Category: Writing

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

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

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

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

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

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

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

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

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

“Name of guest, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 42

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

…

A second later the light came on and I was temporarily blinded.

The woman had to be on the other side of the door, and coming into the room, I must have passed her. Her voice sounded quite old, so it must be the mother.

“Turn around, slowly.

I did. By that time my eyes had readjusted, and I could see a woman, still dressed, with what looked to be an Enfield WW1 rifle. Just as dangerous now as it was then, particularly at this close range.

“Mrs Quigley, I presume,” I asked. Remain polite and conversational and keep her from getting nervous.

“Who are you?”

“Sam Jackson.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Why would you presume to think it wasn’t?”

“You’re breaking into my house which means you’re a criminal, and criminals by nature are also liars. Why would I think you any different to the rest?”

Good question. “I knew your son.”

“Which one?”

“Adam.”

“He’s not here. He hasn’t been around since he gallivanted off overseas a few years back.”

“I saw him only a few days ago, in London. Not gallivanting, by the way, but with feet firmly planted on the ground.”

“He’s not here.”

“Do you know where he is?”

She didn’t know he was dead, and I didn’t think it was my business to tell her. That was Dobbin’s job, and I was surprised he hadn’t. Or, I only had her word for it he hadn’t.

“Are you hard of hearing.” Get into the middle of the room.”

I moved slowly into the middle, watching her edge slowly towards the writing desk while keeping the gun aimed at me. If I tried to run for it, and if she was any sort of shot, I’d be dead before I got three, possibly four paces. If I could get a shred of surprise.

I hadn’t seen the phone on the desk, and watched her pick up the receiver, and, with the same hand, started dialing a number.

“Put it down.” Another voice, another woman, coming from the doorway.

Jennifer.

With a gun in hand, pointed at the woman.

“What if I shoot him, or you?”

“You’ll be dead before either scenario happens. Just put it down. I’m not here to shoot anyone if I can help it.”

Of course, this was just like one of those scenes out of a comedic spy film. Guns pointing in all directions.

And, true to form, a click, and a voice. “You put your weapon down.”

He appeared out of the shadows and had the gun pointed straight at Jennifer’s head at very short range.

Adam Quigley, aka O’Connell, and very much alive.

Jennifer dropped her gun, but Adam didn’t take his gun off her.

“Hello Sam. How did you find me?”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As they say in the classics, read on!

…

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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 7

It’s not like you can pull over to the side of the road…

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In space, it’s a little difficult to just suddenly stop.

But, given several hundred thousand kilometers, anything is possible.

Especially when there’s a request to divert to Venus.

You can’t always tell when the ship drops out of cruise speed to what could be considered a dead stop, not that a dead stop is necessarily achievable.

I was down in the mess hall when the call came from the officer of the deck for me to return. I was halfway through a half decent cup of coffee, and had just had the donut delivered.

Both now had to be sacrificed.

I looked out the window into the inky blackness of space and it was difficult to say if we were in idle mode. There was, however, another ship just off the port bow, a old cargo ship that had seen better days, and we both looked like we were drifting together.

I suspect that meant we were keeping station, much the same as we would if we were visiting a planet.

I took the elevator and arrived on the bridge where the captain was in earnest conversation with the chief engineer and chief scientist.

He looked up when he saw me approach.

“Ah, number one, there’s a team waiting down on the transport deck. The Aloysius 5 has some vital equipment and personnel on board for repairs at the mining colony on Venus, and we’ve been diverted to pick them up and take them there post haste.”

“Is the other ship out of commission?”

“A temporary issue with the drive. We’re sending an engineering team over to help with the repairs and will check their progress on the way back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Should be simple, I thought. Take one of the shuttle craft over, load up, drop the engineers, get back, head for Venus, about 5 hours from our current position. Much the same as a pleasant drive in the country.

And I needed more shuttle time.

In the elevator I was joined by one of the security staff, a gung-ho type lieutenant named Andrews. A man always looking for trouble, the sort who would shoot first and ask questions later.

Maybe it was not going to be a pleasant outing after all.

…

© Charles Heath 2021

The 2am Rant: We are taught not to be selfish, but…

Today I decided to take some time out and read a few blogs, to see what the rest of the world is doing leading up to CampNaNoWriMo, and sometimes read some news that’s usually a few days old, not that I’m complaining.

And still working on the James Bondish piece that set my mind on fire.  Last I heard, he has almost completed a successful, almost suicide, mission.  There’s just a small matter of a rebel helicopter with air-to-air missiles trying to shoot down the escape plane.

I try to keep away from the news if it’s possible, but it comes at you from everywhere.  My browser somehow decided to allow notifications and every few minutes a little popout slides out from the bottom right corner and tells me what’s gone wrong.

Never any good news by the way.

And yes, I have Windows 10, but I can’t be bothered reading the manual to find out how to stop them.  Maybe, subconsciously, I don’t.

I never thought one man could generate so many headlines.  We had one, given the nickname, the human headline, but Trump, he is in a class of his own.

I used to like watching him on The Apprentice, believe it or not.

But again I digress…

I saw the word selfish popup in a number of posts, and it reminded me that, at times writers have to be.  There are only so many hours in a day, and after emails, blogs, reading, news, life, there’s very little time left to write.

So, we need to be selfish at those times.  I am because when I sit down to write, there shouldn’t be any distractions.  As a writer, I’m not seeking popularity, maybe one day that will come, but I’m in this writing thing because I have stories to tell and I want to get them down.  Nobody may ever read them, I may never rise above mediocrity, but I am doing something I love, and very few of us out there can say that unequivocally.

Most of us have a day job or something else that consumes a great deal of our time.

Oh to be a successful author like James Patterson?  But how does he do it?  I guess it comes down to hard work, and a little bit of luck.

And maybe, one day, if I work hard enough, some of it might come my way.

What I learned about writing – Genealogy can provide interesting characters

I have seen this television program once or twice, where a television personality digs into their past, and sometimes they discover they had famous, or sometimes infamous, relatives.

I don’t think I would be so lucky, or unlucky as the case may be.

But, to be honest, I haven’t really been interested in digging into the past.

On the other hand, my older brother has a keen interest in genealogy in general, borne from a desire to find out more about our family tree.

And he has gone back to the 1600s, for the relatives who came out from England, and no, they have no transported convicts, or at least he’s not saying.

Genealogy is a rather fascinating subject, and I’ve discovered that it is taught in university as a degree.  My brother has one now. 

What I didn’t realise is that I’ve been playing with it for years because in writing what might be called sagas, you need to create your own set of mythical families, and then trace to forebears back in time.

I have one novel I’m writing that has required a family tree, and recently another for a story that required starting with a character who participated in the Eureka Stockade.  We had to create parents, a migration from England to Australia, and then construct a family tree through to today, so we could write a story from the perspective of a fourth-generation girl at school doing a school project.

If that sounds complicated, believe me, it is.  But from my granddaughter, who came up with the idea, she is very excited about it.

Much better than sitting in front of a computer playing games or a tv watching cartoons.

But once again I digress…

I have found a lot of genealogy stuff that my mother had been working on, and I’m taking it to my brother, and at the same time, l will get the latest instalment on our family.

So far, I’ve learned that I come from a combination of British relatives on both my mother’s and father’s side, the most recent being my father’s mother, who was born in England, and German from my mother’s side, her surname being Auhl.

No doubt, and with a great deal of irony, my relatives probably fought against each other in two world wars.

I’m sure more will be revealed on Wednesday.

But the more I learn, the more I feel inclined to create a fictionalised history with my family members as characters in the story.  At the moment, a biographical account of the family would be reasonably boring since, as yet, no one notorious had been discovered.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 253

Day 253 – Writing is hard work

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Why Writing is the Hardest (and Noblest) Work in the World

“Writing is the hardest work in the world… writing is harder, lonelier and nobler and more exciting!”  – Harlan Ellison

Few quotes capture the paradoxical nature of the writing life as well as this one. To the outside observer, writing looks deceptively simple. It is just a person sitting at a desk, tapping at a keyboard or moving a pen across paper. No heavy lifting, no hazardous machinery, no immediate physical exhaustion.

Yet, any writer—from the novelist crafting a sweeping epic to the copywriter drafting a landing page—knows the truth: Writing is agonising. It is a profound psychological wrestling match, a solitary confinement of the mind, and simultaneously, one of the most thrilling endeavors a human being can undertake.

Why is writing the hardest work in the world? And more importantly, why do we keep doing it? Let’s break down the beautiful, brutal reality of the craft.

1. Harder: The Agony of the Blank Page

Why is writing harder than physical labour? Because physical labor has a beginning, a middle, and an end. You dig a ditch, and when the sun goes down, the ditch is there. You feel a satisfying ache of completion.

Writing offers no such guarantees. You can stare at a blank white screen for four hours, type three sentences, delete all of them, and end the day with less than nothing. You are pulling something entirely out of the ether—translating abstract thoughts, emotions, and half-formed concepts into a linear sequence of universally understood symbols (words).

It is an act of creation from absolute void. As the late writer Gene Fowler famously put it: “Writing is easy. You just stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.”

2. Lonelier: The Solitary Confinement of the Mind

Most jobs involve collaboration, socialisation, and external feedback. Even remote work usually includes Zoom calls, Slack messages, and team updates.

Writing, however, is intensely, ruthlessly solitary. You cannot write a book, an essay, or even a deeply resonant blog post by committee. Ideas are forged in silence. The heavy lifting of editing, pacing, and structuring takes place in the quiet echo chamber of your own skull.

Worse still is the isolation of doubt. When you are stuck in the middle of a messy first draft, you cannot turn to a coworker and ask, “Does this make sense?” You are the creator, the critic, the taskmaster, and the audience, all rolled into one. That profound isolation is why so many writers lean into eccentric habits or struggle with imposter syndrome—you spend hours inside your own head, and eventually, the walls start closing in.

3. Nobbler: The Pursuit of Truth and Connection

If writing is so difficult and lonely, why don’t we all just quit? Because of the noble element.

Writing matters because it is an act of extreme empathy. When you write, you are attempting to bridge the gap between two isolated human consciousnesses. You take your specific, subjective experiences of joy, grief, confusion, and wonder, and you distil them into ink and pixels so that a stranger, sitting hundreds of miles away and years in the future, can read them and say: “I thought I was the only one who felt that way.”

Writing immortalizes ideas. It challenges injustice, preserves history, heals trauma, and sparks revolutions. To put words on a page with the intent to move, educate, or inspire another human being is a sacred trust. It elevates the mundane to the meaningful.

4. More Exciting: The Rush of Discovery

And finally, there is the excitement—the addictive, elusive high that keeps every writer coming back to the desk, morning after morning.

Writing is an adventure of discovery. Great writers often say that they don’t write to know what they think; they write in order to find out what they think.

There are moments—rare, magical moments—when the friction stops. The cursor flies across the screen, the right metaphors seem to assemble themselves, and you surprise even yourself. You unlock a door in your subconscious that you didn’t know was locked. You realise, mid-sentence, the true point of the piece you’ve been struggling with for a week.

That rush of sudden clarity, that lightning-strike moment of creative flow, is unlike anything else in the world. It is the carrot at the end of the psychological stick that makes all the agony worthwhile.

The Verdict: Embrace the Struggle

If you are a writer experiencing the crushing weight of a difficult draft, take heart. The struggle is not a sign that you are failing; the struggle is the job.

Writing is the hardest work in the world. It is supposed to stretch you, break you down, and rebuild you. But in doing so, it offers a rare kind of nobility and an unmatched thrill.

So, sit back down at the desk. Stare at the blank page. Let the drops of blood form on your forehead—because on the other side of that blank space lies a connection waiting to be made.

Are you currently battling a blank page, or are you chasing the high of a breakthrough? Let’s talk about the writing struggle in the comments below!

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

One Day in Lisbon: The One Place You Must Visit

So, you’ve got a layover in Lisbon—just one day to dip your toes into the magic of Portugal’s sun-drenched capital. Maybe you’re en route to somewhere else, or perhaps it’s a quick escape squeezed between commitments. Whatever the reason, you’re here now, with 24 hours to uncover a piece of Lisbon’s soul. The city is bursting with charm—colourful tiled buildings, steep hills, and the scent of pastéis de nata around every corner. But with limited time, where do you go to make that single day truly unforgettable?

Lisbon offers countless gems, from the historic Belém Tower to the lively streets of Alfama. Yet, if I had to choose one place that captures the essence of Lisbon—its beauty, its spirit, and its heartbeat—it would be Miradouro da Senhora do Monte.

Why This Spot?

Perched on one of Lisbon’s highest hills in the Graça neighbourhood, Miradouro da Senhora do Monte is more than just a viewpoint—it’s an experience. While other miradouros (viewpoints) like Portas do Sol or São Pedro de Alcântara are popular, this one feels like a local secret. It offers a breathtaking, panoramic vista of the entire city: the red rooftops cascading toward the Tagus River, the majestic São Jorge Castle, and the iconic 25 de Abril Bridge stretching into the distance. It’s peaceful, often less crowded, and provides a moment of quiet awe amidst a bustling city.

Making Your Day Memorable

Start your morning here. Grab a coffee and a fresh pastel de nata from a nearby bakery, find a spot on the wall, and watch Lisbon wake up. The soft morning light paints the city in golden hues, and you’ll hear the distant sounds of trams clattering and church bells ringing. It’s the perfect introduction to Lisbon’s laid-back yet vibrant vibe.

From there, wander through Graça’s cobbled streets, explore the historic Alfama district (just a short walk downhill), and maybe catch a live Fado performance later in the day. But it’s that serene moment at Miradouro da Senhora do Monte that will stick with you—the feeling of being on top of the world, with all of Lisbon spread out at your feet.

A Tip for the Journey

Wear comfortable shoes—Lisbon’s hills are no joke! And don’t rush. The beauty of a one-day stopover is in savouring small moments. Whether you’re travelling solo, with a partner, or with friends, this viewpoint offers a slice of Lisbon’s magic that’s both intimate and grand.

So, if you have just one day in Lisbon, make your way to Miradouro da Senhora do Monte. Let the view steal your breath, and let Lisbon steal your heart. Até logo, and safe travels

In a word: Drink

Everyone loves a drink, and that interesting expression, ‘what’s your poison’ often resonates at a bar when among friends.

The thing is, we are supposed to know what our friends drink, me, for instance, I like beer, preferably in a bottle and not local mass-produced brew if I can avoid it.

But, some like white wine, no preference to type, some like cocktails like a Manhattan, or a Long Island Iced Tea, very dangerous if made correctly which quite often it isn’t, or champagne, the real thing not just leftover wine carbonated and given a name like ‘sparkling …’ something.

Every now and then we need to have more than one drink, and that desire is fuelled by our emotions.  A celebration, it’s two or three, just enough to allow the euphoria to seep in.  A tragedy of any sort means more than a few, usually prefixed with a statement like, ‘I need to get hammered’, but not literally.

Perhaps that’s why it’s called drowning our sorrows.

Of course, there are other meanings for the word ‘drink’ and often poets, and romance novelists will refer to a phrase such as ‘drink in…’ where it may refer to a loving gaze or a look of adulation.  You could also, at a stretch, drink in the sight of a magnificent landscape.

Then, at the end of that drinking session, good or bad, where you may have had the opportunity to drink in looks or locations, you might, if you didn’t play your cards right, get thrown in the drink.

Not in the glass, that’s a bit small, but it means a much larger body of water such as a pool, a lake, or the ocean.

And lastly, but probably not the only context for the word ‘drink’, it could be said you were ‘driven to drink’, and I don’t mean by another drinker to the hotel, bar, restaurant or party.

Driven to drink means you blame someone else for your recently acquired desire to drink as much as you can so that it blots out something or someone.

I’m officially blaming my dog for my drinking problem.  He drove me to drink.

And that’s all I have to say about it.

Pour me another drink, will you?

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


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

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

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

This time, however, there is more at stake.

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

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

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

…

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