Category: Writer

A Score to Settle – The Second Editors Draft – Day 1

The time has come to work on the second draft for the editor, taking into account all of the suggested changes, and there are quite a few. So much for thinking I could put in an almost flawless manuscript.

…

Those first thoughts were, what led up to the start of the story, a veritable getting back in the saddle after the metaphorical horse has tossed you off with life-threatening injuries were met with enthusiasm.

That’s basically the first chapter, or it might finish up as a prologue. There are arguments for and against prologues, so perhaps as the month and the story progresses, it might become clearer what is needed.

So, where are we?

Somewhere in Africa, a country that is run by the military with a so-called puppet president. A country that is ripe for revolution, where the people are plotting to take their country back.

With help, but just whose help is nebulous.

In the meantime, there’s a human rights conference about to happen, a rather ironic event in a country supposedly at the forefront of perpetrating such offences.

Why is our fractured main character there? To protect one of the keynote speakers and convenors of the conference, supposedly without her knowledge, but of course, secrets are only secrets if they remain so.

And with governments involved, nothing remains secret for long.

That’s the premise so far.

Today is much about fine-tuning the background of the main character, and what came before.

“The Things We Do For Love”

Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?

…

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

In a word: Stick

Everyone knows what a stick is, it’s a lump of wood that you throw out in front of you, and if your dog is inclined to, he will run out and fetch it back.

Of course, there’s the obstinate ones who just lie down on the ground and look at you like you’re foolishly throwing away something useful.

For instance, that stick, and a few others that would be very useful to light a campfire, or just a woodfire in the house, during winter.

Or it can be a stick of wood needed for something else, like a building project, of of those highly secret affairs that go on in the locked shed at the bottom of the garden.

I’m sure the dog who refuses to fetch sticks knows exactly what is going on there, but is disinclined to say.

But..

If you are looking at the gooey sense of the word, there is an old saying, if you throw enough mud, some of it sticks’.

Yes, you can stick stuff to stuff, such as words cut out of various newspapers to make up a ransom, or warning, note.

Too many mystery movies, I know.

Paint will stick to timber, or any surface really.

Mud sticks to the bottom of shoes or boots and then becomes analysable evidence.

I can stick to you like glue, which means, really, where you go I go, quite handy if you are trying to stop an opposition player from scoring in a game.

I can use a walking stick, beat someone with a stick, use a stick to fly a plane, or a gear stick to move a car.

I’m sure, if you think about it, you can come up with a dozen more ways to use it.

 

 

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

“Bloody hell…” – a short story

The cell phone’s insistent and shrill ring dragged my mind away from the crossword, and after a fairly mild curse, I picked it up.

Sidney, my brother.  Odd he was calling me at this hour of the night.

“What,” I barked into the microphone.

“That’s no way to speak to your baby brother.”  His smooth tones rarely reached a screaming point, which was often the reason why mine did.

And who called the younger brother ‘baby’ brother these days?

“What do you want?”

A hesitation.  He was in trouble again, I could feel it.

“Can you come down to the bar?  I seem to have left my wallet at home.”  Sheepish, and just enough to stop me from yelling at him.  It was not the first time, nor would it be the last.

“I told you the last time was the last time.”

“Just this once, please?”

I shook my head.  That was probably my biggest fault, giving in to him.  After our mother had died, and our father had to work, it was left to me to bring him up.  He was going to be the death of me yet.  “Where?”

“The usual place.”

I was surprised because the last I’d heard they’d banned him from going in there.  It was only a twenty-minute walk from my apartment, but, late at night, and in winter, there was snow in the air.  And the odd snowflake falling, a prelude to much worse.

About a hundred yards from the bar I had a shiver go down my spine.  I’d not had that for a long time, not since school, and the trouble with Wiley, the school bully.  Wiley had graduated to the local thug, done a few stints in jail, and last I heard he had been sent down for a few years for an assault.

I stopped and took a moment.  Perhaps karma was trying to tell me something.

I shrugged.  Just in my imagination.  I reached the door, took a moment then went in.  He was standing by the bat looking a little apprehensive.  He was in more trouble than just not paying his bar bill.

Close up I could see the fear in his expression.  “Bloody hell, Sid, what have you done now?”

“A problem that he insists his older brother would be happy to pay for.”

I knew that voice and felt instant dread.

Wiley.

In the flesh, and not looking very happy at all.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

“Trouble in Store” – Short Stories My Way:  The re-write – Part 3

Now that I’ve gone through the story and made quite a few changes, it’s time to look at the story

…

Annalisa had known the moment she had agreed, or rather having been coerced to agree, to go on this foolhardy mission, it would not be the ‘piece of cake’ he said it would be.

It was the culmination of a series of events that brought her to the revelation that it was not her he loved but her money.

And the fact the ‘recreational’ use of drugs was far more serious and far more costly than she had realized.  Until her parents cut off both her access to her bank account and credit card.

Simmo had gone quite literally ‘ape shit’ when he found out, and the full extent of what was a ‘recreational use’ of drugs became clear.  In the first stages of withdrawal, he was nothing like the boy she used to know.

But, she would go along with him this once and that would be an end to it.  She funded his habit, and their relationship, though she chose not to tell him at the exact moment because he was very threatening, in fact, it was going to be the end of everything to do with him.

As they left the apartment for the last time, an eerie calm came over her, and she revered the Simmo she used to know.  There were flashes of the old Simmo from time to time, but the ever-increasing use of drugs had changed him, changed his personality, and now there was very little left.

She thought about staying, trying to bring him back, getting him to go to a rehabilitation centre, admit he had a problem.

Stepping out of the building into the cold night air brought her back to her senses.  There was no helping him, now or ever.

It was nearly time, a few minutes before the shop closed, the time, Simmo said, when the shopkeepers’ ‘other’ customers arrived.

She hoped there were no other customers.

The plan was simple.  Simmo would show the money, a twenty dollar note wrapped around a wad of blank papers, the shopkeeper would get the bag, he would give the wad, take the drugs and they’d run, hoping he wouldn’t discover the truth before escaping out the front door.

And if he did, she asked.

He had it covered.

She didn’t like the sound of that statement or the savagery with which it was delivered.  More and more this was sounding like a suicide mission.

Simmo patted her on the shoulder.  It was time.

She looked at her watch, at 11:25 pm.

From across the road, she had watched the shopkeeper going through the motions of closing the store, bringing in the sidewalk displays, wiping the counter, and sweeping the floor.  As they crossed the road, she could see him standing behind the counter, waiting, watching the clock tick inexorably towards 11:30.

Closing time.

She preceded Simmo into the shop.  His idea was that seeing her would create a distraction.  He smiled when he saw her and frowned when he saw Simmo.  He knew the moment he saw Simmo exactly what he was there for.

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2024

The Cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 67

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

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

Things are about to get complicated…

Was it all simply a dream?

…

If I thought the death of O’Connell and the detention of Dobbin and Jennifer was the end of it, I was wrong.  Both Monica and Joanne Arrived with several agents and took us back to the sandstone building, separated us, and then subjected us to endless questions.

I sat in the room with a guard outside in case I decided to leave, which I considered after an hour, but just as I was standing up, Monica walked in.  If I was to guess at the tactics, she had interviewed Yolanda, and possibly Jan as well before she came to me.

It was a technique we were taught, to know the answers before you ask the questions.  But, you had to assume the other people knew what the answers were, and I knew they were not in possession of all the facts.

I was not sure I was in possession of all the facts.

Monica had a file with her, quite large, put it on the desk unopened and then sat down opposite me.  I pretended not to watch.  I pretended not to care.  More lessons from agents who were now dead.  I’m not sure what sort of a recommendation that was as to how good they were.

“You seem to have a particular knack for picking up people to help you, Sam.  Annoying, and loyal.  I need more people like you, Sam.  You’ll be pleased to know they had not one bad word to say about you.”

“Hardly a recommendation if you’re going to throw me into a bottomless pit.”

“Interesting idea.  I suspect though you would know how to get out of it, or if you didn’t, had some experts hiding somewhere who would come and get you out.”

“Good to know.  So, why am I here?”

“Anna.”

“Anna is dead, she was killed in the café explosion.”

“I’d agree with you, only the body we pulled out of the café was male, what is believed to be a homeless man who was sheltering in there.  The café hadn’t been used for a year, and there were no locks on the back entrances.”

“No Anna?”

“No.”

“Yolanda said she saw Anna in the café.”

“Yolanda is no longer sure what she saw.  She admits to impersonating her, contacting O’Connell, and selling him the bogus USBs.  We recovered the money, less a hundred thousand pounds.  She claims she didn’t take any money for herself.  There were another 8 USBs all with the same files on them.  We recovered the two from Dobbin.  The same.  He was not very pleased.”

“Was he responsible for killing Severin and Maury, and O’Connell?”

“He says no.”

“Jan?”

“She wishes she stayed at MI6 and never got dragged into Dobbin’s fantasy.”

“The notion there are the formulas to create super viruses on the loose?”

“We only had Severin and Maury’s word that was the case.  The laboratory where the scientist worked and supposedly created the viruses, refute that any such data had escaped their premises, and better still, had destroyed it when they realised what was happening.  I would not put it past them to have arranged for the death of the inventor.  If the truth is known, Severin was trying to worm his way back into the fold with a whole end of days scenarios which he manages to save the day.  In other words, it’s quite possible the whole exercise was a hoax.”

“With endless dead people.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.  Dead people add credence to a scenario, it helps to sell the notion what they’re saying is true.”

So, the whole affair was simply a situation created by Severin for his own benefit.  “Dobbin thinks he was had, like us?”

“Exactly.  The trouble is we must take all threats seriously until proven otherwise.  So, the upshot of all this is, if you, Jennifer, or Yolanda want a job with the department, let Joanne know and we’ll put you into the program.  There’s one coming up next month.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

”O’Connell?  Where did he fit into all this?  I mean we were following him, he killed three of our surveillance team, and he was obviously spooked about something.  And someone was trying to kill him.  Dobbin?”

“Dobbin believes he set the whole thing up himself.”

“He had turned the seed of a hox into five million pounds.  Why didn’t he abscond with it?”

“He thought he was, with Yolanda.  We believe he let her take the money with the intention of killing her and taking it back when he got to London.  It’s convoluted but in a way, it makes sense.  Yolanda is very lucky to be alive.  So are you and Jennifer.”

I shrugged.  “Do all your operations end up like this?”

“Mostly.  If you decided to join the fold you’ll discover what we do is little more than smoke and mirrors.  Sometimes we have a win.  Sometimes.”  She stood.  “I hope you decided to join us.”

With that she left the room, leaving the door open.  No threats about spilling secrets, no signing of papers, nothing.  Perhaps she believed I wouldn’t tell anyone, but probably more to the point, who would believe me.

Maybe when I woke up tomorrow morning, I will realize it was all just a dream.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

A score to settle – The Second Editor’s draft – Day 2

The time has come to work on the second draft for the editor, taking into account all of the suggested changes, and there are quite a few. So much for thinking I could put in an almost flawless manuscript.

…

The story, in the planning stages, has a secondary theme running, that of the players involved in the events leading up to the assault on our main character, one that his handler was not aware of.

Why was he marked for execution, along with his previous partner?

That’s another story, one that will be teased out in this secondary theme and will run full circle and have some bearing on what happens at the end of the story.

Or not.

I’m not sure I will include any of this, and it might just become part of a novella that will stand on its own. For the most part, a lot of this story is about, and driven by, people he’s never met, but know of him, and his work.

It would be too easy to say he saw something he shouldn’t, because that’s not the case. It has to do with people he has worked with and been responsible for in the past, and whether or not there had been a conversation, without understanding the relevance of what might have been discussed at the time.

That part is nebulous at best, and you can see why it might not make the final cut.

It simply depends on how the main story goes, and the word count at the end. The rough plan calls for about 80 chapters and about 70,000 words, but I’m not one for sticking to plans.

Today’s work centres around the partner his handler has chosen for him, one that he’s not going to like when he finds out, the target he’s been tasked to watch over, and the location of the conference.

Of course, getting back to work after what happened to him is not as easy as saying he’s fine, but getting him to admit it’s anything but fine will be like getting proverbial blood from a stone.

Searching for locations: Coffs Harbour, New South Wales, Australia, and resorts Wyndham style

We have stayed in two different types of accommodation in Coffs Harbour, New South Wales, Australia, as a timeshare owner who can trade their week for a week anywhere in the world.

Both are resorts, but different sorts of resorts.  The first was a typical RCI resort, where everything is laid back and relaxing, with all the amenities one can expect from a resort.

The other, this one, the Wyndham in Coffs Harbour, is very different, and you notice it when you walk in the front door.  You are virtually assaulted by hard-nosed timeshare sales staff who really don’t take no for an answer, and then when you finally escape, ring you every day to make an appointment.

I left the phone off the hook.

Aside from that, the place is excellent, the accommodation very good, and the situation one of the best with what could be called a private beach.  There are also a number of bushwalks that cater to old people like me.

As you can see, lakes and greenery, and even a putting green.

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And in places, they try very hard to hide the ugly multi-story buildings in amongst the trees

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It is only a short walk to the ‘private beach’ and it is sufficiently long enough for a morning walk before breakfast.  You could even try to catch some fish for breakfast, though I’m not sure if anyone actually caught anything

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Or you can just stare out to sea

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And, back in the room, this is the view we had from our verandah

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Searching for locations: Flinders Street Station, Melbourne, Australia

This is the famous clock tower of the Flinders Street Station (the main train station for suburban trains) in Melbourne.

We were staying in a hotel (The Doubletree) directly opposite to the station and our room overlooked the station and the clock tower.  I took photos of it during the day:

and this one, at night.  It came out better than I thought it would.

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