The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 12

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second worlds war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

…

I had walked quite fast in my attempt to distance myself from our pursuers if they were, in fact, chasing me. In doing so I had tried to make my escape as quiet as possible.

Now, between Jack and I, hiding in the undergrowth, the only noise I could hear was our laboured breathing, and mine in particular. I hadn’t been expecting to be doing this sort of exercise when I signed on for the job.

Now, I think, exercise was going to become a priority.

If I made it back alive.

A crack and I saw Jack go very still, ears cocked, and looking in what was the direction of the sound. He’d know, better than me, where the noise came from.

Another minute before I could hear muffled voices, then as if they had stepped into a room, I could hear them.

“So, you’re telling me you let him hit you?”

“I had to, for the sake of making it look good. I was told he was no fool.”

The voice of the man who had orchestrated my departure. I shook my head, very disappointed in myself for not seeing through what could have been a very cunning plan. It also explained why they hadn’t summarily shot me. I could see Jackerby gloating over the cleverness of his plan.

So perhaps for a few moments there, I was a fool. Not anymore.

“What do we do if we find him?”

“We’re not supposed to find him, remember. You were at the same meeting, or was that your ghost I saw with me?”

“Observe and report back.”

“Exactly.”

The voices were very close, and I could hear their boots of the rocky path until they stopped.

“Which way?”

The voice sounded very close, in fact, I thought they were just on the other side of the undergrowth, but that couldn’t be right, I could see through it in places, and no one was standing on the other side.

Sound must travel very good in this part of the forest.

“Follow the main river. He won’t be looking to deviate from his objective, which by now would be to find the other members of the resistance and organise his departure.”

“And leave alone what he saw?”

“There isn’t much he could do about it. By the time he’s reported back to London, we will have found the underground members and eliminated any threat.”

“Aha, so he’s leading us to the resistance?”

“That’s the plan.”

“And it was your idea?”

“I do have my moments, thank you. Now, let’s get on, or he’ll get too much of a start on us, and I don’t want to be the one to explain how we lost him to Jackerby in particular.”

A minute passed, then two before I heard the sound of boots receding. Johansson, or maybe Jackerby, had correctly guessed I might know where the other resistance members were, and, after escaping, go straight to them.

Pity, I was going to disappoint them.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 13

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

I stood at the entrance and counted to ten, then pushed the door open and went in.

I was not sure what I was expecting, but it was not what I saw. A country and western bar, with decorations that made you think you were in Texas, booths and tables elegantly set under subdued lighting, and well dressed serving staff serving customers.

Across the back was a long bar, and a bottle of every known drink known to mankind behind it, and two bartenders, looking busy. Several people were sitting at the bar, including Nadia, who was by herself, having a shot glass, no doubt with tequila, and beer put in front of her.

No one even looked up to note my arrival.

It took a minute to scan the customers I could see, and not recognise any of them, except they were not of the scoundrel variety, and whether or not there was another exit if I needed one.

Always an emergency exit near the restrooms and I could see them in the distance.

Another look around, then I crossed the room, weaving through the tables, to where Nadia was sitting. She hadn’t noticed my arrival.

“This seat taken?” I asked.

A quick turn of the head and I could see the rebuke on her lips. Then surprise on her face.

“Smidge. What are you doing here?”

“You keep asking me that question every time we meet.”

“Perhaps we should stop meeting like this.” She turned back to the bar and downed the shot glass contents. “Sit if you must.”

I had expected the back of her hand to slap me to the floor for daring to talk to her, but instead sat before she changed her mind.

“Same question,” she said, still not looking at me.

I’d try flippancy first and see how that went. “Always wanted to come and see the famous Lantern Inn, but it doesn’t seem to be famous any more, well, not in that respect.”

She looked sideways at me. “What if it had been?”

“Then I’m guessing this would have been a short encounter.”

“It still might be.”

OK, try not to be too brave, she could still beat me to a pulp with one hand tied behind her back. “I doubt you want to cause a scene, and especially not with someone like me.”

She turned and looked at me. Admittedly I was not the skinny assed punk I used to be, but still not her type.

“When did you go and grow up?” At least, now, she didn’t tower over me, I could see eye to eye, literally and figuratively.

“While you were away. Amazing what some sunshine and fertilizer will do.”

Was that a hint of a smile, or a grimace?

“Still a smart ass though.”

“You haven’t changed much either.” Short skirt, low cut top, she’d been wearing a coat when she came in. Hair was shorter and with a fringe. Didn’t suit her. “What happened to this place?”

“The last Mayor cleaned up the waterfront, most of it anyway.”

And died, rather ironically, in the crossfire between the two rival gangs in this very place. Nothing like killing a public official, corrupt or not, to precipitate a cleanup. It just sent the gangs into darker corners.

“Why are you here, then?” I had to ask.

“I’m respectable.” A nod to the bartended got another shot of tequila.

For me, a Budweiser.

“So does that mean you’re dating a Benderby?” For her, it would be the only type of respectability she could have in a town like ours unless she moved away to somewhere no one knew who she was.

“Not if they were the last family on earth.”

“So, what’s he got on you?”

She turned much faster this time to look at me, sliding off the chair and standing over me. There was not a pretty look on her face.

I tried not to exhibit signs of fear and failed.

“Who told you that?”

“No one.” I took a deep breath to get the tremor out of my voice. “They got the dirt on everyone, so why should you be an exception?”

I slipped of my chair and stood toe to toe with her.

For a person with an ugly soul, she had beautiful eyes.

Then she leaned forward those last six inches and kissed me briefly on the lips. Hers was cold.

“What do you really want Smidge?” She pulled back, and sat down again, picking up the beer and taking a sip.

“To get payback on Alex.”

“And you think I’ll help you?”

“Well, you need a map, and I don’t think you want to cosy up to Rico, do you?”

I had just put together a plan, shaky at best, highly dangerous at worst, but it might work. It didn’t have to be the real map, just one that was close enough to the real thing.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a key, and slid it across the bar towards me.

Room 14 at the Shingle Hotel. Where they used to have rooms to rent by the hour. And cockroaches, people not the bugs, in every corner.

“One hour. Now leave.”

I heard the door open and close and looked back through the mirror behind the bar. A large man with a beard and dark glasses. In a gloomy restaurant.

Her date?

I took the key and left, trying to look like I was not leaving in a hurry.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

What I learned about writing – Should I use a pseudonym

Beyond the Secret Agent: 7 Strategic Reasons to Use a Pseudonym

For centuries, the pseudonym—or nom de plume—has occupied a curious space between secrecy and strategy. We often associate pen names with historical figures hiding from censure, or writers protecting their reputation while exploring controversial themes.

But the role of the adopted name in the modern creative world is far more complex than simple disguise. Whether you are a writer, an artist, a musician, or a content creator, a pseudonym can be one of the most powerful strategic tools in your professional arsenal.

If you’ve ever considered stepping out from behind your birth name, here are seven compelling reasons why embracing a strategic alter ego might be the right move for your career.

1. Safety, Security, and Professional Separation

This is often the most critical and practical reason. If your creative work involves sensitive topics, controversial political commentary, or highly personal memoirs that might expose others, a pseudonym is an essential shield.

Practical Applications:

Protecting Your Day Job: If your employer (especially in fields like education, medicine, or government) might disapprove of your side hustle—say, writing steamy romance or true crime—a pseudonym provides necessary separation.
Personal Privacy: Limiting the access strangers have to your private life, family history, and home address is crucial in the digital age, especially when dealing with online criticism or harassment.
Sensitive Content: When tackling subjects that invite extreme reactions (politics, social justice, whistleblowing), a pen name allows the message to be heard without putting the messenger at personal risk.

2. Establishing a Clear Genre Brand

Imagine an author named Beatrice Bell. Beatrice writes heartwarming children’s books and, under her birth name, publishes historical non-fiction about the French Revolution. This creates a massive problem for readers and marketers.

Readers of historical non-fiction are unlikely to pick up a book advertised next to a picture of a cuddly bunny, and vice versa.

A pseudonym allows you to compartmentalise your audience. Many prolific authors use multiple names to dominate separate niches:

Name A: For literary fiction.
Name B: For fast-paced thrillers.
Name C: For specialised technical guides.

This ensures your marketing efforts are targeted and your readers know exactly what to expect when they pick up your book.

3. Escaping Bias and Preconception

Historically, women often adopted male pseudonyms (like George Eliot or George Sand) to ensure their work was taken seriously in a male-dominated literary establishment. While the landscape has shifted, bias remains.

A strategically chosen pseudonym can help the work stand on its own merits, regardless of the creator’s background:

Gender Neutrality: Using initials (J.K. Rowling, P.D. James) or an androgynous name can allow a writer to appeal to the widest possible audience, particularly in genres where gender bias persists (like military sci-fi or hardboiled crime).
Combating Ageism: For creators who are very young or very old, a pseudonym can neutralise preconceptions about their experience level.
Neutralising Geographic Bias: If your real name suggests a specific cultural background that might pigeonhole your work in certain markets, a neutral name can broaden your appeal.

4. Addressing a Difficult or Common Name

A good pseudonym is memorable, easy to pronounce, and unique. If your birth name poses a challenge, a pen name can simplify your entire career:

Too Hard to Spell/Pronounce: If readers struggle to pronounce your name, they won’t remember or recommend it easily. Creating a simpler, phonetically clean name is smart branding.
Too Common: Being “John Smith” in a crowded marketplace can make it impossible for readers or search engines to find your specific work. A unique pseudonym makes you discoverable.
Inappropriate Connotations: Sometimes a name simply doesn’t fit the brand. If you write dark, gothic fantasy, a name like “Sunny Meadows” sends the wrong signal.

5. Starting Fresh After a Misstep

The internet doesn’t forget. If you launched a creative endeavour that didn’t go well, received significant critical backlash, or involved content you no longer stand by, moving forward under a new name provides a clean slate.

A fresh identity allows you to:

Separate from Past Failures: Shed the baggage of a debut novel that flopped or a previous artistic identity that didn’t resonate.
Signal a Major Change: If you are transitioning from one highly specific field to an entirely different one (e.g., from journalism to poetry), a new name signals to the market that this is a distinct, new phase of your career.

6. Managing Prolific Output (The Publishing Powerhouse)

Certain genres, particularly romance, thrillers, and highly niche non-fiction, require writers to publish multiple works per year to maintain engagement.

A single author can only release so many books before they flood the market and confuse retailers. Publishing under multiple pseudonyms allows the author to maintain high productivity without undermining their own sales.

This strategy is often employed by ghostwriters or writers working under specific contractual obligations who need to publish more than their primary contract allows.

7. Creating an Intentional Persona or Mythology

The pseudonym isn’t always about hiding; sometimes, it’s about performing.

Authors like Lemony Snicket (Daniel Handler) or street artists like Banksy don’t just use a name; they use a persona that adds texture and intrigue to their work.

Enhanced Mysteriousness: An intentionally obscure or unusual name can generate interest and fuel discussion around the identity of the creator.
Building a Character: The pen name acts as a character in itself—a brand ambassador who may have a slightly different voice or temperament than the person behind the keyboard. This allows the creator to take creative risks that they might be too inhibited to take under their own name.

The Power is in the Choice

Choosing a pseudonym is not an exercise in subterfuge; it is a profound act of creative self-determination. It gives you the power to define your brand, manage your privacy, and ensure your creative work is judged precisely how you intend it to be.

Whether you seek protection, separation, or simply a name that sounds better on the bestseller list, the strategic use of a pseudonym can be the key to unlocking the next level of your professional journey.

Do you work under a pseudonym? What was the primary reason you decided to adopt an alter ego? Share your story in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 167

Day 167 – Writing exercise – And the door stayed closed

…

That was the thing about people who always said their door was always open.

It was, until it wasn’t.

And sometimes the reason why it closed was a misunderstanding piled on top of pride.

In a way, it cost me everything, but in another, I would not be the person I am now, with the people I know now, and those I had left behind were the poorer for it.

…

As doors went, I didn’t understand the metaphorical meaning until late into my teens. I don’t think it really mattered, not until I discovered that my father had set goals for each of his children, and if they achieved those goals, they were rewarded.

My oldest brother, Rory, called it the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

My eldest sister, Emma, called it the harbinger of broken dreams.

My next elder brother, Jack, didn’t care. He had decided early in life that he was not playing the games our father set. His joy was watching my elder brother try to meet that expectation and failing to quite make it.

I was the youngest, and as my father constantly pointed out, ‘the mistake’. He said it so frequently that Rory just called me ‘mistake’ and rarely by my real name, William.

I was too young to understand, but my mother constantly warned me that my turn was coming, to get good grades and be a good son.

The reality was that the ‘mistake’ would never amount to anything, and therefore, my father just ignored the fact that I existed. His only priority was the prodigal son, Rory, and he poured all his attention and resources into him, following in his father’s footsteps.

And up until Christmas, just before Rory was starting his graduation year at the High School, nearly the best quarterback since his father, ready to lead the team into the championships, the Broadhurst family were riding high.

…

Emma casually said morning, while she and I were shovelling snow from the front gate to the front door, “What could possibly go wrong?”

It wasn’t a rhetorical question.

A month earlier, we had woken to the news that our grandparents on my father’s side had been killed in a freak road accident.

It had shattered my father. He had idolised his father, perhaps because, as my mother said, very quietly, that he had spoiled her husband rotten.

Or more to the point, she was secretly pleased after suffering the demise of demeaning comments from him. His son had deserved better.

But it left us with good news: he had left the four grandchildren a college fund, the family farm to our Uncle Roy, my father’s only brother, and the rest to my father. Reward, he said, for obedience and hard work.

There had been discussion at the dinner table, Emma saying that when she graduated, she wanted to go to college, study law. It was no coincidence that her best friend had the same plan.

My father had laughed. “Why on earth would you want to work? Your role is to be a mother and look after your family. Your mother never saw the need to go gallivanting off to college.”

I was going to add a few words of my own, like the time I heard her talking to one of her lady friends, that she resented the fact that she had got pregnant almost immediately after the prom, and took any chance of her doing anything with her life.

My father, in one version, had deliberately set out to trap her, leaving her no option but to marry him.

I thought it best to keep that gem to myself.

Emma saw the writing on the wall. Not for the first time, he had intimated he would not support her if she did. Now, there was the college fund, to her, that settled the matter. She had been wise enough not to bring it up.

I answered her almost rhetorical question with, “Rory might actually do something completely stupid.”

He had before, messing around with his stupid friends, much to father’s dismay, because any injury could ruin his trajectory into the big league. Like the last one, six months before, when he twisted his ankle.

But last night, the other contentious issue was that Rory wanted to go skiing with his friends after Christmas.

That was never going to fly. Just the slightest error could ruin his career. Of course, Rory was probably the best skier in the state, but that wouldn’t matter.

She shovelled the last scoop onto the lawn, now completely covered, and leaned on her shovel. It was Jack’s chore, but he simply shirked it, and it fell to Emma. I always helped.

“What Rory wants, Rory gets,” she muttered, not for the first time.

She was finally realising that our father’s world revolved around his firstborn son and heir. Jack understood early and simply ignored his father.

“You have mom wrapped around your little finger, you know. Perhaps your path lies there. You saw how she glared at him when he gave his married with children speech.”

“I didn’t, but I’m not surprised. His obsession with Rory is annoying her.”

I’d noticed that too.

Of course, my comment was not without merit. Sneaky as I was, I managed to ‘infiltrate’ my eldest brother’s friend group, and overheard their plans for the skiing trip. It was widely known that Rory’s father would ban him from joining them, but Rory had a plan.

It wasn’t going to end well.

…

Christmas Day was predictable. As long as I could remember, it was held at the farm, presided over by the patriarch, Grandfather, at one end and our father at the other.

The old man ruled with an iron fist, leaving all the organising, cooking, and serving to the women, namely, grandmother, mother, and Emma.

This year, it all fell to our mother and Emma. I helped. My father was the patriarch, not Uncle Roy, whose place it was. He didn’t get to sit at the other end of the table. Rory did. In the hierarchy, it was he insisted, father and son.

Roy wanted to argue the point, but he didn’t. If he’d been married and with children, he might, but as a bachelor, he was simply relegated.

Christmas morning wasn’t the leisurely lie-in as it was for most people, followed by a leisurely breakfast and opening of presents before the arrangements for lunch began.

Presents took very little time. We received clothing or something practical. Everything else was deemed a waste of resources. We had hoped that with the grandfather gone, the rules would change. They did not, but for one exception. Rory got a new pickup truck, and now he has a licence.

In our family, it started at 6am. It wasn’t just family attending, there were what mother called ‘the hangers-on’, grandfathers and fathers favoured few, driven by what the guests brought to the table.

The football coach was just one.

We were catering for 20. Mother and Emma did the hard work, I did the table set-up and in the days before the decorations. Roy had a farm to run.

Grandmother was finally at peace away from the man I felt she had come to loathe, loud-mouthed, autocratic, opinionated and outspoken. Her opinion was his. Publicly. Privately, it was something else.

She had, in the last few years, been surreptitiously sowing the seeds of revolt in the Broadhurst women. I heard a lot of cursing during prep.

Through good luck and better management, the food was on the table on time and ready for the patriarch to carve the Turkey.

After grace, the honour falling to the eldest son, the lunch continued along the predictable lines, my father controlled the conversation, about Rory’s coming year, and how Roy was going to need help on the farm, and it was up to the three other children to step up.

After all, we had nothing better to do, especially hanging out with the other good-for-nothings. Neither Uncle Roy nor our mother had a say in the matter.

At the end of the day, I had that last look of the family united together in a family photo that Emma insisted on taking.

After everyone had scattered, I asked her why she had decided, this year of all years, she had taken the shot.

“To remember us all together in a semblance of unity, before everything changes.”

“You’re expecting trouble?”

“I had a dream last night. Next year, Rory will be leaving, football and all, and Mother is not happy. I woke up, and I was alone, in a very different place.”

I shrugged. “Children get older and leave. It’s what happens.

She didn’t seem convinced. But later, wandering back to our house, I remembered that fateful statement Emma had muttered not so long ago, “What could possibly go wrong?”

The answer to that, of course, was quite simple.

Everything.

…

Three days later, Rory disappeared, or, that is to say, he sneaked out of the house and went with his mates to the ski fields, completely ignoring his father’s strict veto.

Of course he did.

Rory rarely listened to his father’s edicts.

I overheard part of the conversation between father and Rory, and I counted at least ten death threats. At the very least, given the propensity to injure himself, it was foolish.

His father had outright promised the coach on Christmas day that he would not allow Rory to harm his or the team’s chances of a championship and drafting.

Now he had egg on his face, and we suffered for it.

But as outrage goes, our father let him stay.

Until we got the call on New Year’s Eve. The call no one wanted to get.

Rory had an accident.

An accident.

No details, just get there. Mom and Dad were in the car and gone. It was like the rest of us never existed.

Emma and I watched the car head off, going faster than it should

“Told you,” she said.

“It’ll be nothing. You know what his friends are like. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re just being the idiots they are.”

“Rory knows better.”

“Rory, full of beer, is just as stupid as they are. We’ll wait and see.”

She was sceptical, but it alleviated the anxiety that her dream might come true.

…

Although we didn’t know it yet, Rory’s accident was like a seismic shift in the tectonic plates. In other words, it was the beginning of the end.

Rory had sprained his ankle badly, the sort of sprain that, if not managed properly, could cost careers. It’s why, for the next six weeks, we did not see Mom, Dad, or Rory.

They took him straight to a specialist clinic and stayed for the intensive treatment and recovery. No one asked what it cost.

Emma was told she had to look after us, as well as herself, until they returned. I took myself off to Uncle Roy’s farm and stayed there. Emma had enough of her own problems with having worry about me.

At least Jack finally took an interest in what was going on, and said, in his opinion, our parents had finally shown who the favourite was, and had gone on vacation without us. He divided his time between home and the farm.

His assessment made sense. Emma wanted to believe otherwise, but I think in the end she finally realised that they were never going to let her follow her dream.

That’s when I noticed the change in her.

Diffident. Preoccupied. And not that I know what it was, but more grown-up. She had lost that girlish look and attitude, and had to ‘grow up’.

When our father and mother returned, with a very contrite Rory, our world had completely changed. It was like three new people had come back, people we didn’t really know.

Our father had completely immersed himself in everything Rory. Whereas he used to notice us, it was like we never existed. It was more of Rory this and Rory that.

Rory lapped it up, played the part of the football star who was going to be the pride of the family. And carry on the mantle of looking after us all. None of us believed him.

They were empty words. He’d always been selfish, always got the best of everything, and he would never change.

The biggest change was Mom. She was perpetually angry, and where once she accepted she was the household slave, she started saying no, and no longer went along with whatever her husband said.

She had a voice, and she used it. The arguments could be heard in the street. We left when the skirmishes started to keep out of the firing line.

That continued through that fateful year, where Rory played the game, the team won game after game, and where in private I saw that pain and anguish of a son made to believe he was something her wasn’t.

That simple sprain, as he called it, was career-ending, but our father refused to accept it and, along with the coach, pushed harder and harder.

He needed discipline, our father said, and continually said ‘no pain, no gain’. I knew he would push himself to win the championship, but after that, he would become a mental and physical wreck.

I said to him once, “You should not let our father live his dreams through you; the cost is going to be more than you can pay.”

He just smirked and said, “What would a mistake like you know about anything?”

That’s all I was to him. A mistake. I guess then better to be a mistake than a fool looking for something that was never going to happen.

Although I hated sports and watching them, I went to several of his games and watched him. He was the best, but there was something else, and I didn’t think anyone noticed. When he forgot, there was a very slight limp, especially when he gave the ankle a workout.

Not so much flash, a yard or two slower, the expression of a boy who knows what he was about to do was going to hurt, and steeling himself.

He was heading for destruction.

After the summer vacation, Emma brought up the subject of going to college. Never too early to start planning, she said. This went on until Rory’s prom.

I remembered it for a long time, because we all knew by then Rory mattered, and none of us did. Perhaps Mom cared, but she had long since surrendered to apathy.

We sent Rory off in his tuxedo and new car to collect his date, a girl were discovered that same night he had been dating since that Christmas skiing debacle. Apparently, he had been showing off in front of her.

Typical Rory.

We also learned about the deal our father made with the school to keep him on so that he could finish the season in the football team.

He was going to be Prom king and star quarterback, as his father had been before him. His father had also been ‘chatting’ to the football scouts about Rory’s prospects. It all seemed to me the act of a desperate man, and not letting the son prove himself

To me, that was a disaster in the making.

Emma, on the other hand, was moving forward with her plans to attend college and get a good job. It was where she had started work in a cafe, earning her own money because we’d been told money was tight and there were no more handouts.

An edict that didn’t include Rory.

She had seen our father about the scholarship fund our grandfather had left us for a college education, a meeting that hadn’t gone well.

She had left his study way too quickly and in tears. She ran out of the house before I could get to see her, so I finished what I had to do and went to find her. It wouldn’t be hard; lately, she had been keeping the latest foal company

She had named her Maisie.

Her eyes were red and her cheeks flushed. Angry and upset.

“What happened?”

“Rory happened. I’m going to kill him one day.”

“You might have to get in line.”

“I just found that our father spent all of our college funds on the medical bills to fix Rory’s ankle.”

“All of it?”

“And mortgaged the house. From a secure future to the rubbish tip in the blink of an eye.”

“And completely wasted. Rory will never be able to pay it back. His ankle may have been fixed, but some forgot to tell him to let it completely heal. He’s not a hundred per cent, believe me.”

“Not what Dad says.”

“He’s delusional. They all are. He keeps going; there will be no future for any of us.”

She shrugged. “I’ll find work, get enough to start and pay as I go. It may take longer, but trust me, the moment I can, I’m gone. Who does that, spending their money without even talking to them?”

“What would I know, I’m just the mistake.”

…

The fissures were there for all to see. All it needed was a cataclysmic event to break them open.

That came at the big game, the one that was going to give Rory his claim to fame, and the story our father could relate for years to anyone who would listen.

Rory had put in a flawless game, and we were just ahead on the scoreboard with victory assured. There was a minute to go, and the other team were moving the ball.

In one tense moment when Rory launched himself to intercept the ball, we all saw it, and we all collectively groaned.

His ankle finally gave out, and he collapsed. The other side got the ball, and our defence was just a few milliseconds slow to stop them.

Had his ankle held up just one more time, we would have won. The look on my father’s face was indescribable. The look on the scout’s face was predictable.

In that single moment, our world as it was came to an end.

What was incredibly painful was how his father just ignored him, lying on the football field in agony, the medical people trying to alleviate the pain.

He simply turned around and walked away.

Disappointment was etched on the faces of everyone who came to see the team win. Even the coach was so shattered he hadn’t noticed Rory was still on the ground where he landed.

I heard my mother utter four words very savagely in her husband’s direction, “I hope you’re satisfied.”

She then went to see what was happening with Rory.

Emma gasped when she saw the event, and she glared at him while watching him writhe in pain. Perhaps the resentment of seeing her college fund spent for nothing hurt even more.

My only thought was that it would never happen to me because I was never going to play sports.

…

I was thirteen, that awkward age transitioning into the teens. I’d seen how it worked for two brothers, and now I was hoping those years would bypass me.

I wasn’t old enough to run away. Jack was old enough and did, making good his escape while we were all at the football match. I don’t think anyone noticed for a week.

Emma got as far as the railway depot with her life packed into a small suitcase, with no idea where she was going, just anywhere but there, in a house where no one cared.

Rory was back in the hospital and would never really recover. Any thought of the dream to become a star quarterback was gone, with no offers from any of the scouts.

The injury was too severe to mend completely, and he would be in pain from time to time, and he would have a permanent limp. My unspoken question? Who was going to carry the family now?

Our father retreated to his study and very rarely came out. Why would he? Our mother didn’t come home from the game, or that night. Seeing that world she had created for herself crashing to the ground, there wasn’t anything left.

I was left there on my own until Roy came over to see how we were getting on, having heard what happened, and unable to talk to his brother, told me to collect my stuff and come with him.

His brother could sort himself out.

We went to the railway depot and rescued Emma from making a mistake, went to the sheriff’s to tell them Jack had run away, and then went to the farm.

Roy seemed to know our mother had gone, and as he said, “She should have done it years ago.”

…

Exactly thirty years later, I stood on the bottom step of the farmhouse entry and looked across the unchanged fields and the grey walls of the barn.

The tractor I’d broken was still sitting beside it, rusting away as a monument to my inability to heed simple instructions.

I had just come back from Uncle Roy’s funeral, old age, and perpetually being tired, finally taking him to heaven, where generous souls like his were welcomed with open arms.

Mother and Emma were inside getting ready for the wake. Jack and my father would have been there, except they had gone fishing a few months back and got caught in a freak storm and drowned.

It was sad, but the hurt wasn’t as bad as that when Roy succumbed.

As for Rory, he never recovered, mentally or physically. He shut the door on us, and in the end, the disappointment was too much. Whether it was deliberate or not, he overdosed on morphine.

Emma went to college, got her law degree, met a nice boy, and after graduating, got married and ended up doing the one thing she said she would never do. Become a wife and mother.

I discovered a talent quite by accident, waiting, and wrote a bystander’s view of a high school football match that I gave to the editor of the daily newspaper, who had been at the very same game, and he hired me.

I married a fellow reporter, Emma, and I had our weddings together. That was when our mother returned, and we all lived on the farm.

Happily ever after? Maybe.

…

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

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…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly, he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

Another excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – A sequel to ‘What Sets Us Apart’

…

It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.

On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.

She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.

It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.

When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.

“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”

“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”

It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”

“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”

It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”

Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”

Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?

“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.

“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”

“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”

And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.

She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”

“Yes, please.”

Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.

I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.

There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.

This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.

It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.

There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.

But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.

Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.

I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.

And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.

At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.

It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.

She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.

Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.

Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”

Maria nodded and left.

“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”

My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.

“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”

“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”

“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”

An apology was the last thing I expected.

“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”

“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.

“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”

It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.

Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”

“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”

“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”

That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”

“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”

“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”

“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”

“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”

I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.

Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.

She stood. “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”

I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”

She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”

That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.

No kiss, no touch, no looking back.

…