Category: Fiction

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

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

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

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

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

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

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

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

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

“Name of guest, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 363

Day 363

Writing exercise … Between a rock and a hard place…

…

It was the very definition of being between a rock and a hard place.

What were the odds that Helena would be the one who got stuck with the one client for whom things would go sideways?

Not that anything was assured in any of the scenarios that were supposed to have been carefully constructed so that the clients got the full experience.

The biggest problem was that the client never read the fine print and realised that people were playing roles and those roles didn’t include certain services, and then complained bitterly.

She did not offer full service.  She was not expected to.  That costs more, and other employees would.

This gig was an accompanying role, leading to the next phase, and providing assistance.  As an agent’s contact would be in a foreign country.

It wasn’t about the nursing of what was quite obviously someone who had either been drugged or was on drugs, though her initial thought was that he had been affected by someone who slipped him a tainted drink.

Certainly, during her initial observation, he had arrived at the bar after being dropped off by a taxi, the usual method, and came in. 

He’d stopped just inside the doorway and ran his eyes over the layout, as any spy would, checking the clientele and the exits in a scan that might be interpreted by anyone watching as looking for his blind date.

Scan over, exits covered, he selected a table that had a complete view of everyone coming and going and sitting.  A waitress came over and asked what he wanted, and went back to the bar.

Among the instructions for this phase, he was to order two glasses of Scotch on ice.

He did not look like he might have after taking the serum, or that he was in any difficulty.

Five minutes passed before the waitress returned with the two glasses and put them on the table.  He paid the waitress, and she walked over to another table where a man was sitting, cap low over his eyes, and fur-lined coat still zipped up.

People usually took their coats and hats off before sitting.  This guy didn’t.  Why?

He finished his drink and then glanced over at the new arrival.  He was waiting.  Again why?

The new arrival picked up one of the glasses and swirled the liquid around in the bottom of the glass.  She could hear the tinkle of the ice against the glass from where she was sitting.

Satisfied, perhaps, he downed the contents and put the glass back on the table.

That’s when the man in the cap and zipped-up coat left.

For her, it was time to meet the target.

After half an hour, where the introduction had gone to script, they talked like two people had just met in a bar, then they left.

Then it happened. 

Whatever had caused the problem wasn’t the serum going wrong.  That was a lie.  Whatever happened, happened because they took that drink, the drink brought by the waitress, a waitress who had disappeared after the man she visited left.

And the man she visited was obviously involved with what just happened.  And what just happened wasn’t part of the scenario.  And what her supervisors were telling her was not exactly the truth either.

Something was very, very wrong.

Walking back into the room, letting the door close, and noticing him missing was concerning.

Until she realised that the balcony window was open.

“Robert?”

A second later, there was a very loud bang, something cracking into the wall outside on the balcony.

That was followed by another loud bang, then a lesser bang, followed almost immediately by another.

She heard him yell, “Don’t come out.”

“What is…” She was cut off by the sound of exploding glass as the glass panel beside the sliding door shattered.

“Call the police and tell them to hurry,” he yelled.

She had been walking towards the sliding door as the panel beside it exploded, and she felt the passing projectile that just missed hitting her.  Some glass fragments did not, and she could feel the cut on the side of her head stinging.

“Are you.. “

“Alive, for now.  Call.”

She picked up his cell phone and pressed the emergency button that flashed up when she swiped the screen, then seconds later got an operator who took the details.

A minute later, sirens filled the area, and by the time she stumbled onto the balcony, a car had pulled up at the bottom of the street.

Sitting against the wall, blood leaking from a wound in his upper arm, the target was ashen and starting to slump sideways.

What else could go wrong?

It was time to run.  This, whatever this was, was not what she signed up for.  This was not the scenario she had been briefed on.

There was nothing she could do for him.  She was not trained in first aid, and whatever his problem was, first aid wouldn’t fix it.

He needed a battlefield medic.

A glance over the balcony, the last thing she should have done, showed a policeman directing officers all over the place, and worst of all, he was looking up, and she looked down.

She cursed under her breath.

“Run, now.”  She muttered to herself.

Into the room, a quick look.  What had she touched?  No time to think.  She headed straight for the door, opened it, and ran into a huge policeman who gathered her up in a bear hug.

She kicked and screamed and clawed, but it was of no use.  Another policeman arrived, along with an ambulance crew and a SWAT team, the first to help the bear, and the others into the room. 

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

http://tinyurl.com/Amazon-SundayInNewYork

In a word: Story

All of us writers know what this is, the sort of combination of words that all come together as a story.  A tale about anything whether it is true or just plain fiction.

A story can be long, or it can be short.  It could be a magazine or newspaper article, or it could be what a child tells his or her mother or father when they get into trouble.

Come to think of it, I think that’s where I got an interest in writing stories because as a child I was always in trouble.

Of course, if you are telling certain types of stories, then it’s bound to be a lie.  And made even worse if it is gossip!

That story might even be my interpretation of events, and as it happens, it’s possible no two stories are the same, especially if I and others had witnessed the same event.

This is not to be confused with the other version, storey, which is a single level in a building, one that might have thirty or more stories.

And, just to add to the confusion, living in Brisbane in Australia we have the Storey Bridge.

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


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

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

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

This time, however, there is more at stake.

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

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

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

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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 19

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 world 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…

 

Marina drove the truck slowly and carefully, without the benefit of headlights on a night that have become very dark when cloud cover moved in.  A good night to be out on foot, but not in a few tons of metal.

It seemed to take longer to go back to the old factory, if that was what it was, or it may have just been my imagination.  Certainly, it was rather tense in the cabin.

I wondered if what Chiara had said about not trusting me had made Marina have second thoughts of taking me back.  From where we were, I would have no idea where it was, and if she dropped me off, I could not find it again.

And that fear came true a few minutes later when she pulled off to the side of the road, near some trees, and stopped, turning off the engine.

The silence crept over us like a fog.

Such was the atmosphere I found myself whispering, “What’s wrong.”

“Lights.  Appearing briefly and disappearing.  Like someone is following us.”

She sat still for about five minutes, looking intently at the rear vision mirrors, and at times turning around to stare of the small window at the back of the cabin.

I did too, but I couldn’t see anything, nor had I, but I hadn’t thought to look in the rear vision mirrors because I thought we were safe.  How wrong I was, to assume that.  If there was one lesson I should learn from what I was doing, was that I should know what’s going on around me and that at no time could I ever believe I’m safe.  The moment I did and let my guard down, I would be dead.  I’d been told that in London, and in a relaxed moment, I’d forgotten it.  How many others had done the same and died?

A shake of her head, she got out of the truck, and quietly closed the door.  I did likewise and joined her at the rear.

“What’s happening?”

“I’m going to check back over the road, see if there’s anyone following us.  There have been too many instances of lights for it to be coincidental.”

“Since we left the church?”  In thinking that, it meant that either Chiara or Enrico may have inadvertently, or deliberately, told someone about the meeting.

I hope it’s just my imagination, but it was shortly after we left I saw the first light.”

“Could be a local farmer stumbling around at night.”

“It could, but no one is that silly to be caught out after dark.  There was a curfew, and most of us like to believe there still is.”

She looked back down the road, but all I could see was inky blackness.  The moon was still hidden by dark clouds above, and it looked like there was going to be rain.

“I’ll come with you.”

“You’d be better off staying here.  The last thing I need is a soldier stomping around in the dark.”

Thanks for the compliment, I thought.  “Then I’ll have to be quiet, and try not to stomp.”

Even in the darkness I could feel rather than see the scowl on her face.

“As you wish, but don’t get in my way, and don’t make me shoot you.”


Short and wiry, she was built for stealth and speed, unlike the bulky soldier I was.  Not that I was overfed and fat, but I was still a larger target than she was.  I could just see her outline in front of me, and she was moving very quietly.

I was trying very hard to emulate her.

Then I saw it.  A light going on briefly, then off, definitely in the direction we had just come from.

She had stopped and I nearly ran into her.

“You were right,” I said quietly.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t be.”

So had I.  The last thing we needed was trouble, trouble that would have to be eliminated.  She couldn’t have anyone else knowing about their hiding places, and meeting points.

A few minutes further along, we both heard a strange sound at the same time.

A wheel scraping against a fender?  There was no engine noise.  It became louder, then we saw what it was.  Someone riding a bicycle.  Close to the edge of the road so as to remain hidden from view because of the turns in the road, which would account for seeing the light at odd times.  At the front, there was a light that was taped to show only a thin slit of light.

I saw her look around, then take hold of a long branch that had recently fallen off one of the trees, pared it down, and then waited.  I could see what she was going to do.

When the bike came alongside, moving slowly because it was up a hill, and the rider was labouring hard, she poked the stick through the spokes of the front wheel, the rider just seeing her at the last moment, and not being able to avoid her.

The result was predictable, the rider went flying over the handlebars and crashed into the hard ground with a thud and a loud grunt.  

My role was to jump on the rider so he, or she, couldn’t escape.  Marina was right behind me and jammed a dirty rag in the persons mouth as I held them very tightly under me.

“Now what?”

This was not going to work for very long as the person under me was beginning to kick and thrash about.  In a few seconds, the gag would be spat out and the silence would be shattered.

I heard the gun before I saw it, a whooshing sound near my ear just before it hit the head of the captive, and suddenly there was no more movement or sound.

“A moment’s silence.”

We rolled the figure over, and looked at the face, just visible in the near darkness.  We had just been blessed with a shard of moonlight for a few seconds.

A man.

“You know him?” she asked.

Another look, just as the clouds shut off the light, and I thought so.

“One of the soldiers from the castle.  How would he know we were meeting at the church?”

“He might not.  Nor might he be following us, but just unlucky.”

“How so?”

“Chiara sometimes entertains men from the castle.  Part of our eyes and ears.  She was not part of the resistance when Fernando was in charge so they would just use her like any other enemy soldier would.”

“So this was a mistake.  If he doesn’t return, then they’ll get the wrong idea.”

“Unfortunately.  He has to be dealt with.”

“Killed?”

“No time to get squeamish on me.  He’s an enemy soldier.”

An enemy I preferred to be some distance away from before shooting to kill.  Up close and personal makes it so much harder.

“Come on.  Grab his shoulders.  There’s a gully over there, so we can make it look like he ran into a tree, tipped off the bike and hit his head on a rock.”

“Or a gun.”

“A few hits with a rock will fix that.  I’m sure there’s no one up there that can do autopsies on bodies.”

No, there wasn’t.  I just hoped I was not going to be the one that had to hit him.


Ten minutes later it was done.

We carried him to the gully, and at a suitable place laid the body as if it had landed off the bike and onto the rocks, where Marina picked up a large one and hit him several times with a lot of force the last making a sickening sound, and the blow that killed him.

I went back and collected the bicycle and staged it to meet the crash criteria, and then left.

For all intents and purposes, he had died falling off his bike after wandering off the road in the dark.

Both of us hoped it would not cause Chiara any trouble.

And, it was the first person I’d seen killed up close, and I doubted, in the coming days it would be the last.  It was not a sight I was going to forget in a hurry.

© Charles Heath 2019

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 2

Two

Amy took out her cell phone and looked at the screen with a knowing expression.  “As I thought, they’ve made it impossible to call out, except on a landline.  A lucky guess on their part that we might hold off until out of the room to call for help.”

“Wouldn’t that also stop the use of the internal communicators?”  Like the unit, she used to talk to other members of the team.

“Most likely.”  She tried a grain to raise the others and received only static in return.

I didn’t think that meant there wasn’t anyone, but only a possibility they might have been taken out.  But not being able to raise them worked in their favor.

Still, I tried to sound optimistic.  “Then there might be help downstairs.”

But the thought of that possibility didn’t seem to brighten her mood.

I checked the clip in my gun.  Eight rounds.  The other, six.

Amy checked hers.  Five and seven.

“What now?” I asked.

“Carefully go down the fire escape.”

“Where do you think they’ll be?”

“First floor.  No one else will be there.  There are no conferences scheduled for obvious reasons.”

That there was a fugitive languishing within I guessed, and the hotel was minimizing the possibility of incidental casualties.  That in itself was a dead giveaway that I was being kept there.  Latanzio hardly needed a traitor to tell him where I was being kept.

Suddenly I had a very bad feeling.

I followed her through the fire escape exit and stopped at the top of the stairs to listen.

For what I was not sure, but no other sounds were coming from below or above us.  Something I did know and had not told anyone in a moment when I had managed to shake off my guards, was that there was a heliport on the roof.

It was why, just before I followed her down, I looked up, and shivered.  Trouble, if it was coming, would come from above, not below.

“Let’s go,” she said quietly.

I hesitated, and she picked up on it.

“What?”

It was hardly a conciliatory tone on her part.

“I think we’re underestimating the severity of the problem.”

She stopped halfway down the first flight of steps and looked back at me.  It was not the first time I had the feeling that she might shoot me herself, even when there was no reason to think that of her.

“How so?”

“The heliport on the roof.  Shouldn’t that be factored into escape calculations?”

“It was until we learned that it was declared unsafe a few months ago.”

“Convenient, don’t you think?”  I didn’t wait for an answer, I started heading towards the roof.

“Where are you going?”

“Up.  Something I learned a long time ago, is always do the unexpected.”

I didn’t wait to see what Amy was doing.  I had a hunch that any attack that might be coming would be from the roof.  I seriously doubted the helipad was anything but serviceable.

Amy caught up with me three floors from the roof.

“What makes you think the help is not broken.”

“Too much of a coincidence.”

We were at the door.  I could hear a noise that sounded like a helicopter coming in for a landing.  I opened the door and as I had hoped, the helped was about ten feet above the roof level.

I pushed the door open.  “Go around the back way.  If the chopper lands take out the landing party or cover the pilot and make sure he doesn’t take off.”

A nod, she brushed past me and headed for the other side.  In front of me to the right were the steps leading up to the pad.  I walked up the first few and saw a helicopter just coming in from the other side, about to land.

I ducked down and waited.

The noise grew louder, much louder as it hovered, and then set down.  I raised my head.  The door opened and three men jumped down, each with what looked like AK57s.  There was no mistaking their intent.

I jumped down off the stairs and his behind the staircase and waited.

Seconds later the three ran down the stairs heading towards the exit do it.  Six shots, three fewer thugs, they had no idea what hit them.

Another shot rang out, about the sound of the whirring of the helicopter’s rotor.  I saved up the stairs and saw the man who must have been the pilot, face down in front of the helicopter, now winding down.

Amy came running over.

“What happened?” I asked.

She stopped and was standing over the body.  “He heard the shots and was coming to you.”

I could see where he had been shot in the back.  It seemed more like he’d see her approaching with a gun and was running away from her, rather than running towards me.  He didn’t have a weapon, in his hand, or on the ground in front of him on the ground.

“Who’s going to pilot the helicopter now.  That was our ticket out.”

She looked resolute, not the expression I was expecting.

“He was coming for you,” she said.  “I wasn’t aiming to kill him.”

And yet she did, and given how good a shot she was, accidentally killing him was not an option.  I was starting to get another bad feeling.

I went over to the helicopter.  I’d flown one or two in my time, something a friend of mine had suggested I try since I had a pilot’s license in another life.  It wasn’t the most modern, so it wouldn’t be that difficult to fly.

“Come on.  We’re leaving.”

…

© Charles Heath 2024

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job? – Episode 2

Back to the explosion at what was first thought to be at a takeaway.  Certainly, it had been levelled, but so had several other buildings in the near vicinity, but we haven’t got to that part yet.

The boredom of the flight is still giving me an opportunity to explore the opening sequence a little further, where we left our man on the scene under tight police guard.

In five minutes, perhaps less, the whole scene had turned into countless vehicles with red and blue flashing lights, screams from the victims, and yelling from the rescuers.

I was still under police guard, but coming from the other side of the scene, a rather battered and bleeding street policeman came running towards us, stopping short of the man standing back, the one I assumed was in charge.

“Tell me you’ve got them,” he gasped, then looking from the man in charge to me and then back again, looking very concerned.

“We have.” He looked very calm and pleased with himself.

“What?  Him?” He nodded in my direction. “He was blown up in the blast and from what I saw was chasing the real culprits, two men covered in dust, one of whom was carrying a large duffel bag.”

“This guy was caught running from the scene.”

I decided to add my bit to the discussion.  “Your car drove straight past them.  I can’t see how you missed them.”

He was starting to look worried.  “We were given your exact description from an anonymous tip.”

The battered policeman bent over and then collapsed to the ground.  Two of my captors went towards him, but he motioned them away.  “Of course you did, by the two men escaping.  Get after them, before it’s too late.  And free this guy.  He’s got nothing to do with the blast.”

After removing the cuffs, they jumped back in their car and headed back in the direction they came.  Too late now, the two men would be long gone.

I went over to the policeman on the ground just as another ambulance pulled up and as the paramedics got out, I motioned to them to come and attend him.

“What happened,” I asked him

“A bank robbery, the clowns used far too much explosive and almost brought the building down on them.  Not so lucky for the neighbours.”

He was looking around, then stopped, looking at the place where I’d just been held down. I followed his gaze and then saw what he saw.  The cuffs were still on the ground where the man who removed them had obviously dropped them.

His expression changed, and for a moment I thought he was going to explode.

“What’s wrong.”  Obviously, something was but I couldn’t see it.

“The cuffs.  We haven’t used those for years now.  They weren’t real police.”

My mind clicked into gear at the same time as he uttered the words.

They were there to help the others escape whilst holding us both up with a phony arrest.  I wonder what they would do if they hadn’t been sent after their fellow robbers.

The battered policeman just sighed and lay down on the pavement and let the paramedics work on him.

Only then did we notice he had a piece of an iron bar sticking out of his side.

Then, of course, people just don’t happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Or do they?

© Charles Heath 2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 361/362

Days 361 and 362 – Writing exercise

A member of a group in a remote location during a team bonding camp goes missing

…

My job was not an easy one.  Working in HR for a family-run business, a particularly successful one, brought with it specific challenges.

Over the years, working for the grandfather, then the father and his brother, had its moments, but they were all successful and influential.  They earned respect and rewarded loyalty.

But, moving into a different world, a vastly different economic climate and commercial challenges brought on more aggressive competition, as well as a new generation, it wasn’t quite the same as it had been in the past.

I was an anachronism from a different generation.  My contemporaries had moved on, and between the Managing Director and me, we were the last two to hand over the reins to a younger generation.

The boss to his son, Chester Wordsworth Moseby III, and me the the Assistant HR Manager, Walter James, who was not my son.

I just had to survive until the end of the annual team bonding exercise, which was designed to strengthen the working relationships of the top management group, and had been for the last ten years.

It was staged on an Island paradise, a place that could also be hell on earth depending on the package purchased, and ours was for various teams to be dropped in different parts of the island, and the ‘teams’ work together to get back to base.

A simple exercise for each team if they work together.  Three days maximum.  And in the ten previous events, not a single problem, though it did identify those who were not necessarily ‘team players’.

That, I suspected, was not going to be the case this year, a fear I kept to myself because the one reservation I had and communicated to the boss had been heard and dismissed.

It made me wonder, briefly, if I was being overly cautious, and I decided that it soon wouldn’t be my problem.

…

Even so, I was one of those people who worried about consequences, and one who knew that little things mattered.

Little things, such as reports that didn’t find their way to my desk, little things that subordinates filed away, doing what they were told rather than what was expected of them.

And finding out about some of them quite by accident, a week before the event.  Disquieting, but pointing to a planned action by a certain individual which, if allowed to continue, would have consequences for the company.

I had done my duty of care, and it was noted, if ignored.  I pondered the situation for three days before I decided to take action.

It would be my last act for the company.

It led to two actions.

The first was a phone call.  I was sitting in the park opposite the company headquarters building, where I had been every day for nearly the last 45 years, and where I first met the woman I eventually married.

A surly voice on the other end answered.

“David.  What are you doing for the next two weeks?”

“Dad?  Why?”

“I have a little job for you and three of those interesting friends of yours.”

“What have you done?”

“Nothing.  Well, perhaps something, but I think you’ll like it.”

He sighed.  He had told me that all he wanted to do was relax.  This was almost as good.

“OK, what kind of mess have you made now?”

The second was an invitation to a picnic lunch.

I had been watching a young woman, Millie, climb slowly through the ranks, battling a corporate mentality that favoured men over women, and it had been getting better until the father announced his retirement, and the son assumed some of the responsibility.

Unlike his father, he was no judge of character and certainly didn’t promote on merit.

But that wasn’t the only problem with the new wave of management.  The son was in trouble, and had been for a long time, and being the only son, he had traded on indulgent parents.

He had a bad history with women, outside of the company, with his relationships, each foundering, I suspect, when the women in question discovered his character, or lack of it, and then dealings within the company.

That disdain had landed on Millie, the latest in a line of women he had tried to date and failed.  She had, like others before her, complained, but those complaints never reached me, and the one I’d found was by accident.

And then it didn’t take long to find the test, the pattern, and the enablers.  Like I said, it was going to be my final act.

The girl who had first arrived seven years ago was shy, but intelligent, unworldly, yet had a manner about her whose qualifications were impeccable and a work ethic the father looked for in his employees.

The father also thought her the ideal wife for his errant son.  That, I’d told him, would never happen.  The son tried and failed led and then did something stupid.

It’s how he got on my radar.

She sat at the other end of the bench and looked far from the young woman she had become.

“I got your letter of resignation,” I said.  “I can’t say I’m surprised.  Now that I know the truth.  I’m just a little disappointed you didn’t trust me.”

I could understand.  She didn’t know what my situation was, or where my loyalty lay.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t know who I could trust.”

“Trust has to be earned.  And to do that, I have a job for you.  It might go pear-shaped because we’re dealing with an unstable entity.”

“Chester?”

“At least we agree on that, then.”

“If you knew…”

“Suspected, because I didn’t have the previous complaints.  You’re not the only one who now has trust issues.  I’m sorry you had to endure what happened, but it isn’t going to stop unless we do something about it.”

“How?  The entitled son of a bitch had been allowed to get away with it for too long.  His friends are everywhere.”

I looked around.  “They’re not here, now.  And where he’s going, not so many.  Top management, only this year, people of my choosing.  A place where he cannot leave until I say he can.  A place where anything can happen, and probably will.”

“Give me a gun.”

“You kill him, you will have to go to jail.  Sorry.  I can’t condone murder.  But a lesson, a very tough lesson, might work.  The thing is, I need your help, but if you prefer not to, that’s fine.  I’ll make sure you get a glowing reference and suitable compensation.  But if you stay, and help me…”

“There isn’t really any upside…”

“Just think about it.  Please.”

…

It was stifling on the island, particularly out on the field.  There was shelter, if you knew where to look, and food.

There was a day of basic training, which, if you were smart, you listened and learned, just in case you got disoriented, lost, or injured.

Those who didn’t get what they deserved.  Humiliation when they had to be rescued.  People thought that because it was an island, it would be easy to get back to the main camp.

It was not.  The island was bigger than it looked, especially when arriving in the corporate jet.  From 20,000 feet, it looked small.

When the teams were delivered to their drop-off point, the helicopters stayed at tree height, and moving so fast was disorienting, so players did not get a sense of direction or any landmarks to find their way back.

They didn’t get one compass and a heading.  They got food for three days, rations and water each.

Four teams of six, each with a chain of command that was supposed to work together.

The other team, well, it went exactly as I expected.

Chester’s team was different.  Chester, his cousin, a yes man, the CFO, who hated him, the Administration manager, who was indecisive, Millie, who finally agreed to go, and Eileen, a senior PA, an outdoors adventuress.

On paper, it was the strongest team.

Three days later, the other three teams were home and luxuriating in the spa before attending a banquet.

Chester and his cousin, Walter, were in two separate cages, the sort American soldiers captured in Vietnam by the Viet Cong were held, the CFO and Administration manager were being escorted to another camp where they would be ‘interrogated’, and Millie and the adventuress were exploring the island with a guide.

The adventure of a lifetime package.  It went for a week.  Long enough to terrorise Chester over crimes he did not commit, but didn’t know that.  They were getting the prisoner-of-war package.

So was I, for all intents and purposes.

Chester thought for all of ten seconds that I had come to save him.

“Richards, thank God.  Pay them whatever it takes and let’s get out of this shithole.”

I thought the theatrics were brilliant.  My clothes were torn, blood stains on my shirt and a headband that belied a whack from the butt of a rifle.  Certainly, my handling in front of him was rough.

“What did you do to piss these people off?”  I growled, the manner of a man not happy about his situation.

The man behind my shilling me in the back with his rifle barrel, just hard enough to hurt, said, with anger and feeling, “You’re wasting your time with this piece of shit.  Chucked two women in the river.  Drowned them.”

My cage was next to his.  I was shoved in the door closed.

“You killed them?  Why?”

“What do you mean, I killed them.  They fell in the river, and I tried to save them.”

I’d reviewed the video footage.  There had been an argument at the drop-off zone, which was near the River.  The Adventuress had suggested they follow the river, Chester said they were dumb bitches who knew nothing, Millie said they were supposed to be a team, and then Chester shoved both women into the river, telling them they could follow the river … from within it.

Unexpected, but every eventuality had been covered.  David and his team rescued them from the river.  A day later, they picked up the others, split then, and brought Chester and Wally to the cages, then contacted me.

“We’ve got video.  They fished two bodies out of the river a day later, and they’re in the process of calling the authorities.  You’re going to be charged with murder.  If we get off this island.”

“Murder?  That’s ridiculous.”

“That as may be, but I got the call, brought a million bucks ransom, and here I am.  They took the money and now want five million.  This isn’t going to end well.”

“Not if you pay them.”

“You don’t get it.  We pay, the person paying becomes a prisoner, and they demand more.  There is one other small problem: we don’t pay, they started executing prisoners.”

He snorted.  “World’s dumbest kidnappers.  You kill the hostages, how do you get paid?”

Not as dumb as he looks, then.

…

It took 10 days to break him.

When he was brought back to the main camp, a shadow of his former self, his father was there to meet him.

He had been reviewing the interrogation tapes, where bragging had been replaced by bluff, blustery and then the truth.

It wasn’t pretty, and his father couldn’t believe that his son could be that reprehensible.  Until he realised the truth.

Needless to say, I didn’t get the reception I expected, but I guess it was, in the end, for the greater good.

He was astonished to find that Millie was still alive, not only alive but so much better for her experience.  She was still close to leaving because she believed a leopard would never change its spots.

In the back of my mind, she was probably right.

As for the rest, only Wally left.  The experience had destroyed him.  And I doubt he and Chester would ever speak again.

Chester’s enablers at the company were fired, and Chester did not move into the top job, not for five years.  Nobody ever found out what happened on the island, where he had been held or by whom.  Only Millie and I knew that, and she never told anyone.

It wasn’t a surprise that some years later, she married David, and I got to see her and my grandchildren every year on the island until I was too old to travel.

Chester eventually died in a car accident, rather conveniently making an investigation into commercial malfeasance on his part go away, but sadly wrapping up the company’s 145-year history.

It was always going to happen; they could not weather the foreign import storm, and hadn’t diversified fast enough to keep the company afloat.

As for that fateful team-building event, what happened died with me, the report Chester’s father had asked me to write never saw the light of day, and now, well, it was just folklore, a day that was commemorated as the day Chester grew up.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

What I learned about writing – A masterclass in playwriting

Why The Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen is a Masterclass in Playwriting—and the Magic of Stage Directions

Henrik Ibsen’s The Doll’s House (1879) is more than a revolutionary feminist text; it’s a blueprint for how to craft a play that transcends time. Often hailed as the “Father of Modern Drama,” Ibsen’s work is a masterclass in storytelling, character development, and structural innovation. But one of the most underrated tools Ibsen wields? Stage directions. In this blog, we’ll explore why the play is a gold standard in playwriting and delve into how stage directions bring its world—and themes—to life.

A Masterclass in Playwriting: What Makes The Doll’s House Revolutionary?

  1. Complex Characterisation That Challenges Expectations
    At its heart, The Doll’s House revolves around Nora Helmer, a woman trapped in a gilded cage of societal expectations. Ibsen crafts her not as a static figure but as a deeply human, evolving character. Her journey from a “dutiful daughter,” wife, and mother to a self-aware individual demanding autonomy is nuanced and gripping. Even secondary characters like the pragmatic Mrs. Linde and the morally ambiguous Krogstad are layered with motivations that defy stereotypes. Ibsen’s ability to blend vulnerability, wit, and defiance in his characters makes them timeless—and a master’s lesson in creating relatable, multidimensional figures.
  2. Themes That Speakeasy to the Soul of Society
    The play’s themes—conformity vs. individuality, the gendered roles of marriage, and the illusion of happiness—resonate as boldly today as they did in the 19th century. Ibsen doesn’t lecture; instead, he embeds his critique within the lived experiences of his characters. For instance, Nora’s secret loan to save Torvald’s life, hidden for years, exposes the fragility of their “perfect” marriage. This thematic depth invites audiences to reflect on their own world, proving how a play can be both a mirror and a hammer for change.
  3. Structure That Builds to a Defiant Climax
    The play’s three-act structure is a masterstroke. Act I introduces the seemingly idyllic Helmer household, with its Christmas cheer and playful dynamic between Nora and Torvald. But Ibsen subtly plants seeds of tension—Nora’s nervous energy, Krogstad’s looming threat. Act II escalates the stakes as secrets unravel, and Act III delivers the gut-punch climax: Nora’s door-slamming exit. The pacing is deliberate, with each act tightening the narrative like a coiled spring, teaching playwrights the power of gradual, inevitable build-ups.

The Alchemy of Stage Directions: How They Bring the Story to Life

While the dialogue in The Doll’s House crackles with subtext, it’s the stage directions that truly immerse the audience in the play’s world. Here’s how they work their magic:

  1. Setting as Symbolism
    Ibsen’s opening stage direction—“The interior must look lived in”—is a commandment for realism. The Helmer home, described as “exquisite but somewhat childish or girl-like,” mirrors Nora’s role as both a “doll” and a child to her husband. Every detail, from the silk drapes to the Christmas tree, becomes a symbol of her entrapment in a gilded cage. The decaying tree, later neglected in Act III, parallels the family’s unravelling harmony.
  2. Psychology Through Action
    Stage directions reveal characters’ inner lives without needing words. Nora’s nervous habit of fidgeting with her necklace or macaroons betrays her anxiety. Torvald’s rigid posture and patronising gestures underscore his condescension. These physical cues—rooted in Ibsen’s commitment to realism—show rather than tell, a technique every playwright should emulate.
  3. The Final Scene: A Symphony of Symbolism
    The play’s most iconic stage direction is the slamming of the door at the end. This single, visceral action—Nora’s defiant exit—sums up her rejection of societal roles. Without it, the play’s power would diminish; it’s the auditory and visual punctuation that makes her liberation irreversible. Ibsen uses the stage direction not to describe an action, but to perform it, etching Nora’s transformation into the audience’s memory.

Why Stage Directions Matter—and Why You Should Care

In many plays, stage directions are merely instructions. But in The Doll’s House, they are storytellers in their own right. They create atmosphere, foreshadow events, and amplify emotional beats. Consider how the Christmas tree’s gradual decay or the stark lighting in Act III heightens tension. Ibsen’s directions are not just decorative; they are the scaffolding upon which the narrative and themes rest.

For modern playwrights, The Doll’s House is a reminder that stage directions can be as creative as dialogue. They’re a tool to sculpt mood, reveal character, and guide the audience’s gaze—sometimes, even to let silence and space speak louder than words.

Conclusion: A Legacy in Three Acts

The Doll’s House remains a masterclass because it marries bold ideas with meticulous craftsmanship. Ibsen’s character development, structural precision, and thematic daring are matched only by his innovative use of stage directions, which transform a written text into a visceral, living experience. For anyone studying or writing plays, the lesson is clear: a great story isn’t just told—it’s performed, from the first word to the final slam of a door.

So the next time you sit in a theatre, remember: behind every powerful moment is a playwright who knew exactly how to use the stage to make the invisible visible. And no one did that better than Henrik Ibsen.