365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 216

Day 216 – Writing Exercise

…

I remember the days when our town was like a sleepy hollow surrounded by prairies and mountains.

We had everything we needed, and the town grew at the pace that matched the natural population growth. It was quite literally that sort of town where everyone knew everyone else.

The Murphys ran the sheriff’s department, the Watersons were mayors or civic officers, the Ravellers ran the bank, and Blacks started as the blacksmith and now took care of the farm machinery and engineering. We were, for all intents and purposes, self-sufficient.

Then, little by little, that autonomy started to disappear. The fast food outlets came; a shopping mall was built, and then realtors came and built estates, claiming our town was just the place to live, away from the city rat race.

Then times changed, and the economy failed, and people found themselves struggling. It was not just us; it was everywhere.

That’s when the Montgomerys came.

…

My father was conservative, not exactly against change, just change that radically affected his way of life. He and a few others opposed the mall, the resort being built on the old Anderson ranch, and the radical redesigns of the main street.

He had watched the fast food places turn the children away from the people food, the new hotels turn the people into gamblers and drinkers, and the out-of-towners who were moving into the new estates increase the crime rate.
.
And the new people brought the drug scourge.

In five years the sheriff’s office had gone from a shop front with the sheriff and two deputies to ten deputies and three detectives, and a modern two-story building with a compound and jail space for twenty.

In those same five years, the original families that built our town started leaving.

My father deplored what was happening, even more so when there was nothing he could do about it. Our Sunday family gathering had turned into a gathering of the so-called founding fathers, dwindling rapidly.

Most had either died out or sold out. And in the case of my generation, with the advent of the internet and the ease of getting information, most have left to seek their fortune in the big cities, tempted by the fortunes that could be made.

He also resisted the buyout offers of his land, now very prime real estate, and held up a multi-million-dollar new resort being developed by the Montomery Corporation run by Archibald Montgomery.

A self-made man, he was quite literally larger than life. No one knew why he left New York, only that he landed in our town by mistake and took a shine to it.

His foothold started with building a castle on the old Herbertson ranch, the first of the old guard to sell out. From there he regaled the old founders with parties and then offers, buying up properties for cents on the dollar, legally and sometimes not.

He went from hero to monster in the blink of an eye. About the same time, it was realised he had bought half the town and surrounding farms. And with that sort of influence, he all but owned the mayor and the sheriff.

Then there was Archie Montgomery junior.

I finished high school with him, the eldest son, and the heir apparent. He believed he owned the town, and everything else, and everyone was his slave to do his bidding.

Those who didn’t found themselves on the wrong end of the stick.

That’s how the Thompsons, my family, became the thorn in the side that neither the father nor the prodigal son wanted or needed.

And both were the subject of conversation at lunch.

…

I looked around the tables at the twenty-two members left from the founding fathers group. The latest casualty: the town sheriff for the last 20 years, just getting voted out and replaced by one of Montgomery’s acolytes.

He was glad to retire, just not about who replaced him. The mayor, or ex-mayor, was sitting next to him, having been deposed on the same election day. Politically, the wind had shifted, and the representatives in Congress that had protected us for so long had been swept away, replaced by, well, my father had an expression that wasn’t repeatable.

Montgomery had finally won, as he said he would.

Jacob Waterson, sixth-generation resident, the last of a long line of town mayors, was sad. He had seen what was happening, and like the rest of us, could do nothing about it.

“It’s time we all just left and left them to it. We can only hold out so long. I mean, if torching the Franz property was a message, then who will be next?”

Old man Franz had refused to sell. Then suddenly his place burned down with him in it, and the investigation came back that old man Franz had basically caused the fire himself. Old wiring and out-of-date appliances. He had been warned.

The thing is, he had the wiring replaced. He just didn’t tell those who needed to know except us. It was like he knew what was going to happen.

“That fire was not caused by an electrical fault.”

The ex-sheriff was adamant and was checking the crime scene himself. No one in the county was interested, a measure of how far Montgomery’s influence had reached.

“That would be me, I’m guessing,” my father said. “Those hundred head of missing cattle turned up on the other side of the country, sold to a meat processor, with our brand overstamped. It was very cleverly done, almost unnoticeable.”

I’d seen the photos sent by the meat works when they noticed an irregularity. Too late to stop the slaughter. Too late to do anything about it.

“It’s time. We’re retiring in Florida. We got just enough to buy a condo and spend a few years cruising. Take the offer and get out, Jake.”

The sheriff was still recovering from an ambush attack that left his deputy dead and him a hospital case. He would have gone back to work if he was fit, but then he lost the election.

The campaign to depose him was very dirty. Politics was threaded through even the minor elections, and that was driving the politicised landscape, a problem we never had before the developers and new arrivals.

Pity.

I guess it was time for all of us to retire.

The conversation focussed on who was next, not what we could do about it, and I think that was the measure of our impotence. There was just not enough of us to make a change.

That’s when a lone voice at the table spoke, my sister Marianne. “They haven’t won; they were never going to win.”

An odd ethereal silence fell over the room.

“In a sense they have,” our father said.

“Not where it matters, as they will soon discover.”

“What do you mean?” Her mother looked worried. Marianne had suffered a bad few months recently with the Montgomery juniors’ bullying.

The daughter was as bad as the son.

“I put a curse on the whole family “

That was something else about Marianne that had worried me. A week or two ago I had accidentally walked in on her and four of her friends sitting inside a pentagram chanting what sounded like Latin.

Several books around them had what were supposedly spells, one she said would bring down hellfire and damnation on the Montgomeries.

Wishful thinking, I’d said, but if it made her feel better…

“Yes, dear,” her mother said. She was going to, as she had in the face of increasing agitation, just ignore it as a phase.

Then added her two cents’ worth to the conversation, “Perhaps it’s time we moved on. Nothing lasts forever, as much as we hoped it would.”

I was sure a few of those sitting around the table hoped the curse would work.

The silence lasted about another minute and a half before Harvey, one of the ranch hands, came bursting into the room and went over to our father. I heard him mutter in his ear, “There’s a fire in the town, it’s bad.”

Several of the men around the table were volunteer firefighters, surprised they hadn’t got the callout.

In a matter of seconds, Marianne and I were the only two left in the room. I would have joined the exodus, but I suspected there was more to this curse thing.

She had a curious, if not demonic, expression.

“What did you do?” A very bad feeling came over me.

“We ensured that Montgomery will never forget that despite his blind faith in his invincibility, he is as vulnerable as anyone else. Wealth and power cannot prevent the inevitability of moral justice.”

Now she was scaring me. Her conversations were scathing at best, every sentence starting or ending with a like or but.

She stood. “Come.” She held out her hand towards me. “Let us go and witness the very essence of retribution.”

I found it impossible to resist the invitation.

Perhaps she was a witch.

…

A crowd had gathered. Deputies had put up a tape line to keep them back.

As we got close, we could see the smoke billowing into the air, and on the breeze, that acrid aroma of the smoke.

The fire was in the library, attached to City Hall, old sandstone buildings built at the turn of the last century, but they were a fire hazard, so much wood and paper.

Flames were coming out of the windows and the roof. Three fire engines were fighting a losing battle, fire hoses snaking in all directions and men running, dressed in fireproof suits and breathing apparatus.

As we took up a position between two of the new families, their kids more interested in the fire trucks than the fire, we were joined by several of her friends, the girls who had been with her in the pentagram.

None spoke, but I got the feeling they knew something about what was happening.

Then we all heard a shout, coming from outside the front entrance to the library, where a firefighter in full protective gear stumbled out the doorway. “There are people inside. I heard the screams; there’s nothing we could do. It’s horrible.”

He collapsed, and two other firefighters came over and helped him over to the ambulance.

I knew then that it had to be a member or members of the Montgomery family. How they got in there, why they were in there, if they were in there, was a question more than just me would be asking.

Especially if they died in that fire.

And whether it was proven that the fire was not from natural causes and was started by someone.

I looked at my sister. Her expression was unreadable, the sort of expressionless face one would expect from a poker player. Her friends were not so good at hiding their feelings.

“You called this retribution,” I said quietly beside her.

I watched two suited firemen go into the building, and the come back out just as flames leapt through the door after them.

It was followed by a heavy cracking sound, and I think that was the roof crashing down.

No one was going to be saved, whoever was in there.

“God answered our prayers. The Montgomerys are a scourge on the landscape. If it was them, then it’s good riddance. I’ve seen enough.” She looked at the other girls. “Let’s go to the church and pray for their souls “

…

It was two days before the fire died out and the investigators went in. It took a week after that for a partial report to be leaked to the townsfolk.

Apparently my sister’s only fault was that she had cursed the family, and everyone knew she was not a witch, so she was taking credit for something she hadn’t done.

The problem was, there wasn’t anyone who could be found in the residue, as it had been expected they’d find bones or partial bones.

The firefighters had sworn he heard cries for help behind the wall of flames.

The thing is, they couldn’t find anyone, missing or otherwise, in the wreckage. But missing people there were: the whole Montgomery family.

Their cars were missing, and key possessions were missing, and their bank accounts were emptied. There was just no reason why they should leave now.

The thing is, people who had been aligned with the Montgonerys took a step back and then decided they were no longer aligned with them, and came to the former mayor and asked him to reinvent the town, back to the way it was.

No, we didn’t exactly get our town back; we had gone down a path there was no coming back from. We just had to live with it, and keep going.

And for a while it was good.

Then rumours circulated that the Montgomerys had died in the fire, all of them. Despite reports that the Montgomeries had been seen in the next County the day after the fire was extinguished.

Nothing made sense, and it became town folklore.

Until…

…

I was sitting in the lawyers’ office; the one overlooking the park outside city hall. The one they had renovated after that eventful fire sixty years ago, almost to the day.

Robert Penthaven, son of the son of the man who tended my father’s affairs, had called me and said there were details about my sister’s passing that needed clearing up.

The last time I had to sit in the chair was after my father died and my sister and I inherited the ranch. She wasn’t interested, having long moved away, but retained her interest in it.

I thought it was to formalise the passing of her interest to me. I was passing mine to my son, who thankfully wanted to be a rancher and not relocate to the city.

I’d waited almost a half hour and thought I’d nodded off because, as softly as he tried to close the door it woke me with a start.

“Sorry,” he said, dropping into the more comfortable chair behind the desk. “Simple things take much longer these days.”

He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a file, a quite thick file. An envelope was clipped to the cover. He unclipped it and slid it across the table. “For you, after she died.”

“Words from the grave.”

“Or grave words, maybe. She was a curious one, your sister. I never quite knew when she was joking or when she wasn’t.”

“Did she tell you she was a witch?”

“Among other things. She once said she was the keeper of secrets, and one in particular, one that she said she would take to the grave. We are all a bit like that; things happen, and we wish to forget. Perhaps that letter might shed some light.”

“Or tell me it’s time to stand on my own two feet. Older siblings are like that.”

I picked up the envelope and held it in my hand. One sheet, three at the most. The question was whether I wanted to read it.

I shrugged and opened it. Robert stood. “I’ll be outside if you need me.” He went out and closed the door behind him.

I unfolded the sheets. Two. Written in her spidery writing, almost illegible. She had wanted to be a doctor and settled for nurse practitioner.

She would have made a great doctor.

Kyle,

There are beginnings, there are endings, and all the rest is the consequences of life.

Sometimes it is not the life you wanted, but simply the life you get according to your choices.

I never knew what I really wanted, but it wasn’t to be raped by Archie Montgomery. Nor did any of my friends. We became The Five, who could have become victims.

We did not.

We decided to rid the world of a problem.

This is not a confession. We did not sin against natural justice. A thoroughly bad person was tried in God’s eyes and received the punishment he was due.

He burned in hell.

The shame of it was that his family tried to save him, and died in vain. It was not what we wanted; we had nothing to do with their deaths, and had they left well alone, they would have lived.

I can’t say they’re in a better place.

I can’t say we ended up in a better place, but as far as I’m concerned, I have atoned for my sins.

He never hurt another girl.

That family never hurt another soul.

Our town did not miss them, as they did not miss The Five. It was no longer our town.

If they ever pull down the library and dig new foundations, they will find them, all seven. Let’s hope that it’s not in your lifetime. It won’t be in mine, or the rest of The Five.

We have all moved on, hopefully to a better place.

Keep the secret or not, it’s up to you, but I suspect that age-old statement ‘let sleeping dogs lie’ might be appropriate here.

May your life be happy and content. The ranch is yours to leave to Kyle Junior, as it should be.

Meg.

I think I sat there staring at the pages without seeing them, feeling the tears running down my cheeks, now understanding the enigma my sister had become.

If she had told me that fateful night we were standing outside the burning library, I would not have believed her, and I don’t think I did now. There was a long list of those who wanted all of the dead. It would be easy to claim responsibility now when I couldn’t cross-examine her.

But what’s done is done.

The sleeping dogs would lie.

…

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense. Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan. He was about six or seven. The girl was Louise, and she was five years old. She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds. I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell. Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children. They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand. She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it. The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants. It was enough to have them arrested. It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die. It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing. I had murder in mind. It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows. It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out. I knew he eventually would. The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go. I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me. He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes. He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours. I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.” An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe. It had blood on it. Willy’s blood. “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up. He sang like a bird. That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me. Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.” Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie. He didn’t. I’m coming for you. All of you Bannisters. And everyone who touched my sister.”

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries. Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late. If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood. The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told. He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy. There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone. It was a half mile walk, through a park. The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness. He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names. At first, when he saw me, he laughed. He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list. I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi. The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me. I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality. The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face. He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out. He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged. I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me. I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital. He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come. Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters. His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful. Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered. A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub. We got along like old friends. He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges. We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared. I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me. He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes. I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it. He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report. They all had a turn. He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats. Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities. She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me. I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily. The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family. I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony. I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes. This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily. He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm. Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie. My friend.”

Then she shot him. Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this. May God have mercy on your soul.”

Now I was in jail. I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession. Without my sister, my life was nothing. I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors. I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone. They ignored me. I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that. You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good. I told him to go away.

He didn’t. Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table. The prison officers thought I was dangerous. Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that. McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.” Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister. By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same. No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right. But you’re different, Alan. As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen. We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him. It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot. I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life. Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward. A team. On the plane early before the rest of the crew. A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless. Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides. It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision. If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness. Not that day. Not any day.

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag. They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her. It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she? No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it. After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks. Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away. He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground. I looked at his two friends. “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk. She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were. The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her. “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me. She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state. Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.” I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care. Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person. If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.” I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again. “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder. We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one. Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk. What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet. “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

The wedding was in a small church. We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot. Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age. She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte. It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me. “I like you. Take care of my granddaughter. You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us. Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother. She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends. For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother. It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close. I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness. We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head. It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction. “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother. Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?” I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong. She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life. I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled. It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye. Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job? – Episode 5

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Is it going to be revenge or just plain bewilderment?

There were protocols to handle every situation. It’s why I was stuck in a room with a dozen others for nearly six months, learning the ropes.

That’s what Alex called it. He’d also said it was a waste of time because by the time we made it out into the field all the bad guys would be locked up. Patience wasn’t one of his virtues.

That’s why Alex didn’t make it through the first cut.

It had been a long six months but it had been worth it when ten of us out of the original intake of 24 made it. I considered myself lucky.

Now three of those men were missing, and I believed they were dead, or if not dead, incapacitated. This was our first live mission. We had been excited but held that in check. We could celebrate our first mission together, and then if it was a success.

At this moment, in my mind, it was anything but a success.

And my anger was building. I kept the target in sight, and once or twice he nearly slipped away, but I knew the area having studied the maps the day before. I liked to know what it was like on the ground, and if it was the target’s home turf, then I didn’t want him to have the advantage.

It was those little things, our instructor said, that could make a difference.

It did.

I knew or thought I knew where he was going.

At some point, I was going to have to take a chance, and head him off. It also meant I might lose him, but I had a point on the map where I believed if he didn’t go where I was anticipating, he’d still be within range to find him again.

Time.

He went right, I went straight ahead.

His most likely destination, the train station. His training wasn’t much different from mine. After a calamity, look to make an unexpected exit. There were buses, but they led basically to the same place.

Five minutes, and I’d know.

I came out on the main street that ran alongside the train tracks, the station was behind me, and he would have to pass me to get there.

There was also a dead end lane between him and me, and that was where I would corral him.

Almost a minute passed, and it was too long. Two. The thought of possibly being wrong leapt into my mind, along with the sickening feeling in my stomach of failure.

Two and a half. I took several steps in his possible direction, then I saw him turn the corner. I stepped back and out of sight. I needed him to get to the lane entrance before I made a move.

He was wary and looking around. He knew I was on his tail.

As he approached the laneway, I stepped out and started walking slowly towards him. It took a few steps before he realised it was me, and stopped. Was he surprised at my enterprise, or shocked.

Predictably he turned into the lane.

I ran.

At the entrance to the lane, I stopped and saw him reach the dead end. There was no climbing over the fence at the end,. Nor were there any ladders or climbable points either side.

He would have to get past me.

I had him, and he knew it.

“What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.

Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.

They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?

When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.

When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.

Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.

Find the Kindle version on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 61

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 installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

A late picnic

…

We spoke no more of bloodlines, and instead spread out the surprises she had brought. Cheeses, cured meats, her mother’s creation learned long ago in the mother country, and wine from their Italian winery.

As a quirk of fate, she had lined the basket with old copies of treasure maps, and after indulging in the food and wine, looked them over.

There were six different maps, each with a different detail as to where the treasure might be buried. One had it on the edge of the lake, a lake by the way that had now disappeared, another at the foot of the hills, identified by a cutting high above the spot.

Another was on the mountainside, after following a track alongside the non-existent lake and past several buildings, one appearing to be a church.

I knew where that church was, not almost a ruin, but it was not alongside a lake or anything that might have been a lake in the past. Or it could have been another church, definitely a ruin and gone, in a different place.

This was the problem interpreting maps that were drawn, purportedly, in the late eighteenth century when the land would be pristine and roamed over by native Americans. It was why some of the maps had the word Seminole on them, to identify the land, perhaps, or the people.

While I should have been listening to the history, I didn’t, and therefore missed the fact that a lot of the Indians had died out before the pirate captain arrived with his treasure, or whatever he might have buried, if in fact, he came at all.

I was beginning to have doubts.

Of course, the Spaniards were lurking around those parts too, and they were all about treasure, especially that stolen from South America but that was centuries before. Was the pirate captain Spanish or part Spanish perhaps?

Questions, nothing but questions.

“Those coins that were found of the coast. Were they Spanish?”

“Good question.”

“It seems the Spaniards were here, once upon a time. Anything is possible.”

The joke, or irony, would be that if there was a treasure, it was off a Spanish ship that ran aground in a storm off the coast, and all of the maps and rumors were true, but for a very different reason.

That brought to mind a recent discovery of coins elsewhere in Florida, and I couldn’t help thinking that Boggs had also heard about the discovery and had conjured up in his mind that the treasure his father had been seeking existed and had embarked on this odyssey.

“I’ve got a couple of metal detectors,” Nadia said. “Maybe we should go wandering along the shoreline and see what there might be.”

“I’m sure it’s been done to death already.”

She smiled. “I’ve got nothing better to do, have you?”

“Sleeping in.”

“You can do that when you’re dead. Until then, there’s a treasure to be found. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, about 10ish.”

Treasure! I was beginning to hate it.

She tossed the leftovers into the basket and dragged herself off the floor when we finished up. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

…

The 2am Rant: Why is writing so hard

In just about every book about how to be a good writer, there seems to be a pile of problems that at some time in a writer’s life will need to be overcome.

Writer’s block

Don’t have it. The ideas pour out of my head like water over a waterfall

Don’t use abstract descriptions in your writing

Damn, I do that all the time

But, back to writer’s block, is that where you write 37 chapters and there the story stops?

Oops.

Plan your book and have an outline so you can write it from start to finish

Plan? What Plan?

That only happens when I’ve written the book and prior to the first edit, I make a precise of each chapter to make sure of continuity.

Plan your characters and give them a timeline

Oh God is that why characters’ names are often changing as the story progresses.

Believe it or not, I’m working on this issue.

Manage your time.

Still can’t get it right.

Write at least a thousand words a day, no matter if it’s rubbish or not.

Does that include writing for social media?

Apparently not.

At least this is one of the requirements I follow religiously. Sometimes it’s a lot more words but a least some writing finished up either on paper in on the word processor.

Now it’s time to write those thousand words.

Look, there, I’ve at least got one part of time management under control.

What I learned about writing: “Why a Budding Author Should Dive into Joan Didion’s Masterful Body of Work”

For aspiring writers, the journey to finding one’s voice is as much about discovery as it is about study. Joan Didion, a literary icon whose career spans decades, offers a treasure trove of insights for those seeking to refine their craft. From her sharp-eyed novels to her incisive essays, Didion’s work is a masterclass in clarity, emotional resonance, and the art of observation. Let’s explore how delving into her oeuvre—comprising five seminal novels, screenplays, and countless articles and essays—can illuminate the path for emerging authors.

1. Novels: The Power of Precision and Dissecting the Human Condition

Didion’s novels—Run, River, Play It as It Lays, A Book of Common Prayer, The Last Thing He Wanted, and Marry Me—are defined by their sparse, crystalline prose and unflinching exploration of identity, disillusionment, and collapse. For a budding author, studying her work reveals a critical lesson: less is not just more—it’s everything. Didion strips language of excess, using plain, punchy sentences to evoke profound unease or beauty. “We tell ourselves stories in order to live,” she famously writes in The White Album—a philosophy that permeates her fiction, where characters are often unravelling personal myths in a disintegrating world.
Aspiring writers can learn to mirror this by focusing on what isn’t said and how silence, space, and subtext amplify meaning. Her characters also serve as case studies in emotional complexity; they’re flawed, often detached, yet achingly human. How does Didion achieve this? By grounding them in precise details—a crumbling California landscape, a flicker of a smile—that anchor the surreal in the real.

2. Screenplays: Visual Storytelling and the Art of Compression

Didion’s screenplays (notably A Point of No Return and Up at the Villas) offer a different but equally valuable lesson. Adapting her own stories and others’, she demonstrates how to transform prose into visceral, visual narratives. Screenwriting demands concision; dialogue must carry weight, and scenes must be sculpted to evoke emotion without over-explaining. For an author interested in crossing genres, Didion’s screenplays are a masterclass in pacing and economy.
Take Up at the Villas, adapted from her 1982 novel of the same name. The screenplay retains the novel’s cold, observational tone but distils its themes into sharp, symbolic images—a storm, a locked door—to convey what words alone might not. For writers, this is a reminder that showing, not telling, is a skill honed through ruthless editing. Studying her scripts can teach how to craft tension through structure and dialogue, even in literary works.

3. Essays and Journalism: The Alchemy of Observation and Truth-Telling

Joan Didion’s nonfiction—collected in volumes like The White Album, Slouching Toward Bethlehem, and Where I Was From—is where her genius as a writer truly shines. Her essays are micro-surgeries of culture, politics, and personal history, blending reportage with poetic reflection. How can a budding author benefit from this?

The art of the unsparingly honest narrative: Didion doesn’t flinch from ambiguity. She asks, What do we do when we can’t believe the story we’ve told ourselves? This intellectual honesty teaches writers to dig deeper, to question their own assumptions.
The marriage of personal and political: In pieces like “Los Angeles Notebook” or “On Self Respect”, Didion ties intimate self-doubt to societal decay. Aspiring authors can learn to weave the private and the public, creating work that resonates beyond the individual.
Research as storytelling: Her essays are meticulously researched yet read like lyrical journeys. Writers can study how she transforms facts into narrative threads without losing a reader’s interest.

4. Beyond Technique: Embracing Didion’s Curiosity and Courage

Perhaps the most profound lesson from Didion’s work is her relentless curiosity and willingness to confront the uncomfortable. Her writing force-feeds the idea that truth is not a destination but a process. For emerging authors, this mindset—questioning, observing, and daring to write what feels fragile or controversial—can be transformative. Didion’s essays on the Vietnam War, the Manson Family, or her own grief in The Year of Magical Thinking demand that we look at the world with both empathy and rigour.

Conclusion: Let the Questions Be the Point

Reading Joan Didion is not just about learning how to write—it’s about learning how to see. Her work challenges authors to strip away the superfluous, to wield language like a scalpel, and to embrace the messiness of human experience. For a budding writer, this is an unparalleled education. Start with her essays; they are accessible and brimming with insight. Then, move to her novels and screenplays to understand how themes translate across genres. Finally, ask yourself: What story have I been avoiding, and how can I tell it with Didion’s clarity?

In a world of noise, Didion’s voice cuts through with surgical precision. For any writer seeking to carve their own path, her work is not just a blueprint—it’s an invitation to observe, to question, and to distil the chaos of life into something that might resonate for generations.

So pick up a Joan Didion. Let her words unsettle you. Then, let me know how far you’ve come.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 215

Day 215 – Too many adjectives?

…

Kill Your Darlings: Why Simple, Strong Words Beat Over-Adjectifying Every Time

We’ve all been there. You’re writing a blog post, a novel, or even a professional email, and you look at a sentence like this:

“The large, menacing, ferocious hound ran quickly across the damp, muddy, desolate field.”

It sounds descriptive, right? But to an experienced reader or an SEO expert looking at user engagement, it actually reads like linguistic clutter. It feels heavy, breathless, and—ironically—weak.

Many writers fall into the trap of believing that the more adjectives they use, the better their writing will become. Surely, adding more descriptors paints a clearer picture?

In reality, trying to use too many adjectives is often a symptom of weak writing. As the old saying goes: Simple, strong words are best—and you should avoid any words that leave people reaching for a dictionary.

Here is why less is almost always more when it comes to adjectives, and how you can transform your writing by embracing simplicity and strength.

The Adjective Trap: Why We Over-Decorate

Why do we do it? Why do we stack adjectives like cordwood?

The Fear of Being Boring: We worry that without modifiers, our writing will sound dry and academic.
The “Show, Don’t Tell” Shortcut: Instead of describing how a character feels through action, we slap an emotion word in front of them (e.g., “the deeply depressed, profoundly sad man”).
The Myth of Granularity: We think precision requires length. We assume that saying “a glistening, shimmering, multifaceted diamond” is more effective than just saying “a diamond.”

The truth? Adjectives are the makeup of writing. A little bit highlights the natural features, but caking it on makes everything look fake, muddy, and overdone.

3 Reasons Why Too Many Adjectives Kill Your Writing

1. They Slow Down the Reader’s Momentum

Good writing has rhythm. It flows like a river, pulling the reader effortlessly downstream. Piling on adjectives acts like dropping boulders into that river. Every extra modifier forces the reader’s brain to pause, process, and adjust the mental image.

Compare these two sentences:

Over-adjectified: “The ancient, crumbling, dilapidated, forgotten wooden cabin stood alone.” (Exhausting.)
Simple and strong: “The ruin stood alone.” or “The rotting cabin stood alone.” (Punchy and immediate.)

2. They Weaken the Noun

Your nouns and verbs should be doing the heavy lifting. When you rely on adjectives to create impact, you rob your primary words of their power.

Instead of writing “a very large, towering hill,” use “a mountain.” Instead of writing “walked very quietly and stealthily,” use “prowled.”

By choosing a stronger noun or verb in the first place, you eliminate the need for adjectives entirely.

3. Obscure Words Alienate Your Audience

Another common pitfall when trying to “elevate” writing is using overly complex, high-register adjectives that most people don’t use in everyday conversation. Words like pusillanimous, lugubrious, or perspicacious.

Unless you are writing for an academic journal, using obscure words doesn’t make you look smart—it makes you hard to read. If a reader has to stop and look up the definition of a word, you’ve broken their immersion. Clear communication always trumps vocabulary flexing. If people have trouble understanding the meaning of your words, they will simply click away.

How to Write with Simplicity and Strength

If you want to clean up your prose, boost your readability, and keep your readers hooked, adopt these three copywriting rules today:

Rule 1: One Adjective is a Maximum, Zero is Often Better

Before you publish a sentence, look at every noun. Does it have two or three adjectives attached to it? Delete at least half of them. Challenge yourself to find the exact right noun instead of modifying a weak one.

Rule 2: Audit Your Adverbs and Adjectives

Run your drafts through a readability checker or read them out loud. If you find yourself using filler modifiers like very, really, truly, quite, or extremely, hit the backspace key. These words are crutches. They signal that the adjective (or verb) that follows isn’t strong enough on its own.

Rule 3: Write for the 8th-Grade Level (Even for Professionals)

Simplicity is not the same as dumbing down. The greatest writers in history—Ernest Hemingway, Stephen King, Maya Angelou—used remarkably simple language. Hemingway’s prose is famous for its punchy, unadorned strength. Write so that a general audience can grasp your meaning instantly, effortlessly, and with maximum emotional resonance.

The Bottom Line

Great writing isn’t about how many impressive words you can cram into a paragraph; it’s about how clearly you can transmit an idea from your brain to the reader’s.

The next time you’re tempted to write “a profoundly complex, deeply fascinating, intricately detailed problem,” stop. Take a breath.

Delete the makeup. Trust your nouns. Use simple, strong words—and let your ideas speak for themselves.

…

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.

But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.

I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

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

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.

I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.

“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words