Category: Fiction

“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment, Will’s life slowly starts to unravel, and it’s obvious to him that it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule: don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved, there are going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

…

https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 145

Day 145 – Writing isn’t work at all…

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The Joy of the Page: Why Writing Shouldn’t Feel Like Labour

There is a famous, arguably infamous, sentiment from the poet and novelist Charles Bukowski that often sparks heated debate in writing workshops and literary circles alike:

“Writing isn’t work at all… and when people tell me how painful it is to write, I don’t understand it, because it’s just like rolling down the mountain, you know. It’s freeing. It’s enjoyable. It’s a gift and you get paid for what you want to do.”

If you’ve ever stared at a blinking cursor for three hours, wrestling with a single sentence until your temples throb, Bukowski’s words might sound like a personal insult. How can he call it “rolling down a mountain” when, for the rest of us, it feels more like pushing a boulder up it?

But perhaps it’s time to look past the provocation and see the truth hidden in his perspective.

The Difference Between “Writing” and “Editing”

The friction most writers feel isn’t usually with the act of writing itself—the creative flow, the discovery of a character’s voice, or the thrill of an idea taking shape. The pain comes from the internal critic.

When writers complain about the “pain” of writing, they are often conflating the act of creation with the act of judgment. We stop to edit, we second-guess our word choice, and we worry about the audience before the ink is even dry. Bukowski’s “rolling down the mountain” refers to the act of letting go—the pure, kinetic energy of getting the thought from the brain onto the page without stopping to check if it’s “good enough” yet.

The Gift of Expression

Bukowski’s reminder that writing is a “gift” is a powerful antidote to the burnout that comes with treating writing as a purely transactional industry.

In a world where we spend forty-plus hours a week doing things we have to do—answering emails, attending meetings, navigating logistics—writing is one of the few places where we have total agency. You are the architect, the god, and the witness of your own world. When you view writing as an escape rather than a chore, the “pain” begins to dissipate. You stop trying to force the narrative and start allowing it to move on its own.

How to Find Your Own “Mountain”

If you find yourself stuck in the “painful” phase of writing, it’s worth asking: Are you trying to roll, or are you trying to climb?

To recapture the joy Bukowski describes, try these three shifts:

  1. The “Vomit” Draft: Give yourself permission to write absolute garbage. If you don’t care about the quality of the first draft, you remove the pressure to be perfect. Suddenly, the words start flowing again.
  2. Separate the Hat: Keep the “Writer” and the “Editor” in different rooms. When you write, do not let your inner editor touch the keyboard. Save the critique for a later date.
  3. Find the “Want”: Bukowski mentions being “paid for what you want to do.” Even if you aren’t making a living yet, reconnect with the why. Write about the things that genuinely interest you. If you are writing what you think you should write, it will always feel like work. If you write what you need to write, it becomes a release.

Final Thoughts

Writing will always require discipline, and there are days when the muse is silent. But there is a distinct difference between the healthy exhaustion of a creative sprint and the agonising frustration of a writer at war with themselves.

The next time you sit down to write, don’t try to climb the mountain. Stop trying to control the terrain, stop checking your footing, and just let yourself go. You might be surprised at how much ground you cover when you finally stop fighting the descent.

…

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta reader’s view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

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The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 36

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

 

The next stretch of road was from Aba to Nagero, the gateway to the Garamba National Park.  This was a road where we would have to be more careful because it was possible, now we were off the main road, even though it was designated a highway, or perhaps that was a little too optimistic since it had a number N26, which ran into the R240 at a place nominally named Faradje, but did have a place to stay called the Residence Robert Ball.

I guess I missed that.

Beyond Faradje the road was a little more intense, but something else that worried me, there was more scope for us to be ambushed.  To be honest, I had expected trouble for the last 100 kilometers, but trucks and people were plentiful enough to keep any surprises away.  Now, that element of safety had gone and for quite some distance now we’d been moving slowly, and everyone was on alert.

My fears were not misplaced.

We’d hit a rather rough patch and had to slow down, and coming into a creek crossing the road narrowed, and the trees came down to the side of the road, providing any would-be attacker plenty of cover.  I had been considering how I would arrange an ambush when, suddenly the car in front stopped suddenly, and we, caught unawares, slid almost into the back of them.

My other radio crackled, Monroe was reporting in.  “Houston, we’ve got a problem.”

A flooded creek that was impassable, or a rockfall.  There had been one of each so far, but both had been relatively easy to negotiate.

Then she added, “A gentleman in army gear with a gun.  He’s brought a few friends to the party.”

“Real army, or…”

“The or, I think.  Some of his ‘men’ are, well, not men.”

A local militia.  Ahead I could see several more of the ‘soldiers’ filtering down to cover each of the vehicles until a real soldier stopped near ours, gun aimed and ready to fire.

“Send in our guide and get him to sort the matter out.”

No one was asking us to leave the vehicles yet, so this might but just a ‘request’ for a passing fee.  Jacobi had said this might happen once we left the mainstream roads.  I had hoped, the Garamba National Park is internationally known, all roads in and out would be ‘protected’.  Perhaps that was only for convoys protected by Government troops, a service we had to forego due to the nature of our business.

Five minutes passed, then the next update.

“Jacobi is going now.  We’ve finally got past any possible misunderstandings.  Good thing he knows the language.”

Mindful of where the soldier covering us was standing and his line of sight into the car, I said into the other radio, “Mobley?”

“Sir?”

“Where are you?”

“About a k behind you.”

“Stop.  Park, and approach on foot.  We have a small problem, about 10 militiamen have stopped us at a choke point.”

“Done.  I will be there shortly.  Take them out?”

“Get a position and standby.”

Forward of us little was happening.  I could now see Jacobi and the group commander standing to one side of the lead vehicle, talking.  Jacobi was gesturing, and the soldier was looking defensive.

Seconds dragged by like they were minutes.

Davies came back to life.  “Why have we stopped?”

“Checkpoint.”

“There isn’t meant to be a checkpoint here, is there?”

“No.”

Before we started out Davies had hidden a sidearm under her seat, in a place where I had hoped would not be checked by the border officials.  They had made a cursory scan in the front of the car but hadn’t seen it.  Now she had reached down and had it in her hand, at the same time making sure she had eye contact with the militiaman on her side of our car.

Our personal detail had doubled in the last minute or so.  I had just watched Jacobi return to the lead vehicle, get in, but leave the door open.

The radio crackled again.  “They want five thousand US dollars, and we can proceed.”

“We got five thousand.”

“Jacobi says two should do it.”

“Give it a go.”

I watched and waited as it took a few more minutes before Jacobi, with a bulky envelope, got out of the car and walked towards the soldier.

Showing we had money and were willing to hand it over might lead to further demands, particularly if the soldier though he was being disrespected.  It all depended on Jacobi’s negotiating skills.

Mobley reported in.  He had a position where he could see the men at the head of the convoy.

I spoke into the radio to the others, “Has everyone got a clear shot on their covering guards, just in case this goes sideways.”

“They’re not exactly soldiers,” I heard Barnes say.

“But they’ll shoot to kill you all the same.  Unfortunately, we’re on a mission-critical timeline here, and whilst I don’t like it, it’s going to be one of those at all costs decisions.”

A series of ‘ready’ came over the radio.

Several more minutes passed, and more animated conversation between Jacobi and the commander, then Jacobi returned to the car, minus the envelope.

Was it successful?

Monroe.  “Seems he wants ten thousand now.  Orders?”

“Negotiations are over.”

Several shots rang our, taking down the three men at the front of the convoy in quick succession, the signal for the others to take out their guards almost simultaneously.  It was a miracle none of the guards got a shot off, but, then, they were standing a little too close for their own good.


Five minutes later we were back on the road, the militiamen having their arms removed, and removed from sight, just in case anyone came looking for them.  It might be a forward group from the kidnappers, looking for some extra cash, or, if the negotiations had dragged on, looking to take the ransom and then demand another when we turned up empty-handed.

Whatever had happened, it was over.

Ten minutes later Mobley had re-joined the convoy behind me.

 

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

The cinema of My Dreams – It ended in Sorrento – Episode 58

It goes exactly as planned

…

We were monitored from the moment we left the hotel.  Cecelia had taken up her vantage point, and watched as we came out the front door.  Two minutes later she said, quietly, “You’ve got two, man and woman.  The woman is in communication with someone.  Be careful.”

Francesca didn’t seem to have a care in the world.  I suspected she had her phone on so those following us could keep track of when they lost us, but I wouldn’t be dodging and weaving this morning.

“What do you think our chances are of getting snatched off the street in a white van,” I asked her, after about 10 minutes.

“Why?”

“I’ve seen a few.  Of course, they might just be delivery vans, and white is a common colour.  Perhaps I’m just being paranoid.”

“Perhaps you are.”  She gave me a curious look, enough to make me think she might think there might be trouble.

“What happened to Cecelia?”

Juliet was outside the hotel, coming back from a café not far up the road.  I noted she had not bought coffee for the other two women.

“Out on a run.  She’s one of these fitness freaks, or perhaps it has something to do with keeping in shape for the movies.”

Juliet looked Francesca up and down with the eye of a jealous woman, or so I wanted to believe.  It could be that she simply viewed her with suspicion, much the same as I would in her place.

She knew me well enough to know Francesca was not there simply as a visiting friend.  But just how curious would she be.

“Another actress friend of yours?”

Francesca views Juliet with a similar look of contempt.

Francesca looked at me.  “Who is this woman and what is she talking about.  You obviously know each other.”

“Is it that recognisable?  This is Juliet, and ye, far back in a long-forgotten past we did spend some time together.  And lately, for some strange reason, we keep running into each other. Other than that, she’s staying with the countess and her mother.”

“You brought her to see the countess?   Is that wise?”

“No.  But I’ve had a long talk to Francesca, that’s her name by the way, and she’s working with people who have the same goal as I have, protecting the countess and making sure she gets to the signing.”

“Who are her people?”

“Need to know Juliet.”

“Well, this is going to be a cat amongst the pigeon’s moment, Evan.  You’re up to something, I know it.”

Francesca looked at her, then me, and went to say something, then didn’t.  I wished, at that moment, that I could read minds.

In my ear, I could hear Cecelia.  “They’ve stopped at the café just up from the hotel and the woman is talking earnestly into the phone.  She is probably calling for reinforcements.”

“A white van, no doubt,” I said.

Francesca was beside me.  “What about a white van?  Did you see one?”

“No.  Just muttering to myself.”

Juliet went first as we went into the hotel, over to the elevator, and then up to the room floor.  The short distance to the room was slow, running into several other guests who were going down to the lobby.

Juliet was on first-name terms with them.

Cecelia was back.  “As you said.  A white van went down the alley to the back of the hotel.  The two are staying put at the café.  It’s either a delivery or your ride.  What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing.”  Alfie’s voice came on.

“What are you doing here?”

“Joining the party.  Leave the van to me.  If it is involved, we’ll be on it.  If they take any one of the three, and they take their phones, we’ll have a trace.  At any rate, I’ve got a car, and will follow the van, if necessary.”

“Ever been told about a party, and then not get an invite,” I asked no one in general.

Juliet gave me a strange look then unlocked the door, went in, I followed, and Francesca came in last and closed the door behind her.

The countess was sitting at the table and looked up.  She didn’t recognise Francesca or if she did, she was a good actress.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“A woman who claims she has been hired to protect you too.  There seems to be a few of us.”

“Protect or kill?”  She stood and backed away.  “Why did you bring her here?”

“The old adage, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.  She’s better here than out there,” I waved my hand in the general direction of the street.

Francesca didn’t move, and, better still, didn’t produce a gun from her handbag.

“Who do you work for?” the countess asked.

“Anna von Burkehardt.  She is very keen for you to make it to the signing alive.  She also told us that she would like to have a chat about what you’re going to be doing with the property once the documents are signed.  She would like to make you an offer.  One, I believe, you can’t refuse.”

It sounded reasonable to me.  What wasn’t was that she hadn’t moved from the door.  That was a bad sign.

Cecelia again.  “I’m on the floor, three hostiles heading to your door.  Do you want me to stop them?”

“No.”

Francesca looked at me.  “What do you mean no?”

“No, she can’t refuse it, like you said.”

The countess didn’t look particularly impressed with either of us.  “That hag has no interest in making any offers other than putting a bullet in the back of my head.  Take her away, Evan.  She had no interest in protecting me.  And, because of your incompetence, now Anna knows where I am.

I saw Francesca turn the handle of the door and quickly step to one side as it burst open.  Standing on the side expecting such an entry, I saw the men come in weapons in hand, yelling for us to get on the floor.

Cecelia was in my ear again.  “What do you want me to do?”

“Wait.  But be ready.”

In the confusion, Francesca was too busy acting the part of a hostage, with adequate parts of fear and cringing on the floor.

One of the men pointed his gun at me.  I was not the target.

I just realised that Vittoria was not in the room, so she was outside.

“Watch out for Vittoria,” I said.

Teo men grabbed the countess and gagged her.  The one pointing the gun at me went back to the door and looked out.  He waved his gun to say the coast is clear, and they quickly went out.

“Let them go.  Alf, you better not lose them.”

“I won’t.”

Three minutes and it was over. 

I got up and sat against the wall, and watched Francesca slowly raise her head and look around.

When her eyes reached me, she didn’t see my angry face looking at her, she saw a silenced gun pointed at her head.

“What the hell…”

The door opened again, and Cecelia came in, gun aimed, ready to shoot anything that moved.  It too, ended up on Francesca.

“One chance.  The next thing you tell me better be the truth or I will shoot you dead where you lie.  Am I clear?”

© Charles Heath 2023

The 2am Rant: Curious children find a curiosity

I am constantly reminded of how curious grandchildren can be when they are not asking you what it was like to live with dinosaurs!

The second eldest, who is a rather clever 17-year-old, considers it interesting that I’m a writer, and having just met a ‘real’ author who came to visit them at school, asked me a few questions, some of which sounded like those that had been asked of my ‘real’ counterpart.

Like, “how old were you when you first wrote a story, and what was that story about?”

I didn’t think it was when I was at school, but sometime after that, and after a lot of reading.  Perhaps it had been one of those moments when a light bulb goes on in your head, and I said to myself, I can write these stories too.

Of course, that wasn’t an answer, so she asked again, when did I start writing?

That required a little thought, and several triggers gave me a date, where I lived at the time, the fact I used my mother’s old portable typewriter, and the fact that I had not been long out of school.  I was, in fact, about 17.  It was 53 years ago; I’ll let you do the math!

What was it about that I couldn’t tell her, but I said I had rescued a lot of old scribbling of mine and put them in a box to look at later when I had the time.

I guess that time had arrived.

And, yes, there was the book, the individually typed pages, some with corrections, unfinished.

The pages were brown with age.

The story, well, I read the first few pages, and it seems I’d started down the thriller path then, the story so far, an agent comes ashore from a trawler to a bleak and isolated village, perhaps on the Scottish coast.

Then there was the inevitable next question: “What was the first story you read that put you on the path to wanting to become a writer”.

That was easy, Alistair Maclean’s HMS Ulysses.  I showed her a copy of the book.

That led to, “but this is about the British Royal Navy in World War 2…”

Perhaps I didn’t answer that correctly. It was after reading about a dozen of his novels, most of which were precursors to the modern-day thriller, perhaps more along the lines of action-adventure.

The next question, understandably, is “What was the first book you ever finished?”

That was The Starburst Conspiracy, the manuscript of which was in the box along with another completed novel and quite a few short stories.

Back in those days, I remembered that I had sent some of my stories off to various publishers and had entered several short story competitions, all to no avail.  And for several years, until I because to old, I used to write and enter a novel in the Vogel novel competition but never made it to the shortlist.

It’s probably why I gave up writing for several years, until I worked for an interesting company that had a rich history of phosphate mining in the Pacific and was given permission to look into the archives, began writing what could only be described as a saga, and by the time I’d left, it was over 1200 closely typed pages long.

I showed the bulky manuscript to her, but by this time her interest had moved to something else.

For me, however, it seemed there was a lot of unfinished business.

What I learned about writing – Why don’t I like poetry, and why can’t I write it

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The Poetry Puzzle: Why We Don’t Always ‘Get’ It (And Why That’s Perfectly Normal)

Ever stared at a page of poetry, felt a distinct lack of comprehension, and then wondered if there’s something fundamentally wrong with you? You’re not alone. Many of us grapple with poetry, feeling a disconnect between the words on the page and any meaningful understanding.

If you’ve ever thought, “Why don’t I like poetry, and why can’t I write it?” then this post is for you. Let’s unpack those very common, very valid feelings.

“I Just Don’t Understand It!” – The Heart of the Matter

This is perhaps the biggest barrier. We’re often taught that language should be direct, clear, and efficient. Poetry, however, often delights in the opposite.

  • It speaks in whispers, not shouts: Unlike a news report or a textbook, poetry often communicates through suggestion, metaphor, imagery, and symbolism. It’s less about telling you something directly and more about making you feel something, imagine something, or see something in a new way.
  • The “Strange Rhymes” vs. “Endless Lines”: You mentioned getting a short ditty but feeling lost with longer pieces that resemble short stories. This highlights the vast spectrum of poetry. Some poems are indeed like mini-stories, but they often use poetic devices (like rhythm, line breaks, compressed language) to elevate the narrative beyond simple prose. Other poems eschew traditional narrative altogether, focusing purely on an image, an emotion, or a moment.
  • Haiku and the Rules Conundrum: And then there are the rules! Haiku, sonnets, villanelles, limericks… each comes with its own set of constraints. For many, these rules feel like handcuffs, making the poem impenetrable or, worse, stifling any potential enjoyment. Why restrict yourself when you could just say what you mean?

Why Do People Who Do Like It, Like It?

This is the million-dollar question! When something feels elusive to you, it’s natural to wonder about its appeal to others.

  1. Emotional Resonance: Poetry often taps into universal human emotions – love, loss, joy, grief, wonder, anger – in a way that feels incredibly personal and raw. It can articulate feelings we’ve had but haven’t found the words for.
  2. Beauty of Language: For some, the sheer craft of language is exhilarating. The rhythm of the words, the sound of the rhymes (or the effective lack thereof), the surprising juxtaposition of images, the perfect word choice – it’s an art form akin to music or painting.
  3. Fresh Perspectives: A good poem can make you see an everyday object or concept in an entirely new light. It makes the familiar strange and the strange familiar, jolting us out of our habitual ways of thinking.
  4. Conciseness and Power: Poetry often distils complex ideas or deep emotions into a few potent lines. It’s a powerful punch in a small package, inviting repeated readings to unlock its layers.
  5. A Shared Secret: Unlocking a poem can feel like cracking a code, discovering a hidden meaning that connects you to the poet and the broader human experience.

Think about song lyrics – many of them are poetry set to music. We don’t always fully “understand” every line, but we feel the emotion, appreciate the imagery, and connect to the rhythm.

“Why Can’t I Write It?” – Demystifying Creation

The idea of writing poetry can be incredibly intimidating, especially if you feel you don’t “get” reading it. But here’s a truth: you don’t need to be a literary genius to write poetry.

  • Forget the “Rules” (Initially): If rules feel like a barrier, ignore them! Start with free verse. This form has no set rhyme scheme, meter, or length. It’s about expressing an idea, an image, or an emotion as authentically as possible.
  • Focus on Observation: Poetry often begins with paying close attention to the world around you. What do you see, hear, smell, taste, feel? What small detail catches your eye?
  • Explore an Emotion: What are you feeling right now? Joy, frustration, peace, anxiety? Try to describe that feeling without explicitly naming it. What does it feel like? What images come to mind when you experience it?
  • Play with Language: Think of words as building blocks. Try different combinations. Don’t worry about sounding “poetic” – worry about being honest and curious.
  • It’s for You: The first poems you write don’t have to be shared or even understood by anyone else. They can be a private form of expression, a way to process thoughts and feelings.

It’s Okay Not to “Get” It All

Ultimately, it’s perfectly normal not to connect with every poem, or even most poems. Just like not everyone loves abstract art or classical music, poetry isn’t a one-size-fits-all experience.

Rather than forcing yourself to “understand” it in a purely logical sense, try approaching it differently:

  • Read for sound and rhythm: How do the words feel in your mouth?
  • Read for images: What pictures pop into your mind?
  • Read for emotion: What does the poem make you feel, even if you can’t explain why?
  • Don’t worry about the “meaning”: Sometimes, the experience is the meaning.

So, if you find yourself staring blankly at a stanza, remember you’re in good company. Poetry can be a puzzle, a challenge, a mystery. But sometimes, in simply acknowledging that mystery, we open ourselves up to a different kind of appreciation. And who knows? Maybe one day, a little ditty or even an “endless line” will click into place, and you’ll find a poem that speaks directly to you.

What’s your relationship with poetry? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 143/144

Days 143 and 144 – Writing Exercise

…

The worst thing about arriving in a foreign country without a passport is that you can’t leave by the usual exits.

What is worse than that, if it could be said, it could get worse, is to be on the run from the local authorities for something you didn’t do, but because of your status, they’re never going to believe you.

So, the big question is, how did I get into this precarious state?

…

Richard Danvers was not a man who could be trusted.  His affability and charm were mesmerising at best, condescending as usual and untruthful at worst.  But he always managed to wheedle and cajole you into doing his bidding.

He tried to win me over with a hundred-year-old bottle of scotch.  And when that failed, he added a week’s stay at his Island paradise in the Caribbean.

I was a sucker for a hard sell.

Added to the fact I might get to see his step sister Olga, from the Russian wife his father married after Richards mother was murdered.

I had a small role in finding the person who committed the crime, and instead of maintaining anonymity, Richard found me and said he owed me.

I should have walked away.

“So, Will, still drinking that rather cheap swill you call scotch?”

Two things: Will wasn’t my real name, but the one I used for that operation.  If he thought I had another name, he never told me. The other, cheap swill to him was four hundred dollars a bottle of scotch that had been declared the best five years ago.

“To each his own, Richard.”

He shrugged, pulled a bottle out of the bottom drawer of his desk, and put it on the desk with a slight bump, just to impress.

“What do you want?”  It was the usual prelude for him wanting something. 

Somehow he assumed I was a gun for hire.

I was not.

That was the other thing about Richard: being his acquaintance came with certain obligations.  Not him doing anything for you, but you doing something for him.  When he realised what it was I did, he tried very hard to make me his fix-it man.

I told him I already had a job.  I didn’t need another.

“Nothing.  We’re going down to the island this weekend.   Sun and fun, good food, good wine, good company.  Olga said she would definitely try to come; she needs a break, and I know she likes you.”

Like?  Yes.  But he knew how to twist my arm.  Olga, with him, was my Achilles heel.

“When exactly?”  I sighed.  I guess I could suffer a week on a Caribbean island over cold, wet and miserable London while I waited for my next assignment.

I was, in fact, wondering if it was my association with him that was holding back my employability.

…

I arrived at the personal airport attached to the Elizabethan mansion that Richard had inherited from his father, and down through the generations, the land was a gift from Queen Elizabeth I.

It had a terminal, an air bridge, and could accept any aircraft up to a Boeing 737.  His fleet of two currently consisted of a Challenger and a Citation.  We were taking the Challenger.  The fact that the Citation was in told me Olga had arrived.

She would be in the Cafe.  Yes, his terminal building had a cafe.  With everything you could imagine.

She was sitting at a table overlooking the runway.  Currently, it was raining so hard that you could barely see the other side of the runway.

I pulled up a chair and sat down.  She turned and smiled.  She never got less beautiful.

“Will.”  She leaned over, and we briefly kissed.

We were not lovers, just friends, as much as I wanted more, I decided if she didn’t pursue it, I wouldn’t.  It was an unlikely match, and I doubted Richard, as the current Duke, would condone it.

She was just one more thing he could manage in his inimitable way, and she seemed content to let him.

“Olga?”

“Did he use me to get you to come?”

“What do you think?”

“Richard can be a pain.  He went on ahead yesterday, and it’s just you and me, several staff and a business associate, Nigel something or other.  You won’t have to talk to any of them. I’ll be the pilot, so you can sit up front with me.”

“Who else is going to be there?”

“That’s it.  Richard promised he’d talk business with Nigel, and said a weekend away would make a deal more likely.”

“Business and pleasure, I hope he doesn’t call in that bevy of girls like the last time.  He seriously needs to wake up.”

“You know men.  Always overcompensating.”

‘True.  His jet is bigger than yours.”

…

We were waiting on the businessman Nigel something-or-other.  Her advice was that he would be alone, but when he arrived an hour after the appointed time, putting back our departure by two hours, Olga was not happy.

Not necessarily because he was late, but because he had brought along his mistress.  Olga had met her before, and the hostility was very noticeable.

She was bossy, loud, and, as Olga muttered under her breath, mutton dressed as lamb.  Thirty-five going on fifty, going on twenty-five.

Long fake blonde hair, fake bosom, far too much make-up, smelling like she had bathed in perfume, and clothes a twenty-year-old wouldn’t be seen dead in.  The skirt was so short, well, it left nothing for the imagination.

My first contact with her, she asked:  “Who are you?”  There was no hello or name.

“I’m commonly regarded as something the cat dragged in,” was my sardonic reply, totally unappreciated.

Olga looked at her, then at me, then back to her.  “He’s the co-pilot, so let’s hope he knows what he’s doing.”

I smiled at her and wandered off.  Nigel came over to rescue his girlfriend.

Olga had a brief word with the steward who was joining us on the flight, said a few words and then headed towards the embarkation door.

I joined her, she flashed her key card, and the doors opened.  Before us was the airbridge down to the plane.

“She’s not very nice, is she?” Olga said as the doors closed behind us.”

“She is a woman of a certain sort.  It just surprises me Nigel would be the sort of man who would indulge in what clearly is trouble.”

I’d seen a lot of women like her, all over the world, though some were a lot more attractive, attached to older men as escorts or being seen.

“Nigel’s filthy rich.  She’s entitled and not of our ilk.  What did you expect?”

Not a lot.

..

It took five and a half hours, including the slight delay getting onto the island, a flight that wasn’t marred by what could have been a small problem.

Jocelyn, Nigel’s girlfriend, started hard on the champagne and then spiralled.  She could drink, but the altitude had an effect, and she got very drunk very quickly.

Private planes didn’t have the same restrictions as commercial planes, and of course, no one was going to stop her from making a fool of herself.

The island medical staff had to take her off the plane.  Nigel apologised, but Richard, who met us at the terminal, almost an extension of his house, seemed totally unperturbed by her behaviour.

It had happened before.  Olga and I watched it unfold from the cockpit.  There was no point going out and laying down the law; that was done by the steward, who was, I discovered, a man who booked no nonsense.

He was also one of Richard’s security staff, which surprised me.  There were more such officers on the island, and it made me wonder whether there was something I had missed when dealing with Richard, or I had just overlooked it because of the relationship we had developed.

I didn’t want to think my vigilance had been blinded by my desire and affection for Olga.  Walking off the plane, Olga stayed in the cockpit to finish the paperwork. The words of one of the instructors at the training farm echoed in my head: A distraction.

And my arrival on the island was not the result of a random invitation; Richard wanted or needed me to be here.

So all I had to do, now, was to find out why.

…

The others on the plane had disembarked and headed towards the main resort, each getting their room assignment and welcome folder.

I was last off and headed towards the check-in counter.  It was quite a large arrivals lounge, a hint back to when the resort was first built, and when it failed financially, Richard snapped it up at a bargain basement price as his personal Shangri-La.

The woman at the counter was dressed in the former Island resort uniform, as most of the staff did.  Behind her was a security guard, a man most people would want to meet in daylight, let alone on a dark night.

There wasn’t any real reason why there should be.

Unless Richard was expecting trouble.  Which might explain why he asked me here.

The woman, with the name Sharon on a badge, had taken a few surreptitious glances in my direction as I moved towards her.  To anyone else, it would appear her attention was buried in the computer screen.

The island had 140 rooms and huts, the latter built alongside the piers and on stilts over the water.  I was hoping for a hut.

I stood leaning on the desk for about a minute, resisting the urge to press the bell for attention.

She looked up.  “William Burbridge?”

I found it amusing that she would have to ask when I was the last non-staff member off the plane, and it was clear my name was the only one not crossed off the list.

“Yes.”

She put a folder and a key on the counter.  “Have a nice stay.”

“Thank you.”

I recognised the key number.  It was in the east wing, not far from the Dining Room.  Last time I visited, I went over the whole resort and memorised where everything was, especially the exits.

There was a welcome dinner at 7 pm. So I had a few hours to refresh that plan in my head.

Stepping out of the arrival terminal, there was a bridge that crossed the road and stretched for about five hundred yards to the upper entrance to the resort foyer.  Below was the road entrance with steps up to the foyer.

The foyer had aquariums on either side and above the centre one of two atriums, stretching upwards, acting as filtered lighting during the day.  The second was in the dining room. 

It was something to look forward to.

…

Unpacked, I had an hour to spare and did the outer resort circuit that doubled for the jogging track for the exercise freaks.

I’d done more than a few laps with both Richard and Olga in the past.  I don’t think it was going to be part of this stay.  I was here to relax, not exercise.

Nothing had changed outwardly, and I would have missed it had I not seen two men appearing out of the ground.  That was the illusion.  A close inspection revealed a staircase leading down to somewhere that would make for an interesting question, should we have a discussion about it?  Or keep to myself for a while.

Maybe the only other change that was discernible was the satellite dish about 500 yards from the main building.  I wondered briefly just what his bandwidth was.  It could not be as bad as that in my building.

I wandered slowly towards the end of the pier, and as I approached, I thought I could see the outline of another person.  Just at the point where the light was beginning to disappear, it could be difficult to see anything other than the sun settling, which I remembered was an unforgettable memory for any guests staying.

Then, about ten yards away from the end, a figure came out from behind the boats he’d and stood still, staring out to sea.  A woman. 

I didn’t break stride stepping up to her as she turned.

“Will.”

I stopped, three paces between us, trying not to look surprised.

“Harriet.”  Harriet had been my partner in the last three missions and had been reassigned after the last.  I took that to mean I was out of favour and she had moved on.  “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you?”

“Why?”

“You are consorting with the wrong sort of people.”

“Richard is an eccentric billionaire.  But harmless.”

“Perhaps I should be more worried about your attachment to Olga.”

She meant Harrigan’s worries about my friends and attachments.  I’d checked Richard on that first meeting, as had the department’s investigators.  But that was over a year ago, and I guess eccentric billionaires could get more eccentric over time.

“It’s more an acquaintance than a relationship.  I’m not of their ilk, you know.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Richard asked me to spend the week.  I was at a loose end.”

“And Olga was free?”

“Not to begin with.”  And then a thought occurred to me.  “Does anyone know you’re here?”

“Harrigan.  He’s having kittens.  Both the Danvers are on watch lists, which is why they have private planes.  It was a task trying to find out where you were taken. They filed three separate destinations.  We only found out after the plane departed.”

“Then how the hell …”

“Did I get here?   Need to know.  But since you’re here, your new mission starts now.  There’s a document that is being discussed tomorrow, labelled ‘Operation Skybeam’.”

“There’s more people coming?”

“We assume so.  I’m part of the staff, so if you see me, you don’t see me.  Don’t let us down, and keep your wits about you.  Now, back to the resort and eyes ahead.”

Spying on Richard.  That was going to be interesting.

…

Or so I thought.

Had I spent any time considering just how precarious my position was, I would not have got on the plane.  Then, if I thought a little longer on how it was my presence on that island was known, and there were agents already in place, I might have thought it somewhat of a coincidence.

That I did not, that I had got my next assignment, had clouded my rational thought processes.

But instead of weighing up all those factors, I simply went back to the main building, had dinner with Richard and Olga, and the others, and retired for the night, together, ready for what was to happen the next day.

The thing is, by the time I reached the room was suddenly very tired.  After all, it had been a long day.  A good dinner, one too many drinks in convivial company, not seeing anyone out of place, or Harriet, made it odd but not surprising.

After all, Harriet was the master of disguise.

My last thought, as my head hit the pillow, everything would sort itself out tomorrow.

…

I woke, and something was wrong.

Firstly, I didn’t wake refreshed, which was my expectation, being on the island and the fresh air pushed by a gentle breeze through the open windows.

Secondly, I didn’t open the windows before I went to sleep, so who had?

Thirdly, I had a slight headache, but the thumping sound I could hear or feel was not in my head.  Someone was knocking on my door.

I moved and groaned.  It felt like I’d been run over by a truck.  I reached down to massage the ache, and my hand ran over something wet.  I looked at my hand and saw it was bloody.

Or at least red.

I tried to sit up, just as I heard the door crash open, and a second later I had six heavily armoured police surrounding me with guns pointed at my head.

In that same instant, I saw a body next to me.  Basil’s wife, and my guess was she was quite dead, a gunshot to the head, and the gun was on the bed between us.

A voice from one of the armoured men said, in French, “Get the medics in here.”  One of the six left the room.  He looked at me. “You have a lot of explaining to do, Mr William Burbridge.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

And, the story:

Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply fly away?

Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, I came to the airport to see the plane leave.  Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.

But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision.  She needed the opportunity to spread her wings.  It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.

She was in a rut.  Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level that she, the youngest of the group, would get the position.

It was something that had been weighing her down for the last three months, and if she noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper.  I knew she had one; no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.

And then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere.  Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication.  It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact that she had to entertain more, and frankly, I felt like an embarrassment to her.

So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock.  We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.

It was then that she said she had quit her job and found a new one.  Starting the following Monday.

Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it was something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.

I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.

What surprised her was my reaction.  None.

I simply asked who, where, and when.

A world-class newspaper in New York, and she had to be there in a week.

A week.

It was all the time I had left with her.

I remember just shrugging and asking if the planned weekend away was off.

She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.

Is that all you want to know?

I did, yes, but we had lost the intimacy we used to have, where she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker, but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.

There’s not much to ask, I said.  You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place,  and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.

Her immediate superior was instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position, he had not taken advantage of the situation like some might.  And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.

One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.

So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.

Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology.  It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you.  I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.

Yes, our relationship had a use-by date, and it was in the next few days.

I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me; you can make cabinets anywhere.

I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job.  It was everything around her and going with her that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.

Then the only question left was, what do we do now?

Go shopping for suitcases.  Bags to pack, and places to go.

Getting on the roller coaster is easy.  At the beginning, it’s a slow, easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top.  It’s much like some relationships; they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, followed by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.

What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.

Our roller coaster had just come out of the final turn, and we were braking so that it would stop at the station.

There was no question of going with her to New York.  Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back.  After a few months in the new job, the last thing she’d want was a reminder of what she left behind.  New friends, new life.

We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a free trip to the op shop with stuff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.

Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming; that moment, the taxi arrived to take her away forever.  I remember standing there, watching the taxi go.  It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.

So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.

Already that morning, there had been 6 different types of planes departing, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.

People coming, people going.

Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just to see what the attraction was.  Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.

As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.

Perhaps it was.

© Charles Heath 2020-2026

…

Coming soon.  Find the above story and 49 others like it in:

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you?

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters, cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times, taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice, where, in those back streets, I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all, a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

…

Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

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