Experiment 1

My first bit of writing done using an exercise from the Writer's Toolkit. It was written 'on the hoof' in about an hour with very little pausing and no editing or revising. I think there's definitely some ideas here worth exploring - both characters could well stand up to more development and I'd love to know more about Max's motivations. Let me know what you think.


  There I was…just standing there, when what I wanted to do was forbidden. I wanted to end it all, destroy my family, my entire career, my whole life, everything I had worked up to at the point with just one futile gesture. One magnficient, empty, pointless act. “Come on Max, we’ve come this far. Pleased hand it over” It was a small object, no bigger than the palm of my hand. But handing it over to the pale blasted man standing next to me would be the final action I ever performed. “And you won’t identify me?” I asked (or was it pleaded with) with Spencer? “There’ll be no comebacks for me?” “Absolutely not. You know us journalists. Seal of the confessional. We’re like priests. Or plastic surgeons.” I passed him the memory stick. There, it was done. I expected to feel relief, instead I just felt emptiness. I was a fool. I watched Spencer leave the café with the memory stick. The instant I saw him leave, I immediately regretted my actions. I decided the only solution was to seduce him. “Spencer” I cried running after him. “Wait there a minute” “If you want me to stop publication now, Max, you’re too late” “No wait” I said. “I know you’re running with the story. I know I can’t stop you now. I just want to know, why?” “Why?” asked Spencer; the wrinkled skin on his brow becoming even more wrinkled in surprise? “Yes, why?” I said. “You’re doing a story on the British Intelligence complicity in torture. I’ve given you everything you need; names, dates, times. You’ll completely blow apart dozens of operations with what I’ve given you; you’ll expose just about every dodgy act we’ve ever committed. And what will be the result? There’ll be inquests, inquiries, royal commissions. There’ll be recommendations, sackings. The British Intelligence Community will become subject to the most intense scrutiny in its history. And who are you selling this story to? The most right wing tabloid in Britain. Your readers don’t care about some foreigner somewhere having his fingernails pulled out in some foreign country the know little about. They just care about being able to go at home at night and sleep without worrying their pretty little heads. So why are you doing this?” “Excellent speech Max. So why are you doing it?” “Because I’m like you” “Pardon?” exclaimed Spencer? “You’re, what, 40? You’ve got no wedding ring or engagement ring on. You’ve never mentioned an ex-wife or children. And you’re working in one of the most notoriously homophobic industries. Well, for all our PC talk of diversity and inclusivity, the intelligence industry is hardly better. We’re full of ex-squaddies and the old boys network, mouthing the approved sentiments but you just know they’re looking at you wondering if their arse is safe. It makes you want to destroy the whole bleeding edifice; set yourself alight; become a human hand grenade” “You’re mental” he replied “You’re fucking mental” “Come on” I said. “We’re both outsiders. That’s why we connected. That’s why you approached me. Isn’t it?” “I’m leaving mate. I’m off”. He turned his back on me. “Wait” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Please. Something else I noticed on you. On your coat lapel. The cross. You’re a catholic as well, same as me” “Oh for fuck’s sake” “You said before about the seal of confessional. You must know what the confessional is like. The feeling of being absolved. It’s almost post-orgasmic isn’t it. Especially for young men going through puberty. Opening your mind and everything you’ve done to a stranger. Telling them every last dirty thought you’ve ever had. How can you possibly break that bond.” Spencer was still now. Rigid with shock. I made my final move. “Come on Spencer. It’s seven in the morning and we’re in a back alley. There’s no-one around.” I moved in closer. Spencer was still. “It’ll be alright. I promise. No one will ever know. I was close up to him now. I could feel his breath. “Christ!!!!!!!!!!” The punch was a swift one, a blow to the solar plexuses which swiftly knocked the wind out of him. He collapsed on the floor. I administered a few swift kicks; to the head, to the chest, to the groin. Nothing serious. Just to show I meant business. I bent over him and whispered in his ear “Disorientation. Always works. Speak bollocks to someone; throw them off-guard. Then seize your opportunity. Now look Spencer Smith, I know every single thing about you. I know where you live where your two ex-wives live and where you daughter lives. In fact, the day Lillian passed her driving test; we sent her an anonymous congratulations card…ask her about it. We’ve been watching you and, I warn you, we hate little shit-raking turds like you who want to destroy every last thing we do to keep this country safe so that arseholes like you can sleep safe in your shitty little beds. So go back to the office and write up a nice story about a cat up a tree. And never try to contact any one of us again” He didn’t reply, but I felt my point had been made. So I turned and walked away. My career was safe. The moment of madness had passed. There was no danger of me ever being discovered. So I have no idea why, as I walked back to work, I decided to take a detour past the offices of The Guardian and post my memory stick through its letter box.