Ten minutes passed before Margo acknowledged a trifle reluctantly that she couldn’t live in a toilet cubicle forever. As she stood in front of the hand basins, defiance stared back at her. Once more she retraced in her mind every step at Toby’s house over the weekend in a bid to remember what she had left behind. Engaging in this mental torture however succeeded only in rewinding her memory by a further year and a half, to a morning tea soon after she commenced. Then, in blithe innocence, she had attempted to initiate conversation by referencing the recent tell-all book about The Service. To which an experienced staff member had responded sharply that “In light of publication restrictions you damned well should not have had access to a copy of that infernal tome.” Trying to smooth things over, she had proceeded to suggest that the worst of the paranoia might have passed with the author’s retirement from the workplace. Unfortunately, this assertion had instead prompted an all too public lecture highlighting the acute anxiety that key government departments, including of course their own, might still be exposed to a traitor.
As she had come to realise, for the upper echelons of her organisation nothing released the dogs quicker than the possibility of another mole. Yet how can a negative ever be proved? How could they all hope to establish beyond doubt that some of the tunnels inside a burrow hadn’t been dug from the opposite direction? By all accounts, the hunt for a double spy was never pretty.
Several times in the past Margo had needed to handle older men buttonholing her. None had been left in doubt that she might be the sort of girl to indulge an insinuation. But not once previously had she met one in an environment like this, speaking at excruciating volume as if addressing the village idiot. She closed her eyes and watched the slow motion repeat of how, eventually, she’d excused herself on an embarrassingly weak pretext and rushed from the odious colleague
|Who happens to be the guy we now report to|
In vain she tried again to block the image of last Wednesday’s stomach-churn moment, being spotted eavesdropping at this same supervisor’s doorway. Without question Margo had been well and truly pinged. In an intelligence service. Where lessons one, two and three are “Whatever else, maintain security”.
Once more she re-lived this latest humiliation, Ella processing the scene at a glance then marching her from the corridor and into the nearest empty space. Which, bizarrely, was some kind of store for antique-looking stationery. There, the senior manager had subjected her to a monologue of searing intensity, no doubt designed to leave an indelible mark. Point by painstaking point, as if for a wide-eyed novice attending Week One briefings, the principles of the need-to-know policy had been revisited. By the time this salvo had eased Margo’s tear-ducts had been nettling at her, but she’d long since learned not to show weakness. Instead she had reacted with the ferocity of a cornered polecat and blown the second gasket of her professional career.
‘I frigging hate ’em. Presuming they’re better than us. And the way they find opportunities to let you know it. Tell us, what is the point when posh bastard bollocks like them get to lord it over us, controlling everything.’
And off she’d rushed with the momentum of a runaway train, its furnace full of coal. Though while she’d been busy railing at the unfairness of their working situation, Ella, by lowering and slowing her own murmurings, had gradually managed to inch her tirade over the points and towards a siding. Recognising eventually the futility of defending the indefensible, Margo’s white-hot engine had ceased screeching, her swearing had reduced to a chug and she’d jerked to an awkward halt.
After that sort of a rant she had felt obliged to offer some explanation as to why she’d been loitering. In the midst of which Ella had interrupted, firstly to check that she hadn’t been following anyone’s instructions, before stating ‘No question we need to watch them. Us girls have to stick together don’t we? But in future I want you to come to me first instead of risking yourself like that.’
Margo had readily agreed to everything that Ella had gone on to propose, her embarrassment balanced by gratitude and relief at having been rescued from a far more serious fate, had it been someone else who’d stumbled upon her in that position. Not that she’d bother any senior person with this latest predicament concerning Toby, not least as she knew she’d done nothing wrong
|The snivelling git would probably ʼave been mugged of all his money if I’d not pulled him out of that back street. Okay, the next person may not have put actual boot in but ….|
But in every other respect it was undeniable she’d gone out of her way to assist him. In the process seeing her own Saturday night ruined.
Having failed to identify which item she had left behind in Clapham, she defaulted to one of her situational risk assessments
1/ Some knob with a grudge has stated he’ll expose her.
2/ He regularly talks crap so the threat may just be machismo.
3/ Even if he does speak out, his claim of having evidence may be a bluff.
4/ However accusations require no corroborating evidence.
5/ Potential damage includes A) Colleagues will think she’s a slag |bad| B) People will wonder if she fancies Toby |worse| or C) With an allegation that she stole, a huge question mark will sit over her professional trustworthiness |disastrous|
It was this final point which continued to tangle Margo’s intestines. What action would Internal Security launch in response to a claim that a staff member was a thief? Despite Ella’s reassurances, what stones would they then go to turn? And would there be equal investigation of someone who had made a potentially false claim? According to all their briefings the pursuit of traitors, including of course establishing a person’s full motivations for joining The Service, must be an ongoing concern for every one of them.
҉
Margo glanced down, noticing with a grimace that she’d practically twisted the top off the faucet
|or the “Don’t bloody force it” as once got yelled at Charlie and me, bickering like ferrets over whose go it were to turn off the backyard tap, after maintenance around our house had fallen to Nanna|
What was needed here was a comprehensive course of action. But in the meantime, she decided bypassing the paper towel and wiping her hands on her hips, it was imperative she avoid Toby. Under no circumstances could she venture anywhere even close to where he might be. Nothing short of a total exclusion zone, she resolved.
Feeling buoyed now, she yanked on the door handle and exited the Ladies. Accelerated around the corner …. and marched slap-bang into him
|Son. Of. A. Bitch|
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