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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 38

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 with 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…

…

It didn’t surprise Johannesen there were about twenty prisoners down in the dungeons, though he was surprised to find that the dungeon area was quite large, and in several sections. The fact they smelled of wine told him that once, the cells were used at storage areas for bottles of wine.

Several of the cells that were furthest from the downstairs entrance, and recently boarded over caused several overzealous resistance fighters of Leonardo’s to start smashing walls looking for it.

Johannsen tried not to think about Leonardo. He was the very worst of men, a pig even by German standards.

Martina had been put in a cell not far from Leonardo’s wine cache. There was purpose in that, he could get drunk and then take it out of the woman who had made him look stupid. Come to think of it, he thought, it wouldn’t be too hard for a ten-year-old to do that.

The cell door was locked, but Johannsen had a key. He had meticulously gone through all the keyrings and loose keys that had been found and those that didn’t have an immediate use had been stored in the dungeon guardroom.

Matching keys to locks had been one of his secret tasks, under the disguise of being given the job by Wallace to match keys to locks for them. There were a few short in the end, keys to rooms, and cells that seem to serve no purpose. One had become Johannessen’s hideaway.

It was part of a plan he had been formulating, one where he could take prisoners and hide them. Of course, it wouldn’t work for the moment because the prisoners had to be moved on as soon as possible, and staying in the castle, even if the others didn’t know where they were, would invite a microscopic search. It would need Atherton’s knowledge of the castle, and whether there was another escape route they could use.

It was another of his works in progress, one that was highly likely to fail.

He stood back from the door and looked at the crumpled heap on the floor that was once the leader of the resistance. Leonardo had interrogated her before bringing her back, half-dead, to the castle, and in doing so had made it impossible for anyone to interrogate her further. Had that been the reason why Leonardo had bashed her senseless?

He saw a hand move by her side, and a low groan.

He spoke quietly, in English, “Are you able to come closer to the door?” He knelt down, trying to get a better look at her injuries. Abrasions, and bruising. Swollen eyes, possible broken nose, blood spatter everywhere on her clothing which remarkably was relatively intact. He had suspected Leonardo of doing a lot worse and may still have.

She lifted her head slightly, “Who are you?”

“I could be a friend.”

She laughed, then coughed, and blood came out of her mouth. Broken ribs possibly, and a punctured lung. She might be too injured to move.

“There are no friends in this place, just Tedeschi.” She lowered her head and closed her eyes. Her breathing was irregular and shallow. Definitely broken ribs, he thought. And not likely to survive another interrogation. Not if Jackerby was going to conduct it.

“I’d like to help you if I can.”

“Everyone in here, we’re beyond help. You know that because you’re one of them.”

“Some of us care what happens to people.”

She pushed hard to move around slightly to face him, laying her head on the side to face him. “Which one are you?”

“Johannsen.”

“Yes, Johannesen. Atherton mentioned you. As untrustworthy as the rest. But for me, I’m all but dead, but I’ll humor you. Get me out of here and away from that bastardo Leonardo, and I might believe you.”

Atherton. This might be an opportunity to find out how he could get in contact with him, knowing of course, she wasn’t going to tell him where Atherton was.

“If you want to get away from here, we need Atherton. He’s the only one who knows this place inside out.”

He could see her shaking her head, as painful as that might be.

“He’s not.”

“Then is there anyone who does?”

“There is.”

“Who?”

Again she laughed and it sounded like the death rattle of her last breath. “You think I’m that far gone that I would tell you anything?”

“If you want to escape, I can only get you so far.”

“There is no escape. Believe me. If there was, I would be gone. Save your trickery and lies for someone who might be gullible enough to believe you. I’m quite prepared to die, the fact I’ve lived this long is what some would call a miracle.”

With that she turned away, coughed, and went silent. She wasn’t dead, but death wasn’t far away.

When Johannesen reluctantly left the cell, he only made it to the turn towards the steps up when he ran into Jackerby.

Had Jackerby been somewhere near and overheard their conversation.

“You have a rather interesting interrogation technique,” Jackerby said.

Johannesen groaned inwardly. He had heard.

“Sometimes it’s better to try and infuse hope in the subject rather than resignation. I was trying to get her to tell me where Atherton is.”

“And did she?”

“What do you think. After what Leonardo did, she’s not likely to tell us anything. I’m sure if we had taken a different approach…”

“Yes, softly softly. Doesn’t work. Just leave the heavy lifting to us, and don’t bother coming down to revisit the prisoners. Otherwise, I might believe you really are trying to help them escape.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

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

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

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

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 39

Here’s the thing…

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

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

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

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

 

A shiver went down my spine, and I took it for the omen it was.

Nothing good came of being in a place where you were not supposed to be.

I shook it off.

“Does that look like someone we knew, once?”

He looked at the mannequin, then shook his head.  “No, should it?”

“Seems odd they didn’t come back to collect their stock.  I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as this when the cracks first appeared.”

“Here it was.  Walls crumbled, and in places the roof collapsed.  Two shop staff got hit by a falling beam.  One later died.  There was a long court battle over that.”

I did not remember much of what happened.  My mother said it was just another tragedy brought on by greed.  It was probably why I had such contempt for the rich.

Boggs did a rotation with his light, and in the direction of the marina, there was a central square over which was a skylight, only it was dirty and little light was getting through.  It was just enough to see that the plants had all overgrown and taken over, and it was strange to see pylons covered in creeper, and shrubs growing through seats.

There had been a pond in the middle of that square, but it was probably empty now, and if it had water, it would be contributing to the smell.

In the other direction, there was darkness, the mall heading towards the front entrance.

Boggs started walking towards the square.

That was when I realised he had brought an old map of the shopping centre and had been looking at it when I joined him.

From the square, there were elevators and steps up to the second level where there were restaurants and entertainment areas, as well as the entrance to the multiplex cinemas.  The stairs went down to the carpark.

There were two levels of carpark under the main building, and it was the lower car park that had occasionally flooded.

When we reached the square, it seemed lighter than I first thought, but that was because my eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness, making objects clearer.  We had to brush past some of the tree branches to reach the pond.

I was wrong.  There was water in it, and it was reasonably clear.  I guess without man to pollute it, nature had taken over.  Here the aroma was more like a park after the lawns had been mowed.

Boggs had turned off his light as we approached the pond, and it was fortunate he had.  We both heard the sound of a brick, or rock, hitting the floor, and a moment later, the faint glow of torchlight.

Other people exploring the wilderness.

“How many people know about that entrance?”

It sounded to me like they were coming back from the marina.

“I don’t know.  I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here if that’s what you’re thinking.”

It wasn’t.  Not my first thought, anyway.

He headed towards the stairs next to the elevator lobby, remarkably clear of rubble and undergrowth, and started walking down the stairs, into the darkness. I followed, reluctantly, and inwardly sighed in relief when he stopped on the first landing.  There was a rumour that there were ghosts down on the car park levels.

We went just far enough down to be hidden from the other visitors.  Unless they decided to use this particular staircase.

The light was less intense as it approached the square, and then we saw two figures.

At least one was a male, tall, and smoking a cigarette.

“God knows why the boss wanted us to check this hell hole.  There’s no one here but us.”  It was the tall man speaking.

He waved his torch around, including once in our direction.  At the distance they were from us, the light had no effect.

“You know the boss, he has an active imagination.  Perhaps if he hadn’t buried the bodies down here, it wouldn’t be an issue.  Come on, this place gives me the creeps.”

Another man, and, now, I could see they were dressed in what looked like security guards’ clothes.  Why on earth would anyone want to keep an eye on this place?  And who was their boss?

Another wave of the torches and they continued their way towards the front of the mall.

“So,” Boggs said with a curious inflection in his tone, “there are bodies buried down here.”

“A figure of speech,” I said.  “No one would be that stupid to bury bodies down here.”

“Why not.  No one comes here, except adventurers like us, so it’s a perfect place for either the Cossatino’s or the Benderby’s to hide stuff down here.  How many people do you think either of them has killed over the years?”

Allegedly quite a few.  It was, when I thought about it, quite a good place to hide a body.  I just hoped we didn’t find one.

We waited another five minutes, just in case they came back, but they didn.t.  I followed Boggs up the stairs and we headed towards the center of the square.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Marina.  Got to check something first.”

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2026

© Charles Heath 2020

The 2am Rant: There are so many things I haven’t done

Does it really matter, you ask?

Perhaps not, but now seems to be an appropriate time, nearing the age of 72, to take stock.

We have achieved a lot in the last twenty or so years once the children have grown up and can look after themselves.

Unlike a lot of more modern couples who are travelling in their 20s and 30s and then having children, we chose to do it the other way around.

To me, it seemed easier to deal with teenagers when we were in our 40s rather than our 60s.  With the benefit of hindsight, I can truthfully say we were right.

We were older and wiser when we travelled and more aware of the dangers around us, sometimes overlooked or ignored by a youthful devil-may-care attitude.

But, in saying that ….

No, I don’t think I’ll be getting to see Mt Kilimanjaro, observing the wild animals in the Serengeti, climbing Mt Everest, or seeing the ancient pyramids.

But, if it is ever possible before I die, I still want to go to the Greek Islands, and, Santorini is at the top of my travel bucket list.

We’ve been to London.  We’ve been to Paris and Euro Disney.  We’ve been to Rome and seen the ancient ruins.  We’ve been to Vienna, Schönbrunn Palace, and, particularly for us, a visit to Swarovski crystal world, near Innsbruck, we’ve been to Salzburg, and been on the Sound of Music tour.

We’ve been to Florence and loved it, we’ve been to Venice and loved that too, and we’ve spent a few days in the heart of Tuscany, and want to go back for longer, much longer.

In fact, that’s the second item on the travel bucket list.

We’ve also been to Singapore and Hong Kong, at first out of necessity as an airline stopover, but then we went back to see the city and tourist, and non-tourist attractions.

I will not forget staying at the Hong Kong Conrad Hotel as a Diamond Hilton Honors member.  Oh, the memories.

We’ve also stayed on the French Riviera, in a timeshare apartment in Antibes where every morning when out back you had a view of the shimmering Mediterranean if the sun was out.

Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo, the billionaire’s yachts in Antibes harbour, Monte Carlo, and ‘that’ casino, taking the same drive along the coast as Grace Kelly did in To Catch a Thief, and feeling like James Bond arriving for a new adventure, minus the half-million-dollar sports car.

But now, crashing back to earth with an extremely hard thump ….

Travel in the future is looking difficult for both of us, not only financially but from a health aspect.  We are both not as sprightly as we used to be.

Yet given the restraints and if it is at all possible, aside from the Greek Islands and Tuscany, the next items on the list are:

Germany, visiting both Berlin, from a Cold War aspect, the Brandenburg gate springs to mind, and Munich at the time of the Octoberfest.  As a beer drinker that is also high on my bucket list.

Scotland, more so since we’ve started watching Outlander, and besides being a beer drinker, I am also partial to a good Single Malt, the Whiskey Trail.

Ireland, because my wife’s previous name was Murphy and at some point, in the long distant past some relatives emigrated to Australia, and she would like to visit the country of her forebears.

But with the current state of the world, our health issues, and that all-important requisite money, or the lack of it, perhaps it’s time to visit other parts of our own country.

Perhaps it’s time to do a culinary trip, particularly down south.  It’s practical, achievable, and safe.

And it’s a big country.

What I learned about writing – Everyday life is not always boring

The Unsung Epic: How Everyday Life Becomes Riveting Prose

“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.”

It’s a line that resonates deeply with anyone who loves a good story. We crave the heightened stakes, the emotional rollercoasters, the twists and turns that define our favourite books, films, and series. But what if I told you that the “dull bits” aren’t always so dull? What if the real magic lies not in eliminating them, but in learning to see the drama hidden beneath their unassuming surface?

The challenge is enticing: Can we take everyday events and turn them into riveting prose? My answer, unequivocally, is yes. And in doing so, we don’t just write better stories; we learn to live a richer, more observant life.

Beyond Explosions: What Is Drama, Really?

First, let’s redefine “drama.” It’s not always grand gestures or world-ending stakes. At its core, drama is about conflict, tension, and emotion. It’s about a character wanting something and facing obstacles in getting it. It’s about choices, consequences, and the raw vulnerability of being human.

Consider that infamous “dull bits” pile: commuting, waiting in line, doing laundry, making coffee. On the surface, these are the unglamorous necessities of existence. But with a writer’s eye, they become potential stages for micro-dramas.

The Writer’s Superpower: Perspective and Pressure

The secret weapon for transforming the mundane is perspective. It’s about zooming in, acknowledging the internal monologue, and applying pressure.

  1. Zoom In: A spilled coffee isn’t just a stain; it’s the sudden, hot shock, the ruined shirt on the morning of a crucial presentation, the ripple effect of lateness. The drama isn’t the coffee itself, but what it means to the person experiencing it.
  2. Internal Monologue: We rarely share the full, rich narrative of our minds. What anxieties bubble up while waiting for a delayed train? What silent arguments play out as we fold a partner’s forgotten items? The internal world is a universe of untold stories, rife with hope, fear, regret, and determination.
  3. Apply Pressure: Take any everyday event and ask: What if something goes wrong? What if the stakes are slightly higher for this particular character?
    • The Commute: It’s not just a drive; it’s a desperate race against the clock to pick up a child from daycare before late fees kick in. The brake lights ahead aren’t just an inconvenience; they’re a physical manifestation of rising panic.
    • The Grocery Store: It’s not just a shopping trip; it’s the careful balancing act of an elderly person on a fixed income, trying to make healthy food last an entire week from a dwindling budget. Every price tag is a small, quiet battle.
    • The Awkward Conversation: It’s not just polite small talk; it’s a son trying to delicately broach a sensitive subject with his aging father, hoping to connect before it’s too late, fearing misinterpretation or dismissal.

Unearthing the Micro-Conflicts

Everyday life is brimming with small conflicts:

  • Person vs. Self: The internal debate over whether to speak up, to forgive, to take a risk, or to stick to the comfort of routine.
  • Person vs. Nature/Environment: The unexpected downpour when you forgot your umbrella, the power outage during a critical deadline, the unreliable public transport.
  • Person vs. Person (Subtle): The passive-aggressive note from a roommate, the slight that goes unaddressed, the unspoken tension across a dinner table, the small power plays in a queue.

These mini-struggles, when given the prose treatment, become relatable and powerful. They remind readers of their own quiet battles and hidden heroics.

The Art of Observation and Sensory Detail

To write riveting prose from the ordinary, you must become an exceptional observer.

  • What do you see? Not just objects, but the way light falls, the subtle expressions on faces, the wear and tear of time.
  • What do you hear? The hum of the refrigerator, the distant rumble of traffic, the specific cadence of a voice.
  • What do you feel? The cold ceramic of a mug, the ache in tired muscles, the prickle of irritation.
  • What do you smell and taste? The comforting aroma of baking bread, the metallic tang of fear, the bitterness of burnt toast.

These details ground your reader in the moment, making even the most mundane scene vivid and immersive.

So, Can We Do It?

Absolutely. By acknowledging the inherent drama in our struggles, choices, and interactions – no matter how small – we unlock a boundless reservoir of material. We aren’t cutting out the dull bits; we’re illuminating the hidden drama within them.

Next time you’re waiting in line, stuck in traffic, or simply watching the world go by, challenge yourself. What’s the story here? What’s at stake for the person beside you? What internal monologue is playing out in your own mind?

The world isn’t just a stage for grand narratives; it’s a collection of countless, intricate, and often riveting personal epics, waiting for us to notice, understand, and perhaps, to write them down.

What “dull bit” of your day do you think holds a hidden story? Share in the comments below!

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 192/193

Days 192 and 193 – Writing exercise

…

I woke to the sound of a very large explosion, yet it wasn’t exactly that; it was the blood-curdling scream that came after.

It wasn’t panic I felt in those few seconds of silence that followed the scream.  It was like I knew it was going to happen, and I could feel a sense of utter calm come over me.

I got out of bed and threw on the nearest clothes near me, then the coat at the back door where I had hung it the previous evening, and the torch I had left nearby in case I needed it.

I did.  It was still dark outside, but dawn would soon be here.  It was also cold, colder than it should be for the last days of winter.  At least it was not snowing.  Snow had a way of making things more difficult than they should be.

My first instinct was to go out via the back door.  Looking across the backyard, I could see other neighbours stirring, internal house lights going on.

From the front I could hear vehicles and then saw the kaleidoscope of red and blue flashing lights on police cars and the sound of an approaching fire engine.

I took in all the movement and sounds that carried on the night air, disjointed pieces of conversation, the murmur of people talking quietly as they headed towards their front gates.

I stepped down off the veranda and went up the side of the house, and as I came out at the front wall I could see the majority of activity was further down the street, outside, if I was not mistaken, the Johnson residence.

A few more steps and I was on the sidewalk, the full extent of the scene apparent.  The cars and truck were outside the Johnson place.

It was no surprise.

The police made regular visits because the Johnson children were prone to getting into trouble, a polite way of saying they were thieves, liars, bullies and troublemakers. 

Old man Johnson, the patriarch of the clan, had once greeted me with a hunting rifle.  To say he terrorised the neighbourhood was an understatement.

My next door neighbour was on his sidewalk, watching.  He had come out with a weapon ready to defend himself if necessary.

“It’s a war zone,” he said, shaking his head.

“I don’t see any bomb craters,” I said, thinking it might lighten the mood.

“I hear someone had enough of that family and tried to blow them up.”

Unlikely, but the neighbours, some at the end of their tether with the Johnson children, would be happy if that was the case.

Riley, my neighbour one house along from me but further away, came to join us.

He too has an opinion: “I hope those fools just blew up their basement meth lab, and they’re all dead.”

As he said it, three ambulances sped past on their way to the bomb/meth lab site.

“The Johnsons are just bad people, and I don’t believe they have either a meth lab or enemies that would want to blow them up.”

Mrs James from over the street came over.  She knew everything that happened in the street, sometimes before it happened.

“Herbert says it was a gas leak. Someone struck a match…”

It was a rational explanation, but then Herbert said that his garden had been overrun by aliens three mornings ago.  Saw them himself, he said, and had to fight them off with a samurai sword.

He’d been out before dawn sweeping the path with an old broom, brandishing it at an invisible enemy.

Herbert should be in a facility; such was the deterioration of his sanity.  In my last conversation with him, he asked me if I had seen the lizard people too.

Riley and Herbert were not talking at the moment, an innocent remark at the last block party getting under Riley’s skin.

“Herbert…”

I interrupted before he said something he would later regret, “I’ll go down and see what’s really going on.  I suspect it is probably something perfectly explainable, and we are all only too willing to call it something else.”

“I’d take care,” Foredyce, the man everyone loved to hate, simply because he had money he couldn’t explain adequately.  “I hear Johnson has the police in his back pocket.”

Odd that I thought, after leaving him, that it was more like he had the police in his back pocket.

…

Seconds later I ran into a policeman who was setting up perimeter tape, the sort that had the words “Do Not Cross”.  He didn’t let me cross, so I stood against the tape as a personal act of defiance.

Two police cars had been angled so that traffic could not pass in the street, and the same was happening a hundred yards away.

Other police were shunting spectators back to their properties.  I was now one of about a dozen that had come to the line, people I recognised from block parties, but didn’t speak to often.

There were also people I didn’t know or recognise.

I think one was a reporter.  I had seen her photo in the paper, though I couldn’t be sure.  I looked around, but I couldn’t see the film crew she usually had in tow.

My cell phone vibrated; an incoming message.
“When they leave, come.”

I replied with the appropriate emoji and just got my phone back in my pocket before the reporter, or whoever she was, burrowed her way through the small group to end up next to me.  She hadn’t exactly tried to bump me out of the way, but I was going to defend my territory if she tried.

She had her cell phone in her hand, ear pods and a vacant expression.  If I was to guess, she was listening in on the police band.

She moved slightly, and I gently nudged back.

Her attention went from the broadcast to me, a scathing look.

“What are the police saying this is?” I asked, before she could remonstrate.

“What?”  Abrupt.  It reminded me of an article I’d read where she had been accused of being over zealous in the gathering of information, got her facts wrong, published and caused an innocent person trouble.

“What are the police saying?”

“Don’t you have better things to be doing than rubber necking?”

“And you do, barging your way like an out-of-control motor bus.”  It was the best I could come up with at short notice.

That was when I realised those who had been behind her had drifted away to find better vantage points.

“Of course, these clowns are news.”

“Those clowns are trouble.”

“More than you know.”

I’d noticed a woman talking to several police officers outside the front of the house, then scanning the rope line, and eventually stopping, and looking fiercely at me, or more likely the woman I was standing with.  A few more words with another officer, she started walking towards us.

“You have a friend in the police.”

“Not exactly.”

The woman gave me a glare and nodded to the woman beside me, then lifted the tape line.  I watched them walk along the perimeter until no one could overhear them.

I watched two paramedics come out with a gurney with a body bag on it, and then transfer the bag to the ambulance, then go back into the house.

One dead person.  How many were there?

The paramedics repeated the process four times, then they drove off.  Four collections.  Four dead, or four smuggled away.

I saw the reporter see the last person loaded, exchanged what I thought were heated words, then came back walking quickly.

She seemed annoyed.

“What did the cops say?”  I thought I’d ask.  I might get an answer.

“Nothing.  It was staged to get them away.  There’s an assassin coming, or already here; they don’t know.”

“More likely an angry mob of neighbours, me included.  I hope they’re not coming back.”

She shook her head then headed towards her car.  I guess she was going to follow the ambulance and see where they were being taken.

With the ambulance leaving, the police cars gradually left until there was only one, belonging to the local sheriff’s department.

The deputy was in the process of retrieving the perimeter tape.  The emergency, if it could be called that, was over. 

I knew him.  He had found one of my kids being a jackass at the mall and brought him home after giving him a warning.  He could have locked him up, but chose a less problematic way of dealing with the problem.  Telling us and we handed out the punishment.

“Ned.”

“Mr Raven.  Not a lot going on here now.”

“What happened?”

“County and federal stuff.  We just get to clean up the mess they left behind.”

“The Johnsons?”

“Best not to know.  They won’t be giving you or anyone around here any more trouble.”

“Dead.”

“Exactly, if you get my drift.”

In other words, taken away to end up in another town to annoy them.  I could hear in his tone that he would have preferred to shoot them.

“Good.”

“Trust me.  There’s nothing more to see.”

“Is it alright if I go and see where some of my tools Johnson borrowed are?  If he’s not coming back, he won’t need them.”

“No.  I guess you’re right.”  He shrugged.  “I can’t see why not.  The place is empty; just try not to touch anything that’s not yours.”

…

I didn’t go via the front.  There were still a few people waiting, for what, though, was not clear, but perhaps they thought the Johnsons might come back.

Instead, there was an alley behind that line of properties, recently built as our estate got bigger, with our road the closest to the farming land behind it.

The man who had owned it had sold a few acres to raise funds to keep the farm going.  It wouldn’t be for much longer; a local businessman was planning a much larger housing development with a mall and a public park ready for the influx of workers needed for a huge distribution centre.

That was a more interesting story than the Johnsons; the centre was looking to use robots built at a high-tech robot assembly plant nearby, part of a technology park.

Maybe.

All manner of propositions were being tossed about by local politicians, each claiming they were saving our town.

At the back fence line to the Johnsons’ property, I peered through the crack in the fence, the one I think they used to keep an eye on people, saw no one in the rear yard and went in.

It was a short distance from the back fence to the rear veranda, and once inside the structure, built to add more space to the house to have outdoor cooked meals in summer and keep dry and warm in winter.

I waited and listened to see if there was anyone still in the house.  Peering through the kitchen windows, overlooking the veranda, I couldn’t see anyone, but they had left the lights on when they left.

I let five minutes pass, then knocked.  Not loudly, just enough that if there was anyone inside they’d hear it.

Someone did; a moment later the back door opened slightly and a hissed, “get in here,” was issued.

I just got through the door when it was closed again. A woman old enough to be my daughter was standing by the door, out of line of sight.

“You took your time.”

“It was just a little busy out there.  Are you ready?”

“I was never ready for this.  He sure as hell didn’t tell me his father was a rat, and we would be dragged across the country because of his mistakes.”

I got a call about a week ago from my sister, who lives on the other side of the country.  Her daughter had married the son of a CEO.  She had always maintained there was something odd about him, and when he had to go into hiding, it confirmed her suspicions.

She had just learned that her daughter had moved to my city, and asked her mother for help to get away from them.  She called me.

She said she had drawn a line under the experience and wanted out, and away from her husband, who wouldn’t take it kindly to her leaving.  Thing was, she was under no obligation to stay, and her life was in danger.

I was not sure what I could do, but Eloise wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I still hadn’t found them, or recognised the daughter when I went looking for her at the mall.  It had been a long shot, until the explosion.

I went to the front of the house, and peered through the cracks in the shutters.  The deputy was leaning against his car, smoking.  Several people were still standing around. Talking and gesturing, looking at the walls as if they could see through them.

I came back.  We could go out the back door but not go to the front of the house.

“How did you get away from the others?” 

“I told them I wasn’t going with them.  John wasn’t happy about it, but I was tired of running, looking over my shoulder.”

“You still will be.  You can’t just go back to your old life.”

“I’m nothing to them.  It’s the old man they want.  He was the one who dobbed them in.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

She gave me a look of exasperation.  I don’t think she was willing to accept the truth just yet.  As much as I couldn’t believe they simply left her behind.  Not if they cared about her safety.

There was a knock on the front door, not loud, but loud enough.

“Are you expecting someone, anyone?”

“No.”  The exasperation had changed to desperation.  She looked genuinely scared.

The knock was louder and more impatient.

“Hide.  I’ll see who it is.”

She went up the passage and out of sight.  I waited; the next knock now signalling the person on the other side’s next step was to kick the door down.

I took a deep breath and opened the door.  I was expecting the deputy.  It was the reporter.

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

She barged past me, looking in every direction.

“Don’t play dumb.”

I looked at her, and realised her demeanour had changed completely.  I was mistaken as to her identity.

“You are the assassin.”

She glared at me, that same severe expression as before.  “Are you naturally stupid, or what?”

“You’d be surprised if I told you.”

She shrugged.  “Leave now, and I’ll forget you were here.”

In that moment we both heard a noise, a box or case hitting the ground.  Next second she had reached into her voluminous handbag, and I could just see the shape of a gun.

Next second I shot her gun hand then upper leg; she went down, and I was stepping towards her carefully, gun aimed at her head.

Good thing I remembered to bring a silenced weapon, just in case.

The girl came running up the passage and stopped when she saw the reporter, or more likely assassin.

“You,” she said, recognising the assassin. 

“What can I say?  It pays better.”

The girl reached into the assassin’s handbag and pulled out the gun.

I was still processing the fact they knew each other.

She aimed it at the woman on the ground.  I thought it surprising she was not screaming.  I knew what it was like to get shot in the hand.

“Why are you after me?  I did nothing to upset anyone.”

“Guilt by association.  You’re on their list.  Kill me, and they’ll just send someone else.  Let me go, and I’ll forget I saw you.”  She turned to look at me.  “Who the hell are you?:

“Ex Cop.  I thought I’d settled into retirement.  Now I’m going to have to go after some more bad people.  I’m going to give you a choice.  Tell me who sent you or die.  And don’t go with the I got an anonymous call who didn’t leave his or her name.”

“You and I both know who it was.  He gave four of us the assignment.  One fails; there are three others.  And no, I don’t know who the other three are.”

“Were you ever a reporter?”

“Yes.  Gets me places others can’t.  Not very good though, but it doesn’t matter.  This was going to be my last job.  One way or another.  Do what you have to.”

I shrugged.  I wasn’t that sort of person

My sister’s daughter was.  Spending time with the Johnsons had turned her into a monster. Or maybe living with her mother.

Or…

“You were left behind specially for this reason.  You didn’t really need me.”

She looked down at the dead reporter.  “Cleaning up after their mess.  You’re right, though; I didn’t.  My mother said you were always a horrible child that made her life hell.  It seemed like a two birds with one stone moment.”

She aimed the gun at me.

“I’ll tell mother you said hi.”

Pity.  Killers who like the idea of announcing their intentions never get to live long lives.  I’d met a few and recognised the signs.  Added to the fact my sister never liked me and I thought it odd she had wanted me to do anything for her other than die.

Another reason why I brought the gun.

She was dead before she hit the ground.  It was a waste of life, and I hated killing people.  It was basically why they retired me early.  I wouldn’t get tough on the criminals.

This was a waste of two lives.  Reporter/assassins and wannabe bad girls.  I took my gun and cleared any fingerprints. I was not new to the game of ensuring no evidence pointed the gun to me, then staging the scene so it looked like the two of them killed each other.

Been there and done that a few times.

It was, all in all, a very strange situation. 

I had two calls to make.

My sister answered on the second ring.  “Tell me you killed the bastard.”

I rang my sister on her daughter’s phone, suspecting she would answer the way she did.  The number was on speed dial.  “She might have, had she been smarter, but she was as dumb as you are.  She got killed by an assassin before she could shoot me.  Don’t tell me your plan was for her to assume I’d come, and then kill me.”

“Caught in the crossfire, it seemed good at the time.”

“You never considered the consequences of your actions, never have.  She lived long enough to ask God to rain fire and hell down on me.  I guess that sort of hatred was fed to her by you.”

“You were always such a selfish, self-righteous pain.”

“You were always telling us mere mortals how common and useless wrong we were.  I think the self-righteous label belongs elsewhere.  But whatever was supposed to happen didn’t.  I’m sorry for your loss.  I doubt we will be speaking again.”

I put the phone back where it belonged after bricking it.  There would be a record of a phone call to her mother but not what it was about.  I had no doubt she would try to implicate me, but what did I have to gain?

Her attempt to smear me would fail.

Then I went out the front door, slightly panicky and calling for the deputy.  He saw me and came over, and there, with just the right hint of breathless panic, I related the story of what happened.

He went in and checked them immediately, then called for backup.  He went through all the right steps for a crime scene, asking all the right questions.

Then, over the next three hours, I had those same questions plus more asked over and over.  At least the police department and the sheriff himself knew I was a decorated big-city police officer who knew the ropes, and remembered not to contaminate the scene, but if stray prints were found, there was a legitimate reason.

After that I was free to go, but be available if there were more questions.  There would be, if they did a thorough job.  Not to implicate me; but get a clearer idea why they shot each other.

Then there was only one call left.

A last phone call, one I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to make, and wouldn’t if my niece had left with the rest of her new family.

No one answered the phone.  I just said, “Target four dispatched, debt paid.  You now have a new enemy.”

That was it.  The receiver of the call would know exactly what the message meant.  I looked at my watch.  Just enough time to get home for the family Zoom call.

Who said life in the countryside was going to be boring?

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Belgrade

Uncovering the Hidden Gems of Belgrade: 5 Off-the-Beaten-Path Experiences

Belgrade, the vibrant capital of Serbia, is a city that seamlessly blends Eastern and Western cultures, offering a unique and exciting travel experience. While most tourists flock to the famous Kalemegdan Fortress and Saint Sava Temple, there’s more to Belgrade than meets the eye. As a seasoned traveller, I’m excited to share with you the top five other things to do in Belgrade that will take you off the beaten path and into the heart of this fascinating city.

1. Explore the Street Art Scene in Savamala

Tucked away in the Savamala neighbourhood, Belgrade’s street art scene is a treasure trove of creativity and self-expression. This former industrial area has been transformed into a vibrant arts district, featuring stunning murals, graffiti, and quirky installations. Take a self-guided walking tour to discover the works of local and international artists, and experience the city’s edgy, avant-garde side. Be sure to check out the famous “Savamala” mural, which has become a symbol of the neighbourhood’s revitalisation.

2. Visit the Nikola Tesla Museum

While many visitors to Belgrade are familiar with the famous scientist’s name, few know about the fascinating museum dedicated to his life and work. The Nikola Tesla Museum is a must-visit for anyone interested in science, technology, and innovation. Located in a beautiful villa, the museum showcases an impressive collection of Tesla’s personal belongings, experiments, and inventions, including his famous Tesla coil. The museum’s interactive exhibits and guided tours offer a unique glimpse into the mind of a genius.

3. Take a Stroll through the Botanical Garden

Escape the hustle and bustle of the city and find serenity in the beautiful Botanical Garden, also known as the Jevremovac Botanical Garden. This peaceful oasis is home to over 1,000 plant species, including some rare and endangered ones. As you wander through the gardens, you’ll discover a variety of flora, from roses and lavender to cacti and succulents. The garden’s tranquil atmosphere and stunning natural beauty make it an ideal spot for relaxation and contemplation.

4. Discover the Vinča Culture at the Vinča Archaeological Site

Located just outside Belgrade, the Vinča Archaeological Site is a fascinating glimpse into the city’s ancient past. This Neolithic settlement, dating back over 7,000 years, is one of the oldest and most important archaeological sites in Europe. Explore the excavated ruins, which feature remnants of ancient homes, pottery, and tools, and learn about the daily lives of the Vinča people. The site’s museum offers a wealth of information and artifacts, providing a unique insight into the region’s rich cultural heritage.

5. Enjoy a Night Out in the Cvetni Trg Neighbourhood

For a truly authentic Belgrade experience, head to the Cvetni Trg (Flower Square) neighbourhood, known for its lively atmosphere, charming cafes, and eclectic nightlife. This trendy area is home to a variety of bars, clubs, and live music venues, offering everything from jazz and rock to traditional Serbian folk music. As you explore the neighbourhood, you’ll discover a mix of old and new, with historic buildings, street performers, and modern art installations adding to the area’s vibrant energy. Be sure to try some of the local cuisine, including delicious ćevapi and pljeskavica, at one of the many restaurants and food stalls.

In conclusion, Belgrade is a city that offers so much more than its famous landmarks. By venturing off the beaten path, you’ll discover a wealth of hidden gems, from street art and science museums to ancient archaeological sites and vibrant nightlife. Whether you’re a culture vulture, a foodie, or an adventure-seeker, Belgrade has something for everyone. So come and explore the real Belgrade, and experience the city’s unique blend of tradition, innovation, and warmth.

In a word: Bore, or is that boar

I’ve had the ubiquitous pleasure of being called one, and that is, a bore.

Probably because I spend so much time telling people about the joys and woes of being a writer.

You can be a tedious bore, cooking could be a bore, and then you could bore someone to death, and then you will bore the responsibility of, yes, doing just that.

Would it be murder or manslaughter?

But, of course, there are other meanings of the word, such as, on my farm I have a bore.

No, we’re not talking about the farmhand, but where artesian water is brought to the surface, in what would otherwise be very arid land.

Or, could be the size of a drill hole, and in a specific instance the measurement of the circular space that piston goes up and down.  And if you increase the size of the bore, the more powerful the engine.

Or it could refer to the size of a gun barrel, for all of you who are crime fiction writers.

But, let’s not after all of that, confuse it with another interpretation of the word, boar, which is basically a male pig.

It could also just as easily describe certain men.

Then there is another interpretation, boor, which is an extremely rude person, or a peasant, a country bumpkin or a yokel.

I’ve only seen the latter in old American movies.

There is one more, rather obscure interpretation, and that is boer, which is a Dutch South African, who at the turn of the last century found themselves embroiled in a war with the British.

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed, came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first time they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration honouring one of the Embassy officials’ service in Moscow, soon to be returning home after 10 years.  She had been there one and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked; Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and, of course, what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this were a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man interested in her, and Vladimir was.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy, and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a platonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally, for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance, it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he would remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed that he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, as always, in separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution: keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, the people, and the conversations she overheard were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But on this visit, the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully on the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the minibar and took out the bottle of champagne left there for them, a treat Vladimir arranged for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought about how Eve must have felt in the Garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was, if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Helsinki

Discover Helsinki Beyond the Usual: 5 Hidden Gems to Explore

Helsinki, the vibrant capital of Finland, is renowned for its architectural splendour, vibrant art scene, and serene access to the archipelago. Yet, beyond the iconic Senate Square and the UNESCO-listed Suomenlinna, there’s a trove of offbeat experiences waiting to be uncovered. If you’re eager to venture off the well-trodden path, here are five lesser-known treasures to add to your Helsinki itinerary.

1. Stroll Through the Helsinki Botanical Garden (Kaisaniemi)

Tucked near the parliament building in Kaisaniemi, this haven of greenery offers a tranquil escape from the city’s hustle. Established in 1855, the garden spans 5.6 hectares and features a glasshouse housing over 12,000 plant species from around the world. In summer, the lush herb garden and seasonal flowerbeds are a riot of colour, while autumn brings fiery foliage. A peaceful walk here is the perfect way to appreciate Helsinki’s natural beauty without the crowds.

Pro Tip: Combine your visit with a constitutional at the adjacent Parliament Square (Kanssakuntori) for a slice of Helsinki’s political and ecological charm.

2. Unwind on Ulvila Cathedral Island

Just a short bus and ferry ride from central Helsinki lies Ulvila, a quiet island known for its historic cathedral and serene atmosphere. Once the favoured retreat of Finnish presidents, this hidden gem is accessible via a scenic 40-minute ferry ride. Explore the 17th-century Ulvila Church, stroll through its secluded cemetery, or simply soak in the views of the surrounding archipelago. With no restaurants or shops, it’s a spot to disconnect and reconnect with nature.

Pro Tip: Pack a picnic to enjoy on the island’s rocky shoreline, where the Baltic Sea shimmers under the midnight sun in summer.

3. Shop for Local Crafts at the Kadu Market

Nestled in Helsinki’s Design District (Kadu), the Kadu Market is a weekly pop-up paradise for design lovers. Held every Saturday in the summer and on weekends during winter, this market showcases handmade crafts, vintage finds, and locally sourced Nordic products. From organic skincare to handcrafted jewellery, it’s a vibrant window into Helsinki’s creative community.

Pro Tip: Stay afterwards to explore Kadu’s boutique shops and cafés, like the cozy Apartment 42 café, known for its Instagram-worthy sundaes.

4. Get Lost in the Kiasma Museum of Contemporary Art

Helsinki’s modern art scene is on full display at Kiasma, a striking building designed by American architect Steven Holl. The museum’s ever-changing exhibits blend international and Finnish art, often pushing boundaries with avant-garde installations. Its unique, glass-clad structure and spiral layout make it a visual treat, while the free guided tours (in multiple languages) offer deeper insights into the works.

Pro Tip: Visit during the museum’s opening hours (weekends often have extended hours) to fully absorb the atmosphere without the weekday rush.

5. Picnic in Rastila Park, Helsinki’s Oldest Public Park

Founded in 1838, Rastila Park is a green oasis nestled between the Baltic Sea and Helsinki’s city centre. This lesser-known park is ideal for solo walks, family outings, or a quiet picnic on its grassy lawns. The park’s modest charm lies in its simplicity—think ancient trees, children playing on the playground, and the distant hum of the city. It’s a rare spot where Helsinki’s past and present coexist harmoniously.

Pro Tip: Pair your visit with a stop at Kahvila Rastila, a nearby café serving excellent Nordic-inspired dishes.

Final Thoughts

While Helsinki’s landmarks are undeniably captivating, these hidden spots offer a more intimate and personal experience of the city. Whether you’re wandering through a historic island, discovering modern art, or simply relaxing in nature, these destinations showcase Helsinki’s diversity and depth. Pack your curiosity, embrace the unexpected, and let the road less travelled reveal itself.

Ready to explore Helsinki beyond the usual? These five spots are waiting to become your favourite stories.