“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

Writing a book in 365 days – 341/342

Days 341 and 342

The Ultimate Test: Reading Your Own Work as a Reader

As writers, we’ve all been there – pouring our hearts and souls into a project, painstakingly crafting each sentence, and meticulously editing every detail. But once we’ve finally completed our masterpiece, there’s a crucial step that many of us often overlook: reading it as a reader, not as a writer.

This concept may seem simple, but it’s a game-changer. By setting aside our writer’s hat and donning the reader’s cap, we can gain a fresh perspective on our work and determine whether it truly resonates with our target audience. The idea is straightforward: if we, as writers, find our own work enjoyable and engaging, then it’s likely that our readers will too. But if we struggle to get through our own content, then it’s back to the drawing board.

Why Reading as a Reader Matters

When we read our own work as writers, we’re often too close to the material. We’re familiar with the plot twists, character arcs, and themes, and we know exactly what we’re trying to convey. But readers don’t have this insider knowledge. They’re approaching our work with a blank slate, and it’s our job to draw them in and keep them engaged.

By reading our work as a reader, we can experience it in the same way that our audience will. We can identify areas where the pacing is slow, the dialogue is clunky, or the exposition is too dense. We can pinpoint moments where we’re confused, bored, or disconnected from the story. And we can make adjustments accordingly.

The Benefits of Reading as a Reader

So, what can we gain from reading our own work as a reader? Here are just a few benefits:

  1. Improved pacing: By reading our work from a reader’s perspective, we can identify areas where the story drags or feels rushed. We can make adjustments to the pacing to keep our readers engaged.
  2. Tighter writing: Reading our work as a reader helps us to eliminate unnecessary words, phrases, and scenes. We can streamline our writing and make every sentence count.
  3. Increased tension and suspense: By experiencing our story as a reader, we can identify moments where the tension and suspense are lacking. We can add twists and turns to keep our readers on the edge of their seats.
  4. Better character development: Reading our work as a reader helps us to see our characters through fresh eyes. We can add depth, nuance, and complexity to our characters, making them more relatable and believable.

The Ugly Truth: When It’s Not Enjoyable

But what happens when we read our work as a reader and it’s just not enjoyable? What if we find ourselves skipping sentences, zoning out, or worse, falling asleep? Well, that’s when the real work begins.

It’s time to take a step back, reassess our project, and make significant changes. This might involve rewriting entire sections, reworking our plot, or even scrapping our manuscript altogether. It’s a tough pill to swallow, but it’s better to face the music now than to publish a subpar work that fails to resonate with our readers.

Conclusion

Reading our own work as a reader is a crucial step in the writing process. It allows us to experience our story in a new way, identify areas for improvement, and make adjustments to create a more engaging and enjoyable read. So, take the time to sit down, read your work as a reader, and be honest with yourself. If it’s enjoyable, then you’re on the right track. But if not, don’t be afraid to go back to the drawing board and try again. Your readers will thank you.

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

In a word: Freeze

Yes, if the temperature was 20 degrees below zero and the forecast for the net week was the same, then that would be the big freeze.

In a more understandable way of putting it, to freeze something is to preserve it at a temperature below zero.

Some things don’t freeze, like petrol.

And you want to hope that you put antifreeze in your radiator otherwise you are going to have big problems with your car in winter.

It also means to stand still.

You can also isolate someone by freezing them out.

And freeze in fear, unable to move, like a deer in headlights.

But the worst example of a freeze is when your computer stops, and you forgot to save that 200-page novel, thereby being lost forever.

No.  That would never happen, you had autosave on, didn’t you?

Didn’t you??????????

Freeze is not to be confused with a frieze which is a broad horizontal band of sculpted or painted decoration, especially on a wall near the ceiling.

Or frees, which in some countries type of football described multiple free kicks, in one sense, and, in another, what you do when you let them go, e.g. he frees the dog.

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

Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 23

All stories require some form of research, quite often to place a character in a place at a particular time, especially if it is in a historical context. This series will take you through what it was like in 1914 through 1916.

…

WWI Troop Arrival and Orders in Egypt (April 1915)

The journey of an Englishman returning from Australia to enlist, travelling through the Suez Canal in April 1915, places him squarely within the initial stages of the British Empire’s military buildup in Egypt.

1. Nearest Port and Ship Delivery

The most likely final disembarkation port for troop transport ships arriving in Egypt via the Suez Canal in April 1915 was Alexandria.

  • Suez Canal Route: The ship would pass through the Suez Canal and enter the Mediterranean Sea via Port Said. While Port Said was a vital coaling and resupply station at the northern entrance of the Canal, it was primarily a commercial port and a critical point for Canal defence.
  • The Main Base: Alexandria was the primary, large-capacity deep-water port on the Mediterranean coast and served as the main base and logistic hub for the British, Australian, and New Zealand (ANZAC) forces in Egypt. Troops destined for the extensive training camps in the Cairo area (like Mena Camp near the Pyramids) were routinely disembarked at Alexandria due to its superior facilities for handling large numbers of men, horses, and materiel.

In short, the ship would transit the Canal at Port Said, but the soldier would be delivered to Alexandria.

2. Travel to Cairo and Training Camps

Yes, he would almost certainly need to go to Cairo first, or at least pass through the major military transit points near it, before reaching the training camps near the Pyramids (Mena Camp).

  • From Alexandria to Cairo: Upon disembarking at Alexandria, soldiers were typically immediately loaded onto troop trains for the several-hour journey inland. The main line ran directly to Cairo, where the primary base hospitals, advanced supply depots, and major military command were located.
  • Mena Camp: The famous Mena Camp, situated right next to the Giza Pyramids, was the principal training ground for incoming forces. Transportation from the Cairo railway station or a nearby transit point would be organised to move him to his specific unit in the camp.

3. Reporting with Special Orders

If the enlisted Englishman had “special orders,” his reporting procedure would be immediately elevated and separated from the standard mass of recruits.

  • Standard Procedure: A typical enlisted man would report to the Adjutant or a Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) of the unit he was assigned to, who would be waiting at the port or the reception depot in Cairo.
  • Special Orders Procedure: A soldier with special orders would likely be carrying them in a sealed document intended for high-level staff. He would report to:
    1. The Base Commandant or Staff Officer on Arrival: The first stop would be the Base Commandant or the senior Staff Officer of the disembarkation port (Alexandria). He would present his orders and be immediately directed to the appropriate authority.
    2. General Officer Commanding (G.O.C.)’s Headquarters: His orders would likely route him directly to the General Officer Commanding, Egypt (G.O.C. Egypt), or the Staff Officer representing the GOC at GHQ (General Headquarters) in Cairo. In April 1915, the overall command in Egypt was likely under the purview of General Sir John Maxwell, who was responsible for the troops and defenses of Egypt. If the special orders related to the imminent Gallipoli campaign, he might be directed to the headquarters of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) or the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force (MEF), both of which had Staff Officers operating out of the Cairo command structure.

In summary, his path would be: Australia → Suez Canal → Disembark at Alexandria → Troop Train to Cairo → Report to GHQ Staff (or his unit in the Mena Camp area).

“Because it’s not me” – a short story

If the was one fault I had, it was prevarication.

For a long time, I had always been afraid of making a mistake, after I had done exactly that.  They said our mistakes didn’t define us, but that one had.  I had lost the trust of everyone, from my parents to my friends.

It was only a small lie, or so I told myself, but it had far-reaching ramifications and almost cost someone their life.  But whilst I believed it was not all that bad, and the police had agreed that anyone who had been put in the same position would have done the same, there were those who didn’t agree.

It was a moment in time I often relived in my mind, over and over, and eventually led to several outcomes.

First, I left home, the town where up till then I’d lived all of my life, walking away from family and those who used to be friends, knowing that what they said and what they felt were two entirely different things.  For all concerned, it was better that I leave, cutting all ties, and make a fresh start, away from those whom I knew would never forget, even though they forgave me.

The second, and most dire, I changed my name, and my history, even how I looked.  Today, I am a very different person from the one of thirty years ago.

The third, I moved to another country and vowed never to return, always looking constantly over my shoulder, expecting someone from the past to find me.  I instinctively knew that I would never escape, that one day a stark reminder would come back and destroy everything.

I picked the one occupation that would keep me both occupied and invisible.

Journalist.

I had started at the bottom, literally writing death notices, and worked my way up to what is ubiquitously known as ‘foreign correspondent’, going to places where no one else would go, those hotbeds of unrest, and war zones, reporting from both sides.

Perhaps it could be said I had a death wish, a statement my editor had once said when he came to see me in hospital back in London after I’d been caught up in a rocket attack and repatriated.  He had come to offer me a job back home, to tell me my tour was over.

I declined the opportunity, and he left, shaking his head.

But that was not the only visitor that came to the hospital that day.  The other visitor was an elderly man, immaculately dressed in a pinstripe suit and bowler hat.  It screamed public servant, and the moment I saw him wandering up the passage, a chill ran down my spine.

Although he looked like he was looking for someone else, I knew he would eventually end up in my doorway.

Five minutes after I first saw him.

When he appeared at the door, I thought about ignoring him, but realised that wasn’t going to change anything.  Besides that, I guess I wanted to know why he would want to see me.

“James Wilson?”

“Would it make any difference if I said no?”  Well, it didn’t mean I couldn’t spar with him, just a little.  “Who are you?”

“Do you mind if I come in?”

I got the impression he would do it anyway, irrespective of what I said.  I said no, and as I suspected, he came in anyway, closing the door behind him, then took a minute or two to make himself comfortable in the visitor’s chair, which was an impossible task.

Then, settled, he said, “I understand you have just been repatriated from Syria.”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

It wasn’t common knowledge where I’d come from, so this person knew something about me, which was an immediate cause for concern.

“The bane of a reporter trying to cover a dangerous situation,” he said, with just the right amount of levity in his tone.  “I get it, by the way.  I once had that devil-may-care attitude you need to get the story.  I was chasing a Pulitzer, believe it or not, and used a few of those nine lives in the process.  Which one are you up to?”

I was going to say that awards didn’t matter, but among those who made up the press pack in those God-forsaken places, there was an unwritten desire to be rewarded other than by pay.  For me, though, it was not a defining factor.

“Lost count.  But why would that interest you, or whoever it is you represent?  By the way, just who do you represent?”

Second attempt at finding out who this man was.  If he were dodging and weaving, it would suggest a clandestine organisation.

“People who would like to use your unique talent in getting into trouble spots around the world.  We’re not asking you to come work for us exclusively, rather piggyback on the job that you already do so well.”

An unnamed man from an unnamed organisation.  What he was offering wasn’t unheard of, and I had been warned, more than once, that jobs, like he was suggesting, were more often than not offered to people like me.  With that came one line of advice: turn around and run like hell.

But, with nothing to amuse me in the hospital, I was curious.  “Doing what exactly?”

The fact that his expression changed indicated my response had taken him by surprise.  Perhaps he was used to being told where to go.  Not yet.  I had this fanciful notion in the back of my mind that what he might offer might get me closer to the story.

“Keeping your eyes and ears open.  We’ll tell you what to look for; all you’ll be doing is looking for evidence.  There will be no need to go looking for trouble; if there’s evidence, we ask you to report it; if not, no harm done.”

Not so hard.  If that was all, it was.  The trouble was, if something sounds simple, which that did, inevitably it was going to be anything but.  I’d heard stories and the consequences.

“You’re presuming that my editor will send me back.  He just offered me a job at home.”

“I think both of us know you’re not interested in domesticity.  If he isn’t willing to adhere to your wishes, I’m sure we could find someone else who would be willing to take you on.  You have had several offers recently, have you not?”

So, without a doubt, he knew a lot about me, especially if he asked around.  I had had several offers, but I was happy where I was.  I liked the ‘no questions about your past’ that my current employer had.

Yes, looking at the determination on this man’s face, I had no doubt they or he could do what he said.  No one comes to a meeting like this without holding all the cards.  Also, not that I wanted it to be so, it told me that my agreement was not necessarily going to be optional.

But I was happy to dither and find out.  “Since I’m not sure when the hospital is going to discharge me, and the fact that I’m not exactly very mobile at the moment, can I consider the proposal.  Right now, as you can imagine, getting back to work is not exactly a priority.”

“Of course.”  He took a card out of his coat pocket and put it on the bedside table.  “By all means.  Call me on that number when you’ve decided.” He stood.  “It will be a great opportunity.  Thank you for your time.”

Of course, the two impressions I was left with were, one, that he had me mixed up with someone else, and two, that I would never see him again.

It was an impossible task, for me at least, because I did not have a poker face and could barely carry a lie.  I would be the last person they’d want for the job.

And thinking that, I rolled over, put it out of my mind, and went back to sleep.

© Charles Heath 2025

The 2am Rant: Driving in suburbia

It was one of those beautiful Autumn mornings, blue sky with a smattering of clouds but a sunny day all the same.  It’s Sunday so there is not as much traffic on the road.

Anyone with any sense would be going to their favourite coffee place and settling down to their choice of coffee and perhaps a toaster or muffin to accompany the conversation.

This is what’s happening at the cafe where we go for coffee.  9:00 in the morning it is packed.  But great coffee is hard to find, and this is apparently great coffee.

It’s that in-between time before it gets windy, cold and wet, with the sort of chill you can feel in your bones, whether it’s the time when you have a barbeque in the mid-afternoon and get home before the cold sets in or take the kids to the park for some healthy exercise.

Today I have to take a drive from one side of suburbia to the other, taking a network of main roads with rather anonymous names such as North and South

We travel through the older suburbs, those with a collection of red or white bricks and timber dating back to the fifties and sixties.  They are not, for the most part, in a good state of repair, and rather than looking ramshackle, it’s more like they are slowly decaying.

Fences are rotting or falling over, extensions are like they have been glued on rather than added by an architect, and paint is either fading or missing.  For the most part, people are struggling to keep up with the cost of living and are too busy to worry about maintenance.

Some have been bulldozed and replaced, blocks are cleared awaiting new development, and others are being renovated.  Any way you look at them they are still worth a great deal of money being relatively close to the city.  Nut it’s a double-edged sword, worth a lot, but costing more to keep.

It’s a location we could never afford.  Because we were not affluent, we were pushed out to the less expensive outer suburbs.  This was of course 50 years ago, and now those outer suburbs are the new inner suburbs and people are buying up to 50 km further out in the new estates.  When I was young these suburbs were farms and open land.

It also surprises me that people would want to live on the main road because, with traffic as it is heading into the city, it would be difficult to leave or return by car.  At least for these people, public transport is better than in the outer suburbs.

Because it’s Sunday my trip takes a lot less time, except for those unpredictable traffic lights, some of which I missed and took a while to cycle through the other traffic before it was our time to move.  It’s the only disappointment of the modern era, the fact roads were never made to handle the traffic, and the fact they now have to bulldoze homes to make way for roads.

Pity they didn’t lay down the foundations of a proper transport system, much like they have in major European cities.

Research for the writing of a thriller – 4

Background material used in creating a location, an explosive situation, and characters to bring it alive – the story – A Score to Settle

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A Cover story that just might work

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The Art of the Enduring Cover: Hiding in Plain Sight Among the Press

In the shadowy world of espionage, where every move is calculated and every word weighed, what’s the ultimate weapon? It’s not always a silenced pistol or a high-tech gadget. Often, it’s something far more subtle, more pervasive, and infinitely more powerful: the perfect cover.

Forget the trench coats and dark alleys. Our consummate spy understands that true invisibility isn’t about disappearing; it’s about blending in so seamlessly that you become part of the background noise. And what better place to be both seen and simultaneously overlooked than amidst a burgeoning press corps at a high-stakes international conference?

The Brilliance of the Verifiable Narrative

Our operative isn’t just carrying a fake ID; they possess an enduring cover, a meticulously crafted persona so robust it can withstand scrutiny. This isn’t a flimsy backstory; it’s solid, researchable, and verifiable. Think about it: a legitimate journalist, working for a credible (perhaps even slightly obscure but real) publication, with a publication history, a social media presence, and a genuine reason to be asking questions.

Their reason for being in the country and at this specific conference isn’t suspicious; it’s expected. They are here to cover the proceedings, to report on the speeches, to interview delegates – all legitimate journalistic pursuits. This isn’t just a disguise; it’s an entire, living, breathing narrative, allowing them to move freely, to probe, to listen, and to observe with an air of professional legitimacy. They are, quite literally, hiding in plain sight.

A Sea of Familiar Faces

The beauty of this particular cover is amplified by the environment. A major international conference attracts a swarm of media. A cacophony of camera clicks, flashing lights, and whispered interviews creates a perfect smokescreen. Our spy isn’t just a journalist; they are one of many.

And within this bustling throng, there are familiar faces. Some are undoubtedly genuine journalists, passionate about their craft. But others? Perhaps they are like our operative, wearing their press credentials as a cloak. Or perhaps they are simply career conference-hoppers, their faces known from one event to the next, adding another layer of visual camouflage. The sheer volume of press personnel makes it easier to track targets, pass messages, or simply observe without drawing undue attention. Who is genuinely chasing a story, and who is chasing something else entirely? The lines are deliciously blurred.

Bypassing Bureaucracy

Another significant advantage of this carefully constructed media persona is its utility in navigating local challenges. A legitimate press pass and a verifiable mission can be a powerful diplomatic tool. Dealing with local police, security forces, or even just navigating restricted zones becomes less difficult. A simple flash of the press badge often smooths over minor inconveniences, allowing access where others might be questioned, or providing a believable excuse for being in a particular area at an unusual hour. “Just chasing a late-breaking story, officer,” carries more weight when backed by a plausible cover.

The Unseen Gaze

But even the most pristine cover isn’t a cloak of invisibility. Our spy, for all their cleverness, operates with an acute awareness of an ever-present reality: there is surveillance.

From the moment they cleared customs to every elevator ride, every whispered conversation in a hotel lobby, and every seemingly innocuous stroll through the conference hall, eyes and ears are active. Cameras pan, microphones hum, and specialists observe. The challenge isn’t just to avoid detection, but to operate knowing detection is a constant threat. The enduring cover isn’t about eliminating surveillance; it’s about making sure that what surveillance sees is exactly what you want it to see – a diligent, though perhaps slightly eccentric, member of the press.

In the intricate dance of international intrigue, the journalist’s notebook becomes a shield, the camera lens a silent observer, and the bustling press corps, the ultimate sanctuary. For the consummate spy, the greatest deception often lies in simply being exactly where they’re expected to be, doing exactly what they’re expected to do, while pursuing a truth far deeper than any headline could ever capture.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – San Marino

Discovering the Hidden Gems of San Marino: 5 Off-the-Beaten-Path Experiences

Tucked away in the Apennine Mountains, San Marino is a tiny, independent republic that’s often overlooked by travellers flocking to more popular Italian destinations. However, this charming microstate has a wealth of secrets waiting to be uncovered by intrepid explorers. While many visitors flock to the capital city’s historic centre and the iconic Three Towers, there’s a world of adventure and discovery to be had on the road less travelled. In this blog post, we’ll delve into the top five alternative things to do in San Marino, taking you off the beaten path and into the heart of this enchanting country.

1. Explore the scenic trails of Monte Titano

San Marino’s rugged landscape is perfect for hiking and trekking, with numerous trails that crisscross the country. One of the most breathtaking routes is the Sentiero delle Panoremi, which winds its way around the base of Monte Titano, the country’s highest peak. This moderately challenging hike offers stunning views of the surrounding countryside, as well as the chance to spot local wildlife, such as deer and wild boar. For a more leisurely stroll, try the Sentiero della Rocca, which takes you through a picturesque valley and offers breathtaking vistas of the valley below.

2. Visit the quirky Museum of Curiosities

Tucked away in a quiet alleyway in the capital city, the Museum of Curiosities (Museo delle Cere) is a bizarre and fascinating attraction that’s sure to delight. This quirky museum is home to a vast collection of wax sculptures, including historical figures, mythical creatures, and even a few San Marino legends. With its eclectic mix of art, history, and humour, the Museum of Curiosities is a must-visit for anyone looking to experience the unique culture of San Marino.

3. Sample local wines at a family-run vineyard

San Marino is renowned for its excellent wines, particularly its white wines, which are made from the Verdicchio grape. To experience the best of San Marino’s viticulture, head to a family-run vineyard, such as the Azienda Agricola Sassina or the Cantina di San Marino. Here, you can take a guided tour of the vineyards, learn about the wine-making process, and sample some of the region’s finest vintages. Many vineyards also offer delicious local cuisine, including cheese, cured meats, and homemade pasta.

4. Discover the medieval charm of Fiorentino

Just a short drive from the capital city, the medieval town of Fiorentino is a hidden gem waiting to be discovered. This picturesque village is filled with narrow cobblestone streets, quaint piazzas, and historic buildings, including a stunning 14th-century church. Visitors can explore the town’s charming centre, visit the local museum, and enjoy a leisurely lunch at one of the town’s family-run trattorias. For a truly immersive experience, try visiting Fiorentino during one of its many festivals, such as the Festa della Madonna della Pietà in September.

5. Take a scenic drive along the Strada del Castello

For a truly unique perspective on San Marino, take a drive along the Strada del Castello, a scenic road that winds its way along the country’s rugged coastline. This stunning route offers breathtaking views of the Adriatic Sea, as well as the chance to explore some of San Marino’s most picturesque towns and villages. Along the way, be sure to stop at the Castello di Fiorentino, a medieval fortress that offers panoramic views of the surrounding countryside. For a thrilling experience, try driving the Strada del Castello at sunset, when the sky is painted with hues of pink and gold.

In conclusion, San Marino is a country that’s full of surprises, from its stunning natural beauty to its quirky cultural attractions. By venturing off the beaten path, you can discover a world of hidden gems and unique experiences that will leave you with unforgettable memories of this enchanting microstate. So why not take the road less travelled and explore the secrets of San Marino? You never know what wonders you might discover.