Days 123 and 124

A review of the progress of my story

…

It’s a third of the way through the year, and theoretically a third of the way through the book.

There have been 16 updates so far, which gives the barest of outlines of what the story is about.

This story started when I was away for business, and I woke up disoriented, having suffered a delay in a connection in an airport that really wasn’t a nice place to be. Firstly, I had a good view of the military running security, not the police or the airport security. They had cars with mounted machine guns. They had people walking around the airport with machine guns on full display.

That’s a very frightening scenario when you are not used to it back home.

Then. on arrival in a place where so many people had advised me that no where was really safe, I got there late, had to get a car from the airport to the hotel, and was basically scared half out of my wits that I was going to be kidnapped, killed, or worse.

Then, waking up, the hotel room was hot, there was a fan rotating slowly circulating the turgid air making the atmosphere in the room worse, and that abnormal silence, with the hum of the air conditioning, or other appliances, made me thing, for just one moment, that there had been a coup de etat, the power and communications were out, and I assumed the airports would be closed.

All that was missing was gunfire in the streets.

It doesn’t pay to have an overactive imagination.

Anyway, a piece of paper was shoved under the door, explaining the temporary lack of power, which came back on a few minutes later. But a story was born in those few moments.

I don’t plan, just write, and while I was away, with nothing better to do with my spare time, I threw words on paper, taking advantage of my surroundings, and the type of country it was, the sort that had in the past been subjected to a coup. How hard could it be to add a few agents from the premier spy agencies and have them all vying for a seat at the table?

The only point left was to decide whether to back the rebels or keep paying the military junta the necessary bribes to maintain the premise that it was all in the aid of democracy.

I think my sense of irony saw the idea of holding a human rights conference in a country that abuses human rights as a nod to the stories written by Graham Greene.

So, before I left that city, and country, I had all the basic elements, the environment, the corrupt government with a figurehead leader, the military junta, the fierce and highly dangerous leader of the secret police, the secret police, the notion of rebels, a rebel leader that was missing, feared captured and languishing in a cell somewhere, a bunch of rebels that for want of another description, really had no idea what they were doing.

In other words, the right person, at the right time, in the right place, with the right people, could make this work. Maybe.

Let’s add another couple of elements. There is a proper police force, with real police men from France, the colonial power that looked after the country before it gained independence, a non-corrupt police chief, and, because of the conference, a press corps.

Wondering why I’m mentioning the press corps? Fear no longer. I’ve decided to get the spy agencies to use the cover of journalists for their agents. Well, that was the premise I came up with in the beginning.

So one of the questions I should be asking right about now is, how is the plot holding up? Is it how I envisaged it in the beginning?

Well, since I don’t plan, the answer is yes. Holding up well. However, what has changed as the story has developed? The addition of an assistant, the girl with a checkered past.

Then rather than start slap bang in the middle of waking up in a sweating nightmare, the story starts with the mission that went bad and put our protagonist on the recovery list, and made this mission the first after being shot to pieces, and being the last man standing.

That was the reason for the assistant.

And then I added another element, one that might go before the story ends, the search for reasons why that mission was shot to pieces, and who it was that wanted the organisation, and the man currently in charge of it, to fail.

There’s nothing like having a sub-plot simmering along with the main problem about to blow up in everyone’s face.

Yes, there are rumours of a coup, and everyone is gearing up to square off, perhaps in the catacombs.

Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time to add an underground network of caves that used to be part of the castle defences, the castle that is not the presidential palace.

So parts of the story getting written are:

An intro to the characters, and where they fit into the fabric of the story

A conference, its effect on the people and their rulers, and all those who are here for it

A pre-conference ball, and the first of the rebels’ forays

Endless distractions, and dancing with police, military, and secret police

The story behind the missing rebel leader, or rather, the once-leader of the opposition. We’re not going to be using poison-tipped umbrellas or assassins with poison-laced needles or tossing people out of 20-story windows.

That should be enough to keep me amused.

We’ll be back with another update in a hundred days.

More about my story

…

So, the jig is up, the ex, well, it’s hard to say what she is now to the protagonist, but let’s say she’s an ex girl friend (two words) and they have discovered they are in the same place at the same time, and knowing what he does, she knows why he is there.

Perhaps it is ‘convenient’ to stay in close proximity, or with her, for her ‘protection’. It’s not an ideal situation.

And, of course, there is the problem of the new assistant, though it should not be a problem, but for some reason, it is causing him angst.

But there it is. It’s not sleeping with the enemy, or is it?

There’s just one small issue that’s been bugging him. After all, it’s always the small things that cause the biggest problems. How did the rebels know where to go in the convention centre, and know where his charge would be, because there was no doubt why they were there, and who they were after?

And what sort of impact they were going to have on the proceedings. In that state, with the secret police and their leader, there was no doubt how that particular episode would end, and it would not be pretty, for anyone, and especially his charge. She would get caught in the crossfire, and he would be the one blamed for the mess.

Stay close was a good plan, but not that close. Well, all very well to take the moral high ground, but alcohol and old times are not a good mix.

Is there going to be another attempt?

You’ll have to wait and find out.

More about my story

…

So, the jig is up, the ex, well, it’s hard to say what she is now to the protagonist, but let’s say she’s an ex girl friend (two words) and they have discovered they are in the same place at the same time, and knowing what he does, she knows why he is there.

Perhaps it is ‘convenient’ to stay in close proximity, or with her, for her ‘protection’. It’s not an ideal situation.

And, of course, there is the problem of the new assistant, though it should not be a problem, but for some reason, it is causing him angst.

But there it is. It’s not sleeping with the enemy, or is it?

There’s just one small issue that’s been bugging him. After all, it’s always the small things that cause the biggest problems. How did the rebels know where to go in the convention centre, and know where his charge would be, because there was no doubt why they were there, and who they were after?

And what sort of impact they were going to have on the proceedings. In that state, with the secret police and their leader, there was no doubt how that particular episode would end, and it would not be pretty, for anyone, and especially his charge. She would get caught in the crossfire, and he would be the one blamed for the mess.

Stay close was a good plan, but not that close. Well, all very well to take the moral high ground, but alcohol and old times are not a good mix.

Is there going to be another attempt?

You’ll have to wait and find out.

Day 122

The use and abuse of obscenities.

…

I’ll say it straight up: I don’t believe it’s necessary to use obscenities in most of my stories, and I don’t. They do appear in the odd story, but you can count on the fingers of one hand how many times I use these words.

Sometimes, the odd ‘f’ word or the ‘s’ word is used for dramatic effect, but there are others that I would never use. The point is that I rarely use those words in general speech myself. I don’t see the point.

But..

All around me, wherever I go, the language is terrible, and by people so young they should not, and probably don’t know the meaning of the words they are using. My grandchildren use that language as a matter of speaking and forget sometimes that we don’t like to hear it, but they are getting better. i know for a fact that my two children use it all the time, so it’s a case of what you hear all the time in the home is what you consider normal.

I’m told all the kids at school swear, so I’m guessing there’s no discipline to stamp it out. These days, teachers have no authority to do anything, so it’s only going to get worse.

So, while I don’t appreciate it, and try not to go to any movies that have obscene language, which means we don’t see very many, or watch TV shows with it, I don’t use it as an excuse not to read something that I’ve been asked to critique. I have to get on board with the way the wind is blowing.

But I don’t have to like it.

And yes, as you’ve probably guessed, I’m one of those really old fuddy-duddies.

Day 122

The use and abuse of obscenities.

…

I’ll say it straight up: I don’t believe it’s necessary to use obscenities in most of my stories, and I don’t. They do appear in the odd story, but you can count on the fingers of one hand how many times I use these words.

Sometimes, the odd ‘f’ word or the ‘s’ word is used for dramatic effect, but there are others that I would never use. The point is that I rarely use those words in general speech myself. I don’t see the point.

But..

All around me, wherever I go, the language is terrible, and by people so young they should not, and probably don’t know the meaning of the words they are using. My grandchildren use that language as a matter of speaking and forget sometimes that we don’t like to hear it, but they are getting better. i know for a fact that my two children use it all the time, so it’s a case of what you hear all the time in the home is what you consider normal.

I’m told all the kids at school swear, so I’m guessing there’s no discipline to stamp it out. These days, teachers have no authority to do anything, so it’s only going to get worse.

So, while I don’t appreciate it, and try not to go to any movies that have obscene language, which means we don’t see very many, or watch TV shows with it, I don’t use it as an excuse not to read something that I’ve been asked to critique. I have to get on board with the way the wind is blowing.

But I don’t have to like it.

And yes, as you’ve probably guessed, I’m one of those really old fuddy-duddies.

Day 121

Word work is sublime – so is the writing we produce, the measure of our lives?

…

I guess it depends on what you write. Certainly, if you were to ask me if my writing was to a certain extent based on my life experiences, or at the very least, influenced by my life experiences, I’d probably have to say it was.

I mean, what else can you write about? Someone else’s life experiences. Perhaps, if you have a passion for writing other people’s biographies.

Otherwise, what we may see, consciously or unconsciously, is the baring of your soul in your writing.

Of course, if you are a prolific reader and you have an interest in the ways of what the world used to be like, or the particular ways of a certain group of people, this acquired knowledge might also turn up in your work.

As a writer of period romances, or stories that have their setting in days past, a great amount of research might be required to capture the places, the people, and how they behaved or reacted in those days, because not a lot of those old ways are around today.

Back then, they didn’t have mobile phones or any phones at all. They certainly couldn’t;t jump on a plane and be on the other side of the country in a matter of hours, or on the other side of the world in half a day. Travel used to be by ship and took weeks, even months, to get from one side of the world to the other.

Trains were different, run by steam, and took longer to get to destinations; cars were rare and only affordable for the rich, and places like Africa, and the Middle East, even the Orient, were totally different than they are today, and a person who lived in that time would be shocked at how the world had changed particularly since the end of the second world war.

We only know of today, and what life is like now. Some of us know what the world was like 50 years ago, and it was different then, there was still a British Commonwealth, and we still learned about the British Empire and its kings and Queens. America was a different place, but the only way we knew of it;s colourful past was through the movies Hollywood made.

And the diversity that was out there in the world was only brought to us by immigration from all over the world.

So, we are products of out times, our words reflect what we knew, and what we know, and our perception of the world changes with each new generation of writers who entertain us with their vision of our world, the measure of what our lives are now, and not what they once were.

And some would argue that change is not always for the better.

Day 121

Word work is sublime – so is the writing we produce, the measure of our lives?

…

I guess it depends on what you write. Certainly, if you were to ask me if my writing was to a certain extent based on my life experiences, or at the very least, influenced by my life experiences, I’d probably have to say it was.

I mean, what else can you write about? Someone else’s life experiences. Perhaps, if you have a passion for writing other people’s biographies.

Otherwise, what we may see, consciously or unconsciously, is the baring of your soul in your writing.

Of course, if you are a prolific reader and you have an interest in the ways of what the world used to be like, or the particular ways of a certain group of people, this acquired knowledge might also turn up in your work.

As a writer of period romances, or stories that have their setting in days past, a great amount of research might be required to capture the places, the people, and how they behaved or reacted in those days, because not a lot of those old ways are around today.

Back then, they didn’t have mobile phones or any phones at all. They certainly couldn’t;t jump on a plane and be on the other side of the country in a matter of hours, or on the other side of the world in half a day. Travel used to be by ship and took weeks, even months, to get from one side of the world to the other.

Trains were different, run by steam, and took longer to get to destinations; cars were rare and only affordable for the rich, and places like Africa, and the Middle East, even the Orient, were totally different than they are today, and a person who lived in that time would be shocked at how the world had changed particularly since the end of the second world war.

We only know of today, and what life is like now. Some of us know what the world was like 50 years ago, and it was different then, there was still a British Commonwealth, and we still learned about the British Empire and its kings and Queens. America was a different place, but the only way we knew of it;s colourful past was through the movies Hollywood made.

And the diversity that was out there in the world was only brought to us by immigration from all over the world.

So, we are products of out times, our words reflect what we knew, and what we know, and our perception of the world changes with each new generation of writers who entertain us with their vision of our world, the measure of what our lives are now, and not what they once were.

And some would argue that change is not always for the better.

Day 120

Writing exercise – the wilds of Africa.

…

The ship took what seemed a long time from the ship’s last approach to being tied up at the wharf in Mombasa, Kenya.

I had watched the proceedings from the upper deck, the wharf swarming with people servicing other ships, and the groups waiting to take the ropes and tie us in between two similar ships to our own.

I had come for a safari, intrigued with the notion of coming face to face with a place called the Serengeti, to see native Africans and rich British and American tourists here to hunt wild animals.

By all accounts, they’d killed all their own and were branching out to new pastures.

We’d come from Southampton via the Mediterranean through the Suez Canal and down the Pacific side of Africa, what I would have called a wonderful voyage, but for others a torturous trek.

If you travelled steerage.  For those with money, it was the perfect way to spend a month away from the hectic life of living in a city.

For me, even though I’d travelled steerage, it was an experience, culminating in the arrival, enjoying the breeze that tempered the heat and the exhausting conditions that had prevailed after we left Port Said.

The moment I walked down the gangplank and onto the wharf, the heat suddenly increased in intensity.  It was only going to get worse.

I looked back on board and saw Louisa Bently, Lord and Lady Bently’s eldest daughter, along with the governess and two sisters.  He was here to join the Embassy.

She had wanted to stay in England and resented the fact she had to leave all her friends and acquaintances to come to some ‘God forsaken he’ll hole’.  She looked thoroughly miserable.

I was going to give her a wave, we had become friends of a sort during the voyage, but at her insistence, a secret from her parents and limited to stolen moments.  It was a friendship that would not go anywhere; we were from different ends of the social spectrum.  I saw her glance in my direction, then back to taking instructions from the governess.  Their car had just arrived on the dock.

There were four other American families who were here for a safari, the safari that I had been requested to join as one of three security officers.

There were rumours of a war between the natives and troubles along the way in the villages, and reported reprisals against the whites, trouble borne of interfering missionaries, and railway magnates trying to open up parts of the country.

It wasn’t the first time or the last that the native might attach their so-called British superiors.

The Americans had disembarked and were filing into a coach arranged to take them to their hotel.  I had to find my own way to the first campsite with the other officers.  My overnight hotel would not be posh, but it was not far from the wharf.

They would be taken to Mombasa itself.

The recruiting agent in London had told me that Africa was mostly hot and dusty, the cities bustling, the countryside wide open, grassy and limited shade.  It was hot, he said, but moderately so with temperate breezes, and sometimes it rained, sometimes torrential.  It was no worse than the Midwest of America in summer.

It was like that overnight, raining heavily, and when dawn came, the sky had cleared and the sun was bearing down, a hint of a hot, dry day to follow.  It didn’t take long for the water to disappear.

I had just enough time to get to the agent’s office and collect my ticket on what was known as the lunatic express from Mombasa to Kimusu on Lake Victoria, the gateway for the safari. I joined the advance party heading to set up the first camp. Five other men were there, fellow security guards, and a catering staff.

It promised to be two days of travel from British South Africa to Uganda, the perfect introduction to the conditions we would experience. However, after a few hours, once we left the coastal city and headed deeper inland, the heat and desolation increased noticeably.

Perhaps it would be the heat, the dry, dusty air and the look on the faces of the natives who all looked quite fierce, that would be more of a problem than the wild animals.  Those thoughts occupied my mind for most of the morning of that first day.

It only got worse from then on.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 120

Writing exercise – the wilds of Africa.

…

The ship took what seemed a long time from the ship’s last approach to being tied up at the wharf in Mombasa, Kenya.

I had watched the proceedings from the upper deck, the wharf swarming with people servicing other ships, and the groups waiting to take the ropes and tie us in between two similar ships to our own.

I had come for a safari, intrigued with the notion of coming face to face with a place called the Serengeti, to see native Africans and rich British and American tourists here to hunt wild animals.

By all accounts, they’d killed all their own and were branching out to new pastures.

We’d come from Southampton via the Mediterranean through the Suez Canal and down the Pacific side of Africa, what I would have called a wonderful voyage, but for others a torturous trek.

If you travelled steerage.  For those with money, it was the perfect way to spend a month away from the hectic life of living in a city.

For me, even though I’d travelled steerage, it was an experience, culminating in the arrival, enjoying the breeze that tempered the heat and the exhausting conditions that had prevailed after we left Port Said.

The moment I walked down the gangplank and onto the wharf, the heat suddenly increased in intensity.  It was only going to get worse.

I looked back on board and saw Louisa Bently, Lord and Lady Bently’s eldest daughter, along with the governess and two sisters.  He was here to join the Embassy.

She had wanted to stay in England and resented the fact she had to leave all her friends and acquaintances to come to some ‘God forsaken he’ll hole’.  She looked thoroughly miserable.

I was going to give her a wave, we had become friends of a sort during the voyage, but at her insistence, a secret from her parents and limited to stolen moments.  It was a friendship that would not go anywhere; we were from different ends of the social spectrum.  I saw her glance in my direction, then back to taking instructions from the governess.  Their car had just arrived on the dock.

There were four other American families who were here for a safari, the safari that I had been requested to join as one of three security officers.

There were rumours of a war between the natives and troubles along the way in the villages, and reported reprisals against the whites, trouble borne of interfering missionaries, and railway magnates trying to open up parts of the country.

It wasn’t the first time or the last that the native might attach their so-called British superiors.

The Americans had disembarked and were filing into a coach arranged to take them to their hotel.  I had to find my own way to the first campsite with the other officers.  My overnight hotel would not be posh, but it was not far from the wharf.

They would be taken to Mombasa itself.

The recruiting agent in London had told me that Africa was mostly hot and dusty, the cities bustling, the countryside wide open, grassy and limited shade.  It was hot, he said, but moderately so with temperate breezes, and sometimes it rained, sometimes torrential.  It was no worse than the Midwest of America in summer.

It was like that overnight, raining heavily, and when dawn came, the sky had cleared and the sun was bearing down, a hint of a hot, dry day to follow.  It didn’t take long for the water to disappear.

I had just enough time to get to the agent’s office and collect my ticket on what was known as the lunatic express from Mombasa to Kimusu on Lake Victoria, the gateway for the safari. I joined the advance party heading to set up the first camp. Five other men were there, fellow security guards, and a catering staff.

It promised to be two days of travel from British South Africa to Uganda, the perfect introduction to the conditions we would experience. However, after a few hours, once we left the coastal city and headed deeper inland, the heat and desolation increased noticeably.

Perhaps it would be the heat, the dry, dusty air and the look on the faces of the natives who all looked quite fierce, that would be more of a problem than the wild animals.  Those thoughts occupied my mind for most of the morning of that first day.

It only got worse from then on.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 119

The writing exercise starts with: “It was her first day of class, and she was already really behind.”

…

It was her first day of class, and she was already really behind.

Walking the the archway that dignified in a sense that I was transitioning from one phase of my life to the next, I stopped, eyes almost involuntarily on the girl with red hair, a feature that made her stand out.

Like me, she didn’t belong.  Fumbling in a voluminous handbag, stuff was falling out on the floor, and she was looking both sheepish and apologetic.

It took another single, casual glance over the occupants in the room, a very diverse collection of people that ranged from, in my opinion, Hollywood starlets to maximum security prison inmates, to instantly make the assessment that out of a hundred, perhaps two might make it.

I took a seat at the back, ready to leave.

A man in his 30s perhaps younger, dressed casually to the point where he was the least expected person you would expect to see, given the nature of the advertisement that brought everyone to this hall, stepped up onto the podium, take a look around the collective, tapped twice on the microphone to see if was working, then, when silence had replaced the sound of many conversations, said, “For some, this is the first day of the rest of your life.”

I’d heard it all before.

I scanned the faces I could see, those that wanted to hear what he had to say, and those that didn’t.”

“From this moment onwards, everything is a test.  What you do, what you don’t do, what you say, and what you don’t say.  Every question can be a double-edged sword.  Most of you won’t make it past this first day.  It’s not a reflection on you personally; it’s just that we are looking for particular types of people.  And, even if you do make the first cut, there will be a second and a third and a fourth and so on.”

I watched him look around at the sea of expectant faces and, like myself, stopped on the girl with the red hair, this time with a cell phone in her hand.  Perhaps it was ringing, and she was hesitant about answering.  It went face down on the desk

His eyes moved on.

“There’s a questionnaire on the desk in front of you.  It looks like one of those odious examinations you did at high school.  It is.  Only you can’t fail.  It is designed to tell us about you, things that you might not even know about yourself.  Make sure you write your name on it because if we don’t have a name, we can’t call you up for the first interview.  When you have finished, please wait in the room next door.  There are beverages and food.”

Another look around the room.  The red-haired girl had looked at her cell phone twice since putting it down.  Her expression was one of fear.

“There’s no time limit, but the sooner you finish, the sooner you can be interviewed.  Thank you.”

I picked up the paper, about 50 pages long, half of which were multiple-choice questions and smiled to myself.  I knew the psychologist who created it.  One of those self absorbed smart asses that I threaten to punch his lights out.  But I hated everyone back then.

I filled in the form and put my name on it.  A name, not my real name.  That had been lost in the mists of time.  Whoever in this room made it to the end, they too would also become a ghost.

My departure elicited several looks, though it was hard to tell if they were of surprise or disgust, including one of amusement from the red-headed girl.

I went next door and waited.  Tea and scones trumped chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches, though not by much.  I resisted the urge to pick a can of Coke.

The candidates didn’t realise that what they ate also counted towards their eligibility.

Over the next hour, the candidates strolled in, looked over the wall of food options and made their choices.  Some sat on their own, most sat in groups, perhaps alliances made outside before filing in.

Alliances wouldn’t help them.

The redhead was among the last, which told me it was too hard, or she was selective with her answers.  Thinking about them wasn’t the answer.  It was designed for instant response, but that wasn’t explicitly stated.

I watched her walk over to the food cabinets and take her time.  It started with sandwiches, cake, scones, salad, and ended with health bars.  She also opted for a protein drink.

Then she circled the room, saw me, and came over.  I didn’t expect that.

“This seat taken?”  She had a hand on the chair opposite me.  Usually, most people tried to avoid me.

“Feel free.”

She sat, putting the voluminous bag under the table in front of her feet.

She carefully unwrapped one of the bars and took a bite.  There was no expression on her face, nor was she deliberately trying to look at me.

“Who do you think they’ll pick?”  Her eyes came back to me.

“I left my crystal ball at home.”  Deliberately gruff.  It was usually enough to send people away.

“What’s your deal?” 

“Why do you keep looking at your cell?”

“Is that going to keep you up at night?”

Sass.

“It could.”

She looked me up and down, trying to look through the facade.

A shrug.  “Ex won’t leave me alone.  Cheats and expects me to forgive and forget.”

“Come here expecting to learn skills to deal with him?”

“Get away from everything.”  She sighed and took another bite of the bar.  There was something in it she didn’t like, a slight wrinkle in the nose.  “OK.  Maybe I’d like to beat the shit out of him.”

“Revenge.  There is a saying, First dig two graves.”

“You know this from experience?”

“My father beat my mother to death in a drunken rage.  I beat him to death over three days.  He begged me to kill him.  Revenge doesn’t give you what you need.”

Her eyes widened, but not in terror as they should.  The thing is, that was the truth.  The bigger question was, why did I tell her?

“The very definition of hell coming to breakfast.  Wow.”

“Sorry.  You don’t need to know.”

I saw Taylor, the man who had been up front at the start of their journey.  She didn’t and jumped in fright when he dragged a chair over and sat. He had her paper in his hand.

“Lolita?”

She smiled.  “I figured if you were any sort of organisation and not a bunch of scammers, you’d know who I was the moment I walked in.”

“Amelia Mack.  Seven parking tickets, three speeding fines and a shoplifting charge that was dismissed.  Waitress, wanna be actress.  How am I doing so far?”

“You haven’t said major loser yet, but it’s on the tip of your tongue.”

It was Taylor’s turn to smile.  He looked at me.

“Sassy.  Playing a role.  Uses truth and embellishes.  Looks you in the eye when she talks to you.  Judging by her manner, I’d say her ex called the police about her after she told him no, and he ignored her.  I’m betting there’s some threatening messages on her phone.”  I looked at her.  “Comment?”

“He is a self entitled little shit trying to score points with his friends.”

Fair enough.  She was not the first to be running away from their problems, but she was one of the few who did something about it.

Taylor handed me a sheet of paper with her recent texts.  Confirmed.

“You do realise,” Taylor said, “that she’s your problem.”

She looked at Taylor.  “What?”

“Normally, we don’t take on problems.  You have a choice.  We take you in, but he is your mentor.”

Her eyes came back to me, like watching a tennis game.

“I don’t do training,” I said.

“I’m in if he’s doing it; otherwise, forget it.  I’ll take my chances.”

“They’re not good.  Not against his family.  We can make all of it go away.  But you have to renounce everything.  Before you go through that blue door at the end of the room.  You take nothing with you.  Nothing.  Is that understood?”

“Certainly not the cell.  If you have family, say goodbye.  Friends, none.  When you go through that door, you become a ghost.”  I had no family, and definitely no friends.  It wasn’t hard for me.

Most people had a social media presence, followers, and people who asked questions.  That alone knocked out more than half the applicants.

She looked down in the direction of her bag.  Her whole life was in the bag and on her phone.  She dragged it out and put it on the table.

A minute passed, then she shrugged.

“I’m in if he’s doing the training,” she said, nodding in my direction, and pushed the bag towards Taylor.   “Take it.  Take everything.  The little bastard’s lawyers will do a number on me, so what have I got to lose?”

Put that way, I could see her point of view.  In the corner she was in right then, there wasn’t a way out.  But that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be one in the future.  If she lasted that long.

Taylor looked at me.  “Time to take the leap, Mac.”

I sighed and dragged myself up.  It was not as if I hadn’t thought about it.  They’d given me a year to recover, knowing I couldn’t go back into the field.  But they said I could still be useful.  I didn’t think I had much to offer.

She stood too.  “Are we doing this?”

“You’ve got to the door to change your mind,” I said, not waiting for her.

I could see potential. But I could also see trouble.  She was starting from a point where she didn’t really have a choice, like I had no choice.  People will tell you you always have a choice, but that’s not necessarily true. 

I didn’t look back, and when I reached the door, I went through it.  A hush had come over the room, and there were about a hundred pairs of eyes on me, and they would be on her. That would also be the question on everyone’s mind.  Why her?  It would not be so much about me.

Inside the room behind the door was a table and two chairs.  Usually, it would be for an interview.  Taylor usually asked me to cast an eye over the intake and offer an opinion.  So far, the three I’d recommended had passed through the training.

Five minutes later, she came through the door and, after closing it, leaned on it.

“You really killed your dad?”

“Would you have cut his dick off?”

“Put him in a room and give me a sharp knife.”

I could see the fire in her eyes.  “Perhaps I might make that a test.”

“This is the first time you mentored?”

“Do you understand what you’re getting into?”

“You’re not very good at selling the product, are you?”

“What’s there to sell?  You hand your life over, and we turn you into something you never thought you’d become.  Something worse than anything you could imagine.  Three months down the track, you’ll wake up, disoriented, distressed, and wondering what the hell happened to you.”

“But you’ll be there?”

“Yes.  I’ll be there.  For better or worse.”

“Then lead on.  As the man said, it’s the first day of the rest of my life.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025