Category: Fiction

“Trouble in Store” – Short Stories My Way:  The re-write – Part 2

Now that I’ve gone through the story and made quite a few changes, it’s time to look at the story

…

It took a second, perhaps three, to sum up the situation.

A young girl, about 16 or 17, scared, looking sideways at a man on the ground, then Alphonse, and then Jack.  He recognized the gun, a Luger, a German relic of WW2, perhaps her father’s souvenir, or more likely a stolen weapon, now pointing at him then Alphonse, then back to him.

Jack took another second or two to consider if he could disarm her.  No, the distance was too great.  He put his hands out where she could see them.  No sudden movements trying to remain calm, and his heart rate was up to the point of cardiac arrest.  No point in making a bad situation worse.

Pointing with the gun, she said, “Move closer to the counter where I can see you better.”

Everything but her hand was steady as a rock.  The only telltale sign of stress was the bead of perspiration on her brow.  It was 40 degrees Fahrenheit in the shop.

Jack shivered and then did as he was told.

A few seconds more for him to decide she was in the unpredictable category.

“What’s wrong with your friend?”  Jack tried the friendly approach after he’d taken the three steps sideways necessary to reach the counter.

The shopkeeper, Alphonse, who, Jack noted seemed to have aged another ten years in the last few months, spoke instead; “I suspect he’s an addict, looking for a score.  At the end of his tether, my guess, and her to get some money.”

A simple hold-up that had gone wrong.  Wrong time, wrong place, in more ways than one Jack thought, now realizing he had walked into a very dangerous situation.  She didn’t look like a user.  The boy on the ground did, and he looked like he was going through the beginnings of withdrawal.

Oddly, though, Jack had noticed a look pass between the shopkeeper and the girl.

“All you had to do was give us the money, and we wouldn’t be here, now.”  She was glaring back at Alphonse.  “You can still make this right.”

A flicker of memory jumped out of the depths of Jack’s mind, something discussed at the dinner table with their neighbours, something about the shop being a pickup point for drugs.

The boy on the floor, he was not here for money.

Jack thought he’d try another approach.  “Look, I don’t want trouble, and you don’t want trouble.  I’ll go, forget this ever happened.  You might want to do the same.”

The girl looked like she was thinking.  The gun, though, still moved between him and the shopkeeper.

Another assessment of the girl; this was not her real home.  She was from a better class of people, a different part of town.  Caught up in a downward spiral because of her friend on the floor.

Caught in a situation she was not equipped to deal with.

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2024

Writing about writing a book – Day 3

Yep, in changing characters and timelines and thinking about the plotline between Bill and Ellen, a lot has changed, well, perhaps not a lot, but some fundamentals in the relationship.

Whilst I am determined, for some unknown reason, to write the first draft by hand, it leads to using a lot of paper and wearing out several self-lead pencils.  I have a bin with screwed up paper, and yes, if I get it in, it’s three points.  A lot don’t make it and lie forlornly beside and in front of the bin.

If only I had a cleaner to clean up.  When I’ve become a best-selling author.

I look at the pages I kept.  God, I didn’t know I was that messy.

Coffee first.

I start typing the first draft on the computer using my trusty old version of Microsoft Word, only because I know how to use it.

I have Scrivener but haven’t yet worked out all the bells and whistles.  That will come, no doubt, with book number two.

But, as you might think, I am getting ahead of myself.  I have yet to finish the first.

—

A cool breeze blew briskly across meadows of tall grass, giving the impression of the ocean in a storm.  High above, clouds scudded across the sky, occasionally allowing the sun to shine through to bathe the ground in sunshine, intensifying the richness of the greens and browns.

It was spring.  Trees were displaying new growth, and flowers were starting to show the promise of summery delight.  An occasional light shower of rain added to the delightful aromas, particularly where the grass had recently been mown.

I was there, too, with my grandmother, the woman who had, for the most part, brought me up at her country residence.  But, as I got older, the dream changed, and sometimes there were storm clouds on the horizon, or I was caught in the rain, alone and frightened, or lost in the woods in the dark.

There were other visions like these from my childhood, now a million years away somewhere in a distant past that was hard to remember or say where and when they belonged.  It was a pity some were now based on images stolen from the start of a movie seen on TV late at night, as I was trying to get to sleep.  Or that the psychiatrist had said there was some trauma from my early childhood, trying to work its way out.

Like every other morning, these images came to me as I was hovering somewhere between conscious and unconscious, just before the alarm went off.  Then it did, filling the room with a shrill noise that would have woken the dead.

I cursed and then dragged myself over to the other side of the bed, where I’d put the alarm clock, and hit it, killing the shrill sound.  I’d put it there so I would have to wake up to turn it off.  And, worse, I’d forgotten to turn it off the night before because it was, technically, the first day of my holiday.

Not that I really wanted one, because since Ellen left, my life consisted of work, work, and more work.  It kept my mind off being alone, and in an empty apartment except for the books, a bed, a table and two chairs, a desk, and a well-worn lounge chair.  I’d been there for a while and still hadn’t bought any new furniture or anything else for that matter.

And the last holiday I’d gone on had been organised by Ellen only a few years ago in Italy after our two daughters had finished school and graduated almost top of their class.  We’d both thought it might help mend the damage, and for a while we were happy, but happiness was too fleeting for me, and soon after the rot had set in, and it was the beginning of the end.

I remembered it only too clearly, coming home, opening a letter addressed to her, and finding proof of what I think I’d known all along.  She was having an affair, had been for quite some time.

It should not have been a surprise, given what I had put her through over the years, since my discharge from the Army and later the nightmares active service had fuelled, but it was what it was and sent me spiralling to a new low.

But that was two years ago.  I came out of the fog a year after that.  Ellen was away most of the time with a new partner she never told me about, and the girls, who shared a unit not far from mine, came to see me from time to time

But for all of that, all I now had left were memories.

I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.  I was on holiday.  No work, no pressure, nothing. 

I thought about going back to my grandmother’s house and visiting, but my grandmother was no longer there, and my mother, who was, was too judgmental, and I didn’t need to be told, yet again, how I had let the only woman for me slip through my fingers.

I could do almost anything.

I’d almost managed to doze off again when the phone rang.

I jumped to its equally shrill sound, cutting through the silence.  It had to be a wrong number because no one at work would call me, and I didn’t have many friends, at least none who would call me at this hour.

I let it ring out.

Blissful silence.  For five minutes.

Then it rang again.

Ignore it, I thought.  It had to be someone from the office.  I’d told them all not to call me, not unless the building was burning down and they were all trapped in it.

And even then, I’d I said I would have to think about it.

Burying my head under the pillow didn’t shut out the insistent ringing. 

Almost reluctantly, I rolled back, pulled the telephone out from under the bed, and lifted the receiver to my ear.

“Bill?”

It was Carl Benton, my immediate superior, an insipid, loathsome, irritating little man, the last person I would want to speak to.  He’d insisted I take this leave, that the office could survive without me, adding in his most condescending manner that I needed the break.

I slammed the receiver down in anger.  It was a forlorn gesture.  Seconds later, it rang again.

“I seem to remember you were the one to tell me to go on holiday, that I needed a holiday.  I’m off the roster.  It can’t be that important.  Call someone else.”  I wasn’t going to allow him to speak.  Not this morning.  I was not in the mood to listen to that squeaky, falsetto voice of his, one that always turned into a whine when he didn’t get his way.

And hung up again.

Not that it would do any good.  I knew that even if I was in Tibet, he would still call.  Then I realised it was too early for him to be in the office, and if he was, he would have been dragged out of bed and put in a position where, if he didn’t produce results, they might realise just how incompetent he was.

At last, my holiday had some meaning, and I smiled to myself.  I’d make the bastard sweat.

…

A good day’s work if I say so myself.

I only wished I were better at typing, but it was a self-correcting ribbon and would suffice.

Tonight it would be the sleep of the just.

Tomorrow, more plotting, more characters.  I need a friendly head of a department, one that suffers Benton, a name for the assistant, and what are the circumstances that drag him back into work?

Death, murder, police, or security?

And all I thought I had to do was write!

—

© Charles Heath 2016-2025

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 2

On the ground, not daring to move

…

Lying there, afraid to move, I honestly believed that was just the stupidest thing I’d ever done.

Aside from the fact I could see we were about to be blown to kingdom come by a rocket, I had that split second to decide if I wanted to be incinerated, or in possession of 206 broken bones.

I guess I was assuming I’d survive the landing. 

After all the helicopter was only about twenty to thirty feet above the ground and not moving very fast, in fact, it was slowing, and turning away, when the pilot saw the rocket launcher.

I could hear the crackling of fire not far from me, a result of the helicopter hitting the ground.  It wasn’t a large explosion, and certainly not accompanied by a hail of red-hot metal parts.

Not yet.

I moved and it hurt.  Understandable.  But there didn’t seem to be any broken bones, which was nothing short of a miracle.  I did try to affect a roll when landing as we were trained in parachute jumping, and maybe that had helped.

Enough time to recover, I rolled over and got to my knees.  Ok, that hurt, twinges in my lower back, and a slight sprain in my right ankle.  No running then.

Then I heard the gears crunching, so sort an old Toyota pickup would make, followed by an over-revving engine.  A novice driver.  Or a man in a hurry.

Damn.

The pickup was coming back to check the wreckage.

And if there were any survivors.

No gun, lost that in the jump.  But, as luck would have it, an AK47 was lying on the ground between me and the burning wreckage.

Only one problem.  The pickup would be on me before I could get to it.

Is this the very definition of being between a rock and a hard place?

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2023

Writing a book in 365 days – 266

Day 266

Writing exercise

…

Honestly, I wish I had been born twenty years earlier

Never make wishes.  And definitely never make wishes after too much to drink, or when you are very angry.

Because in the unlikely event…

It was only the second time I had been in that house; the first time, I went away very disillusioned, and my life never really went anywhere.

I had no idea why I was asked back, because Susan was the last person I ever wanted to see again. After all, the last time I was here, I didn’t do what I’d planned to do, to ask her to marry me.

Instead, Gary did, which apparently was the reason for the party.  On his birthday, he was going to make an announcement.  He asked her and she accepted.  I got drunk, punched him, and got thrown out.

20 years ago.

Now he was the Mayor and on his way to the State Governor.  I was the town drunk, well on the road to purgatory.

I had gone straight to the bathroom after someone told me I looked like shit.  Looking at myself in the mirror, I had to agree with them.

Why had they asked me to come to their party?  Susan had barely spoken to me in 20 years, and Gary simply hated me.  I never knew why, because he got the girl of his dreams.

I threw water over my face and through my hair, using my fingers to brush it back off my face like I used to all those years ago.  It was unruly then; it was a mess now

There was a knock on the door, and a male voice said, “You done on there?”  Impatient.

“Yeah.”  A last look, I unlocked the door. 

Whoever was on the other side must have been pushing because as I was turning, the door opened and hit me in the side of the head.

And it was the last thing I remembered.

I woke, staring at the ceiling and to a familiar scent.  The perfume Susan wore.

“You’re back.”

Susan.

I rubbed my eyes and then looked at her, and jumped.  What the. .

She was twenty years younger, the girl at the first party.

“Where am I?”

“In my room,” she said, smiling.

“What happened?”

“Gary was trying to go to the restroom, and you were in there.  You unlocked the door as he was trying to open it, and it hit you in the head.”

I felt the spot, and it was tender.  And it had to be Gary.  I was sure it was deliberate.

But, put that thought away.  She was still 20 years younger.  I struggled to sit up, and she helped me.  Opposite was a mirror and I could see that I was 20 years younger too.

But I had my memories.  It was obvious she didn’t.

What the hell had just happened?

“Are you going to be OK?”

“I think so.  Just give me a few minutes.”

Gary put his head in the door and saw me.  “Sorry, man.  Don’t know my own strength.  You’ll live.  Babe, that thing…”

He tapped his watch.  Gary always had to be somewhere else. 

“Yeah, soon.  Gotta take care of problems before they become problems.”

“Don’t be too long.”  Then he was gone.

“He’s an ass.”

“He’s going places, Rich.  My parents like him.”

“He’s still an ass.”  I sighed.  20 years and I still couldn’t talk to Susan.  “You can do better?”

“In this town? 

I shrugged.  “You’re right, of course.  Aside from the football team and the basketball team, who’s left?  That bunch of misfits on the dopey table.”

The targets for the jocks, as they were known.  Gary, quarterback and captain of the star football team, often delighted in our humiliation.

All the girls swooned over them.

In response to her look of disdain, I added, “Including me.  Just why am I here?”

All those years ago, I had wondered why there had been an invitation sent.  It was for me alone, not a plus one, and I thought it was just another humiliation.  I was the only one from the misfits who got an invitation.

Did Gary send it?  After all, it was his moment; he knew I had a thing for Susan, something he had ragged on me over, especially after he and she became an item.

“Why did you come?  You know Gary is going to ask me to marry him.”

“You don’t have to say yes.”

“Why would I do that?  I want to get out of this place.  Don’t we all?”

I sat there with a dumb expression on my face and her looking at me.  A thousand thoughts went through my head, stopping at one.  Why would she ever want to be with someone like me?

It was 20 years ago all over again.  And then I realised the irony in that.

“That’s why I thought…” That idea of rejection, even of her laughing outright in my face.  I don’t think I could handle it a second time.

“You thought…”

Damn it.  Just say it.  “I love you, Susan.  Always have.  I have often tried to summon the courage to tell you, but I get it.  I’m not one of the cool boys, and…”

She smiled and then shook her head.  “You might have told me this a while back, Rich.  I think you might want to leave now.  I’m glad you told me.  Just remember that you don’t have to be cool, just yourself.”  She took my hand and squeezed it, gave a last, rather curious look, then left.

I took a moment looking at my 20 years younger self in the mirror, shrugged, then turned to leave.

I nearly fainted when I saw Gary filling the doorway.  No exit that way.  There was no mistaking his intention, and just as I tried to duck, I was too late.

When I woke, I was lying on Susan’s bed.

Again.

A slow look around showed the room was different, but the mirror was still there and I was back to my old self, only I didn’t look like shit.

Well, that was a matter of opinion.  Gary, or someone, had made a mess of my face.

Just what in hell was happening to me?

“You’re awake.”

It was that familiar face, 20 years older, but to me, it would never age.  Just seeing her made me feel better.

“What happened?”

“Gary.  Not a happy camper.”

“What did I do this time?”

She looked at me strangely.  “Are you sure you’re ok.  He seemed to hit you rather hard.”

“Not much good at ducking.  I guess I should leave.”

“Why would you want to do that?”  Her expression was more worried now.  “You’ve been acting strangely for a week now.  What aren’t you telling me?”

How could I tell her what just happened?  Travelling through time.  Then I remembered she had once said I could tell her anything.

An odd thought made me look at her hand, and as soon as I saw it and the ring on it, the ring that I intended to give her after I asked her to marry me and she accepted, I knew my whole life had been changed, and I couldn’t remember anything of it.

“I’m losing my memory.  I think I’ve just gone back 20 years, to the day Gary was going to ask you to marry him, and back here now when I was the town drunk and…”

She put her hand over my mouth and said, “Shhh”

Then she leaned over and kissed my forehead.  “We knew this was possible.  Doc Ferguson has moved the surgery forward to Monday.  They’ll get the tutor in your head, and we’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“You’ve been having minor blackouts, but Gary assaulting you has tipped the scales.  He’s going to jail this time, I’ll make sure of it.  You just rest.  Andie will get you anything you need.  Rest.”

She was replaced by a younger version, the way Susan looked 20 years ago.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Truth be told, I didn’t.  “You are the spitting image of your mother 20 years ago.”

She smiled.  “Not that far down the rabbit hole then?”

Apparently not.  It was as if everything came back in a rush, almost overwhelming.  “I’m going to be a grandfather?”

“Mum told you.  She’s not fond of the idea of being a grandmother.  Say it will make her feel old.”

“That girl will never get old.  Not in my eyes.  Now if anything goes wrong on Monday…”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

What I learned about writing: The dust jacket biography

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

FeatureX (Twitter) Bio (160 Characters)Book Dust Jacket Bio (Approx. 150-250 Words)
Primary GoalAcquisition & 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.
PerspectiveOften 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.
ToneConversational, Witty, Casual, or Punchy.Formal, Professional, Established, and Narrative-Driven.
FocusCurrent 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.)

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

Writing a book in 365 days – 266

Day 266

Writing exercise

…

Honestly, I wish I had been born twenty years earlier

Never make wishes.  And definitely never make wishes after too much to drink, or when you are very angry.

Because in the unlikely event…

It was only the second time I had been in that house; the first time, I went away very disillusioned, and my life never really went anywhere.

I had no idea why I was asked back, because Susan was the last person I ever wanted to see again. After all, the last time I was here, I didn’t do what I’d planned to do, to ask her to marry me.

Instead, Gary did, which apparently was the reason for the party.  On his birthday, he was going to make an announcement.  He asked her and she accepted.  I got drunk, punched him, and got thrown out.

20 years ago.

Now he was the Mayor and on his way to the State Governor.  I was the town drunk, well on the road to purgatory.

I had gone straight to the bathroom after someone told me I looked like shit.  Looking at myself in the mirror, I had to agree with them.

Why had they asked me to come to their party?  Susan had barely spoken to me in 20 years, and Gary simply hated me.  I never knew why, because he got the girl of his dreams.

I threw water over my face and through my hair, using my fingers to brush it back off my face like I used to all those years ago.  It was unruly then; it was a mess now

There was a knock on the door, and a male voice said, “You done on there?”  Impatient.

“Yeah.”  A last look, I unlocked the door. 

Whoever was on the other side must have been pushing because as I was turning, the door opened and hit me in the side of the head.

And it was the last thing I remembered.

I woke, staring at the ceiling and to a familiar scent.  The perfume Susan wore.

“You’re back.”

Susan.

I rubbed my eyes and then looked at her, and jumped.  What the. .

She was twenty years younger, the girl at the first party.

“Where am I?”

“In my room,” she said, smiling.

“What happened?”

“Gary was trying to go to the restroom, and you were in there.  You unlocked the door as he was trying to open it, and it hit you in the head.”

I felt the spot, and it was tender.  And it had to be Gary.  I was sure it was deliberate.

But, put that thought away.  She was still 20 years younger.  I struggled to sit up, and she helped me.  Opposite was a mirror and I could see that I was 20 years younger too.

But I had my memories.  It was obvious she didn’t.

What the hell had just happened?

“Are you going to be OK?”

“I think so.  Just give me a few minutes.”

Gary put his head in the door and saw me.  “Sorry, man.  Don’t know my own strength.  You’ll live.  Babe, that thing…”

He tapped his watch.  Gary always had to be somewhere else. 

“Yeah, soon.  Gotta take care of problems before they become problems.”

“Don’t be too long.”  Then he was gone.

“He’s an ass.”

“He’s going places, Rich.  My parents like him.”

“He’s still an ass.”  I sighed.  20 years and I still couldn’t talk to Susan.  “You can do better?”

“In this town? 

I shrugged.  “You’re right, of course.  Aside from the football team and the basketball team, who’s left?  That bunch of misfits on the dopey table.”

The targets for the jocks, as they were known.  Gary, quarterback and captain of the star football team, often delighted in our humiliation.

All the girls swooned over them.

In response to her look of disdain, I added, “Including me.  Just why am I here?”

All those years ago, I had wondered why there had been an invitation sent.  It was for me alone, not a plus one, and I thought it was just another humiliation.  I was the only one from the misfits who got an invitation.

Did Gary send it?  After all, it was his moment; he knew I had a thing for Susan, something he had ragged on me over, especially after he and she became an item.

“Why did you come?  You know Gary is going to ask me to marry him.”

“You don’t have to say yes.”

“Why would I do that?  I want to get out of this place.  Don’t we all?”

I sat there with a dumb expression on my face and her looking at me.  A thousand thoughts went through my head, stopping at one.  Why would she ever want to be with someone like me?

It was 20 years ago all over again.  And then I realised the irony in that.

“That’s why I thought…” That idea of rejection, even of her laughing outright in my face.  I don’t think I could handle it a second time.

“You thought…”

Damn it.  Just say it.  “I love you, Susan.  Always have.  I have often tried to summon the courage to tell you, but I get it.  I’m not one of the cool boys, and…”

She smiled and then shook her head.  “You might have told me this a while back, Rich.  I think you might want to leave now.  I’m glad you told me.  Just remember that you don’t have to be cool, just yourself.”  She took my hand and squeezed it, gave a last, rather curious look, then left.

I took a moment looking at my 20 years younger self in the mirror, shrugged, then turned to leave.

I nearly fainted when I saw Gary filling the doorway.  No exit that way.  There was no mistaking his intention, and just as I tried to duck, I was too late.

When I woke, I was lying on Susan’s bed.

Again.

A slow look around showed the room was different, but the mirror was still there and I was back to my old self, only I didn’t look like shit.

Well, that was a matter of opinion.  Gary, or someone, had made a mess of my face.

Just what in hell was happening to me?

“You’re awake.”

It was that familiar face, 20 years older, but to me, it would never age.  Just seeing her made me feel better.

“What happened?”

“Gary.  Not a happy camper.”

“What did I do this time?”

She looked at me strangely.  “Are you sure you’re ok.  He seemed to hit you rather hard.”

“Not much good at ducking.  I guess I should leave.”

“Why would you want to do that?”  Her expression was more worried now.  “You’ve been acting strangely for a week now.  What aren’t you telling me?”

How could I tell her what just happened?  Travelling through time.  Then I remembered she had once said I could tell her anything.

An odd thought made me look at her hand, and as soon as I saw it and the ring on it, the ring that I intended to give her after I asked her to marry me and she accepted, I knew my whole life had been changed, and I couldn’t remember anything of it.

“I’m losing my memory.  I think I’ve just gone back 20 years, to the day Gary was going to ask you to marry him, and back here now when I was the town drunk and…”

She put her hand over my mouth and said, “Shhh”

Then she leaned over and kissed my forehead.  “We knew this was possible.  Doc Ferguson has moved the surgery forward to Monday.  They’ll get the tutor in your head, and we’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“You’ve been having minor blackouts, but Gary assaulting you has tipped the scales.  He’s going to jail this time, I’ll make sure of it.  You just rest.  Andie will get you anything you need.  Rest.”

She was replaced by a younger version, the way Susan looked 20 years ago.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Truth be told, I didn’t.  “You are the spitting image of your mother 20 years ago.”

She smiled.  “Not that far down the rabbit hole then?”

Apparently not.  It was as if everything came back in a rush, almost overwhelming.  “I’m going to be a grandfather?”

“Mum told you.  She’s not fond of the idea of being a grandmother.  Say it will make her feel old.”

“That girl will never get old.  Not in my eyes.  Now if anything goes wrong on Monday…”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

“Trouble in Store” – Short Stories My Way:  The re-write – Part 1

Now that I’ve gone through the story and made quite a few changes, it’s time to look at the story

…

Another long day, another argument, always the same one, when were they going to move to a more ‘desirable’ neighbourhood?

OK, the neighbourhood was a little more downmarket than they expected, and the landlord could do more to make the apartments more livable, but it was as much as they could afford in the inner city area.

But Chelsea kept arguing for the fact their lives would be better and she would feel safer if they moved to New Jersey.  It would mean being much closer to her parents, and it meant a longer trip to the office.

Rather than get into a more heated discussion, which always came back to her parents, he stormed out slamming the door behind him.

Now out on the street, it was very cold, and in his temper forgetting to collect his coat.  There was no going back, not until he calmed down.

He could see the lights of the corner store on and headed towards it.  A six-pack would help soothe the nerves, and perhaps tell the shopkeeper his problems.  He had been in there a few times and the chap seemed amiable enough.

He crossed the road, quiet for this time of night, and pushed the door open, setting the bell that alerted the shopkeeper of a new arrival.

Something was wrong.

Jack was looking down the barrel of a gun.

He’d seen the girl holding the gun several times and knew she lived in their apartment block, closer to the ground floor.  She had seemed pleasant if not a little out of place, but quite a few people who once had money were down in their luck.

He had thought she was in the same situation.

Then his eyes strayed to the floor beside her, just as the door shut with a bang putting everyone on edge.  Except the man on the floor whom he recognized as her boyfriend.

They’d spoken once and Jack didn’t like him.  Chelsea said he was a meth junkie.  Sprawled on the floor curled up in an almost fetal position, he didn’t look very well.

Had she shot him?

A quick glance at the shopkeeper told him this might be an attempted armed robbery, but for what?

The guy on the floor either needed drugs or hospital care neither of which would be available at the point of a gun.

She looked nervous and the gun was wavering in her hand.

“Get in front of the counter and make sure you show me your hands.”  She motioned with the gun where she wanted him to stand.

He put his hands out where she could see them.  He wanted no trouble.

“What’s wrong with your friend on the floor?” Jack asked trying to keep his voice and manner calm.

“He isn’t my friend, not anymore.  Shit.”  She waved the gun at the shopkeeper and said in a slightly hysterical voice, “This is entirely your fault.”

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2024