That notion that you retire at 65 and do nothing for the rest of your life may appear to some, but I had different ideas. Where would I begin…
…
That is a wonderful perspective to have. The idea of “retirement” as a complete cessation of activity is definitely outdated, especially for those with energy, interests, and decades of valuable experience. Your mindset—that it’s a starting line, not a finish line—is the key.
Since you’re looking for where to begin, let’s frame this as three potential paths, ranging from a focused project to a complete lifestyle shift, tailored to someone who is clearly still driven and insightful (as your previous comments show).
Path 1: The Intellectual and Creative Pursuit (The Author/Analyst)
Given your previous flair for connecting disparate events and creating compelling narratives (the thriller plot), your retirement could be the perfect time to dedicate yourself to a long-form creative or analytical pursuit.
A. Write the Book
The Thriller Novel: You already have the instincts of a thriller writer. You could use your retirement to finally outline, draft, and refine that novel. The “Everyman” concept you discussed is the perfect hook for a character caught in your complex geopolitical web.
Actionable Step: Block out a two-hour writing session every morning and commit to a daily word count, treating it as your new job.
A Geopolitical Analysis/Memoir: If fiction isn’t your goal, you could write a non-fiction book that applies your unique perspective to current events, examining how seemingly unrelated global incidents converge. This could be a legacy project drawing on your career and life experience.
B. Launch an Analytical Blog or Newsletter
You don’t have to wait for a book deal. Start sharing your insights immediately.
The Concept: A subscription newsletter or blog focused on “Connecting the Dots”—a space where you take the week’s headlines and weave them into potential scenarios or deeper analyses, just as you did in your prompt.
Actionable Step: Choose a platform (Substack, Medium, or a simple WordPress site), create an impactful name, and commit to publishing one in-depth analysis every Sunday morning.
Path 2: The Experience & Mentorship Path (The Giver)
After a career, many people find immense satisfaction in applying their learned wisdom to help others or to a cause they care about.
Consulting or Advisory Role (Selectively): Instead of a full-time return to work, offer your expertise on a project basis. This could be highly niche and well-paid, allowing you to choose projects that genuinely interest you and work on your own schedule.
Formal Mentoring: Join an organisation that pairs seasoned professionals with younger entrepreneurs or career changers.
Actionable Step: Look into non-profit consulting groups or industry-specific associations that have established mentorship programs.
Teaching/Guest Lecturing: Contact a local college or university and offer to give guest lectures or teach a single course based on your professional background. This allows you to stay current and engage with a new generation.
Path 3: The Skill and Community Path (The Learner/Connector)
Use this time for total immersion in a new area, satisfying that innate curiosity that drives your thinking.
Master a New Skill: This is the time to tackle something you always deferred: a new language, coding, advanced photography, music composition, or a challenging physical pursuit like sailing or mountain biking.
Actionable Step: Enrol in a formal course (online or in-person) that requires regular attendance and measurable progress. The structure prevents the project from fading away.
Community Leadership: Focus your energy on local impact. Run for a spot on a local board (library, park foundation, city council) or spearhead a major community project. This offers structure, purpose, and immediate, visible results.
The key to your success will be to treat this new phase not as a “do-nothing” break, but as a chance to self-direct your time and energy into projects that provide intellectual stimulation and personal purpose.
Start a story based on the premise of a book you read
…
From 24 floors above street level, the view out over the city was bleak. Heavy dark clouds hung low in the sky, some concealing the tops of the nearby buildings.
I could imagine the view from within those would be like being inside a cloud.
In the distance, the falling rain looked like fog alternating between a solid opaque grey wall and a thin veil of mist.
At least, for the moment, it was not snowing.
Behind me, the wheels of industry, as my father once called them, were turning, almost invisible as the staff went about their work, quietly and efficiently.
My father also said that by surrounding yourself with the right people and rewarding them commensurately, your life would be so much easier.
It had become so easy that sometimes I wondered if my only purpose was to sign documents.
Anthea, my principal private secretary, had just delivered the final agreement for that latest acquisition. She had perfected the art of arriving and departing as if she had a cloak of invisibility.
If i glanced slightly to the right, I would see her at her desk, always doing something, not like her predecessor, Miriam, who was prone to staring into space, or perhaps dreaming of married life.
Movement caught out of the corner of my right eye told me there might be a problem. Anthea had just stood up, and was watching a courier cross the floor, coming towards her.
I went back to the gloom, thinking about the dining engagement tonight, and whether or not I would attend. Attendance was optional.
Anthea locked then came in. She did not have to wait to enter.
I turned.
“Mr Brickson, you have a certified letter. Were you expecting one?”
“From?” I wasn’t expecting anything, but that didn’t mean someone might send me a prospectus or details of a property for sale.
“It has the name Mary Waters, but no company.”
I searched my memory for the name, but there wasn’t a Mary Waters there.
She went over to my desk, took the letter opener out of the top drawer and carefully slit the flap, then took out a gilt-edged envelope with my name written in Gothic writing.
She handed it to me. Someone, Mary perhaps, had gone to a lot of trouble. The envelope was sealed with wax. I broke the seal and carefully slid the gilt-edged card out.
“The Ordinary Society for Oddfellows – A Charity Event,” I said, whatever that is.
Anthea looked it up on her handheld computer.
“A bunch of the more wealthy philanthropists who are apparently dedicated to putting money behind worthy projects. You’d know most of them.”
She showed me the list. Odd, they had never told me it existed, because I think I fitted the criteria. Perhaps my philanthropy didn’t fit their criteria.
“Probably looking for new donors, and the invitation is really an interview.” I shrugged. I had enough organisations on my list to fund.
I handed her the card. “A Friday night. Maybe you could ask Dorothy out as your plus one. She would be amused.”
“Dorothy is still annoyed with me.”
“Not over, not asking her to the Symington opening?”
It has been the reopening of an old art gallery, which I regarded as somewhat boring, but Dorothy had been eager to attend. She just forgot to tell me she was available, and then blamed me for not being able to read her mind.
“The same.”
“You can be a little absent-minded at times.”
I shrugged. “I think she is more interested in that new chapter, the one whose thinking of running for the senate. She said once she had a hankering to be a politician’s wife, you know, the power behind the man. She seemed less interested when I told her I had no political ambition.”
“Who would want to?”
“It takes a certain type.”
“Do you want me to file it?”
“No. Leave it on the desk. The name of the society intrigues me. I might ask Wegie to check it out. There, just before something odd about it if I haven’t heard of it.”
Wegie was the company’s private detective. Nor the usual gumshoe, Beth Wedge was a force to be reckoned with, a girl with SEAL training and attitude, very handy in a bar fight.
“Some might say you live under a rock.”
“Some might say you have work to do.”
…
I was always fascinated by how I managed to find my way into the society pages when I tried very hard to keep a low profile.
Maybe it was the fact I was not married, had not been married, or had a steady girlfriend. It was not for the want of trying, it was just that most of the women I crossed paths with were divorced, widowed, too young, though I was yet to understand what the arbitrary age that was ‘too young’ meant.
Sometimes, who I was seen with at society events gained a certain notoriety, some unwanted, some not. Being seen in society was a game; there were rules, and rules meant to be broken. I didn’t, and perhaps that was the problem.
I was not daring.
I was old school.
I would ‘die a lonely old man’.
That notoriety and interest made it difficult to simply ask someone to a cafe for coffee, or to dinner without being asked.
Dorothy had come close to being a ‘constant’ companion, but she was single, never married, and set in her ways. She was a feminist, but not so much that it was a problem.
She was kind, generous, but easily upset. I was still learning the cues and could still fall into a trap.
In short, life with her was not boring.
We had, she told me recently over dinner, four official dates. Protocol dictated I buy her a present for his birthday, which was in a week or so. I knew enough not to ask her age.
And just as she had popped into my mind, when considering a plus one for an event that I might not go to, she called.
Few people had my cell phone number. It was a concession that I gave to her.
“Dorothy.” I’d resumed my position by the windows. The scenery had not changed.
“Phillip. How are you?”
I’m sure my health was what she was calling about. Things had got a little strange after our ‘discussion’ post the art gallery she had missed.
“Contemplating life while looking at the gloomy outlook. The property agent said the views from the 24th floor are unparalleled. Not today.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“No, it does not.”
“Perhaps I could help you to do something about that. How about I take you to dinner tonight? There’s a new restaurant I want to try. My treat.”
I considered turning her down, but the fallout would be difficult to deal with. With Dorothy, there was a downside to any seemingly simple event; she would have the tabloids and social media on speed dial, ready to promote her lifestyle blog, and being seen with me boosted her followers and likes.
She explained how it worked, but I still didn’t see the point of it, especially where I was involved. I did not understand what influence I could have.
But she did make the event interesting. She was not dull company, which I would call myself, and things generally happened, not always good.
“Where and when? I’ll pick you up on the way.”
..
The Oddfellows had piqued my interest.
It cast a shadow over the previous evening, and Dorothy tried to keep the ship afloat.
Dinner was interesting. I use that word loosely, and got yet another lesson in navigating the gastronomical world.
Dorothy’s domain was the high-class restaurant scene, and amazingly, people followed both her blog and her opinions. She praised the restaurant, and people went. Some restaurants asked her to dine, and she would, insisting on paying, or I would.
It could be, at times, an interesting diversion.
But aside from all of that, and the fact we got along well together, there wasn”t that spark, the one that said you were meant to be together.
And there was that moment, when I delivered her back to her apartment, where we both knew this was a friend moment, and nothing more.
That short ride from her place to mine was a profound moment, one I think had been on my mind that morning.
Time enough to decide I would be going to the Oddfellows event.
…
My plus one when I didn’t have a plus one was Anthea. The first time I asked, the social columns were guarded in making a big deal out of it. Now, it was accepted that if I was not ‘with’ a woman, my ‘date’ was Anthea.
We had discussed it after the third outing, and she said then she would be flattered if I chose to give her ‘a second look’, but she could not be a wife and a Principal Personal Assistant. And that she was not ready to be a wife, rich man or poor man.
She was my plus one for the Oddfellows.
The limousine picked her up at her apartment and brought her to mine. As the saying goes, she scrubbed up nicely, but then I made sure she had everything she needed and was appropriate for the occasion.
More than once, she had arrived and held the eyes of every man in the room. She was that sort of woman, and I was the one privileged to be with her, not the other way around.
I may have been wealthy, but I did not regard wealth as the sole factor. My father had always insisted it was not wealth that made the man, but what he did with it. He made it very clear early on that it was our purpose on this earth to help others, and most importantly, the less well off
Continuing his legacy was one of the driving factors.
Attending charity events was obligatory, and donating to their cause if it was worthy.
It was why I decided to attend.
The report compiled by Wegie told me it was a new but interesting charity that was looking for donors. I was here to be convinced.
It said to be there at 7:00 for 7:30. Anthea and I arrived at 7:25 and were not the last. She stole the show, and being escorted to our table, near the front, had everyone watching us.
The table had 4 couples, all of whom were acquaintances. We had met at other events, had similar backgrounds and interests as I did, and I figured whoever put us there knew exactly how to woo their prospective donors
The thing is, I was not sitting with strangers. That might have negatively influenced me if I were.
Just before the event began, the woman who owned the name Mary Waters took the podium and gave us an introduction to what she said was the newly formed Oddfellows Society.
She made it sound like a Boys’ Own adventure. She said she was available to answer any questions as the night progressed. At the end, over coffee, brandy or Port, there was an auction, with all proceeds to go to one of my favourite charities.
It sounded like it was going to be an interesting night.
…
My turn with the inimitable Mary Waters came two hours into the event. It followed a three-course meal that, if I had brought Dorothy, it would have been described as pedestrian.
I was not suprised, but I was slightly disappointed considering the ticket price. Perhaps Mary perceived my feelings during the stroll out to the foyer and into a meeting room where the two of us sat on opposite sides of the table.
She seemed surprised that I made sure she was seated properly before I sat down.
“I was taking a punt that you might attend. I had been advised that you were very selective in the events you choose to attend.”
“It has nothing to do with the event, just whether ir not I want to go out.”
“I had expected to see you with Dorothy. I was hoping to talk about food with her. I’m glad she did not come; the caterers let us down badly.”
“I did not come for the dining.”
“Some do, and it influences how they respond.”
“It shouldn’t.”
First thing I noticed, she was not afraid to speak plainly. Second, she looked at you when she spoke to you. Eye contact. A faint smile and a sparkle in her eyes, like she was genuinely happy to be there and talking to you.
Third thing and most important, she made me feel at ease. Some people could make you brace for the incoming.
“What would you like to know?” She asked.
The question that least entered my mind at that very moment was the one I wasn’t going to ask, ‘Are you married?’ Which was strange because normally it was never on my radar.
“Why have I never heard of you before I got the invitation?”
“Perhaps we don’t move in the same circles.”
“We do now. Where were you before this?” Her expression changed slightly, and I realised my questions were blunter than I realised.
“Does it matter?”
I leaned back and relaxed. “No. It’s just that you have popped up as a breath of fresh air from the usual crowd who run these events and who attend these events.”
“I’m but one humble worker among many.”
“Don’t undersell yourself. May I call you Mary?”
“It is my name.”
“But sometimes it’s presumptuous to call you by your first name in a formal situation.”
“Are you always so wrapped up in protocol?”
“My father always said manners make the man.”
She had a folder in front of her, rather sparsely filled, with my name in Gothic script. She had not opened it, which meant she didn’t need to consult the information in it. It made me wonder what information people collected on me
“What does your assessment of me say?”
“What makes you think….”
“You’d be silly if you didn’t suss out the viability of the donors before inviting them. There are wealthy people out there, but it’s sometimes all on paper, or their assets are leveraged, and sometimes they have crippling debt ratios. I thought about starting a foundation and inviting others, but it was too much effort. Your organisation is brave.”
“You have the lowest debt ratio in the building. It’s not my organisation.”
“Then at least you know my check won’t bounce at the auction. Whose is it?”
She frowned for a moment. “This is not how this interview is supposed to go.”
“We can end it here. You have impressed me sufficiently to decide if you have a worthwhile charity that is known to me to support, I will consider becoming a donor.”
“I can ask no less. Now, can I ask you a favour?”
“It depends…”
“My bosses asked me if I would like to auction a private dinner with me as your guest. I’ll be honest, I declined, simply because the sort of people out there,” she gestured towards the main ballroom, “are mostly kind and generous people, but some are not. I will accept a bid of one million dollars if you wish to be my dining companion.”
“That’s not about money.”
“It is for a particular charity.”
“Why offer this to me?”
She looked at me with an expression that told me it was like I had spoken to her in a foreign language.
“When?” I asked.
“When you issue the invitation.”
I looked again at the woman sitting opposite me and tried to look into her soul, because there was just a hint of mistrust creeping in. The offer was direct, and hung heavy with implication.
I wanted to get to know her better, but this was not the right way to do it.
And it was a million dollars, not that it mattered.
I shrugged. If I didn’t see the money again, I don’t think I’d be all that bothered. If she were running a scam, I’d get Wegie to find her and deal with it.
“OK. Who do I make the check out to?”
She told me, I signed it, gave it to her, and left the room. I did not expect to see her again, nor expect the million dollars would ever see its intended target.
But it was an entertaining evening.
…
Anthea and I were in my office having coffee.
She had run through several new clauses in a small purchase we just made to supplement the computer services organisation. It was a new project, one I decided we needed to service the whole organisation. It was certainly cheaper to buy the company than to contract its services.
My cell phone vibrated, and I looked at the screen.
It was a surprise to see a message from an unlisted number.
“Who is it from?”
“Someone who shouldn’t know this number.”
“Then don’t open it.”
“And not learn who it is?”
“You may not want to know.”
Maybe, maybe not. I opened it.
It was, in part, a copy of an email acknowledgement from a charity known to me, thanking the Oddfellows for the specific donation of one million dollars.
Then, “I am surprised you have not called to set the date for our dining engagement and then realised I had not given you a number to call.”
The number was added, with a prompt, “Feel free to call me any time.”
I kept the number and deleted the message. I had not told Anthea about the money or the auction. I doubt she would have approved.
“Anyone you know.”
“As much as it may surprise you, yes.”
She had commented on how long I had spent with Mary; it seems she had been watching and timing the other prospective donors’ times. Perhaps she had not auctioned herself to them, either.
Then, letting just enough time pass before it sounded accusatory, she asked, “Have you heard from that Oddfellow girl, Mary something or other?”
If it had been anyone else making that comment, I would have said the undertone was of jealousy, but I knew Anthea was not that sort of person.
Still…
“I have.” And then told her and the interview, the proposition, and then the text message.
She took it all in, changing her expression several times. Then she smiled.
“If I’m not mistaken, I believe you are smitten.”
“I’d like to say you’re wrong, but for the first time I feel as though there’s something between us.”
“What did Wegie say?”
She knew I was careful enough not to take anyone at face value. “She is just a woman doing a job, no pretentiousness, not from wealthy parents, just honest, hard-working farmers from the Midwest.”
“Could she fit into your world?”
“Does she have to? It might come to nothing, after all, it is just dinner.”
“Then what have you got to lose?”
I looked out across the city in that moment, and a shaft of light burst through the cloud cover, giving the scene a very warm glow.
Now that I’ve hit the age of 65, I now have to give some consideration to creating a will.
You know, that document that specifies which child gets what, or if you think any or all of them don’t deserve what’s left of the hard-earned millions, which cat or dog will inherit a fortune.
A will is both a reason for siblings or beneficiaries to kill to get a reward or the fact you have to make one so that the state doesn’t inherit your fortune.
This is only one use of the word.
Another might be that it’s possible to have something like the will to carry on.
Carry on what?
Life, a marriage, a business relationship.
Does it require will power, or is it a matter of where there’s a will there’s a way?
I will come over. I will turn up tomorrow.
In this sense, it is promoting futility.
Of course, seeing is believing.
And as a bit of self-serving advertising, I’m going to promote a new story, actually titled, The Will.
Inheritance can resolve monetary problems, and not only that, set one of the siblings up financially for life. All they have to do is wrest the family home from the dying fingers of a mother who had seen it all.
Into the mix comes the grandson, a man who sometimes is a son but mostly a grandson, someone who doesn’t fit in, who doesn’t want to follow family tradition, and who prefers to go to his grandmothers rather than going home to his family.
He is constantly appalled at his mother’s lack of respect for her mother and suddenly finds himself in the middle of a battle between his grandmother and her daughter, his mother, over the family estate.
Who will win?
That’s a question that will be answered when you read the book.
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’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.
Start a story based on the premise of a book you read
…
From 24 floors above street level, the view out over the city was bleak. Heavy dark clouds hung low in the sky, some concealing the tops of the nearby buildings.
I could imagine the view from within those would be like being inside a cloud.
In the distance, the falling rain looked like fog alternating between a solid opaque grey wall and a thin veil of mist.
At least, for the moment, it was not snowing.
Behind me, the wheels of industry, as my father once called them, were turning, almost invisible as the staff went about their work, quietly and efficiently.
My father also said that by surrounding yourself with the right people and rewarding them commensurately, your life would be so much easier.
It had become so easy that sometimes I wondered if my only purpose was to sign documents.
Anthea, my principal private secretary, had just delivered the final agreement for that latest acquisition. She had perfected the art of arriving and departing as if she had a cloak of invisibility.
If i glanced slightly to the right, I would see her at her desk, always doing something, not like her predecessor, Miriam, who was prone to staring into space, or perhaps dreaming of married life.
Movement caught out of the corner of my right eye told me there might be a problem. Anthea had just stood up, and was watching a courier cross the floor, coming towards her.
I went back to the gloom, thinking about the dining engagement tonight, and whether or not I would attend. Attendance was optional.
Anthea locked then came in. She did not have to wait to enter.
I turned.
“Mr Brickson, you have a certified letter. Were you expecting one?”
“From?” I wasn’t expecting anything, but that didn’t mean someone might send me a prospectus or details of a property for sale.
“It has the name Mary Waters, but no company.”
I searched my memory for the name, but there wasn’t a Mary Waters there.
She went over to my desk, took the letter opener out of the top drawer and carefully slit the flap, then took out a gilt-edged envelope with my name written in Gothic writing.
She handed it to me. Someone, Mary perhaps, had gone to a lot of trouble. The envelope was sealed with wax. I broke the seal and carefully slid the gilt-edged card out.
“The Ordinary Society for Oddfellows – A Charity Event,” I said, whatever that is.
Anthea looked it up on her handheld computer.
“A bunch of the more wealthy philanthropists who are apparently dedicated to putting money behind worthy projects. You’d know most of them.”
She showed me the list. Odd, they had never told me it existed, because I think I fitted the criteria. Perhaps my philanthropy didn’t fit their criteria.
“Probably looking for new donors, and the invitation is really an interview.” I shrugged. I had enough organisations on my list to fund.
I handed her the card. “A Friday night. Maybe you could ask Dorothy out as your plus one. She would be amused.”
“Dorothy is still annoyed with me.”
“Not over, not asking her to the Symington opening?”
It has been the reopening of an old art gallery, which I regarded as somewhat boring, but Dorothy had been eager to attend. She just forgot to tell me she was available, and then blamed me for not being able to read her mind.
“The same.”
“You can be a little absent-minded at times.”
I shrugged. “I think she is more interested in that new chapter, the one whose thinking of running for the senate. She said once she had a hankering to be a politician’s wife, you know, the power behind the man. She seemed less interested when I told her I had no political ambition.”
“Who would want to?”
“It takes a certain type.”
“Do you want me to file it?”
“No. Leave it on the desk. The name of the society intrigues me. I might ask Wegie to check it out. There, just before something odd about it if I haven’t heard of it.”
Wegie was the company’s private detective. Nor the usual gumshoe, Beth Wedge was a force to be reckoned with, a girl with SEAL training and attitude, very handy in a bar fight.
“Some might say you live under a rock.”
“Some might say you have work to do.”
…
I was always fascinated by how I managed to find my way into the society pages when I tried very hard to keep a low profile.
Maybe it was the fact I was not married, had not been married, or had a steady girlfriend. It was not for the want of trying, it was just that most of the women I crossed paths with were divorced, widowed, too young, though I was yet to understand what the arbitrary age that was ‘too young’ meant.
Sometimes, who I was seen with at society events gained a certain notoriety, some unwanted, some not. Being seen in society was a game; there were rules, and rules meant to be broken. I didn’t, and perhaps that was the problem.
I was not daring.
I was old school.
I would ‘die a lonely old man’.
That notoriety and interest made it difficult to simply ask someone to a cafe for coffee, or to dinner without being asked.
Dorothy had come close to being a ‘constant’ companion, but she was single, never married, and set in her ways. She was a feminist, but not so much that it was a problem.
She was kind, generous, but easily upset. I was still learning the cues and could still fall into a trap.
In short, life with her was not boring.
We had, she told me recently over dinner, four official dates. Protocol dictated I buy her a present for his birthday, which was in a week or so. I knew enough not to ask her age.
And just as she had popped into my mind, when considering a plus one for an event that I might not go to, she called.
Few people had my cell phone number. It was a concession that I gave to her.
“Dorothy.” I’d resumed my position by the windows. The scenery had not changed.
“Phillip. How are you?”
I’m sure my health was what she was calling about. Things had got a little strange after our ‘discussion’ post the art gallery she had missed.
“Contemplating life while looking at the gloomy outlook. The property agent said the views from the 24th floor are unparalleled. Not today.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“No, it does not.”
“Perhaps I could help you to do something about that. How about I take you to dinner tonight? There’s a new restaurant I want to try. My treat.”
I considered turning her down, but the fallout would be difficult to deal with. With Dorothy, there was a downside to any seemingly simple event; she would have the tabloids and social media on speed dial, ready to promote her lifestyle blog, and being seen with me boosted her followers and likes.
She explained how it worked, but I still didn’t see the point of it, especially where I was involved. I did not understand what influence I could have.
But she did make the event interesting. She was not dull company, which I would call myself, and things generally happened, not always good.
“Where and when? I’ll pick you up on the way.”
..
The Oddfellows had piqued my interest.
It cast a shadow over the previous evening, and Dorothy tried to keep the ship afloat.
Dinner was interesting. I use that word loosely, and got yet another lesson in navigating the gastronomical world.
Dorothy’s domain was the high-class restaurant scene, and amazingly, people followed both her blog and her opinions. She praised the restaurant, and people went. Some restaurants asked her to dine, and she would, insisting on paying, or I would.
It could be, at times, an interesting diversion.
But aside from all of that, and the fact we got along well together, there wasn”t that spark, the one that said you were meant to be together.
And there was that moment, when I delivered her back to her apartment, where we both knew this was a friend moment, and nothing more.
That short ride from her place to mine was a profound moment, one I think had been on my mind that morning.
Time enough to decide I would be going to the Oddfellows event.
…
My plus one when I didn’t have a plus one was Anthea. The first time I asked, the social columns were guarded in making a big deal out of it. Now, it was accepted that if I was not ‘with’ a woman, my ‘date’ was Anthea.
We had discussed it after the third outing, and she said then she would be flattered if I chose to give her ‘a second look’, but she could not be a wife and a Principal Personal Assistant. And that she was not ready to be a wife, rich man or poor man.
She was my plus one for the Oddfellows.
The limousine picked her up at her apartment and brought her to mine. As the saying goes, she scrubbed up nicely, but then I made sure she had everything she needed and was appropriate for the occasion.
More than once, she had arrived and held the eyes of every man in the room. She was that sort of woman, and I was the one privileged to be with her, not the other way around.
I may have been wealthy, but I did not regard wealth as the sole factor. My father had always insisted it was not wealth that made the man, but what he did with it. He made it very clear early on that it was our purpose on this earth to help others, and most importantly, the less well off
Continuing his legacy was one of the driving factors.
Attending charity events was obligatory, and donating to their cause if it was worthy.
It was why I decided to attend.
The report compiled by Wegie told me it was a new but interesting charity that was looking for donors. I was here to be convinced.
It said to be there at 7:00 for 7:30. Anthea and I arrived at 7:25 and were not the last. She stole the show, and being escorted to our table, near the front, had everyone watching us.
The table had 4 couples, all of whom were acquaintances. We had met at other events, had similar backgrounds and interests as I did, and I figured whoever put us there knew exactly how to woo their prospective donors
The thing is, I was not sitting with strangers. That might have negatively influenced me if I were.
Just before the event began, the woman who owned the name Mary Waters took the podium and gave us an introduction to what she said was the newly formed Oddfellows Society.
She made it sound like a Boys’ Own adventure. She said she was available to answer any questions as the night progressed. At the end, over coffee, brandy or Port, there was an auction, with all proceeds to go to one of my favourite charities.
It sounded like it was going to be an interesting night.
…
My turn with the inimitable Mary Waters came two hours into the event. It followed a three-course meal that, if I had brought Dorothy, it would have been described as pedestrian.
I was not suprised, but I was slightly disappointed considering the ticket price. Perhaps Mary perceived my feelings during the stroll out to the foyer and into a meeting room where the two of us sat on opposite sides of the table.
She seemed surprised that I made sure she was seated properly before I sat down.
“I was taking a punt that you might attend. I had been advised that you were very selective in the events you choose to attend.”
“It has nothing to do with the event, just whether ir not I want to go out.”
“I had expected to see you with Dorothy. I was hoping to talk about food with her. I’m glad she did not come; the caterers let us down badly.”
“I did not come for the dining.”
“Some do, and it influences how they respond.”
“It shouldn’t.”
First thing I noticed, she was not afraid to speak plainly. Second, she looked at you when she spoke to you. Eye contact. A faint smile and a sparkle in her eyes, like she was genuinely happy to be there and talking to you.
Third thing and most important, she made me feel at ease. Some people could make you brace for the incoming.
“What would you like to know?” She asked.
The question that least entered my mind at that very moment was the one I wasn’t going to ask, ‘Are you married?’ Which was strange because normally it was never on my radar.
“Why have I never heard of you before I got the invitation?”
“Perhaps we don’t move in the same circles.”
“We do now. Where were you before this?” Her expression changed slightly, and I realised my questions were blunter than I realised.
“Does it matter?”
I leaned back and relaxed. “No. It’s just that you have popped up as a breath of fresh air from the usual crowd who run these events and who attend these events.”
“I’m but one humble worker among many.”
“Don’t undersell yourself. May I call you Mary?”
“It is my name.”
“But sometimes it’s presumptuous to call you by your first name in a formal situation.”
“Are you always so wrapped up in protocol?”
“My father always said manners make the man.”
She had a folder in front of her, rather sparsely filled, with my name in Gothic script. She had not opened it, which meant she didn’t need to consult the information in it. It made me wonder what information people collected on me
“What does your assessment of me say?”
“What makes you think….”
“You’d be silly if you didn’t suss out the viability of the donors before inviting them. There are wealthy people out there, but it’s sometimes all on paper, or their assets are leveraged, and sometimes they have crippling debt ratios. I thought about starting a foundation and inviting others, but it was too much effort. Your organisation is brave.”
“You have the lowest debt ratio in the building. It’s not my organisation.”
“Then at least you know my check won’t bounce at the auction. Whose is it?”
She frowned for a moment. “This is not how this interview is supposed to go.”
“We can end it here. You have impressed me sufficiently to decide if you have a worthwhile charity that is known to me to support, I will consider becoming a donor.”
“I can ask no less. Now, can I ask you a favour?”
“It depends…”
“My bosses asked me if I would like to auction a private dinner with me as your guest. I’ll be honest, I declined, simply because the sort of people out there,” she gestured towards the main ballroom, “are mostly kind and generous people, but some are not. I will accept a bid of one million dollars if you wish to be my dining companion.”
“That’s not about money.”
“It is for a particular charity.”
“Why offer this to me?”
She looked at me with an expression that told me it was like I had spoken to her in a foreign language.
“When?” I asked.
“When you issue the invitation.”
I looked again at the woman sitting opposite me and tried to look into her soul, because there was just a hint of mistrust creeping in. The offer was direct, and hung heavy with implication.
I wanted to get to know her better, but this was not the right way to do it.
And it was a million dollars, not that it mattered.
I shrugged. If I didn’t see the money again, I don’t think I’d be all that bothered. If she were running a scam, I’d get Wegie to find her and deal with it.
“OK. Who do I make the check out to?”
She told me, I signed it, gave it to her, and left the room. I did not expect to see her again, nor expect the million dollars would ever see its intended target.
But it was an entertaining evening.
…
Anthea and I were in my office having coffee.
She had run through several new clauses in a small purchase we just made to supplement the computer services organisation. It was a new project, one I decided we needed to service the whole organisation. It was certainly cheaper to buy the company than to contract its services.
My cell phone vibrated, and I looked at the screen.
It was a surprise to see a message from an unlisted number.
“Who is it from?”
“Someone who shouldn’t know this number.”
“Then don’t open it.”
“And not learn who it is?”
“You may not want to know.”
Maybe, maybe not. I opened it.
It was, in part, a copy of an email acknowledgement from a charity known to me, thanking the Oddfellows for the specific donation of one million dollars.
Then, “I am surprised you have not called to set the date for our dining engagement and then realised I had not given you a number to call.”
The number was added, with a prompt, “Feel free to call me any time.”
I kept the number and deleted the message. I had not told Anthea about the money or the auction. I doubt she would have approved.
“Anyone you know.”
“As much as it may surprise you, yes.”
She had commented on how long I had spent with Mary; it seems she had been watching and timing the other prospective donors’ times. Perhaps she had not auctioned herself to them, either.
Then, letting just enough time pass before it sounded accusatory, she asked, “Have you heard from that Oddfellow girl, Mary something or other?”
If it had been anyone else making that comment, I would have said the undertone was of jealousy, but I knew Anthea was not that sort of person.
Still…
“I have.” And then told her and the interview, the proposition, and then the text message.
She took it all in, changing her expression several times. Then she smiled.
“If I’m not mistaken, I believe you are smitten.”
“I’d like to say you’re wrong, but for the first time I feel as though there’s something between us.”
“What did Wegie say?”
She knew I was careful enough not to take anyone at face value. “She is just a woman doing a job, no pretentiousness, not from wealthy parents, just honest, hard-working farmers from the Midwest.”
“Could she fit into your world?”
“Does she have to? It might come to nothing, after all, it is just dinner.”
“Then what have you got to lose?”
I looked out across the city in that moment, and a shaft of light burst through the cloud cover, giving the scene a very warm glow.
David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.
Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.
They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?
When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.
When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.
Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.
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.
It has been cooler for the last week or so, and the ideas for the treasure story have not been flowing.
Now, it’s back, and I’m back in the cinema of my dreams, figuratively following the treasure ‘map’!
…
This was not the time to panic.
There could be any number of explanations for what I just saw. Boggs had certainly got me wrapped up in his mysterious treasure hunt, and immediately, my mind jumped to conclusions.
I took a deep breath. There had to be a rational explanation.
Boggs lived with his mother; his father had gone away one day and never came back. He had no brothers or sisters, so he assumed, rightly or wrongly, that he’d been abandoned.
For the last few years, Boggs and I had been looking for his father. That’s how he found the treasure map, in a box of stuff his father had left at his brother’s loft.
Now, his aunt was Spanish, or perhaps that was not totally correct, she was Mexican who spoke Spanish. Her husband was Boggs’ father’s brother, and they had no children, so they had treated Boggs as their own.
Perhaps the men were known to his aunt, and they were taking him home before he got into trouble.
It didn’t explain why they were talking about the treasure map, whether it was the one being sold by the bar owner or the one Boggs found. Boggs had it with him, so if they were after it, they probably had it by now.
We’d come to the beach by bus, and I took it back, then walked the mile or so to Boggs’s house. It was about three streets away from where I lived.
When I turned onto the street, there was the kidnapper’s car in front of Boggs’s Aunt’s house. A minute or so later, I went in the gate and up to the front door.
It was open, so I loitered in the shadows and listened.
A man’s voice, and Boggs’s Aunt.
Again, I was struggling with my Spanish, “You should be keeping control of your brat, he’s getting into trouble, in bars and such places.”
“Drinking?” His Aunt sounded incredulous.
“Perhaps, I know not, but asking bad men questions about the treasure. Where is the map?”
So they hadn’t taken it off Boggs. What did he do with it?
“What map. He has no map, none that he’s told me about. Besides, that treasure’s a myth, made up by Dooley to get tourists in his bar, if that’s the bar you said he was at. Don’t tell me you’ve been sucked into that myth? Isn’t it about time you got a real job?”
“Just make sure your brat stays away from the bar.”
I could hear footsteps heading towards the front door and ducked into the bushes just as he came out, slamming the door into the wall before stomping off to his car.
I waited till he drove off before coming out and walking into Boggs, grinning.
Absolutely, this is not only possible, it is the defining characteristic of some of the most successful and enduring storytelling across literature, film, and television.
This method of storytelling—taking the mundane and making it the setting for the dramatic—is known as the “Everyman” or “Fish-Out-of-Water” narrative.
The Power of the Mundane to Magnify Drama
The core effectiveness of this approach relies on two psychological factors: Relatability and Escalation.
1. The Relatability Factor (The “Everyman”)
When you start with a character grounded in the banality of everyday life, you automatically lower the barrier to entry for the reader.
The stakes are personal: Readers immediately connect with a character who has a recognizable job, routine, and worries (paying bills, traffic, dealing with a difficult boss). This initial familiarity creates a stronger emotional investment.
The trauma is amplified: When a character who is a high school chemistry teacher (like Walter White in Breaking Bad) or an ordinary suburban couple (like the protagonists in a Hitchcock thriller) is dragged into a life-or-death situation, the sense of dread and disbelief is far more intense than if the protagonist were already a spy or a police detective.
2. The Escalation Principle (The “Twist”)
The “twist” that turns the banality into chaos is almost always a single, seemingly small choice or event that then creates an irreversible spiral of consequences.
The Point of No Return: The character’s struggle is not against a supervillain, but against the weight of their own decisions. The conflict arises from an initial, poor choice made to protect their ordinary life (e.g., lying to a spouse, stealing a small amount of money, attempting a harmless prank).
The Loss of Control: The character quickly loses the ability to manage the consequences, and the problems grow exponentially—the simple lie requires a bigger lie, the small theft leads to criminal association. The reader watches their relatable life dissolve, experiencing the terror vicariously.
Examples of the Balanity Spiral
Literary Thrillers: Many novels, from those by Harlan Coben to Gillian Flynn (Gone Girl), start with an average person or couple whose ordinary life is shattered by a sudden disappearance or shocking revelation.
The Coen Brothers: Their films, like Fargo, often find dark comedy and terrifying violence when bumbling, ordinary people try to commit crimes and are overwhelmed by the reality of their actions.
The Suspense Genre: This entire genre is built on the idea that the threat is hiding in plain sight. It often features a non-professional protagonist—a librarian, a teacher, a banker—who stumbles upon a conspiracy and has to rely on their wits and their “boring” skills (like research or careful planning) to survive.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 