NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day

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The Third Son of a Duke

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Day 0 – What’s it all about

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So this is what happens when you become so wrapped up in your family history that a story screams out from under the names, dates, and places.

Perhaps it’s not the history you were hoping for, but some of your ancestors could be incorporated into a story.

A lot of mine came out from England on various ships, from sail to steam, small and large.

A lot of them were farmers, farmhands, or the modern-day roustabout called a labourer.

A lot of these came to Australia to improve their lot in life.  Some did.

WE had no convict ancestors

We had no rich people, perhaps the one that might have been was a builder and stone mason from Dorchester in England.

It was his daughter who was the reason for my existence.

But a story can’t be just about ancestors; it needs a thread to pull it all together.  That’s why I’m working on a package to wrap my family story in.

It starts in England over Christmas 1913, with the third son of a Duke, David.

His parents are sending him to Australia to check on how his father’s investment in his uncle’s enterprise, a cattle station in outback Queensland, is performing.

The real reason, his parents want to shield him from the possibility of war, just around the corner in 1914.

In going to Australia, he will meet my grandmother, on her way out to visit relatives in Footscray, but I think something else was afoot.

It’s going to be a fun ride imagining what my grandmother might have been like at the age of 25, coming to Australia as an adventure, and definitely not the sort of thing girls her age did.

Writing about writing a book – Day 15

Our main character Bill probably needs to give an account of the situation he found himself in.  I have, for a while, considered that he is just another soldier who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, but now, I want to add a dimension.

He finishes up where he is, in the end, because he chose to be there, and it was something of a rocky ride to get there.

That I’m still planning in my head.

In the meantime, this is the initial piece I wrote for his situation description:

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I used to joke about telling people my middle name was ‘danger’.  It seemed I was not the only one, and for a time, worked with a group of soldiers and ex-soldiers in a capacity similar to that of being a mercenary.

Each one of us had a specialty.  Mine was being the sniper.  Johnny had knife skills and not the sort that was used in a kitchen.  Freddie, explosives, Bill, well, you just left Bill alone because he had a grudge against the world and everyone in it.

The Colonel used to say we were all handpicked, but that wasn’t necessarily the case.  I knew for a fact some of the team came straight out of the stockade before their time was up.

Because some of us were expendable.

The thing was; none of us cared.  For those who were ‘rescued’, it was better out in the jungle, dodging bullets, than being inside, your fate left in the hands of the Gods. 

I knew how it was.  I’d been there once or twice myself.

This morning had started the same as many others.  Rise and shine, a breakfast of sorts, into the chopper, and after an hour or so, dropping into a grassy patch, with nothing but jungle in every direction.  Our mission was to find and liberate a number of our people who had gone missing, read captured, on the border between Cambodia and Vietnam.  It was a familiar country because I had, over the last year or so, gone hunting missing POW’s in the area.  Old prisons had been converted into drug laboratories, and we’d broken up a few of those too.

The noise of the chopper put paid to any sort of stealthy approach and, by the time it dropped us off, if there was anyone nearby, our advantage, if we ever had one, was gone.  The trouble was, to cover the same distance by foot would take a week, and, by the time we arrived, if we arrived, more than half the team would be dead.  We may have been good, but we were not that good.  It was not our home turf.

It was hot, sticky, and nothing like home.  There wasn’t a day that passed when I thought to myself it was getting harder and harder to remember when I wasn’t constantly hot and sweaty, nor as frightened.  It happened that way, towards the end of a tour.

Once on the ground, every man was on full alert.  We changed the lead and tail end constantly, to make sure we didn’t lose anyone.  And it was hard going, the constant heat, sweat, punctuated with slight relief when it rained.

Then as quickly as it came, it went, leaving you wet then sticky.

And if that wasn’t enough to contend with, there was the enemy.   You couldn’t see them, nor hear them yet you had the feeling he was watching you the whole time, and it made your skin crawl.

Sometimes the enemy attacked when we had to camp, invisibly swooping, shooting from the trees, and firing a mortar or two, then disappearing back into the luminous greenery without a trace.  These were the remnants of the Viet Cong, Cambodian armed forces, disaffected Laotians, or the Chinese, or so we believed, but they were well-trained mercenaries and just the sort of people the drug cartels would use.

And surviving the operation, any operation, was like playing Russian roulette.  Was it your turn this time, or someone else’s?  You could be walking along, straining your eyes and ears, and next minute, find the man who was covering your back, dead.  Booby traps were silent and swift.  Landmines are loud and very messy.  Both hangovers from the war, and never cleaned up.  People you’d meet, you never knew whose side they were on, so it was best to avoid all contact.

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© Charles Heath 2015-2023

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 23

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.

 

“As I understand it, you were to fly to the drop off point about two miles from the abandoned farm where the operatives were hiding, and not far from the farm, where a group of enemy soldiers had set up camp.  The plan was one team was to create a diversion, while the other rescued the operatives.”

It sounded quite simple and equally workable when said out loud, now.

But, at the time and on the ground, nothing could be further from the truth.  It had sounded equally simple when we discussed the final plan before we moved out.  My team would provide the diversion; Treen’s would affect the rescue.

“In your post operational debriefing, you said you encountered the enemy not far from the drop zone.”  He looked down at his notebook, and then up again, after checking what the question was, “but you didn’t exactly say how that affected moving forward, or whether you thought they had been informed prior to your arrival.”

“It was basically unexpected and both Treen and I had to adjust the plan on the fly so to speak.  It was a setback, but it wasn’t what might be called a show stopper.  Not initially, anyway.”

Except Treen had lost it because I soon discovered he didn’t like changes.  The plan was the plan, come what may.

“And, now, after you’ve had time to think about it?”

“I did say, at the briefing, that if the source of the ground had gone silent, it might mean he’d been caught, and if so, may have told the enemy of our intentions.”

“And this suggestion was given no credence?”

“It was left to Treen to factor that into his decision as the officer in charge.  I’m sure that decision was based on more than just my input. but, on the other hand, no one else asked seemed to consider that a possibility.  So, if it was you, would it not seem strange the enemy would let the choppers land, drop us off, and take off again, then give us time to set up before attacking.  If I’d been told anyone was coming, I’d use rockets to take out the choppers in the air, kill the raid before it started.”

Lallo had his best poker face on, so I had no idea what he thought, but he did make a note.

“Where was Treen after you landed?”

“With his group.  We’d re-worked the plan while in the air, and to minimise the choppers exposure, we were to hit the ground running.  We had different destinations, so I didn’t see him or his team.  It was dark, and not possible to see where anyone other than your immediate team members were.”

But as it turned out, their chopper had landed closer to the pickup zone, and we had enemy soldiers between us and them.  We were as soon as we landed effectively cut off from Tree, and he would not get any support from us.

“The choppers didn’t land together?”

“No.  We were a hundred yards, maybe more, apart.”

“But you knew they were close.  You said you heard shots fired not long after your chopper took off.  Was the gunfire theirs or ours?”

“All guns sound the same at night.  It was impossible to say.  It was the first indication that there was a group of enemy soldiers near the drop zone, coincidentally or otherwise, and Treen’s team had been seen.   I sent Sycamore to find out what had happened, and the rest of the team waited.  No point walking into a firefight.  I trusted Treen to get the job done whatever the circumstances.”

“Your man didn’t come back?”

“No.”

“What happened then?”

My team members disobeyed orders to stay on mission, and not wanting to remain alone in the field, I followed them on what I thought was suicide.  If the other members of their team had been killed, or, worse, captured, and it was certainly looking like it, then the odds were they were going to join them.

It’s a perfect situation where being the odd man out works in your favour.

I saw Andrews and Ledgeman go over the hill and disappear, and seconds later the sound of automatic fire.  It was exactly as I thought it would be.  I broke for cover and made it just in time to see a dozen enemy soldiers come over the hill, heading towards our drop zone.  I assumed they’d done a head count and found one was missing.

“It was over before it started.”

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Writing a book in 365 days – 287

Day 287

Writing exercise

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The race was over before it began

If something is too good to be true, then it generally is.  Those words bounced around in my head only moments after the winner of the award had been announced.

And it wasn’t me.  I had worked hard, done everything that was asked of me, and yet at the eleventh hour, I had been usurped

Of course, I had only myself to blame.

Some other words that rattled around in what could probably now be called an empty space in my head, because no sane person would have believed that McGurk was a worthy recipient, were that good guys come last.

They did.

I have been too trusting.

I wanted to believe that McGurk honestly wanted to help me win, but all the time he was getting the information needed to win the award for himself.

After all, the prize was worth a million pounds.

And he was never going to stay long enough to show them anything for the money.  The proposal was slick, the pitch was slick, and the man himself was slick personified.

However, one item I did know about him was that he had done this before.  A number of times, and after each success, he disappeared with the money and wasn’t seen again.

It was exactly what he would do this time if we let him.

Everyone was also oblivious to the deception.  He was far too affable, far too obliging, far too kind.  And too accommodating.  He was everybody’s friend.

Except mine.

Jason McMaster, the head of the selection committee, came over to offer his commiserations.

“Sorry, old boy,” he began, “but it was a close call, 4 to 5.  You put in a brilliant prospectus, but the numbers didn’t quite add up.”

I noticed far too late that someone had slipped in a revised budget, and it had the look of a grade six student’s horrible attempt to balance a small budget.

I had tried to fix it, but the committee decided the submissions would be as is, where is.  I knew McGurk had a hand in getting those papers, and I was sure it was someone on the selection team who helped him; without proof, I was not going to change the result.

At least one of the members dared to tell me what had happened and not let me be shocked on the night.

Evelyn had worked as hard as I had, and it seemed to me he had not approached her.  Perhaps she would have seen him for what he was.  More than once, she told me to be wary.

Like I said, it was on me.

McGurk was in his element, the centre of attention, soaking in the adulation as the man who had beaten the sure thing.

Some people didn’t like me, not many, because what they mistook for determination was really the desire to be fair and equitable.

His acceptance speech was the sort to be expected, praising the competition, acknowledging the help I’d given him, and stating that he was going to make a lot of people’s futures much brighter.

I was not sure who those people were, because no one in this county would.

After shaking the selection committee’s hands and thanking them all, he wandered over to see me.

He was brave or stupid, I wasn’t sure which, but then he didn’t know what I knew.

“You do realise the race was over before it began.”

He was all smiles and shaking my hand for the cameras.

I was all smiles for a different reason.

“Not at first, but I did get a sense of it towards the end.”

“You didn’t seem to be all that well-liked.”

No.  I got that.  Alfred Knopper, next door neighbour and staunch enemy when I won the council election over him, was on the committee.

I should have tried harder to win him over.

“Happens in small towns.  You can’t please everyone all of the time.  You will discover that “

“I’m sure I won’t.  I understand the brief.”

I smiled.  “I hope you do.”

I could see Evelyn coming over, and so could he.  Her face was set, and I could feel the heat from where I was standing.  Seeing her approach, he quickly excused himself.

Her eyes followed him as he retreated.

“Snake.”

“He’s the one they deserve.”

“No one deserves a creature like that.”

I shrugged.  “Well, like him or lump him, he’s all they’ve got.”

Until he cashed the check.

A week is a long time in politics, or so I was told the first time I ran for council.

I didn’t want to, but a lot of people said that it was time for a change.

I rode the crest of that wave of change for three terms, after which those same people voted for another change.  It didn’t bother me. I had tried to be fair and equitable, but not everybody’s definition of those words was the same.

I tried to please all of the people all of the time and failed miserably.

We lived in a different world from the one I thought I knew.

It was time to move on, and the plans Evelyn and I had made a few months before, plan B, were in motion.  The children had moved on.  We had sold the house, where I had lived my whole life and my father before me.

All I was waiting for was…

The phone rang, its shrill insistence penetrating the fog of sleep, and only years of training forced me to answer it.

“Yes.”

“He’s gone.”  Jason McMaster sounded panicked.

“Who has gone?”

“McGurk.  Office cleaned out, residence as clean as the day he walked into it.”

McMaster had been very generous in giving him the house rent-free until he was settled.

“The funding.”

Silence.  Then, it’s not in the corporate account.”

Of course not.

“It was transferred to a Cayman Islands bank.”

“You called them?”

“Transferred to a JN Corporation, a shell company.  It’s going to take an army of forensic accountants to find it, and McGurk, if that’s his real name.”

It wasn’t, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

“Why are you telling me?”

“The selection committee asked me to ask you to come back and maintain continuity while we sort this mess out.”

“Too late.  I’m off on holiday this morning.  Time to take a break from everything.”

“Then, in a few weeks, when you get back.  We’ll talk.”

“Can’t.  Not coming back.  Not getting the award settled a few things for me, and the main one, our future.  Twelve months in a cottage in Tuscany and then, well, who knows.  Have a nice life, Jason.”

I hung up.

Evelyn rolled over. “McGurk?”

“Not at the office for his first day.”

“Jason?”

“Nearly hysterical.  He went to the house, and there’s no sign he had ever been there.”

“McGurk wasn’t.  He’s been dead since the day after he was born, but Michael Oliphant, that’s a different story.”

“That his real name?”

“So Viktor told me.  Took three days, but he broke him.  They all break eventually.”

“And the money.”

“It’ll be in Geneva by the time we get there.  Now, come back to bed.”

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©  Charles Heath  2025

Searching for locations: The canals of Suzhou, China

This morning is a boat ride that will take us along a small portion of the main canal, and we head through a number of back streets, to a landing where there are a number of boats all vying with each other to get us passengers on boats.

But…

These boats don’t have a wharf to tie up to and then put out a stable gangplank.  No.  They just more into a concrete step and you take your life in your hands getting on.  One wrong step and you’re in the canal.  And not a very clean one at that.

That’s if another boat doesn’t come along and bumps you, knocking you off balance.  We managed not to lose anyone in boarding the vessel.

This is where we get on the boat

We go along what appears to be downstream towards another larger canal, past tree-lined streets until the canal narrows and we’re looking at the backs of houses, which look very dilapidated.

And the canals?  Well, it’s not quite like it is in Venice

Though some parts of the canal look better than others

What doesn’t bear thinking about is the electrical wiring which is a nightmarish spider web of cables going off in all directions.  How anyone could troubleshoot problems is beyond me.

We pass under a number of bridges, and then, about 30 minutes after leaving, we reach a larger canal and do a 180-degree turn, and head back to a drop off point the will enable us to walk through a typical everyday Chinese market for food and the other items.

This drop off point is much the same as the starting point, a concrete step which is as hazardous as the first.  At least we don’t have to compete with other boats for the landing spot.

We take a leisurely stroll down a small section of Pingjiang Road with small shops on either side, selling all manner of goods

but my interest is in the food and the prices, which at times seem quite expensive for so-called local people, so maybe because the tourists go down this street every day, the prices have been inflated accordingly.

I find it rather disappointing.

We walk to the bridge, go under to the other side crossing the canal and find the coffee shop which is also the meeting place.

So…

When is a coffee shop not a coffee shop, when it takes an eternity to make a cup of coffee, we waited 25 minutes?

We also ordered beef black pepper rice and it took 20 minutes before it arrived, but it was well worth the wait.  Strands of perfectly cooked beef with onion, carrot, and capsicum, with a very peppery and spicy sauce, with a side of boiled rice.

A pizza was ordered too but it did not arrive at all before we left.

What I learned about writing – ‘The End’ is never the end!

The End… Or Just the Beginning? Why “The End” of Your Novel Is Never Truly the End

You’ve done it. Stared down the endless white expanse of the page, wrestled with characters who refused to cooperate, and battled plot holes that threatened to swallow your narrative whole. After months, maybe even years, of dedication, you finally type those two glorious words: “The End.”

For a fleeting moment, there’s a sense of triumphant finality. The story is complete. The world you’ve meticulously crafted is now bound between covers, waiting to be discovered. You might even allow yourself a daydream or two – the bestseller lists, the glowing reviews, the Hollywood deal for that blockbuster movie you’ve always envisioned.

But if you’re an author, you know deep down that “The End”… is never quite the end, is it?

This isn’t about the gruelling process of revisions, the agonising search for an agent, or the nail-biting wait for a publisher’s acceptance. Those are the necessary hurdles after you’ve reached that initial conclusion. This is about something more profound, a shift in perspective that redefines what “finished” truly means.

“The End” is a Birth Certificate, Not a Tombstone.

When you type those final words, you’re not burying your story. You’re giving it life. You’ve breathed it into existence, and now it has the potential to live, to breathe, to impact lives beyond your own.

Think about it:

  • The Reader’s Journey Begins: Your “End” is the starting point for countless readers. They will embark on their own journey through your words, interpreting your characters, feeling your emotions, and drawing their own conclusions. The story truly comes alive in their minds, a unique experience for each individual.
  • The Sequel Whispers: Even if you had no intention of writing a sequel, the characters you’ve created, the world you’ve built, can linger. They might start whispering ideas for new adventures, new conflicts, new possibilities. The “End” of one chapter often feels like the fertile ground for another.
  • The Adaptations Unfold: As you so accurately predicted, that blockbuster movie deal might be on the horizon. This new phase of your story, translated into a visual medium, brings a whole new set of challenges and triumphs. The characters you envisioned will be embodied, your dialogue spoken aloud, your settings brought to life on screen. It’s the same story, yet utterly new.
  • The Author’s Evolution: “The End” also marks a significant point in your own evolution as a writer. You’ve learned, you’ve grown, you’ve conquered. The skills honed during this project will inevitably inform your next. The very act of finishing has changed you, making you a more capable storyteller.
  • The Legacy Takes Root: A completed novel, especially one with potential, becomes a part of a larger legacy. It can spark conversations, influence other artists, become a touchstone for readers. That “End” begins a quiet, yet powerful, ripple effect in the world.

So, the next time you type “The End,” take a moment. Bask in the satisfaction, yes. Dream of those bestseller lists and movie deals. But also understand that you haven’t closed a door; you’ve opened a universe. Your novel’s journey is just beginning, and the true “end” is a concept that perhaps, as storytellers, we’ll never truly reach.

What does “The End” mean to you as a writer? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

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

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Searching for locations: The Silk Factory, Suzhou, China

China is renowned for its exquisite silk, so naturally, a visit to the Silk Spinning Factory is part of today’s tour.

After that, we will be heading downtown to an unspecified location where we’re getting a boat ride, walk through a typical Chinese shopping experience, and coffee at a coffee shop that is doubling as the meeting place, after we soak up the local atmosphere.

The problem with that is that if the entire collective trip a deal tourists take this route then the savvy shopkeepers will jack up their prices tenfold because we’re tourists with money.  It’ll be interesting to see how expensive everything is.

So…

Before we reach the silk factory, we are told that Suzhou is the main silk area of China, and we will be visiting a nearly 100 years old, Suzhou No 1 Silk Mill, established in 1926.  Suzhou has a 4,700-year history of making silk products.  It is located at No. 94, Nanmen Road, Suzhou, Jiangsu, China.

Then we arrive at the Silk Factory, another government-owned establishment with a castiron guarantee of quality and satisfaction.

The look and feel of the doona cover certainly backs up that claim

And the colors and variety is amazing (as is the cost of those exquisite sets)

We get to see the silk cocoon stretched beyond imagination, and see how the silk thread is extracted, then off to the showroom for the sales pitch.

It isn’t a hard sell, and the sheets, doonas, pillows, and pillowcases, are reasonably priced, and come with their own suitcase (for free) so you can take them with you, or free shipping, by slow boat, if you prefer not to take the goods with you.

We opt for the second choice, as there’s no room left in our baggage after packing the Chinese Medicine.

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years.  She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

Writing a book in 365 days – 287

Day 287

Writing exercise

…

The race was over before it began

If something is too good to be true, then it generally is.  Those words bounced around in my head only moments after the winner of the award had been announced.

And it wasn’t me.  I had worked hard, done everything that was asked of me, and yet at the eleventh hour, I had been usurped

Of course, I had only myself to blame.

Some other words that rattled around in what could probably now be called an empty space in my head, because no sane person would have believed that McGurk was a worthy recipient, were that good guys come last.

They did.

I have been too trusting.

I wanted to believe that McGurk honestly wanted to help me win, but all the time he was getting the information needed to win the award for himself.

After all, the prize was worth a million pounds.

And he was never going to stay long enough to show them anything for the money.  The proposal was slick, the pitch was slick, and the man himself was slick personified.

However, one item I did know about him was that he had done this before.  A number of times, and after each success, he disappeared with the money and wasn’t seen again.

It was exactly what he would do this time if we let him.

Everyone was also oblivious to the deception.  He was far too affable, far too obliging, far too kind.  And too accommodating.  He was everybody’s friend.

Except mine.

Jason McMaster, the head of the selection committee, came over to offer his commiserations.

“Sorry, old boy,” he began, “but it was a close call, 4 to 5.  You put in a brilliant prospectus, but the numbers didn’t quite add up.”

I noticed far too late that someone had slipped in a revised budget, and it had the look of a grade six student’s horrible attempt to balance a small budget.

I had tried to fix it, but the committee decided the submissions would be as is, where is.  I knew McGurk had a hand in getting those papers, and I was sure it was someone on the selection team who helped him; without proof, I was not going to change the result.

At least one of the members dared to tell me what had happened and not let me be shocked on the night.

Evelyn had worked as hard as I had, and it seemed to me he had not approached her.  Perhaps she would have seen him for what he was.  More than once, she told me to be wary.

Like I said, it was on me.

McGurk was in his element, the centre of attention, soaking in the adulation as the man who had beaten the sure thing.

Some people didn’t like me, not many, because what they mistook for determination was really the desire to be fair and equitable.

His acceptance speech was the sort to be expected, praising the competition, acknowledging the help I’d given him, and stating that he was going to make a lot of people’s futures much brighter.

I was not sure who those people were, because no one in this county would.

After shaking the selection committee’s hands and thanking them all, he wandered over to see me.

He was brave or stupid, I wasn’t sure which, but then he didn’t know what I knew.

“You do realise the race was over before it began.”

He was all smiles and shaking my hand for the cameras.

I was all smiles for a different reason.

“Not at first, but I did get a sense of it towards the end.”

“You didn’t seem to be all that well-liked.”

No.  I got that.  Alfred Knopper, next door neighbour and staunch enemy when I won the council election over him, was on the committee.

I should have tried harder to win him over.

“Happens in small towns.  You can’t please everyone all of the time.  You will discover that “

“I’m sure I won’t.  I understand the brief.”

I smiled.  “I hope you do.”

I could see Evelyn coming over, and so could he.  Her face was set, and I could feel the heat from where I was standing.  Seeing her approach, he quickly excused himself.

Her eyes followed him as he retreated.

“Snake.”

“He’s the one they deserve.”

“No one deserves a creature like that.”

I shrugged.  “Well, like him or lump him, he’s all they’ve got.”

Until he cashed the check.

A week is a long time in politics, or so I was told the first time I ran for council.

I didn’t want to, but a lot of people said that it was time for a change.

I rode the crest of that wave of change for three terms, after which those same people voted for another change.  It didn’t bother me. I had tried to be fair and equitable, but not everybody’s definition of those words was the same.

I tried to please all of the people all of the time and failed miserably.

We lived in a different world from the one I thought I knew.

It was time to move on, and the plans Evelyn and I had made a few months before, plan B, were in motion.  The children had moved on.  We had sold the house, where I had lived my whole life and my father before me.

All I was waiting for was…

The phone rang, its shrill insistence penetrating the fog of sleep, and only years of training forced me to answer it.

“Yes.”

“He’s gone.”  Jason McMaster sounded panicked.

“Who has gone?”

“McGurk.  Office cleaned out, residence as clean as the day he walked into it.”

McMaster had been very generous in giving him the house rent-free until he was settled.

“The funding.”

Silence.  Then, it’s not in the corporate account.”

Of course not.

“It was transferred to a Cayman Islands bank.”

“You called them?”

“Transferred to a JN Corporation, a shell company.  It’s going to take an army of forensic accountants to find it, and McGurk, if that’s his real name.”

It wasn’t, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

“Why are you telling me?”

“The selection committee asked me to ask you to come back and maintain continuity while we sort this mess out.”

“Too late.  I’m off on holiday this morning.  Time to take a break from everything.”

“Then, in a few weeks, when you get back.  We’ll talk.”

“Can’t.  Not coming back.  Not getting the award settled a few things for me, and the main one, our future.  Twelve months in a cottage in Tuscany and then, well, who knows.  Have a nice life, Jason.”

I hung up.

Evelyn rolled over. “McGurk?”

“Not at the office for his first day.”

“Jason?”

“Nearly hysterical.  He went to the house, and there’s no sign he had ever been there.”

“McGurk wasn’t.  He’s been dead since the day after he was born, but Michael Oliphant, that’s a different story.”

“That his real name?”

“So Viktor told me.  Took three days, but he broke him.  They all break eventually.”

“And the money.”

“It’ll be in Geneva by the time we get there.  Now, come back to bed.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025