Days 256 and 257

Writing exercise

…

“The only thing standing between them and disaster was…”

Under the harsh studio lights, and the glare of a specially selected audience who had been firing questions at me for at least half an hour, and longer than I was told to expect, I felt a runnel of sweat run down the side of my face and into the gap between my neck and the collar of the shirt.

I was told that the audience wanted to know exactly how we had pulled off a miracle. The moderator had told the story, and a story it was, because I hardly recognised it as what had actually happened. It was not the story that had been approved. I had been given twenty minutes’ notice, the story had changed, given a script to read, and then I protested that it was nothing like what had happened.

I was told the truth was too unpalatable, and the audience would not like it.

Of course not. No one did. But someone had to cut the head off the snake, and the team I was assigned to had that job. We were one of ten. Everyone had a job to do that was vital to the end result. Ours was not that important; six of the eight members died, and the other living member declined to come on the show. I now knew why.

“Should I repeat the question?” The moderator was exuding calm, but I could see that she was getting impatient.

She had survived the purge, the person who had been the previous regime’s media spokesperson, who, not three months before, was standing up at press conferences trying to explain away the various nefarious events in what had been described as ‘simple speak’, so called because us citizens were basically ‘simple’.

I was very aware of the contribution this person had made, despite the lies and grovelling, telling everyone that she was a victim, much the same as all of us. A victim married to a high-up official in the previous regime, who lived in a mansion, ate the best food, and had holidays at the finest international resorts. We knew exactly who she was.

“Before this circus began, you asked me if I thought being a murderer was the best way to achieve a change of government.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Emmaline Wharton. That is your real name, isn’t it?”

“No. I don’t know who this Emmaline Wharton is, but it isn’t me.”

There was a screen behind us, one that displayed the name of the show, and her most recent name, “Janice Saunders.” She had reverted to one of her pre-marriage names, considering that reminding people she was married to a tyrant wasn’t good for her new public image.

During the introduction monologue, a series of photographs showed the groups, the planning, and various shots taken during the operation in which I had participated. I had no idea until now when those photographs were shown that we had an embedded media representative along; he was certainly not introduced to us, and we would have declined because of the danger.

Uppermost in my mind was how he survived when six of us didn’t.

When I mentioned her name, the screen changed, and a photograph of the moderator, much younger but easily recognisable, was flashed on the screen. When she heard several gasps from the audience, she looked around.

“That’s…”

“Not you? Since you’ve been telling lies for nearly six years now, it’s no surprise that you can’t stop. When you specifically asked for one of the two remaining survivors of our operation to come on this show, you knew the other chap wouldn’t, which left me. I refused, but you had insisted. Why?”

I gave her my curious expression. I should have been angry, but after I thought about it, I decided it would be an interesting exercise. She had not been home with her husband when the designated team had arrived to take him into custody. There was just a single suitcase at the door, and no one else in the house, leading to the conclusion that she had been tipped off and had made her getaway earlier.

Imagine our surprise when she turned up at headquarters and proclaimed she had been working for us all the time. Yes, someone had, but we had believed that person had been found and killed a few days before the takeover. She had the credentials and materials to prove it was her, and no one, having seen the spy in their midst, only her communications, had taken her at her word.

I didn’t believe it for one moment. I knew she was the one responsible for the death of six very good people and the attempt on the other person’s life. It took me three months to convince them she was a traitor, still working for her previous masters in exile, the ones who had also been tipped off and escaped.

“Your story of bravery under extreme circumstances needs to be rejoiced.”

She said it so glibly. I was astonished by how quickly her tune had changed, from a puppet for an evil regime, to the voice of the people in the new.

“Even though it was me who killed your husband?”

Yes, there was just a flicker of recognition, that look behind those hooded eyes, of pure hatred.

“Because he was evil, yes. He forced me to say all those things, you know my story.”

“Your story is just that, Emmaline. A story. Just to be clear, my government wants to take you into custody. For some crazy reason, they believe you’ll give up the location of the fifteen members of the previous government who escaped. You and I both know that will never happen.”

On both sides of the stage, several members of the police had moved into position to prevent her escape.

“You’re wrong. I am not that person. I am the one who helped you; all of you make the change happen.”

The calm facade was starting to crumble.

“OK,” I said, “If that is the case, tell me your real name, the name of the spy within their midst.”

“No one knew my real name. It was one of the requirements I insisted on before joining your organisation. No way I could be tracked, because if you did, they would find out.”

“I know your real name. It’s not Emmaline Wharton, though that was one of about twenty you used when younger. You had a criminal record that read like a James Patterson thriller. So, once again, what is the real name of our spy?”

She was now in full-blown panic. If she did know the name, then it would be proof that she had been at the poor girl’s interrogation. We had only recently found her remains outside the prison block in an unmarked grave under freshly laid concrete, along with thirty others.

“Emily McGovern. They will find me and kill me. I need protection from them.”

I shook my head. An anonymous tip had been received a week before the takeover, that the creature sitting next to me had been the one to put a bullet in the real Emily’s head when she hadn’t given them anything about the upcoming takeover.

An eye for an eye.

A shot rang out, and I watched her die. It didn’t make me feel any better, but at last my sister, Emily, had got her justice.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025