Bit 3.8

I had a bit of a spring in my step after my meeting with Jenny. No it's not because of what you're thinking - i'm not that fickle. But she had an enthusiasm and vivacity which was more contagious than the plague. I'd taken her down to Photography section and within five minutes she had the whole team, men and women alike, eating out of the palm of her hand. And she managed to out-do Rob in the "smutty innuendo" stakes, a feat not achieved in many a year. Coupled with her excellent journalistic reputation, I was beginning to feel quite positive about the future.
Amazingly this carried through into my work, and I managed to go through the accounts in double-quick time. Despite the fact tht my ribs were really beginning to ache, I decided to hand deliver the papers to the financial section.
I was pretty sore by the time I got to the fourth floor, and the corridor which led to the various rooms in which finance hid themselves away, so I decided to have a quick sit in the chair opposite the lift. And with immaculate timing, Mary chose that moment to emerge from the lift.
She looked pretty startled when she saw me. I thought I could detect a bit of redness around her eyes.
"Remi, we must stop meeting like this." Her voice definitely carried a hint of enforced jollity, and sounded like it might crack at any moment.
I smiled and lifted myself - unaided, notice - to my feet. "I was just coming up to give you the quarterlies." I held out the slim folder, and, as she reached forward to take the folder from me I smelt the summer fields full of flowers again. The tips of her fingers brushed against my hand.
"Thanks Remi." And she turned to go.
Sod it. I'm not going to put my life on hold any more.
"Mary?"
She turned to look at me.
"Is that offer of a drink still on tonight?"
And her eyes, previously hinting at sadness, lit up like fireworks against a deep blue night-time sky.
"Well, I was going to head back..."
Oh no, don't let me have ruined this.
"...but if you're sure you want to?"
"I'd love to." That was pathetically eager. But worth it for the smile that just lit up her face. "Shall I come down and fetch you at, say, 5?"
"On the dot."
And, waving goodbye, she disappeared down the corridor.Hmm. I feel quite smug now. Yes indeed, it's a beautiful day alright.
"Remi?"
I turned. Andrew Marlin, God of the IPC Journalism section.
"I've been looking for you. Can you come to my office for a word? I've got something that needs your urgent attention."
It was all going so well.

Bit 3.7

We spent the next hour or so going over old cases, just as an introduction to the Investigative section. She knows her stuff - done a lot of research. I was a bit worried that it was a bit dull, but then she said Harry had got her proof-reading for the foreign affairs section all morning, which made me feel a lot better about my little introduction. We got chatting a little about her background, filling me in a bit more on what she told us at the interview. She'd graduated in Modern Languages (French and Spanish) three years after I did, which made me feel so very very old, before going on to an apprenticeship for one of the major left-wing press organisations in France. She'd worked her way up to a post as an investigative reporter, before being made redundant, after which she headed straight back here, and as any ambitious journo would do, applied for a post with IPC. I hadn't told her, but I'd actually contacted one of my colleagues in France who had worked in the same section as her, and by all accounts, she'd undersold herself in our little talk. Her reputation was formidable in France, and her redundancy had more than a whiff of anglophobia about it. But still, France's loss is our gain.
For my part I gave her a potted history of IPC and our section (although I diplomatically omitted some of Handysides' more wild excesses), and background on Harry, Dan and the others. The fact that she was still sat at my desk and eager as ever I took to be a good sign.
"Of course, it's silly season at the moment, so we've technically got nothing to do." This much is painfully true. By and large we earn our keep (in the losest possible sense) by helping out with the other sections. Harry, my deputy, tends to work on current affairs (which is a pretty good racket as they've got as little to do as we have). Dan the copy editor goes to help out on sportsdesk, and Handysides used to do whatever would allow him to drink himself into a coma every day. Which means that, unless Jenny wants to develop a drink problem, It's going to pretty damn boring for her.
"That's alright. I can keep myself occupied. I was thinking maybe I could help out with the Photo team? I did a bit of that in the last post."
God, let Rob loose on her? He'll ruin her! "You'll be working with Rob Jones, you do realise that?" Only fair to warn the girl.
"I think I can keep him at bay. If he gets too bad, I'll just kick him between the legs."
Yes, I think Miss Williams and I are going to get along like a house on fire.

Bit 3.6

Hmmm. That wasn't hugely comfortable.
I'm doing the right thing though. It just wouldn't be fair to go out with her when I'm so preoccupied with someone else.
But it doesn't make turning her down all the time easier. She hid it well, but I think she was a bit upset. Ah well, never mind, one of the advantages of having my own office if that I can stay locked in here and no-one will bother me much.

That was tempting fate wasn't it? "Come in!"
It's Graeme from finance. That's disappointing - it's normally Mary. She does make budgets seem far more appealing.
"Afternoon Remi. Missed you at the lunchtime brawl." Ah yes, the lunchtime rugby. Graeme started it, which isn't hugely surprising. The man's huge, no-one can take him down without breaking a limb. I know from cruel experience.
Ah well, might as well get the retaliation in before he passes comment. "I trust Rob's filled you in on my stylish new appearance."
He's got a loud laugh. "He said you got run over when drunk." Git. "Said you can't take your ale these days."
"He's talking out of his arse. Anyway, where's Mary? I thought she normally came round with this stuff?"
Eyebrow-raising. That's not a good sign.
"Someone upset her a bit at lunch. She's doing some spreadsheet work instead." They're a tight team, the finance lot. I'm getting the impression that Graeme wants to try drop-kicking this particular someone's head. Best not tell him it was me then.
"Oh well. I'll take a look through these figures this afternoon and get them to you before the end of today."
"Thanks Remi. I'll tell Mary you asked after her." I feel that might not be a great idea.

The office was surprisingly busy considering it was summer. Doesn't anyone take any holidays any more? Needless to say though, none of my team were about, pack of lazy wasters that they are. Actually, no, that's unfair, they're all out helping out in different sections at the moment. I wonder what they found the Temp to do?
"Mr Mistry?"Ah, think of the devil...
"Hello. Jenny, right?"
"Yes sir. Harry said I should come up and introduce myself."
Eager. But this "sir" business just makes me feel old. "Pleased to meet you. And don't bother with this "Mr Mistry, sir" lark. I'm Remi, not your teacher. "
"Technically, you are my teacher."
Smart girl. "I walked into that didn't I?"
Nice smile too. Stop it.
"You did rather. Nice to get to meet you properly at last. I've heard a lot about you. I should point out mostly from Rob Jones in the Photography section."
Oh no. "What did he say?"
"He said that you got drunk of a pint of beer and walked in front of a car." Git. "And what did you think about that?"
"Not wanting to criticise a colleague on my first day, but I think he's a bit full of sh...himself."
I think I'm going to like her.

Bit 3.5

It's a beautiful day. I wish I didn't have to go into work.
The park at this time of year is gorgeous. The grass is like a sprung mattress, it's so comfy.
It's quite funny seeing how it's all divided up though. West side is full of workers from the government offices. South side is full of IPC staff. Between us, I think we manage to scare the tourists off into the other bits.
Glad I took this morning off though. It was hard enough getting dressed, let alone catching the bus. And what with these bandages...I'm boiling. I feel like I'm wearing a corset. I'm not looking forward to standing up.
It's not as if I'm needed desperately - after all, it is the off season. I'll just carry on helping out here and there, making stupid bets on what I can get into the dailies. God knows what I'm going to find for the Temp to do. I suppose I could stick her on sub-ed work, give her a bit of a taste of IPC life. Mind you, Harry or someone's probably set her something to get on with already. Maybe I can just bunker down in my room and avoid as many people as possible. I don't particularly want to be stared at. Though a few sympathy hugs from some of the ladies wouldn't go amiss.
Oh. Talking of the ladies, here comes one of them now.
"Hey Mary! On your way back from lunch?"
She really is pretty nice, you know.
"So this is where you've been all morning then?" And funny too. "Some of us have been worried about you, especially given some of the stories Rob's been spreading around."
"What's he been saying then?" Normally I don't go in much for short hair on girls - I kind of go for the long, flowing red hair. But Mary's got just the right shape face to carry it off. And it's really catching the light today.
"I'll tell you on the way back to the office. You coming?"
I'm hardly going to say no to an offer like that. Only problem is...
"Do you want a hand up off the grass?" She leans in closer to whisper, and I can smell her scent. It's kind of like summer fields full of flowers. "I promise I won't tell anyone you needed help standing up!"
And she winks, one her deep blue eyes momentarily obscured. Yes, she really is pretty foxy.
"Very kind of you." She's slipped her arm in mine now. Interesting how casually she did that.
"By the way..." Oh, here we go again.
"...I was planning on going out for a drink after work tonight..."
I can't keep turning her down, it's cruel. And a bit stupid of me, looking at her today.
"...and, well, I was wondering if you're free?..."
Maybe I should just say yes. You never know.
"...I mean, I know you're probably on medication and can't drink..."
What have I got from my infatuation with Kate? Stitches, broken ribs, and depression.
"...but we can always just sit in the park with a can of something..."
Maybe it's time I moved on.
"...after all, it's supposed to be a lovely evening."
Got over Kate.
"Thanks Mary. I'd probably best not, though. Need to rest up a lot."
You absolute fool.

Bit 3.4

"You were avoiding her weren't you?"
Agh! Never sit up so rapidly after you've had your head kicked in, it hurts. "D, I wish you'd give me some warning that you're coming in."
"I knocked. You were on planet Kate."
Planet Kate. Mmm. Now that's something I would give a kidney to see.
"Yes, I was. Satisfied?" Oh oh. "You know what, I'm sick of being judged by you and Rob! I can't help it alright? You think I'd still be chasing her wildly if I had any choice in the matter?! It's bad enough I have to sit here and watch them - watch him - where I should be! Do you think I like not being able to see my friends, not being able to relax in my own place? Do you think if I'd had a FRACTION of a choice I woud have gone to that bar tonight? So if you've got nothing else to add, just sod off and leave me alone."
Silence. Perhaps I overstepped the mark a little.
"Finished?"
Oh great. Now the guilt.
"I'm sorry D. You didn't deserve that."
Oh this is embarrassing.
Do not cry.
DO NOT CRY!
Damn.
"Hey Remy, come on mate." Dmitri's hugging me. I'm so pathetically grateful for this show of compasion, the momentousness of this occasion is bypassing me. Dmitri, Mr Calm and Reserved letting a bit of compassion seep out. Don't get me wrong, Mitya's a fantastic person, and I don't doubt he loves us all very much. But the man makes a Finnish Formula 1 driver look animated.
Mind you, you've got to be reserved if you're going to do what he does. You can't get emotional.
And suddenly I'm getting away from thoughts of Kate and thank God the tears are stopping.
And now it's awkward.
"Thanks"
"If you mention I did that to Rob I will make the left side of your face look like the right side."
I can tell that's not an idle threat.
"Serious for a moment though Rem," I thought we were being serious? "Rob told me what happened."
I bet he did. "I deny everything."
"I happen to think I've known Rob for quite long enough to tell when he's making stuff up and not. Rem, you've got to learn to fight back."
No.
"No."
I will not fight back. "You know my feelings on that."
Right, here's the thing. I don't go in for violence. Not in a "holier-than-thou, shall-not-strike-my-brother" thing, no, something far more powerful than that. My own belief. There's no need for it. Growing up when I did, amidst the race riots that have pretty much been forgotten about now, you learnt to keep your head down and run from trouble. But even doing that, you knew that trouble would one day find you, and when it did, the path of least resistance was always the least painful. Not fighting back meant you had a higher-than-outside chance of surviving.
"Remi, there's a difference between aggression and simple self-defence."
D's right of course. It would make sense to defend myself in a situation like tonight. But if I give in once, what's to stop me giving in again? It'll be like opening the flood gates.
Rob's appeared in the doorway now. "You're not exactly a small guy, you keep yourself in shape. You could have fought off that bloke tonight, no trouble."
None of them understand.
My Dad was beaten to death in front of me when I was nine. My older brother was crippled in front of me when I was 10. If I start fighting, I'm aligning myself with the people who destroyed my family. And, as I say, if I start fighting, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop.
"Let's just drop this conversation now, OK?"
D's disappointed, I can see that. I know he's only worried. It's what makes him a good man.
"Have Kate and Mike gone?"
Rob's chuckling again. "You're safe mate. They've gone to the pub."
"Right. Get me to hospital. I hurt and I think I'm going to pass out again."

Bit 3.3

Of course, being the actual house owner I got first choice of the rooms. So clever me chose the one right at the top, not actually thinking about what might happen if one day I got a good kicking from an Icelandic Sailor and had to struggle up the stairs on my own. I should get a lift fitted. Maybe I'll stick it through Kate's room, then claim it was a mistake by the builders and suggest she shares with me for a while. OK, that's extremely unlikely. She'd probably move in with good ol' Dr Mike instead.I should stop being so harsh to him. I mean, he's a good guy. He's friendly, he looks after people, he's managed to sort me out OK. And much as it pains me to say it, he treats Kate well, and that's the most important thing. I can't imagine what it'd be like if she was going out with a toerag like Rob. But then she wouldn't go out with Rob because he's her brother and that'd be so very wrong. Being rejected for a Doctor I can handle. For her brother? Hmmm...I think those painkillers I took made my head a bit wrong.This room has it's advantages though. I mean, stretched out on my bed here, if I lean my head right back, I can see up at the sky. It's quite a clear night tonight. Lots of stars. I really need to sort my head out. I nearly got us killed tonight because of a stupid crush. It's not a crush though. I really do love her. I can't bear to not be around her.It's not as if I'm stuck for people who like me though. I do quite well. Mary from accounts has asked me out twice in the past month, and my lame excuses aren't cutting the ice. I swear she thinks I'm gay and repressing. There's nothing wrong with her. In fact far from it, she's pretty damn gorgeous and funny.But she's not Kate. No-one's Kate. I remember when I first met her. It was like someone hit me in the face with a feather pillow. Her long red hair, with waves and undulations like the sea, her eyes...her beautiful eyes which shift in colour - sometimes they're deep brown, but sometimes they change and there's a greeny-grey hint to them. And they're so expressive, conveying os much love to her family. Her friends. Her lover. And her skin. Oh, her pale, soft skin, utterly perfect and flawless. And then she opened her perfectly shaped mouth and I fell in love with her that little bit more. Maybe it's the fact she spent most of our first meeting following her brother's lead and mercilessly tearing shreds off me - I'm a glutton for punishment, I really am - or maybe it's the fact that I succeeded in arguing with her for about four hours on the respective merits and innovations of Duke Ellington and Miles Davis. Or the fact that every minute I spent with her I wanted to last aeons, but instead seemed all too brief.Every time I met her after that I desperately tried to analyse our meetings for possibilities that she might like me even a fraction as much as I liked her. Maybe that accidental brush of my arm in the nightclub was out of a repressed desire to touch me. Maybe when she talked of how much she loved the work of Shostakovich and would love to go to a concert with me - maybe that was indicative of a desire to spend time with just me, and I ruined it by inviting our friends. Even now when she's so very annoyed with me - maybe she's acting annoyed to cover up the fact she's worried, rather than being angry for me ruining her night with Mike. It's getting to the stage where it's affecting our friendship. I thought having her to live with us would make things better. I'd grow used to her, maybe get irritated with her bad habits. But no, she has none. She's utterly ideal for me. And because of that I'm growing further apart from her. I can't spend time around her and Mike - every second it feels like someone twists a knife into my heart. And I can't spend much time alone with her because I can barely look her in the face. Two weeks ago we all went out clubbing. We were having a good laugh, and then Rob started up with his jokes about me becoming a monk because I'd been single for so long. And Kate...she was drunk, tried to hug me and said that she loved me even if no-one else did. And I shoved her away. I actually pushed her away. Me, Mr non-violent shoved the woman I love away from me, and ran off. Like a twelve year old. I hate myself.I've not been out with anyone for three years now. I just can't. It's not right. I know now, better than ever, that she's not interested, that I am just another, better-loooking brother to her. She's been with Mike over a year now. She must be thinking of it as something serious. I'm not sure I could cope if she married him.I've often thought I should just go. Go somewhere. Anywhere. I've had my chances. The others would cope without me. As long as I've got rent coming in form the others I'm fairly independant financially. I got a pretty good job offer last year from Quebec. I could have taken that. I should have taken that. A few years away would fix me up. Everyone here would forget about me, that wouldn't be a problem. Kate would marry Mike, I'd get an invite and not appear, and that would be it. And maybe, given time, I'd forget about Kate. Find a nice Canadian girl. Politely decline any offers of visits from here until I'm no more than a vague memory, an occasional Christmas card.It'll never happen. I can never leave. I'm going to chase her around like a lost puppy, no matter how many times I get kicked. You never know though, maybe one night it'll go like it did tonight, but they'll do a better job and actually finish me off. Or kick some sense into me. Then I'll be able to stop pretending that I'm not avoiding her.

Bit 3.2

This is the worst day of my life.
This beats the day I went out with Handysides for a lunchtime drink "or ten" and bumped into Kate. And she took weeks to forgive me for that.
This beats everything.
They're all staring at me. Well, except for Rob, who's too busy pissing himself laughing.
Can it get more humiliating? Being examined by the boyfriend of your unrequited love, while said unrequited love and friends stare at you wishing they could burn you with their eyes?

The answer you're looking for is no.
"OK, your right arm's badly bruised, but not broken. A couple of your ribs are though. I think it's a clean break with all of them, but you're going to need hospital."
Damn you for being so nice, Michael Finchley.
"Most of the rest of it's superficial, it'll clear up in a few days. Apart from that cut above your eye. You're going to need stitches on that."
"Maybe a scar'll remind him not to be so stupid." Oh that hurts more than anything. Maybe if I prostrate myself in front of her she'll forgive me?
"You're pretty lucky though. No teeth lost and your fingers are fine, so once the swelling in your lip goes down and your arm mends you'll be back to playing trumpet in no time."
It takes effort to hate someone who's so fundamentally decent.
"Fanks ma'"
"What were you doing out in Guinevere anyway?"
Come through for me Rob.
"They were out doing some research." Or Dmitri. Either of you would have done. I love you.
"Research for what?" Kate, I love you more, but please shut up. "I thought IPC banned any non-essential staff from the area?"
"I'm helping out with sports desk during the quiet season." Ah Rob, finally you prove some use. "They wanted us to do some research on attitudes to football around the city."
It was going so well.
"I thought you hated football?" Oh piss off Finchley.
"'fort I'd 'elp".
"I needed someone with higher clearance to get to a suburb pub. We figured that one was near enough the borders that it's be pretty safe." Oh God, he's going to make me suffer for this.
"A safe suburban pub. Good one." And I think Dmitri's going to make me suffer too.
"Yes." Kate's voice could freeze Hell over. I think I may have comprehensively blown any chance I had with her. So much for sympathy over my war wounds.
"Anyway, come on, Michael's going to drive you to hospital. He's due to start his shift in a couple of hours."
Oh cruel fate, why do you mock me?
"'m fine. 'onest. Jus' need rest." That's pretty poor by my standards.
"You really need your ribs checking out Remi." Oh, thank you Dr Finchley. I can't actually think of any torture worse than sitting in a car with you and Kate watching you carry on your date in the front seat and not being able to shove you out of one of the doors into oncoming traffic.
"It's alright. I'll drive him." I swear Dmitri is redefining the word 'saint' tonight. "You two get back to whatever you were doing." Scratch that, he's a git.
"If you're sure D? It would mean we'd actually get to spend a bit of time together for a change."
This is so unfair. I'm sat here broken and bleeding and she's actually kissing him in front of me. Why didn't Trawlerman just put me out of my misery?
"I need a lie down first." Picking myself up off the sofa, I limp feebly to the stairs. I don't care about the pain. Anything's better than watching my heart get torn out and ruthlesslly trampled underfoot.

Bit 3.1

Ow.
Not fair.
I feel like I've been thrown in a cement mixer with a ten tonne weight and left to rotate slowly for a few hours.
OK first things first...left fingers move alright. Right fingers...ok. Maybe if I try and sit up...

Hmmm. Think I may have passed out there again. Mental note. Do not move.
Really want to open my eyes but don't think I can. Can I speak?
"Mmmph". Hmm. Lips seem at least eight times their normal size. Check the teeth...Jesus that hurts. Still, they all seem to be there, at least the front ones. Let's try again.
"Mmmmph."
"Hey, he's back with us!" So Rob's here then.
"Bleed on my car and I will do you harm." And that would be Dmitri then.
"I think he's already had harm done to him D."
Ain't that the truth.
"Where the bloody hell did you bugger off to?!" Or at least that's what I tried to say. I think it came out more like "Mmmph Mmmph!"
"I'm not stupid, Remi, there was no way I was getting myself kicked." So he understood then? "I ran off and called D to pick us up. You weren't exactly going to be getting the bus home."
"Yes, because what I really needed after a long day patrolling the suburbs was to come back out here and pick up my backwards friends who thought they'd play chicken with the lunatics."
Getting the impression Dmitri isn't happy.
"I mean..," He's REALLY not happy. You're lucky to get two sentences out of him in an evening, let alone back to back. "...how many times have I told you? Don't. Go. To. Guinevere. It's simple to understand. I can understand it. Kate can understand it. You two can't. Cretins."
Oh. Kate...somehow or other I don't think she'll go for the elephant man look. Oh well, maybe she'll see my injuries and it'll move her into declaring her undyingand long-repressed love for me.
"Don't blame me, D" Thanks Rob. "Fool boy here wanted to avoid Kate and Mike." Go, solidarity.
"Well, he's buggered now then isn't he?"
Oh God. What's happening. "Mmmph?"
"We're getting you home first." So far so good.
"Kate and Mike came home as soon as D let them know." Yay! Go me! Ruined their date! "Mike's going to check you out, see if you need the hospital."Oh nonononononononono."
''m pre'y ba'. Nee' 'osfita'." This speaking lark is getting easier.
"You're not going to hospital unless there's no other option."
Oh please Rob. I need your help more than ever. Break my arm. Please!
"Anyway, we're back now."
Bugger.

Bit 2.5

"The figures for this month have shown a slight rise in incidents. If you look at the paper, you'll see we've had a number of incidents in the past month, spread across Guinevere, and Lancelot." He took in Humphreys' troubled gaze, and added in a placatory fahsion "Mercifully Gawain, Bedevere and Merlin have stayed trouble free so far."
But this was not enough to quell Humphreys' anxiety. His heart was sinking fast. Why was it impossible to control the SRAs? "Have DfIS managed to get to the bottom of these? How come IPC haven't been running with this?"
"George, there's no need for too much concern." Martin's attempt to placate Humphreys fell on deaf ears. "Intelligence shows that there's no pattern in the attacks, it's not a co-ordinated scheme again. Both arson attacks were results of NFA activity. The remaining incidents seem to be fall out from the last few gang members still free."
"And IPC?"
"As far as IPC are concerned, the majority of their coverage no longer deals with the SRAs. As I understand it, there is a blanket ban on any unauthorised coverage from within any of the zones."
It was true. In the heyday of the SRA conflicts, losses sustained by IPC staff attempting to cover incidents were comparable to those sustained by the Police. The introduction of the National Guard had provided scant support, and in the end, IPC Management had withdrawn all staff from the areas, except for a few individuals left behind with National Guard units to relay official statements on action.
"So apart from official statements from DfIS, IPC haven't mentioned the incidents at all?"
"Not a jot."
"Well, I suppose that's something." Humphreys relaxed a little. "Still, not exactly the news I was hoping for before going away. Nothing else to report?"
"No, George, that's the sum of it."
"Well, then, that's it for me this term. You were the last appointment of the day. Care to share a drop of brandy?"
Humphreys didn't wait for an answer, but produced a small decanter and two glasses from a draw in his desk. Pouring out a generous measure for both of them, he proferred the glass at Martin. The two men had been involved in and around government for the bulk of their careers, and once upon a time, Friday afternoon drinks had been commonplace. But with an increase in responsibility for them both, they had grown apart, and it had been some months since they had last found themselves in the position to enjoy each other's company.
"Anything nice planned for the recess?"
Martin took the glass gratefully, raised it in acknowledgement and drank a sip. "Not really George, you know me - I'm a winter sports type of chap. No, thought I'd stay on hand - for one thing, I thought it might help you relax, knowing there's someone on hand should anything arise."
Humphreys smiled gratefully "I do appreciate that, Frank. Might help me have some proper time off this year. Poor Marie and the children haven't seen me properly for months - they'll have forgotten who I am." And George Humphreys let his mind drift to his beloved family, who meant everything to him. Even good friends such as Frank Martin come and go, but Marie had been there with him since their early teens and had never wavered in her support of him. Back then, they had often talked of growing old together, and George thought, with a pang of regret, that although they had grown ever closer emotionally over the past few years, they had grown physically further apart, as their careers had lead them to live increasingly separate lives. The attempt to resolves the problems of the SRAs had therefore taken on the aspect of a personal crusade for Humphreys - as the problems decreased, he regained more of his life. And with the beast seemingly finally at bay, George Humphreys felt a sense of relief and pleasure that even Martin would have struggled to realise.
Frank Martin would never have admitted it to anyone else, but he was thinking almost enviously of the settled, stable family life of the Prime Minister, with his devoted wife, and adoring children. His passions belied his appearance as an elderly "Old Colonial" type. He constantly sought adventure and change, and as a result of this had lived an exotic and adventurous life. Yet in the calm, reserved outlook of George Humphreys, as far removed from his own view of life as you could get he had found a friend who supported him in his moments of weakness and loneliness, and someone who, strange as it may seem, he could aspire to.
Eventually, it came the time for Frank Martin to make his excuses and leave. Their parting was a fond one, full of sincere wishes of good health and fortune for the next few weeks. James showed Martin out to his car, and as they made their small talk, the latter felt a vague hint of regret at having been so critical of the good-natured PPS of the Prime Minister.
And sat in the grand office with its wood-paneling and plush green carpet, George Humphreys, the Prime Minister, let his mind wander out through the window, over the swathes of green grass, towards the tranquility and calm of the lakeside where his wife and children waited for him.

Bit 2.4

Martin acknowledged the point, and then turned to his paperwork. They both knew there was only one issue of any importance remaining to be discussed.
"So, the SRAs then?"
When they had held their first ever meeting, in the early days of the government, the mention of the Suburban Relocation Areas would have precipitated several weeks' worth of discussion and analysis. For a long time it felt like it was the single, the only issue for the Government to consider. Foreign affairs were ignored (at least as much as they could be), trade, unemployment, health - all discussion had to be suspended. Now, in the dying days of the Parliamentary year, there was a feeling of jubilation, mingled with severe exhaustion when the topic came up.
"George, you have to realise we've achieved something monumental here. We've begun to heal the years of damage that Roach, that cretinous fool, caused. It's a momentous achievement, truly exceptional."
But Humphreys casting another disapproving look at Martin. "You mustn't speak ill of Anthony, Frank. Everyone in this position does their best, and I'm sure he had his reasons for the actions he took and the decisions he made. We are all fallible Frank, even you."
"If you say so, George." But the glance that Martin threw at the floor showed that Humphreys' pleas had fallen on deaf ears. "But the fact remains that we have suceeded where no-one thought we would. The figures here alone state it." Laying his consultation paper on the desk he pointed to various graphs as he explained "Serious offences down 75% - that's THREE-QUARTERS, George, that's phenomenal. All the constituent elements have fallen too - physicaland sexual assault, anti-social behaviour, even minor misdemeanours such as vandalism - all showing massive decreases across the board. Of course, these are the year-on-year decreases. The month-on-month analysis is less spectacular, but it all adds up."
"Do you think that it's all due to the new policies?"
"Well, certainly the community service aspects have had a great impact. And the zero tolerance approach to serious crime had a spectacular effect. Of course, it's led to massive increases in the prison population, but the new solitary confinement policies and units have had excellent results. Re-offending is down 62%, which is magnificent." Frank was positively beaming. "It's almost beyond belief George."
But Humphreys still looked troubled. He sat in silence a moment, his brow creased in thought. Finally he spoke.
"So, in your opinion, are the National Guard still required?"
Frank paused, his face falling. "You know my feelings on that matter George. I'm in total agreement with you, the deployment of the National Guard should never have happened, and certainly shouldn't be continuing. But O'Malley believes..."
"I have already had my meeting with Richard, George. I'm asking your professional opinion here. Do you think it is still necessary to have the National Guard deployed in the SRAs?"
Silence.
"I have to say, from a professional point of view, sir. Yes. They are still needed. It's not the right moment to pull them out."
Humphreys nodded, remaining silent.
"The fact is, " continued Martin "yes, our policies and changes made a difference. But they would have been useless had the National Guard not already been in place to enforce them. And they continue to have a discouraging effect on potential criminals."
More silence. Finally, Humphreys spoke.
"Richard is very much of the same opinion."
Martin snorted derisively, "You would hardly expect him not to be, to be fair. Turkeys don't vote for Christmas."
"But he employed the same arguments, Frank. And he is a trusted member of my Cabinet. You w ouldn't have expected me to have appointed someone as Secretary of State for Internal Security who would put his own career prospects in front of doing the right and proper thing, would you?"
"No, George, I wouldn't."
Humphreys gave what he hoped was a relaxing smile. He didn't want to be at odds with the most trusted member of his Cabinet, and more to boot, a personal friend.
"All being well, if the figures continue to show this downturn, we should be able to dispand the National Guard and the Department for Internal Security early next term. And Richard need not worry. He already knows that he's due a plum post in the Cabinet when Margaret steps down. After all his work for DfIS, he deserves a good post."
But Frank's face remained impassive. "Well, George, there is a slight hiccough with this."

Bit 2.3

"That would seem to be a good place to start. As you say, we've had a pretty easy ride of it for the past few months. IPC have been steering clear of us, mainly been directing their attention towards the opposition and big business."
"Ah yes," Humphreys was not a man who usually revelled in schadenfreude, but the mention of big business made him smile."They did do excellent work on the Golding-Maxwell issue. I think it's fair to say they single-handedly broke that company." Again he smiled at the memory of how the Golding-Maxwell, for so long a thorn in the side of any redevelopment work in the city due to their vast land holdings had been essentially decapitated by articles in the various sections of IPC detailing their links to illegal arms trading. "It's nice to have some ethical journalism being done for a change. You don't, though, find it...unusual how they have left us alone do you?"
"Not at all. You see, thanks to my PPS I'm privy to a lot of what goes on at IPC."
"How so?"
"Well, her brother and a few of her friends are fairly high up in IPC. In fact, one of the friends is the new head of the Investigative Journalism department - he's the one who did the bulk of the legwork on Golding-Maxwell."
Humphreys was taken aback by this. "But surely, that's a conflict of interests?"
"Not really George. I trust her implicitly." Martin smiled across as Humphreys raised an eyebrow. "I only know the IPC Situation from personal chats with her. And, as you say, there's no reason to be suspicious of any IPC links in the current climate."
It still didn't sit easily with George Humphreys. "I would have thought that something like this would have caused problems Miss Jones' career progression. You don't find it unusual that three fairly important people are connected like this?"
"As you say sir, she's exceptionally proficient at her work. Her track record is immaculate, therefore her personal situation hasn't come into it. And with respect, George, given the recruitment policies of both IPC and ourselves, it's not in the least bit surprising that these people are so interconnected. If we will all recruit from the same few Univeristies..."
"Touché, Frank." Humphreys relaxed a little and smiled. "Well, as you say, for the moment at least, this isn't an issue. And if you trust her...implicitly...well, that's good enough for me. After all, the only people who would make mileage out of this are IPC, and I imagine that they've had a very similar conversation to this. Anyway, you were saying about your 'inside information'?"
Frank Martin relaxed a little. The last few minutes had been unpleasantly close to a confrontation. "Well, apparently the head of the News section, chap by the name of..." he checked his papers..."Andrew Marlin, well, he's very "pro" our policies, as is Mistry, the Investigative Journalist. So, while this 'entente cordiale' continues, we don't have a great deal to worry about."
"A far cry from the early days with that fool Lindsay then? Thank heaven for small mercies."
They both took a few moments of respite, sipping their tea. Martin reached out and took a biscuit from the tray. "Well stocked with my favourites I see," he chuckled.
"Thank James." replied Humphreys with a smile.

Bit 2.2

"Hello Frank," he said, rising form his chair and offering his hand in greeting, "nice to see you". And George Humphreys meant this. Frank Martin had been a staunch supporter of all his initiatives over the past few months and years - indeed, ever since he had been made Home Secretary. Humphreys was in no doubt that their united front was the reason why so much had been achieved in dealing with the recent situations.
"Afternoon George" replied Martin, warmly shaking his hand, "End-of-term report time again, then?" He sat down in the easy chair. Humphreys gave a knowing smile and returned to his seat. In some ways, the two men were not dissimilar - they were of a similar age, and both were fairly short, though perhaps it was fair to say that Humphreys was the slightly larger of the two. And not just in terms of physical height - the Prime Minister was also greater in terms of girth. The adjective that was most often used in the press was "chunky". Frank Martin, on the other hand, was what one might call "well preserved" for his age. In his younger days, he had had quite a reputation as a womaniser, and even now was still considered to have immense personal attractiveness, a fact helped by his personal charm, which he had in spades. George Humphreys on the other hand had always been a family man, and indeed, his flights of fancy over to the lake always included in some way or another his wife and children. Around the walls of the office there were few of the grand paintings one might have expected, but rather photos of the four of them, separately or together.
Reaching out and taking the tea that had been prepared for him, Martin relaxed in the chair. "I overheard James leaving instruction for while he's away with the young chap out there. I take it he's not retiring this year then?"
Humphreys looked sternly over at Martin, then smiled and relaxed. "He does a fine job, Frank. Plenty of years left in him, and, for one thing, he knows how everyone takes their tea."
Martin chuckled. "No, no, no, I wasn't suggesting he did a bad job. It's just you have to say he's older than some of the furnishings. You really should have someone younger around here, if nothing else, for the look of the thing."
"Ah, but i trust James implicitly. I certainly couldn't begin to think of passing things over for Matthew yet. He's a nice lad, but he's still learning."
"You could do worse than looking at my PPS. Not that I want to give her up of course, but she does a fantastic job, and it'd be criminal not to push her for promotion just because of my selfishness."
"Ah yes. Miss Jones. You're not the first person to say good things about her. She's getting an excellent reputation around the offices. But still, James has been with me a long time..."
Sipping his tea, Martin shrugged. "Well, it would seem to be your loss, George. Very much so - it never hurts to have a pretty girl around the office too!"
Humphreys flashed a warning look across the desk at him. "Don't let's have you getting carried away, now, Frank. We've kept pretty clean for this year, and I don't want any damage doing to us, especially given the state of the other lot."
That was the signal that the small talk was over. Sitting up straighter, placing his cup and saucer back on the desk, and pulling a sheave of paper out of his briefcase - the change in Frank Martin was impressive, a relaxing lion springing to a position of alertness.

Bit 2.1

The office was magnificently well-appointed. Wood-paneled throughout, the floor had a plush, deep green carpet, the downside of which was that it magnificently preserved the footsteps of anyone coming through the door to the various chairs at the meeting table, or (a slightly less well-trodden path) to the easy chair in front of the long mahogany desk. The desk itself was impressively free of clutter - a small pile of neatly arranged papers was set out on the green writing mat set before the plush, green (of course) leather padded chair.
A row of high windows lined the wall behind the chair. Each had what appeared to be a net curtain covering them, in actual fact, bomb-proof netting. In the far corner of the room, on the opposite side to the impressively-sized meeting table (again in mahogany, with fifteen spaces set around it), a comfortable, well-worn arm chair was positioned by one of the windows, with its identical twin brother facing it, looking oddly incongruous in the austere surroundings of the office. The netting had been drawn back slightly beside this chair, a strict breach of security, but then, no-one was going to take this up with the occupant of the room. From the chair, there was an uninhibited view to the park beyond, where countless hundreds - possibly thousands - of tourists and locals were enjoying the magnificent weather. Prime Minister George Humphreys was sat in the chair, letting his imagination wander over the lush grass of the park to the lakeside, an oasis of tranquility in the comparative bustle of city life.
There was a light knock on the door, followed by the head of James, his PPS, appearing around the corner. It said something about the bond between James and the Prime Minister that the former's eyes went immediately to the armchair by the window.
"The Home Secretary is here for your appointment, sir."
The Prime Minister gave an involuntary sigh and smiled at him. James entered the room carrying a refreshments tray. He laid the items out in suitable positions on the desk. As he did, the Prime Minister spoke to him.
"Thanks James. I shouldn't be too long, so you might as well start packing up and sorting things out while he's here. Going anywhere nice this year?"
"Just a little trip to our cottage in the hills sir. Try to get away from the inevitable visit by the grandchildren."
The Prime Minister chuckled " Luckily that's something I don't have to avoid...yet! Make sure you don't stay too late today though. It's been a hard year, and you deserve a rest."
"Thank you sir. I'll make sure Matthew has everything he needs to keep going while we're away."
With that, James retreated through the door. The Prime Minister lifted himself up out of the chair, and made his way wearily to the desk. He glanced through the papers in front of him, but in reality, his mind was still running across the park, heading for the tranquility of the lake. It had been a hard year and he was looking forward to a little break. And God knows, he thought, given all I've done, I think I've deserved it.
There was another, slightly more forceful knock on the door. Clearing his throat and returning to the real world, the Prime Minister invited the person to enter.

Bit 1.5

More cheering, this time because someone's kicked someone else rather than the ball, and the "kickee" has lamped the kicker. And people wonder why half the city is a lawless, godforsaken hellhole.
And then the doors swing and in walks a vision of what life would be like if you, ooh, let's see, spent all your cash on hookers, booze and drugs, and then lost your job, family, income and self-respect as a consequence.
"Bloody hell, it's Handysides!" Rob's actually managed to tear himself away from the authorised GBH on the TV now. "Christ, he's a mess."
You couldn't put it more succinctly than that. If you wanted to elaborate you could say he's an unkemp, unshaven, stinking, urine-sodden, beer-soaked mess, but the essential "mess-ness" is what counts. And I, for one feel massively sorry for the guy. Yes, alright, I called him a cretin before, but...well, no-one deserves to have fallen so far.
The shambolic figure made his way unsteadily towards the bar, and half-lunged, half-fell at the counter top.
"Gi' 's drin'" Now, that's not good - he's lost the ability to speak. Although interestingly not the ability to shout. It's quite sad really watching the people edge away form him at the bar. Five minutes ago you couldn't have got near the place, now there's a clear space around him that's rapidly increasing in diameter. Except...
"You fucking stink." Ah, trawler guy. How did I guess that if someone was going to be tactless it would be him? Interesting accent too - Icelandic sailor by way of Cornwall by the sounds of it.
And then things go wrong. Handysides looks up at Trawler man, utters some kind of scream and launches himself at him. Handysides is a big man, but big in the wrong way, and it's almost predictable as we watch him punched virtually halfway across the room by Trawlerman. This isn't right. Not right at all. And then Trawlerman advances towards him and kicks him hard in the ample gut. He's been learning by what he's seen on TV.
"Hey, mate, there's no need for that." Oh dear, this is how all brawls start. Someone always tries to play the Good Samaritan.
Oh. That was me.
I can see Rob looking at me with a mixture of incredulity and fear as Trawlerman steps over Handysides' limp form and heads my way. No-one's watching the football any more. Probably they'll get a good showing of foot-Remi instead.
"You friends with the little maggot?" Interesting. He's virtually drooling as he speaks...maybe the anticipation of doing someone harm is making his mouth water. And where the hell is Rob going?
"E's na' fren'. L'il shi' nik' m' job!" Well, thank you Handysides. I should have known.
Trawlerman turns round, kneels down, and delivers a bone-crushing punch to Handysides' gut. What a relief there's not much bone to crunch there. "Shut up maggot. Your turn's later." He cranks back his arm to hit him again, but this time someone reaches in and holds his arm back.
Oh. That was me too.
"That's enough," Why oh why am I starting like this? Reason never works. Run away! Oh no, too late.
I don't think I've felt anything like that. It was like having a car driven at my face and the next think I know I'm creering back into the table behind me and I hear the sound of breaking glass. I think I may have "spilled someone's pint." But right now, I'm more concerned with the blood flowing liberally from my mouth and nose. Need to get back up.
Oh, a boot in the face. That always tends to wake you up from whatever strange world your brain takes you to. This is getting quite worrying now. Where the hell is Rob?
Trawlerman leans down, grasps my collar and hauls me up off the deck. His breath reeks of fish - looks like I was right about him on virtually all counts. Trawler sailor - check! Raving psychopath - check!
"Listen, you fucking little prick..." But I'm anything but listening. I can't see much anymore - things are going a little hazy, not to mention red, but there's definitely movement over there.
"Hey Garth, the maggot's gone!" and then blissful relief as I feel myself falling to the floor. I think the maggot may have saved my life there, but then I don't think anymore because I'm too busy passing out.

Bit 1.4

"How much longer is this going to go on for?"
God I hate football.
"There's only another half an hour to go. Stop whinging!"
"I just don't find it hugely entertaining being crammed in a pub with large sweaty men watching overhyped and farcically overpaid baboons kicking a ball around."
But then, that's just my opinion.
Rob turned to face me, exasperated. "Will you stop complaining - you're like an old woman! You're supposed to be having fun!"
"This is categorically not my idea of fun."
"Oh, and what would you rather be doing?"
Sitting on a sun-kissed beach with Kate, watching the light reflect off the waves, and off her skin...
"You see!" Rob exclaimed triumphantly. He's loving this. "There's nothing better!"
"You didn't give me chance to answer!"
"There was nothing you could possibly say which would be better."
Oh yes there is.
"Stop thinking about my sister!"
Bugger.
Suddenly a roar. Bloody hell, my nerves aren't good. It's probably the surroundings more than anything. There's a reason no-one comes out of the city any more. Because it's bloody terrifying.
"Thanks dude. I missed that." Rob punched me on the arm. I have committed the cardinal sin of distracting him from his football.
So we stand in silence for a bit longer. Rob's fixed on the screen. I for once am not thinking about Kate, but trying to see exactly what appeal there is in football. I suppose there's the joy of shouting at the screen, abusing the people running around. Gets rid of some pent-up aggression, and from the looks of some of the people here they NEED to get rid of some aggression. Preferably in a non-physical way. I mean, look at that guy. He looks like he's just stepped off an Icelandic trawler with that ridiculous beard. Probably spent the past few weeks butchering whales and now he's come to the city to butcher some people too. Or maybe I'm just a big paranoid freak.
"We should probably head for the bus straight after this, mate. It's not good sense to stay out here too late."
Rob turned to look at me. "It's a chain pub, Remi. Nothing bad ever happens in a chain pub." He looked at his pint. "Well, nothing TOO bad."
"All the same, I'd rather head back. We can go to the pub round the corner for last orders."
"Because you know that Mike and Kate will be long gone."
It annoys me when he's right all the time.
"Ah well," he said. "You're probably right. Doesn't do good to stay out in these parts too long after dark. And besides which, the buses'll stop running soon."
"Oh joy. Public transport."
"Blame it on Handysides."
He had a point. If Handysides hadn't messed up so gloriously, we'd still have generous expense accounts, chauffeur-driven cars, security. Actually, messed up just doesn't do the scale of his cock-ups justice. The man was a cretin, if only because it's his fault I can't call for a driver to pick us up and take us home safely.

Bit 1.3

It was that magic time of evening, as we travelled through the city. The sun was casting dying embers down the streets, golden flecks, brilliant reds refelcted in the plate glass. The night people were taking over from the day people. People dressed up for a night on the town, people like Kate, in her flowing white skirt, with her red hair the same colour as the sun...
"You're thinking about her aren't you?"
"Oh for God's sake drop it Rob. For the last time, I do not fancy the temp!"
"You know exactly who I'm talking about."
Unfortunately, my infatuation with Kate had not remained solely in my head. Rob had figured things out a long time ago. It's to be expected really - he's my best mate and knows me as well as anyone. And to his credit, when he figured it out, he didn't flatten me for having designs on his sister, a fate that had befallen numerous other friends of ours. Dmitri still swears he's got lasting damage.
"Am I that transparent?" I smiled ruefully.
"Only in as much as you drool every time you see her."
"I'd better bloody not to - that'd be a dead giveaway. I hope she doesn't figure it out soon."
"I hope she does." Rob fixed me with a glare. "It'd put me out of my misery."
"Oh, come on! I'm not that bad."
"We're on a bus heading the opposite direction to where we should be going, where no-one in their right mind goes for a good night out, because you don't want to go to a local pub in case you find Kate and Mike there. That's not normal behaviour."
"I said nothing, but stared out of the window. He really did know me well.
"Why haven't you said anything yet? It's getting worse."
Here it goes again. At least once a week we have this conversation.
"You know why. We've got a good house, I don't want to rock the boat."
"That's bollocks and you know it."
He has a point.
"Look, even as a friend, Kate makes life in this place bearable in a way that I don't want to imagine being without. She's shown no sign of interest, and you yourself have said that she'd turn me down flat if I ever did anything. And you know very well that after that it'd only be a matter of time before she moved out and I'll never see her again."
Rob began to laugh. "What are you, living in some kind of soap opera? 'Oooh, I'll never see her again...I'll be doomed!' She's my sister you cretin, of course you'd see her again."
"You know what I mean."
"That you only still hang around with me because of my sister."
Ouch.
I think that's what you call an uncomfortable silence.
"And you've made me late for the match now." The olive branch of peace was extended.
"Have I told you lately how much I hate football?"
"Frequently" grinned Rob.
It wasn't true at all. Rob and I will be sat in a pub together at the age of 70 with me still complaining about football, and him still loving watching me squirm. He's been a good mate, and I think we rely on each other an unhealthy amount.
And besides which, I'd still have to work with the lazy git.

Bit 1.2

"You are a total pervert."
"I am not." This is an outrageous slur on my character. I have never done anything to justify this unreasonable accusation.
"You are." Rob is enjoying this an indecent amount. "Let's see, you have four temps in for interview, and you choose the pretty female."
"She had the best experience! One of the guys had worked on the in-house journal for the chicken farming industry! It's hardly good preparation for a career in investigative journalism!"
"You keep telling yourself that."
Thing is, yes she was very attractive and young (though only a couple of years younger than Rob and me), but she got the post on merit. In that she was the only person who HAD done investigative work beforehand.
And besides which I'm not interested.
We pushed open the door to the house. We'd never quite got out of the habit of communal living like we did when we were students. For one thing, I've lived with Rob every year since leaving Uni - I'm not sure I could cope without his unique brand of chaos in the living area.
"Oh yeah, something smells goo-o-d!" exclaimed Rob.
Flowers, meadows, happy sunny days with just her...
"I do believe that's a Lasagne you're making! Enough for us?"
"Sod off, Rob!" Kate, his sister, retorted - she was well practiced at repelling his culinary advances. "You can make your own food. Hi Remi!"
I love you.
"Hi K. He's right you know, it does smell good!"
"And I was just going to complement you on being polite, unlike my wretched brother. Maybe you can have a bit if you're lucky."
God, marry me.
"Who's the rest of it for?" Rob really does have the subtlety of a breezeblock.
"Mike's coming round."
Bastard.
"I thought I'd cook him something nice, and then we're heading out with some of his work friends".
Bastard bastard.
"Anywhere nice?" Hopefully somewhere that she hates so she'll dump the git.
"Probably go to see a film or something. I'm sure you'd be welcome to come...not sure about him though" she gestured over her shoulder at Rob who was rummaging in the freezer.
"Nah" came the disembodied voice of the bane of my existence, "I'll just stick a couple of pizzas in the oven and then we're off down the pub. There's a good match on."
Oh my life is so special. Beautiful woman, pub, beautiful woman...pub.
"Besides, I've got to grill Remi some more about this lass he's just hired. He's only hired her cos he fancies her."
oh shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup.
"That's a total lie! SHe was the best qualified candidate."
"We believe you, of course," Kate gave me an exaggerated wink. God she's perfect. " Now bugger off and leave me in peace." She turned back to the chopping board, her long flame-red hair swishing behind her.
Kate moved in with us shortly after she left Uni. Our old flatmate Pete had relocated (probably to get away from the stench of Rob's feet), and we'd decided we needed the female touch, as the house had got a bit too blokey. Rob suggested Kate, who had just finished her study and got a job in a Ministerial Department on the Fast Track, a suggestion which Dmitri and I agreed with whole heartedly, having met her a few times when she'd visited Rob, and realised she was fairly close to perfect.
However, I wasn't quite prepared for how she had actually improved. You wouldn't have thought there was much room to improve on perfection, but she'd managed it. At a basic level, she was nothing like her brother. She was funny, effortlessly witty, intelligent, passionate, and quite frankly the most beautiful and sexy person I'd ever met in my life.
That was three years ago. And she's continued to get better. I'm so in love with her it's frankly embarrassing. Not to mention depressing, especially when she has an active love life, whereas I have been, well, for want of a better word, stagnant for longer than I care to remember.

Bit 1.1

"Heads up."

It was like being hit by a small van. And then, as if that wasn't enough, it was like being shunted by a 4x4. Some people may like being in the thick of it. I on the other hand, was never cut out for rugby.

Still, at least this time, I came out of it with all my limbs intact. Possibly fewer brain cells though. But then, some may argue, I don't need them anyway.

"OK, time to head back."

Rob ran up to me grinning. Lunch-time rugby was his idea, the mad crazy fool. He said that "everyone does football, it's so passé." Yes, everyone does football because you're less likely to get beaten into a pulp by some vindictive sod in accounts in the name of sport.

On a beautiful summer's day like today, there's something inherently wrong about returning to work in a soulless office that's more like a battery farm than a hotbed of journalism. And especially during August when, as everyone knows, it's "silly season" for the press.

I shouldn't complain though, really. I made a tidy sum on the sly thanks to some strictly off-the-record deals last week about which phrases we could manage to get in. I was rather proud at my "polar bear insurgency" quote. Alright, it was in the TV Listings, and you know you can get ANYTHING published in there, but still - I got it in, I got the cash, and more importantly, I got smug points for the week.

"Oi, cloth ears!". A ringing slap round my head.

"Christ, that hurt, you git! What do you want?"

"I was asking" said Rob, in a tone of faux-indignation, "whether you wanted owt from the canteen?"

I declined with as much faux-politeness as I could muster. I don't hugely want to end up as a fat bloater like Rob. No, I'm being uncharitable. A moderately fat bloater like Rob.

I slumped back at my desk and checked what I had on for the week. Bugger all in short. Interviews for a temp to replace Handysides this afternoon, and that's about it.

I can't exactly say I'm disappointed that Handysides is gone. There's something disconcerting about having the former Head of Section as one of your underlings. You just got the feeling he was constantly thinking he could do a far better job. And he probably could have done had he decided to sober up for at least one day a week. Got to make sure the temp smells better than he did.

Introduction 5

He was too busy looking behind himself, that he didn't notice what was in front.

Handysides barrelled straight into the poor guy, the impact sending them both flying across the alley. He was way too worried to stop and apologise though - fear had hold of him. He started lifting himself off the floor, but became aware of something round his ankle.

"Ya cud a'least sa sorry" rasped the voice. Even through the fug of his own drunkenness, the stench of strong spirits cut through to Handysides' brain. Grasping hold of his ankle was a truly sorry figure, dressed in rags, covered in matted hair, his bleary eyes focussed on the bag of alcohol in Handysides' hands.

He could hear voices. They were out of the pub and closing in.

"Take the booze, I don't need it!". Flinging the carrier bag to the floor, Handysides kicked out with his free leg. Feeling the hand around his ankle losing and ignoring the muffled cry, he staggered upright and carried on running.

He;d only made it to the next street when he heard the gunshot behind him. And then he carried on running, back towards his flat.

Handysides hadn't always been a failure. But tonight he'd made sure he could carry on being a failure for a few years yet.