Storytelling
As writers, we all chase the holy grail of absolute originality. We want to craft something so entirely unprecedented that it leaves readers breathless, wondering, “How on earth did they think of that?”
However, in the pursuit of being unique, it’s easy to slip into the writing morass—that confusing, overly abstract swamp where narratives become so convoluted that they alienate the reader entirely.
The truth? Tropes aren’t the enemy of creativity; they are its foundation. Tropes are the shared language between storyteller and audience. When used skillfully, time-tested devices like cliffhangers, third-act twists, and the hero’s quest act as narrative anchor points. They keep readers turning pages while giving you a sturdy framework to inject your own voice and subvert expectations.
Let’s break down three of the most powerful storytelling tropes, exploring the distinct advantages and disadvantages of each, and how you can use them without falling into clichés.
1. The Cliffhanger: The Ultimate Page-Turner
Think of the classic serialised novels of the 19th century or modern prestige television: just as the tension reaches a fever pitch, bam—fade to black. A cliffhanger abruptly halts the narrative at a moment of high suspense, leaving the ultimate fate of the characters hanging in the balance.
The Advantages:
Instant Engagement: Cliffhangers hijack our psychological need for closure (known as the Zeigarnik effect). Readers remember uncompleted tasks and unresolved plots much better than finished ones, making it nearly impossible to put the book down.
Momentum: They bridge the gap between chapters, episodes, or books. In serialised fiction or indie publishing, a well-placed cliffhanger is your best tool for securing immediate pre-orders for the sequel.
The Disadvantages:
Reader Frustration: If overused or deployed cheaply, cliffhangers can feel manipulative. When every single chapter ends with a manufactured crisis that is immediately resolved in the next sentence, readers lose trust in the narrative stakes.
The “Cheap Trick” Trap: Relying solely on cliffhangers can mask lazy plotting. If the core narrative arc isn’t compelling on its own, a cliffhanger is just a Band-Aid slapped over a boring story.
Pro Tip: Use cliffhangers sparingly and ensure they emerge naturally from the plot. A true cliffhanger should answer one major question while brilliantly spawning two more.
2. The Third-Act Twist: The Perspective Shifter
Positioned just as the story hurtles toward its climax, the third-act twist turns everything the reader thought they knew completely upside down. Think of The Sixth Sense, Gone Girl, or Shutter Island. Suddenly, clues that were hiding in plain sight take on a terrifying or triumphant new meaning.
The Advantages:
High Re-readability: A masterfully executed twist rewards the reader. Once the secret is out, looking back at the narrative jigsaw puzzle and seeing how the pieces fit together is one of the most deeply satisfying experiences a reader can have.
Emotional Resonance: A great twist doesn’t just shock; it changes the stakes. It forces the protagonist (and the audience) to re-evaluate their journey, often elevating a standard plot into a profound thematic statement.
The Disadvantages:
The “Come Out of Nowhere” Problem: If a twist has no foreshadowing, it stops being clever and starts looking like cheating. Readers hate feeling tricked by information the author withheld just to pull a fast one.
Predictability: Conversely, because third-act twists are so ubiquitous, seasoned readers can often spot them a mile away. If your twist relies on an amnesiac narrator, a secret twin, or “it was all a dream,” genre-savvy readers will guess it by page fifty.
Pro Tip: Play fair. Hide your clues in moments of high action so the reader’s attention is divided. When the twist drops, the reader should slap their forehead and say, “Of course! It was right there the whole time!”
3. The Hero’s Quest: The Blueprint of Human Myth
From The Odyssey and The Lord of the Rings to Star Wars and The Hunger Games, the hero’s quest (often mapped out as Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey) is the undisputed heavyweight champion of storytelling structures. A protagonist is called to adventure, crosses a threshold, faces trials, undergoes a profound transformation, and returns home forever changed.
The Advantages:
Universal Resonance: The hero’s quest mirrors the human condition. We are all striving to grow, overcome obstacles, and find our place in the world. Because of this, the quest structure speaks directly to our primal emotional wiring.
Built-in Character Arcs: The structure forces your protagonist to change. By putting them through a gauntlet of external trials that reflect their internal flaws, you guarantee a deeply satisfying character arc.
The Disadvantages:
Formulaic Fatigue: Because it is so ubiquitous, the quest can easily feel paint-by-numbers. If you hit every single milestone of the Hero’s Journey without subverting any expectations, your story risks feeling like a generic clone of a thousand other books.
Scope Creep: Quests are naturally sprawling. It is very easy to get bogged down in world-building, lore, and “fetch quests” that stall the narrative momentum and exhaust the reader.
Pro Tip: Subvert the milestones. Maybe your hero refuses the call and stays home, changing their small corner of the world instead. Or perhaps the mentor figure turns out to be the ultimate antagonist. Give the familiar skeleton some entirely new skin.
Conclusion: Embrace the Tropes, Find Your Voice
Tropes are not a cage; they are tools. Cliffhangers keep the pages turning, third-act twists blow the reader’s mind, and the hero’s quest provides a resonant emotional backbone.
Don’t be afraid to lean into these time-tested traditions. Readers want the comfort of the familiar, provided you deliver it with a fresh voice, sharp prose, and genuine emotional stakes. Use these tropes as your foundation, and let your unique perspective be the architecture that brings the house down.
What is your favorite trope to write or read? Do you love a good plot twist, or do you prefer a classic epic journey? Let us know in the comments below!
There is that biography that sits on the inside of the dustcover of your book, slightly more impressive than that on X. What are the requirements?
…
That’s a fantastic point, and you’ve hit on the core difference between marketing copy (the X bio) and the author’s professional narrative (the book dust jacket bio).
The dust jacket biography, often called the Author Flap Copy or Jacket Copy, has a completely different purpose, format, and tone than the 160-character X bio. It serves as an authoritative statement to both readers and the book industry.
Key Differences in Purpose and Tone
Feature
X (Twitter) Bio (160 Characters)
Book Dust Jacket Bio (Approx. 150-250 Words)
Primary Goal
Acquisition & Engagement: Get a quick follow and signal the type of content the user tweets.
Authority & Trust: Validate the author’s expertise and establish their professional credentials.
Perspective
Often First-Person (“I write…”) to establish a personal connection.
Almost always Third-Person (“She lives in…”, “He is a…”) to create an objective, authoritative voice.
Tone
Conversational, Witty, Casual, or Punchy.
Formal, Professional, Established, and Narrative-Driven.
Focus
Current interests, latest projects, and a personal flair.
The author’s full professional history, prior publications, and relevant background.
Essentials for the Dust Jacket Biography
Since the book flap bio has a generous word count (relative to X), it functions as a short professional narrative. It should ideally include the following five components:
1. The Opening Hook (Name & Residency)
Start with the author’s full name and their geographic context, often framed by a sentence that establishes their vocation.
Example: Dr. Alana Chen is a professor of history at Yale University and a renowned specialist in Cold War espionage.
2. Relevant Credentials and Expertise
This is where the biography justifies why the author is the person who should be writing this particular book.
Non-Fiction: Include academic degrees, professional roles, awards, and relevant real-world experience (e.g., “A former intelligence analyst,” “Holds a PhD in Astrophysics,” “Co-founder of the global non-profit…”).
Fiction: Mention prior successful novels, major literary awards, or specific background that lends authenticity to the story (e.g., “Her short stories have appeared in The New Yorker,” “A three-time winner of the Edgar Award”).
3. Prior Work and Social Proof
List a maximum of two or three previous major works to demonstrate a history of publication and success.
Example: She is the author of the critically acclaimed novels, The Silicon Fog and The Memory Architect.
4. Personal/Relatable Detail
A single sentence to humanise the author and make them relatable to the reader. This is often an interest, a pet, or a detail about their family life.
Example: When not researching ancient civilisations, she enjoys hiking the trails near her home with her two rescue dogs.
5. Current Location
The final line often returns to their place of residence to provide a grounding detail.
Example: He currently lives in London. (This is often stylised to be the last, standalone line.)
A Day in Venice: Making the Most of Your 24-Hour Stopover
Venice, the City of Water, is a place that has captivated the hearts of travellers for centuries. With its stunning architecture, rich history, and unique culture, it’s no wonder that Venice is a top destination for many. But what if you only have a day to spend in this enchanting city? Is it possible to make the most of your 24-hour stopover and create unforgettable memories? The answer is yes, and it all starts with visiting one iconic place: St. Mark’s Square.
The Heart of Venice: St. Mark’s Square
Located in the heart of Venice, St. Mark’s Square (Piazza San Marco) is the city’s most famous landmark and a must-visit destination for any traveller. This stunning square is surrounded by breathtaking architecture, including the magnificent St. Mark’s Basilica, the Doge’s Palace, and the Campanile di San Marco (St. Mark’s Bell Tower). As you step into the square, you’ll be struck by the sheer beauty and grandeur of your surroundings.
Why St. Mark’s Square is a Must-Visit
So, what makes St. Mark’s Square the perfect place to visit during your one-day stopover in Venice? Here are just a few reasons:
Unparalleled Architecture: The square is home to some of the most stunning examples of Byzantine architecture in the world, including the intricate mosaics and golden domes of St. Mark’s Basilica.
Rich History: St. Mark’s Square has been the centre of Venetian life for centuries, with a history dating back to the 9th century. You can almost feel the weight of history as you walk through the square.
Cultural Significance: The square is a hub of cultural activity, with street performers, musicians, and artists adding to the lively atmosphere.
Accessibility: St. Mark’s Square is easily accessible by vaporetto (water bus) or on foot, making it a convenient destination for travellers with limited time.
Tips for Visiting St. Mark’s Square
To make the most of your visit to St. Mark’s Square, here are a few tips to keep in mind:
Arrive Early: Get to the square early in the morning to avoid the crowds and enjoy a more peaceful atmosphere.
Dress Modestly: Remember to dress modestly when visiting the basilica, as it’s a place of worship.
Take a Guided Tour: Consider taking a guided tour of the square and its surrounding attractions to get a deeper understanding of the history and culture.
Enjoy the Views: Don’t forget to take in the stunning views of the square from the top of the Campanile di San Marco, which offers breathtaking vistas of the city.
Conclusion
In conclusion, St. Mark’s Square is the perfect destination for travellers with a one-day stopover in Venice. With its stunning architecture, rich history, and cultural significance, this iconic square is sure to leave a lasting impression. By visiting St. Mark’s Square, you’ll be able to experience the essence of Venice and create unforgettable memories of your time in this enchanting city. So, make the most of your 24-hour stopover and head to St. Mark’s Square – you won’t regret it!
Now, brevity is something that I have not been able to fully wrap my head around.
The dictionary explains Brevity as
‘concise and exact use of words in writing and speech’
So…
I remember working with a writer a long time ago who explained certain authors’ styles, and for James A Michener of Hawaii fame, he said Michener wrote sentences instead of words, paragraphs instead of sentences, pages instead of paragraphs and chapters instead of pages.
It was a little harsh considering I’d just read the book and had liked it, despite its length and the time it took.
But some time later I realised he was not criticising Michener, but trying to tell me, in his, what I came to discover, interesting way, that I should strive to write more compactly.
I then came across a book by Brian Callison which was exactly that, the concise version, a story that fit into about 200 pages.
That too was a good book, and it took me a day to read it, and by his use of that economy of words, it read quickly.
Of course, I have tried over the years to emulate both styles, and to a certain degree, failing, because I think I have created my own style which is somewhere in between.
Still, when editing, it is always in the back of my mind that I should be
Using words instead of sentences
Using sentences instead of paragraphs
Using paragraphs instead of pages, and
Using pages instead of chapters.
The chapters, he said, with an air of amusement, will always take care of themselves.
Parisian Odyssey: Making Memories in 24 Hours at the Eiffel Tower Subtitle: How to Craft an Unforgettable Day in the City of Light
Paris—the city where every cobbled street hums with history, every café table holds a story, and every landmark feels plucked from a dream. But when time is your most coveted luxury (and you’re stuck with just 24 hours), where do you begin? While the Louvre, Notre-Dame, and Montmartre all clamour for attention, there’s one icon that transcends mere sightseeing: the Eiffel Tower. More than a landmark, it’s the heartbeat of Paris. Here’s how to make your brief stopover a day you’ll remember forever.
Morning: Conquer the Iron Lady
Start your day early at the Eiffel Tower to avoid crowds. A pre-booked ticket to the top is non-negotiable—trust us, skipping the queue will save precious minutes. Ascend the 125 meters to the second floor for a panoramic view of the city: the Seine slicing through neighbourhoods, the distant dome of Sacré-Cœur, and the green sprawl of the Bois de Boulogne. If you’re energetic, the 164 steps to the first level (1,710 total to the top) are free, though the lift is worth it for efficiency.
Pro Tip: Grab a pastis or croissant from one of the restaurants on the first floor. It’s breakfast with a view!
Midday: Stroll the Champs-Élysées Backdrop
The Eiffel Tower isn’t an island—it’s a focal point for some of Paris’s most iconic scenery. Walk west toward the Champs-Élysées, a 1.2-mile boulevard that’s the epitome of Parisian glamour. Stop at the Arc de Triomphe for a photo (and climb for an even more divine view), then cruise past luxury shops like Dior and Louis Vuitton. You don’t need to spend a cent—just bask in the je ne sais quoi of Parisian elegance.
Unexpected Detour: Veer south to Trocadéro Gardens, a sprawling park with fountains and shaded paths. It’s a peaceful respite and the perfect spot to picnic with a baguette and fromage from a nearby market.
Afternoon: Seine Secrets and Hidden Gems
By 3 PM, head to the Seine River. The Eiffel Tower is visible from nearly every bridge here, but two spots are must-sees:
Pont d’Iéna (military museum) for a photo-perfect view of the tower against the sunset.
Rive Gauche Promenade for a leisurely walk past Left Bank cafés and the Institut de France.
If time allows, hop on a 1-hour Seine River cruise. As the boat glides past bridges and monuments, the Eiffel Tower will loom like a guardian, its silhouette contrasting with Haussmann-era architecture.
Evening: Twilight Magic and Farewell Glows
As dusk falls, make your way to Port de la Conférence (just south of the Eiffel Tower) or Pont National. Here, you’ll witness the tower’s daily ritual: a sparkling display every hour, where over 20,000 bulbs twinkle for five minutes. It’s romantic, awe-inspiring, and utterly unique to Paris.
Culinary Finale: Dine at a Seine-side restaurant like Le Jules Verne (inside the Eiffel Tower, reservations essential) or Café de l’Escargot for a jazz-tinged bistro vibe. Either way, you’ll cap off your day with the tower as your backdrop.
Why the Eiffel Tower?
In a day, you can’t do everything in Paris. You can’t visit every museum, every bakery, or every cabaret. But with the Eiffel Tower as your anchor, you’ll experience the city’s soul:
Iconic Energy: It’s the symbol of Paris you’ll recognise in movies, music, and literature.
Versatile Vibe: From bustling tourist hub to tranquil riverside retreat, it adapts to your dream.
Time Efficiency: Its centrality lets you explore adjacent neighbourhoods without exhausting yourself.
A 24-hour stopover is fleeting, but a day spent weaving through the Eiffel Tower’s orbit? That’s an hourglass filled with light, history, and memories.
Final Thought: Paris isn’t just seen—it’s felt. Choose the Eiffel Tower, and let it sweep you off your feet. After all, you’re not just visiting a city. You’re stepping into a masterpiece.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 