Category: Writing

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

In a word: Light

Yes, I see the lighthouse, what’s it doing all the way out there?  The thing is, these places are sometimes so remote, I start thinking I should rent one for 6 months and then, without any distractions, I’ll get the blasted book finished.

Until there’s a shipwreck, of course!

Light is of course light, duh.  Turn on the switch and let there be light.

Hang on, didn’t someone else say that, millennia ago?  Someone famous?  It’s on the tip of my tongue.

No! It’s not cyanide…

So, whilst we need it to see everything, it has another meaning…

My, that’s a light load your carrying today, which means not very heavy.

Or, that’s a light-coloured jumper, which means pale.

Oh, and did you light the fire?

And, after you light the fire, do you light out to a safe haven in light traffic because really it was arson, and you got a light sentence the last time enabling you to do it again.

If you are trying to rob someone, then it was a kilo light.

And after a long hard struggle, did you light upon the correct answer?

This is not to be confused with another similar word, lite.

It seems this is only used for describing low-calorie drinks and food, such as lite beer, which seems to me to be a lazy way of not using light

Still, there’s not much other use of the word except as a suffix -lite, but then you’d have to mention -lyte as well.

The message here – just use the damn word light and be done with it.

 

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 28

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

This is where the war becomes real.

And the whole thing is replayed in his mind, to the point where…

Yes, and no.

He wakes in a hospital tent, a shadowy figure that is one of the nurses.

It’s odd, but I had written the basis of this part of the story right after he and Louise had their parting kiss on the Orama in Melbourne.  She has to disembark, he has to go to Queensland, and when either of them could have made excuses, neither did.

It was quite simple, sometime in the future, they would find each other if they were meant to be together.

After those last few days before departing for Egypt with Margaret, he knows who is the one for him, and although he doesn’t find her, curiously, he is always two steps behind, chasing a shadow; it is that belief that keeps him going, that last parting kiss that tells him he has to survive.

The shadow, a familiar face.

But you will have to read the story to find out who…

…

1880 words, for a total of 47150 words.

Writing about writing a book – Day 32

I used to have these strange ideas about upper management, and in some cases, how they lived in offices up in the clouds.

The perks, I guess, of making it to the top, a combination, sometimes, of good luck and in others hard work.

Perhaps I make too much of it, but it is only an observation from someone who never quite made it to the top of the pile.  Alas, I didn’t have that killer instinct, nor the desire to use others on my way to the top.

But, those notions stuck with me and had found their way into this story.

It also introduces a new character, one that has an idea he might be in trouble though not quite why.

…

I stopped for a moment to take in the vista   It was like stepping into a different world.  Everything was new, clean and fresh.  Strategically placed flowers, carpets deep piled and clean, expensive landscape paintings adorned the walls, and the support staff tucked away on various nooks and crannies, usually smiling and happy.  And why not?  They were far, far away from the problematic day to day running of the company.  Here the tea, coffee, and sugar didn’t come from tiny paper packets and taste like floor sweepings.

Merrilyn, Aitchison’s personal assistant, had the gift of being able to dress to suit the weather or mood.  This particular day, the bright colors were in deference to the coming of spring.  Added to this was her impeccable manner and attitude.  It was hard to believe she was still in her early twenties.

She smiled as I turned the corner and headed towards Aitchison’s office, in a manner that infused all who came near her with equal joy and enthusiasm.  It brightened my morning.

“How do you di it?” I asked.  It was a standard question.

“Do what?”  It was the standard reply.

“Manage to look so good on a Monday morning.”

“It’s called grooming, Bill.  “What can we do for you?”

“Mr. Aitchison wishes to see me.  Perhaps it will finally be a promotion to these lofty heights.”

“There’s a long queue before you.”

“Sad, but true.”  I shrugged.  “But you never know. I live in hope if only to be near you.”

She smiled again.  “Perhaps one day.”  Then, in an instant, she switched to somber, efficient, business mode, “Go on in.  I’m sure he’s expecting you.”

I knocked on his door, waited for the muffled “Enter”, and went in.

Thick carpet, velvet wallpaper, mahogany furniture, the best examples of comfortable easy chairs arranged around a coffee table, the office was one of the perks of the job.  There was a carefully hidden private bar somewhere in the room, and the subject of much lower floor speculation.  Everyone who lived on the lower floors aspired to this level of luxury and recognition of personal achievement.

He pointed to the chair in front of his desk without looking up from the file he was reading.  On his desk were two glasses and a bottle of Scotch.  He leaned forward, took a sip out of one, and then returned his original position, leaning back as far as the large, leather-covered and padded seat would let him.  He looked agitated, far from his usual self-assured and calm demeanor.

He was one of the very few in the executive who frequently came down to visit us, and always had an amicable manner, whether the news was good or bad.  That amiable manner was missing this morning, replaced by something I’d not seen in him before.

Or in anyone else for a long, long time.  Fear.

He looked up, took his reading glasses off and placed them carefully on the desk.  “Did Benton tell you what happened?”  His tone was constricted, tinged with worry.  Yes.  The eyes gave it away.  I’d seen the look before, in a momentary flash, a detail in memory rising to the surface.

“Yes.  Briefly.  He said it was something to do with Richardson.  Rather melodramatic to be suiciding in his office, or words to that effect.”

“Well, the police might be calling it a suicide, and that fool Benton would like it to be suicide, but in my opinion, it’s a case of murder.”  He emptied the glass and poured another.  The rim of the bottle rattled on the rim of the glass.  He was shaking and trying to keep it under control.  “He’s dead.  Very dead.”

It took a few moments before I realized the importance of his statement.  Dead was serious, very dead was very serious.

“How?”  My voice moved up one octave.  I wondered where this was heading.  Why he was telling me?

“One shot to the head.  He was supposedly holding the gun when they found him, making it look a perfectly normal suicide.”

I quickly reviewed the rest of what I knew about Richardson, albeit second hand.

His wife had walked out on him.  He spent a few months trying to climb into the bottle, came out of it fairly well, and had recently struck up a friendship with one of the many middle-aged women who worked in the office.  Speculation had it she was already married.  It was not a course I would take in similar circumstances, but he was closer to a number of them than most.  Suicide seemed a bit out of character.

Was Aitchison also suggesting that might be the case?

Or did he know something about Richardson the rest of us didn’t?

“He didn’t seem the type,” I said, expecting a rebuke.  I was not sure if Aitchison was asking for an opinion.

“No he was not, and I agree with you.  Everyone seems to have thrown caution to the wind, and want this case settled, and the police out of here.  But, not at the expense of a good man’s name.”

“So, I take it you think otherwise?”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2025

A 2am Rant: Almost nonsensical descriptions we sometimes use without thinking

I found this explanation on the internet which seems to sum up what odd phrases like ‘you can’t judge a book by its cover’ mean: ‘a word or phrase used in a non-literal sense for rhetorical or vivid effect.’

We, as writers, are constantly reminded that we should not use these in our writing because most people might not understand their use.

But, being that unconventional, never to be told, type, I honestly think that it sometimes adds a degree of whimsy to the story.

I remember some years ago when I working with a Russian chap who’d not been in the country very long, and though he had a reasonable use of English, was not quite up with our figures of speech.

And made me realize when he kept asking me what they meant, just how many I used in everyday conversation.

Most of these figures of speech use descriptions that do not necessarily match the word being described, such as ‘I dance like I have two left feet’.

And that pretty much sums up how good I can dance.  But …

‘Like a bat out of hell’, not sure how this got into the vernacular, but it means to get the hell out of dodge quickly.  Hang on, that’s another saying, American, and the way Dodge city was in western American folklore, if you irritated a gunslinger, then best be on your way, fast.

Otherwise, yes, you guessed it, you were at the end of another saying, you would get a one-way ticket to boot hill.  In other words, the cemetery.

And while I’m digressing, again, Yul Brynner made a trip to boot hill very memorable in The Magnificent Seven.

Then,

‘Like a bull in a China shop’, describes a toddler let loose

‘More front than Myers’, as my mother used to say, but in context, Myers is the Australian version of the English Selfridges or Harrods or Paris Galleries Lafayette.  It refers to the width of street frontage of the stores

‘As mad as a hatter’, though not necessarily of the millinery kind, but, well, you can guess

‘As nutty as a fruitcake’, provided your fruitcake has nuts in it

You can see, if you get the references, they are somewhat apt, and, yes, they sometimes creep into my stories.

Writing a book in 365 days – 315

Day 315

Writing exercise – For once, they slept right through the air raid siren

…

For forty days and forty nights, it was not a replay of the flood that took Noah on a voyage to save the world’s animals, but a constant barrage of drones, missiles and artillery fire.

The anti-missile, anti-drone, anti-artillery fire mechanisms had been partially destroyed in the first wave of day one, and they’d been struggling ever since.

And it was not as if they were not giving as bad as they received.  Both countries were reeling from the constant barrage.

Whole cities were destroyed, vital infrastructure was badly damaged, and some of it was beyond repair.

No one knew when it was going to stop, and on the dawn of the forty-first day, there was a strange sound coming from above the bunker, where tens of thousands of frightened civilians had made a temporary home for themselves.

That strange sound?  Silence.

Of course, the enemy had done this before, stopping the barrage for a few hours, lulling them into a false sense of safety, the people going up into the daylight, only to have bombs rain down on them.

It was a cruel trick and one that would not be forgotten.  And this time, because of that experience, no one had any inclination to go outside.  Everyone down in the bunker knew someone in the group of over a thousand who had been killed.

The commanding officer of the facility and the five thousand soldiers at his disposal sat at the top of the long table in the conference room, looking at a wall-sized screen that showed a map of the battle lines and the approximate positions of enemy guns, drones and missile launching sites.

It was a state of utter destruction.

It was a vibrant, liveable city with elegant historic buildings and large well well-organised parkland.  Now it was a little more than a wasteland of ruins and craters.

The organising committee filled the rest of the chairs around the table.  They were the government for this facility, one of fifty throughout the city.

They were linked by radio communications, but there hadn’t been enough time to build tunnels or completely finish some of the bunkers.

The commander had just delivered the briefing authorised by the provisional government housed in Bunker 1, those left that hadn’t been killed in the initial strike, which targeted vital infrastructure and government buildings of those inside.

A strike without warning.

Then came the inevitable question.  “When will it be safe to go outside?”

The commander had deliberately omitted that part because, in his opinion, probably best left to a direct question, if anyone asked.

He had been hoping they wouldn’t.

“Not today, nor tomorrow.  Central Command think that it will recommence tomorrow or the next day, or when they see us outside.  They have satellite imagery.”

It was suspected and now confirmed.  It was first thought there were spies from within, but that had been finally discounted. 

“Do we?”

“The rocket that was launched to put it into orbit was sabotaged, so no.  We didn’t find out until the war started.  We were caught unawares in just about everything.”

“Politicians sleeping on the job,” a voice from the back of the room said.

The commander knew it was and let it go.  Everyone had an opinion with the benefit of hindsight.  Not sleeping, but deeply divided political parties made it impossible to progress.

He wondered what the remnants of those parties were thinking right now.  How much they could blame the other side for the mess they were in now.  It certainly wouldn’t be about how to resolve the mess.

“We elected them, so it’s as much our fault as it is theirs.  But, everyone, if you have some idea that will get us moving forward, I will pass it on to the Central Command.”

There were no suggestions.

“What the hell…”

That person who ridiculed the politicians was pointing at the screen.

Everyone looked at the figures coming over the rubble, in formation, looking for survivors.  Enemy soldiers who were expecting people to flee their bunkers in the absence of artillery fire.

“What are they doing?”

“Looking for us.  Strange since they’re basically seeing what we’re seeing.”

Then, quite strangely, they started shooting in a manner that suggested they were firing at an enemy.

This went on for a minute, and then there was return fire, killing every person they could see on screen.  The commander counted about three hundred casualties.  Everyone but those who turned and ran also suffered the fate ,except they were shot in the back.

“That was dumb,” someone else said.

“Who was shooting back?  I didn’t see any of our men out there.”

There was a murmur of agreement around the table.

“What do you know that we don’t?”  The man who started the conversation.

“I assure you I am as in the dark as you are.”

On the table in front of the commander was a red phone.  It only rang when there was important news.

He let it ring three times before answering it, reciting his personal code, name and rank.  Then he listened for five minutes, said, “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”  Then he replaced the receiver.

He looked around the table at the expectant faces.

“Apparently, what you just saw happened at every one of the fifty bunkers.  The enemy assumed we had come out and launched an attack.  A new technology was developed, but couldn’t be implemented until there was a respite.  It worked.  The enemy has requested a ceasefire and negotiated surrender.”

“Then we can finally leave this place.”

“When the Central Government verifies that the enemy is being truthful, which in the last hundred years has never been.  This could be another ploy on their part.  So, we’re staying inside until otherwise advised.”

No one was happy with that edict, but then, everyone knew the enemy could not be trusted.

…

The next seven days were of silence, and observing the empty landscape of what had been their city.

The enemy dead lay still, a reminder of a devastating waste of life, and to some a monument to the futility of war, fuelled by hatred.

People started considering what it was at the heart of the war, the ingrained hate instilled into every one of the two countries that used to be one nation and one lot of people.

A classic example of religion-fuelled hatred, the sort that divided families and eventually a nation.   There had been civil wars, but these were limited due to technology and a quickly depleted army.  Three times, nearly every male under the age of thirty on both sides had been wiped out.

Wives lamented the loss of their children, young women lamented the loss of viable husbands.  It was surprising that the population managed to grow after such events.

This time, the deaths of young men were way below those before, more because the current leaders had realised losing men was not an option, hence the remote weaponry.

It made the enemy’s hand-to-hand attack more of a mystery.  And not surprising that in losing so many, they would see the futility of such actions.

Enough lives had been lost.

…

There were daily updates.  The ridiculous demands, the negotiation tactics to get an unconditional surrender.

It was as if the losers honestly believed they were the winners.

And to the Commander, a peace that was too easily attained, and a capitulation that was far too quick.  He knew what the enemy could achieve if they tried harder, but for some reason, they were not interested.

For that reason, the Commander relayed his concerns, concerns that the Central Government ignored.

In the command room, he stood next to his 2IC, looking at the screen.  With the control unit in his hand, he switched views to each of the other 49 bunkers, and it looked the same.  Hundreds of dead enemy soldiers.

“It’s a trick,” the Commander said.  “I know it is.  Many years ago, there was a thing called the ‘Midnight Protocol’.  Few people were aware of it because it was believed to be folklore.”

“What is this Midnight Protocol?”

“If one side can’t win, everyone dies.  The leaders of both nations are cut from the same cloth, with the same beliefs.  We were once a single country and people who lived in peace.  That’s what they’re going to do.  Kill everyone.”

“How?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. We’ll have to wait and see.  Meanwhile, no one leaves.”

“They’re automatically unlocking the gates.  Everyone gets to leave.  They’ve all been celebrating.  They have no idea what’s going to happen to them.”

“I know you do.”

“I know I want to keep my people safe, and that’s what I intend to do.  Now, time to rejoin your family. It’s near curfew.”

Every night a ten, everyone was at home and ready for the end of the day.  Anyone caught out, without a good excuse, was punished.  It happened rarely.

This night would be different.  The end-of-the-day prayers were read, there was a short news bulletin, and then five minutes before the lighting was switched over to conservation mode.

Five minutes after that, the Commander pushed the blue button on the console in the small room to one side of the meeting hall.

Red was for self-destruction; if ever the bunker was overrun, a quick, painless death was better than the long, painful one the enemy would force upon the people. Blue, the one that put everyone to sleep for a specified period, in case the doomsday scenario was enacted.

Both sides had a doomsday scenario, one none ever hoped would be implemented.  It was this that the Commander knew the other side intended to adopt.

A fake peace.  Everyone is coming out to celebrate, and then everyone dies.

Not on his watch.

The button was pressed, then the black button was pressed, to double-lock the doors from the inside, so no one could get in or out.  It was two of three.  The last was for him.

He slept until the time the armistice was to be celebrated, going from bunker to bunker, watching the people emerge, join up with the enemy.  Families reuniting, the current government meeting their enemy counterparts, the shaking of hands.

Peace at last.

Until suddenly a single bomb fell on each of the bunker locations, or the evacuation areas outside the bunkers.  And, one by one, all the people were killed, the enemy and his countrymen alike.

He switched from bunker to bunker, all 49 of them, just as the air raid siren started.  A bit late, everyone was dead.  Even if it had gone off when the bombs first landed, it would have been too late.

His people had slept through it, not knowing what had happened.  Not knowing they were the last of both countries.

He pushed the last button.  The one that would suspend them all in stasis for a year.  A protocol very few knew about.

He had spoken about it with his other 49 bunker commanders, and none of the others believed it had been implemented.  They had searched for the control room and hadn’t found it.

Bunker 50, his bunker was the only one.  The last bunker to be built, and the one meant to house the government offices and politicians.  They had decided, very early on, to save themselves by taking the first bunker, not waiting until the end, and the irony of their selfishness was not lost on the Commander.

Sleep came slowly, and he was sure he was still laughing when he finally succumbed to that long and peaceful sleep.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Amsterdam

Beyond the Canals: Amsterdam’s Unbeaten Path – Top 5 Surprises Await!

Amsterdam. The very name conjures images of charming canals, tulip-filled fields, and the intoxicating allure of the Red Light District. And while these are undeniably iconic, this vibrant city offers so much more for the curious traveler willing to step off the well-trodden tourist highway. If you’re looking for an authentic Amsterdam experience, one that whispers secrets rather than shouts them, then buckle up. We’re venturing onto the road less traveled, and here are the top five hidden gems that are begging to be discovered:

1. Dive into the Depths of History at the Resistance Museum (Verzetsmuseum)

Forget the crowded Anne Frank House (though it remains a powerful experience). For a profoundly moving and comprehensive look at the Dutch spirit during World War II, the Resistance Museum is an absolute must. Housed in a grand building, this museum goes beyond personal stories to illustrate the ingenuity, bravery, and sheer determination of ordinary citizens who defied the Nazi occupation. Through immersive exhibits, personal artifacts, and compelling narratives, you’ll gain a deeper understanding of the complex realities of life under occupation. It’s a more nuanced and less overwhelming perspective that will leave a lasting impression.

2. Wander Through the Enchanting “Nine Streets” (De Negen Straatjes) – A Shopper’s Secret Sanctuary

While the Kalverstraat is synonymous with mainstream shopping, the Nine Streets offer a completely different, and infinitely more charming, retail therapy experience. Nestled between the main canals, these nine narrow, interconnected streets are a labyrinth of independent boutiques, vintage shops, quirky galleries, and cozy cafés. You’ll find unique fashion finds, handcrafted jewelry, vintage treasures, and artisanal delights that you won’t see anywhere else. It’s the perfect place to get lost, discover hidden gems, and soak in the authentic Amsterdam vibe, far from the selfie-stick wielding crowds.

3. Escape to the Green Oasis of Westerpark

Need a respite from the urban bustle? Look no further than Westerpark. This former industrial site has been transformed into a sprawling, vibrant park that’s a beloved local haunt. It’s not just about green spaces; Westerpark is a hub of creativity and culture. Explore the re-purposed factory buildings that now house art studios, performance spaces, and trendy restaurants and bars. During warmer months, it’s the perfect spot for a picnic, a bike ride, or to simply relax by the water. Keep an eye out for events, outdoor cinema screenings, and lively markets that often pop up here.

4. Savor the Flavors of Amsterdam Noord: A Transformative Waterfront

Across the IJ River, a whole new world of Amsterdam awaits in Amsterdam Noord. A short (and free!) ferry ride from behind Centraal Station will transport you to this rapidly developing district. Once an industrial wasteland, Noord is now a playground of innovation and creativity. Marvel at the striking architecture of the EYE Film Museum, ascend the A’DAM Lookout for breathtaking panoramic views (and a thrilling swing!), or explore the eclectic street art and independent eateries. This is where local life thrives, offering a glimpse into a more contemporary and edgy side of the city.

5. Uncover Artistic Treasures at the Hermitage Amsterdam

While the Rijksmuseum and Van Gogh Museum are world-renowned, the Hermitage Amsterdam often flies under the radar but consistently delivers exceptional exhibitions. This branch of the famed St. Petersburg museum showcases a diverse range of art and artifacts, often from its vast permanent collection or through collaborations with other international institutions. You might find anything from Dutch Masters to contemporary art, historical artifacts, or fascinating cultural displays. It’s an excellent opportunity to experience world-class art in a less crowded and more intimate setting, offering a refreshing artistic detour.

Amsterdam is a city that rewards the intrepid. By venturing slightly off the beaten path, you’ll discover a richer, more authentic experience that goes far beyond the postcards. So, next time you find yourself in this captivating Dutch capital, dare to explore the road less travelled. You might just be surprised by what treasures you uncover.

What are your favorite hidden gems in Amsterdam? Share them in the comments below!

What I learned about writing – Your cell phone can be your worst enemy

I’m back to writing, sitting at the desk, pad in front of me, pen in hand.

The only thing lacking, an idea.

It’s 9:03 am, too early to start on a six-pack.

To be honest, the last thing I needed was a distraction, and, having forgotten to put my cell phone on silent, it starts buzzing, indicating there are new messages, or notifications from all those social media sites like Twitter, Facebook, WordPress, Blogger…

Then the advice from all the so-called marketing gurus starts to swirl around in my head, and instead of writing, I’m now fretting over my social media presence.

The more I read the more it bothers me that if I don’t have the right social media presence if I do not start to build an email list, all of my efforts in writing a book will come to naught.

That’s when I start trawling the internet for information on marketing and found a plethora of people offering any amount of advice for anything between a ‘small amount’ to a rather large amount that gives comprehensive coverage of most social media platforms for periods of a day, a week or a month. 

I move on to the people who offer advice for a cost on how to build a following, how to build a web presence, how to get a thousand Twitter followers, how to get thousands of email followers before the launch.

The trouble is I’m writing a novel, not a nonfiction book, or have some marvelous 30-page ebook on how to do something, for free just to drive people to my site.

I’m a novelist, not a handyman so those ideas while good is not going to help me.

Yet another problem to wrestle with along with actually creating a product to sell in the first place.

Except I’m supposed to be writing for the love of it without the premeditated idea of writing for gain or getting rich quick.

What am I missing here?

So should l be writing short stories and offering them for free to drive people to my site?  These would have to be genre-specific so it needs time and effort and fit into a convenient size story that will highlight or showcase my talent.

Some time ago I created a website on one of those so-called free sites, but it’s rather basic and not great. Of course, if I want it to be better, all I have to do is hand over a great wad of money I don’t have to make it better. So much for free!

I don’t think I will have a good night’s sleep again with all of these social media problems I’m having.

Oh well, back to the book.  It’s time to have a nightmare of a different sort!

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Brussels

Experiential Counter-Mapping: Identifying the Next Five Nodes of Authentic Discovery in Brussels, Beyond the Touristic Saturation

Abstract

Traditional tourism models often lead to the homogenization of urban experience, obscuring authentic local narratives in favour of standardised, high-volume attractions. This paper critiques this phenomenon within the context of Brussels, a city frequently reduced to political (EU) and monumental (Grand-Place) iconography. Employing a methodology rooted in spatial critique and experiential archaeology, this study identifies five critical nodes of engagement that constitute the ‘road less travelled.’ These locations—the Cauchie House, the Abattoir Market of Anderlecht, the Cemetery of Laeken, the Riches Claires Quarter, and the Museum of the Fantastic—are analysed for their capacity to foster a deeper ‘sense of place’ and provide counter-narratives to the dominant tourist script. The findings offer a functional counter-map for niche tourism research, urban cultural policy, and the traveller seeking genuine phenomenological immersion in Brussels’ complex identity.

1. Introduction: The Cartography of Obfuscation

The concept of the ‘road less travelled’ is a critical response to the spatial saturation characterising contemporary mass tourism (MacCannell, 1976). In major European capitals, the concentration of tourist movement inevitably produces an urban palimpsest where local life is marginalised by visitor infrastructure. Brussels, the de facto capital of the European Union, suffers from a duality: it is simultaneously intensely global and deeply localised, yet tourist flows rarely penetrate beyond the central polygon.

This paper addresses the gap between the celebrated icons of Brussels and its myriad authentic micro-environments. Our objective is to delineate five specific, non-obvious attractions that serve as points of resistance to touristic homogenization. These selections are chosen not merely for their novelty, but for their structural capacity to reveal historical, social, and architectural layers often invisible to the transient visitor. This research posits that true urban discovery requires an intentional shift from the consumption of spectacle to the immersion in marginal and historical spaces.

2. Theoretical Framework and Methodology

2.1 The Authentic and the Anti-Spectacle

The theoretical underpinning of this analysis draws heavily from the concepts of the Flâneur (Baudelaire; Benjamin, 1982), who navigates the urban space with deliberate aimlessness, and the pursuit of ‘authenticity’ (Wang, 1199). Authenticity here is defined not as an untouched, pristine state, but as a space where local residents predominantly shape the environment and narrative, minimising the performative elements designed solely for the external gaze.

Furthermore, the paper utilises the concept of heterotopia (Foucault, 1986)—spaces that function as counter-sites, mirroring and yet contesting the spaces around them. The identified locations are heterotopic in nature, offering temporary escapes from the normative routes of the city.

2.2 Selection Criteria

The five locations were chosen based on a qualitative multi-criteria assessment designed to prioritise genuine local context and historical depth over ease of access or mainstream popularity:

  1. Low Visibility Index (LVI): Minimal mention in standard commercial guidebooks (LVI > 0.8).
  2. High Local Density (HLD): Spaces primarily utilised by residents for daily life, commerce, or reflection (HLD > 0.7).
  3. Architectural or Historical Singularity: Possessing a unique, specific lineage or design that deviates from generic European norms.
  4. Sensory Richness: Providing diverse inputs (smell, sound, social texture) is essential for embodied urban phenomenology.

3. Findings: The Five Nodes of Brussel’s Counter-Map

The following five destinations represent significant departures from the conventional Brussels itinerary, offering profound opportunities for experiential engagement.

3.1 Node 1: The Cauchie House (Maison Cauchie) – Art Nouveau/Déco Transition

Located in the Etterbeek municipality, the Cauchie House stands as a monument to the Belgian Art Nouveau and nascent Art Déco movements, yet remains largely unknown outside specialized architectural circles. Designed and inhabited by architect Paul Cauchie in 1905, the façade is a sophisticated canvas of allegorical sgraffito, a technique where a surface layer is scratched away to reveal colored layers beneath.

Unlike the readily accessible works of Victor Horta, the Cauchie House is characterised by its domestic scale and the intimate, often ephemeral, nature of its public access (typically open only one weekend per month). This forced scarcity elevates the site from mere attraction to an object of deliberate visitation, rewarding the traveller who pursues genuine architectural pilgrimage. It illuminates Brussels’ lesser-known role as a laboratory for early 20th-century design innovation, transcending the city’s medieval core narrative.

3.2 Node 2: The Anderlecht Abattoir Market (Marché des Abattoirs) – Economic Geography and Sensory Immersion

The Abattoir market, situated in the working-class Cureghem district of Anderlecht, is arguably the most visceral and powerful example of Brussels’ economic and cultural diversity. Operating chiefly on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, it functions as a critical nexus of commerce, history, and community life. The site encompasses the historical abattoir complex, protected by stunning 19th-century metalwork market halls.

This location presents a sharp contrast to the sanitised tourism of the centre. Researchers engaging with this space encounter a complex sensory environment characterised by multilingual chatter (often Arabic, Turkish, and French), and the raw economic exchange of food, livestock, and goods. It offers a vital counterpoint to the EU narrative, grounding the visitor in the immediate realities of contemporary urban provisioning and immigration-driven cultural shifts. Its exploration is a direct engagement with Brussels’ socio-economic periphery.

3.3 Node 3: The Cemetery of Laeken (Cimetière de Laeken) – Historical Reflection and Necropolis Art

While major cities possess cemeteries of note, the Cimetière de Laeken is distinct due to its historical connection to the Belgian monarchy (located adjacent to the Royal Domain) and its remarkable collection of funerary art, particularly the covered galleries and crypts. Often overshadowed by the better-known Père Lachaise in Paris, Laeken offers a serene, elevated space that synthesises social history and landscape architecture.

The centrepiece is the unique complex of underground galleries and the “Grotto of the Statue of the Dying Christ.” Visiting Laeken is a contemplative experience, offering panoramic views of the city that place the Royal Palace and Atomium in context. As a necropolis, it serves as a powerful historical archive, detailing the fortunes and failures of Brussels’ 19th and early 20th-century elite, away from the bustling urban center.

3.4 Node 4: The Riches Claires Quarter and the Béguinage Church – Urban Contradiction

The Riches Claires quarter (“Rijke Klaren”) lies just west of the Bourse, a micro-district often traversed but rarely explored. This area represents a complex urban palimpsest, juxtaposing historic poverty, bohemian chic, and architectural remnants. The focal point is the magnificent Église Saint-Jean-Baptiste au Béguinage (St. John the Baptist at the Beguinage).

This Baroque masterpiece, with its unusual triple-gable façade, stands hidden amongst highly dense, often gritty urban blocks. The Beguinage itself speaks to the historical organisation of religious and social life in Brussels, tracing a timeline from medieval seclusion to modern urban integration. Exploring this node highlights the abrupt shifts in Brussels’ social geography—walking from the highly polished central streets into the narrow, often shadowed alleys reveals the city’s inherent contradictions and layered history of settlement and displacement.

3.5 Node 5: The Museum of the Fantastic (Musée du Fantastique) – Niche Culture and Surrealism

Brussels is globally known for its embrace of surrealism (Magritte) and fantasy (comic art). However, the small, privately run Musée du Fantastique in the Saint-Gilles municipality offers an eccentric, curated deep dive into the world of fantastic art, myth, and the unusual. Its collection, housed in a modest residential building, focuses on the ephemeral, the folkloric, and the grotesque.

As a high-LVI, high-specificity institution, it provides a crucial counter-narrative to officially sanctioned cultural narratives. The museum’s scale and personal curation immerse the visitor in a space of concentrated imagination, reflecting the enduring local cultural appreciation for the bizarre and the slightly macabre—a tradition that extends from the Flemish Masters to post-war Belgian comics.

4. Conclusion: Implications for Experiential Urbanism

The identification of these five non-obvious destinations in Brussels provides empirical support for the theoretical assertion that authentic urban experience resides at the periphery of mainstream tourist infrastructure. The Cauchie House offers architectural intimacy; the Abattoir Market provides socio-economic immersion; Laeken offers historical reflection; the Riches Claires quarter reveals spatial contradiction; and the Museum of the Fantastic provides niche cultural insight.

For urban planners and tourism researchers, these findings underscore the need to promote distributed visitation models that leverage the cultural assets of diverse municipal districts (Etterbeek, Anderlecht, Laeken, Saint-Gilles). By intentionally decentralising experience, cities like Brussels can mitigate the pressures of overtourism in their historical centres while enriching the visitor’s perception of the city’s multifaceted identity. Ultimately, traversing the ‘road less travelled’ is not just a matter of finding new locations, but of adopting a methodological posture aligned with deep, contextual engagement.