Harvest

Harvest

Joan of Arc barely withheld her screams, as the first flames licked her toes. It was her mortal farewell and she could now take her place alongside the angels. She offered prayers that the pain might be brief, but that she was prepared to suffer, if that is what she deserved, and what the Lord had ordained for her. She could feel the heat of the flames beginning to warm her back and her sides, “Not long, oh Lord, I will soon be with thee,” she silently screamed it to the heavens, then “Mon Dieu!” a sharp prick in her side. “Go, go! I have the subjects sample, get me out of here!” Deano Carpenter shouted into his transmitter. Joan looked down to her side, through the smoke to see what she mistook to be an angel, holding what she assumed was a shimmering cross. It was in fact a time harvester, who had traveled back 600 years to get a sample of her DNA. What she mistook for white robes was the time suit, and the small crucifix she had seen, was a syringe being held up reflecting the glowing flames. Her joy was confirmed and her belief fortified, as she saw this angelic spectre disappear before her eyes, borne to the heavens.

Deano was a harvester with the reality entertainments company Blast From The Past and getting the harvest had, on this occasion been quite tricky; the problems began when Deano was transported to the wrong day, one day prior to the burning to be precise. This happened sometimes, as pinpointing exact locations and times was an inexact, but rapidly improving science. It wasn’t like the early days where a harvester arrived on the Steppe 4 years before Genghis Kahn. Due to the expense of extraction and time transportation he was forced to live in a yurt with a four foot tall tribal girl, until Genghis arrived, when he harvested the sample and got extraction. To this day there is in a corner of the Steppe a somewhat fair, tall tribal people, who claim that their ancestors were flying giants, who came from the sky. Only once the harvest was returned could the cost of extraction be justified. Other eventful harvests involved a fight with the knights of the round table, a passionate night with the Mata Hari, and a tricky evening spent with Caligula, trying to convince him that they weren’t their to kill him, and that an orgy with virgin slaves and sheep, was better than a threesome with a senator and his wife, in the public baths while everyone cheered encouragement. Deano arrived at the precise point on the back side of a pile of wood. He nearly lost his footing, but on realising that there was no pole, no flames and no maiden screaming, he crouched down. “Shit, confirm location, confirm date!” he spoke softly, yet urgently into the transmitter.

“Correct location, are you sure you aren’t a few metres out?”

“Nope, I’m standing on a log pile…”

“Damn, we are a day out, seventeen hours to be precise.”

“Early or late?”

“A day early.”

“I thought so, the log pile is fresh…it looks ready for a burning.”

“Okay you are just going to have to lie low for a day. Use your training, keep hidden, blend in and don’t speak to anyone unless you have to.” He was already on the move sticking to the walls and shadows, “any chance of extraction and try again?”

“Only if it comes out of your wage packet.”

“Thought not, I’ll buy you a drink.” He offered lamely.

“Nice try, but sorry you’re going to have to rough it with the locals. You might even enjoy it.”

“Yeah right.” The last time he had been back to the medieval period, he had spent the night in a pen pull of pigs and had returned smelling of pig shit. The training they received was extensive, the technical aspects of time transportation and harvesting, mixed with survival skills at the highest level. He thought of himself as half astronaut, half ninja. He worked his way down the side of a wooden building and to the side of a shuttered low window. Listening at the window there was no discernible sound emanating from inside. His tool pack made short work of the nails to one side of the window, so that he could reach his hand through and undo the latch. Window open, he was up, over and into the room crouching down in the semi dark. Nobody was present so he quickly secured the window, then sought a place to find refuge. Downstairs would be more dangerous, he needed to secrete himself upstairs in one of the more out of the way areas. Ninja skills to the fore Deano quickly mounted the stairs, and located a large bedroom. Furniture was scarce and the only possible place was in a cupboard or, under the bed. It was no good, he needed to find another location, then he heard the front door open downstairs, followed by footsteps running fast, a lot of giggling and the sound of a man making bestial grunting noises. He had no time to exit the room, as the footsteps were on the stairs. Window, bed, cupboard, his eyes flicked from one to the next. Not window, don’t know what is outside, could fall or might be seen, cupboard not big enough to hide, without getting spotted, so it had to be the bed. The door to the bedroom opened, as he slid deftly under the bed. A chubby, weeble shaped, middle aged woman was being chased by a stout, bearded chap who had both his hands on her decidedly infirm buttocks.

Deano edged himself further under the bed, while keeping an eye on the couple. The jolly rather drunken fellow had now spun the maiden around and was burying his face in her bosoms, which seemed to be jellying around with a life of their own. They were now a mass of material hands and flesh, with everything moving and all of it towards Deano and the bed. Top garments flew hither, hands delved deeper and now they were beside the bed, a tsunami of flesh seeming to ripple out, every time an item of clothing was torn away. As trousers and skirts found their way onto the floor beside his head, Deano couldn’t avoid the pungency of scarcely washed clothes. They reeked, of shit, grease and meat, but this was as nothing compared to the odour seeping from their undergarments as they were flung down next to his nose. The distinct acrid smell of urine pervaded his nostrils, mixed with blood and cabbage. He turned his head the other way, no longer caring that he needed to be observant, at all times. Then the whole bed seemed to spring to life, in a juddering movement of earthquake proportions, as the couple collapsed cackling and grunting, him on top of her. The force of their joint collapse, brought the whole bed to within an inch from his nose. Then the pumping began, a grunting mass of flesh and filth and with each heaving thrust, a new level of stench was released from their nether regions. The sense of smell is powerful and evokes memories of things, Deano could never forget the activities of that night, the smells imprinting a memory so vivid, that it practically made him gag on each recall. The bouncing of their genitalia and buttocks just inches above his nose released noxious smells, that would inhabit the worst cess pools in hell. The sex act produces bodily fluids with a distinctly pungent aroma; this in itself is tolerable, but what is not bearable is when these fluids are old and fetid, and are mixed with excreta, sweat, animal entrails, soup and the fumes from a moldy, damp ridden mattress. This is what invaded his senses at every thrust, he felt the odour climbing into his nostrils and descending into his throat. It seeped into his clothes and mouth, so that he could taste it’s stale bitterness. It burrowed into his ears with every gasp and grunt and became impregnated in his hair. Try as hard as he could not to vomit, he could feel the bottom of his stomach involuntarily heaving back and forth like a concertina. The love making was nearing a climax of screaming, squelching bliss and the final orgasm released a pungence so fetid, that Deano turned his head to the side with the gap under the bed, to try to gain as much clean oxygen as possible. His nose was practically in some dirty underwear and at the moment of consummation, a maggot hauled itself up from the crotch region of the clothes, wiggling its pointy tip like a wizard's hat, silhouetted in the light from the window. At this moment he added the contents of his stomach to the pool of effluvium that seemed to inhabit the bed area. His retching was camouflaged by, the moans of sexual bliss, as like a steam train, the enamoured couple’s pistons ceased to pump and the heaving wreck of their bodies juddered to a halt, the sound of steam escaping in a steady whoosh. Everything became still and silent, Deano lay under the bed, in a pool of vomit, surrounded by putridity. He longed for a waft of breeze, to clear his nostrils and cleanse his body, but under there it was as still as ice. He lay for as long as he could, until the snoring above his head was loud and long and all motion had ceased, then he edged his way out from his den of abomination. Fleet footed he exited the room and the house, into the pure night air. Never before had he experienced the breeze so clean and fresh, removing some of the taint from his clothing and body. Deano spent the rest of the night in a pig pen, with a sow and piglets, as they snuggled up close to the particularly interestingly smelling intruder.

Dawn came much too soon, a cockerel brazenly inviting the world to wake with a crowing so loud, that he felt that it was screaming into a megaphone beside his left ear. Deano leapt up, sending piglets flying and startling the cockerel which had occupied a post directly above his head. It stopped the crowing, which was a blessed relief, because the birds morning call had been so loud, beside his head, that he could now only hear a ringing sound in his ears. At that moment he was completely deaf, covered in filth and vomit and smelt somewhat like the devil. He decided to get out of the town before it began going about its daily routine. It did not take long before he was in the country, he was constantly amazed by how small even large settlements were in medieval times. He followed a path down to the river, yearning to cleanse himself from the overnight deposits. He worked his way half a mile along the bank to a secluded spot, beneath a tree. With his toolkit he was quickly able to gather firewood and start a decent fire. Even though he knew it might attract attention he was prepared to take the risk, in order to be free from the filth clinging to his body and clothes. Plunging into the icy river he washed away the taint of the previous night. Exhausted he sat down beside the fire in his boxer shorts, leaning against the tree, his clothes hanging from the lower branches to dry. His eyes were heavy from the events of the previous night, but at least he was clean and his clothes were free from any taint, if only the ringing in his ears would stop. God he hated the medieval times, the filth of it all, and it was just so boring. He needed to wait until his clothes were dry before he would move on, the fire was a risk as it might draw attention, but he needed the warmth. Shortly and against his wishes, his eyelids dropped and his body descended into sleepfull oblivion.

She was intrigued by the young man leaning practically naked against a tree. Herding the sheep she had seen the smoke from the fire, and decided to see who was out this early in the morning. She did not recognise him, he was extremely tall and his body muscled and toned in a way that she had not seen before. His hair was cut in a strange way that almost looked as if it was not real, a work of art on the body of an Adonis. She could not help glancing at his boxer shorts, she had never seen such undergarments before and her gaze lingered a little too long on the impressive bulge in the front. She would not normally have stopped and stared at a young man, but this one was so neat, so clean, practically shiny. His skin had scars, but was not pocked and rutted, or covered in coarse hair. Nor was his face, which while that of a man was smooth like a baby.

Something told Deano that he needed to awaken, now! He opened his eyes with a start, to see a vision of beauty staring at him, she blushed, put her hand to her mouth and looked away muttering apologies. This was not good, he needed to think fast, then the beauty asked him his name. His command of the French language was fluent, but his medieval French less impressive. He knew that his language skills would suffice though, as she would think that he was a traveler from some place else, where pronunciation was different; if only she knew how far. He decided to make his excuses, gather his things and leave. The ringing in his ears hadn’t abated and his attempt to make brief polite conversation, resulted in him shouting at her in a completely unintelligible way. Taken aback by the suddenness of his shouting, and his incredible height, she backed away a step, hitting her head on a tree branch. The resulting blow was sufficiently sever to knock her unconscious and she collapsed in a heap on the ground. Quickly he put his clothes on and collected up his possessions, then put out the fire spreading the embers around. He glanced at the young woman on the ground, what if she was dead? No this was not his problem, he needed to leave and there was nothing he could do to change that. What is she was hurt? What if she was seriously hurt and required urgent medical attention? Kneeling down beside her he turned her head to one side, to reveal a nasty gash from which blood was oozing; she might die if left like this. Resting her head in his lap he got out his medi-kit, and quickly cleaned and sealed the wound.

That should have been the end of it, but as he was about to remove the young woman’s head from his lap and leave, he realised that the damsel was staring up into his eyes. She remembered the young man had shouted something, and also remembered a sharp crack to the back of her head, which hurt like blazes. In fact she had a stupendous headache, which suddenly jagged at the inside of her head with a vicious barb, as she tried to raise herself off the stranger’s lap. Her hand automatically went to the back of her head, which had a vast sore bump and a bloody wound. The man grabbed her hand and shouted, what she thought was “Non!” Once again he hadn’t meant to shout, but the incessant ringing made it come out louder and more garbled than expected. He decided not to speak any more, and took her hand from the back of her head placing it down by her side. Another sharp pain grabbed the inside of her head and threw it around, as if a basketball bouncing across a court, she clasped his hand tightly squeezing her eyes firmly shut and biting her lower lip. She was clearly in a lot of pain, so he took a small container out of his medi-kit opened it and removed a tiny yellow pill, indicating to the maid that she needed to swallow it.

The Adonis was holding the tiniest bright thing between his forefinger and thumb, like a shiny drip of honey, or a burst of starlight. He wanted her to eat it, what if it was poison? She was powerless, here, alone with her head on this stranger’s lap, she was in a lot of pain and knew that she could not move, or fight. If he wanted to kill her he could, but he hadn’t hurt her and he hadn’t molested her, as her clothes and body were intact. She considered her situation and was under the impression that he had helped her. She had clearly hurt herself, but who was he? Why had he shouted at her in such a strange manner? Then it dawned on her, this beautiful man was mute, both deaf and dumb! The poor soul, he hadn’t been trying to scare her, but to converse with her. Her heart went out to him, she opened her mouth and the stranger popped the tiny bead on her tongue. It was as smooth as the stones by the river and as sweet as the nectar from the flowers. She swallowed, if it was poison then this was the end, staring up at the Adonis and clasping his hand, she could think of no better way to go. Her insides did not contort, nor her body spasm as toxins coursed through her veins. Then, as if a miracle the pain in her head subsided to the tiniest throb. He was now lifting her head and touching the bump with something cooling. As he applied a balm stick to reduce the swelling and ease the pain, she reached up with her left hand placing it round the back of his neck to raise her head up further. Amazingly the pain both inside her head and outside were subsiding, it was as if the hands of the beauty could work magic. She raised her head a little higher, so that he could do whatever he was doing to the still aching parts of her skull. Her lips were dangerously close to his, her eyes staring up at him, intently massaging her scalp. She flushed and began to tremble, as she pulled his head closer to hers and gently pushed her lips onto his.

Deano considered that the woman on his lap was as beautiful as the stars in the Milky Way, but he knew that there must be as little interaction with people as possible. So how did he suddenly find himself kissing her? They kissed long and hard for what seemed an age, and when they stopped they stared disbelievingly into each others eyes. They kissed again and again, she had never been kissed so passionately, so expertly by anyone ever before, or would be since. At that moment he could have done anything to her, she would succumb completely, she longed for him to caress her body, she ached for him to make love to her. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to ravage her body, to succumb to passion, and make love to her, but knew that he must not. A child conceived in this time could alter the future irreparably. They held each other closely, perhaps for an hour, until people could be heard approaching, then he took her arms from around his neck, kissed her gently on the lips and eyes stood up and left. She stood leaning against the tree, slightly dizzy, was it the bang on the head, or love’s sweet intoxication? She did not call after him, what was the point he was deaf, he turned once and blew a kiss. She caught it and placed it down the front of her blouse close to her heart, then he was gone. She frequently came back to that spot, and sometimes thought that he was there watching her, but she never saw him again, her poor mute Adonis.

Deano would always regret that encounter, all subsequent attempts at love making faded by comparison, it was difference between a quaffing table wine and a fine bordeaux. The bliss he experienced in that too brief moment, just simply holding her in his arms, was the closest to heaven that he would ever achieve as a mortal. His regret was that from that moment onward his senses were dulled, he had been spoiled, given a taste of the finest imaginable and now life was humdrum. He also regretted that he did not even know her name, as to place a name to the angel would make it just that bit more intimate, would draw him perhaps a little closer to her heart. What he did gain from it though was the sweetest memory, at least he had been there, at least the taste of pure nectar had slipped tantalisingly over his palate. In his quiet moments and at his lowest ebb she would be with him always, this was his solace, that he would take the memory of her to his grave.

The rest of that day was relatively uneventful, he hid until the right time then made his way to the town square. He did not stand out, because his attire was in keeping with the time and location, Blast From The Past made every effort to ensure that the harvesting would be, as quick and uneventful as possible, this included fine details like attire and language, should it be necessary. Deano pulled his hood over his head, and being taller than everyone else, he hunched over. History tells us that Joan of Arc was led respectfully, almost regally to the funeral pyre. It wasn't so, Deano blanched as he witnessed the abuse and objects hurled at her, the venom and spittle making an Arsenal Spurs game seem almost tame.

Re-materialising back to the current day, the harvest was safely stored in a refrigerator alongside Cleopatra, Vlad the Impaler, John Wayne and Amy Winehouse. To date they had managed to collect over 5,000 DNA samples of famous historical figures from the past. Joan of Arc had been a particularly tricky one, as the only exact dates and locations they could pin her down to, were her birth and her death. They had tried turning up at the birth, but three of their harvesters had been clobbered on separate occasions while materialising in her bedroom. It seems that the midwife had taken an aversion to ghostly apparitions at such an auspicious moment, and had set about them with a lump of fire wood. So they had decided to try her crucifixion and burning instead, where the mob, the flames and smoke might make for an easier harvest. This wasn’t the case as the first harvester materialised in the fire, a second while confused by the smoke got the DNA of a toothless peasant girl, and a third lost their footing on the funeral pyre, toppled down to the ground to be surrounded by a surprised and suspicious mob, who already had blood on their mind. They extracted them all back to the present day quickly, one with bruises to his head and side, another with a bump on the head and a third with minor burns to the hands. Nothing too serious, but it meant lost days off sick, not so much because of the injuries, but the stress of it all. They couldn’t afford any more days lost to sickness, so it was an achievement when the DNA of the Maid of Orleans was brought back safely.

There is a fine point between utter screaming boredom and wanting to kill someone. That point is reached daily, by millions upon millions of frustrated, disillusioned, pent up workers. Holly was at this point, she had just come off a phone call to an irate customer, where she had been screamed at for nearly half an hour, and she was now being treated like a child by her supervisor Bob, who seemed to be taking great joy, in informing her that apparently she had done something wrong. This something, that was about to cause the collapse of the entire western civilisation, had something to do with box checking, but she wasn’t really listening. She was puzzling over how she had got herself into a situation, where she was being both being lectured at and talked down to, in an incredibly supercilious manner. At this moment Holly would have liked to take the papers from Bob’s hands and rammed them right down his weasely throat.

She had graduated from university, with a half decent degree in English, and had expected the world to want her undoubted talents and enthusiasm, but one dead end job followed another to this place. Working in a clothes shop had been fine, if a little stunting. The major problems there had been the impossibility of advancement, the low wages, having to be ‘lovely’ to all sorts of rude people, trying to speak to colleagues who had nothing to say, or if they did, an inability to say it and trying to avoid the lecherous gaze, comments, brushing past, hands and more of her manager. Actually the more she considered it, the job had been crap, like all the jobs she had previously had. Then there was the waitressing job, with the low wages, terrible hours, trying to be ‘lovely’ to horrible people all day, the groping hands…She hadn’t lasted more than three months in that particular job, and had become an administrator for a bathroom company, where the pay was crap, the hours worse, trying to be ‘lovely’ all day to horrible people and the inevitable groping hands. At one point, she had stood naked in front of a mirror at home, and wondered what all the fuss was with all the innuendos, groping and touching. She had a fine body, not great, as her boobs could be a bit bigger, and her waist a bit thinner, and there was the bodily hair, and the signs of wrinkles around her eyes, and her legs were a bit chubby…She stopped looking at herself in the mirror. It was only when she started to observe, and talk to the other girls, that she realised that they were all undergoing the same treatment as well. So she wasn’t even special, she hadn’t been picked out because of her great arse, or sparkling personality, she was just another pair of boobs to brush against. She left Plumbit Bath Fittings before she was sacked, for sinking her teeth into a fitters hands, as he tried to touch her boobs, as he pretended to help her put something on a shelf. Fortunately she had already been offered a job at Sure Life, and so simply collected her things and walked out of the door, as the fitter ran screaming across the showroom, to the manager’s desk clasping his throbbing hand.

So now she was here, being talked down to by her supervisor, who had clearly only got to his position, by being the last person standing, oh and a considerable amount of arse licking. Everyone else had probably left, or killed themselves; either would have been preferable to the daily haranguing from Bob, “You see these need to be marked ‘Urgent’, otherwise they will go in with all the other claims,” he stood over her, flicking through copies of screen prints which he had only printed off, so that he could stand over her exerting his authority. “What do they teach you at university anyway?” he trotted out this line on a more or less daily basis, usually followed by something about tax payers’ money, or the school of hard knocks. These comments were addressed, to the captive audience that were her co-workers and were designed to make her feel about as important as the dust that is left in the bottom of a crisp packet, after all the crisps have gone, and you have tried to get the last crumbs up with a wet finger, which has become unpleasantly greasy.

Holly nodded to show that she was listening, she did not say anything, as this would continue the one sided conversation for another few minutes, where he would repeat the same mantra in numerous different ways, “no I don’t think you understand Holly,” he would always use her name when telling her off, but never at any other time. “You don’t understand, if you don’t mark the ‘Urgent’ box, then they will be considered as non-urgent, like everything else and then where will we be?”

“In a whole pile of shit?” she knew it was the wrong thing to do, but she couldn’t help herself.

“No, no Holly, you don’t understand, we don’t need to be in any pile of…you know…whatevers,” he found himself steering clear of using profane language, not wishing to sound unprofessional. Holly found herself staring with a blank expression over his shoulder, at her colleagues behind, who were nudging each other, making hand gestures and trying their hardest not to wet themselves with laughter, as Bob droned on.

He didn’t like being laughed at, and he knew that this was what they were doing, but he knew that the last laugh would be on him, it always was. How many people had he seen come and go, all thinking that they were high fliers, all thinking that they were destined for the top? But they weren’t were they, coming in here with their fancy qualifications and believing that the world owes them something. Well here’s something, how about just doing some hard work for a change. Bob knew that he had only got to where he was by hard work, he knew that he wasn’t the brightest, but where did being bright get all these losers? He had left school at the age of sixteen, without qualifications and his mum’s friend had got him a job in the post room at Sure Life Holdings. It was the start of a career for him, from Post Boy, to Office Junior, to Clerical Assistant, then Administrator. Then he got his big break into management becoming Post Room Supervisor. It had helped that he had worked there before, and had also helped that his mum’s friend was now Head of Human Resources. And now his big break, a sideways move out of the post room and onto the office floor supervising the Complaints Team. This career trajectory had taken him the best part of twenty five years and he saw no reason why it should stop here. Onwards and upwards, perhaps a Team Leader, or dare he dream, a Departmental Head. He did dream of these things and watched jealously as the Departmental Heads filed into the large meeting room, in their expensive suits. He imagined that one day this would be him, casting an aside to a minion to make some coffees, or commenting on how well they had handled a call earlier. But he would find a small fault, because everyone needs to learn, “yes you handled the call well Darren, but you could have wrapped it up better, leave the customer feeling that they can always come back to you, whatever the problem.” For now he was content, leading a Complaints Team of eight, Customer Service Advisors. It did irritate him that they were all better educated than him, but none of them were as clever as him, far from it, if they were they would have his job and not theirs. He had seen one or two other newbies attain meteoric rises, remaining just a few months in customer service roles, then being involved in special projects teams, followed by multiple promotions. He liked the sound of special projects teams, they sounded exciting, breaking new ground, coming up with innovative ways to save money and improve service, while simultaneously making oodles of money. That was something for the future, for now he had the headache of his Complaints Team, who seemed hell bent on doing as little as possible,, while affording him the minimum of respect. Take Kurt for example, Bob knew that he was making oral sex motions behind his back, he had seen him do this before and he could hear the barely constrained laughter. The problem was catching the devils time wasting, as they never seemed to be doing it while he was around.

Kurt had come over from Germany two years previously, with the aim of improving his English, while getting a role within a business. For now it was Sure Life, but he was certain that in the future, with his fluency in English and German and his working knowledge of French and Spanish, that he would be able to get a significant role here, or abroad. He had worked out fairly early on, that there was limited chance of progression from his Customer Service role with Sure Life. Look at Bob for example, it had taken him his full working life to progress to a Team Leader, which anyone with a brain the size of an ant’s could do within a couple of years, if they got the right breaks. The problem was the right breaks, and who you were prepared to toady up to. Mark was only prepared to go so far, he did play squash with the Director of Finance and went drinking with a group of Germans, some of whom held managerial positions. Other than that he wasn’t prepared to prostitute himself to Bob, or anyone like him. His pride remained intact and he spent most of his time at work thinking of new and ingenious ways to rile his manager. It was a bit cruel really, as it was so easy, it was a bit like taking a toy away from a toddler. You just distract them and then in one swift movement it was gone, there was no real competition, but this didn’t stop Mark from doing it regardless.

He watched as Bob, who had just finished haranguing Holly, went to sit down at his desk. The chair, collapsed down to half its height, with the sound of a knife being drawn across a carborundum stone, followed by a meaty thunk. The whole team burst into giggles, as Bob showed his annoyance, “alright, very funny, who swapped my chair?” They all stared intently at their screens, pretending to work as he swapped the broken seat for another office chair. This happened on practically a daily basis, and always caught Bob unawares. He had tried to get rid of the office chair on numerous occasions, but it always seemed to end up at his desk. He had even walked it round to the other side of the building and up the lift to different floors, but it resolutely came back, sometimes within a matter of hours. The truth of it was, that nearly everyone in the open plan office was in on this particular joke, and that when over a hundred pairs of eyes are watching your every move, you can’t really secrete something where you hope nobody has seen it.

Kurt clicked on the next complaint listed on his pc and idled his way mechanically down the page, all the while thinking how next he might be able to prank Bob. He had an idea that would involve distraction from the others in the team. He glanced up over the partition at Sandra sitting next to him, who was dealing with a customer complaint on the phone. He pulled a face at her and she made a face of resignation pointing to the mouthpiece.

Sandra was meticulous, she noted everything, kept everything and ensured that things ran smoothly for herself and coincidentally for the team. Sure Life would have regarded her as the perfect employee, hard working diligent, organised and unquestioning. Except she wasn’t, because every time a promotion, or new role was available she was overlooked. It was as if she wasn’t there, a hamster in a cage, not noticed in the corner of the room, unless you decided to get on the treadmill and make a racket. She wasn’t noticed even though she was probably responsible for the good organisation and smooth working of the team. Bob thought that this was his doing, but everyone knew that Sandra had everything, or knew where to find it. She was the resource that they all turned to when questioning a process, or looking to find a lost piece of mail. What they didn’t realise was that her motivation to keep everything and to know everything, wasn’t borne from a desire to further the greater good of Sure Life, but to protect herself. She had filed everything, both by date order and by category. She had also kept every significant memo, or email from managers, that impacted upon her and had paper duplicates of it all. She observed the way that people were treated, and was determined that this would not happen to her. A bullying ethos, a blame culture, not what you knew but who and status being king. It sucked, all of it, and when the day came that somebody decided to pick on her, she was going to be ready, armed. She was generally quiet, but she liked Kurt and enjoyed being involved, not too much, in his pranks and schemes. She quite liked the team, who were mostly unexceptional and all of them capable of something better. They all bonded over their hatred of Bob and the managers in general, it was very much a them and us situation. She felt that she was the most unexceptional of all of them, Holly had her writing, Kurt that cheeky, always thinking spark, Fern had her sport, Then there was Paul who did nothing, or as little as possible; he always seemed to be one unsent email away from getting the sack, but somehow held on.

Sandra listened as Kurt filled her in on his latest idea to wind Bob up, she needed to distract Bob, while it was enacted. She enjoyed these interludes from the remorseless drudgery of her work. Even though she was very good at what she did, she was forgotten about. If she wasn’t there, then the team would just come tumbling down, organisation would collapse and chaos would ensue. Not to mention the amount of times she had come to her colleagues’ and managers’ aid, in order to get them out of a mess of their own making.

fitness, cycling, weights, circuit training, swimming; anything that would get the adrenalin pumping through her veins and push her heart to bursting point.

Holly

Bob

Kurt

Fern

Paul

Sure Life Holdings

Complaints Team

Customer Service Advisor

Blast From The Past