Category: Writing

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 45

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

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

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

Chasing leads, maybe

“Silly question, what were you doing in the hotel with this ‘operative’?”

Yes, it sounded odd the moment I said it, and, if it was the other way around, I’d be thinking the same.

“We joined forces, thinking we were in danger, at the time, not knowing that she was working with Dobbin.  I discovered that later, by chance.  She doesn’t know I know.”

“And she’ll be waiting at the hotel?”

“Dobbin wants the USB.  She believes we’re collaborating, after telling me she works for MI5, on a different mission involving O’Connell.  She had apparently been undercover as a fellow resident at the block where O’Connell had a flat, and a cat.  The cat, of course, had no idea his owner was a secret agent.  The flat was sparsely furnished and didn’t look lived in, so it may have been a safe house.”

“Wheels within wheels.”

“That’s the nature of the job.  Lies, lies, and more lies, nothing is as it seems, and trust no one.”

“Including you?”

“Including me, but keep an open mind, and try not to shoot me.  I’m as all at sea as you are.  And, just to be clear, I’m not sure I believe Quigley that the information is lost.  People like him, and especially his contact, if he was a journalist, tend to have two copies, just in case.  And the explosion might have killed the messenger, but not the information.  Lesson number one, anything is possible, nothing is impossible, and the truth, it really is stranger than fiction.”

“Great.”

A half-hour later I’d parked the car in a parking lot near Charing Cross station.  The plan, if it could be called that, was for me to go back to the room, and for Jennifer to remain in the foyer, and wait.  If anything went wrong she was to leave and wait for a call.  For all intents and purposes, no one knew of her, except perhaps for Severin and Maury, but I wasn’t expecting them to be lurking in the hotel foyer, waiting for me.

As for Dobbin, that was a different story.  It would depend on how impatient he was in getting information on the whereabouts of the USB, and whether he trusted Jan to find out.

I’d soon find out.

The elevator had three others in it, all of who had disembarked floors below mine.   As the last stepped out and the doors closed, it allayed fears of being attacked before I reached the room.

As the doors closed behind me, the silence of the hallway was working on my nerves, until a few steps towards my room I could hear the hissing of an air conditioning intake, and suddenly the starting up of a vacuum cleaner back in the direction I’d just come.

 A cleaner or….

Remember the training for going into confined spaces…

The room was at the end of the passage, a corner room, with two exits after exiting the front door.  I thought about knocking, but, it was my room too, so I used the key and went in.

Lying tied up on the bed was a very dead Maury, three shots to the heart.

And, over the sound of my heart beating very loudly, I could hear the sound of people out in the corridor, followed by pounding on the door.

Then, “Police.”

A second or two after that the door crashed open and six men came into the room, brandishing weapons and shouting for me to get on the floor and show my hands or I would be shot,”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 38/39

Days 38 and 39 – Write a story that is difficult to write

I am trying to create a narrative that includes what I believe to be my grandmother’s manner

…

Now, it was back to cruising, heading for Toulon, and then Naples, and I’d spent a few hours on deck watching the Mediterranean go by, as well as other ships, and a fair number of naval vessels.

It was going to get very hot if war broke out, with the dreadnoughts and battleships facing off against each other.  It would make Nelson’s battle of Trafalgar look very tame indeed.

There was another chair near, and I heard it scrape softly across the floor, then stop.  I glanced over at the girl as she sat down.  She had a magazine in hand, perhaps bought at the railway station to read on the train down to Tilbury.  She glanced around, taking in the situation and appeared to have also assessed the relative peacefulness of the corner.

“Miss Rose, oops, sorry, Rosalie.”

She frowned, then smiled, perhaps accepting that my upbringing would get in the way for a while yet.  We had already decided on first names, though I usually forgot, and manners slipped in, adding a Miss before it.  I should have correctly addressed her as Miss Willshire, but that seemed too formal.

“Privately, like this, I shall call you David.”

“Of course, and I agree with you.  I believe we can blame Debrett’s for the naming protocol.”

She looked puzzled

“Sorry, again.  There’s a book issued every year with all the titled people from the king down.  My father is in there, and unfortunately, so am I.”

“I’ll have to find one.  What does it say about you?”

“Third son, no chance of becoming the Duke, and unmarried.  I don’t know why that would be significant.”

She smiled.  Clearly, she knew something I didn’t.  She said, with a half grin, “To some, you would make an excellent match.  I’m sure there are mothers with plans for their daughters to marry into nobility.  Even some on this ship.”

Again, there was that knowing expression, and I wondered if any of the other girls had said anything.  I hoped I wasn’t giving them or anyone else the wrong impression.

“The eligibles would be in first class.  It’s why I travel second. I’m not worth anything, despite having a job.  Bills to pay, lifestyle to maintain, it’s ridiculous that I have to maintain a standard so the rest of the family can keep up appearances.  You’re lucky.  I understand your father was a well-respected businessman.”

“He was.  Builder of mostly terraces, I think.  Sometimes he worked on specific public buildings.  There’s stonework of his on display in Abergavenny.  I mean to go there one day and see it.”

“Unlike my family, who have no claim to have created a lasting reminder of our existence.”  It often bothered me that we were not making a difference, not in a manner that anyone in a hundred years would look back and see evidence of it.

“What do your parents think of you going to Australia, of all places?”

“My father died about six years back, and my mother, five.  But if they were alive, perhaps they would be a little pensive.  But I am going to visit my uncle’s son, Henry, and his daughter Emma, who is two years older than me.  We have been corresponding for quite some years, and she suggested I might come out, especially now I’m an orphan, of sorts.”

“No brothers and sisters?”

“I would have had another older brother, but he died 17 months after being born.  I know my mother took a while to get over that.  And father, given he was a son.”

It was not spoken with rancour, but there was that undercurrent of how different boys were treated.

“But I have a few stepbrothers and sisters, so I’m not alone.  I get to see them as well as my uncles and aunts from time to time.  But enough about me, you are far more interesting.  Tell me about your family.”

I would have said the opposite was true, but I gave her my usual spiel without glorifying the aristocracy like my brothers would, without making it sound better or worse and with sensitivity to others’ situations.  Not everyone was lucky to have parents like mine; if it could be said, being mired in tradition and expectation was a blessing.

It was clear to me she was not rich but comfortable.  She had the education and manners of a girl who went to decent schools.  She spoke well and was knowledgeable enough to hold her own in a conversation.  She was, however, a little shy or perhaps reserved, and I found that a quality rather than a problem.

And best of all, she made pleasant company of the sort that a companionable silence would not be seen as awkward.

“So,” she said at the end of it, “all children are the same. They just live in different houses.”

“I wish I could say that for some of the children in first class.  Proper little spoilt brats they are.”

I could see from her expression that she agreed but remained silent on the subject.  Those children had nannies travelling with them, but that didn’t guarantee obedience.  In our class, there were no nannies, and the mother coped.  By and large, they were well behaved, and now that the ship school had kicked in, there weren’t so many running around.

“They probably don’t get to see their parents as often,” she said, “with nannies and servants looking after them.  I was lucky my nanny cared, as did the domestic staff.  My father was away for business a lot, but my mother was always there.

“Then you were indeed lucky.  I’m not sure how I would categorise my experience other than that a lot of it was at boarding school.  My brothers loved it.  I hated it.”

“And yet here you are, and a lawyer as well.  My father always talked of sending me to University, but he died before I was of age, and my mother, bless her soul, didn’t believe in girls getting higher education, that our world was one of running a house and having children.  Can’t say the idea of that has appealed to me, but I’m sure that’s where I’ll end up, like it or lump it.”

“Do you work?”

A momentary flash of the eyes.  “Of course.  I have to support myself.  I have a great job in the drapery department at a large store in Gillingham.  Slade and Sons.  They allowed me to live there after my mother died, and the house we had wasn’t ours, so I couldn’t live there.  I’ve been at Gillingham almost since I turned sixteen.  I have been working towards becoming a milliner.”

Clearly, she could see that as a man, I had no idea what she was talking about.

“I design and make hats for ladies, and sometimes they let me work on dresses.  I make all my own.”

For a confessed shop girl, she was so much more.  It explained the hat.  It explained her undeniable elegance, manner and self-confidence.

“Lady Penelope would absolutely love that blue hat you were wearing the day we boarded the ship.  It certainly stood out.”

She smiled.  “Thank you.”

Lady Penelope would like her dresses, too. “Perhaps if I give you an address, you could send a card.  I’m sure Lady Penelope would like to see what you can do for her.  She would definitely like your style.”

Understated but elegant, and yet I was sure Penelope would like to have a personal dress maker that wasn’t trying too hard to make a statement, the gist of her rant the last time she visited and bent my ear on a subject, there was no proper answer I could give to what I discovered was a rhetorical question.

I could see that the magazine she brought with her was about fashion.

“Again, thank you.  It is something I intend to explore when I go home.”

A steward appeared, and we ordered drinks.  I politely requested her to let me pay, but not in any way an obligation on her part for recompense.  I had an arrangement my father had set up, and why not lean on his generosity?

She accepted graciously, but I knew she would find a way to repay me.  It was going to make the voyage all the more interesting.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

If I only had one day to stop over in – Dublin – what would I do?

One Day in Dublin? There’s Only One Place to Start.

You have a single day. A fleeting stopover in a city with a thousand stories. You want it to be memorable, not a whirlwind of checklist tourism. You want to feel Dublin, not just see it.

Forget the rush. Forget trying to cram in ten sights. There is one anchor point that will give you the essence of the city—its history, its soul, its stunning beauty—and set the perfect tone for everything else you might discover.

That place is Trinity College Dublin. And more specifically, the Old Library and the Book of Kells.

Why This? It’s Not Just a Library.

Standing in the heart of the 16th-century college, you’re stepping into the very womb of Dublin’s intellectual and cultural identity. This is where Jonathan Swift, Oscar Wilde, and Samuel Beckett walked. But the true magic is the Long Room.

You walk through a hushed, majestic corridor. Two levels of dark oak bookshelves stretch 65 meters before you, holding over 200,000 of the library’s oldest volumes. The vaulted ceiling, the marble busts of philosophers, the scent of aged paper—it’s a scene of profound, cinematic beauty that feels both ancient and alive. It’s one of the most breathtaking rooms in the world, and it’s right here in the middle of a bustling city.

And at the very heart of it, the centrepiece: the Book of Kells. This isn’t just an old book. It’s a 9th-century masterpiece of insular art, a luminous gospel where every page is an explosion of intricate symbols, mythic beasts, and dazzling swirls of colour. Seeing it in person—the sheer artistry and devotion it represents—connects you to an Ireland of monks and scholars, a profound creative spirit that has endured through centuries.

How to Make That Day Unforgettable:

  1. Go First Thing (Book Online!): Get your timed ticket for the Book of Kells exhibition and the Old Library for as soon as it opens (usually 9:30/10 AM). This is non-negotiable for a one-day visit. Do not wait in line. Book in advance on the Trinity College website.
  2. Take Your Time (90 Minutes): Don’t rush. Read the panels explaining the Book of Kells’ history. Stand in the middle of the Long Room and just breathe. Find the oldest book in Ireland (the Book of Durrow). Let the awe sink in.
  3. Wander the Grounds: After your library visit, stroll through the beautiful, tranquil Trinity College grounds. See the beautiful Campanile bell tower, the quieter Parliament Square, and the serene Fellows’ Square. It’s a peaceful, green oasis that feels worlds away from the city outside.
  4. Let It Anchor Your Day: From here, you are perfectly positioned. The college borders Grafton Street (for shopping and buskers) and the Temple Bar area (for cobblestones, galleries, and a true taste of the city’s vibrant energy). Have your classic Irish coffee or a pint in a pub nearby, but you’ll do it with the weight and wonder of Irish history fresh in your mind.

The Real Secret:

This experience gives you context. Yes, you’ll see the Guinness Storehouse or the Guinness Storehouse, but you’ll understand the why. Dublin’s famously literary pub culture, its love of debate and storytelling, its resilience—it all grows from roots like those found in the Old Library. You’ll step out onto the street not just having seen a famous attraction, but having connected with the founding story of the city itself.

So, for your one precious day: Do not miss the Old Library. See the Book of Kells. Stand in the Long Room.

It’s the one place that turns a stopover into a story you’ll carry home. It’s the key that unlocks the rest of your day, and the real meaning of Dublin.

P.S. – Afterward, find a traditional pub with a roaring fire (like The Palace Bar on Fleet Street, a Trinity favourite). Order a simple half-pint of Guinness, sit quietly, and listen to the murmur of conversation. You’ll hear echoes of every writer, scholar, and ordinary Dubliner who ever walked out of those library doors. That’s your memorable day, complete.

What I learned about writing – Writers must read, or perhaps it should be, writers should read.

Why?

Well, it is said that you cannot become a quarterback if you have not seen what a quarterback does during a game of gridiron.

And whilst a writer can be good at writing, it helps to have read the sort of books that you intend to write to get some idea of what publishers are looking for.

Certainly, if you are writing nonfiction, there’s definitely going to be a great deal of reading in store.

I actually have a library of books, about three thousand of them, not all of the genre that I choose to write, but certainly, a good cross-section to lay the groundwork of the structure of the stories and how they will play out.

There is a formula behind writing a Mills and Boon romance book.

Of course, I’ve tried to write one, but my usual tendency to drift into thriller land gets me in the end, and I have a romance for half the book, and then all the thriller trimmings to bring it home.

I also have a penchant for writing spy stories, and my shelves are filled with the usual suspects, Charles Cummins, John LeCarre, and Len Deighton, just to name a few. I particularly like those of Len Deighton.

And everyone can see the influence James Patterson and Clive Cussler have had on my writing. If only I were half as good as they are…

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction.  He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down.  He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup.  I stepped to the other side and so did he.  It was one of those situations.  Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic.  I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone.  I shrugged and looked at my watch.  It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk?  I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station.  What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’.  I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light.  As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini.  I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car.  It was that sort of car.  I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him.  I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on.  The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter.   Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure.  I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot.  A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring.  I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road.  I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar.   It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did.  There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me.  It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me.  As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man.  He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter.  I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in.  I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

If I only had one day to stop over in – Prague – what would I do?

One‑Day Stopover in Prague? Spend It All at Prague Castle

If you’ve only got a single day to soak up the magic of the Czech capital, there’s one place that will give you a crash‑course in history, architecture, and breathtaking views—all in one unforgettable stop.

Why Prague Castle is the Ultimate One‑Day Highlight

What you getHow it fits a tight schedule
A panoramic cityscape – From the castle’s highest towers you can see the Vltava River snaking through the red‑tiled roofs, the spires of St. Vitus, and the iconic Charles Bridge.Compact “must‑see” circuit – The main attractions (St. Vitus Cathedral, Old Royal Palace, Golden Lane) are within a 15‑minute walk of each other.
Layers of history – From a 9th‑century wooden fort to Habsburg‑era palaces, you’ll walk through more than a thousand years of Czech story in a couple of hours.Flexible timing – Even a 2‑hour “quick tour” feels complete; a deeper dive can stretch to 4‑5 hours if you have the time.
Iconic photo‑ops – Sunset over the city, the gilded Saint George statue, the winding golden lane – Instagram‑ready moments at every turn.Easy access – A short tram ride (or a 20‑minute walk from the Old Town) drops you right at the main gate; the castle is free to explore the courtyards, and ticketed sections are clearly marked.
Café culture – The castle grounds host charming cafés where you can sip a Czech “kafe” while the city bustles below.No language barrier – Audio guides in English (and many other languages) are available at the ticket windows, so you won’t miss a thing.

How to Make the Most of Your Castle Visit

1. Start Early – Get the Tram (Line 22) to “Pražský hrad”

The first tram out of Old Town Square (stop “Staroměstská”) arrives at the castle gates by 9 am. Beat the tourist crowds and the midday heat, and you’ll have the terrace of St. Vitus Cathedral all to yourself for that perfect sunrise shot.

2. Grab a Fast‑Pass Ticket (or Skip‑the‑Line App)

If you’re travelling in peak season (May‑September), buy a “Castle Pass” online before you land. It gives you priority entry to the St. Vitus Cathedral, Old Royal Palace, and Golden Lane—the three “must‑see” interiors. The pass costs about €12 and saves you 30‑45 minutes of waiting.

3. Follow the “Three‑Spot Circuit”

SpotTime NeededWhat to Spot
St. Vitus Cathedral30–45 minGothic spires, the stunning Astronomical Clock (different from the one in the Old Town), the royal tombs.
Old Royal Palace & Vladislav Hall30 minThe grand hall where coronations once took place; a glimpse of medieval frescoes.
Golden Lane20 minColorful tiny houses that once housed castle guards and later Alphonse Mucha’s studio.

Tip: Walk the circuit clockwise. It follows the natural flow of the historic layout and keeps you moving forward without backtracking.

4. Take a Break at Café Mlejnice (or the Castle’s “Cafe Kavárna”)

Around noon, let the castle’s own café treat you to a warm bowl of goulash with dumplings or a simple Czech pastry. Pair it with a mug of locally roasted coffee while you watch the city spread out below.

5. **Don’t Miss the Sunset from Rudolfinum Tower

If your schedule allows, stay until the late afternoon. The Rudolfinum Tower (a short 10‑minute walk from the main gate) offers a 360° view that transforms the city into a golden‑glow canvas—ideal for that final, memory‑making photo.

Quick Logistics Cheat Sheet

ItemDetail
Opening HoursCastle grounds 24 h; ticketed sites 9 am–5 pm (last entry 4:30 pm).
Entry FeeFree for the courtyards; €10–€12 for the “combined ticket.”
Getting ThereTram 22 (or 20) from Old Town → “Pražský hrad.” Walking distance from the Charles Bridge (≈20 min).
What to WearComfortable shoes (cobblestones), light rain jacket (prague weather is unpredictable), a small day‑pack (no large bags allowed in some interiors).
Nearby ToiletsPublic WC at the “Růžový palác” (Rose Palace) near the main entrance – free with ticket.
Kid‑FriendlyThe Golden Lane feels like a storybook; there’s a small kids’ treasure hunt map at the ticket office (free).

The One‑Day Itinerary (All Clock‑Times Approximate)

TimeActivity
08:30Arrive in Prague (airport or train). Grab a coffee and a quick bite at a bakery near the main station.
09:15Tram 22 to “Pražský hrad.”
09:45Enter castle gates, start the Three‑Spot Circuit (St. Vitus → Old Royal Palace → Golden Lane).
12:15Lunch break at the castle café (or a nearby traditional Czech restaurant in Malá Strana).
13:30Walk down the historic Lobkowicz Palace gardens (optional, free) toward the Charles Bridge.
14:30Stroll across the Charles Bridge, snap photos of the statues, and explore the Old Town Square if time permits.
16:00Return to the castle’s Rudolfinum Tower for sunset views.
17:30Head back to the airport/train station via tram 22 (or a taxi if you’re in a hurry).

Pro tip: If your flight departs late in the evening, you can swap the sunset view for a twilight walk along the Vltava’s embankment, enjoying the city lights reflecting on the water.

Wrap‑Up: Why One Spot Beats Ten

A bustling city like Prague tempts you to “see it all,” but a single, well‑chosen landmark can give you the essence of the place without the stress of a rushed checklist. Prague Castle packs history, culture, panoramic scenery, and that palpable sense of being at the heart of Europe—all in one compact, walkable area.

So, when your itinerary shrinks to a single day, set your compass for the castle walls, and let the city’s story unfold beneath your feet.

Ready to make your stopover unforgettable?
Book your tram ticket, snag a fast‑pass, and let Prague Castle be the unforgettable centrepiece of your Czech adventure.

Happy travels—and don’t forget to tag your sunrise castle photos with #PragueInADay!

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on.  Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter.  He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing.  Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain.  He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile.  We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it.  Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.

Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster.  We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility.  The car was empty, and no indication where he went.

Certainly not up the road.  It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit.  Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up.  Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly.  “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”  available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence, after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable, calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 38/39

Days 38 and 39 – Write a story that is difficult to write

I am trying to create a narrative that includes what I believe to be my grandmother’s manner

…

Now, it was back to cruising, heading for Toulon, and then Naples, and I’d spent a few hours on deck watching the Mediterranean go by, as well as other ships, and a fair number of naval vessels.

It was going to get very hot if war broke out, with the dreadnoughts and battleships facing off against each other.  It would make Nelson’s battle of Trafalgar look very tame indeed.

There was another chair near, and I heard it scrape softly across the floor, then stop.  I glanced over at the girl as she sat down.  She had a magazine in hand, perhaps bought at the railway station to read on the train down to Tilbury.  She glanced around, taking in the situation and appeared to have also assessed the relative peacefulness of the corner.

“Miss Rose, oops, sorry, Rosalie.”

She frowned, then smiled, perhaps accepting that my upbringing would get in the way for a while yet.  We had already decided on first names, though I usually forgot, and manners slipped in, adding a Miss before it.  I should have correctly addressed her as Miss Willshire, but that seemed too formal.

“Privately, like this, I shall call you David.”

“Of course, and I agree with you.  I believe we can blame Debrett’s for the naming protocol.”

She looked puzzled

“Sorry, again.  There’s a book issued every year with all the titled people from the king down.  My father is in there, and unfortunately, so am I.”

“I’ll have to find one.  What does it say about you?”

“Third son, no chance of becoming the Duke, and unmarried.  I don’t know why that would be significant.”

She smiled.  Clearly, she knew something I didn’t.  She said, with a half grin, “To some, you would make an excellent match.  I’m sure there are mothers with plans for their daughters to marry into nobility.  Even some on this ship.”

Again, there was that knowing expression, and I wondered if any of the other girls had said anything.  I hoped I wasn’t giving them or anyone else the wrong impression.

“The eligibles would be in first class.  It’s why I travel second. I’m not worth anything, despite having a job.  Bills to pay, lifestyle to maintain, it’s ridiculous that I have to maintain a standard so the rest of the family can keep up appearances.  You’re lucky.  I understand your father was a well-respected businessman.”

“He was.  Builder of mostly terraces, I think.  Sometimes he worked on specific public buildings.  There’s stonework of his on display in Abergavenny.  I mean to go there one day and see it.”

“Unlike my family, who have no claim to have created a lasting reminder of our existence.”  It often bothered me that we were not making a difference, not in a manner that anyone in a hundred years would look back and see evidence of it.

“What do your parents think of you going to Australia, of all places?”

“My father died about six years back, and my mother, five.  But if they were alive, perhaps they would be a little pensive.  But I am going to visit my uncle’s son, Henry, and his daughter Emma, who is two years older than me.  We have been corresponding for quite some years, and she suggested I might come out, especially now I’m an orphan, of sorts.”

“No brothers and sisters?”

“I would have had another older brother, but he died 17 months after being born.  I know my mother took a while to get over that.  And father, given he was a son.”

It was not spoken with rancour, but there was that undercurrent of how different boys were treated.

“But I have a few stepbrothers and sisters, so I’m not alone.  I get to see them as well as my uncles and aunts from time to time.  But enough about me, you are far more interesting.  Tell me about your family.”

I would have said the opposite was true, but I gave her my usual spiel without glorifying the aristocracy like my brothers would, without making it sound better or worse and with sensitivity to others’ situations.  Not everyone was lucky to have parents like mine; if it could be said, being mired in tradition and expectation was a blessing.

It was clear to me she was not rich but comfortable.  She had the education and manners of a girl who went to decent schools.  She spoke well and was knowledgeable enough to hold her own in a conversation.  She was, however, a little shy or perhaps reserved, and I found that a quality rather than a problem.

And best of all, she made pleasant company of the sort that a companionable silence would not be seen as awkward.

“So,” she said at the end of it, “all children are the same. They just live in different houses.”

“I wish I could say that for some of the children in first class.  Proper little spoilt brats they are.”

I could see from her expression that she agreed but remained silent on the subject.  Those children had nannies travelling with them, but that didn’t guarantee obedience.  In our class, there were no nannies, and the mother coped.  By and large, they were well behaved, and now that the ship school had kicked in, there weren’t so many running around.

“They probably don’t get to see their parents as often,” she said, “with nannies and servants looking after them.  I was lucky my nanny cared, as did the domestic staff.  My father was away for business a lot, but my mother was always there.

“Then you were indeed lucky.  I’m not sure how I would categorise my experience other than that a lot of it was at boarding school.  My brothers loved it.  I hated it.”

“And yet here you are, and a lawyer as well.  My father always talked of sending me to University, but he died before I was of age, and my mother, bless her soul, didn’t believe in girls getting higher education, that our world was one of running a house and having children.  Can’t say the idea of that has appealed to me, but I’m sure that’s where I’ll end up, like it or lump it.”

“Do you work?”

A momentary flash of the eyes.  “Of course.  I have to support myself.  I have a great job in the drapery department at a large store in Gillingham.  Slade and Sons.  They allowed me to live there after my mother died, and the house we had wasn’t ours, so I couldn’t live there.  I’ve been at Gillingham almost since I turned sixteen.  I have been working towards becoming a milliner.”

Clearly, she could see that as a man, I had no idea what she was talking about.

“I design and make hats for ladies, and sometimes they let me work on dresses.  I make all my own.”

For a confessed shop girl, she was so much more.  It explained the hat.  It explained her undeniable elegance, manner and self-confidence.

“Lady Penelope would absolutely love that blue hat you were wearing the day we boarded the ship.  It certainly stood out.”

She smiled.  “Thank you.”

Lady Penelope would like her dresses, too. “Perhaps if I give you an address, you could send a card.  I’m sure Lady Penelope would like to see what you can do for her.  She would definitely like your style.”

Understated but elegant, and yet I was sure Penelope would like to have a personal dress maker that wasn’t trying too hard to make a statement, the gist of her rant the last time she visited and bent my ear on a subject, there was no proper answer I could give to what I discovered was a rhetorical question.

I could see that the magazine she brought with her was about fashion.

“Again, thank you.  It is something I intend to explore when I go home.”

A steward appeared, and we ordered drinks.  I politely requested her to let me pay, but not in any way an obligation on her part for recompense.  I had an arrangement my father had set up, and why not lean on his generosity?

She accepted graciously, but I knew she would find a way to repay me.  It was going to make the voyage all the more interesting.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

In a word: Angle

We all know this to be an intersection of two lines like a crossroad is at a 90-degree angle

But…

It’s an angle bracket that keeps the shelf up, hopefully with books on it.

Did you know that it was something someone did in order to get something?

She began to angle for an invitation to a party that she would not normally be invited to, or he has angled his answers to the prospective employer in a bid to be more likely to be selected for the position.

It can also refer to a position, or judgement, so that someone might say, try and see it from my angle, or another angle.

Or that it refers to fishing, and the fisherman or woman is known as an angler.

It can be a position from which something is viewed, or in crime parlance, the CSI people will work out the angle of the bullet’s entry do they can locate the position of the shooter.

Angle can refer to people of Germanic origin, such as an Anglo Saxon

And, here’s something even I didn’t know, in Astrology, it is each of the four cardinal points of a chart, from which the first, fourth, seventh, and tenth houses extend anticlockwise respectively.