Tag: Author

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

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

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

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

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

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

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

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

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

“Name of guest, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 263/264

Days 263 and 264

Writing exercise

…

I made a mistake. 

And for that mistake, I was probably going to pay for it for the rest of my life.

The mere fact that I was set up by someone I trusted implicitly made not one jot.

There were no such things as friends, simply marks who were there to be exploited by people who didn’t care whose lives they ruined.

And it was our fault, I finally realised.  I had sought to blame everyone else, but in the end, I had the power to not go along with the plan.

But, human nature being what it was, and having someone flatter you and feed that ego, and that element of bravado that dwelt in us all, I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

I was sitting opposite that person right now.  The call was not a request.  If I didn’t show, I would suffer the consequences.  If I did not comply, I would suffer the consequences.

And those consequences?  People who didn’t deserve to die would.  People I cared about.  And what was worse, some other schmuck would take my place.

My tormentor had gleefully told me the world was full of schmucks just like me, lining up to be used.  Everyone had secrets, secrets they didn’t want exposed.

The thing was, he wanted me to become one of those scmucks and blackmail my best friend, probably one of only three.

Because he had an idea, and they wanted that idea, and they didn’t want to pay for it.  That was how the rich got richer and the poor, the ones who had all the good ideas, stayed poor.

Now, having got through college and about to take a step onto the world stage, Jeremy, my friend, was going to take his idea and change the world.

It was an idea that my tormentor had told me was utterly brilliant and worth a gold mine.

Just not for Jeremy.  People like him didn’t understand that giving away life-changing technology was not the right thing, that people had to pay, and keep paying.

Like the man he worked for, who already had so much wealth he could not spend it in a dozen lifetimes.  He wanted it because he could.

He was going to take it because he could.

And I was going to help him.

“So, what is your report?”  My tormentor had just lit a large cigar and was all but blowing the smoke in my face.

If I had a fire extinguisher, I would put it out, and him with it.

He was lucky I didn’t.

“They want to set up a flat and invited me to stay with them.”

“He hadn’t told you about them?”

“Mo.  Maybe you got it wrong.”

He snorted.  I’d said that the first time he told me they had become lovers, and the reason why Allison had sort of left me to think we might have a future, except she was as distant today as she was when she first suggested it.

For some reason, he didn’t want me to know, or anyone else.  They certainly played their parts well, and I would not have guessed.  Not until my tormentor gleefully played the tapes of them together, in several small out-of-the-mainstream hotels.

I was neither surprised nor shocked.  Allison had told me she was interested in him and was happy I had found what I believed to be the one. 

My tormentor had been particularly pleased when he told me Jeremy had set me up, smoothing his way to take Allison, and then strategically arranged to have the girl dump me, having rendered any chance with Allison gone.

I let him have his moment.  Allison and I were never going to be an item, then or now or ever.  Nor was Jeremy, no matter what he thought.  And my tormentor, with everything in his bag of tricks, would never find out.

So…

“Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it?  But, why would they want me to stay with them?”

“The rent.  It’s more than they can afford.  With you, it’s more affordable.”

“He just has to get a better job.  After all, he graduated top of his class.”

“He doesn’t want a better job; he wants to work on his pet project.”

“Until you take it off him.”

He shook his head.  “You’re oversimplifying things again, Stephen.  He will never get the backing he needs to make it work.  No one will do it for pennies on the dollar.  My boss made him an offer, just about everything he wants.  All he has to do is show proof of concept.  We need you to stay, make him feel safe, not having to trust an outsider, for just a little bit longer.”

“You’re going to steal it, aren’t you?”

“No.  I’m not.  I wouldn’t know anything about it.  I just have one job.  You’re keeping him safe.  Then you’re off the hook.”

I doubted it.  My tormentor was not one to let me go that easily. 

I glared at him.  “Seeing is believing.”  I stood.  “Until next week.”

‘Don’t lose the faith.”

Out on the street, I had to try very hard not to throw up.  Being in the presence of that creature was sickening.  The problem was, if it was not time, there would be someone else.

His expensive suits, the grandest suites in hotels, the car that cost an eyewatering sum, he was a creature of a particular sort.  They fed off the weak and manipulable, people like me.

When three blocks away from the hotel and out of line of sight and outside listening range, I checked for and found a listening device planted in my coat.  I had wondered why he insisted I take it off and leave it inside the door.

An app on my phone found it.  Another app on my phone rendered it useless.  But not in a way that he would immediately find out.  Jeremy was clever like that.

Jeremy had worked out that someone was leading him down a particular path, and his first thought it was me.  I simply shook my head and told him to put his cards on the table.

He said I’d been compromised by a huge multinational company run by a criminal dressed up as a businessman.

I told him he was nuts.

He said he followed me.  He gave me my movements for every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday for the last year.

At least, I said, I didn’t try to hide where I was going.  Since each time I was going to an expensive hotel, he would also have seen an expensive girl go in too.  What did he think was going on?

Allison wouldn’t be pleased.

Allison didn’t like me in that way.  Maybe Allison was leading him down the garden path.

He gave me a look that told me he didn’t know who to trust.  I simply said keep your friends close but your enemies closer.  I thought I was a friend, he thought I was the enemy.  Win-win.

It was then that I told him that he was never going to achieve his objective, that, like the inventor of a car that ran on water, they would find a way to stop him.  He said he’d never heard of anyone who had, and simply said that proved my point.

We’d had this conversation before.

“I thought you were going to have a heart attack.  You OK?”

That voice in my head, the one that could scare the daylights out of me.  It wasn’t through an earpiece and a detectable transmitter.  Another of Jeremy’s inventions.

“You don’t know what he’s going to do to me and my family if or when I screw up.”  It felt weird talking to myself.

“You did that when you let him take over your life.”

“Easy for you to take that high moral ground.”

We’d had that conversation before, and anyone not in my position, at the time, didn’t understand why I didn’t just spit in his face.

Five years down the track, why hadn’t I grown a spine?  There was one reason.  A demonstration of what he could do if I strayed.  That I never told Jeremy.  His concept of evil was far different from mine, and would be until he suffered loss.

“We agreed to disagree,” he said.  “So it’s status quo.  Good to know they think they have me right where I want them.”

“They won’t be so easily fooled, Jeremy.  His boss doesn’t lose.”

“David versus Goliath, Stephen.  David versus Goliath.”

I was 13 and had the father from hell.  When he attacked my sister one night after he had been drinking heavily, not for the first time, I did the only thing a 13-year-old could think of to stop him.

I picked up the hammer under my bed, went into her room and hit him as hard as I could on the back of the head.

He was dead before I could yank the hammer head out.  Sylvie didn’t stop screaming for five solid minutes.

Our mother didn’t hesitate.  She got Sylvie un hysterical and my older brother and she wrapped the body in a tarpaulin and disappeared into the night.

I was the secret we kept until a man came visiting about a month later and said he knew what I had done.  He said that my father got what he deserved, but there was always a price to pay.

One day, he would return, and that day, he would have a job for me to do.  I would do it, or there would be consequences.  To prove a point, he made Sylvie very, very sick, and asked me a week or so later if I understood.  When I said yes, he made her better.

I had lived in dread of his return.

That came about a year ago when he summoned Mr to a hotel room and told me what he wanted.  It was not as bad as I thought.  All I had to do was tell him what Jeremy was up to.

And be his friend, the one he told me what he was doing.  Jeremy always had his head in the clouds, and I’d never believed him.  The man did.  He seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

That was when I told him, the first time, that secrets like those he had in his head, others would want them, that they would not understand his ideals.

He was naive back then.

Until one of his family members got sick.  When he described it, I knew.  The man was sending a message.  Jeremy didn’t understand or believe me.  That was when I told him.

And that it was too big for him to go up against them.  They were the ones who held all the cards.

Instead of going back to the apartment where Jeremy and Allison would be waiting, I went to the park.  For the first time, I didn’t want to participate in a game no one was going to win.

I think I also realised in that moment that my life and that of my family were over.  People like my tormentor kept people like me alive only when it suited them.  Win or lose, we would become collateral damage.  Loose ends to be tidied up.

I heard a door slam in my head and the sound of a scream.  Allison.  The sounds could only be coming from Jeremy’s.

What sounded like a gun fired once, followed by a very loud and extended “Noooooo…”

“You were not as clever as you think, Jeremy.”

The voice of my tormentor.

“You didn’t have to shoot Allison.”

“I did.  You failed to understand the basics.  I was not asking for the proof of concept.  You had to deliver it.  An hour ago.”

“I’m not giving it up.  To you or to anyone.”

Another shot.  I think I knew where that ended.  A sob told me he had just killed Allison.

“Was it worth losing her?”

“She was already dead.  As I am, once I hand over the plans.  I’m sure Stephen will be next.”

“The plans are in my head.  Not on paper.”

“Not what Blaikie said.  He saw the proof of concept, and it was everything you said.  So the plans have to be somewhere.”

Blaikie had been his science teacher in high school, a mentor.  He had died in an accident several years before.  Seems it was not an accident.  It explained how the man knew about Jeremy’s idea.

Another shot, and I heard a body slumped to the ground.  “I have eleven more bullets.  You are going to wish you were dead.”

“I already do.  Kill me, and it goes to the grave with me.”

Another shot, and a grunt.  “Get your boss to come.  I’ll give it to him and him alone.”

A startling change of tactics.

I could hear the man calling his boss.

Then, “Come now, Stephen.  Gun in the hall cleaners’ cupboard.  Shoot them.  You’re about ten minutes away.  You have time.”

I ran.

I guess Jeremy’s insistence that we join a gun club was just one of his weird ideas.  Until he explained what might happen one day.  Well, that day had arrived.

I was at the elevator lobby when I saw an expensive car stop our the front and as the doors opened, and man got out of the rear, joined by two barely disguised thugs.

I stepped in, the doors closed as the men came in the front entrance, and I was whisked up to the eighteenth floor.

I went to the closing, and there was the gun, just visible under the towels.  It had a suppressor and a full clip.  I chambered the first round.

I had to go around the corner to get to our apartment.  The man outside the door saw me and died.

I waited.  The men downstairs arrived and, without fear, strode towards the door, saw the body on the ground and turned.  All three died right there.

The man inside must have heard the yelp one of the men made when I shot him, and I saw the gun before he came out.

He saw me, fired, and I fired back.

He hit me in the arm.  I hit him in the head.  I was in a great deal of pain.  He was dead.

I went into the apartment.  Jeremy had been shot in both knees.  He would recover.  Allison had body armour, that much I could see, and was in a great deal of pain but unharmed.

“We won,” Jeremy said.

“No.  Look around you.  The guy out on the passage owns everything and everyone.  And has a clone waiting to take over, and they will come after us.  We need to go.”

He looked up at me through teary eyes.  “It’s not as if I can get up and walk away.  How?”

A man in EMT clothing came tentatively in and announced himself before walking in on us.

“Larry?”

He put his head around the corner.  “Steve.  You said it would be messy.  Elevators are on manual control; we have three minutes.”

He motioned for help, and two more came on with a guernsey, hoisted Jeremy on it it and were out the door in under a minute.  Larry and I got Allison, still half out of it and half carried, half dragged her to the elevator.  The doors closed and we went down to the car park.

“No one will know.  They think the elevators have stopped on various levels.

The doors opened.  An ambulance was waiting.  We all jumped in, Jeremy was loaded and sedated, and we were gone.

Three minutes and counting.  Outside the building, they lit up the siren and lights.

Larry was sitting in the back.

“What was plan B?” he asked.

“We were all dead.  Bad guys win.”

“You’ve only taken one off the board.  You know the drill.”

“Three actually.”

“Your father, yes, and the others?”

“His sons, the ones we didn’t know about, to his mistress.  The men I just shot.”

“They didn’t recognise you?”

“Never met them, formally.  But the boss did visit us once, not long after my father disappeared.  His younger brother came later with the threats.  Ignorance sometimes is bliss.”

“Now?”

“We clean up.”

Allison sucked in a deep breath and looked at me.

“Steven.  What just happened?”

“The worst case scenario.”

“Jeremy?”

“Banged up a little, but safe.”

“It worked?”

“Miraculously, yes.  Now we clean up and then disappear for a while.  Job well done.”

I hadn’t known when I was 13 that I had killed a high-ranking crime boss who was living a double life.  We only know him as Louie the factory worker, not James McDougal, crime boss with two other families.

The sheriff had told me the truth when I told him what had happened, and instead of arresting me, he introduced me the the State investigation officers who said that I would one day be approached by a man who would tell me what I would have to do.

That day came and went. 

Then they told me a story about another boy who was going to invent a miracle product, and along with a girl, we would become a team that would lay a foundation of bread crumbs to expose the rest of that crime family.  Who could resist an invention with a gold mine and easy enough to steal from gullible children?

Undercover for seven years.  The whole of my childhood, thermirs too I guessed, two hot-headed about to become criminals given a second chance.

The ambulance travelled for an hour, north, I guessed, until we hit a dirt road, and then it stopped.  The doors opened, and the man who had been in charge of the operation was there.

“Well done.  We’ll get you cleaned up and then somewhere to recover.  Then, a few months’ vacation, you’ve earned it.”

So, no going our separate ways, as promised.  I should have known it was too good to be true.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 39

More about my story

Probing the mind of a spy

…

The Invisible Architecture: Deconstructing the Spy’s Mind

From the silver screen’s suave secret agents to the shadowy figures whispered about in history, spies captivate our imaginations. We’re drawn to their daring, their cunning, and their seemingly impossible feats. But beyond the gadgets and globe-trotting glamour, what truly defines these individuals? What intricate mental machinery allows them to navigate a world of deception, pressure, and profound solitude?

Let’s pull back the curtain and probe inside the mind of a spy.

What Makes Them Who They Are: The Forge of the Unseen

A spy isn’t born; they are meticulously forged. It’s a complex blend of innate psychological predispositions and relentless, specialized training that shapes them into instruments of statecraft.

  1. The Innate Blueprint: Certain baseline traits are almost universal.
    • Exceptional Observational Skills: More than just seeing, they perceive. They notice the subtle shifts in body language, the flicker of doubt in an eye, the incongruity in a narrative.
    • Sharp, Analytical Intellect: The ability to process vast amounts of information, connect disparate dots, and identify patterns where others see only chaos.
    • High Emotional Intelligence/Controlled Empathy: Not a lack of emotion, but a profound understanding of it – in others. They can read people like open books, anticipate reactions, and manipulate sentiments without necessarily feeling them deeply themselves.
    • Unflappable Composure: A core ability to remain calm, rational, and make split-second decisions under extreme pressure, often with life-or-death consequences.
    • Adaptability and Resourcefulness: The capacity to think on their feet, improvise solutions with limited resources, and pivot plans on a dime.
  2. The Conditioning Chamber: These raw materials are then honed through intensive psychological and practical training.
    • Mastery of Deception: This isn’t just about lying; it’s about living a lie. It involves creating and maintaining elaborate cover stories, adopting new identities, and suppressing genuine self-expression for extended periods. This requires incredible compartmentalization and a near-actor’s ability to embody a persona.
    • Psychological Resilience: Training focuses on stress inoculation, resistance to interrogation, and the ability to endure isolation and discomfort without breaking. They learn to manage paranoia, loneliness, and the constant awareness of danger.
    • Memory and Recall: From faces and names to routes and codes, a spy’s memory is a vital weapon, trained to be precise and robust under duress.
    • Discipline and Patience: Espionage is often a game of waiting, observing, and executing with perfect timing. Impulsivity is a fatal flaw.

Producing the Impossible: The Art of the Invisible Hand

How do these meticulously crafted minds achieve results that seem beyond human capability? It’s a combination of unique mental faculties and strategic application.

  1. The Power of Perspective: Spies operate with a detached, almost clinical view of situations. They are trained to strip away emotional bias and focus purely on objective information and strategic advantage. This allows them to see vulnerabilities and opportunities others miss.
  2. Calculated Risk Assessment: They don’t shy away from danger, but they don’t court it recklessly either. Their minds are constantly running complex risk-benefit analyses, weighing every potential outcome and contingency. The “impossible” results often stem from a willingness to take calculated risks that others wouldn’t even contemplate, backed by meticulous planning.
  3. Mastery of Human Psychology: This is perhaps their most potent weapon. By understanding motivations, fears, desires, and biases, they can subtly influence, persuade, or coerce targets. They build rapport with lightning speed, identify leverage points, and exploit the very human need for connection or recognition.
  4. Unwavering Focus and Grit: When facing seemingly insurmountable obstacles or enduring prolonged periods of intense stress, their mental fortitude kicks in. They possess an extraordinary capacity for sustained effort and an almost pathological refusal to give up, seeing failure not as an end, but as a problem to be solved.
  5. The Art of the Long Game: Many intelligence operations unfold over months, even years. A spy’s mind is wired for patience, understanding that immediate gratification is rarely an option. They lay groundwork, plant seeds, and wait for the perfect moment to execute.

The Silent Cost

Behind the “impossible results” lies a profound personal cost. The constant performance, the emotional detachment, the pervasive threat of exposure, and the profound loneliness of a life lived in secrets can take a heavy toll. Paranoia becomes a constant companion, and the line between their true self and their constructed identities can blur, sometimes irrevocably.

Ultimately, the mind of a spy is a testament to human potential – for discipline, resilience, and strategic thinking – but also to the complex psychological sacrifices required in the service of a greater, often unseen, purpose. It’s a labyrinthine architecture, incredibly potent, and forever shrouded in enigma.

What aspects of a spy’s mind do you find most intriguing or terrifying? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 39

More about my story

Probing the mind of a spy

…

The Invisible Architecture: Deconstructing the Spy’s Mind

From the silver screen’s suave secret agents to the shadowy figures whispered about in history, spies captivate our imaginations. We’re drawn to their daring, their cunning, and their seemingly impossible feats. But beyond the gadgets and globe-trotting glamour, what truly defines these individuals? What intricate mental machinery allows them to navigate a world of deception, pressure, and profound solitude?

Let’s pull back the curtain and probe inside the mind of a spy.

What Makes Them Who They Are: The Forge of the Unseen

A spy isn’t born; they are meticulously forged. It’s a complex blend of innate psychological predispositions and relentless, specialized training that shapes them into instruments of statecraft.

  1. The Innate Blueprint: Certain baseline traits are almost universal.
    • Exceptional Observational Skills: More than just seeing, they perceive. They notice the subtle shifts in body language, the flicker of doubt in an eye, the incongruity in a narrative.
    • Sharp, Analytical Intellect: The ability to process vast amounts of information, connect disparate dots, and identify patterns where others see only chaos.
    • High Emotional Intelligence/Controlled Empathy: Not a lack of emotion, but a profound understanding of it – in others. They can read people like open books, anticipate reactions, and manipulate sentiments without necessarily feeling them deeply themselves.
    • Unflappable Composure: A core ability to remain calm, rational, and make split-second decisions under extreme pressure, often with life-or-death consequences.
    • Adaptability and Resourcefulness: The capacity to think on their feet, improvise solutions with limited resources, and pivot plans on a dime.
  2. The Conditioning Chamber: These raw materials are then honed through intensive psychological and practical training.
    • Mastery of Deception: This isn’t just about lying; it’s about living a lie. It involves creating and maintaining elaborate cover stories, adopting new identities, and suppressing genuine self-expression for extended periods. This requires incredible compartmentalization and a near-actor’s ability to embody a persona.
    • Psychological Resilience: Training focuses on stress inoculation, resistance to interrogation, and the ability to endure isolation and discomfort without breaking. They learn to manage paranoia, loneliness, and the constant awareness of danger.
    • Memory and Recall: From faces and names to routes and codes, a spy’s memory is a vital weapon, trained to be precise and robust under duress.
    • Discipline and Patience: Espionage is often a game of waiting, observing, and executing with perfect timing. Impulsivity is a fatal flaw.

Producing the Impossible: The Art of the Invisible Hand

How do these meticulously crafted minds achieve results that seem beyond human capability? It’s a combination of unique mental faculties and strategic application.

  1. The Power of Perspective: Spies operate with a detached, almost clinical view of situations. They are trained to strip away emotional bias and focus purely on objective information and strategic advantage. This allows them to see vulnerabilities and opportunities others miss.
  2. Calculated Risk Assessment: They don’t shy away from danger, but they don’t court it recklessly either. Their minds are constantly running complex risk-benefit analyses, weighing every potential outcome and contingency. The “impossible” results often stem from a willingness to take calculated risks that others wouldn’t even contemplate, backed by meticulous planning.
  3. Mastery of Human Psychology: This is perhaps their most potent weapon. By understanding motivations, fears, desires, and biases, they can subtly influence, persuade, or coerce targets. They build rapport with lightning speed, identify leverage points, and exploit the very human need for connection or recognition.
  4. Unwavering Focus and Grit: When facing seemingly insurmountable obstacles or enduring prolonged periods of intense stress, their mental fortitude kicks in. They possess an extraordinary capacity for sustained effort and an almost pathological refusal to give up, seeing failure not as an end, but as a problem to be solved.
  5. The Art of the Long Game: Many intelligence operations unfold over months, even years. A spy’s mind is wired for patience, understanding that immediate gratification is rarely an option. They lay groundwork, plant seeds, and wait for the perfect moment to execute.

The Silent Cost

Behind the “impossible results” lies a profound personal cost. The constant performance, the emotional detachment, the pervasive threat of exposure, and the profound loneliness of a life lived in secrets can take a heavy toll. Paranoia becomes a constant companion, and the line between their true self and their constructed identities can blur, sometimes irrevocably.

Ultimately, the mind of a spy is a testament to human potential – for discipline, resilience, and strategic thinking – but also to the complex psychological sacrifices required in the service of a greater, often unseen, purpose. It’s a labyrinthine architecture, incredibly potent, and forever shrouded in enigma.

What aspects of a spy’s mind do you find most intriguing or terrifying? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

Writing a book in 365 days – 262

Day 262

The use of idioms, those a reader will recognise and understand

…

Don’t Let Your Writing Get Lost in the Weeds: The Art of Using Idioms Wisely

We all want our writing to be engaging, vivid, and memorable. We strive for clarity, for that “aha!” moment in our readers’ minds. But sometimes, in our quest for impactful language, we can accidentally end up “clouding the issue.”

That’s where idioms come in. These colorful phrases, like “got it in the bag” or “bite the bullet,” can add personality and a touch of familiar flair to our prose. They’re the linguistic shorthand that allows us to paint a picture, convey a complex emotion, or express a common sentiment without lengthy explanations.

Think about it: instead of saying “we are absolutely certain of success,” “got it in the bag” instantly communicates that victory is assured. Or, “bite the bullet” is a far more evocative way to describe enduring something unpleasant than a simple “tolerate the difficulty.” These phrases resonate because they’re rooted in shared cultural understanding.

However, like any powerful tool, idioms require a deft hand. The key is balance and clarity.

The Pitfall of Obscurity:

One of the biggest mistakes a writer can make is to pepper their work with obscure idioms. While you might think a phrase like “all mouth and no trousers” perfectly captures someone’s boastfulness, if your reader has never encountered it, they’re not just confused – they’re lost. Instead of enhancing understanding, an obscure idiom creates a barrier, forcing the reader to stop and decipher your meaning, breaking the flow of your narrative. Stick to idioms that are generally well-understood by your target audience.

The Danger of Overuse:

On the flip side, too much of a good thing can be detrimental. Imagine reading a paragraph where every other sentence is an idiom. It starts to sound less like natural writing and more like a forced attempt to sound “clever.” This overuse can make your writing feel cluttered and even insincere. Readers might start to feel like they’re being bombarded with clichés rather than genuinely connecting with your message.

So, How Do You Strike the Right Chord?

  1. Know Your Audience: This is paramount. What idioms are common in their everyday language? What will they readily understand? If you’re writing for a general audience, stick to widely recognized idioms.
  2. Purposeful Placement: Use idioms when they truly add value. Do they make your point more concisely? Do they inject personality or emotion? If an idiom doesn’t serve a clear purpose, a more straightforward phrase might be better.
  3. Vary Your Language: Don’t rely solely on idioms. Blend them with clear, direct language. This creates a more natural and sophisticated writing style. An occasional idiom can shine; a constant barrage will dim their impact.
  4. When in Doubt, Leave it Out: If you’re not 100% sure an idiom will be understood, or if you’re worried about overdoing it, it’s often safer to opt for a more explicit phrasing. Clarity should always be the priority.

Idioms are valuable additions to a writer’s toolkit. When used thoughtfully and strategically, they can elevate your writing, making it more engaging and relatable. But remember, the goal is to illuminate, not obfuscate. So, use them wisely, and ensure your readers don’t end up feeling like they’ve been left “out in the cold.”

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 71 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey.  Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there.  She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions.  Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife.  Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

Writing a book in 365 days – 262

Day 262

The use of idioms, those a reader will recognise and understand

…

Don’t Let Your Writing Get Lost in the Weeds: The Art of Using Idioms Wisely

We all want our writing to be engaging, vivid, and memorable. We strive for clarity, for that “aha!” moment in our readers’ minds. But sometimes, in our quest for impactful language, we can accidentally end up “clouding the issue.”

That’s where idioms come in. These colorful phrases, like “got it in the bag” or “bite the bullet,” can add personality and a touch of familiar flair to our prose. They’re the linguistic shorthand that allows us to paint a picture, convey a complex emotion, or express a common sentiment without lengthy explanations.

Think about it: instead of saying “we are absolutely certain of success,” “got it in the bag” instantly communicates that victory is assured. Or, “bite the bullet” is a far more evocative way to describe enduring something unpleasant than a simple “tolerate the difficulty.” These phrases resonate because they’re rooted in shared cultural understanding.

However, like any powerful tool, idioms require a deft hand. The key is balance and clarity.

The Pitfall of Obscurity:

One of the biggest mistakes a writer can make is to pepper their work with obscure idioms. While you might think a phrase like “all mouth and no trousers” perfectly captures someone’s boastfulness, if your reader has never encountered it, they’re not just confused – they’re lost. Instead of enhancing understanding, an obscure idiom creates a barrier, forcing the reader to stop and decipher your meaning, breaking the flow of your narrative. Stick to idioms that are generally well-understood by your target audience.

The Danger of Overuse:

On the flip side, too much of a good thing can be detrimental. Imagine reading a paragraph where every other sentence is an idiom. It starts to sound less like natural writing and more like a forced attempt to sound “clever.” This overuse can make your writing feel cluttered and even insincere. Readers might start to feel like they’re being bombarded with clichés rather than genuinely connecting with your message.

So, How Do You Strike the Right Chord?

  1. Know Your Audience: This is paramount. What idioms are common in their everyday language? What will they readily understand? If you’re writing for a general audience, stick to widely recognized idioms.
  2. Purposeful Placement: Use idioms when they truly add value. Do they make your point more concisely? Do they inject personality or emotion? If an idiom doesn’t serve a clear purpose, a more straightforward phrase might be better.
  3. Vary Your Language: Don’t rely solely on idioms. Blend them with clear, direct language. This creates a more natural and sophisticated writing style. An occasional idiom can shine; a constant barrage will dim their impact.
  4. When in Doubt, Leave it Out: If you’re not 100% sure an idiom will be understood, or if you’re worried about overdoing it, it’s often safer to opt for a more explicit phrasing. Clarity should always be the priority.

Idioms are valuable additions to a writer’s toolkit. When used thoughtfully and strategically, they can elevate your writing, making it more engaging and relatable. But remember, the goal is to illuminate, not obfuscate. So, use them wisely, and ensure your readers don’t end up feeling like they’ve been left “out in the cold.”

Writing a book in 365 days – 261

Day 261

A quote by George Sand…

“I knew human nature well enough to depict it; in short, that all of the small tasks of which I was capable, literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.”

…

When the Muse Meets the Mortgage: The Unromantic Truth of My Literary Calling

We’ve all heard the romanticized tales of artists, poets, and writers – struck by inspiration, driven by an insatiable passion, toiling away in garrets for the sheer love of their craft. While there’s undeniable truth to the passion part, there’s another, often unspoken, dimension to the creative life that an ancient, surprisingly honest quote brings into sharp focus:

“I knew human nature well enough to depict it; in short, that all of the small tasks of which I was capable, literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.”

Let’s unpack this gem, because it speaks volumes about the pragmatic, often unromantic, journey of finding one’s professional purpose, especially in the arts.

The Unseen Power of Observation

“I knew human nature well enough to depict it.” This isn’t vanity; it’s a profound self-awareness, the very bedrock of a good writer. It speaks to an innate empathy, a keen eye for detail, and an understanding of the intricate dance of human emotions, motivations, and contradictions. Before words can flow, understanding must exist. This is the writer’s superpower: to see beyond the surface, to connect dots, and to translate the universal human experience into relatable narratives.

Many of us possess this kind of observational skill to varying degrees. We notice things others miss. We’re the friends people come to for advice because we “just get it.” For some, this skill is a social asset; for others, it’s the quiet engine of a potential career.

The Litany of “Small Tasks”

“All of the small tasks of which I was capable…” This is where most of us live, isn’t it? We shuffle through life, picking up skills, trying on different hats. We might be competent at a dozen different things – organizing, problem-solving, number-crunching, designing. We can do them, often well enough. But there’s a difference between capability and calling, between competence and conviction.

This phrase beautifully captures the process of elimination. It’s the quiet concession that while we might be able to handle a variety of “small tasks,” none of them ignite that spark, none of them feel like the one. It’s a realistic appraisal of one’s diverse but perhaps diffuse talents, paving the way for the singular realization.

Literature: The Most Probable Path to “Success”

“…literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession…” This is the pivotal moment. It’s not just about what you love to do, but what you can actually succeed at. And success, in this context, isn’t necessarily about fame or fortune, but about creating a sustainable livelihood from your distinct abilities.

For our anonymous author, the ability to depict human nature wasn’t just a passion; it was a skill that, when applied to literature, offered genuine professional viability. It wasn’t a whimsical choice but a strategic one. “Properly speaking” suggests a serious commitment to the craft – not just dabbling, but mastering the tools, understanding the market (even if that market was different centuries ago), and treating it as a legitimate profession.

It challenges the modern narrative that “following your passion” is enough. Sometimes, passion needs a sturdy bridge of practicality to cross into a career.

Let’s Not Mince Words: Earning My Bread

“…and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.” This is the mic drop. The raw, beautiful, and utterly human truth. Stripped of all artistic pretense, it comes down to survival. To put food on the table. To pay the rent.

This isn’t a cynical statement; it’s an honest one. For many creatives, the initial lure of their chosen field might be passion or talent, but the sustained effort, the diligent practice, and the strategic career decisions are often fueled by the fundamental need to make a living. There’s immense dignity in earning your bread through your craft, through the very expression of your unique insights and abilities.

The Modern Resonance

This centuries-old observation still holds remarkable power today. How many of us choose our careers not just because we love them, but because through them, we are best equipped to contribute, to find a sense of purpose, and yes, to earn our living?

Perhaps your “literature” isn’t writing stories, but is:

  • Designing elegant user interfaces because you understand human interaction.
  • Building innovative software because you can conceive of efficient systems.
  • Teaching complex subjects because you excel at simplifying knowledge.
  • Crafting beautiful objects because you have an eye for form and function.

The lesson is clear: true professional fulfillment often lies at the intersection of what you’re genuinely good at, what you find meaningful, and what can realistically sustain you. It’s less about a lightning bolt of inspiration and more about a thoughtful, pragmatic assessment of your unique place in the world, and how best to earn your bread with the gifts you possess.

So, what’s your “literature”? What’s the one thing, among all the small tasks you’re capable of, that truly offers you a chance at success, and allows you to earn your bread, no mincing of words required?

Writing a book in 365 days – 261

Day 261

A quote by George Sand…

“I knew human nature well enough to depict it; in short, that all of the small tasks of which I was capable, literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.”

…

When the Muse Meets the Mortgage: The Unromantic Truth of My Literary Calling

We’ve all heard the romanticized tales of artists, poets, and writers – struck by inspiration, driven by an insatiable passion, toiling away in garrets for the sheer love of their craft. While there’s undeniable truth to the passion part, there’s another, often unspoken, dimension to the creative life that an ancient, surprisingly honest quote brings into sharp focus:

“I knew human nature well enough to depict it; in short, that all of the small tasks of which I was capable, literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.”

Let’s unpack this gem, because it speaks volumes about the pragmatic, often unromantic, journey of finding one’s professional purpose, especially in the arts.

The Unseen Power of Observation

“I knew human nature well enough to depict it.” This isn’t vanity; it’s a profound self-awareness, the very bedrock of a good writer. It speaks to an innate empathy, a keen eye for detail, and an understanding of the intricate dance of human emotions, motivations, and contradictions. Before words can flow, understanding must exist. This is the writer’s superpower: to see beyond the surface, to connect dots, and to translate the universal human experience into relatable narratives.

Many of us possess this kind of observational skill to varying degrees. We notice things others miss. We’re the friends people come to for advice because we “just get it.” For some, this skill is a social asset; for others, it’s the quiet engine of a potential career.

The Litany of “Small Tasks”

“All of the small tasks of which I was capable…” This is where most of us live, isn’t it? We shuffle through life, picking up skills, trying on different hats. We might be competent at a dozen different things – organizing, problem-solving, number-crunching, designing. We can do them, often well enough. But there’s a difference between capability and calling, between competence and conviction.

This phrase beautifully captures the process of elimination. It’s the quiet concession that while we might be able to handle a variety of “small tasks,” none of them ignite that spark, none of them feel like the one. It’s a realistic appraisal of one’s diverse but perhaps diffuse talents, paving the way for the singular realization.

Literature: The Most Probable Path to “Success”

“…literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession…” This is the pivotal moment. It’s not just about what you love to do, but what you can actually succeed at. And success, in this context, isn’t necessarily about fame or fortune, but about creating a sustainable livelihood from your distinct abilities.

For our anonymous author, the ability to depict human nature wasn’t just a passion; it was a skill that, when applied to literature, offered genuine professional viability. It wasn’t a whimsical choice but a strategic one. “Properly speaking” suggests a serious commitment to the craft – not just dabbling, but mastering the tools, understanding the market (even if that market was different centuries ago), and treating it as a legitimate profession.

It challenges the modern narrative that “following your passion” is enough. Sometimes, passion needs a sturdy bridge of practicality to cross into a career.

Let’s Not Mince Words: Earning My Bread

“…and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.” This is the mic drop. The raw, beautiful, and utterly human truth. Stripped of all artistic pretense, it comes down to survival. To put food on the table. To pay the rent.

This isn’t a cynical statement; it’s an honest one. For many creatives, the initial lure of their chosen field might be passion or talent, but the sustained effort, the diligent practice, and the strategic career decisions are often fueled by the fundamental need to make a living. There’s immense dignity in earning your bread through your craft, through the very expression of your unique insights and abilities.

The Modern Resonance

This centuries-old observation still holds remarkable power today. How many of us choose our careers not just because we love them, but because through them, we are best equipped to contribute, to find a sense of purpose, and yes, to earn our living?

Perhaps your “literature” isn’t writing stories, but is:

  • Designing elegant user interfaces because you understand human interaction.
  • Building innovative software because you can conceive of efficient systems.
  • Teaching complex subjects because you excel at simplifying knowledge.
  • Crafting beautiful objects because you have an eye for form and function.

The lesson is clear: true professional fulfillment often lies at the intersection of what you’re genuinely good at, what you find meaningful, and what can realistically sustain you. It’s less about a lightning bolt of inspiration and more about a thoughtful, pragmatic assessment of your unique place in the world, and how best to earn your bread with the gifts you possess.

So, what’s your “literature”? What’s the one thing, among all the small tasks you’re capable of, that truly offers you a chance at success, and allows you to earn your bread, no mincing of words required?

Another excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – A sequel to ‘What Sets Us Apart’

…

It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone.  It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air.  In summer, it was the best time of the day.  When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.

On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’.  This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.

She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable.  The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day.  So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.

It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her.  It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I sat in my usual corner.  Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner.  There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around.  I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria.  All she did was serve coffee and cake.

When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?”  She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.

“I am this morning.  I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating.  I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise.  I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”

“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me.  I have had a lot worse.  I think she is simply jealous.”

It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be.  “Why?”

“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”

It made sense, even if it was not true.  “Perhaps if I explained…”

Maria shook her head.  “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole.  My grandfather had many expressions, David.  If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her.  Before she goes home.”

Interesting advice.  Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma.  What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?

“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.

“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much.  Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone.  It was an intense conversation.  I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell.  It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”

“It is indeed.  And you’re right.  She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one.  She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office.  Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”

And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful.  She had liked Maria the moment she saw her.  We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived.  I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.

She sighed.  “I am glad I am just a waitress.  Your usual coffee and cake?”

“Yes, please.”

Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.

I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one.  What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.

There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it.  We were still married, just not living together.

This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her.  She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.

It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.

There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd.  She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right.  It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.

But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings.  But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.

Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart.  I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit.  The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.

I knew I was not a priority.  Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.

And finally, there was Alisha.  Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around.  It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties. 

At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata.  Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan.  She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores.  We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated.  It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.

It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard.  I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.

She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top.  She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.

Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak.  I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.

Neither spoke nor looked at each other.  I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”

Maria nodded and left.

“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests.  I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence?  All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”

My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.

“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us.  There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”

“Why come at all.  A phone call would have sufficed.”

“I had to see you, talk to you.  At least we have had a chance to do that.  I’m sorry about yesterday.  I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her.  I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”

An apology was the last thing I expected.

“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington.  I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction.  We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”

“You’re not coming with me?”  She sounded disappointed.

“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress.  You are so much better doing your job without me.  I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband.  Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less.  You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it.  I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”

It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement.  Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points.  I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever.  The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.

Then, her expression changed.  “Is that what you want?”

“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways.  But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”

“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”

That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud.  “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan.  You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy.  While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”

“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance.  I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother.  She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right.  Why do you think I gave you such a hard time?  You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously.  But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”

“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”

“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”

“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”

I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead.  Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers.  Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen.  Gianna didn’t like Susan either.

Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her.  She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.

She stood.  “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face.  “Of course not.  I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship.  I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”

I had been trying.  “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan.  I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”

She frowned at me.  “As you wish.”  She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table.  “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home.  Please make it sooner rather than later.  Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”

That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car.  I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.

No kiss, no touch, no looking back. 

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2025

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