Tag: words

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

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

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

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

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

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

Maria nodded and left.

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

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

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

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

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

An apology was the last thing I expected.

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stood.  “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

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

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

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

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

No kiss, no touch, no looking back. 

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2025

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What I learned about writing – Journalism is a great learning ground for writers

It comes as no surprise that many writers, when they are asked about how they got into writing, say they were once journalists.

This is because journalism is a great background. You learn to get to the crux of any story in one paragraph, asking five basic questions: who, what, where, when, and why.

In the commission of any story, sooner or later, you ask the question: at what point does a writer become a journalist?

Quite often, journalists become writers because of their vast experience in observing and writing about the news, sometimes in the category of ‘truth is stranger than fiction’.

I did journalism at university and thought I would never get to use it.  I had to interview people, write articles, and act as an editor.  The hardest part was the headlines. Thank God that’s usually a problem for the editor. It’s about as much fun as coming up with a title for the book.

But, for example…

Several opportunities arose over the last few months to dig out the journalist hat, put it on, and go to work.

Where?

Hospital.  I’ve had to go there a few times more in the last few months than I have in recent years.

And I’d forgotten just how interesting hospitals are, especially the waiting room in the Emergency department.

After the second or third visit, I began observing the people who were waiting and ran through various scenarios as to the reason for their visit.  None may have been true, but it certainly was an exercise in creative writing, or would make an excellent article.

Similarly, once we got inside the inner sanctum where the real work is done, there were any number of crises and operations going on, and plenty of material for when I might need to include a hospital scene in one of my stories.

Or I could write a volume in praise of the people who work there and what they have to endure.  Tending the sick, injured and badly injured is not a job for the faint-hearted.

Research, which is one of the most important tools a journalist uses, if it could be called a ‘tool’, turns up in the unlikeliest of places.  Doctors who answer questions, not necessarily about the malady, nurses who tell you about what it’s like in Emergency on nights you really don’t want to be there, and other patients and their families, all having a perspective and a story to tell, while waiting patiently for a diagnosis and then treatment so they can go home.

We get to go this time at about four in the morning.  Everyone is tired.  More people are waiting.  Outside, it is cool, and the first rays of light are coming over the horizon as dawn is about to break.

I ponder the question without an answer, a question one of the nurses asked a youngish doctor, tossed out in conversation, but was there more intent to it, what he was doing on Saturday night?

He didn’t answer.  Another crisis, another patient.

I suspect he was about to say, where else would he be, but on duty in the Emergency.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 117

Day 117 – Is writing fiction an escape from reality

…

The Plunge: Why Fiction Isn’t an Escape—It’s a Collision with Reality

When people think of fiction, they often think of “escapism.” They imagine the reader curled up in a leather chair, clutching a paperback like a life raft, waiting to be spirited away to a land of dragons, interstellar empires, or swooning Victorian romances. The common assumption is that we read—and write—to get away from the messiness of our actual lives.

But the Southern Gothic master Flannery O’Connor had a vastly different, more jarring perspective. She famously suggested that writing (and reading) fiction is not a retreat into fantasy, but a “plunge into reality.” For O’Connor, fiction is not a sedative; it is a shock to the system.

But what did she mean by that? And why would a medium built on “made-up” stories be more real than the world we walk through every day?

The Myth of the Ivory Tower

We often treat reality as a surface-level phenomenon: the bills we pay, the traffic we sit in, and the small talk at the office. We mistake the mundane for the “real.”

O’Connor believed that our day-to-day lives are often shielded by habit, social propriety, and a deep-seated desire to look away from the darker, more profound truths of human existence. We live in a state of semi-consciousness, buffered by the comforts of our routines.

When you sit down to write serious fiction, you cannot stay on that surface level. To create a character that rings true, you have to strip away the pleasantries. You have to descend into the motivations, the flaws, the spiritual hungers, and the terrifying contradictions that define human nature.

Fiction as a “Shock to the System”

O’Connor’s stories—filled with grotesque characters, sudden violence, and moments of divine mystery—are famous for their lack of comfort. She didn’t write to soothe the reader; she wrote to wake them up.

When she talked about fiction being a “plunge into reality,” she was describing a process of confrontation. A well-crafted story forces the reader to look at things they’d rather ignore: the cruelty we are capable of, the absurdity of our own self-importance, and the jagged edges of truth.

If you are writing fiction, you aren’t hiding from reality; you are excavating it. You are taking the raw, incoherent chaos of the human experience and tightening it into a narrative lens. By the time the reader closes the book, if the work is good, they shouldn’t feel “escaped.” They should feel exposed. They should feel as though they’ve just been shaken awake.

The Mirror of the Grotesque

O’Connor famously said, “To the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost-blind you draw large and startling figures.”

This is why her work is so often shocking. She used the “grotesque” not to be weird for the sake of it, but to force the reader to focus on reality. Because we have become so desensitised to the “normal” world, we need something startling—something slightly distorted—to help us see clearly again.

When we write fiction, we are essentially holding a mirror up to the world. But we don’t hold it up to show the world its own reflection in the mirror; we hold it up to show the world the things it refuses to see when it looks in the mirror of daily life.

Why It Matters

If we view writing only as an escape, we limit the power of the craft. We treat it as a toy rather than a tool.

When you approach the blank page, don’t ask yourself, “How can I make this world different from mine?” Instead, ask, “How can I capture the reality of this world more accurately?” How can I convey the heaviness of a choice, the shame of a secret, or the terror of an epiphany?

Writing isn’t about running away from the world. It is the brave act of diving headlong into the fray. It is the act of looking at the human condition—with all its blood, bone, and light—and refusing to blink.

As O’Connor knew, the truth is often a shock. But it is only through that shock that we ever truly find our way home.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 117

Day 117 – Is writing fiction an escape from reality

…

The Plunge: Why Fiction Isn’t an Escape—It’s a Collision with Reality

When people think of fiction, they often think of “escapism.” They imagine the reader curled up in a leather chair, clutching a paperback like a life raft, waiting to be spirited away to a land of dragons, interstellar empires, or swooning Victorian romances. The common assumption is that we read—and write—to get away from the messiness of our actual lives.

But the Southern Gothic master Flannery O’Connor had a vastly different, more jarring perspective. She famously suggested that writing (and reading) fiction is not a retreat into fantasy, but a “plunge into reality.” For O’Connor, fiction is not a sedative; it is a shock to the system.

But what did she mean by that? And why would a medium built on “made-up” stories be more real than the world we walk through every day?

The Myth of the Ivory Tower

We often treat reality as a surface-level phenomenon: the bills we pay, the traffic we sit in, and the small talk at the office. We mistake the mundane for the “real.”

O’Connor believed that our day-to-day lives are often shielded by habit, social propriety, and a deep-seated desire to look away from the darker, more profound truths of human existence. We live in a state of semi-consciousness, buffered by the comforts of our routines.

When you sit down to write serious fiction, you cannot stay on that surface level. To create a character that rings true, you have to strip away the pleasantries. You have to descend into the motivations, the flaws, the spiritual hungers, and the terrifying contradictions that define human nature.

Fiction as a “Shock to the System”

O’Connor’s stories—filled with grotesque characters, sudden violence, and moments of divine mystery—are famous for their lack of comfort. She didn’t write to soothe the reader; she wrote to wake them up.

When she talked about fiction being a “plunge into reality,” she was describing a process of confrontation. A well-crafted story forces the reader to look at things they’d rather ignore: the cruelty we are capable of, the absurdity of our own self-importance, and the jagged edges of truth.

If you are writing fiction, you aren’t hiding from reality; you are excavating it. You are taking the raw, incoherent chaos of the human experience and tightening it into a narrative lens. By the time the reader closes the book, if the work is good, they shouldn’t feel “escaped.” They should feel exposed. They should feel as though they’ve just been shaken awake.

The Mirror of the Grotesque

O’Connor famously said, “To the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost-blind you draw large and startling figures.”

This is why her work is so often shocking. She used the “grotesque” not to be weird for the sake of it, but to force the reader to focus on reality. Because we have become so desensitised to the “normal” world, we need something startling—something slightly distorted—to help us see clearly again.

When we write fiction, we are essentially holding a mirror up to the world. But we don’t hold it up to show the world its own reflection in the mirror; we hold it up to show the world the things it refuses to see when it looks in the mirror of daily life.

Why It Matters

If we view writing only as an escape, we limit the power of the craft. We treat it as a toy rather than a tool.

When you approach the blank page, don’t ask yourself, “How can I make this world different from mine?” Instead, ask, “How can I capture the reality of this world more accurately?” How can I convey the heaviness of a choice, the shame of a secret, or the terror of an epiphany?

Writing isn’t about running away from the world. It is the brave act of diving headlong into the fray. It is the act of looking at the human condition—with all its blood, bone, and light—and refusing to blink.

As O’Connor knew, the truth is often a shock. But it is only through that shock that we ever truly find our way home.

A 2am rant: Is that a light at the end of the tunnel?

It’s a long-standing joke that the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlight of an express train coming right at you.

Metaphorically speaking, this is quite often true if you are a pessimist, but since I’ve converted to being an optimist, a bit like changing religions, I believe I’ve seen the ‘light’.  It’s a lot like coming up from the bottom of a deep pool, breaking the surface and taking that first long gulp of air.

Along with that elated feeling that you’re not going to drown.

What’s this got to do with anything, you ask?

Perhaps nothing.

As an allegory, it represents, to me, a time when I finally got over a period of self-doubt, a period where a series of events started to make me question why I wanted to be a writer.

I mean, why put yourself through rejections, sometimes scathing criticism, and then have the people whom you thought were your friends suddenly start questioning your choices after initially wholeheartedly supporting them?

Are we only successful or supportable if we are earning a sufficient wage?  Or better still, a New York Times No. 1 bestselling author?  Or, even better, having sold a million copies?

Is this why so many people don’t give up their day job and then find themselves plying the ‘other’ trade into the dark hours of the night, only to find themselves being criticised for other but no less disparaging reasons?

It seems like a no-win situation, the times when your mettle is tested severely.  But, in the end, it is worth it when the book is finished and published, even if it is only on Amazon.

You can sit back and say with pride, I did that.

That metaphorical light, you may ask.

When somebody buys that first copy!

What I learned about writing – Just why are we doing this thing called writing?

It’s a long-standing joke that the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlight of an express train coming right at you.

Metaphorically speaking, this is quite often true if you are a pessimist, but since I’ve converted to being an optimist, a bit like changing religions, I think I’ve seen the ‘light’.

It’s a lot like coming up from the bottom of a deep pool, breaking the surface and taking that first long gulp of air.

Along with that elated feeling that you’re not going to drown.

What’s this got to do with anything, you ask?

Perhaps nothing.

As an allegory, it represents, to me, a time when I finally got over a period of self-doubt, a period where a series of events started to make me question why I wanted to be a writer.

I mean, why put yourself through rejections, sometimes scathing criticism, and then have the people whom you thought were your friends suddenly start questioning your choices after initially wholeheartedly supporting them?

Are we only successful or supportable if we are earning a sufficient wage?

Or sold a million copies?

Is this why so many people don’t give up their day job and then find themselves plying the ‘other’ trade into the dark hours of the night, only to find themselves being criticised for other but no less disparaging reasons?

It seems like a no-win situation, but these are the times when your mettle is tested severely.  But, in the end, it is worth it when the book is finished and published, even if it is only on Amazon.

You can sit back and say with pride, I did that.

That metaphorical light, you may ask…

When you get that first ‘we’re publishing your story’ letter!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 115/116

Day 115 and 116 – Writing Evercise

…

It was my second-to-last test before the final results of my year of in-field training were aggregated into a posting or an ignominious exit.

The last effort had been, as far as I was concerned, sabotaged by a colleague whose efforts were less than stellar, but had been schmoozing the test panel.

But, as someone else said, we cannot allow ourselves to believe the test panel would be so naive.

We should not have known who was on the test panel, but maybe that was also part of the test.  In the field, there were no panel members there to listen to your whining. You were on your own, or dead.

I sat alone that morning, not knowing who to trust.  Breakfast was a decent spread, worthy of a five-star hotel, but I had little appetite.  Two cups of strong black coffee and a scan of the morning newspaper.

The world was, as usual, still going to hell in a handbasket.  Page eight had a small piece about a missing scientist, one of several I’d read about over the last three months.

Patterns.

All seemed to have visited a nightclub, Ryker’s, in the seedier part of Boise, Idaho. 

Coincidence, maybe, but three of us had been given instructions to hole up in three separate three-star hotels that someone wanting to remain anonymous would stay at.

I had made the decision to have breakfast at an upmarket hotel and observe another class of people, just for a surveillance exercise.  I’d dressed up so that I’d fit in, channelling the lawyer/accountant vibe.

My cell phone was sitting nearby, waiting for the call.  It could be any time, or not for days.  We had to be able to deal with boredom and still stay honed.

It wasn’t easy.

The dining room was quite full.  For half an hour, guests and friends arrived and departed.  It was quite full, and wait staff were continuously threading their way, pouring coffee, taking orders, and being abused.

My waitress was amiable, even effervescent.  She smiled, filled the cup, and moved on.

As I watched her leave, I heard a scuffle nearby, and a body slid into the seat to my left.

A girl, mid-thirties, dyed blonde with dark roots, a recent change.  She wore a red blouse and a dark blue pantsuit.  Professional?

She turned to see me looking at her.  Usually, people ask before sitting down.

“Sorry.”  Breathless like she had been running.  I hadn’t seen her arrive.

She hadn’t brought anything with her.

Perhaps I should ask the question.  “Are you alright?”

She was scanning the entrance to the room, then stiffened.

I saw two men, one short, one medium, in cheap suits.  They were not police, perhaps private security.  They scanned the room, stopped at my table and without appearing to, moved quickly towards me.

“Oh, God.”  She looked as if she had seen the devil himself.

“Who are they?” I asked casually, keeping an eye on their progress.

“Trouble.”

“Do you need help?”

“You can’t…”

I shrugged.  As they approached, I stood.  I motioned for her to stay seated and raised a hand to my coffee waitress to come over.

The two men and the waitress arrived at the same time.  They took up positions that cut off the girl’s exit.  The look on my breakfast companion’s face was stark terror.

The waitress asked, “Coffee?”

“No.  Call the police.  The two men behind you are fugitives from a kidnapping my team have bren trackeing using this young lady as a decoy.”

I showed my FBI badge and showed it to the shorter man. “You don’t want to do this, especially with the CCTV cameras focused on you.”

“Walk away,” the short one said.

People were starting to notice, and a ripple was going through the room.  Police appeared at the entrance.  The waitress headed towards them quickly.  I had expected the two men to impede her progress.

The two men ran.  They headed for the nearest exit away from the policemen and disappeared from sight.  I put the ID away and sat.

The girl spoke to them and pointed in my direction, then in the direction the men had taken, and they followed them.  The waitress disappeared.

The girl did not look relieved in the slightest.  I said, “The police can deal with them.”

Another waiter stopped and filled our cups with black coffee and moved on.  It was as if nothing had happened, except there were a few looking and guessing at what had happened. I said, “Exactly how did you end up here?”

“Are you really FBI?”

“In a manner of speaking.”  I noticed then a purple mark on her wrist.  “What is that in your arm?”

She hid it.  “Nothing.”

“It’s something that might save you. What is it?”

“A pass-out stamp from a nightclub.”

“Ryker’s?”

She sucked in her breath and went on the defensive.  “It’s nothing to do with this?”

“Are you a scientist?”

“Who are you?”  She stood.  “I’ve got to go.”

I stood.  “Fine.  But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong?”

“No.  I can’t.” 

She took two steps, then stopped.  I think we both had the same thought.  Those men had not left; they were waiting for her to leave.  Somewhere outside the building.

She said quietly, “Not here.”

…

We left in the opposite direction from the two men.  I walked slightly in front of her, protecting her as I had been shown to do in similar situations.

The thought crossed my mind that this was a simulation, and I was surrounded by some of the best actors I’d seen, too good for our usual simulations.  They were second-year graduates honing their skills.

I had a gun, a license to carry, and instructions never to use it in plain sight.  I nearly broke that rule.

At the doorway, I checked and rechecked the perimeter and considered the possible four locations where they could be.  I didn’t think they’d attack inside the building, not the way they left in a hurry, their cover blown.

And on CCTV.  That was bad enough.  I was on it too.  But, here’s the thing.  How often do you find yourself in a situation that is so random, it’s unexplainable?

No unusual movement and no heads peeking from behind walls.  If it were me, I’d call for reinforcements and stake out every entrance and exit.

Movement, just in the corner of my eye.  Or not. 

Batten down the nerves and go back to basics.

Don’t stand still, keep moving, steady but not fast enough to attract attention.  Look purposeful, like you have somewhere to be, and above all, look like you know where you’re going.

But…

New city, no time to check the necessary information about it, the hotel, the exits, how to leave without being seen.  That was going to be my after-breakfast task.

I should have done it yesterday when I arrived.

Then a thought: basement.  All hotels had a basement.

Towards the back, stairs.  Down.  Through the lobby.  Damn.  I shook my head.

“We have to go down.  Via the lobby.”

“They’ll be waiting.”

She was right.  We needed a diversion.

I said a small prayer, crossed the passage and broke the fire alarm, setting it off.  Then we headed through the lobby.

She was right.  But they had not expected us to cross from front to back, but from back to front.  They got caught on the exodus heading for the front door, after we got through to the stairs.

And down, down a corridor and into the kitchen, through to the rear entrance left ajar so the smokers could get in and out.

It was where we would leave the building.

Just as bullets pinged off the wall above our heads as we exited.  I dove to the right behind a dumpster, dragging her with me, hearing her groan as we hit the ground, as more bullets pinged off the metal bin.

I pulled out my gun and fired several random shots in their direction, and the volley ended.

From the frying pan into the fire…

The door opened behind me, and several bullets hit the wall. Someone returned fire, then the alley went quiet.

Then, “You can come out now.”

The waitress.

We both got up off the ground and came out to see the waitress, who was no longer a waitress.  She showed us a State Police department badge.  “Detective Somers, who the hell are you two?”

“Agent Alex Pettigrew, FBI.  I think I’ve stumbled into something I don’t want to know about.”

The girl, “Professor Jane Blanch, neither of you has clearance high enough to ask any more questions.”

“And those two men?”

“You don’t want to know,” Jane said. She looked at Somers.  “Are they dead?”

“I hope not.  They have a thousand questions to answer.  Look,” she said to me.  “Just wrap yourself up and leave, and don’t come back.  This is not your jurisdiction.”

“As right as that might sound in your head as the right thing to say, it is not.  Whatever just happened is symptomatic of something much, much larger and is not going away.  It has something to do with Ryker’s Nightclub, science, and research.  Jane is not the first scientist to disappear from that cohort.”

“Pack it up and walk away, FBI man.  This is not your rodeo.”

“You going to save this woman?  There’ll be more where those two came from.”

“That’s my job.  You can leave it with me.  Miss.”  She had her hand in the Professor’s arm.”

The Professor looked at me.  “Thanks.”

“You feel safe with the Detective?”

“Of course.  Thank you again.”

…

Convenient.

When something doesn’t feel right, it generally isn’t.

As I watched them head down the alley, I had a bad thought.  What if what I saw was just a show?  This was the trouble distinguishing between what was real and what was training.

More than once, I’d say, in the post mission review after a training session and have my ass handed to me in a sling.

Do not trust anything or anyone.  The enemy will come to you dressed in any disguise, as your friend, as someone you can trust.  And thirty seconds later, they end up with a bullet between the eyes.

You rarely saw the bullet that had your name on it.

I waited until they were out of sight and followed discreetly.  I noted they did not go back into the hotel.

Jurisdictional issues were common.  County and State police pulled jurisdiction on what they called their patch.  We were not supposed to pull rank and were obliged to advise local authorities if we were working their patch.

Sometimes we didn’t have time.

I should be expecting a phone call if a different sort after breaking cover.  If the detective decided to call it, or if the detective was a detective.

I reached the end of the alleyway and stopped.  Should I have a weapon ready or just poke my head around the corner? 

This could go wrong in so many ways.

Ideally, there would be no one there.  The remote chance, the two men, the bogus detective and the girl were waiting.

I peered around the corner.

Two police cars, four officers, the detective and the girl standing by one of the cars.  No flashing lights, so not an active situation.

The detective was on her cell phone.

Not my problem.

But…

Where were the people who were shooting at us?  If there were police at the end of the alley, the fact that there were shooters in an urban environment would have led to lights and perpetrators under arrest.

There were no shooters anywhere, and they certainly had time to get away.

I leaned against the wall.  It had to be a simulation, and I failed because I had let the girl go into what was potentially a life-threatening situation.

My cell phone vibrated.  Yes, I’d learned the lesson about having an active or loud ringtone, exposing my presence.

No one else knew this number.  It was the bad news.

“Yes?”

“You have passed the final test and are being assigned under your FBI cover name.  We received a call from Somers, a detective with ISP investigations, to verify your identity.  You identified a possible kidnap victim, one of several in the past six months, and prevented a possible situation.”

“It was several notices in various newspapers.  I had no idea it was going to happen or if it meant anything.  She just sat at my table.”

“Not in your hotel.”

“Boring breakfast, sir.”

“A coincidence that just got you into the service.  Now you need to prove you belong there.  She’s waiting around the corner.  Good to see you didn’t trust that she was who she said she was, but I’m not going to ask what you intended to do if there was a problem.”

“Neither did I.  Good thing you called.”

Silence.  Perhaps flippancy wasn’t the way to go.

“Report through the usual channels.  We will update your cell with your support teams.  Good luck.”

I sighed, more in relief than anything else.  Then I pocketed the phone and walked around the corner.

She was expecting me.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Searching for locations: The Golden Mask Dynasty Show, Beijing, China

The Golden Mask Dynasty Show was located at the OCT Theatre in Beijing’s Happy Valley. 

The theatre was quite full and the seats we had were directly behind the VIP area; as our guide told us, we had the best seats in the house. 

The play has 20 different dance scenes that depict war, royal banquets, and romance.  There are eight chapters and over 200 actors, and throughout the performance we were entertained by dancers, acrobats, costumes, lighting, and acoustics.

The story:

It is of romantic legend and historical memories, the Golden Mask Queen leads her army in defeating the invading Blue Mask King’s army, and afterwards the lands return to a leisurely pastoral life until the Queen forges a ‘mysterious tree’.  When the tree has grown, the Queen has a grand celebration, and releases the captured Blue soldiers, much to the admiration of the Blue Mask King.
This is followed by monstrous floods, and to save her people, and on the advice from the ‘mysterious tree’, the Queen sacrifices herself to save her people.  The Queen then turns into a golden sunbird flying in the sky blessing the people and that of the dynasty.

Billed as the best live show in China, described as a large scale dramatic musical, “The Golden Mask Dynasty” it lived up to its reputation and was thoroughly enjoyed by all.

It was not just singing dancing and acrobatics, it had a story and it was told so that language and cultural issues aside, it worked.  There was a narration of the story running beside the stage, but it was hard to divide attention between what was happening, and what was being related.

Then came the peacock dance, with live peacocks

And this was followed by a waterfall, well, I don’t think anyone in that audience could believe what they were seeing.

I know I was both astonished and in awe of the performance.

What a way to finish off our first day in Beijing.

Oh, sorry, that high was dented slightly when we had to go back to our room.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 115/116

Day 115 and 116 – Writing Evercise

…

It was my second-to-last test before the final results of my year of in-field training were aggregated into a posting or an ignominious exit.

The last effort had been, as far as I was concerned, sabotaged by a colleague whose efforts were less than stellar, but had been schmoozing the test panel.

But, as someone else said, we cannot allow ourselves to believe the test panel would be so naive.

We should not have known who was on the test panel, but maybe that was also part of the test.  In the field, there were no panel members there to listen to your whining. You were on your own, or dead.

I sat alone that morning, not knowing who to trust.  Breakfast was a decent spread, worthy of a five-star hotel, but I had little appetite.  Two cups of strong black coffee and a scan of the morning newspaper.

The world was, as usual, still going to hell in a handbasket.  Page eight had a small piece about a missing scientist, one of several I’d read about over the last three months.

Patterns.

All seemed to have visited a nightclub, Ryker’s, in the seedier part of Boise, Idaho. 

Coincidence, maybe, but three of us had been given instructions to hole up in three separate three-star hotels that someone wanting to remain anonymous would stay at.

I had made the decision to have breakfast at an upmarket hotel and observe another class of people, just for a surveillance exercise.  I’d dressed up so that I’d fit in, channelling the lawyer/accountant vibe.

My cell phone was sitting nearby, waiting for the call.  It could be any time, or not for days.  We had to be able to deal with boredom and still stay honed.

It wasn’t easy.

The dining room was quite full.  For half an hour, guests and friends arrived and departed.  It was quite full, and wait staff were continuously threading their way, pouring coffee, taking orders, and being abused.

My waitress was amiable, even effervescent.  She smiled, filled the cup, and moved on.

As I watched her leave, I heard a scuffle nearby, and a body slid into the seat to my left.

A girl, mid-thirties, dyed blonde with dark roots, a recent change.  She wore a red blouse and a dark blue pantsuit.  Professional?

She turned to see me looking at her.  Usually, people ask before sitting down.

“Sorry.”  Breathless like she had been running.  I hadn’t seen her arrive.

She hadn’t brought anything with her.

Perhaps I should ask the question.  “Are you alright?”

She was scanning the entrance to the room, then stiffened.

I saw two men, one short, one medium, in cheap suits.  They were not police, perhaps private security.  They scanned the room, stopped at my table and without appearing to, moved quickly towards me.

“Oh, God.”  She looked as if she had seen the devil himself.

“Who are they?” I asked casually, keeping an eye on their progress.

“Trouble.”

“Do you need help?”

“You can’t…”

I shrugged.  As they approached, I stood.  I motioned for her to stay seated and raised a hand to my coffee waitress to come over.

The two men and the waitress arrived at the same time.  They took up positions that cut off the girl’s exit.  The look on my breakfast companion’s face was stark terror.

The waitress asked, “Coffee?”

“No.  Call the police.  The two men behind you are fugitives from a kidnapping my team have bren trackeing using this young lady as a decoy.”

I showed my FBI badge and showed it to the shorter man. “You don’t want to do this, especially with the CCTV cameras focused on you.”

“Walk away,” the short one said.

People were starting to notice, and a ripple was going through the room.  Police appeared at the entrance.  The waitress headed towards them quickly.  I had expected the two men to impede her progress.

The two men ran.  They headed for the nearest exit away from the policemen and disappeared from sight.  I put the ID away and sat.

The girl spoke to them and pointed in my direction, then in the direction the men had taken, and they followed them.  The waitress disappeared.

The girl did not look relieved in the slightest.  I said, “The police can deal with them.”

Another waiter stopped and filled our cups with black coffee and moved on.  It was as if nothing had happened, except there were a few looking and guessing at what had happened. I said, “Exactly how did you end up here?”

“Are you really FBI?”

“In a manner of speaking.”  I noticed then a purple mark on her wrist.  “What is that in your arm?”

She hid it.  “Nothing.”

“It’s something that might save you. What is it?”

“A pass-out stamp from a nightclub.”

“Ryker’s?”

She sucked in her breath and went on the defensive.  “It’s nothing to do with this?”

“Are you a scientist?”

“Who are you?”  She stood.  “I’ve got to go.”

I stood.  “Fine.  But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong?”

“No.  I can’t.” 

She took two steps, then stopped.  I think we both had the same thought.  Those men had not left; they were waiting for her to leave.  Somewhere outside the building.

She said quietly, “Not here.”

…

We left in the opposite direction from the two men.  I walked slightly in front of her, protecting her as I had been shown to do in similar situations.

The thought crossed my mind that this was a simulation, and I was surrounded by some of the best actors I’d seen, too good for our usual simulations.  They were second-year graduates honing their skills.

I had a gun, a license to carry, and instructions never to use it in plain sight.  I nearly broke that rule.

At the doorway, I checked and rechecked the perimeter and considered the possible four locations where they could be.  I didn’t think they’d attack inside the building, not the way they left in a hurry, their cover blown.

And on CCTV.  That was bad enough.  I was on it too.  But, here’s the thing.  How often do you find yourself in a situation that is so random, it’s unexplainable?

No unusual movement and no heads peeking from behind walls.  If it were me, I’d call for reinforcements and stake out every entrance and exit.

Movement, just in the corner of my eye.  Or not. 

Batten down the nerves and go back to basics.

Don’t stand still, keep moving, steady but not fast enough to attract attention.  Look purposeful, like you have somewhere to be, and above all, look like you know where you’re going.

But…

New city, no time to check the necessary information about it, the hotel, the exits, how to leave without being seen.  That was going to be my after-breakfast task.

I should have done it yesterday when I arrived.

Then a thought: basement.  All hotels had a basement.

Towards the back, stairs.  Down.  Through the lobby.  Damn.  I shook my head.

“We have to go down.  Via the lobby.”

“They’ll be waiting.”

She was right.  We needed a diversion.

I said a small prayer, crossed the passage and broke the fire alarm, setting it off.  Then we headed through the lobby.

She was right.  But they had not expected us to cross from front to back, but from back to front.  They got caught on the exodus heading for the front door, after we got through to the stairs.

And down, down a corridor and into the kitchen, through to the rear entrance left ajar so the smokers could get in and out.

It was where we would leave the building.

Just as bullets pinged off the wall above our heads as we exited.  I dove to the right behind a dumpster, dragging her with me, hearing her groan as we hit the ground, as more bullets pinged off the metal bin.

I pulled out my gun and fired several random shots in their direction, and the volley ended.

From the frying pan into the fire…

The door opened behind me, and several bullets hit the wall. Someone returned fire, then the alley went quiet.

Then, “You can come out now.”

The waitress.

We both got up off the ground and came out to see the waitress, who was no longer a waitress.  She showed us a State Police department badge.  “Detective Somers, who the hell are you two?”

“Agent Alex Pettigrew, FBI.  I think I’ve stumbled into something I don’t want to know about.”

The girl, “Professor Jane Blanch, neither of you has clearance high enough to ask any more questions.”

“And those two men?”

“You don’t want to know,” Jane said. She looked at Somers.  “Are they dead?”

“I hope not.  They have a thousand questions to answer.  Look,” she said to me.  “Just wrap yourself up and leave, and don’t come back.  This is not your jurisdiction.”

“As right as that might sound in your head as the right thing to say, it is not.  Whatever just happened is symptomatic of something much, much larger and is not going away.  It has something to do with Ryker’s Nightclub, science, and research.  Jane is not the first scientist to disappear from that cohort.”

“Pack it up and walk away, FBI man.  This is not your rodeo.”

“You going to save this woman?  There’ll be more where those two came from.”

“That’s my job.  You can leave it with me.  Miss.”  She had her hand in the Professor’s arm.”

The Professor looked at me.  “Thanks.”

“You feel safe with the Detective?”

“Of course.  Thank you again.”

…

Convenient.

When something doesn’t feel right, it generally isn’t.

As I watched them head down the alley, I had a bad thought.  What if what I saw was just a show?  This was the trouble distinguishing between what was real and what was training.

More than once, I’d say, in the post mission review after a training session and have my ass handed to me in a sling.

Do not trust anything or anyone.  The enemy will come to you dressed in any disguise, as your friend, as someone you can trust.  And thirty seconds later, they end up with a bullet between the eyes.

You rarely saw the bullet that had your name on it.

I waited until they were out of sight and followed discreetly.  I noted they did not go back into the hotel.

Jurisdictional issues were common.  County and State police pulled jurisdiction on what they called their patch.  We were not supposed to pull rank and were obliged to advise local authorities if we were working their patch.

Sometimes we didn’t have time.

I should be expecting a phone call if a different sort after breaking cover.  If the detective decided to call it, or if the detective was a detective.

I reached the end of the alleyway and stopped.  Should I have a weapon ready or just poke my head around the corner? 

This could go wrong in so many ways.

Ideally, there would be no one there.  The remote chance, the two men, the bogus detective and the girl were waiting.

I peered around the corner.

Two police cars, four officers, the detective and the girl standing by one of the cars.  No flashing lights, so not an active situation.

The detective was on her cell phone.

Not my problem.

But…

Where were the people who were shooting at us?  If there were police at the end of the alley, the fact that there were shooters in an urban environment would have led to lights and perpetrators under arrest.

There were no shooters anywhere, and they certainly had time to get away.

I leaned against the wall.  It had to be a simulation, and I failed because I had let the girl go into what was potentially a life-threatening situation.

My cell phone vibrated.  Yes, I’d learned the lesson about having an active or loud ringtone, exposing my presence.

No one else knew this number.  It was the bad news.

“Yes?”

“You have passed the final test and are being assigned under your FBI cover name.  We received a call from Somers, a detective with ISP investigations, to verify your identity.  You identified a possible kidnap victim, one of several in the past six months, and prevented a possible situation.”

“It was several notices in various newspapers.  I had no idea it was going to happen or if it meant anything.  She just sat at my table.”

“Not in your hotel.”

“Boring breakfast, sir.”

“A coincidence that just got you into the service.  Now you need to prove you belong there.  She’s waiting around the corner.  Good to see you didn’t trust that she was who she said she was, but I’m not going to ask what you intended to do if there was a problem.”

“Neither did I.  Good thing you called.”

Silence.  Perhaps flippancy wasn’t the way to go.

“Report through the usual channels.  We will update your cell with your support teams.  Good luck.”

I sighed, more in relief than anything else.  Then I pocketed the phone and walked around the corner.

She was expecting me.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

The 2 am Rant: When everything goes according to plan, or has it?

We managed to arrive early at the airport.  Rather than wait three hours for our flight, we decided to try to get on an earlier departure.  This will depend on our ticket type and whether there are seats available, preferably together.

We line up in the service queue, which by its very description means you have a long wait, as service is mostly between difficult to impossible, depending on the request.  We wait for twenty minutes.  There’s a long queue behind us.  Our request is taken care of quickly and efficiently, making it almost seamless, certainly painless.  I’m sure our request was one of the very few easy ones the staff will get.

Today, it seems it is our lucky day.  The transfer to an earlier flight is free, and there are two seats available together.  All we have to do is alert the pickup driver at our destination that we are going to be an hour earlier.  Done.

Checking in bags is usually the bane of the traveller’s existence.  No matter which airport in whatever country you are departing from, the only difference is the length of the queue, from incredibly long with a half-hour wait to the head of the line, up to an hour.  Our queue is 15 to 20 minutes.

One assumes this is why intending passengers are asked to go to the airport two hours ahead of their flight.  There are times of the day when the queues are horrendous, and that not only applies to Heathrow.

And if you are late, just panic.

And if your bags are overweight, be prepared to have your credit card hammered.  Especially if you’re flying Air France from Venice to Paris.

Now it’s time to relax.  There is an hour before we have to be at the gate, so just enough time to get coffee and a doughnut.

And be horrified at what shops charge for simple items like sandwiches.  I think $10 is very expensive.  But if you’re hungry and forgot to eat before getting to the airport, then be prepared to pay more than you usually would for the same fare.

It’s also time to observe our fellow passengers, and there is always the one who has a last-minute dash for a plane that is just about to leave, passengers with panic-stricken looks.  We all know what happens if you miss the flight even as you’re downing that last cocktail in the airline lounge while thinking, yes, they’ll hold the flight for me!

Apparently not, these days, because airlines want to keep their ‘on time’ record.

Even so, there are still three more calls for the missing passengers and then nothing.  If they missed the plane, then their problems are just beginning.  It’s the same feeling you have when your name is called out before the flight starts loading.  Only once have we been called up and given an upgrade, and once in the US, to be told we could take another flight because our flight was overbooked.  Business class was greatly appreciated and was worth the extra hour we had to wait.

The next bottleneck is the scanners, and sometimes the queue here is very long and moving slowly because the scanners are set to pick up belts and shoes, so people are scattered everywhere getting redressed and putting shoes on.  Today, being a weekday, the queue is not so bad.

Loading is painless and reasonably organised except when the passengers in high-numbered rows try to board by the front door instead of the rear door and clash midway in the plane.  After they untangle themselves and get to their seats, we’re ready to go.

This flight still has a manual safety demonstration, which most people ignore, but it is slightly better than the video demonstration.  Let’s hope we don’t go down over the water.  I’ve charted my path to the emergency exit, and I have quite a few people before me.  I guess there’s more than one way to be last off the plane.

Sometimes you get to pick who you get to sit next to, especially if you are travelling with your partner, which this time I am, but in a three-seat arrangement, you have no control over who takes that third seat.  We are lucky this time because it will not become a tight squeeze, but unfortunately, our fellow traveller has a cold and in a confined space for several hours, it could turn out to be a problem.

But, in the end, the flight is smooth, and the snacks are edible.  Unfortunately, there is no liquor service like the full-service rival, but that might be a good thing.  No air rage on this flight.

Time flies, pardon the pun, and we have arrived.  Even though it took forever for the baggage to be delivered, we still got home early.

Until the next time we fly.