Days 144 and 145

Take or normal reunion and discussion, then add what it is the speakers are not saying

I hated reunions.  My family insisted on one every five years, and the only excuse for missing one was if you were dead.

I tried to pretend that I didn’t get the invitation, but my older sister Elaine flew to the middle of nowhere, as she called it, to take me back.  She even paid for the ticket.

She was so rich I was surprised she hadn’t come down in the family jet.  Yes, they had one, and yes, she could fly it.

I hated her.

I was the black sheep.  I was the one who was always in trouble, married the wrong girl, invested in scams, and ended up in a Humpty with no one and nothing to show for my life.  Oh yes, and a nothing job as a security guard.  I just had to turn up and go home.

It didn’t matter how many times I mentioned this, Elaine said that it didn’t matter. Family was everything.  I would have accepted that, except for her tone.  It was the same one she used when admonishing me when my marriage fell apart.

It’s not your fault, but who else is there to blame?

Elaine lived in New York, Merilyn lived in San Francisco, Roger in Albuquerque, and Sam, the family hero, in Washington.  Every one of my brothers and sisters was a high achiever.

My father, joking, he would say, would sometimes ask whether or not my mother had had an affair and I was the result of it.  She didn’t quite see the joke in it, but I could.  He was happy I was out of sight and out of mind.

Elaine swept into a room, followed by adulation.

I stayed at the door and barely got a glance. 

Until my father saw me.  “James.  I’m so glad you could make it.”  He didn’t move from his seat.

What he meant to say, as he had in the past, was ‘look what the cat dragged in’   It was a surprise he hadn’t.

My mother looked over, and I could see just that momentary sigh, as if it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I’d just stayed away.

Then smiled and said, “James, you made it.  I thought you had something you couldn’t get away from?”

True.  I was using a non-existent conference as an excuse.  “This was more important,” I said

Her look told me it wasn’t. 

Roger and Merylin had already arrived.  The Star Act, Sam, would make the grand entrance, outdoing Elaine.  It was a competition, and he had no chance, even if he was elected president.

Roger came over.  “You know this isn’t going to end well.  You look well.”  No hand shake, no hug, nothing.  It was like we were not relayed.

“Nice to see you too, bro.”

He winced.  Yes, I can read his mind, ‘don’t call me bro, you asshole, were definitely not relayed.”

Merilyn was a little better. She gave me a two-second hug.  She was the second-lowest high achiever, one rung above me, and not married yet.

Mother’s looks covered her sentiment, ‘you’re getting older, and it’s harder when you have children at that agency’.

She couldn’t tell her mother she hated the idea of having children, much less bringing them into this horrible world.  Maybe I would.

Now, if I left now and went up to my old room, left as it was the day I stormed out, maybe no one would notice me.

“Jimbo.  You came?”

Alex, Elaine’s husband, had been hiding out back.

“Your wife dragged me here under threat of death.  I had no choice.”  And wait for it…

“Everyone had a choice, Jimbo.”

Jimbo.  The cretin couldn’t even get my name right, or it was his way of treating me like I was nothing.  I’d corrected him for a few months and then given up.  His contempt for me knew no bounds.

He was riding on her coattails, and that was a marriage that was heading for the rocks.  He was a ‘player’.  Snobby pretentious twit.

Elaine was still doing the rounds and had the limelight.  Alex would wait a minute and then attempt to take it away.

My cue to leave.  Before I ran into Angelique, Rogers was a long-time partner, had no wedding date in sight, with a phony French accent. 

No one knew she had been a Playboy model and a porn actress before she met Roger.

We had a pact.  I wouldn’t tell anyone, and she wouldn’t treat me condescendingly, but that was two years ago.  She’d have to think the secret was safe.

If Sam made the move and started down the presidential path, the skeletons were not going to stay in the closet very long.

“James.”  She had a nice voice and was alarmingly beautiful.

“Angelique.”

“Back for round three?  I saw you arrive with Elaine, so perhaps not willingly?”

“Elaine made a special trip.”

“Then you can bet there’s trouble in paradise.”  She smiled.  “Try not to listen through keyholes.”

In other words, get the gossip; something is going on.  Or not, I could never quite tell what she meant.

The noise level dropped, and everyone was grabbing a seat.  Like musical chairs, the last man standing was the last man standing.

Mother saw me by the door.  “Just grab a chair in the dining room, dear.”

“No need.  I’m going up to my room to sulk.  You lot feel free to talk about me.  My situation hadn’t changed since the last time I was here, so I’ve nothing to add.”

“Donr be like that.  You are as much a part of the family as all of us.”

It sounded earnest and welcoming, but mothers all practised that line.  What she was really saying was ‘please go so I can talk to Elaine’.

Dad was thinking, ‘son of the bloody milkman’, and Alex, ‘please leave and don’t come back’.  Of course, without the ‘please’.

I shrugged.  “I’ll be down for dinner.  It’ll give you time to think up some insightful questions.”

Then I left, closing the sliding doors that felt like I was stepping from one world into another.

And bumped into Sam.

Who immediately motioned me to be quiet and follow him into the study up the passage.  Inside, he closed the door.

“What the hell, Sam?”

“I don’t want them to know I’m here yet.”

“Why.  You’re the golden boy, just one step removed from Elaine.  But if you…”

“I’m not.”

“What?”

“Running for office.”

“Why?  Because you have a low life brother.  I’m sure no one cares.”

“No one does.  No, there are bigger secrets than that that would come out, secrets I’m sure no one really knows about, or if they did, they would have told me.”

“What secrets?”  I hardly thought an ex porn actress would cause problems because nearly all of the current era presidents were known to dabble.

“That’s what I’m here to find out.  And you bring the only one no one cares about. I need your help.”

“I’m a useless security guard.”

“You are the only one who hadn’t got an axe to grind out of that lot in that room.  I’m sure if I asked you to give me a one-sentence description of each of them, it would be caustic but true.”

“I can’t help you.  Haven’t you got staff who do that sort of thing?”

“I can’t trust any of them.  There’s no loyalty, just a paycheck.  But tomorrow, they’d sell me out for twenty pieces of gold.  It’s politics at its finest.  So, are you in?”

“Just you and me?”

“Just you and me.  Shake on it.  Your word is your bond.”

“And you being a politician…”

“I get it.  I do.  But yes.  I give you my word.”

I shook his hand

This had all the hallmarks of a gag they had all thought up before I got here, and it was going to explode in my face.  Sam was the last person I could trust and would.

“Now what?”

We go in and work the room.”

Why did I feel like this was a setup of the worst order?  They could have just found an old girlfriend to humiliate me, but no, Sam and Elaine were always trying to outdo each other at my expense.

At least when it was over, I could leave.  And this time, I would go where neither of them could find me.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

More about my story

…

Who sleeps with a gun under their pillow?

…

So, this invisible, but suddenly visible, underground is lurking.

Our protagonist knows that these organisations don’t stay in the shadows for long, not when there’s an opportunity to make a splash.

A conference on human rights abuses in a country that has human rights abuses but doesn’t acknowledge that it has is a moment in time to press their case.

The problem is that our protagonist, who defended the keynote speaker and had a lot more personal reasons to be watching over her, has already borne witness to the ineptitude of their idea of making a move. That simplistic foray at the opening banquet showed that planning and execution are not their strong points.

So, without trying to look like he’s trying to find them, he tries to find them.  The notion that their headquarters is somewhere in the labyrinth of the catacombs draws a blank, but only for the reason that the catacombs are vast and complicated.

He considers talking to Delacrat, the so-called independent policeman.  Considers!

But if these rebels, freedom fighters, shadowy underground, he hasn’t quite decided what to call them, tried once, then they’re going to try again.

It calls for a bold move.  And, surprisingly, as happened once upon a time in the past, the woman of his dreams still carries the same feelings as he has for her.

It’s going to be an interesting night.

More about my story

…

Who sleeps with a gun under their pillow?

So, this invisible, but suddenly visible, underground is lurking.

Our protagonist knows that these organisations don’t stay in the shadows for long, not when there’s an opportunity to make a splash.

A conference on human rights abuses in a country that has human rights abuses but doesn’t acknowledge that it has is a moment in time to press their case.

The problem is that our protagonist, who defended the keynote speaker and had a lot more personal reasons to be watching over her, has already borne witness to the ineptitude of their idea of making a move. That simplistic foray at the opening banquet showed that planning and execution are not their strong points.

So, without trying to look like he’s trying to find them, he tries to find them.  The notion that their headquarters is somewhere in the labyrinth of the catacombs draws a blank, but only for the reason that the catacombs are vast and complicated.

He considers talking to Delacrat, the so-called independent policeman.  Considers!

But if these rebels, freedom fighters, shadowy underground, he hasn’t quite decided what to call them, tried once, then they’re going to try again.

It calls for a bold move.  And, surprisingly, as happened once upon a time in the past, the woman of his dreams still carries the same feelings as he has for her.

It’s going to be an interesting night.

Day 143

Start in the middle of the story, then play catch-up

…

Sitting across from my father, a possibility that I had always thought would be impossible, I looked at him like it was someone I’d never seen or knew before.

“Why didn’t you tell me, us?”

“Couldn’t.”

“That’s not good enough.  You had responsibilities, and had you been forthcoming, even if we had some sort of heads up, what happened wouldn’t have happened.”

“Don’t you think I know that.  I know that’s on me, and I’m going to remember it for the rest of my days.”

“Who are you, really?  And don’t even try to lie about it.  We’re way past that now?”

“I’m a trouble shooter. That’s probably the best description of my current job.  There’s a problem somewhere in the world, I go and fix it, or try to.”

He just couldn’t say he was a spy because, as far as I was concerned, he was.  As unbelievable as it sounded.  There was no other explanation for what I witnessed.

And he was only sitting in that chair in front of me because I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Or maybe I wasn’t, and we had been the target, my mother, my sister, and I.  My semester was in hospital, traumatised in more ways than I could count, and my mother was dead.

She hadn’t deserved to die, not like that.  She wasn’t even supposed to be there.  That was the thing that hurt the most.

“Were we the target, any or all of us?”

“No.  You were simply collateral damage.”

I didn’t believe him.  I’d gone over the events a dozen times, creating a timeline and a storyboard of the event.

He pays us a visit, out of nowhere, the man who had unceremoniously dumped us all ten years before without so much as a by your leave, and two days later, here we were.

A hotel lobby just before he was leaving, again, for who knows where.

Leaving a train of irreparable destruction behind him.

“That’s a lie, and you know it.  If the reason you left in the first place was to protect your family, why would you come back and lead whoever it was straight to us?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to.

I was sure he came back for a reason, something he had left at the house, something he must have been very desperate to get that he would sacrifice our safety.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what’s it like?  What is it you needed?  It certainly wasn’t to see Mother again.  She was adamant she had never ever wanted to see you again.”

“No one could have known who you were and where you lived.  I didn’t go there, and there was no trail leading from me to any of you.”

“Then how did they find us?”

“That’s something I intended to find out.”

A car horn sounded, and he leapt out of the chair.  “I’m sorry.  Can you apologise to Cecelia for me?  I thought I’d have time, but I have to leave.  I promise I’ll come back and tell you more.”

His promises meant nothing to me.

A last look, he grabbed a backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and left, not looking back.

A few seconds after he went through the door, I heard screams and quickly ran towards the entrance.  It wasn’t hard to see what caused the screams.  My father was sprawled backwards on the ground, blood seeping from a large hole in his chest.

I looked up at the building opposite but didn’t see anyone or anything, but that’s where the sniper was, or by now, had been.

I half expected to be the recipient of the next shot, but I wasn’t the target.  I don’t think any of us had been.  They’d been after him, and now the job was done.

Except it wasn’t over.

Back to the start…

The envelope, small, smudged with dirt and grease, wrinkled around the edges, turned up in my letter box one Saturday.

I had no idea what prompted me to look in it because no one ever sent me letters.  I was passing by, and it looked different.

It was.  There was the envelope with my name scrawled on it.  Nothing else, no address, no stamp

I looked up and down the street, as you do, thinking the person who dropped it would still be lurking to see if I collected it. 

The street was empty.

The envelope could have been sitting in the box for a month, about the length of time i last looked, but somehow, I didn’t think so.

I resisted the urge to tear it open tight there and then but instead shoved it in my back pocket, once again looked for any sign of movement, and then went inside.

My flat was on the second floor, a long trudge down a narrow corridor listening to loud music, serial TV shows, and couples arguing, intermingled with the aromas of Spanish, Italian and Korean food wafting through the cracks in the doorways.

I went up the back stairs, not quite as polished at those at the front, and then two doors along to my place.  No loud music, no eating aromas.

Inside, sparsely furnished, not many groceries and beer in the Bridge.  I’d eaten out.  I always ate out.  I had no wife, no children.  I had a mother and a sister.  Don’t ask me where my father was. He left before I was old enough to remember him

Fifteen years.  Or so I was told.

I tossed the keys and the envelope on the bench and rescued one of those bottles of beer.  I was going to turn on the TV, but I didn’t.  It was news time, and there was never any good news.

A half and three bottles of beer constituted my version of prevarication. I got the envelope and sat down again

Who would be sending me anonymous letters?  I kept to myself, I avoided everyone, I trusted no one.  That was my father’s fault.  When he left, bad people came looking for him, and we had to disappear.  Now, I was lucky to remember what my real name was.

It wasn’t the name on the envelope.  My real name was Jack, the name on the envelope was Jake.

I ripped it open.

A single sheet of equally grimy paper.

“Dock 7 warehouse, Puddle Lane, 11:30 pm. 27/6”

Nothing else, no conditions like ‘come alone’ or ‘no police’, nothing.  Tonight.  I took it to me, and someone was setting me up.

Workmates’ pranks.  I thought they’d got the message the last time.  Apparently not.

Puddle Lane was infamous.  Thirty-odd years ago, there were the Puddle Lane murders, twenty-odd bodies of teens, boys, and girls, had been discovered buried under the detritus of time and abandonment.

They would not have been discovered only for an enterprising youth thinking it was an ideal spot for a meth lab.  It would have been if it had not exploded.

Now, none went near the place, feared to be haunted by the angry hosts of the twenty victims still clamouring for justice.  Whoever did it so far had gotten away with it.

I’d been once or twice out of morbid curiosity with said workmates, but the place had rattled them too.  If this was them, it was a new low.

I chambered through the cut in the chain wire fencing, meant to keep people out, but I suspect there were homeless people about.  There was the aroma of burning timber in the air, and the path on either side of the opening was worn.

I walked about twenty yards to a door with the number 7 over the top, took a deep breath, and tried the door.  It was open.

I stepped in and closed the door behind me.  It was dark, but not that dark, with several fires burning in drums a distance away from where I was standing.  There were also the muffled sounds of voices.

The smell was of rotting wood and permanent damp.  But there was something else, something powerful enough to transcend it, a smell I’d smelled before, and a long, long time ago.

The only memory I had.

And the voice, right beside me.  “I thought you’d recognise it.  Hello, Jack.”

My father had returned.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 143

Start in the middle of the story, then play catch-up

…

Sitting across from my father, a possibility that I had always thought would be impossible, I looked at him like it was someone I’d never seen or knew before.

“Why didn’t you tell me, us?”

“Couldn’t.”

“That’s not good enough.  You had responsibilities, and had you been forthcoming, even if we had some sort of heads up, what happened wouldn’t have happened.”

“Don’t you think I know that.  I know that’s on me, and I’m going to remember it for the rest of my days.”

“Who are you, really?  And don’t even try to lie about it.  We’re way past that now?”

“I’m a trouble shooter. That’s probably the best description of my current job.  There’s a problem somewhere in the world, I go and fix it, or try to.”

He just couldn’t say he was a spy because, as far as I was concerned, he was.  As unbelievable as it sounded.  There was no other explanation for what I witnessed.

And he was only sitting in that chair in front of me because I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Or maybe I wasn’t, and we had been the target, my mother, my sister, and I.  My semester was in hospital, traumatised in more ways than I could count, and my mother was dead.

She hadn’t deserved to die, not like that.  She wasn’t even supposed to be there.  That was the thing that hurt the most.

“Were we the target, any or all of us?”

“No.  You were simply collateral damage.”

I didn’t believe him.  I’d gone over the events a dozen times, creating a timeline and a storyboard of the event.

He pays us a visit, out of nowhere, the man who had unceremoniously dumped us all ten years before without so much as a by your leave, and two days later, here we were.

A hotel lobby just before he was leaving, again, for who knows where.

Leaving a train of irreparable destruction behind him.

“That’s a lie, and you know it.  If the reason you left in the first place was to protect your family, why would you come back and lead whoever it was straight to us?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to.

I was sure he came back for a reason, something he had left at the house, something he must have been very desperate to get that he would sacrifice our safety.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what’s it like?  What is it you needed?  It certainly wasn’t to see Mother again.  She was adamant she had never ever wanted to see you again.”

“No one could have known who you were and where you lived.  I didn’t go there, and there was no trail leading from me to any of you.”

“Then how did they find us?”

“That’s something I intended to find out.”

A car horn sounded, and he leapt out of the chair.  “I’m sorry.  Can you apologise to Cecelia for me?  I thought I’d have time, but I have to leave.  I promise I’ll come back and tell you more.”

His promises meant nothing to me.

A last look, he grabbed a backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and left, not looking back.

A few seconds after he went through the door, I heard screams and quickly ran towards the entrance.  It wasn’t hard to see what caused the screams.  My father was sprawled backwards on the ground, blood seeping from a large hole in his chest.

I looked up at the building opposite but didn’t see anyone or anything, but that’s where the sniper was, or by now, had been.

I half expected to be the recipient of the next shot, but I wasn’t the target.  I don’t think any of us had been.  They’d been after him, and now the job was done.

Except it wasn’t over.

Back to the start…

The envelope, small, smudged with dirt and grease, wrinkled around the edges, turned up in my letter box one Saturday.

I had no idea what prompted me to look in it because no one ever sent me letters.  I was passing by, and it looked different.

It was.  There was the envelope with my name scrawled on it.  Nothing else, no address, no stamp

I looked up and down the street, as you do, thinking the person who dropped it would still be lurking to see if I collected it. 

The street was empty.

The envelope could have been sitting in the box for a month, about the length of time i last looked, but somehow, I didn’t think so.

I resisted the urge to tear it open tight there and then but instead shoved it in my back pocket, once again looked for any sign of movement, and then went inside.

My flat was on the second floor, a long trudge down a narrow corridor listening to loud music, serial TV shows, and couples arguing, intermingled with the aromas of Spanish, Italian and Korean food wafting through the cracks in the doorways.

I went up the back stairs, not quite as polished at those at the front, and then two doors along to my place.  No loud music, no eating aromas.

Inside, sparsely furnished, not many groceries and beer in the Bridge.  I’d eaten out.  I always ate out.  I had no wife, no children.  I had a mother and a sister.  Don’t ask me where my father was. He left before I was old enough to remember him

Fifteen years.  Or so I was told.

I tossed the keys and the envelope on the bench and rescued one of those bottles of beer.  I was going to turn on the TV, but I didn’t.  It was news time, and there was never any good news.

A half and three bottles of beer constituted my version of prevarication. I got the envelope and sat down again

Who would be sending me anonymous letters?  I kept to myself, I avoided everyone, I trusted no one.  That was my father’s fault.  When he left, bad people came looking for him, and we had to disappear.  Now, I was lucky to remember what my real name was.

It wasn’t the name on the envelope.  My real name was Jack, the name on the envelope was Jake.

I ripped it open.

A single sheet of equally grimy paper.

“Dock 7 warehouse, Puddle Lane, 11:30 pm. 27/6”

Nothing else, no conditions like ‘come alone’ or ‘no police’, nothing.  Tonight.  I took it to me, and someone was setting me up.

Workmates’ pranks.  I thought they’d got the message the last time.  Apparently not.

Puddle Lane was infamous.  Thirty-odd years ago, there were the Puddle Lane murders, twenty-odd bodies of teens, boys, and girls, had been discovered buried under the detritus of time and abandonment.

They would not have been discovered only for an enterprising youth thinking it was an ideal spot for a meth lab.  It would have been if it had not exploded.

Now, none went near the place, feared to be haunted by the angry hosts of the twenty victims still clamouring for justice.  Whoever did it so far had gotten away with it.

I’d been once or twice out of morbid curiosity with said workmates, but the place had rattled them too.  If this was them, it was a new low.

I chambered through the cut in the chain wire fencing, meant to keep people out, but I suspect there were homeless people about.  There was the aroma of burning timber in the air, and the path on either side of the opening was worn.

I walked about twenty yards to a door with the number 7 over the top, took a deep breath, and tried the door.  It was open.

I stepped in and closed the door behind me.  It was dark, but not that dark, with several fires burning in drums a distance away from where I was standing.  There were also the muffled sounds of voices.

The smell was of rotting wood and permanent damp.  But there was something else, something powerful enough to transcend it, a smell I’d smelled before, and a long, long time ago.

The only memory I had.

And the voice, right beside me.  “I thought you’d recognise it.  Hello, Jack.”

My father had returned.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 142

Don’t ease your way in; grab the reader’s attention by swarming them with flying bullets and dragging them on a roller coaster ride that simply doesn’t stop.

…

The bullet passed through my left sleeve, grazing the arm just below the shoulder.

I heard the shot, well, a rally of shots from the three men with automatic guns, and only realised one had almost found its mark when my arm started to hurt.

It was the least of my problems.  The three men were gaining on me, and their marksmanship could only improve as they got closer.

The darkness was supposed to cover us, but no one had predicted clear skies and a large moon.

“You said no one was home.”  The hissed statement came from the other person who’d been with me.

“Bad intel.  Shit happens.”

At the top of the hill, after running through a grove of trees to try and misdirect their aim, and skidding to a halt before going headfirst down.

Both of us were fit, but even so, the hard running, the dodging and weaving as bullets thwack into the trees beside us, we were still gasping for breath.

At least one part of the briefing had been right.

If we got into trouble, going down the hill and into the river would be the best escape route if things got bad.

“You’re joking.”  Alicia had stopped, bent over double, trying to suck air in and look at the slope at the same time.

“Death or glory,” I said.

A bullet hit the tree next to her head, and then I was following her down.  I doubted they would follow us.

A last glance back showed they had slowed down, and I got the feeling they knew something about the slope I didn’t.

Halfway there was a sudden explosion, the debris threw us sideways, and luckily, because there was another explosion just in front of where Alicia was heading.

“Mine,” I heard her gasp just before she started sliding on the loose scree.  I was right behind her.

A rocky ledge arrested the free fall, and we came to a sudden and abrasive stop.  Several bullets hitting rocks to the side of us forced us across and behind the dense shrubbery.

It was about another hundred yards to the water’s edge, but now, closer to the bottom, I could see a track.  We hadn’t been told there was a track around the lake.

And headlights in the distance.

Behind us, another two mines exploded, showering us with scree.

“Jesus.”  Alicia wasn’t used to being shot at or running through minefields.

“Better not look to the left then.”

She saw the approaching car.  “Oh, shit.  What else is going to go wrong?”

“Welcome to my world.  We need to be down and in the water before that vehicle reaches us.”

At that moment, a cloud covered the moon, and it went dark.  Or darker.

“Now.”

She didn’t need to be asked twice.

We were on the track before I could count to ten.  The headlights suddenly disappeared, perhaps going around a bend in the road.

“Ready to take a dip?”

“I always wanted to go for a midnight swim.”

The headlights started to reappear.

We slipped into the water and swam away from the shoreline, trying to make as little wake as possible, heading towards the island about eighty yards away, taking a circular track, keeping close to the rocky edge.

It took that car about forty-five seconds to reach the spot where we had got in the water, and by that time we had reached as far as the rocky outcrop that was the last cover before striking out towards the island.

At that point, we stopped to see what they were going to do.  Just as a light flickered to life.

A searchlight.

The beam slowly tracked out over the water towards the island.  Then, it slowly tracked back to the point where we had just slipped underwater.

Seconds later, we came back up for air, and I could see the search light reach the point where we had entered the water.

“What now.  They’re going to see us if we try to get to the island.”

“Go around the point and out of sight, give us time to consider options.  At the very least, get away from them.

We reached the other side just before the searchlight picked up the point where we had just been.  Around the corner was inky blackness, but it wasn’t going to last.  The clouds were breaking up, and the moon would be out again.

We climbed out and sat on the rocky ledge.  The slope leading down to the waterline was a rock climber’s paradise.  It wouldn’t have been too hard to climb up.

The thing is, we now have a new problem.

A motorboat was heading towards us, and in the distance, we could see a flashlight. At first, we pointed at the lake surface, then, when close to the shoreline, pointed at the cliff.

“We go up,” I said.

A few seconds later, we were climbing as fast as we could.

A few seconds after that, bullets started pinging off the rocks below us.

At the top and over onto the flat surface, bullets were still pinging off the rocks, but now harmlessly.

Alicia took a minute to breathe, as I did, that last part of the climb turning my legs to jelly.

“Are we safe now?”

“When we get to that treeline, about fifty yards, or a little more.”

She started running.

We’d both heard it, the thumping sound of a helicopter rotor.

These people were never going to give up.

…

© Charles Heath 2025

Day 142

Don’t ease your way in; grab the reader’s attention by swarming them with flying bullets and dragging them on a roller coaster ride that simply doesn’t stop.

…

The bullet passed through my left sleeve, grazing the arm just below the shoulder.

I heard the shot, well, a rally of shots from the three men with automatic guns, and only realised one had almost found its mark when my arm started to hurt.

It was the least of my problems.  The three men were gaining on me, and their marksmanship could only improve as they got closer.

The darkness was supposed to cover us, but no one had predicted clear skies and a large moon.

“You said no one was home.”  The hissed statement came from the other person who’d been with me.

“Bad intel.  Shit happens.”

At the top of the hill, after running through a grove of trees to try and misdirect their aim, and skidding to a halt before going headfirst down.

Both of us were fit, but even so, the hard running, the dodging and weaving as bullets thwack into the trees beside us, we were still gasping for breath.

At least one part of the briefing had been right.

If we got into trouble, going down the hill and into the river would be the best escape route if things got bad.

“You’re joking.”  Alicia had stopped, bent over double, trying to suck air in and look at the slope at the same time.

“Death or glory,” I said.

A bullet hit the tree next to her head, and then I was following her down.  I doubted they would follow us.

A last glance back showed they had slowed down, and I got the feeling they knew something about the slope I didn’t.

Halfway there was a sudden explosion, the debris threw us sideways, and luckily, because there was another explosion just in front of where Alicia was heading.

“Mine,” I heard her gasp just before she started sliding on the loose scree.  I was right behind her.

A rocky ledge arrested the free fall, and we came to a sudden and abrasive stop.  Several bullets hitting rocks to the side of us forced us across and behind the dense shrubbery.

It was about another hundred yards to the water’s edge, but now, closer to the bottom, I could see a track.  We hadn’t been told there was a track around the lake.

And headlights in the distance.

Behind us, another two mines exploded, showering us with scree.

“Jesus.”  Alicia wasn’t used to being shot at or running through minefields.

“Better not look to the left then.”

She saw the approaching car.  “Oh, shit.  What else is going to go wrong?”

“Welcome to my world.  We need to be down and in the water before that vehicle reaches us.”

At that moment, a cloud covered the moon, and it went dark.  Or darker.

“Now.”

She didn’t need to be asked twice.

We were on the track before I could count to ten.  The headlights suddenly disappeared, perhaps going around a bend in the road.

“Ready to take a dip?”

“I always wanted to go for a midnight swim.”

The headlights started to reappear.

We slipped into the water and swam away from the shoreline, trying to make as little wake as possible, heading towards the island about eighty yards away, taking a circular track, keeping close to the rocky edge.

It took that car about forty-five seconds to reach the spot where we had got in the water, and by that time we had reached as far as the rocky outcrop that was the last cover before striking out towards the island.

At that point, we stopped to see what they were going to do.  Just as a light flickered to life.

A searchlight.

The beam slowly tracked out over the water towards the island.  Then, it slowly tracked back to the point where we had just slipped underwater.

Seconds later, we came back up for air, and I could see the search light reach the point where we had entered the water.

“What now.  They’re going to see us if we try to get to the island.”

“Go around the point and out of sight, give us time to consider options.  At the very least, get away from them.

We reached the other side just before the searchlight picked up the point where we had just been.  Around the corner was inky blackness, but it wasn’t going to last.  The clouds were breaking up, and the moon would be out again.

We climbed out and sat on the rocky ledge.  The slope leading down to the waterline was a rock climber’s paradise.  It wouldn’t have been too hard to climb up.

The thing is, we now have a new problem.

A motorboat was heading towards us, and in the distance, we could see a flashlight. At first, we pointed at the lake surface, then, when close to the shoreline, pointed at the cliff.

“We go up,” I said.

A few seconds later, we were climbing as fast as we could.

A few seconds after that, bullets started pinging off the rocks below us.

At the top and over onto the flat surface, bullets were still pinging off the rocks, but now harmlessly.

Alicia took a minute to breathe, as I did, that last part of the climb turning my legs to jelly.

“Are we safe now?”

“When we get to that treeline, about fifty yards, or a little more.”

She started running.

We’d both heard it, the thumping sound of a helicopter rotor.

These people were never going to give up.

…

© Charles Heath 2025

Day 141

A writer sometimes has to be a hustler.

…

If you want to eat, or more to the point, if you want to make a living out of it, you will have to put yourself out there.

But, first, a sobering statistic: very few writers make an adequate living off their writing.

We all can be James Patterson, and those who are always on the top 50 best-selling list.

I’ll admit I want to want to have that New York Times Number One bestselling author title, but realistic enough to know that there’s a lot of hard work between then and now.

Now I’m just content to write.

But, seriously, writing is as much about marketing as it is writing, and unless you have a publishing contract, you are in charge of your book’s marketing campaign.

And it isn’t easy.

A lot of so-called helpful people are only too willing to tell you how easy it is, for a price.  The thing is, what worked for them, if it worked for them, doesn’t necessarily work for you.

Quite often, it’s different genres, so their success was in cosy mysteries, and you write true crime, you’re facing a completely different market.

Then, if you were to analyse the success of that particular advice offerer, which i did in one case, you might find they have no presence or sales, except for the material they are selling.

It’s a rarity indeed that a person who isn’t in the same type of market can offer any meaningful advice.

I have tried paid for and free advice, not that much of the free advice was very helpful, and a lot of it didn’t work

Even trying to give your books away for free, the sites that might see you move a dozen, perhaps twenty copies, don’t equate to the large sum of money these ‘promotion by giving away free copies’ sites demand is hardly worth the effort.

Is there a perfect plan?

No.

Is there a way to find out how to market successfully?

I like to think there is.  The thing is, I haven’t quite stumbled on the formula, but when I do, I will be happy to give it away for free.

Day 141

A writer sometimes has to be a hustler.

…

If you want to eat, or more to the point, if you want to make a living out of it, you will have to put yourself out there.

But, first, a sobering statistic: very few writers make an adequate living off their writing.

We all can be James Patterson, and those who are always on the top 50 best-selling list.

I’ll admit I want to want to have that New York Times Number One bestselling author title, but realistic enough to know that there’s a lot of hard work between then and now.

Now I’m just content to write.

But, seriously, writing is as much about marketing as it is writing, and unless you have a publishing contract, you are in charge of your book’s marketing campaign.

And it isn’t easy.

A lot of so-called helpful people are only too willing to tell you how easy it is, for a price.  The thing is, what worked for them, if it worked for them, doesn’t necessarily work for you.

Quite often, it’s different genres, so their success was in cosy mysteries, and you write true crime, you’re facing a completely different market.

Then, if you were to analyse the success of that particular advice offerer, which i did in one case, you might find they have no presence or sales, except for the material they are selling.

It’s a rarity indeed that a person who isn’t in the same type of market can offer any meaningful advice.

I have tried paid for and free advice, not that much of the free advice was very helpful, and a lot of it didn’t work

Even trying to give your books away for free, the sites that might see you move a dozen, perhaps twenty copies, don’t equate to the large sum of money these ‘promotion by giving away free copies’ sites demand is hardly worth the effort.

Is there a perfect plan?

No.

Is there a way to find out how to market successfully?

I like to think there is.  The thing is, I haven’t quite stumbled on the formula, but when I do, I will be happy to give it away for free.