Category: Writing

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 10

I didn’t take very long to finish my word quota today, and with my spare time, I decided to go back over the plan and see how the second half of the book is holding up against it.

Despite my misgivings about becoming a planner for this exercise, it proved to be a good idea, particularly when you have to write a certain number of words a day to reach the target.

Last year, it was a pantser effort, and I know, at times, I struggled with continuity and found myself having to backtrack when plot changes required earlier intervention.

Writing as a pantzer is much more viable when you have a much longer time to write the story, like a whole year, because I find I sometimes get only so far, and I need to think about the next step.

Today I’ve taken the time to translate all of the notes for the forthcoming chapters into a bound notebook, with several pages for each of the chapters, allowing for a number of possible later changes.

I now feel I’m in a better place to continue.

A to Z – April – 2026 – I

I is for – Indecision

…

So, there she is, standing on the corner of the street, under a flickering streetlamp, smoking a cigarette. You’re watching the tendrils of smoke drift upwards until a burst of air blasts them away, and then the whole process starts over again.

The burning question in your mind: Will I go up to her and ask if she’s free for a drink?

She might be waiting for someone, or she might be waiting for someone like me to go up and ask her. What have you got to lose?

That voice of the devil sitting on your shoulder chimes in, perhaps she is waiting for a chump like you so she can fulfil an order for a kidney or liver.

And that face, all the innocence of Mata Hari rolled into the epitome of the girl next door.

The thing is, I’d never seen the typical girl next door to know what one looked like.

What am I looking for, a whirlwind romance, a walk in the park, or a quick and painless death?

I took two steps in her direction, determined to make the move, and stopped as a car pulled up beside her. A flick of the butt, a smile, she gets in the car, and it drives off.

Oh, well, I guess I’ll be drinking on my own. Again.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 83

Day 83 – Writing exercise

…

It was a mistake.

I knew the moment I walked back into the office and found my key card didn’t work.

The security guards, in fact, were all new, and treated me like I was trying to break in.

The reception staff had also changed.  Uniforms and dour expressions.

The woman I was standing in front of knew who I was, and was pretending not to.

And the moment she mentioned Mr Ainsbury, I knew exactly what had happened.  He had manoeuvred me into being sent to the London office for two weeks while he made his ‘rearrangements’.

The first was to have me shifted from the Executive level.  When I refused to hand over the corner office, he didn’t make a fuss; just a face.

His father would not tread on my toes or be as presumptuous, but I’m sure Ainsbury the elder was shunted somewhere while the son played king of the castle.

This was the result.

I was watching her pretending to look me up on the computer.  It was sad. After all, I could see my new access card sitting on the table, with an older photo of me on it, because I had not been there when the card was made.

A violation of security right there.

I shrugged.

“Don’t bother.  I’m going off to the cafe up the road and have a coffee. Call me when you figure out whether I should be allowed in.”

“I’m sure. ..”

“That you like playing games.  Please, carry on.  Call me.”

I walked off, heading to the door.  I came straight from the airport, such was my dedication to the job.  Now I doubted that dedication was worth a tinkers’ damn.

“Mr Collins.”

Halfway across the door, she called out.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe she had stretched the joke too far.

I turned around and glared at her, then shook my head.  I was no longer in the mood to talk to her, or anyone.

….

There was a small Cafe not far from the building, a place I hadn’t known existed until Dorothy, my invisible but amazingly competent personal assistant, took me there the day before I left for London.  

A heads up, she called it.

A memo was sent to all of Ainsbury’s allies, and her name, being the same as one of them, got the memo by accident.  She printed it, then deleted her copy, completely so Ainsbury would never know.

It basically said Ainsbury would be assuming my role when I left the next day, and that major changes were being instituted.  I was being moved to some eloquent but meaningless titled role and sent downstairs, and Dorothy was being made redundant.

I couldn’t fight it because I had to go.  Ainsbury had created such a mess that if I didn’t fix it, I would get the blame.  He’d been working in tandem with several disillusioned employees I had demoted for incompetence, and now he had struck back.

I could have simply resigned.  I wanted to, but Dorothy said that I should wait until I got back to see the extent of the disaster.  As for her job, she would work for me from home. 

She had set up her office there ages ago when her mother was ill, and IT had never rescinded her access.  I wouldn’t have given similar access, not after the demotion.

She didn’t use that access while I was gone.  These things were monitored, and it was best no one knew.

Now I was back.

And the game was afoot.
…

The coffee was excellent, and the hustle and bustle brought me back to why I loved this city and everything about it.

I used to love the job too, but in the last year, after Ainsbury the elder had three heart attacks and had to start stepping away, the only child got the nod to come in and start learning the ropes.

Ainsbury had never promised me the CEO job, but he did say he would look after me.  It was a handshake, and I believed him.  I sacrificed a lot, and it reflected in the status and worth of the company.  I had shares. I was comfortable, but the trip to London highlighted one very basic issue.

I had no one to come home to.

Or take with me.

For a long time, I convinced myself that I didn’t need anyone, and for formal occasions when I needed a plus one, Dorothy stepped in. 

It was not as if we were romantically attached; she just enjoyed playing a part, and she did it so well that most people thought I was taken.

Now, sitting by myself, I felt something I hadn’t for a long time.  Loneliness.

The waitress delivered the coffee with a smile.  The reception staff in my building could take lessons in politeness from her.

Then my cell phone rang.

I looked at the screen.  Ainsbury.

I shrugged, let it ring until the last moment and then answered by first accidentally dropping it on the metal table with a loud clank, and then taking a second to answer.

“Yes?”

It wasn’t the way to answer the phone, but I wasn’t feeling charitable.

“Where are you?”

Demanding and impolite.

“Ask the front desk staff.”

“What have they got to do with anything?”

“If you don’t know that, then we have a serious problem.  Call me back when you work it out.”

I disconnected the call.

He knew exactly what was going on.

The cell phone rang again.

I ignored it.

He needed to sweat a little.  I’d momentarily forgotten the meeting with one of our biggest clients, the people who had requested the audit in London, and I was supposed to report back to them.

It was a bit difficult when Ainsbury revoked my access.

My cell phone rang again, this time a different number.  The CIO.  He had a similar opinion of Ainsbury, but only shared that with me. 

The walls, he said, had ears.

He was also at the briefing.

“Teddy.”

“Michael.  You’re missing the show.”

“Walter or Susannah?”

“Susannah just handed his ass to him in a sling.  And didn’t raise her voice once.  When she asked him where you were, he told her you’d probably forgotten the meeting, and she then asked him why you were down in the foyer trying to get an access card.  She wanted to know if he had fired you.  The poor bastard had nowhere to hide.  What happened?”

“Changed my access.  He got a belligerent reception clerk to play funny buggers.  I went to the cafe instead.  Now he’s trying to get me.”

The phone was telling me there was another call.

“He’s got the corner office in a reshuffle.”

“He’s got the job too, so he’s the front man for the problems.  I think I’m now head of Janitorial.”

“A promotion then.”

“I’ll be dealing with a better class of people.  I guess I’d better answer the call.”

“Later.”

I waited for the next call, let it ring and then answered almost on the last ring.

“Yes.”

“It’s fixed.  Get up here.”

“No.”

“What?”

“You have the title, Gerald.  That means you’re the man in charge of sorting out the problems.  I sent you the report before I left London, so go do your job.”

“They didn’t want me.”

“Well, that’s not how this works, Gerald.  Now, stop thinking, and go do the job.  You wanted it, and now you’ve got it.”

“I’ll fire you.”

“I’d go see legal first, Gerald.”

Then I hung up.  I caught the waitress’s attention and ordered another cup of coffee and a bagel. 

…

Ten minutes later, the dour front desk security officer came to the cafe and found me.

She was supposed to call. 

She had the look of someone who had got caught in the middle of a turf war and just realised she’d picked the wrong side.

“Sir.  I was asked to deliver your access card personally.”

“That’s all?’

She looked at me oddly.  “There wasn’t anything else.”

I took it, and she left.  I was hoping for an apology, but that was never going to happen.

I looked at it, shrugged, and put it in my pocket. 

My phone rang again.

Busy morning.

Susannah.

“Michael?”

“We’re you hoping for someone else?”

“Given what that crazy fool has done in the last fortnight, it was not beyond the realms of possibility he’d give your phone to one of his sycophants.  How are you, anyway?”

“On the outside looking in.  You’re not happy?”

“What’s going on?”

“Gerald thinks he’s king of the castle.  Probably is now.  His father is not well.  All work, well, you know.”

“I do, unfortunately.  It’s time for us to run away and find something less stressful.”

“Together?”

“Given the morning I’m having, I couldn’t think of anything better, but sadly, there are things to do.  I can’t get any sense out of Gerald, so what can you tell me?  The report from London was cryptic to say the least.”

I could feel her frustration.

“It’s a case of about a dozen conflicting miscommunications, mostly not from my office, nor me.  I haven’t been there.  The breakdown was caused by inferior spare parts, and I’ve instituted an investigation as to how that happened.”

“I heard you have a new title.”

“Part of the new broom and new directives.  I’m no longer in charge or with any authority without a rubber stamp.  I just got an email with my new responsibilities.  It won’t work.”

“Good luck then.  We’ll talk again in a day or so, if not before.  Ainsbury is back, so it’ll be interesting to hear what he has to say.”

So would I.

…

It seemed completely out of character to be sitting at a table with a cup of coffee, now half drunk and cold, watching people walking past purposefully.

Until two weeks ago, I was one of them.

Until two weeks ago, when Finsbury junior came in and told me, ‘As a courtesy, there will be some changes by the time I get back from London, and despite what I might hear, my role was not part of the restructure.

Good to know.  I left for London thinking that Ainsbury junior was just flexing his muscles, and that everything would be fine.

Only it wasn’t.  I’ll give the lad his due; he had completely undefended the whole office, transplanting his cronies into positions of power, and used everyone’s NDA to stop them from spreading the news.

Really, it was just to stop them from telling me.

Thus, when I returned the transformation complete, my access was stopped, my office was gone, and my personal assistant was banished.

Fait accompli…

I guess in that very specific moment when my access card failed, I knew the extent of the damage, and it was going to be irreparable.

Ainsbury junior had just steered the ship straight onto the rocks.  He had already proven twice he had no idea about the business.  It had to be learned from the ground up.  Years of training, years working through the issues, the breakdowns, the troubleshooting, and understanding what was behind customer complaints.  Really listen.

Ainsbury didn’t have the patience. He wanted to be the loudest voice in the room, the one telling everyone what to.  From what I heard while I was away, he had the record of losing the most customers in a day.

That wasn’t a record anyone else wanted.

….

I stayed at the cafe for another half hour, half expecting Gerald to come and get me.  He didn’t, so I went home.

I chose not to look at my phone; in fact, before I left the cafe, I had turned it off.  It was not as if I had to work for a while, and I needed a vacation.  I hadn’t had one for a while, and there were weeks owing.

When I walked in the door, I called HR and told them I was applying for leave, and they told me which forms to use.  After making a tea, Earl Grey, I sat down, filled it out, and sent it to the person I  spoke to.

Next, I looked at the seventeen calls and thirty-two messages Gerald had left me, the messages angry at first, then pleading.

I had a shower and sat out on the balcony with a bottle of beer, watching the ice hockey replay, relaxing while I considered what I was going to do.  I had a resignation letter written, and I had written it on the plane over to London, thinking how much nicer it would be in the Cotswolds.

Dorothy had put the idea in my head, and if I ever did get a cottage there, she would be straight over.  When she said it, the way she said it sent a tingle up my spine.  Now, she was just inside the periphery of my thoughts.

That thought of Dorothy in an awful Christmas sweater made up my mind for me.

I waited until Gerald called me.

“I can’t fire you, but I can make your life hell.”  That was his opening gambit.  The fellow had a lot to learn if he was going to have a position of power within the company.

I didn’t care.

“You do that, Gerald.  When I come back from Vacation.”

“You have no vacation requests.”

“It’s down in HR.”

“It’s denied.”

“Read my contract, Gerald, or better still, get Legal to simplify it so you can understand.”

“What are you talking about?  This isn’t a negotiation.”

“As of now, it is.  What are you offering me to stay?”

“What are you talking about?” 

Obviously, no one else talked back to him or asked questions.

I disconnected the call.  If he stopped to listen just once instead of trying to shout people down, he might realise just how vulnerable a position he was in.

Just the supply of faulty parts was a criminal act and a lawsuit in the making. That, in turn, if it materialised, would hurt the company’s reputation, and in turn, I would be tarred with the same brush.

At the moment, I could see no upside to staying there.  Especially if that was Gerald’s bottom line, getting me to leave of my own volition.  It would be less expensive for him, at least.  That was the inference behind making life hard for me.

One thing it appeared he wasn’t quite across was the fact that my contract specified I would only deal with his father.

It took Gerald ten minutes to call back.  Perhaps he decided to read my contract.

“Gerald.”

“What do you want?”  It came out as if it were a question and a sigh of defeat at the same time.

I’d thought about that in those ten minutes.  I came to the conclusion that my time at the company was done.  No matter what I wanted, I was never going to be in an autonomous position, the sort of authority needed to get problems resolved.

“Nothing, Gerald.”

“Good.  Then I can expect you back in the office after this vacation thing is done.”

“No.  I’m not interested in being the Director of Sanitation.”

“It’s not Sanitation, it’s just a title change, nothing else has changed.  You just report to me for approvals.”

“Someone might, Gerald.  I won’t.”

“The board approved it.  You don’t get to pick and choose.”

I had my laptop sitting on the table.  I switched from the ice hockey to the resignation letter, attached to an email ready to send.  I pressed the send button.

Let the chips fall where they may.

“Actually, Gerald, I do.”

I disconnected the call again and waited.

Seven minutes this time.

“Gerald.”

“You can’t resign.”

“I just did.  I also sent the resignation to your father with a covering letter.  In case you are not fully across what your role entails, it’s not you who has the authority to accept or deny anything to do with me.”

The line went dead.

I could see him frantically dialling his father to plead his case, but it was too late.  I had a receipt notice that Ainsbury the elder had opened the email.

I sincerely hoped it didn’t give him another heart attack.

…

Dinner with Savannah’s was everything I expected it would be.  It was an engagement to test the waters, if we might take things to another level.

We had danced around the proposition a few times, but there was always a measure of reluctance, on both sides.

It was no surprise that after she sat down and got her first or second glass of champagne, she said, “I heard a rumour that you are now a free agent.”

She had an unrivalled network of spies everywhere.

“I haven’t had confirmation from old man Ainsbury, but it doesn’t really matter.  He made two promises, and family will come first.  I had a good run, but it was never going to end well for me.”

“Come and work for us?”

“Are you making an offer, knowing what it would mean?”

She knew my views on dating fellow employees.  Her views were the same.  Perhaps that was the reason for the slight aloofness that hadn’t been there before.

“I am.  And I do.  I have been thinking about it, Michael, very hard.  We’re two of a kind.  We can work together, but we just can’t live together.  It is something I think might have worked while we things were the way they were, but not now.”

“And if I turned down the offer?”

“You’d be a fool, and I know you’re not a fool, Michael.  Besides, I know a certain someone who’s been waiting with bated breath for you to say all those sweet little nothing’s us girls love to hear.”

Dorothy.  We had been together for so long, Susannah had said once, we were like an old married couple.  Perhaps we were, because my first thought the moment I considered accepting the offer was of Dorothy.

I shrugged.

“I’ll let you know.  But, no more talk of work.  Let’s enjoy the ambience, the food and the company.”

…

I woke late the next morning after a relaxing evening and night.  Savannah was everything I had expected she would be, and it was clear she was on a trajectory that I could neither match nor keep up with.

I didn’t want to.

In that same assessment came the realisation she was not looking for a permanent partner; she just wanted to go with the flow, until she had completed her mission.

I didn’t ask what that was, only that by the time she got there, she would own a conglomerate, be the first female President of the United States, or God. 

She still did her own cooking, cleaning, and washing when she was at home.  She was proud of the fact that she could look after herself.

My cell phone woke me.  I’d forgotten to turn it off, or perhaps I still hadn’t broken the work regimen set many, many years ago.

An email from Dorothy with an attachment.

Ainsbury the elder, memo to all staff.  My resignation as of immediately, and the replacement of Gerald, who was stepping down from all roles in the company, has been replaced by Ophelia, his daughter.

Ophelia had shadowed me for a year, almost invisible, but was sharp, keen, and insightful.  I had told him in the email with my resignation that she would more than adequately replace me, and that Gerald needed to be taught a lesson.

Perhaps in saying that didn’t exactly earn me any kudos, but at least he listened.

I called her and congratulated her.  It was well deserved.

Then I called Dorothy.

“You resigned.”

“There was nowhere else to go.”

“You tell him to promote Ophelia?”

“A gentle nudge.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I bought a cottage in the Cotswolds?”

I heard the knock on the door, which was odd because you had to get through the security on the ground floor.  It had to be someone in the building.

“Hang on a sec, there’s someone at the door.”

I pulled on a dressing gown and opened the door.

Dorothy.

“You just said the magic words.”

“How?”

“The same as the last umpteen times.  You gave me a passkey.  You said it was the key to everything.”

I stepped to one side, and she passed through, pulling a small travel case.

“I forgot to ask if you were free.”

“Is it permanent, or just a whim?”

“What would you like it to be?”

“May I be candid?”

“Of course.”

“Then, I would like to spend a few months in the English countryside with the man of my dreams, after which we would get married in a beautiful little village church, and spend a month or so cruising the Greek Islands.”

“And who would this mysterious man of your dreams be?”

She put her arms around my neck and looked into my eyes.  “The same man who is about to ask me a single question.”

Then waited.

“Oh, you mean me?  Dorothy Bain, would you do me the honour of marrying me?  Oh, should I have asked your father’s permission first?”

“That’s three questions.  The first, yes, you.  The second, yes, yes, and a thousand times yes, and the third, you can’t unless you can see and talk to dead people.  God, you’re going to make everything complicated, aren’t you?”

“Me?”

“Oh, forget it.  Just kiss me before I change my mind.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Searching for locations: Auckland, New Zealand, a rare day for the port

We were staying at the Hilton and advised there would be a large cruise liner berthing next to the hotel.  There was the Arcadia.

2013-03-08 11.51.48

This is the view from the other side of the hotel.  Where our room was, we could almost walk onto the aft end of the ship.

We were also told this was a rather extraordinary day because there were two cruise ships in the port. particularly because it was near the end of the cruising season.

The other ship was two berths along, the Sun Princess.

2013-03-08 11.56.17

Not as big as the Arcadia, up close it was still very impressive.

“Possibilities” – a short story

How many choices could one person have?

Usually, from a very early age, you have some idea of what you intend to do with your life.

Those early choices of fireman, policeman, doctor, fighter pilot, slowly disappear from the list as the education requirements become clearer, and their degree of impossibility.

Then you have to factor in academic achievement or failure, hone situation, what blows life has dealt you, and your financial ability to fund any it all of your hopes and dreams, especially for that all-important university education, and even then, it has to be the right one.

Then there are the family aspirations where parents really want you to follow in their footsteps, as a doctor or a lawyer or in the military.

And if you get past all that, and everything has fallen into place, and you’re ready to head out on that highway of life, you should be fully imbibed with the knowledge and the drive to make everything happen.

…

Now I was lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling wondering at what point it all went wrong.

Right on the starting line where everything I had worked for was about to come to fruition, it had all come to an abrupt halt.

My memory got as far as driving home from a work party where we had been celebrating the company’s most recent success, and my progression to the next level of management, when a car failed to stop at a stop sign and T-boned me.

The car was a write-off. I was still not sure what happened to me, but I had heard someone say, in that murky twilight of pain medication, that if I was a horse, they would have to shoot me. It was the only thing I remembered between the car hitting mine and waking up in the hospital bed.

But that was not all the story, and I had plenty of time to mull over everything that had happened in that last week. There was a certain symmetry to it all, as if one event led to the next, and then the next, and it was the last straw, on the last day, that broke the proverbial camel’s back.

…

And here’s the thing.

I would not have been in that accident had I not taken the car. I wasn’t going to, I had intended to take the train to a friend’s place and stay there for a few days, what the boss had told me would be a well-earned rest.

Even then, I might have not taken the car, except for a cryptic text message I received from my sister, about needing to be ‘rescued’ from a bad date.

Nothing unusual for her, she was currently on a dating site binge, and after half a dozen bad experiences, I thought she had given up.

That was the thought that ran through my head as I watched her curled up in the chair next to the bed, half asleep.

Her first words, on arrival, and when she was allowed to see me, was to apologize, believing it had been her fault. She knew I hated driving in the city, so coming to get her, as I always did, had been preying on her mind, and I could see the tangible effects of it in the worried expression, and unkempt manner which was so totally unlike her.

“It was simply an accident, and could have happened to anyone,” I told her.

“You were going to Jeremy’s, I should have sorted my own problem out for once. It’s not as if I couldn’t just call up an Uber, and now look what’s happened. I’m so sorry.”

She wouldn’t accept that it was not her fault, nor would she leave until she knew I would be OK. I didn’t understand what she meant by that because, in the three discussions I had with the head doctor, I was going to make a full recovery.

He had used the word lucky more than once, and seemingly the sequence of events, and other factors like the car safety features, the angle the car had struck, and where, the fact the other driver had to dodge a pedestrian, all of it played a part.

Had they not, quite simply I would be dead.

My sister and her dating were only one aspect of how my life was being driven.

Another memory returned, from that week, that of another text message, from a girl I used to know back at university.

Erica.

She was what some might have called a free soul. She didn’t conform to what I would have called normal. Her clothes sense was somewhat odd, she always looked as though her hair needed combing, and she never had any money.

And, for a while, she lived with me, in a small, cramped room ideal for single University students on a budget, but not for two. Yet, for some strange reason, she never seemed to get in the way or mind the closeness of our existence.

In that short period, she became my first real love, but she had said that while we were together, it was fine, but she was not seeking anything permanent. Nor, she said, did she believe in monogamy. Until she left, studies completed, I wanted to believe she would stay, but a last lingering kiss goodbye and she was gone.

Now, the message said, she wondered if I was still free, and like to meet. Of course, ten years of water had passed under that bridge, so I was not sure where it would go. I hadn’t replied, and the message was still sitting on my phone.

That invitation, however, had been on my mind moments before the crash, and I had to wonder, thinking of her, contributed to it.

Then, on top of all that, there were my parents. Married for 40 years, and the epitome of the perfect marriage.

Or so I thought.

That morning, before I went to work, I had called in to see them after my mother had called the day before saying she wanted to talk to me about something.

Before I knocked on the door, I could hear yelling, and it seemed the perfect marriage had hit a rocky stretch.

Or simply that my father had chosen to have an affair and had been caught out by the simplest of means, my mother answered his phone when he was out of the room thinking it was important work matters, only to discover it was his ‘floozie’.

No guessing then why my mother had called me. After hearing all I wanted to, and not wanting to face an angry couple I just headed on to work.

My mother had yet to come to the hospital to see me. My father had been, but he made no mention of her, or anything else, except to tell me if there was anything I wanted, all I had to do was ask. Then he left and didn’t come back.

Then, last but not least, were the rumours.

The owner of the company I worked for was getting older and didn’t have an heir. One thing or another had managed to foil his succession plans, and in the end, he did not have a son or a daughter to pass the reins to.

With the latest success, the company was about to have a bigger profile which meant more work and plans to open branches in other cities. It was too much for one man, now in his 70s, and looking to wind down.

A rumour had started about a week before the accident that he was looking to sell, and there were at least half a dozen suitors. There was supposed to be an announcement, but it hadn’t happened while I was at work, but considering how long I’d been in hospital, and the two weeks in an induced coma, anything could have happened.

Louisa stretched and changed positions.

“You look better,” she said.

“Relative to what, or when?”

“Half an hour ago.”

I shook my head. Sometimes Louisa was prone to saying the oddest stuff. “What’s the deal between our parents. Dad was here for all of five minutes. Where’s our mother?”

“She left.”

OK. Blunt, but plausible. “Why?”

“Dad was being an ass.”

“Does she know I was in an accident?”

“I told her.”

“So, you’re seeing her?”

“She calls. I don’t know where she is. I think she might have gone to stay with one of our aunts.”

I sighed. Louise had an awfully bad memory, and I was sure one day she was going to forget who I was.

There were four sisters, our mother the youngest. She had a love-hate relationship with the middle two, so the best bet would be the eldest sister, Jane. Jane was also the crankiest because she hated children, never got married, and was set in her ways.

Then, there was something else lurking in the back of my mind. Another item I’d overheard when I suspect I was not meant to be listening.

I might not have a job to go back to if the company had been sold, I might not have a home to go back to if my parents had split up, and I might not be able to do anything for a long, long time. Recovery might be complete, but it wasn’t going to happen overnight.

I had a sister who blamed herself for my accident, and an old girlfriend who wanted to see me, though I suspect not like this, broken and useless. What else could there be?

Oh, yes. Another snipped from the shouting match behind the door. And an explanation of why my father had all but abandoned me. My mother had also had an affair, and his son, well he was not his son.

No surprise then I had a father who didn’t want to know me.

What else could go wrong?

There was movement outside the room, and raised voices, one of which was saying that whoever was out there couldn’t go into the room. It didn’t have any effect as seconds later, a man and a police officer came in. The officer stood by the door.

Louisa looked surprised but didn’t move.

The man, obviously a detective, came over. “Your name Oliver Watkins?”

It was, and hopefully still is. “Yes.”

“I need you to answer some questions.”

“About the accident?”

He looked puzzled for a moment, then realized what I was referring to. “No. Not the accident. About the embezzlement of 50 million dollars from the company you work for. It seems you didn’t cover your tracks very well.” He turned around to look at Louisa, “You need to leave now, miss.”

“I’ll stay.”

He nodded to the officer, “You leave now, or he will remove you.”

She looked at me, with a different expression, “You didn’t tell me you were a crook, Olly.”

“Because I’m not.”

The officer escorted her from the room and shut the door.

The detective sat in the recently vacated chair. “Now, Mr Watkins. It seems there is such a thing as karma.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

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

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

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

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

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

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

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

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

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

Then there’s the title, like

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

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

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

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

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

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

PIWalthJones1

A to Z – April – 2026 – I

I is for – Indecision

…

So, there she is, standing on the corner of the street, under a flickering streetlamp, smoking a cigarette. You’re watching the tendrils of smoke drift upwards until a burst of air blasts them away, and then the whole process starts over again.

The burning question in your mind: Will I go up to her and ask if she’s free for a drink?

She might be waiting for someone, or she might be waiting for someone like me to go up and ask her. What have you got to lose?

That voice of the devil sitting on your shoulder chimes in, perhaps she is waiting for a chump like you so she can fulfil an order for a kidney or liver.

And that face, all the innocence of Mata Hari rolled into the epitome of the girl next door.

The thing is, I’d never seen the typical girl next door to know what one looked like.

What am I looking for, a whirlwind romance, a walk in the park, or a quick and painless death?

I took two steps in her direction, determined to make the move, and stopped as a car pulled up beside her. A flick of the butt, a smile, she gets in the car, and it drives off.

Oh, well, I guess I’ll be drinking on my own. Again.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t work.

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

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

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

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

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Zoe.”

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

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

“I might throw myself overboard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I saw it coming.”

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

OK, that was unexpected.

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

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

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

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

newdevilcvr6

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 83

Day 83 – Writing exercise

…

It was a mistake.

I knew the moment I walked back into the office and found my key card didn’t work.

The security guards, in fact, were all new, and treated me like I was trying to break in.

The reception staff had also changed.  Uniforms and dour expressions.

The woman I was standing in front of knew who I was, and was pretending not to.

And the moment she mentioned Mr Ainsbury, I knew exactly what had happened.  He had manoeuvred me into being sent to the London office for two weeks while he made his ‘rearrangements’.

The first was to have me shifted from the Executive level.  When I refused to hand over the corner office, he didn’t make a fuss; just a face.

His father would not tread on my toes or be as presumptuous, but I’m sure Ainsbury the elder was shunted somewhere while the son played king of the castle.

This was the result.

I was watching her pretending to look me up on the computer.  It was sad. After all, I could see my new access card sitting on the table, with an older photo of me on it, because I had not been there when the card was made.

A violation of security right there.

I shrugged.

“Don’t bother.  I’m going off to the cafe up the road and have a coffee. Call me when you figure out whether I should be allowed in.”

“I’m sure. ..”

“That you like playing games.  Please, carry on.  Call me.”

I walked off, heading to the door.  I came straight from the airport, such was my dedication to the job.  Now I doubted that dedication was worth a tinkers’ damn.

“Mr Collins.”

Halfway across the door, she called out.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe she had stretched the joke too far.

I turned around and glared at her, then shook my head.  I was no longer in the mood to talk to her, or anyone.

….

There was a small Cafe not far from the building, a place I hadn’t known existed until Dorothy, my invisible but amazingly competent personal assistant, took me there the day before I left for London.  

A heads up, she called it.

A memo was sent to all of Ainsbury’s allies, and her name, being the same as one of them, got the memo by accident.  She printed it, then deleted her copy, completely so Ainsbury would never know.

It basically said Ainsbury would be assuming my role when I left the next day, and that major changes were being instituted.  I was being moved to some eloquent but meaningless titled role and sent downstairs, and Dorothy was being made redundant.

I couldn’t fight it because I had to go.  Ainsbury had created such a mess that if I didn’t fix it, I would get the blame.  He’d been working in tandem with several disillusioned employees I had demoted for incompetence, and now he had struck back.

I could have simply resigned.  I wanted to, but Dorothy said that I should wait until I got back to see the extent of the disaster.  As for her job, she would work for me from home. 

She had set up her office there ages ago when her mother was ill, and IT had never rescinded her access.  I wouldn’t have given similar access, not after the demotion.

She didn’t use that access while I was gone.  These things were monitored, and it was best no one knew.

Now I was back.

And the game was afoot.
…

The coffee was excellent, and the hustle and bustle brought me back to why I loved this city and everything about it.

I used to love the job too, but in the last year, after Ainsbury the elder had three heart attacks and had to start stepping away, the only child got the nod to come in and start learning the ropes.

Ainsbury had never promised me the CEO job, but he did say he would look after me.  It was a handshake, and I believed him.  I sacrificed a lot, and it reflected in the status and worth of the company.  I had shares. I was comfortable, but the trip to London highlighted one very basic issue.

I had no one to come home to.

Or take with me.

For a long time, I convinced myself that I didn’t need anyone, and for formal occasions when I needed a plus one, Dorothy stepped in. 

It was not as if we were romantically attached; she just enjoyed playing a part, and she did it so well that most people thought I was taken.

Now, sitting by myself, I felt something I hadn’t for a long time.  Loneliness.

The waitress delivered the coffee with a smile.  The reception staff in my building could take lessons in politeness from her.

Then my cell phone rang.

I looked at the screen.  Ainsbury.

I shrugged, let it ring until the last moment and then answered by first accidentally dropping it on the metal table with a loud clank, and then taking a second to answer.

“Yes?”

It wasn’t the way to answer the phone, but I wasn’t feeling charitable.

“Where are you?”

Demanding and impolite.

“Ask the front desk staff.”

“What have they got to do with anything?”

“If you don’t know that, then we have a serious problem.  Call me back when you work it out.”

I disconnected the call.

He knew exactly what was going on.

The cell phone rang again.

I ignored it.

He needed to sweat a little.  I’d momentarily forgotten the meeting with one of our biggest clients, the people who had requested the audit in London, and I was supposed to report back to them.

It was a bit difficult when Ainsbury revoked my access.

My cell phone rang again, this time a different number.  The CIO.  He had a similar opinion of Ainsbury, but only shared that with me. 

The walls, he said, had ears.

He was also at the briefing.

“Teddy.”

“Michael.  You’re missing the show.”

“Walter or Susannah?”

“Susannah just handed his ass to him in a sling.  And didn’t raise her voice once.  When she asked him where you were, he told her you’d probably forgotten the meeting, and she then asked him why you were down in the foyer trying to get an access card.  She wanted to know if he had fired you.  The poor bastard had nowhere to hide.  What happened?”

“Changed my access.  He got a belligerent reception clerk to play funny buggers.  I went to the cafe instead.  Now he’s trying to get me.”

The phone was telling me there was another call.

“He’s got the corner office in a reshuffle.”

“He’s got the job too, so he’s the front man for the problems.  I think I’m now head of Janitorial.”

“A promotion then.”

“I’ll be dealing with a better class of people.  I guess I’d better answer the call.”

“Later.”

I waited for the next call, let it ring and then answered almost on the last ring.

“Yes.”

“It’s fixed.  Get up here.”

“No.”

“What?”

“You have the title, Gerald.  That means you’re the man in charge of sorting out the problems.  I sent you the report before I left London, so go do your job.”

“They didn’t want me.”

“Well, that’s not how this works, Gerald.  Now, stop thinking, and go do the job.  You wanted it, and now you’ve got it.”

“I’ll fire you.”

“I’d go see legal first, Gerald.”

Then I hung up.  I caught the waitress’s attention and ordered another cup of coffee and a bagel. 

…

Ten minutes later, the dour front desk security officer came to the cafe and found me.

She was supposed to call. 

She had the look of someone who had got caught in the middle of a turf war and just realised she’d picked the wrong side.

“Sir.  I was asked to deliver your access card personally.”

“That’s all?’

She looked at me oddly.  “There wasn’t anything else.”

I took it, and she left.  I was hoping for an apology, but that was never going to happen.

I looked at it, shrugged, and put it in my pocket. 

My phone rang again.

Busy morning.

Susannah.

“Michael?”

“We’re you hoping for someone else?”

“Given what that crazy fool has done in the last fortnight, it was not beyond the realms of possibility he’d give your phone to one of his sycophants.  How are you, anyway?”

“On the outside looking in.  You’re not happy?”

“What’s going on?”

“Gerald thinks he’s king of the castle.  Probably is now.  His father is not well.  All work, well, you know.”

“I do, unfortunately.  It’s time for us to run away and find something less stressful.”

“Together?”

“Given the morning I’m having, I couldn’t think of anything better, but sadly, there are things to do.  I can’t get any sense out of Gerald, so what can you tell me?  The report from London was cryptic to say the least.”

I could feel her frustration.

“It’s a case of about a dozen conflicting miscommunications, mostly not from my office, nor me.  I haven’t been there.  The breakdown was caused by inferior spare parts, and I’ve instituted an investigation as to how that happened.”

“I heard you have a new title.”

“Part of the new broom and new directives.  I’m no longer in charge or with any authority without a rubber stamp.  I just got an email with my new responsibilities.  It won’t work.”

“Good luck then.  We’ll talk again in a day or so, if not before.  Ainsbury is back, so it’ll be interesting to hear what he has to say.”

So would I.

…

It seemed completely out of character to be sitting at a table with a cup of coffee, now half drunk and cold, watching people walking past purposefully.

Until two weeks ago, I was one of them.

Until two weeks ago, when Finsbury junior came in and told me, ‘As a courtesy, there will be some changes by the time I get back from London, and despite what I might hear, my role was not part of the restructure.

Good to know.  I left for London thinking that Ainsbury junior was just flexing his muscles, and that everything would be fine.

Only it wasn’t.  I’ll give the lad his due; he had completely undefended the whole office, transplanting his cronies into positions of power, and used everyone’s NDA to stop them from spreading the news.

Really, it was just to stop them from telling me.

Thus, when I returned the transformation complete, my access was stopped, my office was gone, and my personal assistant was banished.

Fait accompli…

I guess in that very specific moment when my access card failed, I knew the extent of the damage, and it was going to be irreparable.

Ainsbury junior had just steered the ship straight onto the rocks.  He had already proven twice he had no idea about the business.  It had to be learned from the ground up.  Years of training, years working through the issues, the breakdowns, the troubleshooting, and understanding what was behind customer complaints.  Really listen.

Ainsbury didn’t have the patience. He wanted to be the loudest voice in the room, the one telling everyone what to.  From what I heard while I was away, he had the record of losing the most customers in a day.

That wasn’t a record anyone else wanted.

….

I stayed at the cafe for another half hour, half expecting Gerald to come and get me.  He didn’t, so I went home.

I chose not to look at my phone; in fact, before I left the cafe, I had turned it off.  It was not as if I had to work for a while, and I needed a vacation.  I hadn’t had one for a while, and there were weeks owing.

When I walked in the door, I called HR and told them I was applying for leave, and they told me which forms to use.  After making a tea, Earl Grey, I sat down, filled it out, and sent it to the person I  spoke to.

Next, I looked at the seventeen calls and thirty-two messages Gerald had left me, the messages angry at first, then pleading.

I had a shower and sat out on the balcony with a bottle of beer, watching the ice hockey replay, relaxing while I considered what I was going to do.  I had a resignation letter written, and I had written it on the plane over to London, thinking how much nicer it would be in the Cotswolds.

Dorothy had put the idea in my head, and if I ever did get a cottage there, she would be straight over.  When she said it, the way she said it sent a tingle up my spine.  Now, she was just inside the periphery of my thoughts.

That thought of Dorothy in an awful Christmas sweater made up my mind for me.

I waited until Gerald called me.

“I can’t fire you, but I can make your life hell.”  That was his opening gambit.  The fellow had a lot to learn if he was going to have a position of power within the company.

I didn’t care.

“You do that, Gerald.  When I come back from Vacation.”

“You have no vacation requests.”

“It’s down in HR.”

“It’s denied.”

“Read my contract, Gerald, or better still, get Legal to simplify it so you can understand.”

“What are you talking about?  This isn’t a negotiation.”

“As of now, it is.  What are you offering me to stay?”

“What are you talking about?” 

Obviously, no one else talked back to him or asked questions.

I disconnected the call.  If he stopped to listen just once instead of trying to shout people down, he might realise just how vulnerable a position he was in.

Just the supply of faulty parts was a criminal act and a lawsuit in the making. That, in turn, if it materialised, would hurt the company’s reputation, and in turn, I would be tarred with the same brush.

At the moment, I could see no upside to staying there.  Especially if that was Gerald’s bottom line, getting me to leave of my own volition.  It would be less expensive for him, at least.  That was the inference behind making life hard for me.

One thing it appeared he wasn’t quite across was the fact that my contract specified I would only deal with his father.

It took Gerald ten minutes to call back.  Perhaps he decided to read my contract.

“Gerald.”

“What do you want?”  It came out as if it were a question and a sigh of defeat at the same time.

I’d thought about that in those ten minutes.  I came to the conclusion that my time at the company was done.  No matter what I wanted, I was never going to be in an autonomous position, the sort of authority needed to get problems resolved.

“Nothing, Gerald.”

“Good.  Then I can expect you back in the office after this vacation thing is done.”

“No.  I’m not interested in being the Director of Sanitation.”

“It’s not Sanitation, it’s just a title change, nothing else has changed.  You just report to me for approvals.”

“Someone might, Gerald.  I won’t.”

“The board approved it.  You don’t get to pick and choose.”

I had my laptop sitting on the table.  I switched from the ice hockey to the resignation letter, attached to an email ready to send.  I pressed the send button.

Let the chips fall where they may.

“Actually, Gerald, I do.”

I disconnected the call again and waited.

Seven minutes this time.

“Gerald.”

“You can’t resign.”

“I just did.  I also sent the resignation to your father with a covering letter.  In case you are not fully across what your role entails, it’s not you who has the authority to accept or deny anything to do with me.”

The line went dead.

I could see him frantically dialling his father to plead his case, but it was too late.  I had a receipt notice that Ainsbury the elder had opened the email.

I sincerely hoped it didn’t give him another heart attack.

…

Dinner with Savannah’s was everything I expected it would be.  It was an engagement to test the waters, if we might take things to another level.

We had danced around the proposition a few times, but there was always a measure of reluctance, on both sides.

It was no surprise that after she sat down and got her first or second glass of champagne, she said, “I heard a rumour that you are now a free agent.”

She had an unrivalled network of spies everywhere.

“I haven’t had confirmation from old man Ainsbury, but it doesn’t really matter.  He made two promises, and family will come first.  I had a good run, but it was never going to end well for me.”

“Come and work for us?”

“Are you making an offer, knowing what it would mean?”

She knew my views on dating fellow employees.  Her views were the same.  Perhaps that was the reason for the slight aloofness that hadn’t been there before.

“I am.  And I do.  I have been thinking about it, Michael, very hard.  We’re two of a kind.  We can work together, but we just can’t live together.  It is something I think might have worked while we things were the way they were, but not now.”

“And if I turned down the offer?”

“You’d be a fool, and I know you’re not a fool, Michael.  Besides, I know a certain someone who’s been waiting with bated breath for you to say all those sweet little nothing’s us girls love to hear.”

Dorothy.  We had been together for so long, Susannah had said once, we were like an old married couple.  Perhaps we were, because my first thought the moment I considered accepting the offer was of Dorothy.

I shrugged.

“I’ll let you know.  But, no more talk of work.  Let’s enjoy the ambience, the food and the company.”

…

I woke late the next morning after a relaxing evening and night.  Savannah was everything I had expected she would be, and it was clear she was on a trajectory that I could neither match nor keep up with.

I didn’t want to.

In that same assessment came the realisation she was not looking for a permanent partner; she just wanted to go with the flow, until she had completed her mission.

I didn’t ask what that was, only that by the time she got there, she would own a conglomerate, be the first female President of the United States, or God. 

She still did her own cooking, cleaning, and washing when she was at home.  She was proud of the fact that she could look after herself.

My cell phone woke me.  I’d forgotten to turn it off, or perhaps I still hadn’t broken the work regimen set many, many years ago.

An email from Dorothy with an attachment.

Ainsbury the elder, memo to all staff.  My resignation as of immediately, and the replacement of Gerald, who was stepping down from all roles in the company, has been replaced by Ophelia, his daughter.

Ophelia had shadowed me for a year, almost invisible, but was sharp, keen, and insightful.  I had told him in the email with my resignation that she would more than adequately replace me, and that Gerald needed to be taught a lesson.

Perhaps in saying that didn’t exactly earn me any kudos, but at least he listened.

I called her and congratulated her.  It was well deserved.

Then I called Dorothy.

“You resigned.”

“There was nowhere else to go.”

“You tell him to promote Ophelia?”

“A gentle nudge.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I bought a cottage in the Cotswolds?”

I heard the knock on the door, which was odd because you had to get through the security on the ground floor.  It had to be someone in the building.

“Hang on a sec, there’s someone at the door.”

I pulled on a dressing gown and opened the door.

Dorothy.

“You just said the magic words.”

“How?”

“The same as the last umpteen times.  You gave me a passkey.  You said it was the key to everything.”

I stepped to one side, and she passed through, pulling a small travel case.

“I forgot to ask if you were free.”

“Is it permanent, or just a whim?”

“What would you like it to be?”

“May I be candid?”

“Of course.”

“Then, I would like to spend a few months in the English countryside with the man of my dreams, after which we would get married in a beautiful little village church, and spend a month or so cruising the Greek Islands.”

“And who would this mysterious man of your dreams be?”

She put her arms around my neck and looked into my eyes.  “The same man who is about to ask me a single question.”

Then waited.

“Oh, you mean me?  Dorothy Bain, would you do me the honour of marrying me?  Oh, should I have asked your father’s permission first?”

“That’s three questions.  The first, yes, you.  The second, yes, yes, and a thousand times yes, and the third, you can’t unless you can see and talk to dead people.  God, you’re going to make everything complicated, aren’t you?”

“Me?”

“Oh, forget it.  Just kiss me before I change my mind.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020