365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 245

Day 245 – Vivid Descriptions

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What Dashiell Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon Teaches Us About Plotting and Vivid Description

When we talk about the titans of American crime fiction, one name towers above the rest: Dashiell Hammett. Before Raymond Chandler gave us poetic metaphors, and long before modern thriller writers cluttered pages with convoluted twists, Hammett stripped the genre down to its bone and sinew.

At the center of his legacy is The Maltese Falcon (1930). Beyond its status as the quintessential noir novel, The Maltese Falcon is a masterclass in two distinct literary arts: exemplary plotting and vivid, objective description.

If you are a writer looking to sharpen your craft, or simply a lover of brilliant storytelling, Hammett’s seminal work offers invaluable lessons. Let’s dive into the anatomy of The Maltese Falcon and explore what we can learn from the man who revolutionised modern fiction.

1. The Power of the Objective Eye (Vivid Description Through Action)

Many aspiring writers believe that “vivid description” means loading a paragraph with purple prose, elaborate metaphors, and sweeping adjectives. Hammett proves the exact opposite.

As a former operative for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, Hammett wrote what he knew. His descriptions are rooted in strict realism. He doesn’t tell us how a character feels; he shows us how they move, how they dress, and how they react to their environment.

The Iconic Introduction of Sam Spade

Look at how Hammett introduces his protagonist, private investigator Sam Spade, in the opening pages:

“Spade’s blondish gray hair was cut short, made his head-top look like a rose-bush with the blossoms clipped off. Eyes-yellow-gray—were small and wary. His chin prominent and hard… He sat reading a newspaper with a hard-boiled unconcern.”

Notice what’s missing? There is no deep internal monologue explaining Spade’s moral ambiguity. Instead, Hammett uses concrete, sharp imagery—”hard,” “wary,” “blossoms clipped off”—to paint a picture that lets the reader’s imagination do the heavy lifting.

What We Can Learn:

Show, Don’t Preach: Let your characters’ physical traits and micro-actions reveal their inner psychology.
Precision Over Poetry: Choose nouns and verbs that pack a punch. Instead of saying a room was messy, describe the exact placement of the half-empty highball glass and the unread mail.
Behavior as Characterization: Hammett understood that in high-stakes environments, people reveal themselves through posture, tics, and glances, not soliloquies.

2. The Architecture of Exemplary Plotting

A common trap in genre fiction is the “plot maze”—where authors add twists just to confuse the reader, resulting in a narrative that collapses under its own weight. The Maltese Falcon avoids this by treating its plot like a piece of precision machinery. Every scene moves the ball forward, and every character has a distinct, driving motivation.

The plot kicks off when Brigid O’Shaughnessy (disguised as “Miss Wonderley”) walks into Spade’s office with a lie. From that moment, a chain reaction of greed is set in motion, drawing in a colourful rogues’ gallery: Kasper Cairo, Joel Cairo, and the ominous Kasper Gutman (the “Fat Man”).

They are all hunting the elusive, jewel-encrusted black bird. But the falcon itself is famously a MacGuffin—an object that drives the plot forward while ultimately holding no intrinsic value.

What We Can Learn:

Character-Driven Plotting: Hammett doesn’t force his characters to do unnatural things just to make a plot twist work. The plot is an inevitable collision course driven by greedy, desperate people all chasing the same prize.
Master the MacGuffin: Give your characters a focal point of desire, but remember that the pursuit of the object is always more interesting than the object itself. The tension comes from the shifting alliances and betrayals among the hunters.
Tight Causality: In a well-plotted story, Scene A must lead directly to Scene B, connected by either “therefore” or “but”—never “and then.” Hammett ensures that every lie told and every body dropped has immediate consequences for Sam Spade.

3. The Enigma of the Protagonist (Ambiguity is Magnetic)

Traditional heroes up to that point were often clear-cut champions of good. Sam Spade shattered that mold. He is sleeping with his late partner’s wife, he is mercenary about his fees, and at the end of the novel, he turns the woman he loves (and desires) over to the police because, as he tells her, “I’m not going to play the sap for you.”

Hammett teaches us that a protagonist doesn’t need to be likable to be compelling. They need to have a code. Spade’s code isn’t about traditional morality; it’s about professional pride and survival in a corrupt world.

What We Can Learn:

Embrace Moral Grey Areas: Flawed protagonists are infinitely more relatable and realistic than paragons of virtue.
Define Your Character’s Code: Even if your character is a scoundrel, they must have lines they refuse to cross. This creates internal tension and reader loyalty.

Final Takeaway: Read Hammett Like a Blueprint

Dashiell Hammett didn’t just write pulp detective stories; he wrote literature that exposed the anxieties of modern life through the lens of crime.

By studying The Maltese Falcon, writers can learn how to strip away narrative fat. Through vivid, objective descriptions, you can ground your readers in reality, and through rigorous, cause-and-effect plotting, you can keep them turning the pages late into the night.

The falcon may have been a fake, but the lessons Dashiell Hammett left behind are the real deal.

Are you a fan of classic noir? What is your favorite Dashiell Hammett novel? Let us know in the comments below!

…

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 that 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 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.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping 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 he was not the concierge, and instead he 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, then clunked 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 lift lobby, only what was 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 to 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.

…

What I learned about writing – Where does time go?

When has time gone? I mean, just yesterday it felt like the start of a new year, and all those projects I had lined up are still on paper, somewhere.

Does anyone else over sixty-five get the feeling time is speeding up rather than slowing down? It sounds weird, doesn’t it, that as you slow down as old age approaches, time goes faster, and those things you wanted to get done seem further away. I’m 72 this year, and it feels like I only turned 65 a year ago!

When you’re young, it always seems like you will have all the time in the world, and that seems to play out over the first forty or fifty years, while you’re putting this off, putting that off, while all the little details of life take more and more of your time.

And there’s that one huge thing that hangs over your head, the fact that you might never get to that time when you said you would have time for it. People are dying younger again, of stress, bad habits and overexercising.

I’ll never be guilty of the last once. It’ll probably be bad habits, something we are all guilty of.

That’s also a reason why I don’t have New Year’s resolutions, and I try not to make plans for anything too far ahead.

It’s also the reason why we decided to travel and do all those things people say they’re going to do when they retire, only to discover they can’t for one reason or another, or they just simply died.

Stopping work after being so wrapped up in it can kill you, and it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that you can quite literally die of boredom.

It’s why I write. Keeps the mind active, gives me something to do, and believe me, when I’m writing, I’m never bored, and it’s a perfect fit between bouts of being a grandfather, a taxi service, and doing everything else that needs a not-so-handy handyman.

Time literally flying by is the same reason why my granddaughters have grown so much, because it seems like it was only yesterday, they were babies, and now the eldest is 22. When did she get so grown-up?

Oh, well, back to childminding duties. It’s the school holidays and tomorrow we’re off to travel down ‘the coast’, which is most ubiquitously called the Gold Coast or otherwise known as Surfer’s Paradise. It’s glitzy, has a dark side, and always looks shiny until the sun goes down. We go there during the day. Tomorrow will be the first time in over a year.

If we can get the kids off their computers and smartphones.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 244

Day 244 – Writing exercise

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Life is a paradox.

You think that everything is great, that after all the drama, mishaps and disasters that were sent to try you were defeated, one by one, that the universe had finally decided you deserved a life together.

God knows we had been on the verge of going our separate ways more times than I could count.

But we were there.

Amelia had planned a dinner for two in the swankiest restaurant in the city, and I had just got changed at work and about to catch a cab.

Amelia was driving in from the suburbs, and we would be staying in an equally swank hotel for the weekend.

It was a plan we had made the day before our wedding, to do exactly one year after, on our first anniversary.

Today marked our fifth.

Just as I told the cabbie the address, my cell phone rang.

‘Private Number’

I was going to ignore it, but a strange sensation ran through me, the like of which I’d never felt before.

“Hello?”

“Is that Allen Jamieson?”

“Yes.” Tentative. A spear of pain ran through my heart, and I braced myself.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

That was the ‘Oh God’ moment, and I could feel my world slipping out from under me.

“Your wife, Amelia, has been in a serious car accident. She has been taken to hospital. I suggest you get there as soon as possible.”

At the word ‘accident,’ I think I stopped thinking.

He gave the address, I thanked him, and that was it. Seconds later he tested the address, knowing that I wouldn’t remember a word he said, except that one word, ‘accident’.

…

I arrived in a daze, sick with worry, thinking that I was too late, that the light of my life had been extinguished.

After everything else …

I made myself known at the front desk, and within a minute a nurse came to take me to her.

She was in the emergency room; just arrived, and yes, still alive but barely. The nurse didn’t say she was hanging by a thread, but I read between the lines.

We burst into chaos. Apparently she was not the only victim of what had been a minor earth tremor that had brought down an overpass.

From the front counter to the ER, I got the disjointed details: a hundred cars and five buses, most crushed, and Amelia was one of five who survived. I did not hear how many didn’t.

I wasn’t prepared for what I was about to see, and when the nurse pulled back the curtain, I simply fainted.

…

When I recovered, smelling salts were horrible, and I awoke confused. I was outside her cubicle, but it was now empty.

Another nurse was saying that she had been taken to the OR for emergency surgery, and in my mind I could see the bloodied and broken piece of what was, as early as that morning, a beautiful and graceful woman who had survived everything that could be thrown at her.

Now?

If she died, I had not taken the chance to tell her everything I wanted to. In that moment, I had not been strong – the man she needed to be by her side when it mattered the most.

Now, all I could do was wait.

…

Twelve hours.

Twelve hours during which I could not sleep, could not rest, got up, walked around, sat down, conversed with other family members of other victims who were equally as stultified as I was at the horrendudness of what had happened.

The news coverage was on the whole time, covering the disaster, the death toll in the hundreds, the rescue attempts, the survivors. I saw the car Amelia had been in, and how she survived was a miracle.

Then the news turned dark: a panel of experts dissecting the disaster, and the revelation that the contractors who built the flyover had scrimped on materials and, had it been built properly, it might not have happened.

Not helping.

Searching for someone to blame would never help the victims or the loved ones who lost them.

One by one, the family members left. Most of their loved ones died on the operating table. Three had not. Relief could be measured, and it could be felt.

Twelve hours.

It was my turn.

The doctor, or one of them, came out, a white coat over bloodied scrubs. Straight from the fires of hell.

“She is a survivor,” was the first thing he said, with just a touch of admiration in his tone. “We repaired the body; it will heal in time with few aftereffects. Her mind, that’s a different matter. We repaired the damage, but we cannot be sure what functions may or may not return. She will be herself, the woman you know. She just may not remember who you are, or who she is. It is usually only temporary, but…”

It was enough. God had found a new way to tear us apart. It was just another hurdle, one that may take a little time to get over.

And, for Amelia, I had all the time in the world

…

Five months.

Nearly half a year, and every day I sat in her room, a bright sunny aspect looking over the gardens which, even for late autumn, still looked delightful.

The external and internal injuries had recovered. Her arms healed, her legs healed, and all we could do was wait to see if her head healed. Looking at her, except for a few scars, she looked the same Amelia as she had before the accident.

I came in, sat down, said my piece about everything going on around us, and then read from the classics. Sometimes in English, sometimes in Greek or Italian or Latin.

I told her all about Latin and the fact it was not a dead language. She would have agreed with me. If we wanted to say something and not have people around us understand, we’d speak in Latin.

It was about three in the afternoon.

Birds were tweeting outside. The sky had filled with dark, ominous clouds, and there were streaks of lightning in the distance.

A storm was coming.

Fifteen minutes later it was on us. A bolt of lightning lit up the room, and then the crack of thunder, directly overhead.

I was holding her hand.

Just after the crack of thunder, she squeezed my hand and opened her eyes.

I could see fear in her eyes, but I had not known her to be scared of thunder.

She spoke, but nothing came out. She coughed and winced. Not completely healed.

Then, “Where am I?”

She realised I was holding her hand and slipped it out of my grip. Not a good sign.

“A convalescent hospital “

“Why?

“You were in an accident.”

“When?”

“Five months ago. You have been in a coma.”

“And you are?”

There it was. What I had been dreading for the past five months, the cruellest of outcomes. She would not remember who I was.

“Your husband Allen.”

“You could be anybody.”

“I could, but I have proof.” Sitting beside the bed was a photograph album. Started at our wedding, the one none of her relatives came to.

The people who had spent two years trying to stop her from marrying me. Her family had different plans for her, but she had not wanted that life.

Cinderella’s life was normal compared to what her family had put her through, including kidnapping, mind control, torture by any other name, and a life-and-death rescue.

No one believed the story, but every word of it was true. I still carried the scars and the bullet they had hoped would kill me. It probably would in time.

She dragged herself up into a sitting position, and I gave her the album. She leafed through the pages, taking the time to look at the photos and then at me.

At the end, she closed the album and let it rest on her knees.

“I don’t remember anything. Not yours, not my life, nothing.” Tears flowed.

The doctor came in; I had seen him outside waiting, perhaps to see if I had any effect on what he still maintained would be temporary amnesia.

He looked at me, and I nodded. If I thought the last five months had been hard, the next were going to be harder.

…

It took another two months to get her back to a semblance of her former self. Intensive therapy to get all her limbs working, eating, coping with all those normal things we take for granted.

She had lost weight, and the clothes I brought, her favourites, were too large, and according to her, ‘what person in their right mind would wear these?’

She wanted jeans and T-shirts, and sports shoes. What some might call the grungy teenager look. The thing is, she looked great in them.

What else had changed? Her attitude. Not towards me; she seemed to have settled the debate that I was someone of interest, but that element of smoothness she’d acquired from her parents was gone, replaced by a girl who wasn’t afraid to say ‘fuck you’ if you annoyed her.

She was feisty before; now she was fiestier, which would have come in handy a long time ago.

A final week of tests and instructions to ease her way back into life outside the hospital, virtually the only place she could remember.

Then I took her home.

Her eyes lit up when she saw the house, and I had hoped she would remember, but she didn’t. For some reason, she said it was like the house she always wanted to live in, but couldn’t say why.

I wanted to tell her she designed it, but I promised myself I wasn’t going to shove true facts down her throat so she’d remember. Her memory, if it returned, would be when she wanted it to.

She cleaned out her old life. We went shopping to accommodate her new look. We changed furniture, repainted walls, drank red wine, which before she never would, and ate Chinese.

This was someone I didn’t know.

We slept in different rooms. I could appreciate her reluctance and probably would have worried if she jumped into bed with what was, to her, a complete stranger. I think it had worried her from the outset that I might enforce conjugal rights, but that was the last thing on my mind.

Sex had never been her top priority, and not very often. She hated being naked in the light, and rarely exposed much of her body except when home. And then, she had a very conservative one-piece swimsuit.

I had thought it odd that she was hiding scars or worse, but it was just a thing with her. It had not changed in the new Amelia.

But we coexisted; she had no interest in going anywhere or seeing anyone. She wouldn’t remember them anyway.

…

She didn’t remember her family, the heinous brother who had caused her so much pain, the younger sister who was spoilt and treated her badly, and the father whom I suspected had been the cruellest of the three.

Her mother had killed herself to get away from them. She had tried to leave, but had been dragged back. Amelia had never forgiven them for that.

Amelia herself had tried to escape, and was also dragged back, and ‘taught a lesson’ by her brother. She had never told me what happened, but I assumed it was bad.

Their cruelty increased exponentially when she wanted to marry me; her family fought it, and the sister tried to kill me the first time at the wedding rehearsal.

We escaped; Amelia had her story splattered across the pages of a mass-circulation newspaper, which led to the arrests of her father and brother, charges laid, followed by what could only be described as a mock trial, where the judge allowed a restraining order against them, a committee service for the rest.

No justice had been served that day, except that, at last, they kept their distance, even though they kept up the harassment in other ways. They had not managed to get access after the accident, even when they tried to get a court order to have her returned to their home.

I knew they would be waiting in the wings somewhere, to take the opportunity to snatch her back. If they did, then it would be at our property, which, unbeknownst to them, was a veritable fortress.

It was a subject for discussion a few days after our arrival, and it was settled.

“I know I have brought up the subject before, but you do have a family. The thing is, they hurt you in several ways, and you had to get a restraining order to keep them away.”

“That bad.”

“Worse. You never told me what they did to you, not that I wanted to know, but they’re out there, and given your current circumstances, they might come after you. They never approved of me as your husband.”

“What did you do?”

An odd question, but logical considering her condition.

“To them, I was a lower-class slob, beneath your station in life. You didn’t think so, which set them all off. They fought the relationship, tried to stop the wedding, your sister tried to kill me. The list is endless.”

“Then thank God I don’t remember them.”

Thank God indeed.

Until…

Later that day, my cell phone rang, an unlisted number.

I answered it.

It was her brother.

“How did you get this number?” It was meant to be a burner phone.

“That’s irrelevant. We would like to see my sister.”

“You have a restraining order.”

I was waiting to hear his laughter and tell me the error of my interpretation of such matters. Restraining orders did not apply to the Magallans.

“You can invite us to visit. Brief, supervised. What harm could it do if she doesn’t remember us? Or are you afraid she might want to come with us?”

There was an element of truth to that supposition. If she couldn’t remember them, and they were nice to her, throwing money around like paper confetti, she might.

Seeing them again might jog her memory too. Though a shock as severe as that might have adverse effects on her recovery.

“I suggest you give up this obsession you have. She didn’t like you before, and I doubt that’s changed.”

“Except she had no memory of us, unless that’s just a lie. We’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He disconnected the call before I could reply.

When I told her later, she simply said, “Let them come. I will deal with them.”

“You remember them?”

“No. If they are as bad as you say they are, it’s no wonder my memory doesn’t want to return. The doctor said that a possible reason for this amnesia is because my mind is shutting out the pain it knows will return if I get my memory back.”

“It might be because of me too.”

“I don’t feel that you hurt me, only protected me. I have this strange feeling of contentment when I am with you. It’s the reason I’m here now. I would not have come with you otherwise.”

“And I will continue to protect you. I told them not to come. You have a restraining order against them. I could call the police.”

“No. I want to see them, see what they have to say for themselves.”

I shrugged. There was a gun in the case for just such emergencies. I hope I wouldn’t have to use it.

…

We lived on what used to be cattle grazing land, a hundred acres stretching from the coastline to the main road. Our house was back nearer the ocean, where it couldn’t be seen from the main road.

There were cameras and a high fence, so visitors had to identify themselves before entering. There were surveillance cameras everywhere, so they couldn’t arrive unannounced.

There were only two ways to get to the house. By the lane off the main road and through the front gate, and from the ocean. If you liked scaling cliffs.

They came via the front gate.

We were both in the kichen when the when the button was pressed. They had to ask us to open the gate.

There were four people in the car. A chauffeur, the borrower in the front seat, and the father and sister in the back. None of them looked comfortable.

The chauffeur, not suspecting we could see them, asked for permission to enter.

I gave Amelia one last chance to say no. She did not

I opened the gate.

We watched the car come along the track, the house being about a mile back from the main road, and completely secluded on all four sides.

We watched the car slowly drive along, getting closer and closer until it stopped next to my old battered Land Rover.

I was glancing at Amelia as she closely looked at each of them as the chauffeur opened the doors and each one got out, smoothing down the invisible wrinkles and waiting for the next.

A clear view of the chauffeur. A man who looked more like a battle-hardened mercenary than a driver. A red flag. Amelia’s expression didn’t change.

Once standing together, the son pulled out a cigarette, but before he could light it, his father yanked out of his mouth and threw it away, adding a few choice words that made lip reading easy.

No love lost between the two of them. The sister shook her head and started walking towards the door. The other two caught up.

“Don’t like them,” she said. “I don’t see how any of them could be my family, except by looks.”

“They once told me they weren’t in the business of being liked.” First time, and nearly the last time I met them.

“I’ll wait in here, give myself time to screw my courage to the sticking point.”

It was a phrase she had used a lot, when she was herself. Had seeing them jog a memory fragment?

A minute later there was pounding on the door. They’d completely overlooked using the button to ring the bell. Were they making a statement, or being the usual bullies?

I sucked several deep breaths, then answered the door.

Richard barked, “Where is the bitch. She’s faking it, you know.”

I stood back a foot after the verbal onslaught.

“It is usual to say hello before ranting, Richard, but then no one taught you any manners.”

“Just get out of the way.”

I thought about hitting him, but then there were two more waves of shock troops to fend off. I stood to the side, and he pushed his way past, almost knocking me over, while saying, “Where is she?”

Maybe not such a good idea to invite them.

The father and Elizabeth passed more sedately, but with scowls on their faces. It was clear they were not here with love in their hearts.

“I hope you left the kitchen knife set back home,” I muttered as she went past.

She simply smiled briefly, with an evil glint in her eyes, and kept going.

As I shut the door, I heard the father say, “What the hell…”

When I entered the room, I did not know what to expect. It wasn’t Richard squirming on the floor making strange noises.

Amelia was leaning against the dividing bench between the kitchen and the dining lounge, watching him and the others.

Just watching.

The father yelled, “What happened?” He was glaring furiously at his other daughter, Amelia.

“This person, whoever he is, came straight at me, and, of course, I had to defend myself.” She looked straight at her father, or perhaps through him. “Who is he, because I don’t have any animal friends that I know at that isn’t a man, its some rabid, out of control creature who should be put down.”

It was delivered almost as a conversational piece, far more frightening than if she screamed it at him like a banshee. It virtually stopped him in his tracks

“He is your older brother.”

“No. He isn’t. If I had a brother, he’d be more like me. Pleasant, docile, amenable. That creature,” she pointed at him, still writhing, “needs to be put down.”

Her sister sighed. “We are your family, Amelia, and we’ve come to take you home, where you belong.”

Amelia turned her eyes to her sister. The look on her face, I noticed, was hard, the sort people would say, if looks could kill.

“Who are you again?”

“Your younger sister, Patricia.”

Amelia smiled, humourless as she evaluated the woman before her.

“Impossible. Oversized ears, beady eyes, thin cruel lips, too much blusher, too bright red lipstick. You look like a cadaver from a Frankenstein movie. You’re nothing like me, so I don’t know who you are, and quite frankly, I don’t want to.”

“Don’t talk to your sister like that.” Her father finally found his voice and had dragged the hapless son off the floor.

I had no idea what Amelia had done to him, but it was clear he couldn’t stand up straight.

“Are you the sire of these creatures? Then you cannot be any better than they are. I have no idea why my husband thought I should meet you; in fact, if I remember rightly, just before you turned up at the front gate, he told me he didn’t, and the creature invited himself. The creature also said that I was faking my amnesia. About what you’d expect from a brainless creature. Now…”

She leaned back over the counter, picked something, and a few seconds later had a gun in her hand. The gun we kept in case of emergencies.

Something told me some part of her memory had returned.

“What are you doing?” Patricia looked terrified. Perhaps she too thought her sister’s memory had returned.

“You’re leaving my house. Dead or alive, it’s your choice. You have until I count to ten. Be very grateful it’s not three. One.”

“Let’s go,” Patricia said. “She’s clearly off her rocker.”

“This is ridiculous,” Richard muttered. “She’s not going to shoot anyone.” He took a step towards her, and she shot him; the force of the bullet pushed him back into her father and sent them both sprawling. She had aimed for the soft part of the shoulder.

This was not the Amelia I knew.

Richard screamed; realising it was not fatal, just agonising, he separated himself from his father, who scrambled to his feet, and backed away.

“This was a mistake. A big mistake. She has no idea who she is.” He looked at me. “You’ll be next; she’s clearly lost the plot.

She took a step forward and aimed the gun at his head. “Get up and get out. The next shot will end that pathetic life of yours, and these two as well. It’s a three-for-one deal.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice, awkwardly himself to his feet, groaning, then clutching at the wound. Blood stained a very expensive suit.

A last glare at Amelia, he went to say something, perhaps a threat, perhaps a curse, but thought the better of it.

They left.

Amelia followed them to the door.

“This is your one and only warning. I ever see any of you again, I will kill you. Very slowly and very painfully. Payback will be a bitch.”

That’s when they stopped in their tracks. Richard turned, then the other two.

“You remember?”

“The moment you walked into the room. What you did to me, I’ll never forget. Neither will you, because today is the first you, all of you, better start looking over your shoulder. You’re getting a day’s grace, then I’m coming after you, and I won’t stop until you’re dead. Now get off my property.”

Richard lingered. A bad mistake. She shot at Richard, scrambling for cover until there were no more bullets. Then, when he thought it was safe, she held up a new clip and rammed it home.

“You want to play games, Richie?”

I think he finally realised she was not joking.

They got in the car and left.

…

We waited until the car disappeared out of sight.

She sighed. “Jesus’s, that felt good.”

“Not remembering what he did to you.”

“All of them. No. But I wanted to kill him. I had to really restrain myself, but it was too easy. He’s going to die slowly and painfully.”

“Don’t you think you’ve made your point?” I’m as much for revenge as the next guy, but there had to be a better way.

“I did the lawyer thing, and they made a mockery out of it. We give them a week, and then we’ll go after them.”

“A week?”

“They’ll get their security team together, send a couple of scouts, and then decide what to do. The driver was one of their mercenaries; he was scoping the place for weaknesses. They’ll come by the cliffs. A week. A half dozen of their best mercenaries found dead; they’ll get the message.”

She turned around and smiled. “You were the only one I could trust. Through thick and thin.”

“I believed you’d lost your memory “

“I had. Richard tipped it all on its head. The voice, then the presence. What he did to me. It all came back. He came at me; I put him down. Self-defence, and gun club. Training. I was always going to get them. Are you in?”

“Do I get the shoot your sister?”

“After what she did to you, who am I to stop you? Come. Your training starts now.”

…

If I only had one day to stop over in – Budapest – what would I do?

One Day in Budapest: The One Place You Must Visit to Make It Unforgettable

Budapest, the radiant capital of Hungary, straddles the mighty Danube River with regal grace. If you’re passing through with just a 24-hour stopover, time is precious—and every minute counts. You could scramble to tick off museums, thermal baths, and ruin bars, but to make your brief encounter with this city truly memorable, there’s one place that captures the soul, history, and breathtaking beauty of Budapest in a single panoramic view:

The Fisherman’s Bastion (Halászbástya).

Perched atop Castle Hill in the historic Buda district, the Fisherman’s Bastion isn’t just a viewpoint—it’s a fairytale come to life. Built between 1895 and 1902 in a neo-Gothic and neo-Romanesque style, this ornate terrace was originally constructed as part of Budapest’s millennium celebrations. Legend says it was named after the medieval guild of fishermen who once defended this stretch of the city walls.

But why prioritise this over Budapest’s many other wonders?

1. The View That Defines Budapest

From the seven turrets and arcaded terraces of Fisherman’s Bastion, you get the postcard panorama of the city. To the east, across the shimmering Danube, lies the grand Hungarian Parliament Building—its domed silhouette glowing in the morning light or illuminated like a crown at night. The Chain Bridge stretches beneath, connecting Buda and Pest in elegant symmetry. At sunrise or sunset, the city feels like a living painting.

This view alone makes the climb worth it. It’s not just scenery—it’s a moment of awe that crystallises your entire Budapest experience.

2. A Fairytale Atmosphere

With its whitewashed stone turrets, intricate balconies, and stairways that seem lifted from a storybook, the Bastion feels like something out of a dream. It’s especially enchanting in the early morning, when the crowds are thinner, and the golden light spills over the rooftops of the old town.

Don’t miss the underground section—originally a fish market—now housing exhibitions and offering unique angles of the Danube and Parliament.

3. Next-Door to the Magic

The Fisherman’s Bastion sits right beside Matthias Church, a stunning 13th-century Gothic church with a kaleidoscopic tiled roof and an interior glittering with gold and stained glass. Spend 15 quiet minutes inside, and you’ll feel like you’ve stepped back centuries.

Together, these two landmarks form the heart of Budapest’s medieval heritage—compact, walkable, and utterly Instagram-worthy.

4. The Perfect Starting (or Ending) Point

Whether you begin your day here at sunrise or end it with the city lights flickering to life, Fisherman’s Bastion sets the tone. After soaking in the view, you can easily descend into the charming Vörösmarty Square, explore Váci Street for coffee and souvenirs, or hop on a Danube cruise to see the city from the water—all within your tight schedule.

Pro Tips for Your One-Day Stopover:

Arrive early. Beat the tour groups by getting there right at opening time (typically 9:00 AM).
Visit at dusk. The city lights reflect off the river, and Parliament glows in golden illumination—a sight you’ll remember forever.
Combine it with Castle Hill. Take 30 minutes to wander the cobbled streets of the Buda Castle district—quaint cafés, artisan shops, and hidden courtyards await.
Use public transport. Take Tram 19 or 47 to Széll Kálmán tér, then the funicular up to the Castle—fast, scenic, and efficient.

Final Thoughts

In just one day, you can’t see everything Budapest offers—but you can feel its spirit. And at Fisherman’s Bastion, with the wind in your hair and the Danube gleaming below, you’ll feel it deeply. It’s more than a sightseeing stop; it’s the soul of the city in a single, breathtaking moment.

So when your plane touches down for that brief layover, let Fisherman’s Bastion be your destination. Because sometimes, one perfect place is all it takes to fall in love with an entire city.

One day. One view. A lifetime of memories.

If I only had one day to stop over in – Vienna – what would I do?

One Day in Vienna: A Symphony of Splendour at Schönbrunn Palace

Vienna is a city of emperors, composers, and unparalleled grandeur—a place where history, art, and music intertwine. But if you’re stuck with a one-day stopover, how do you choose just one place to visit? Amid the city’s iconic attractions, Schönbrunn Palace rises as the perfect answer. This UNESCO World Heritage Site is more than a palace; it’s a portal to the opulence of the Habsburg Empire and a living testament to Vienna’s legacy. Here’s how to make the most of your day in this majestic setting.

Why Schönbrunn? A Journey Through Time and Taste

Nestled in the heart of Vienna’s 11th district, Schönbrunn Palace served as the summer residence of the Habsburg dynasty for centuries. Its name, which means Beautiful Spring, nods to the natural spring discovered by a shepherd in the 11th century. By the 17th century, it had transformed into a Baroque masterpiece under the direction of Emperor Leopold I. The palace’s grandeur is matched only by its history: it witnessed imperial triumphs, the horrors of WWI, and the resilience of Austrian culture.

Walking through its gates, you’re instantly transported into a world of gilded halls, stately gardens, and stories whispered in marble corridors. Whether you’re a history buff, an art lover, or a seeker of beauty, Schönbrunn offers layers of experience that resonate with every visitor.

The Highlights: A Gilded Itinerary

1. The Grand Tour of the Palace
Start with the Imperial Apartments, where the Habsburgs lived and ruled. The opulent rooms—like the Mirrors Hall and the Kleiner Prunksaal—showcase the dynasty’s wealth and taste. Don’t miss the intricate frescoes, Venetian chandeliers, and the Schönbrunn Silver Museum, home to over 6000 pieces of exquisite tableware.

2. The Gloriette: A Garden’s Jewel
No visit is complete without ascending to the Gloriette, the garden’s crowning glory. This neoclassical pavilion, framed by 500 sculpted cypress trees, offers panoramic views of the city. The surrounding Parc de la Thomayer is a tranquil spot to take a break, its geometric pathways and fountains a nod to Versailles.

3. The Baroque Gardens
Spanning 180,000 square meters, the gardens are a masterclass in design. Walk through the Esterházy Gate into “Maria Therese’s Garden,” where flowerbeds bloom in vibrant symmetry. Stop by the Orangery, once vital for protecting tropical plants in winter, or the Children’s Zoo, where a mirror maze adds whimsy to the imperial ambience.

Practical Tips for a Perfect Day

Skip the Line: Book tickets in advance to avoid long waits, especially on weekends.
Timing is Everything: Arrive early to maximise your time. A full visit to the palace and gardens can take 3–4 hours; allow extra if you stroll the gardens thoroughly.
Guided Tours or Self-Guided? Opt for a guided Palatine Tour (45 minutes) for context, then explore on your own.
Grab a Coffee Break: The Palace Café serves classic Austrian pastries and coffee. For a more hidden gem, stop by Café Gloriette in the gardens for light bites with a view.

Why Schönbrunn Makes the Day Memorable

Schönbrunn is the essence of Vienna in one location. It’s where history breathes in frescoed walls and where nature dances in meticulously designed gardens. As the sun sets, casting golden light on the palace’s façade, you’ll understand why this place remains the heartbeat of Austria’s imperial past.

In just a day, Schönbrunn offers a narrative of power, artistry, and human ambition. It’s a place where even fleeting moments feel eternal, and where you’ll leave with not just photos, but a sense of wonder. For a one-day stopover, there’s no better choice to make Vienna unforgettable.

Schönbrunn Palace is open daily from 9:00 AM to 6:30 PM (season-dependent). For more details, visit www.schoenbrunn.at.

What would you do with a day in Vienna? Let us know in the comments!

Pro Tip: Bring a camera—every corner of Schönbrunn is a postcard waiting to be snapped.