Tag: Thoughts

Writing a book in 365 days – 224

Day 224

The line between them was theoretical and yet was still clearly obvious to anyone with eyes.

…

Jason was a good friend and a practical person. He had gone through school, achieved good academic grades, and got into the schools that he needed to achieve his lifelong ambition.

He never went outside of his comfort zone and didn’t need to. He had a guardian angel and providence on his side. His parents were predictable, his girlfriend was predictable, and his brothers and sisters were predictable.

His life was on the path.

The only thing about him that was not predictable, and the one thing I couldn’t fathom, was why he bothered to have me as a friend.

I was his absolute polar opposite.

…

“You’re wasting your time.”

It was another of those conversations over lunch, usually coffee and a cake in a café near the University, where it was more interesting to see the people who came there than those who turned up in the campus café.

I went there because Beatrice went there. I had run into her, literally on the first day, and she had made an indelible impression on me. Then, it just seemed that our paths crossed, at least once a week, sometimes twice.

“One day.”

He gave me another of those withering stares he usually saved for me when I was particularly obtuse, and I could tell he was formulating an insightful response.

“One day you will be in Uzbekistan, and she will be in Azerbaijan, and never the twain shall meet. You truly just don’t get it, do you?”

“I’m irrepressible, she said so.”

“In that one and only conversation that lasted all of ten seconds. She was being polite.”

I looked over to the table on the other side of the cafe, towards the back, by herself, every now and then looking up, towards the entrance, as if she was expecting someone to arrive. Like just then, a swish to brush the hair out of her eyes, a glance towards the door, a deep breath, then back to her studies.

It didn’t matter if I did or didn’t get it; Richie would never believe me. A year and a bit into the four-year degree cycle, I knew that the closest I would get to her was as far as I was away from her now.

We shared several lecture classes, and I had once almost sat next to her, but she had not noticed I existed. I had tried to speak to her, but something always came up: a phone call, a friend, another place to be.

“Well, I’m looking forward to going to Uzbekistan.”

He shook his head, just as his phone vibrated, an incoming message. He pulled the cell phone out of his bag and looked at it, then sighed. “Michelle is still free for Saturday night, and she is within your sphere. Mary wants to know if you’re back in the real world yet?”

Mary was Richie’s girlfriend, and Michelle was her friend, someone who was just like me, choosing people who would never give them a second look for whatever reason.

Richie knew, though, because he was practical. He had the uncanny knack of picking the partner of those he knew, with such alarming accuracy that it was scary. He hadn’t declared positively that Michelle was my perfect match, but it wouldn’t be long.

Another glance in Beatrice’s direction. I could not see what Richie could see, but perhaps that was because I was ‘blind’ to the reality.

There was a line between us, one that everyone else could see but I could not.

Of course, that didn’t mean that I could hope, one day she would notice me.

…

Everyone had a nemesis, that one person who was put on earth to make your life miserable. All through high school, that nemesis was Jacob. Doors opened when his parents pulled out their chequebook, doors that I could never pass through.

Which, in the end, I was happy about because he was going to a different university, one more prestigious, one that I could never afford. And one I didn’t have to travel to the other side of the country to attend.

But I never gave it a thought that one day, doors would close on him, that money could not make up for the fact that he was not as smart as he thought he was. Not until I saw him arrive one morning a month or so after the second year began.

His excuse? Circumstances dictated that he had to study closer to home. The truth? He had been booted out of his last university, and the one I attended was the only one that would take him.

A few days later, knowing he was looking for me, I went to the cafe and parked myself in the back, not far from where Beatrice usually sat. I could see why she was basically hidden from the front entrance, and she could see everything outside and inside.

And revelling in that thought, I looked up again to see her standing not far from me. It was a look that told me I was sitting in her seat, at her table, and she wasn’t happy.

I shrugged, got up and went to another table, not quite as anonymous, and one where just as I sat, Jacob arrived, saw me, and came straight over.

“I thought I’d find you here. Hiding away among the losers.”

“Doesn’t say much for you then.” He didn’t get the inference.

“I hear you’re struggling.”

I’m not sure how he could know that unless his father was on first-name terms with the Dean.

“I know you flunked out at your last university, and this is your last hope.”

That wiped the smirk off his face. He was going to give me one of his trademark put-downs, but noticed Beatrice instead. He had always considered himself God’s gift to women, and had a manner that reviled most whom he spoke to, but that didn’t mean he readily accepted they could not immediately fall in love with him.

It amused me that his prom date had agreed to go with him, allowed him to get her an expensive dress and accoutrements, and then left him standing at the front entrance waiting for her to never arrive. It was the best day of my life, as bad as that sounds.

“Excuse me,” he muttered as he got up and walked confidently over to her table.

I watched in utter fascination. I could, all of a sudden, see that line that Richie often spoke about.

At first, she didn’t bother to look at him, standing by her table. Waiting. Waiting for what? An invitation to sit? She would never give him, or anyone else, one.

He waited a minute, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. Then, “Excuse me?”

She took a few seconds before lifting her head, then giving him her trademark death stare. “What did you do?”

He sucked in a breath. Annoyance. “I didn’t do anything. I thought I would introduce myself. Jacob Stawinski. Anything you want, anything you need, I’m your man.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Yes. There is something I want.”

“Name it?”

“I want you to go away and never come back. Think you could do that for me?”

The expression on his face was priceless. For an egotist like him, that sort of rejection was poison. He didn’t look at her, he didn’t look around, he didn’t know what to do with himself, so he left, quickly, before anyone realised what had happened.

And, of course, in that short amount of time, I saw the truth of Richie’s statement. There was a line, invisible as it was, but as clear as day. That would have been me if I had tried as he had. She was simply here to learn and then go home.

I picked up my phone and dialled Richie’s number. When he answered, I said, “Tell Michelle I’ll be happy to take her to the party.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 223

Day 223

When Narrative Demands Your Soul: The Cost of True Immersion

…

For some writers, the act of crafting narrative isn’t just about putting words on a page, or even just building worlds in the mind. It’s something far more elemental, an almost involuntary ejection of the self from its own physical confines.

I know this intimately because it’s the only way I can truly write. To breathe life into a story, to make characters feel real enough to touch, to render scenery so vivid you can smell the pine needles or taste the salt spray – I have to step outside myself. My body becomes merely a vessel, an anchor perhaps, while my consciousness, my very soul, slips free.

I don’t just imagine the protagonist’s fear; I feel the icy grip of it. I don’t merely describe a character’s heartbreak; I experience the searing ache in my own chest. I become a disembodied observer, a spectral presence flitting through the scenes I’m creating, sometimes embodying a character, sometimes simply witnessing from the shadows. It’s a full-sensory, visceral dive into the very fabric of the fictional world, a complete surrender to the narrative unfolding before me.

And while this process grants an incredible depth and authenticity to the work – allowing a truth to emerge that simply couldn’t otherwise – it comes at a profound cost.

The Exhaustion is Absolute.

Imagine running a marathon not with your legs, but with every fiber of your being, every nerve ending firing, every emotion you possess stretched taut. That’s the post-narrative crash. When I finally pull myself back into my body, back into the ‘real’ world, I’m not just tired; I’m depleted. My mind feels scoured clean, my emotional reserves drained. There’s a hollowness, a reverberation of the story’s echoes in the empty spaces I’ve left behind. It’s a mental, emotional, and even physical fatigue that can linger for days, sometimes weeks.

The Danger is Real and Insidious.

But exhaustion is only part of the story. The true peril lies in the blurring of lines. When you exist for hours, days, weeks, suspended between worlds, there’s a risk you might not fully return. What if a piece of you remains, tangled in the narrative threads, forever attached to a fictional trauma or triumph?

Sometimes, the stories I enter are dark. They contain pain, despair, violence, or profound loss. When you don’t just observe these things, but experience them, even in a detached, spiritual sense, the impact leaves a mark. It’s like journeying through a treacherous wilderness, encountering shadows and beasts, and hoping you emerge whole. You wrestle with the emotions, the grim realities you’re creating, and they leave their imprint upon your own psyche. You carry the echoes of your characters’ suffering, the weight of their choices, long after the last word is typed.

And Redemption is Not Guaranteed.

This brings us to the most unsettling part of this peculiar creative process: one cannot be sure of redemption. There’s no guarantee that after venturing into the narrative abyss, you’ll fully reclaim your own self, untainted and unburdened. Will the lingering sadness fade? Will the fear release its grip? Will the trauma you’ve embodied truly dissipate?

There are moments, after a particularly intense writing session, when I feel a profound sense of dislocation, like an astronaut floating untethered, looking for a way back to their ship. The world outside the narrative feels thin, unreal, and the world I just left, alarmingly vivid. The “redemption” I seek is the full, comfortable re-entry into my own life, my own skin, without the ghost of the story clinging to me. And sometimes, that re-entry is slow, fraught, and incomplete.

So, why do we willingly undertake this perilous journey? Why open ourselves to the exhaustion, the danger, the uncertainty of return? Because for some of us, there simply is no other way to tell the story with the truth and raw honesty it deserves. We chase that glimmer of truth, that visceral connection, knowing the cost. It’s a compulsion, a calling, a necessary pilgrimage into the heart of imagination, even if the destination sometimes feels like the edge of ourselves.

Do you recognize this feeling in your own creative pursuits? How do you return from the depths of your work? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence, after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable, calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

Writing a book in 365 days – 223

Day 223

When Narrative Demands Your Soul: The Cost of True Immersion

…

For some writers, the act of crafting narrative isn’t just about putting words on a page, or even just building worlds in the mind. It’s something far more elemental, an almost involuntary ejection of the self from its own physical confines.

I know this intimately because it’s the only way I can truly write. To breathe life into a story, to make characters feel real enough to touch, to render scenery so vivid you can smell the pine needles or taste the salt spray – I have to step outside myself. My body becomes merely a vessel, an anchor perhaps, while my consciousness, my very soul, slips free.

I don’t just imagine the protagonist’s fear; I feel the icy grip of it. I don’t merely describe a character’s heartbreak; I experience the searing ache in my own chest. I become a disembodied observer, a spectral presence flitting through the scenes I’m creating, sometimes embodying a character, sometimes simply witnessing from the shadows. It’s a full-sensory, visceral dive into the very fabric of the fictional world, a complete surrender to the narrative unfolding before me.

And while this process grants an incredible depth and authenticity to the work – allowing a truth to emerge that simply couldn’t otherwise – it comes at a profound cost.

The Exhaustion is Absolute.

Imagine running a marathon not with your legs, but with every fiber of your being, every nerve ending firing, every emotion you possess stretched taut. That’s the post-narrative crash. When I finally pull myself back into my body, back into the ‘real’ world, I’m not just tired; I’m depleted. My mind feels scoured clean, my emotional reserves drained. There’s a hollowness, a reverberation of the story’s echoes in the empty spaces I’ve left behind. It’s a mental, emotional, and even physical fatigue that can linger for days, sometimes weeks.

The Danger is Real and Insidious.

But exhaustion is only part of the story. The true peril lies in the blurring of lines. When you exist for hours, days, weeks, suspended between worlds, there’s a risk you might not fully return. What if a piece of you remains, tangled in the narrative threads, forever attached to a fictional trauma or triumph?

Sometimes, the stories I enter are dark. They contain pain, despair, violence, or profound loss. When you don’t just observe these things, but experience them, even in a detached, spiritual sense, the impact leaves a mark. It’s like journeying through a treacherous wilderness, encountering shadows and beasts, and hoping you emerge whole. You wrestle with the emotions, the grim realities you’re creating, and they leave their imprint upon your own psyche. You carry the echoes of your characters’ suffering, the weight of their choices, long after the last word is typed.

And Redemption is Not Guaranteed.

This brings us to the most unsettling part of this peculiar creative process: one cannot be sure of redemption. There’s no guarantee that after venturing into the narrative abyss, you’ll fully reclaim your own self, untainted and unburdened. Will the lingering sadness fade? Will the fear release its grip? Will the trauma you’ve embodied truly dissipate?

There are moments, after a particularly intense writing session, when I feel a profound sense of dislocation, like an astronaut floating untethered, looking for a way back to their ship. The world outside the narrative feels thin, unreal, and the world I just left, alarmingly vivid. The “redemption” I seek is the full, comfortable re-entry into my own life, my own skin, without the ghost of the story clinging to me. And sometimes, that re-entry is slow, fraught, and incomplete.

So, why do we willingly undertake this perilous journey? Why open ourselves to the exhaustion, the danger, the uncertainty of return? Because for some of us, there simply is no other way to tell the story with the truth and raw honesty it deserves. We chase that glimmer of truth, that visceral connection, knowing the cost. It’s a compulsion, a calling, a necessary pilgrimage into the heart of imagination, even if the destination sometimes feels like the edge of ourselves.

Do you recognize this feeling in your own creative pursuits? How do you return from the depths of your work? Share your thoughts 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 the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

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

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

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

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

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

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

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

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

“Name of guest, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 9

Nine

If I had deliberately wanted to flush out the people following us, and eventually lose them, I would never have thought of renting a car at a suburban shop.  I had to wonder what James Bond would have done in similar circumstances.

But it worked.

Driving out of the carpark onto the main street, it wasn’t difficult to see several people caught unawares.  And on their cell phones making calls.

And it was Emily’s last-minute brainwave to cover the car’s registration plates so if they were to take a photo, they would not be able to track it.  Well, not straight away.  It was she who said London had a lot of CCTV cameras, but on the way to the carpark, she had checked out where they were, those that she could readily identify, and we could avoid.

Something I learned about Emily that I didn’t know; she was a computer nerd, and a hacker of sorts, not one of those dark web experts, but she knew enough to dig around in places most people wouldn’t go looking.

That skill might just come in useful.

And, for a few minutes, maybe an hour, we revelled in the thought we may have outwitted them, whoever ‘them’ was.

It was late afternoon when we finally found a hotel with a carpark, a long way from Cecile’s flat in Earl’s Court, and on the other side of the Greater London region in Mile End Road, not very far from the Stepney Green underground station, the result of Emily searching the web for a hotel with a carpark, and near public transport.

She also had our luggage delivered from the airport a little less than two hours from the moment she made the call.  I think I may have remarked that I might just employ her as my travel agent when I started my European odyssey, but she had fallen asleep, way past exhausted.

I wasn’t far behind her.  We had a long day tomorrow, if today was anything to go by.

I woke to the smell of coffee and that more interesting aroma of burnt toast.

There were shopping bags on the table, and it looked as though Emily had been up and around for a while.

I looked at my watch, it was not much past seven, and not an hour I found myself up back home.  I had an apartment in the city, and it was a ten-minute walk to the office, so early rising was not a necessity.  My parents lived in the suburbs, and more than an hour by public transport, and two by car.  It was the reason I moved.  I didn’t want to spend quarter of my life travelling to and from work.

Of course, London was so much larger than where I came from, and definitely not a place I would want to live, or work, despite the advantages that Cecile had tried to impress upon me.  And don’t get me get started on driving around London.  Yesterday had been harrowing, and left me, at times, shaken.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Emily put a coffee plunger on the table, two cups, a plate of toast, bowls, and the cereal that was my favourite, though how she knew was anyone’s guess.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I like to get some exercise every morning, so I combined it with a shopping expedition

I had not attended this type of domesticity in a long time, at least not since I left home.  I had grown accustomed to being on my own, and that might have contributed to Cecile and I drifting apart.  It probably also had a lot to do with my awkwardness with girls, and rather than try to get over it, I just avoided them.

But, somehow, Emily was different, perhaps because she was younger and hadn’t been blunted by the vicissitudes of life.  She had finished school, and as far as I was aware, didn’t have a real job, preferring to spend her time pottering in her father’s office.

I had thought, much like in an 18th century romance novel, she was waiting for the right man to marry, but there were not too many of those running around these days.

Something else I just realised; how well I seemed to like being at ease in her company, much more so than when I was with Cecile, always on my guard not to say or do the wrong thing.

“I find going to a grocery store a trial, which is why I eat out a lot.”

She shook her head.  “You’re just lazy, like everyone else your age.  Convenience over practicality.  And you should think about doing some exercise.”

I could feel the eyes of the appraiser upon me and shivered.  It was good that I could not read her thoughts, but if I could, perhaps some might be considering those extra pounds that had found their way onto my frame after I stopped playing tennis and squash.

“I promise I’ll think about it.”

“Better still, I don’t think it’s all that safe to be jogging the streets in this neighbourhood early in the morning, so you can come with me as my protector.”

She saw my look of disdain, or was it the thought of having to exercise.

“Cheer up, I don’t go very fast.”

The sound of the phone vibrating on the table interrupted that thought, and conversation.

It was a private number, so I assumed it was the man from the day before.

“Yes?”

“Trafalgar Square, by the column, 12:30 pm today.”

It was the man’s voice.

“We’ll see you there.”

The call was disconnected.  Short and to the point.

“We have a lunch date.”

Before I could reach out to pick up my cup of coffee, the phone rang again.

Also a private number, I assumed it was the man ringing back with a change of plans.

“Yes?”

“We need to talk.”

A woman’s voice this time, not one that was familiar.

“About what?”  I was surprised, and didn’t have time to work on a better comeback.

“Your Cecile.  She is over her head.”

Aside from stating the obvious, who was this woman, how did she know about Cecile, and more important, how did she know my cell number?

“Who the hell are you?”

“The London end of the team that recruited her.  Time is of the essence, so we’ll come to you.  We’ll be there in half an hour.”

That line went dead before I could ask another pertinent question, how did she know where we were?

“Who was that?”  Emily had been oblivious to the turmoil I was feeling.

“Someone else who wants to talk about Cecile.”

“Who?”

“No idea, but the word recruited popped up, whatever that might mean.”

“Here?  No one knows we’re here.”

“Exactly.”

“Perhaps we should leave, like, right now.”

“No.  I have a feeling that we might find out what Cecile is up to.”

And, in the back of my mind, several small, associated details clicked into place.  At the time they didn’t make any sense, but now, in a bigger context, and given the circumstances, I think I knew now why she had come.

And, more importantly, I realised she had been dropping breadcrumbs for me to follow long before she had left.

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

Writing a book in 365 days – 221/222

Days 221 and 222

Starting the story,

At the foot of the mountain, she discovered…

…

It was never her intention to leave the cottage that morning, go for a walk, and suddenly discover that she didn’t know precisely where she was.

Her aunt had said the previous evening that it was time she stopped moping about the place and did something constructive, like go exploring. The lake was to the west, the mountains to the east, one village, Moreton, was north, and another village, Billson, was south.

Perhaps a walk to the start of the mountains in the east would provide the most interest, because there were ruins of a previous civilisation there, hidden behind the regrowth of the forest, and fossicking for artifacts might give her some purpose.

MaryAnne hadn’t chosen to come to her Aunt’s. She was sent under threat of a fate worse than death if she did, pr at least that was how she saw it in her mind. Her Aunt was ‘batty’, he father had said, having agreed that her mother’s punishment was a little severe, but he could only shrug.

He didn’t dare argue the merits of what was good or bad for their daughter because he had ceded control over her to her mother. Girls were not his bailiwick. Besides, he had three boys, and they were a handful enough.

So, fate decided, he took her to the overnight coach and put her aboard with the lament that it was only going to be three months.

To her, it was just so unfair.

But, that following morning, she got up, strangely feeling totally different, like during the night a fairy or elf had come and cast a magic spell on her, completely changing her attitude. She just didn’t feel like being the sad, sour, resentful granddaughter she had been for the first week.

After breakfast, her grandmother had given her a hand-drawn map with the four destinations drawn simplistically, with directions on how to get to each. Directions she had followed. But the hike had taken a toll, and when she reached the first of the ruins, she had some of the food her grandmother had packed for her, and then decided to rest before exploring.

Perhaps she should not have fallen asleep.

…

When she woke, it was as if she were in a different place, except that couldn’t be right because she remembered the ruins nearby. It was only when she looked back on the way she thought she had come, it looked different.

There was still time for her to explore and then worry about getting back to the cottage. It couldn’t be that difficult; all she had to do was retrace her steps.

The thing was, at first sight, the ruins did not look much different to the basics of the structures in her grandmother’s village. It meant that this place was just an older version that had been abandoned for some reason, but the people who had moved on.

Resources, perhaps? Available water, land to grow crops and graze animals? Perhaps the seasons were unkind because of their proximity to the mountains, or was there something in the mountains that caused them to move on?

As she got closer to the foot of the hills, the ruins became more distinct, and there were streets, leading to a central point which, she could now see, was a fountain. Beyond that was a facade, perhaps once the entrance to a large building or temple, now hidden away.

The fountain, curiously, had water in it, and when she dipped her hand in it, the fountain came to life, a small jet of water spraying up, then out to fill the bowls beneath. As each filled from the top, the water cascaded into the lower bowls and then the pond at the bottom.

Did she just activate it?

“I see you have the curiosity of a cat.” The words were spoken by a woman, about the same age as her mother, dressed like one of the temple princesses, and who had simply appeared.

She looked real.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“The guardian of the sacred ruins. We ensure that visitors who come here do not come with evil intent. You do not look like you are evil.”

“I am not. What place is this?”

“Brookmeadow. It was once a thriving town, but the evil mountain people came. Back then, we were people who trusted everyone had good intentions, because we did not believe in evil ways. We lived in harmony with the other people, the flora and the fauna. We pleased the Gods with seasonal sacrifices, and life was peaceful, and food and water were bountiful. Then evil came, and this is what remains. It will thrive again, one day.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe one day I will return.”

“Perhaps you will. Perhaps you were sent here for a reason. May your paths be clear, and intentions honourable, young Eliza.”

Then, as mysteriously as she had appeared, the princess disappeared.

Eliza shrugged and decided it was time to go back home. The way back seemed familiar again, and she set out along the path.

…

The princess joined three others who had been hiding in the shadows of the old temple, watching the young girl retreat.

“Is it she?” One asked.

“I believe it is. The next time she returns, we will begin the preparations.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 221/222

Days 221 and 222

Starting the story,

At the foot of the mountain, she discovered…

…

It was never her intention to leave the cottage that morning, go for a walk, and suddenly discover that she didn’t know precisely where she was.

Her aunt had said the previous evening that it was time she stopped moping about the place and did something constructive, like go exploring. The lake was to the west, the mountains to the east, one village, Moreton, was north, and another village, Billson, was south.

Perhaps a walk to the start of the mountains in the east would provide the most interest, because there were ruins of a previous civilisation there, hidden behind the regrowth of the forest, and fossicking for artifacts might give her some purpose.

MaryAnne hadn’t chosen to come to her Aunt’s. She was sent under threat of a fate worse than death if she did, pr at least that was how she saw it in her mind. Her Aunt was ‘batty’, he father had said, having agreed that her mother’s punishment was a little severe, but he could only shrug.

He didn’t dare argue the merits of what was good or bad for their daughter because he had ceded control over her to her mother. Girls were not his bailiwick. Besides, he had three boys, and they were a handful enough.

So, fate decided, he took her to the overnight coach and put her aboard with the lament that it was only going to be three months.

To her, it was just so unfair.

But, that following morning, she got up, strangely feeling totally different, like during the night a fairy or elf had come and cast a magic spell on her, completely changing her attitude. She just didn’t feel like being the sad, sour, resentful granddaughter she had been for the first week.

After breakfast, her grandmother had given her a hand-drawn map with the four destinations drawn simplistically, with directions on how to get to each. Directions she had followed. But the hike had taken a toll, and when she reached the first of the ruins, she had some of the food her grandmother had packed for her, and then decided to rest before exploring.

Perhaps she should not have fallen asleep.

…

When she woke, it was as if she were in a different place, except that couldn’t be right because she remembered the ruins nearby. It was only when she looked back on the way she thought she had come, it looked different.

There was still time for her to explore and then worry about getting back to the cottage. It couldn’t be that difficult; all she had to do was retrace her steps.

The thing was, at first sight, the ruins did not look much different to the basics of the structures in her grandmother’s village. It meant that this place was just an older version that had been abandoned for some reason, but the people who had moved on.

Resources, perhaps? Available water, land to grow crops and graze animals? Perhaps the seasons were unkind because of their proximity to the mountains, or was there something in the mountains that caused them to move on?

As she got closer to the foot of the hills, the ruins became more distinct, and there were streets, leading to a central point which, she could now see, was a fountain. Beyond that was a facade, perhaps once the entrance to a large building or temple, now hidden away.

The fountain, curiously, had water in it, and when she dipped her hand in it, the fountain came to life, a small jet of water spraying up, then out to fill the bowls beneath. As each filled from the top, the water cascaded into the lower bowls and then the pond at the bottom.

Did she just activate it?

“I see you have the curiosity of a cat.” The words were spoken by a woman, about the same age as her mother, dressed like one of the temple princesses, and who had simply appeared.

She looked real.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“The guardian of the sacred ruins. We ensure that visitors who come here do not come with evil intent. You do not look like you are evil.”

“I am not. What place is this?”

“Brookmeadow. It was once a thriving town, but the evil mountain people came. Back then, we were people who trusted everyone had good intentions, because we did not believe in evil ways. We lived in harmony with the other people, the flora and the fauna. We pleased the Gods with seasonal sacrifices, and life was peaceful, and food and water were bountiful. Then evil came, and this is what remains. It will thrive again, one day.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe one day I will return.”

“Perhaps you will. Perhaps you were sent here for a reason. May your paths be clear, and intentions honourable, young Eliza.”

Then, as mysteriously as she had appeared, the princess disappeared.

Eliza shrugged and decided it was time to go back home. The way back seemed familiar again, and she set out along the path.

…

The princess joined three others who had been hiding in the shadows of the old temple, watching the young girl retreat.

“Is it she?” One asked.

“I believe it is. The next time she returns, we will begin the preparations.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

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

…

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

… and it would have remained buried.

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

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

A long short story that can’t be tamed- I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 8

Eight

So, not to sound like I was a snotty loser, when Cecile had first told me about Jake, the man I assumed was her new boyfriend, I said he was too good to be true.

He’d been sent to Australia to work in a branch of his father’s company as a learning experience on the way to bigger and better things.  He was just the sort of man she thought she wanted, not the slow and steady wins the race type, but someone who would, and literally did, sweep her off her feet.

Our last conversation, when she told me I was not the man of her dreams, she didn’t exactly identify him, but I knew who she was talking about.  She had fobbed me off several times, so I followed her and lo and behold, there was the man himself.

All she had to do was tell me we were done, but she didn’t, and exactly why she hadn’t remained a mystery.

That he had led her down a very dangerous path, well, I might have carried a grudge, but we had been together since childhood, and my feelings for her were not easily extinguished, not to the point I would take her back, but I would find her, and save her if she wanted to be saved.  After that, I would be the tourist for a while before going home.

Or if I got the travel bug, tour Europe for a while.

From the moment I’d told Emily about our separation, she had gone quiet.  Had she known about it?  If she knew that we were no longer together, why did she think I would come with her on this mission?  Get us back together?  We were going to have to talk about this, and the fact Cecile and I were done, and sooner rather than later, in case she got the wrong idea.

I was not the knight in shining armour, not anymore.

As for this Jake character, just who the hell was her.  If he was not who he said he was, and his parents were bot the people she was expecting, was he just some cheap imposter, after he money.  Her parents were wealthy, yes, but not overly so, and certainly not the sort who could pay a hefty ransom.

All of this would make sense if he was a conman.  And if that was the case, perhaps the man in the pin stripe suit was his accomplice.  I would call him soon once we were resettled in another hotel.

In the meantime, we had to make sure we were not being followed.

After spending an hour confusing even ourselves where we were, we stopped at a café.  Coffee and a rest, along with a consultation with the map, and an internet search of small hotels, on the other side of town, one that required a few changes of train and/or bus.

We had said little except to agree or disagree which way to go, until now.  I could see that revelation about Cecile and her new boyfriend had struck her, and I began to believe that Cecile had neither told her, or told anyone else about Jake.

That made sense too, if he didn’t want her to tell anyone ‘Just yet’, until they got home.  For a girl with so much common sense, how could she have been so easily led astray?

After the coffee and a cake was delivered to the table, she said, “I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“Dragging you here on this odyssey.  If I’d known you two had split up, I would not have been so insensitive.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought she had.”

“Do you know who this Jake is?”

“Only saw him once, and he was devilishly handsome.  Adonis would have had trouble competing with him.”

Did that sound like sour grapes?  Probably.  The first time I saw him, I knew I had no chance.

“That’s not her type.”

“Apparently it is now.”

She took a moment, eyed the cake, and mentally calculated the number of calories it contained, in exactly the manner he elder sister did, then asked, “Why did you come?”

“I still care about her, and what happens to her.”

“Even after she dumped you?”

I had forgotten Emily could be quite blunt sometimes, and now that she had learned of our split, she wasn’t taking it well.  That may have had something to do with the fact she took the credit for us getting together, all those years ago, when I might add, she was about five.

I’d been part of the furniture for almost all of her life, so I guess it was hard to take.

“Well, when we find her, I’m going to give her a very stern bollocking.”

If, and/or when, we found her. 

We still had to find a new hotel, get our luggage from the airport, Figure how to find our way to Jakes last known address, and make a call to a man called Sid Jackson, though he didn’t look like a Sid to me.

An idea occurred to me, and rather than having to rely on public transport, not that in London it wasn’t far better than anything we had at home, I remembered seeing a rent-a-car place not too far back.  A car might just be the thing, and in one respect, just the move they might not be expecting.

Something else had just occurred to me too.  Why had Cecile left this trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow, when she had made it quite clear she didn’t want to be with me anymore?

I guess it was a question I’d have to ask when we finally found her.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024