Day 156 – The past is a great resource

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The Archive of Experience: Why Your Past is Your Greatest Resource

In our modern, fast-paced world, we are obsessed with the “next.” We are constantly looking toward the next milestone, the next innovation, and the next version of ourselves. While forward momentum is essential for growth, we often overlook the most powerful tool in our arsenal for navigating the future: our own history.

The past is not merely a collection of memories or a series of “what-ifs.” It is a dynamic, living resource—a vast library of data, lessons, and patterns that, when leveraged correctly, can become the foundation for our future success.

Here is why your past is the most valuable asset you own.

1. The Laboratory of Pattern Recognition

Patterns are the language of reality. Whether in business, relationships, or personal habits, history tends to rhyme. When you look back at your past experiences—both the triumphs and the failures—you begin to see recurring themes.

Did you notice that you always thrive when you collaborate, but struggle when you’re isolated? Do you see a trend in the types of challenges that tend to derail your progress? By analysing your past, you aren’t just remembering; you are engaging in pattern recognition. This allows you to walk into new situations with a “map” that others, who haven’t done the work of reflection, lack.

2. Failure as R&D (Research and Development)

We often treat our past mistakes as sources of shame. However, in the world of professional innovation, a failed experiment is simply a piece of data that proves what doesn’t work.

When you treat your past failures as “Research and Development,” you strip away the emotional sting and replace it with objective intelligence. Every “no” you received, every project that stalled, and every lapse in judgment is a refined instruction manual for how to handle similar situations in the future. You are the only person who possesses the unique training data of your own life—don’t let it go to waste.

3. The Anchor of Resilience

There is a specific kind of confidence that comes from knowing you have survived 100% of your worst days. When the present feels overwhelming, looking back at your own history serves as a powerful anchor.

By remembering the times you felt trapped, confused, or defeated and recalling exactly how you navigated your way out, you remind yourself of your inherent resilience. The past doesn’t just show you where you’ve been; it proves your capacity to transcend adversity. It transforms the question “Can I get through this?” into “I have gotten through this before, and I will do it again.”

4. Harvesting Your “Hidden Hits”

Sometimes, we get so focused on the future that we forget the skills, passions, and insights we once possessed. Perhaps you were a great writer in college, a creative problem solver in your first job, or someone who naturally brought people together in a community group.

Modern life often causes us to prune away parts of ourselves to fit into a specific “career box.” Returning to your past allows you to rediscover forgotten talents. It is a process of harvesting the “hidden hits” of your early life and re-integrating them into your current identity to create a more well-rounded, effective version of yourself.

How to Use Your Past Effectively

To turn your past into a resource rather than a prison, you must change your relationship with it:

• Practice Objective Reflection: Spend time journaling about past events as if you were an unbiased observer. Write down what happened, what you did, and what the outcome was.
• Extract the Lesson: Don’t stop at the memory. Ask yourself, “What did this teach me that I am still using today?”
• Forgive the “Past You”: Recognise that the version of you in the past was making the best decisions they could with the information they had at the time. Compassion for your past self is the key to clarity for your future self.

The Bottom Line

Your past is not a graveyard; it is a goldmine. It is where your wisdom resides and where your most authentic lessons are stored. By mining your history for its insights, patterns, and proofs of strength, you stop being a victim of your experiences and start becoming the architect of your future.

Don’t just move forward—move forward informed. Your past is waiting to tell you exactly how to win.

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Day 155 – Fly by the seat of your pants

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The Art of the “Seat of the Pants”: Why Writing Without a Map is a Masterpiece in Progress

“The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.” — Mary Heaton Vorse

This quote resonates with every writer who has ever stared at a blinking cursor. It strips away the romantic notion of the “divine muse” and replaces it with the stark, tactile reality of the craft. But beyond the discipline of sitting down, Vorse’s famous line carries a secondary, perhaps unintentional, meaning for a specific breed of writers: The Pantsers.

In the world of fiction, there are two primary archetypes: the Plotters (the architects who blueprint every room before a single brick is laid) and the Pantsers (the explorers who walk into a dark forest with only a lantern, trusting they’ll find the path as they go).

If you are a writer who finds the idea of an outline stifling, you aren’t just “making it up as you go”—you are practising the high art of discovery writing. Here is why the pantser methodology is not only valid but often leads to the most organic, surprising stories.

The Magic of “Not Knowing”

The greatest advantage of the pantser methodology is that it preserves the element of surprise. If a writer knows exactly what happens on page 200, the act of writing becomes a mechanical chore—a “connect the dots” exercise.

When you write by the seat of your pants, you are the first reader of your own story. If you’re bored, the reader is bored. But if you are genuinely shocked by a character’s betrayal or a sudden plot twist, your reader will be, too. There is an electric energy in a scene where the author doesn’t know how the protagonist is going to escape a locked room until they write the final paragraph of the chapter.

Embracing the “Organic” Character

Plotters often find themselves forcing characters to fit a pre-determined narrative arc. “He has to die here,” they might say, “because it’s in the outline.”

The pantser, however, allows the character to breathe. Because you aren’t tied to a rigid structure, you can listen to your characters. If a side character suddenly demands to have a larger role, or if your villain reveals a hidden vulnerability you didn’t anticipate, you have the flexibility to follow that thread. This creates a sense of “organic” development that feels less like a manufactured plot and more like a captured reality.

The “Seat of the Chair” Reality

Of course, there is a catch. The pantser methodology is not an excuse for aimlessness. This is where Vorse’s quote anchors us.

Writing by the seat of your pants requires more discipline, not less. Without a map, you are prone to getting lost. You might write yourself into a corner, produce three chapters of “fluff” that don’t move the story forward, or lose the main thread entirely.

To be a successful pantser, you must:

1. Trust your instincts: If it feels right, chase it. If it feels like a dead end, dare to cut it.
2. Edit ruthlessly: Because you don’t have an outline to guide you, your first draft will inevitably be messy. You must be willing to embrace the “vomit draft” and treat your revision process as the time when you finally build the scaffolding for the story you’ve discovered.
3. Stay in the seat: You can only find the path if you keep moving. The pantser who doesn’t show up to the desk is just a dreamer; the pantser who shows up is a navigator.

The Final Verdict

Whether you are a meticulous plotter or a wild-card pantser, the truth remains: the story only exists when you apply your physical presence to the task.

If you feel like you’re failing because you don’t have a 50-page outline, stop judging yourself. Pick up your lantern, sit in your chair, and start walking into the woods. The story is waiting for you in the dark, and it’s likely far more interesting than anything you could have planned on paper.

Are you a plotter or a pantser? Do you find that your best ideas come when you have no idea where you’re going? Let’s talk about your process in the comments below.

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Day 155 – Fly by the seat of your pants

…

The Art of the “Seat of the Pants”: Why Writing Without a Map is a Masterpiece in Progress

“The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.” — Mary Heaton Vorse

This quote resonates with every writer who has ever stared at a blinking cursor. It strips away the romantic notion of the “divine muse” and replaces it with the stark, tactile reality of the craft. But beyond the discipline of sitting down, Vorse’s famous line carries a secondary, perhaps unintentional, meaning for a specific breed of writers: The Pantsers.

In the world of fiction, there are two primary archetypes: the Plotters (the architects who blueprint every room before a single brick is laid) and the Pantsers (the explorers who walk into a dark forest with only a lantern, trusting they’ll find the path as they go).

If you are a writer who finds the idea of an outline stifling, you aren’t just “making it up as you go”—you are practising the high art of discovery writing. Here is why the pantser methodology is not only valid but often leads to the most organic, surprising stories.

The Magic of “Not Knowing”

The greatest advantage of the pantser methodology is that it preserves the element of surprise. If a writer knows exactly what happens on page 200, the act of writing becomes a mechanical chore—a “connect the dots” exercise.

When you write by the seat of your pants, you are the first reader of your own story. If you’re bored, the reader is bored. But if you are genuinely shocked by a character’s betrayal or a sudden plot twist, your reader will be, too. There is an electric energy in a scene where the author doesn’t know how the protagonist is going to escape a locked room until they write the final paragraph of the chapter.

Embracing the “Organic” Character

Plotters often find themselves forcing characters to fit a pre-determined narrative arc. “He has to die here,” they might say, “because it’s in the outline.”

The pantser, however, allows the character to breathe. Because you aren’t tied to a rigid structure, you can listen to your characters. If a side character suddenly demands to have a larger role, or if your villain reveals a hidden vulnerability you didn’t anticipate, you have the flexibility to follow that thread. This creates a sense of “organic” development that feels less like a manufactured plot and more like a captured reality.

The “Seat of the Chair” Reality

Of course, there is a catch. The pantser methodology is not an excuse for aimlessness. This is where Vorse’s quote anchors us.

Writing by the seat of your pants requires more discipline, not less. Without a map, you are prone to getting lost. You might write yourself into a corner, produce three chapters of “fluff” that don’t move the story forward, or lose the main thread entirely.

To be a successful pantser, you must:

1. Trust your instincts: If it feels right, chase it. If it feels like a dead end, dare to cut it.
2. Edit ruthlessly: Because you don’t have an outline to guide you, your first draft will inevitably be messy. You must be willing to embrace the “vomit draft” and treat your revision process as the time when you finally build the scaffolding for the story you’ve discovered.
3. Stay in the seat: You can only find the path if you keep moving. The pantser who doesn’t show up to the desk is just a dreamer; the pantser who shows up is a navigator.

The Final Verdict

Whether you are a meticulous plotter or a wild-card pantser, the truth remains: the story only exists when you apply your physical presence to the task.

If you feel like you’re failing because you don’t have a 50-page outline, stop judging yourself. Pick up your lantern, sit in your chair, and start walking into the woods. The story is waiting for you in the dark, and it’s likely far more interesting than anything you could have planned on paper.

Are you a plotter or a pantser? Do you find that your best ideas come when you have no idea where you’re going? Let’s talk about your process in the comments below.

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Day 154 – A Writer’s Journey – Ian Fleming

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From Desk Jobs to Espionage: Why the “Accidental” Writer is More Common Than You Think

We often imagine the “Great Author” as someone born with an ink-stained soul—a tortured genius who spent their childhood reciting poetry and their adolescence crafting sprawling manuscripts in the glow of a candle.

But the history of literature tells a very different story. Take Ian Fleming, the creator of the world’s most iconic secret agent.

Before Fleming became a household name, he was a man desperately trying to outrun his own shadow. He cycled through jobs in journalism, merchant banking, and stockbroking, eventually landing in Naval Intelligence during World War II. It wasn’t until he retreated to his estate in Jamaica—suffering from a classic case of mid-life post-war boredom—that he sat down at a typewriter and hammered out Casino Royale.

Fleming didn’t start as a “writer.” He started as a man with a rich, complicated life who realised he had stories to tell.

As it turns out, Fleming isn’t an anomaly. In fact, he’s the archetype.

The “Portfolio Career” of the Author

If you look at the biographies of the world’s most beloved writers, you’ll find that very few of them spent their twenties in an MFA program. Instead, they were living.

• Franz Kafka spent his days as an insurance clerk, navigating the crushing bureaucracy that would later inspire the bleak, surreal landscapes of The Trial.
• Harper Lee worked as an airline ticket agent while struggling to write To Kill a Mockingbird.
• Charles Bukowski ground out years at the post office, convinced that his life was a series of mundane failures until his prose finally caught fire.

For these writers, the “day job” wasn’t a distraction—it was the fuel. It provided the frustration, the observation, and the grit required to build a believable world.

Why Boredom and Disillusionment are Catalysts

Fleming’s transition from intelligence officer to novelist is a quintessential example of creative displacement. When you have spent your life in high-stakes, high-pressure environments—like intelligence work or banking—the sudden silence of civilian life can feel deafening.

Many writers emerge from this exact place:

1. The Escape Hatch: Writing is often a way to reconcile with a past we can’t change. Fleming used the pages of Bond novels to process the shadowy, often morally grey world he had inhabited during the war.
2. The Need to Orchestrate: People who have worked in rigid systems (like banking or the military) often turn to fiction because, for the first time, they are in total control. The author is the ultimate intelligence chief; they decide who lives, who dies, and how the plot unfolds.
3. The “What If” Factor: Many accidental authors start writing because they are bored with reality. They find the world as it exists to lack adventure, mystery, or romance. Writing becomes the tool they use to build a version of the world that is, frankly, more interesting.

The “Ian Fleming Path” to Creativity

If you are currently sitting in a cubicle, working a job that feels worlds away from your creative ambitions, take heart. You aren’t “not a writer” because you aren’t currently writing. You are, like Fleming, building your archive.

You are observing office politics, understanding the nuances of human manipulation, learning how systems break, and experiencing the distinct, soul-sucking weight of boredom. These are not wasted years. These are the bricks you will use to build your own “Casino Royale.”

Many of the best writers in history didn’t start by chasing the dream of being an author. They started by living through enough reality that they eventually had to write it down to make sense of it.

So, if you’re looking for a sign to start that manuscript, look at Fleming in Jamaica. He didn’t wait for inspiration to strike; he waited until he was bored enough, experienced enough, and ready enough to translate his life into a legend.

Your day job is not a detour. It’s the prologue.

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Day 154 – A Writer’s Journey – Ian Fleming

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From Desk Jobs to Espionage: Why the “Accidental” Writer is More Common Than You Think

We often imagine the “Great Author” as someone born with an ink-stained soul—a tortured genius who spent their childhood reciting poetry and their adolescence crafting sprawling manuscripts in the glow of a candle.

But the history of literature tells a very different story. Take Ian Fleming, the creator of the world’s most iconic secret agent.

Before Fleming became a household name, he was a man desperately trying to outrun his own shadow. He cycled through jobs in journalism, merchant banking, and stockbroking, eventually landing in Naval Intelligence during World War II. It wasn’t until he retreated to his estate in Jamaica—suffering from a classic case of mid-life post-war boredom—that he sat down at a typewriter and hammered out Casino Royale.

Fleming didn’t start as a “writer.” He started as a man with a rich, complicated life who realised he had stories to tell.

As it turns out, Fleming isn’t an anomaly. In fact, he’s the archetype.

The “Portfolio Career” of the Author

If you look at the biographies of the world’s most beloved writers, you’ll find that very few of them spent their twenties in an MFA program. Instead, they were living.

• Franz Kafka spent his days as an insurance clerk, navigating the crushing bureaucracy that would later inspire the bleak, surreal landscapes of The Trial.
• Harper Lee worked as an airline ticket agent while struggling to write To Kill a Mockingbird.
• Charles Bukowski ground out years at the post office, convinced that his life was a series of mundane failures until his prose finally caught fire.

For these writers, the “day job” wasn’t a distraction—it was the fuel. It provided the frustration, the observation, and the grit required to build a believable world.

Why Boredom and Disillusionment are Catalysts

Fleming’s transition from intelligence officer to novelist is a quintessential example of creative displacement. When you have spent your life in high-stakes, high-pressure environments—like intelligence work or banking—the sudden silence of civilian life can feel deafening.

Many writers emerge from this exact place:

1. The Escape Hatch: Writing is often a way to reconcile with a past we can’t change. Fleming used the pages of Bond novels to process the shadowy, often morally grey world he had inhabited during the war.
2. The Need to Orchestrate: People who have worked in rigid systems (like banking or the military) often turn to fiction because, for the first time, they are in total control. The author is the ultimate intelligence chief; they decide who lives, who dies, and how the plot unfolds.
3. The “What If” Factor: Many accidental authors start writing because they are bored with reality. They find the world as it exists to lack adventure, mystery, or romance. Writing becomes the tool they use to build a version of the world that is, frankly, more interesting.

The “Ian Fleming Path” to Creativity

If you are currently sitting in a cubicle, working a job that feels worlds away from your creative ambitions, take heart. You aren’t “not a writer” because you aren’t currently writing. You are, like Fleming, building your archive.

You are observing office politics, understanding the nuances of human manipulation, learning how systems break, and experiencing the distinct, soul-sucking weight of boredom. These are not wasted years. These are the bricks you will use to build your own “Casino Royale.”

Many of the best writers in history didn’t start by chasing the dream of being an author. They started by living through enough reality that they eventually had to write it down to make sense of it.

So, if you’re looking for a sign to start that manuscript, look at Fleming in Jamaica. He didn’t wait for inspiration to strike; he waited until he was bored enough, experienced enough, and ready enough to translate his life into a legend.

Your day job is not a detour. It’s the prologue.

…

Day 153 – Writing Exercise

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I was lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling, after being told that morning that a few seconds either way of me getting to the hospital could have been a matter of life and death.

No visitors for two days, and a very laborious interview with the police where I was practically browbeaten into making a confession, of stuff I hadn’t done, and through mistaken identity..

They were determined to make me the scapegoat.  Now, looking at my brother who had made a special trip to see me, I was annoyed.

He should have been the one who was attacked. 

And all because I borrowed his car?

It seemed to me he was oblivious, or pretending to be obvious, to the fact that it should have been him and not me, but something told me I was never going to get him to admit that he was the one they wanted to hurt, not me. 

And this was not the first time it had happened.

“I think you know I was not the target,” I said, “and definitely not the one who committed any of the crimes I’m being accused of.  The mere fact that we are almost alike is a very telling factor.”

We were not twins but the year apart in age did little to tell us apart, even from quite close.  Cerise, his wife, had taken years before she could accurately tell us apart.

“You were running their distributional network,” he said.  “That had nothing to do with me.”

“I did what I was told, believing that what I was doing was at the behest of the company, and I would believe that was the case if I were in my own car, not yours.”

He was clutching at straws.  I had only told him a few days ago that the people I worked for were the McKenzies, people who were direct competitors.  It hadn’t gone down well.

It was when I realised I was being set up.  It might have explained what happened, but it came back to the car, and why he had asked me to take it from a downtown car park to his house.

“The bottom line is that they targeted the car and then hesitated before they tried to beat me to death.  I was not who they were looking for.”

He shrugged.  “Unless the police catch them, we’ll never know for sure.  I’ll get some people to investigate and arrange for some protection.  You’ll survive.”

I almost laughed at that.  I’ll survive.  Not if they came after me again.

“Thanks for nothing.”

Another minute, and he left.  I was surprised he’d stayed as long as he had.  It reflected the disdain he held for me and my choices when, a dozen years back, I refused to join the family firm.

Perhaps it was the people who turned up at all hours of the night and say, people who were not the sort of customers general merchants dealt with, not out of a shed at the back of the house, or an old factory turned into a warehouse.

My father was consolidating his criminal empire.  I discovered that when he was shot at the warehouse and died in the hospital three days later.  The shooter was never identified, despite the description I’d given to the police.  My brother refused to back me up.

He had no doubt done a deal not to shop them in return for them leaving us alone.  It was never going to hold.  But I left the business the day after my father died and got a legitimate job.

Or so I thought.

I guess that criminals and the kids of criminals never quite escape the stigma.  I got what I thought was a legitimate job, only to discover it was a rival organisation trying to muscle its way into my brother’s territory.

He didn’t know, not exactly, and I didn’t know until recently, and if there was a silver lining, this bashing had given me the perfect excuse to walk away.

That being the case, I had no job, I was nearly dead, and I had nowhere to go. I was not going to join the family firm.  Robert could have it all to himself.  If anything, I wanted revenge and to make the McKenzies pay.  If they were the attackers.

…

The room was empty and quiet.  The TV was on mute, running some game show that dealt with words and phrases.  It seemed pointless.

It was when Detective Chief Inspector Ramsen came in and closed the door behind her.  Years ago, when she was a Detective Sergeant, she had been the one to tell me the organisation that was behind my father’s death, just not who did it.

Perhaps she knew I would kill them if I found out.  The fact that I was the son of an alleged murderer did little to assuage her opinion.

She sat in the chair next to the bed.

“I hear your brother came to visit.”

She never said hello, nor asked how I felt.  Just sent the interrogators. 

“He was very sympathetic.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

“Nor does fake sympathy from a heartless bitch.”

Her expression hardened.  “Someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.”

She frowned.  I had called her worse.  She liked the idea that people thought she was as hard as any man in her station house.

“I wasn’t the target, and I am not part of my brother’s organisation.  He won’t admit it, but it was him they were after.”

“Perhaps, but you were working for the McKenzies.  They might have assumed you were a spy.  That could explain this attack.”

“I didn’t know that until last week.  You might want to tell that interrogation team that I was in his car.  Whoever sent the thugs made a mistake.”

She shook her head.  “They would have been watching you.  The car is irrelevant.”

“So, it’s the old adage, dead men tell no lies, or the truth.  I’m very lucky to be here.”

“Are you going back to the McKenzie’s?”

“No.  If old man McKenzie was the one who sent in the thug squad, simply because he doubted my loyalty, then what’s the point?”

“So, that means you’re in no man’s land.  Perhaps with no allegiance to anyone, you could help us.”

“I’m not going back.”

“You could end up in jail.”

“Good.  I’ll take my chances.”

“They’d be slim to none.”

“Better than going back into a nest of vipers.  Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

…

When everything goes wrong, you find out just who your friends are.

I didn’t have many, and those I thought I had were more acquaintances than friends.  We spoke, we had coffee, sometimes a drink after work, but that was it.

One thing I knew better than most was to never discuss business or your job in a workplace that thrived on secrecy, real or imaginary.

After all, when I first started, there were constant reminders not to discuss anything that happened with anyone inside and especially outside the company.

Now I knew why.

But, here’s the thing.  I didn’t talk to anyone when I discovered the true nature of the business.  I was simply shocked at the discoveries I made, but I kept them to myself.  That’s why it was impossible to believe they sent people after me.

It was also odd that they hadn’t sent someone to see me yet, though it was plausible they didn’t know.  The fact I hadn’t turned up for work, or called in as unavailable of course, would set off alarm bells,  and the last person who did that caused havoc.

Except if I knew the Chief Inspector, she would have turned up on their doorstep first thing for her version of a short chat, so the odds were they were still trying to figure out what to do.

Old Man McKenzie, one of the four Mackenzies in management, was by far the nastiest of the group.  I rumbled the fact that the legitimate business was acting as a front, that a well-trained group that kept the separation, and one of the four slipped once.  A step so slight had I blinked I would have missed it

Though it could be said that being brought up in a crime family should have made me very aware of what was really going on, it didn’t.  I was kept at arm’s length at home for a long time, and only introduced gradually once I was old enough.

But what I saw, I didn’t like. 

When my father was murdered because of warring families that had once worked together in harmony, I left home and left the business, not that I had spent much time working for it.

What happened after that was a matter of reflection, and disappointment.  I had been naive if I ever thought I could escape.  Perhaps had I moved to the other side of the country, or overseas, maybe, but I didn’t go far, just across town.

I went to an employment agency, filled out all the forms and was surprised when they found me a job, not far from where I was living at the time.

The people were friendly but not too friendly.  I was given on-the-job training, couriers work delivering parcels.  I thought it was like working for FedEx.  Over time, I rose to be a distribution manager, and then was in charge of a whole division.

And like I said, I would have been none the wiser if one of the drivers hadn’t made a fundamental error, delivering a parcel to the wrong address.  A report had been left on my desk, in my absence.  I came back, looked at it, checked the delivery against the orders and shipping dockets, noticing there were products on the delivery dockets not on the order.  Then I realised it was not my distribution centre but one of the other three; they were just dovetailing their deliveries in my vans.

A report not for me to action, I put it back where I found it, and went out to lunch, and when I came back, it was gone.  Later that night, I checked the orders and delivery dockets for the day, and at least forty of the customers got the same product.  The product?  Sugar cubes.

Then I checked the customers and found they were on a secondary distribution list, with about four or five hundred others.  Names, not businesses.  Runs every two weeks.  A bit more digging, quietly, I found what the product was.

None of my business.

Of course, even that wouldn’t have mattered, had it not been the one person I would never have believed to have any criminal intent. 

…

I must have drifted off into an uneasy sleep, something I thought would be impossible given the number and off times the nurses came to check what they called ‘vitals’.

Being annoyed so many times must raise anyone’s blood pressure.  I know mine was up.

When I woke, it was not a nurse, but someone dropping into the visitor chair.  Someone who wore a fragrant scent.

I opened my eyes.  And blinked.

Scarlet McKenzie.

Most of the people in that company were scared of her.  She had a temper and could make a grown man wither before her.

I spent most of my time avoiding her.

“Chris.”

“Scarlet.”  I decided to use her first name, which was a risk.  It didn’t matter; I wasn’t going back.

She scowled, but let it pass.

“You’re not at work.”

Was it a statement or was it something else?

“For obvious reasons.”

“What happened?”

“I thought that was obvious, too.  Are you here to finish the job?”

She looked surprised. “What job?  You think I had something to do with it?”

It was hard to tell whether she was utterly shocked or a darned good actress.

“I was attacked in my brother’s car by a McKenzie hit team.”

“And your brother…” A strange look came over her face.  “.. is Callum Waterson.”

“I used to be Christopher Waterson.  I left home after your people killed my father.  When I joined the firm, it wasn’t owned by the McKenzies, that came later.  I knew who you were; I simply expected you would continue to keep a legitimate company.  I thought you were the straight man running it.”

“I am.  And it is legitimate.  I made it very clear I wanted nothing to do with their business.”

“You just supplement the drivers deliveries.  It’s brilliant by the way.”

“I’m not in charge of that side of things, and I wasn’t impressed when I discovered what they were doing.”

“You didn’t deny setting the dogs on my brother.”

“That wasn’t me, and believe me, if I had a seat at the table at would not have happened.  But then, if I put two and two together, I would bet on the fact that it was Bennie making a move on the leadership.  My father’s retiring, and stupidly made it a contest between Bennie and Reggie.  Only Reggie could come up with a hair-brained scheme like trying to assassinate your brother.”

She shook her head.  “And only Reggie could get it so spectacularly wrong.  I’m sorry.”

In that moment, I think I could see the dilemma I had in her expression, that spot between the proverbial rock and a hard place.  And dare I say it, I felt sorry for her.

“If it’s any consolation, I know how you feel.”

She gave me a strange look, one that I couldn’t interpret. 

“Are you coming back?”

“No.  It would be rather awkward facing up to the people who ordered a hit on your brother, made a mistake and tried to kill me instead.  I don’t really care what went on there. I’m done with it.  When I get out of this place, I’m disappearing for good.”

“Where?”

“It wouldn’t be an ambush if I told you.”

“And if I came with you?”

“We’d disappear together.  But I would get your hopes up thinking it would be the life you’re accustomed to.”

“You’d be surprised to learn what I could become accustomed to.  Make plans for two, and I’ll call you.  I’ll sort out your absence at work.”

She smiled, more of a grimace than amusement, then left.  I wondered for a moment how a girl with an outfit worth more than my car was going to disappear without leaving a trail of cash payments or credit card records in her wake.

Never going to happen.

…

Nevertheless, as the weeks passed and the physios got me back on my feet, albeit awkwardly at first, when I was discharged from the hospital, I could walk again, after a fashion.

My brother had visited me once to tell me that he knew who had attacked me, and realised it was him they were after.

He was surprised to learn anyone cared that much.  It surprised me that he was a leader of a crime family, because it usually meant he had to be ruthless.

What I didn’t know was that he had been transitioning the crime proceeds to funding legitimate businesses, and that was making more than the crime was with less risks

And cleaning up the vulnerable youths by taking them off the streets and giving them something to do.  Perhaps he was a target because he was reducing the McKenzie’s customer pool.

I asked him what he was going to do, and he said nothing.  What would be the point?  He did say that he had passed on the message that if anything happened to me, there would be repercussions.  As for Reggie, he intimated that he wasn’t the smartest one in that family and would never take over from his father.

I went home, such as it was, and spent a few days staring at the walls.  I’d told Callam that I was going away, overseas on a slow boat, and probably wouldn’t be coming back.

It didn’t seem to bother him.  I was always what he called a lost cause.

I found the slow boat, what might have been called in days gone by a tramp steamer, but in reality a cargo ship with a few passenger cabins.  It was heading to Florida, as good a place as any to start an odyssey.

What I wanted, rather than needed, fitted into a small battered suitcase.  Then I sent a cryptic message to Scarlett’s cell phone, and decided if she didn’t call, I was going anyway.  I had never quite believed she would just up and leave.

Her family probably wouldn’t let her.

I found my way to the ship, did the customary immigration checks and cleared to board the boat.  I waited an hour, and she didn’t show.  I was not surprised. 

The steward gave me the tour of the ship’s facilities, which were first class, as to be expected considering how much the tickets cost, and then delivered me to the suite. 

He opened the door, I went in, and he closed it behind me.  I leaned against the door and took it in.  It was a surprise even after seeing photos of it.

“You took your time.”

A female voice came from another room, and then she appeared.

Scarlet.

“You came?”

“Would I ask you to get me a ticket if I wasn’t coming?”

“I didn’t hear anything from you.”

“I didn’t want them to find out.  They think I’m visiting an aunt up country.  They’re never going to change.  And I don’t want anything to do with their criminal activities.”

“And you don’t mind being with me?”

She smiled.  “I’ve kept my eye on you.  You get on with the job, you don’t try to big note yourself, you handle people with respect and care.  I know you like me, because every now and then, I see you, calculating the odds of whether or not I would say yes to an invitation to coffee or lunch.  I would have said yes, you know.  I don’t bite.  Well, maybe sometimes, but I believe your company will be exactly what I need.”  She looked around.  “I love the boat.”  She held out her hand.  “Come.  I’ll show you the suite.  Do you know how nice this was going to be?”

“I had photographs.”

“It’s better than that.  And a balcony.  Sea air, hazy afternoons, reading or just sleeping…”

“Or we’ll get tangled up in an Atlantic storm.”

“Hush, you’re denting the romantic feeling that’s running through me.”

I took her hand and felt a shiver go through her.  It was most likely the aftereffect of the notion she had escaped.  It would wear off once the reality set in, but perhaps I should try being in the moment too, as she gently pulled me in the direction of the bedroom.

There was only one bed.

“So.  Sleeping arrangements,” she said.  “I like the left-hand side, I do not like people who snore, and, well, you’ll find out soon enough.  There’s enough room for four, so it’s not like we’ll run into each other.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious.  I wondered how I could have contemplated doing this on my own.  For years, I had denied myself the pleasure of company, given the family I had and the world I was in.  I had given the idea of finding a nice girl and dating, but it only got as far as Scarlet.  I had no idea how she would respond, so I didn’t bother.

And if I were truthful, given who she was and who I was, it would never have got to first base.  It never occurred to me that she was in exactly the same boat as i was.

Perhaps I should just let it flow and see where it takes us.

I relaxed.  “Have you been put on the balcony?”

“Of course.  Come.  You’re going to love it.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Day 152 – Words of Wisdom

…

The Art of the Mirror: Why Great Literature Must Embrace the Mess

In his typically sharp, aphoristic style, Nassim Nicholas Taleb once argued: “Literature comes alive with covering up vices, defects, weaknesses, and confusions; it dies with every trace of preaching.”

It is a provocation that strikes at the heart of our modern literary malaise. In an era where “message-driven” storytelling is often prioritised over narrative integrity, Taleb’s words serve as a necessary intervention. He suggests that the moment a writer picks up a soapbox, they put down their pen.

But why does preaching kill a story? And why is the “covering up” of human frailty the very thing that makes a character breathe?

The Death of the Moral Compass

When a book begins to preach, the story stops being a mirror and starts being a lecture. A preacher assumes they have a monopoly on truth, and their only goal is to transmit that truth to a captive audience.

Literature, however, is not a monologue—it is a haunting, mutual experience. When an author decides that the purpose of their work is to moralise, they strip the characters of their agency. If a character is merely a vessel for a political or ethical point, they cease to be a “person.” They become a mannequin in a shop window, dressed in the author’s ideology.

Readers are sophisticated; they can smell didacticism from a mile away. When we feel we are being “taught,” our natural inclination is to resist. We stop reading to understand and start reading to evaluate. The magic is broken.

The Beauty of the “Cover-Up”

Taleb’s insistence that literature comes alive by “covering up” is not a call for dishonesty. Rather, it is an acknowledgment of the complexity of the human condition.

The greatest characters in literature—from Raskolnikov’s feverish guilt in Crime and Punishment to the quiet, desperate failures of the protagonists in Chekhov’s stories—are never fully transparent. They are bundles of contradictions. They act against their own interests. They suppress their darkest impulses, not because they are inherently “good,” but because they are terrified, confused, and profoundly human.

“Covering up” is the act of psychological realism. It is the writer acknowledging that we are all hiding something—from others, and often from ourselves.

When a writer portrays a character’s messy, confusing, and contradictory nature without labelling it as “wrong” or “right,” they create a space for the reader to step into. We don’t connect with perfect icons; we connect with the broken, the stammering, and the confused. We see our own “vices and defects” reflected in the prose, and in that recognition, we feel less alone.

The Reader as Co-Conspirator

If literature dies with preaching, it comes alive through the active labour of the reader. A great book presents a situation—a vice, a defect, a confusion—and refuses to provide the answer key.

By leaving the moral ambiguity intact, the author invites the reader to become an accomplice. You are not being told what to think; you are being shown what it feels like to be human. You are forced to judge, empathise, and grapple with the same mess the character is navigating.

Final Thoughts: The Courage to be Unclear

In the digital age, we are constantly bombarded with certainty. Every tweet, headline, and think-piece demands that we pick a side and commit to a moral posture.

Literature should be the last refuge from this binary exhaustion. By resisting the urge to preach, authors allow for the richness of ambiguity. They allow characters to fail, to be weak, and to be profoundly imperfect.

So, perhaps that is the ultimate test of a great book: Does it try to fix you, or does it try to show you? If it chooses the latter, it isn’t just a piece of writing—it’s a breathing, living thing that reminds us that in our vices, our weaknesses, and our confusions, we are at our most readable.

…

Day 152 – Words of Wisdom

…

The Art of the Mirror: Why Great Literature Must Embrace the Mess

In his typically sharp, aphoristic style, Nassim Nicholas Taleb once argued: “Literature comes alive with covering up vices, defects, weaknesses, and confusions; it dies with every trace of preaching.”

It is a provocation that strikes at the heart of our modern literary malaise. In an era where “message-driven” storytelling is often prioritised over narrative integrity, Taleb’s words serve as a necessary intervention. He suggests that the moment a writer picks up a soapbox, they put down their pen.

But why does preaching kill a story? And why is the “covering up” of human frailty the very thing that makes a character breathe?

The Death of the Moral Compass

When a book begins to preach, the story stops being a mirror and starts being a lecture. A preacher assumes they have a monopoly on truth, and their only goal is to transmit that truth to a captive audience.

Literature, however, is not a monologue—it is a haunting, mutual experience. When an author decides that the purpose of their work is to moralise, they strip the characters of their agency. If a character is merely a vessel for a political or ethical point, they cease to be a “person.” They become a mannequin in a shop window, dressed in the author’s ideology.

Readers are sophisticated; they can smell didacticism from a mile away. When we feel we are being “taught,” our natural inclination is to resist. We stop reading to understand and start reading to evaluate. The magic is broken.

The Beauty of the “Cover-Up”

Taleb’s insistence that literature comes alive by “covering up” is not a call for dishonesty. Rather, it is an acknowledgment of the complexity of the human condition.

The greatest characters in literature—from Raskolnikov’s feverish guilt in Crime and Punishment to the quiet, desperate failures of the protagonists in Chekhov’s stories—are never fully transparent. They are bundles of contradictions. They act against their own interests. They suppress their darkest impulses, not because they are inherently “good,” but because they are terrified, confused, and profoundly human.

“Covering up” is the act of psychological realism. It is the writer acknowledging that we are all hiding something—from others, and often from ourselves.

When a writer portrays a character’s messy, confusing, and contradictory nature without labelling it as “wrong” or “right,” they create a space for the reader to step into. We don’t connect with perfect icons; we connect with the broken, the stammering, and the confused. We see our own “vices and defects” reflected in the prose, and in that recognition, we feel less alone.

The Reader as Co-Conspirator

If literature dies with preaching, it comes alive through the active labour of the reader. A great book presents a situation—a vice, a defect, a confusion—and refuses to provide the answer key.

By leaving the moral ambiguity intact, the author invites the reader to become an accomplice. You are not being told what to think; you are being shown what it feels like to be human. You are forced to judge, empathise, and grapple with the same mess the character is navigating.

Final Thoughts: The Courage to be Unclear

In the digital age, we are constantly bombarded with certainty. Every tweet, headline, and think-piece demands that we pick a side and commit to a moral posture.

Literature should be the last refuge from this binary exhaustion. By resisting the urge to preach, authors allow for the richness of ambiguity. They allow characters to fail, to be weak, and to be profoundly imperfect.

So, perhaps that is the ultimate test of a great book: Does it try to fix you, or does it try to show you? If it chooses the latter, it isn’t just a piece of writing—it’s a breathing, living thing that reminds us that in our vices, our weaknesses, and our confusions, we are at our most readable.

…

Days 150 and 151 – Writing Exercise

…

It was odd that an unidentified body washed up on shore in a relatively quiet stretch of shoreline.

It was winter, there were very few people about, and the person who found the body had only made a last-minute decision to go for a walk.

As it was, the anticipated rain came early, so it was a grim discovery on an appalling day.

I was well into the second half of the graveyard shift, shortly before dawn, and struggling to stay awake doing the paperwork I had been putting off for weeks.

The phone rang just as I was nodding off.  Surprise nearly saw me fall off the chair.

I grabbed the receiver before the shrill sound set my nerves on edge.  My partner had just left the room in search of some decent coffee.

“Yes?”

I should have answered with name and rank, and ended with How may I help you, but I hadn’t before and wasn’t going to start now.

“A member of the public had reported a body on Wilson’s Beach; uniforms are on their way “

I knew where Wilson’s Beach was, at the end of what used to be an almost impassable track, a short stretch of sand where teens took their alcohol and stupidity for a run.  This wasn’t the first death to turn up there.

And it wouldn’t be the last.

“On my way.”

Not exactly true, I had to wait for Burns to get back from his odyssey.  He would have more success finding Jason, the Argonauts, and the Golden Fleece than finding decent coffee in this building.

He looked disappointed when he arrived back five minutes after I hung up.

“We’ve got a job.”

“A drunk got hit crossing the road?”  That was quite literally our last job.

“A dead body washed up on shore.”

“Let me guess.  Wilson’s Beach?”  He grabbed his coat and walked through the door I’d opened for him.

“How did you know?”

He just gave me one of those looks.

…

It was every bit as dreary outside as I’d imagined it would be, and rain was sleeting down on the vehicle we’d requisitioned before shift.

It was better than the last one, and at least it had fuel in it.  We would not be lucky enough to get one of the electric vehicles.

I turned the heater up and the fan on full blast.  It blasted cold air.  The windows began to fog, a dangerous thing as the first shards of daylight appeared, making it hard to distinguish anything.

Water streamed off the windscreen and sloshed up from under the car, and those passing in the opposite direction.  It was like driving through a tidal wave.

I was expecting more traffic.

Burns was surly at the best of times, a career detective who had only progressed as far as Detective Sergeant because he put family first.

He was one of the better ones I’d been paired with, except for being often regaled with the details of his life, wife, and six children, all of whom seemed to be larger than life. 

At least he had a family, I didn’t, and the wife I had bailed many years ago after the first time I was nearly fatally shot.  I guess you had to have a certain quality to be a cop’s wife.

It wasn’t a morning for conversation.  Yesterday it was Burns’ 30th wedding anniversary, and their youngest child’s 18th birthday, a double celebration.  He had come straight to work from the party.

I knew from his expression where he’d prefer to be.

Details of the case, if any, would magically appear in my cell phone, hopefully before we reached the crime scene, if it was a crime.

…

We arrived to join the collection of flashing lights easily seen in the darkened distance.

From the clearing just off the road, it was a longish twisty hike down to the beach.  Not so bad going down, and an absolute bastard getting back up.

A uniformed officer in a raincoat was on guard.

Oliver, a newly assigned Detective Constable, had been assigned to me to learn the ropes.  He was enthusiastic, but given his qualifications, far superior to Burns and mine, I thought he would be better off as a rocket scientist or jet fighter pilot.

Not standing in the rain waiting to fill in the crime scene details.

It was still raining.

“You look far more awake than I am, Oliver,” I said, wishing I could syphon some of his enthusiasm.

“Nothing like a dead body to liven up what might be an otherwise boring day.”

He handed us the necessary gear so we could go down, and we prepared.

“What’s the story?” I asked.

“Male, between 30 and 40, has not been in the water long.  Initial inspection showed a bump to the head, but not severe enough to assume he was dead or unconscious before entering the water.  My thought is that the victim fell overboard before or after hitting his head and face down, drowned.  Sometimes the simple explanation…”

Oliver was like the Chief Superintendent, both liked closed, uncomplicated cases.

“We’ll know more after the post-mortem, I’m guessing.  Anyone reported missing from a boat?”

“Not that I know of, but I’ll do a deeper dive when I get back to the station.”

We were ready, and Oliver led the way.  The path had been recently hacked to clear away the usual entanglement of shrubbery. Several investigators were picking their way through the edges for any evidence.

At the beach level, there was a defined path we could walk along, about 20 yards to the water’s edge, where a tent had been set up over the body.

More investigators were searching the water’s edge.
.
I stopped at the entrance to the tent.  Doc, the name we gave our coroner, was kneeling beside the body.

After a few minutes, she straightened and looked in my direction.

“Henry.”

“Doc.  What have we got here?”

“A dead body.”

Doc had a strange sense of humour, one I got, but few others understood.  Her medical experience came from a stint in the Army and volunteering in African hotspots.  As well as the obligatory years as an intern in ER, in general practise, and specialising, though I was not exactly sure in what.

Didn’t matter, she had seen everything, and then some.

“Aside from the obvious.”

“Wounds consistent with falling overboard.”

“Pushed?”

“Or fell.  Several contusions to the head, again consistent with a fall.  He didn’t dive in on his own volition, though in the rough seas out beyond the bay, a wave could have picked him up and sent him back towards the boat.  We’ll check the weather and tides.”

“Not a fall from a ship?”

“Possible, but there’d be more damage when he hit the water.  I’ll know more when we get him back to the morgue.  Doesn’t look like he’s been in the water too long.  I’d be getting a list of boats in the area.”

“ID?”

“Nothing.  A John Doe for the moment.”

I took a look at the body and surrounds.  Swept in from the sea, and the person who found the body obviously dragged the body out of the water to check for life signs.

The waves were crashing, and it was rougher further out.  Nothing screaming murder, not then.

Burns had spoken to the person who found the body.  “The dog found it, rather than the owner.  He then dragged the victim up the sand and checked for life signs.  None.  Called the police.  Only one set of foot and paw prints.”

Burns put his head in the tent, took a moment, then came out.

“Not a party animal, not a fisherman.  Just a normal person, like someone catching a ferry home.”

“Except there are no ferries.”

“There is that.  I hate John Doe cases.”

He was not the only one. “Get a photo of his face.  We’ll get Tech to run a check and see if we can get an ID. Also, check the nearest marinas for boats out last night.”

“Roger that.” Two notes in the pad, and back into the tent for a face photo.

Until we knew who he was and where he came from, this was not going to move quickly.  I made sure he sent a photo to the Chief Constable.  We needed his authority to widen the ID search beyond our jurisdiction.

As it turned out, we didn’t have to wait that long.  An anonymous tip was received telling us that the man on the beach was Joshua Stevens.  It came before the 10 o’clock news, and, oddly, it was on the 10 o’clock news.

A text message came from Wendy, one of the tech staff at the station who was assigned to our investigative team, telling me that there was an item of interest in the local radio station’s 10 o’clock news bulletin, and attached was a sound grab.

“The body of a 41-year-old London man, Joshua Stevens, was found on the shoreline at Wilson’s Beach in the early hours of this morning.

“So far, it is not known who Mr Stevens was, or if he had any family, or why he was in the area.  Police are treating the death as accidental, but investigations are ongoing.”

That was it.  It was more than I knew 10 minutes ago, and I  thought it interesting that someone was more informed than I was.

That someone had to be Alison Brentwater, ace reporter for the local Chronicle, and if it could be said I had a nemesis, it was her.

…

Alison Brentwater and I were old sparring partners.  It was not for the first time she had gazumped me in getting the juicy details of a murder suspect, and I often suspected she had a spy inside the station house.

I had her number on speed dial.

“Henry.”

“Alison.”

“Perhaps we should switch places,” she said with that special sarcastic tone she saved for me.

“The pay is terrible.”

“Perhaps not, then?”

“How?”

“I have my sources.”

“I’ll shout you coffee and cake, and we will have a talk.”

It wasn’t the first time she had all but thrown a spoke in the works, and I could feel the Chief Super reaching for the phone.  I didn’t feel like a bollocking, not until I knew more.

“20 minutes, usual place.”

That she didn’t tell me where to go in no uncertain terms, like the last time, worried me.

. .

Petra’s Cafe was off the main street and an excellent choice to not be seen in.  Petra was both Alison’s and my friend from University, the one who preferred being a barista to an accountant.

I was going to be a journalist, but the truth was Alison was so much better at it than I was, so I chose another profession.  It wasn’t being a detective at first, that just came out of left field.

Alison thought it amusing, and typically of her, said she made a better detective, and in her inimitable manner set out to prove it.

She was the sort of girl you could love to hate.  I had once considered dating, but it would not have lasted.  She was too competitive in everything.

Petra was a different story, and I was still considering how I could approach her, given that she did not think as much of me as I did of her.

Petra was serving tables when I arrived, and I deposited myself at the back.  It took a few minutes for her to reach me.

“You’re looking glum?”

“The case.”

“The floater?”  Then she got that look.  “Alison and her spies.”  She shook her head.  “You’re going to have to up your game.  Latte?”

“Double shot.”

“That bad?”

We both saw her coming.  It was not hard.  She wasn’t conventional, still sporting green hair from an undercover reporting job in the city’s more seedy nightclubs.  When she told me, I told her I didn’t want to be woken with the news she had been found in an alley somewhere.

It didn’t go down well.

“The usual,” she said, flopping into a chair. 

Petra smiled, “Good morning to you, too.”  And left.

“How do you do it?” I asked.

“It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.”

I knew she had a contact list that was a who’s who of the city, names that would make up an interesting suspect list if anything happened to her, if that book was ever found.

“Don’t spin me a line.  There was no ID on the body, no distinguishing features, nothing except perhaps dental records, but I fear not even that will help us.  How do you know?

“I briefly interviewed him two weeks ago in relation to an altercation in the Burberry Inn.  Not a police matter, a friend was a victim of domestic violence, I was trying to get something on her boyfriend, and Joshua witnessed him being an ass.  That’s it.”

“He was drinking a pint in the pub?”

“By himself, minding his own business.  I got his name, that’s it.  He wasn’t very helpful.  He had a slight accent, I suspect he was born in England to foreign parents, no wedding ring, reasonably expensive clothes, nervous sort, kept looking in the direction of the door like he was expecting someone.”

“From London?”

“The bartender asked if he was new in town.  He said he was up from London on business.”

“You think his death was an accident.”

Our coffee arrived in paper cups.  Petra obviously thought we were both in a hurry.

“First impressions. But knowing now who he is, it depends on who he was doing business with. I guess I’d better set the wheels in motion.”

“I helped you, you have to help me.”

“You think I’m going to find out more than you.  Perhaps it’s more appropriate for you to help me.”

“We’ll see.”

She put the lid back on her coffee, smiled, and left.

…

By the time I got back to the station, I had Oliver coming back from the crime scene, the body collected and taken to the morgue, and Burns on his way to the Burberry Inn looking for witnesses and CCTV.  Oliver’s first job was to find as much information on Joshua Stevens as he could.

I went to see the Chief Superintendent and advised him on progress, the fact that Alison Brentwater had given us a preliminary identification of the body and the circumstances, and then held my breath. 

I also added that consensus so far considered this the result of an accident, somewhat muddied by the fact that no one reported it, or a missing person within a 50-mile radius, which I’d checked before I got to his office.  I was in the process of checking elsewhere in the country.

He simply wanted the case closed, but also the I’s dotted and the T’s crossed.

An email arrived with a list of missing persons after increasing the scope to Greater London, and Joshua’s name was on it, reported by his brother, and not his wife. 

There were file notes on the interviews with both.  The brother was concerned because they were in constant contact, and he had not sent an email for a week.

His wife said he was often on business trips that were sporadic and of indeterminate length.  She thought he was just being Joshua, though she did say she suspected him of having an affair.  She added that she had no idea where he was, and he rarely called.  It was, I thought, an odd relationship.

I told Oliver to get a hold of his phone records and those of any family members.  They would make interesting reading.

Next, I went down to the wharf where the two boats that offered cruises, fishing trips, and dinner cruises had their offices.

The first hadn’t run any cruises in the last few days.  The second had run three, a fishing trip in the morning, a luncheon cruise, and, after dark, dinner cruises taking in the shore lights.

Margaret Bently, married to the son of the ship’s master and owner of Seaside Voyagers, according to the staff photographs posted behind the counter, was in the middle of a charter booking, city folk looking for an ocean adventure, or so it seemed.

The sales pitch was far more graphically interesting than the reality.  Unless the picture I had in my mind was wrong.

I waited the five minutes before the conversation ended, not quite as expected.  She did not seem pleased.

Putting the phone down, she gave me her attention.

I showed her my warrant card, and before I said a word, she was on the defensive.  “We had nothing to do with anyone washing up on shore.”

To me, that sounded more like they did, but we’re not going to admit it.

“I take it you heard the news.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Your company ran three tours yesterday.  I would like a passenger manifest for each and proof they got on and got off the boat.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“I can order the shutdown of this business, and impounding of all your vessels as potential crime scenes, and a complete audit of your operation, as well as a complete audit of your accounts.

“Apparently, the coast guard is about to investigate the possibility of small operations like yours picking up drugs brought in by large ships.  It will only take one call.”

I had seen a memo hinting at a joint operation between services on drug importation, so I simply added a little embellishment. 

She glared at me.  “We have nothing to hide.”  Her tone suggested otherwise.  She pulled a binder out from under the counter and extracted three sheets, copied them and then gave them to me.

Passenger lists.

“Thank you.”

She ignored me.  The phone had started ringing again.

…

The afternoon was taken up with Burns putting together a board that had Joshua Stevens on the centre, his brother Roger on one side, and his wife Stella, nee Williams, on the other.  The photographs were missing.

The timeline working back from the time of discovery on Wilson’s Beach at about 6 am, time of death from 8 pm to 4 am, and before that, not a lot.

I listed Joshua in the Inn and Seaside Voyagers.  Joshua’s name was not on any of the passengers’ lists, but it was possible he could have used an assumed name.  Oliver was going to follow up on all the names.

We needed a coroner’s report, and that was in progress.

Joshua had a very small social media footprint.  In face it was a Facebook page that had an icon and name and little else.  There were no friends or family, and no wife.  It was like he created it and then forgot it.

His wife had a similar page, a photo of EmWonder Woman, not hers, and no friends’ posts. 

His brother had nothing but a name.

It seemed odd that the whole family just didn’t exist, outside a dead body and two ghosts.  I asked the station that took the missing persons report to bring them in and ask more questions.  And get photographs of them.

It was very unusual to be so anonymous.  What struck me as a possibility was that Joshua and his wife were in some witness protection scheme, and he had been flushed out into the open.

There were no newspaper articles about either of them, which was a red flag.  I set Wendy to dig deeper into the mire to see if anything was available anywhere on the internet.

Our board was very scant on details.

…

Before going home, I was called into the Morgue, where the results of the post mortem were in.

Death was not by drowning.  He was not alive before he went into the water.  In fact, he had suffered a severe heart attack and died quickly, not dragged out, and perhaps that was a good thing.

He had lipstick and scent about his person so he had been with a woman shortly before he died.  No clues as to where he had been before ending up in the water, and equally, his time in the water hadn’t washed away the trace evidence.

It led to another possibility: he was murdered on the beach, and that put the man who discovered the body back on the list.

I went back to the office and added more items to the board, including the man who found the body, Jake Williams, and a photo Oliver had taken of him.

It was then that I noticed a slight similarity between him and Margaret at Seaside Voyagers.  And the fact that both shared a surname.

Out of curiosity, I typed in the name Stella Williams and found an old Facebook page with a young photo of Stella.

No mistaking the resemblance.

What were the odds that Stella, Margaret and Jack were related?

…

©  Charles Heath  2026