Category: Fiction

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

strangerscover9

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the type of clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’ but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him was not the concierge, and instead brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position and then made a clunk when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the life lobby, only in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over the the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 26

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

Back on the ship, a different ship, smaller but no less fast, our protagonist is going to Egypt, and joining the war via the Mena Camp, the place where many Australian soldiers passed through on their way to Gallipoli, and back again in injured, there or elsewhere in Egypt.

There were special operations of a sort, not on the same scale as in WW2, but the offices of which were in a hotel in Cairo, which to me seems about right.  If you’re going to do something, it should be done in style.

I have invented this mission, borne out of the plane ride our protagonist took from Winton to Brisbane, one that I’m sure the British already were doing in part, the aerial observation of the German lines and mapping the various sites for their guns to lay down a barrage.

His idea is to create, among what would seem to the Germans as a pre-eminent attack on their trenches, before the soldiers went over the top to attack.

That, of course, was a cause of many deaths, the machine guns waiting.

His idea was if anything novel and he was going to put it into practice.  After he undergoes more training, earns a commission, and gets attached to a squad of returning men, after rests in Egypt.  There are few left of the original group, and now bolstered with replacements, they battle hardened veterans are a battle-hardened group with stories to tell.

To be honest, after reading firsthand accounts, I don’t know how they survived, ot remained sane after the war ended.

…

1870 words, for a total of 43115 words.

Writing about writing a book – Day 30

I’m having fun with chapter one.

Can you reach a point where you are never satisfied with what you’ve written?

What more can I say?

…

Looking at the mess constituting my room and my life, slob may have been an appropriate description.  I considered myself old, overweight though not necessarily fat, hair graying at the edges, and few wrinkles around the eyes, there were no real pluses in my description.

Some said I had a kindly face, but perhaps I had the look of a paternalistic grandfather.  There were several men in the office who were the same age and had grandchildren.  And some who had children at a time when they should be planning for retirement, not parenthood.

World-weary and perpetually tired, I’d passed the mid-life crisis, wondering what it was that affected other men my age.  Twenty-odd years later, I was still wondering.

I used to think I’d missed a lot in half a lifetime.

Now, I didn’t know what to think.

Did I deserve pity?  No.

Did I deserve sympathy?  No!

The only person who could get me out of the rut was myself.  For years I’d traded on Ellen’s good nature.  She deserved better, left me, and was now happier in the arms of a man who I wanted to believe treated her far better than I.  She had told me so herself, and judging by her manner, it had to be true.  Only recently had she got her smile back, the one that lit her face up, one that infectiously spread happiness to anyone near her.

There were reasons why I became the person I was now.  Some might say they were valid.  In the cold, hard light of dawn, I could see it was time I stopped using my past as a crutch and got on with the business of living.

Perhaps today would be the first day of the rest of my life.

I took the bus rather than drove.  At that hour of the morning, the traffic would be bad, and there would be no parking spaces left.  And I was using public transport more and more, have become accustomed to the convenience.  Time to read the paper, or a good book, or just dream about a different life.

This morning I thought about Ellen.  I hadn’t for a while, but that might have been fueled by the arrival of the divorce papers she wanted me to sign.  I’d had my time to be angry, and disappointed, she’d said, and she was right.  It was time to move on.

And she had stuck by me through thick and thin, coming back from overseas service a basket case after nine months in a POW camp, after a war that was more horrible than anyone could imagine.  Two mental breakdowns, periods of indolence and lassitude, leaving her to bring up the girls on her own.  I had not been a great father, and much less a husband.

I remembered that argument word for word.

I could see the looks of pain in the girl’s faces.

I remembered the hug, the kiss on the cheek, the tears.  It had not been out of hate, but a necessity.  For her and the children.  Until I found some lasting peace, they were better off at arm’s length.  Away from the arguing, the silences, the absences.

And disappointment.

After she left I tried to get my life in order.  Drugs, professional help, alcohol, meditation, then work.

Over ten years ago, it took a year, perhaps a little more before sanity returned.

She did not.

By then I knew she had found someone else, a mystery man, whom neither she would tell me who, and the girls honestly didn’t know.  She’d promised that much, any new man in her life would not get to meet the girls.  And she would tell me, and then when she was ready.

Then, suddenly, the children were no longer children but young adults and out in the world on their own, and I had become more a banker than a father, an observer rather than a participant, and it was as if we were more like ships passing in the night.  And overnight, the ships had sailed to the other side of the world.

My own fault, of course, and a bit late now to change history.  I could see Ellen’s influence over them, her prejudices and dislikes, and their contempt, like their mother, for me, simmering beneath the surface but in fairness to them, I really hadn’t been much of a help as a parent should be.

And now I was getting my life back in order, perhaps I could try and make it up to them, and that first meeting, with them and Ellen, nearly a month ago, had been a step in the right direction.  They’d agreed to see me again, without her, during the holidays, which had now arrived.  All I had to do was make the call and get on a plane.

This mess I was heading into, it would not take long.  I pulled out my phone and after searching for a travel agent near where I worked, I made an appointment to see about going overseas.

She had spoken to me about the divorce papers several days ago, alternately pleading with, and then abusing, me.  There had been some very strong language in the conversation, words I’d thought her incapable of using, but I confess, finally, I didn’t really know her all that well anymore.

Since then I had been calling her to arrange a meeting.  She had not yet replied.  With some distance to go before I reached the office, I tried calling her again.  I was almost glad when she didn’t answer.

…

I never realized just how hard it was to revise and re-write, and how much time it takes.

Perhaps that’s why first novels take so long to write!

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2025

A 2am rant: Is that a light at the end of the tunnel?

It’s a long-standing joke that the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlight of an express train coming right at you.

Metaphorically speaking, this is quite often true if you are a pessimist, but since I’ve converted to being an optimist, a bit like changing religions, I believe I’ve seen the ‘light’.  It’s a lot like coming up from the bottom of a deep pool, breaking the surface and taking that first long gulp of air.

Along with that elated feeling that you’re not going to drown.

What’s this got to do with anything, you ask?

Perhaps nothing.

As an allegory, it represents, to me, a time when I finally got over a period of self-doubt, a period where a series of events started to make me question why I wanted to be a writer.

I mean, why put yourself through rejections, sometimes scathing criticism, and then have the people whom you thought were your friends suddenly start questioning your choices after initially wholeheartedly supporting them?

Are we only successful or supportable if we are earning a sufficient wage?  Or better still, a New York Times No. 1 bestselling author?  Or, even better, having sold a million copies?

Is this why so many people don’t give up their day job and then find themselves plying the ‘other’ trade into the dark hours of the night, only to find themselves being criticised for other but no less disparaging reasons?

It seems like a no-win situation, the times when your mettle is tested severely.  But, in the end, it is worth it when the book is finished and published, even if it is only on Amazon.

You can sit back and say with pride, I did that.

That metaphorical light, you may ask.

When somebody buys that first copy!

Writing a book in 365 days – 312/313

Days 312 and 313

Writing exercise – NaNoWriMo month, so start a novel – “The Fourth Son”

…

It was a clear night, and the stars were out, as well as they could be seen in the city from the roof of my apartment block.

I had wanted to go to Arizona or Montana, where stargazing would be so much better, but Cecily wanted to go on an Ocean Cruise with her parents and just didn’t come back.

That much I learned when I came home from work several weeks later, and every shred of evidence of her was gone.

It was, I guess, time to end what had become a stagnant relationship, but even so, it didn’t help to see the photos of her new boyfriend, a prince from one of those minor European Principalities, on Facebook and in the magazines.

She could have at the very least sent me a text.  I thought I was owed that much, and perhaps if she had known who I was, it might have been different.

Or not.

I shrugged, took another sip of cold beer, and stared up at the sky.  It was the early hours of the morning, and I had a telescope, a rather good one at that, and often came up to see if I could locate the planets whenever they were in range.

When they were not, a shooting star or a celestial body sufficed, and, failing that, sometimes it was just sitting on the roof, knocking back a six-pack was equally as preferable.

It was the way this night was going.

I heard rustling over by the exit and looked over.  The light wasn’t that distinct, but it wasn’t hard to pick out the shape of another roof visitor, though not the usual suspect.

“Ruth told me this is where you hide from the rest of humanity.”

Female, different voice.  Was this our infamous new apartment dweller?  Old Mary McGinty had passed on, her apartment remaining empty for months, unusually because of a shortage, until one Agatha Morell arrived very early one morning and moved in.

Ruth had been trying to find out who she was, with no success.  No one could because no one had seen her.  Except, it seems, by Agatha’s admission, Ruth.

“Ruth has a vivid imagination.”

“Ruth wishes you would use yours and read the signals.”  She came over, and we shook hands, or more likely touched hands.

I felt a tingling sensation.  The night air was charged with static electricity.  “Ruth and I are just friends.”

“So she tells me.  Home astronomer?”  She had seen the telescope.

“Would be an astronaut.”  I was feeling like being flippant, a trait Ruth sometimes frowned upon.

“Were you too old, too young, underqualified or overqualified?”

“I wish.  Let’s just say I’m thirsty.  Do you drink beer?”

“Of course.”  She took one out of the six-pack, removed the lid like an expert, and drank.

I picked up mine and did the same.

She flopped into the seat by the telescope.  I looked at the telescope, the sky, the new arrival, and sat beside her.

In that glance as I sat, I saw a woman in her mid-thirties, shortish hair coloured red or auburn, an expression that showed she smiled a lot, very fit, and, even in casual clothes, looked very, very attractive.  And unattached, maybe.  There were no rings.

A fitting rival for Ruth, whom I had once declared drop-dead gorgeous.  And the only person in the building who knew who I really was, other than Mary McGinty.

Yes, I got the signals Ruth was sending, and yes, I would have acted on them, but she would be eaten alive by the people who professed to care about me and who had other ideas about whom I should have a relationship with.  And if my identity was discovered, there would be the relentless and intrusive media who would make her life utter hell.

For a few brief moments after Cecily had gone, I thought my invisible handlers had gotten to her.  Or perhaps she met my mother; that would be enough to send anyone packing.

“So, hiding or not, what brings you to the roof?  She had another go at asking the same question.  She was either a politician or a journalist.

“The sky, the beer, a chance to meet inquisitive women.  Your excuse?”

“The sky, the beer, a chance to meet mysterious men.”  She smiled, and an instant shudder went through me.  My instinct was telling me this girl was trouble.

“I assure you I am far from mysterious.”

“Then that dream I had as a child, to be swept off my feet by a prince, is not about to come true?”

My heart rate just went into overdrive, trying to keep my best poker face in place and quell the rising panic.

“Unfortunately, no.”  It took a fraction of a second too long to get that panic inflection in my voice under control.

It elicited a quick and concerned glance from her

A deep breath and then, “I suspect, given the number of actual princes I don’t know of, I would imagine they do not go around sweeping damsels off their feet, except, of course, in Hallmark movies and Mills and Boon paperbacks.”

Her expression changed to one of surprise, perhaps something else.

“And you know this gem of information how?”

“My older sister, who often dreams about being swept off her feet by a prince, though admittedly it would be on the dance floor to a waltz.  She’s actually pretty good.”

A first attempt to deflect and switch subjects.

“Do you dance?”

“Waltz, yes, what that wriggling and uncoordinated swaying like drunken sailors represents, no.  My mother made all of us go to dancing lessons.  Do you?”

I would stick to the truth and improvise until I discovered what she was after.  I could, if I were worried, push the panic button, but that would cause no end of trouble for a great many people.

Perhaps on her part, it was just a poor choice of words.

“Finishing school in Lucerne, Switzerland.  My grandmother thought I needed the rough edges honed off before I returned to civilisation.  Ballroom dancing seemed to be a part of the finishing process.”

Finishing school.  Granddaughter, presumably of Mary McGinty, was more than just a possibility.  But, if it was a cover story, it was a good one.  I tried to remember if Mary had ever mentioned such a granddaughter, and on the fringe of my memory, I remembered her mentioning that her daughter had three children.

“I assume you are Mary’s granddaughter, Agatha, if I’m not mistaken.  You had this thing about red hair, even though it wasn’t, and spent some time working through the colours of the rainbow.  It seemed to vex her.”

Now, it was an interesting shade of auburn blended with black.

“I didn’t realise you were so well acquainted.”  She looked me up and down with more interest.

“She liked talking about you. I got the feeling she would like to have seen you more often.”

“She and mother had this thing, and we suffered as a result of the collateral damage.  Mother died about a month before Gran, leaving us precious little time to be reacquainted.  Then there was the inheritance, tedious and convoluted, with claims and counterclaims, as if we wanted anything to do with it.  We just wanted somewhere to live.”

“A nice place indeed.”

“The luck of the draw.  We could have ended up in a tenement on the Lower East Side.  I’m grateful, and I don’t intend to be or cause trouble.”

“Your sisters are with you?”

“Yes, Bethany and little Diana, though not exactly little any more.  It was the devil’s own job keeping them out of the foster system, but we’re together, and it’s going to stay that way.”

A woman of determination.

“Do you have a job?”

“Yes.  Managing my aunt’s business interests.  I had no idea she had so many fingers in so many pies, as she used to say.  It keeps me amused, along with being a surrogate mother.  This is my first night off, well, it’s not exactly a night off, just repurposing the early hours.”

She finished the bottle of beer, put the empty back in the six-pack, and stood.  “If you find any available princes, tell them I’m looking for one.  A dance partner or whatever. In a couple of weeks, the planets are lining up, so there’s no hurry.”  She smiled.  “Thanks for letting me ramble on.  It feels good to have someone I can talk to at last.”

Then, as quickly as she appeared, she disappeared.

Being as interested as I was in the solar system, and the fact that she had said the planets were going to line up, I checked, and she was right.

It was odd that she knew such random stuff, and since I didn’t believe in coincidences, whether she had interrogated Ruth about me.

Ruth was finally back from the other side of the country, and I went to meet her at the airport.  I did this sometimes to surprise her.

She was suitably surprised when she saw me leaning against a pillar, hands in pockets, surveying each passenger as they came out of the door into the terminal.  Ruth was almost last; a sign she had travelled coach.

She was frowning as she entered the terminal, but that changed to a smile when she saw me.  Like lovers who hadn’t seen each other for a long time, we kissed and hugged.

“I was hoping you’d come.”  The hug lasted longer than usual.  I suspect her business had not gone well.

“Either that or it was another starless night on the roof.”

“I’m glad I rate above astronomy.”

“You always rate above astronomy.  I take it you shunned the airline food?”

She made a face, the one that said, Don’t ask silly questions.

“Good. I have made a reservation at Luigi’s.”

She looked at me thoughtfully, then said, “Agatha.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I’ll tell you over wine and pasta.”

Luigi’s was a small, intimate restaurant, a favourite place for both Ruth and I.

It was the sort of place where one could propose to the love of their life, and it had happened three times when we had been dining there.

She had dropped hints more than once that it was just the sort of place she would like to be proposed to, and if I had been more romantically attached, it would be exactly the place I would use.

And in that moment, looking at her in the subdued lighting and the flickering candlelight, she had never looked so enchanting.  It made me wonder why I was so reticent.  As Agatha had said, the planets were lined up, and what other reason did I need?

I guess it was the fallout from making such a decision when so much was expected of me, one that would cause my parents’ consternation, though eventually there would be reluctant acceptance, but in that period between proposal and acceptance, they would have destroyed the romance and the very essence of a girl who simply wanted to be loved.

The truth is, love would not be enough.  Not being in the constant limelight, and the intrusion into every facet of her life.  I’d seen it happen to my next eldest brother, choosing a girl for love, and it had broken both of them.  It was why I was hiding, accepting anonymity for as long as possible.

And I knew it was not going to last much longer.  A recent Sunday magazine feature on my family and the country, celebrating 800 years of royal rule, had an early photo of me in a family portrait, but the resemblance between then and now was discernible, if someone was looking.

Ruth had seen it and had remarked on how adorable I was as a child.  I had no such recollection.  It was more like the youngest boy that I was the figurative punching bag for my elder brothers.

Enough staring into each other’s eyes and wishing everything could be different.

“Have you met Agatha?  Yes, of course you have.  She is what some would call a force of nature.”

“She invaded my astronomy space.”

“The roof belongs to everyone.”

I shook my head.  “I guess I had a good run.  I’ll have to find somewhere else to hide.”

“What did you think of her?”

“Trouble.  I think she knows who I am.”

She gave me one of those looks, the one that said I spent too much time worrying about what might happen rather than concentrating on what I should be doing.

“I didn’t tell her, and I doubt Mary ever would.  She knew the importance of keeping your identity a secret.”

“She may have seen the paper.  They might have had the decency to tell me what was about to happen, or perhaps it was part of the plan to get me to come home.  Did she ask about me?”

“You’re not exactly a presence that could be ignored, and she is of an age and availability that she would ask about you.  I simply told her you were the shy, retiring type who preferred to keep to yourself.  When she asked if we were, you know, I said I liked to think so.  She was interested.”

“Then I didn’t help my cause.”

She took both my hands in hers.  “You are going to have to decide what it is you want.  You can’t keep drifting.”

“Well, that might be decided for me.  My father is thinking of retiring, and the consequent reshuffle of responsibilities would mean I would have to return.”

“Forever?”

“No, but I would have to become a Prince, and that would mean the end of anonymity.  It would also mean, if I were to keep seeing you, the end of your life that you have now, and I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“Is that why…”

“I saw what it did to my brother, Richard, and the girl he chose for love, and it destroyed them.  I don’t want that to happen to you.”

A strange expression took over her face, her eyes glistened, and a smile appeared.  I knew right in that moment she was everything I wanted, and that what I felt was like the earth moving.

“I can’t ask you to sacrifice your future or life for what could only be described as pure hell.  Aside from what would happen at home.”

“What do you want?”

“It’s not a matter of what I want.  It’s a matter of what is expected.”

“And yet you are here despite all that?”

An interesting point.  Against all their advice and reluctance, they had succumbed to my wishes.

“The fourth son has its advantages.”

Luigi hovered, refilled the glasses with champagne.  I hadn’t ordered it, but he must have sensed something.

“You are the perfect couple, you know.  Drink, talk, I will prepare the perfect meal.”

He gave a little bow, as he did to his favourite customers and then left us.

“We shall visit my parents, and if you survive that, then I will do what I should have done months ago.  If that is you’ll have me?”

“You had me the first time I met you.  Yes, yes and yes.”

It was a sublime moment.

Until….

I looked up and saw a rather tenacious-looking woman staring down at me.

“You’re that prince something or other that was in the paper.”

That was followed by camera flashes, and the moment I had dreaded had arrived.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

What I learned about writing – Every day is the same, there is no Friday…

Someone, many years ago, told me that once you turned 65 the weeks just flew, you know, like when a day was a long time, days will seem like hours, weeks like days, and years, well, it’s like watching the time clock on a time machine.

That last week went really fast, and now suddenly I’m 70.  What happened to the last five years!

But…

I finally knuckled down and got some work done on the multitude of writing projects I’ve got going on.

I’ve recently been working on a story I’ve been calling ‘The helicopter story that’s been keeping me awake’, that got to the fifteenth episode, the end of what I now call part one, and as of the sixteenth episode is now under the ubiquitous title of ‘What happens after an action-packed start’.

Now written through to episode thirty, it starts on the third part and the climax of the story, and I may call it ‘What happens when you’re sent on a fool’s errand’.

The story will have three parts and will become a novella.  The title, “Under the Cover of Darkness”, and Part 1 is called “Crash Landing”.  More news on the other parts soon.

It has also become part of my “Cinema of my dreams” series, under the subtitle of ‘I never wanted to go to Africa.”

Another that I have been calling ‘I Always Wanted to go on a Treasure Hunt” was a whimsical idea that cropped up because I was stuck on an aeroplane, where the initial idea was formed, then home where it was a hot afternoon, and it reminded me of a desert island, just where you’d expect to find treasure.

Of course, the treasure isn’t on an island, it’s somewhere on the Florida coast, and there’s an intrepid adventurer who had the ‘real’ map, sought after by a variety of bad people.

It’s now rounded out into ninety-one episodes, and nothing like what I originally envisaged.

It too is one of the ‘Cinema of my dreams’ series, subtitled, naturally, ‘I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt’.

Last week I even began drawing up the treasure map, after all, you can’t have a treasure hunt without a map, can you?

Then there’s my war story, without a title.  That might not happen until it is finished.  It has forty-seven episodes so far, but we’re heading towards the end quite quickly.

It’s in WW2, and the Germans are about to discover all is not going their way.

Another of the ‘Cinema of my dreams’ series, it is subtitled ‘I always wanted to write a war story’.

There is a fourth story, under the title “Was it just another surveillance job’ that has surprisingly found a new life, and I’m having fun trying to work out the lies from the truth, except in the spy business, no one ever really knows which is which, do they?

It has just ended with 67 episodes and is finally at a conclusion.

There’s a fifth, a story that started out being fuelled by screenshots of planets in Skymap, that blossomed into my take on space travel and meeting alien races out on the edge of the galaxy.  Fifty-one episodes on, it’s a miracle they haven’t been blasted out of the sky.

Stay tuned for another progress report.

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

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“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 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 is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

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Writing a book in 365 days – 312/313

Days 312 and 313

Writing exercise – NaNoWriMo month, so start a novel – “The Fourth Son”

…

It was a clear night, and the stars were out, as well as they could be seen in the city from the roof of my apartment block.

I had wanted to go to Arizona or Montana, where stargazing would be so much better, but Cecily wanted to go on an Ocean Cruise with her parents and just didn’t come back.

That much I learned when I came home from work several weeks later, and every shred of evidence of her was gone.

It was, I guess, time to end what had become a stagnant relationship, but even so, it didn’t help to see the photos of her new boyfriend, a prince from one of those minor European Principalities, on Facebook and in the magazines.

She could have at the very least sent me a text.  I thought I was owed that much, and perhaps if she had known who I was, it might have been different.

Or not.

I shrugged, took another sip of cold beer, and stared up at the sky.  It was the early hours of the morning, and I had a telescope, a rather good one at that, and often came up to see if I could locate the planets whenever they were in range.

When they were not, a shooting star or a celestial body sufficed, and, failing that, sometimes it was just sitting on the roof, knocking back a six-pack was equally as preferable.

It was the way this night was going.

I heard rustling over by the exit and looked over.  The light wasn’t that distinct, but it wasn’t hard to pick out the shape of another roof visitor, though not the usual suspect.

“Ruth told me this is where you hide from the rest of humanity.”

Female, different voice.  Was this our infamous new apartment dweller?  Old Mary McGinty had passed on, her apartment remaining empty for months, unusually because of a shortage, until one Agatha Morell arrived very early one morning and moved in.

Ruth had been trying to find out who she was, with no success.  No one could because no one had seen her.  Except, it seems, by Agatha’s admission, Ruth.

“Ruth has a vivid imagination.”

“Ruth wishes you would use yours and read the signals.”  She came over, and we shook hands, or more likely touched hands.

I felt a tingling sensation.  The night air was charged with static electricity.  “Ruth and I are just friends.”

“So she tells me.  Home astronomer?”  She had seen the telescope.

“Would be an astronaut.”  I was feeling like being flippant, a trait Ruth sometimes frowned upon.

“Were you too old, too young, underqualified or overqualified?”

“I wish.  Let’s just say I’m thirsty.  Do you drink beer?”

“Of course.”  She took one out of the six-pack, removed the lid like an expert, and drank.

I picked up mine and did the same.

She flopped into the seat by the telescope.  I looked at the telescope, the sky, the new arrival, and sat beside her.

In that glance as I sat, I saw a woman in her mid-thirties, shortish hair coloured red or auburn, an expression that showed she smiled a lot, very fit, and, even in casual clothes, looked very, very attractive.  And unattached, maybe.  There were no rings.

A fitting rival for Ruth, whom I had once declared drop-dead gorgeous.  And the only person in the building who knew who I really was, other than Mary McGinty.

Yes, I got the signals Ruth was sending, and yes, I would have acted on them, but she would be eaten alive by the people who professed to care about me and who had other ideas about whom I should have a relationship with.  And if my identity was discovered, there would be the relentless and intrusive media who would make her life utter hell.

For a few brief moments after Cecily had gone, I thought my invisible handlers had gotten to her.  Or perhaps she met my mother; that would be enough to send anyone packing.

“So, hiding or not, what brings you to the roof?  She had another go at asking the same question.  She was either a politician or a journalist.

“The sky, the beer, a chance to meet inquisitive women.  Your excuse?”

“The sky, the beer, a chance to meet mysterious men.”  She smiled, and an instant shudder went through me.  My instinct was telling me this girl was trouble.

“I assure you I am far from mysterious.”

“Then that dream I had as a child, to be swept off my feet by a prince, is not about to come true?”

My heart rate just went into overdrive, trying to keep my best poker face in place and quell the rising panic.

“Unfortunately, no.”  It took a fraction of a second too long to get that panic inflection in my voice under control.

It elicited a quick and concerned glance from her

A deep breath and then, “I suspect, given the number of actual princes I don’t know of, I would imagine they do not go around sweeping damsels off their feet, except, of course, in Hallmark movies and Mills and Boon paperbacks.”

Her expression changed to one of surprise, perhaps something else.

“And you know this gem of information how?”

“My older sister, who often dreams about being swept off her feet by a prince, though admittedly it would be on the dance floor to a waltz.  She’s actually pretty good.”

A first attempt to deflect and switch subjects.

“Do you dance?”

“Waltz, yes, what that wriggling and uncoordinated swaying like drunken sailors represents, no.  My mother made all of us go to dancing lessons.  Do you?”

I would stick to the truth and improvise until I discovered what she was after.  I could, if I were worried, push the panic button, but that would cause no end of trouble for a great many people.

Perhaps on her part, it was just a poor choice of words.

“Finishing school in Lucerne, Switzerland.  My grandmother thought I needed the rough edges honed off before I returned to civilisation.  Ballroom dancing seemed to be a part of the finishing process.”

Finishing school.  Granddaughter, presumably of Mary McGinty, was more than just a possibility.  But, if it was a cover story, it was a good one.  I tried to remember if Mary had ever mentioned such a granddaughter, and on the fringe of my memory, I remembered her mentioning that her daughter had three children.

“I assume you are Mary’s granddaughter, Agatha, if I’m not mistaken.  You had this thing about red hair, even though it wasn’t, and spent some time working through the colours of the rainbow.  It seemed to vex her.”

Now, it was an interesting shade of auburn blended with black.

“I didn’t realise you were so well acquainted.”  She looked me up and down with more interest.

“She liked talking about you. I got the feeling she would like to have seen you more often.”

“She and mother had this thing, and we suffered as a result of the collateral damage.  Mother died about a month before Gran, leaving us precious little time to be reacquainted.  Then there was the inheritance, tedious and convoluted, with claims and counterclaims, as if we wanted anything to do with it.  We just wanted somewhere to live.”

“A nice place indeed.”

“The luck of the draw.  We could have ended up in a tenement on the Lower East Side.  I’m grateful, and I don’t intend to be or cause trouble.”

“Your sisters are with you?”

“Yes, Bethany and little Diana, though not exactly little any more.  It was the devil’s own job keeping them out of the foster system, but we’re together, and it’s going to stay that way.”

A woman of determination.

“Do you have a job?”

“Yes.  Managing my aunt’s business interests.  I had no idea she had so many fingers in so many pies, as she used to say.  It keeps me amused, along with being a surrogate mother.  This is my first night off, well, it’s not exactly a night off, just repurposing the early hours.”

She finished the bottle of beer, put the empty back in the six-pack, and stood.  “If you find any available princes, tell them I’m looking for one.  A dance partner or whatever. In a couple of weeks, the planets are lining up, so there’s no hurry.”  She smiled.  “Thanks for letting me ramble on.  It feels good to have someone I can talk to at last.”

Then, as quickly as she appeared, she disappeared.

Being as interested as I was in the solar system, and the fact that she had said the planets were going to line up, I checked, and she was right.

It was odd that she knew such random stuff, and since I didn’t believe in coincidences, whether she had interrogated Ruth about me.

Ruth was finally back from the other side of the country, and I went to meet her at the airport.  I did this sometimes to surprise her.

She was suitably surprised when she saw me leaning against a pillar, hands in pockets, surveying each passenger as they came out of the door into the terminal.  Ruth was almost last; a sign she had travelled coach.

She was frowning as she entered the terminal, but that changed to a smile when she saw me.  Like lovers who hadn’t seen each other for a long time, we kissed and hugged.

“I was hoping you’d come.”  The hug lasted longer than usual.  I suspect her business had not gone well.

“Either that or it was another starless night on the roof.”

“I’m glad I rate above astronomy.”

“You always rate above astronomy.  I take it you shunned the airline food?”

She made a face, the one that said, Don’t ask silly questions.

“Good. I have made a reservation at Luigi’s.”

She looked at me thoughtfully, then said, “Agatha.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I’ll tell you over wine and pasta.”

Luigi’s was a small, intimate restaurant, a favourite place for both Ruth and I.

It was the sort of place where one could propose to the love of their life, and it had happened three times when we had been dining there.

She had dropped hints more than once that it was just the sort of place she would like to be proposed to, and if I had been more romantically attached, it would be exactly the place I would use.

And in that moment, looking at her in the subdued lighting and the flickering candlelight, she had never looked so enchanting.  It made me wonder why I was so reticent.  As Agatha had said, the planets were lined up, and what other reason did I need?

I guess it was the fallout from making such a decision when so much was expected of me, one that would cause my parents’ consternation, though eventually there would be reluctant acceptance, but in that period between proposal and acceptance, they would have destroyed the romance and the very essence of a girl who simply wanted to be loved.

The truth is, love would not be enough.  Not being in the constant limelight, and the intrusion into every facet of her life.  I’d seen it happen to my next eldest brother, choosing a girl for love, and it had broken both of them.  It was why I was hiding, accepting anonymity for as long as possible.

And I knew it was not going to last much longer.  A recent Sunday magazine feature on my family and the country, celebrating 800 years of royal rule, had an early photo of me in a family portrait, but the resemblance between then and now was discernible, if someone was looking.

Ruth had seen it and had remarked on how adorable I was as a child.  I had no such recollection.  It was more like the youngest boy that I was the figurative punching bag for my elder brothers.

Enough staring into each other’s eyes and wishing everything could be different.

“Have you met Agatha?  Yes, of course you have.  She is what some would call a force of nature.”

“She invaded my astronomy space.”

“The roof belongs to everyone.”

I shook my head.  “I guess I had a good run.  I’ll have to find somewhere else to hide.”

“What did you think of her?”

“Trouble.  I think she knows who I am.”

She gave me one of those looks, the one that said I spent too much time worrying about what might happen rather than concentrating on what I should be doing.

“I didn’t tell her, and I doubt Mary ever would.  She knew the importance of keeping your identity a secret.”

“She may have seen the paper.  They might have had the decency to tell me what was about to happen, or perhaps it was part of the plan to get me to come home.  Did she ask about me?”

“You’re not exactly a presence that could be ignored, and she is of an age and availability that she would ask about you.  I simply told her you were the shy, retiring type who preferred to keep to yourself.  When she asked if we were, you know, I said I liked to think so.  She was interested.”

“Then I didn’t help my cause.”

She took both my hands in hers.  “You are going to have to decide what it is you want.  You can’t keep drifting.”

“Well, that might be decided for me.  My father is thinking of retiring, and the consequent reshuffle of responsibilities would mean I would have to return.”

“Forever?”

“No, but I would have to become a Prince, and that would mean the end of anonymity.  It would also mean, if I were to keep seeing you, the end of your life that you have now, and I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“Is that why…”

“I saw what it did to my brother, Richard, and the girl he chose for love, and it destroyed them.  I don’t want that to happen to you.”

A strange expression took over her face, her eyes glistened, and a smile appeared.  I knew right in that moment she was everything I wanted, and that what I felt was like the earth moving.

“I can’t ask you to sacrifice your future or life for what could only be described as pure hell.  Aside from what would happen at home.”

“What do you want?”

“It’s not a matter of what I want.  It’s a matter of what is expected.”

“And yet you are here despite all that?”

An interesting point.  Against all their advice and reluctance, they had succumbed to my wishes.

“The fourth son has its advantages.”

Luigi hovered, refilled the glasses with champagne.  I hadn’t ordered it, but he must have sensed something.

“You are the perfect couple, you know.  Drink, talk, I will prepare the perfect meal.”

He gave a little bow, as he did to his favourite customers and then left us.

“We shall visit my parents, and if you survive that, then I will do what I should have done months ago.  If that is you’ll have me?”

“You had me the first time I met you.  Yes, yes and yes.”

It was a sublime moment.

Until….

I looked up and saw a rather tenacious-looking woman staring down at me.

“You’re that prince something or other that was in the paper.”

That was followed by camera flashes, and the moment I had dreaded had arrived.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025