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books erotica love lust women

51R

51R

U 83L0NG 2 51R

A novel from M B Blissett.

A woman enters into a virtual world to realise her darkest fantasies and falls in love with the man responsible for bringing them to life, pitting her against the rules of the world she has entered.

Coming soon from L&MB Press.

 

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books film television

Press F – Horror and Technology

Press F To Pay Respects – Horror and Technology – https://t.co/9Ca50F7B8A

My first article for Haunt Jaunts.

Categories
poetry politics

black marketing

he works in something

not marketing

(but marketing)

a series of acronyms which make my

head hurt

but he’s engaging

On the verge of laughing at an inappropriate

Joke

Black marketing

So when someone sticks razor blades

Into Halloween apples

It sells the season, the right mix of cute and creepy,

Market penetration

Saying it with a smile

Reddened gums and he sniffs a lot

Perpetual nasal drip

But still

Poison in painkillers

A serial killer using a particular brand

Of weapon, shaking videos

Highlighting the name

Chuckling, he says

Companies pay to keep this

Stuff out of the press

But it helps

No one stopped drinking

Coke after the death squads in

Bottling plants

Boycotts are viral too

Changing a product name

Paying someone to complain

(There’s always a verbose child

Asking a pointed question)

I ask what company he works for

Laughing, he says

I’m a consultant.

They come to me.

We exchange numbers

And as he walks through the airport,

I wonder if he’ll be a good person

To know during the apocalypse

Either as its architect

Or someone knowing when

Something truly awful

Goes viral

Bacterial

Nuclear

Mushroom clouds spilling

Radioactive retweets

Blind, mewling likes

With their parent’s faces

i feel a sudden urge

to hold someone i love

ask them to put the phone down

and look at me

like i’m in the room

 

Categories
fiction short fiction writing

The Chorus

 

The Chorus

 

Purity Clause

 

Thomas had his eyes closed and a wry smile alive on his lips. He heard the chirp of birdsong and the muted tones of the city in the distance. He wrote the script and sent it the studio and in before the deadline so he was taking a break from everything. He had woken at dawn, did yoga on the balcony and then made coffee before he sat and drank it. There were cigarettes in his pocket but he decided not to smoke one. He was trying to be virtuous with no one watching.

 

His phone rang.

 

It was an unknown number, but he answered after a few rings.

 

The automated voice was a digital collection of voices, different accents and pronunciations strung together with care. All women. Thomas shuddered.

 

The Chorus.

 

‘Did you believe you would escape your fate?’ it said.

 

A hint of breathlessness, something which would excite him at any other time made his stomach wrenched inside him and he sat down, his amiable mood evaporated into a needling panic.

 

‘We have registered an accusation. It will activate your belt in three minutes. Please do not pass urine or ejaculate during this time.’

 

The studio made him agree to the implant. It was a synthetic tumour, benign until activated via wireless signal. It threw you into a state of racked agony for thirty seconds if you went near a woman registered online as being NC or non contact. Women could waive being registered, because by then, an entire generation of men had been broken down and rebuilt. There were those who lived apart from the network, but most men went along to get along, he thought.

 

He was being given a multi-million dollar franchise to reinvent. They wanted to protect their investment and reputation, so he had to sign away his autonomy to keep working. Yet he swore he had been scrupulous in behaving himself.

There were cigarettes in his pocket, and he lit one.  He realised being good didn’t matter. His sex defined him, and in the world which he tried to make sense of through his art, had decided he was not only disposable, but he was dangerous.  

 

Simple And Complicated

 

The needle stung as it went into the meat of his buttock but he didn’t react beyond a slow blink.

 

‘You can dress now, Mr Agnew.’ the nurse said.

 

Pete got off the examining table and dressed without looking at her. It was safer to pretend he hadn’t heard or seen her. Once he was dressed, he left the room without speaking. She whispered a swear word under her breath. Once, he would have called her out on it, but it was different now.

 

The implant saw to that.

 

He left the clinic. There would be no paperwork to sign because he had paid for the implant in cash. His insurance wouldn’t have covered it, anyway. His head hurt to think about how much he had handed.

 

It meant he got to see his children again. His lawyer had got the porn clause taken off, so he had means of relief. The excess energy would go into his work, make money and get custody. Yvonne had a lot of friends out there, who used the Chorus to settle scores, creating accounts online and meeting men without deactivating the permissions. They shared videos of grown men on their knees, sobbing and vomiting from the pain. One man had died, and the women sued his estate for stress-related damages. They won, too. His ex-wife and kids had to move in with family for a while.

 

Pete caught sight of his reflection. His face was tight and pale, anxious whenever a woman spoke to him now. He had asked Yvonne out, hands sweating and heart thumping against his ribs, and she had said yes. It used to be simple and complicated at the same time. Some people were better at it than others, sometimes it happened by mistake or design, but Pete mourned a world where it wasn’t used to hurt other people with the resources of government behind it.

 

Castrati.

There were men who paid for the implant with no accusations hanging over them. It made things easier as these men worked from home, video games, the internet and silicone companions who would orbit their existences in a compelled erotic obedience met their needs. Real women were too much of a risk. An exile supported by society was a good way to avoid falling into the slow quicksand of love.

 

If everything told them they were dangerous deviants who couldn’t be trusted to restrain themselves why keep refuting it? Dropping out was easier and so long as they kept producing and spending money, it was something people laughed at without thinking about what it meant.

 

Wrath Of The Gods – The Chorus and the new face of state feminism, I R Mohoney, University Press, pp 124.

 

Let The Fire Come

The conference had sold out. A line up of feminist speakers and activists, hosted in Greece for its symbolism, both a return and an appropriation of ancient times.

Costas set the briquettes of compressed paper in a pile and squirted them with lighter fluid. His eyes blurred with tears as he looked across the stretch of forest. All of it perennial and virginal, soon to be so much ash. The villas would be collateral damage but if the conference centre burned, it would be a necessary evil. He had said goodbye to his children via Skype, alluded to in his cracked whispers of devotion, ignored as they showed him their new toys. Paulo walked past, a smug grin twisting his soft face into a mask of Victory, wearing nothing but a towel. She only entered the frame to end the call, disconnected and yet disdainful towards the father of her children. It had strengthened his resolve for what he was about to do.

 

Once the flames were going, he lifted his phone to his eyeline and spoke the prepared statement, mirrored around the world and released in an instant.

 

‘Men are disposable and our sacrifices are ignored and dismissed by the world. Women create, men destroy is the message and-‘

 

A memory of his daughter, soft and mewling on his broad chest made his voice crack, but he swallowed and continued.

 

‘We will honour this message.’

 

He took the pistol from his pocket, ceramic and put together in the rack of 3D printers which had been running for weeks, all from one design. The curved butt fit into his palm.

 

‘I love my family.’

 

He pressed it against his temple and squeezed the trigger.

 

The flames caressed his cooling corpse, grateful for his sacrifice as he laid there, his skull distended from the pressure of the shot.

 

Categories
short fiction social media women

Blocked

Chris smirked at her lawyer as the jury filed back into the courtroom. She loomed over Harvey, her court appointed attorney as her soft bulk spilled over the sides of the chairs and she scribbled on the pad in front of her with such intensity that the pen broke through the surface of the paper. She would look up and grin at anyone in her eyeline, her brown eyes slightly distended in their sockets which gave her the appearance of someone about to throw away their temper rather than lose it.

 

Judge Rozelle looked at the jury with the weary patience of a parent and asked the jury if they had reached a verdict. The foreman, a tubercular elderly gentleman who wore a suit and tie each day, gave a solemn nod and in a voice worn rough with talking announced that they had.

 

Guilty.

 

Chris, for all her rhetoric and misguided passion, stared around her with the despairing expression of a child finding out that Santa doesn’t exist and then burst into a shuddering mass of tears and foul language. The judge, hiding her smile, instructed the bailiff to remove her from the court and threw in that they would announce sentencing tomorrow morning at nine a.m.

 

Chris knew that the legislation was set against her. She had instructed her lawyer to approach her case on the freedom of speech angle. Her attorney had sought the help of the ACLU, the EFF, the whole alphabet soup of electronic free speech advocates but after an initial reflexive interest, they had looked into her case and backed away at speed.

 

Her attorney still tried though. Which, when she slipped from incandescent rage into self-pitying melancholy, was something she swore she would thank him for. A note, perhaps.

 

Chris knew the legislative axe that hung over her head. The precedent of United States v Baker was a strong one, but her attorney argued that case without any real impact on the jury. All the noble talk of free speech gained a patina of foulness whenever the jury looked at Chris or read the transcripts of her online activism.

 

That and the advent of the Valenti Act meant that Chris was forced to consider that she would not escape the consequences of her actions. She was prepared to jail if she had to, her dad had once admitted to her mom that he preferred prison to being married to her. The food and sex were better.

 

She promised herself she would be stoic in accepting the judgement whatever it is. A fine would be paid, a sentence served and in time, she would move on from a bad time in her life.

 

She promised herself but when the judge announced the sentence, her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted like a Victorian lady. It was the most delicate gesture anyone had ever seen from her.

 

Full Spectrum Blockages were a grisly juxtaposition of private and public sector applied to ensure that the affected person could not access social media or the internet for a period. The sentencing, generally was for a brief time, and had its roots back in the days when Anonymous were not selling branded clothes and running candidates for the Senate and the House. Chris had prepared for this as she wasn’t considered a violent criminal.

 

It was the idea of it being for life that slapped her across the frontal lobes hard enough to make her faint.

 

The computer had been her lifeline. The rest of the trailer park was a warm, worn patchwork quilt of people but Chris forever believed herself to be a snagging thread on it, apart and in the acceptance of that, she found a terrible egotistical power. On the internet, she could be anyone she wanted.

 

Her poorest decision was in deciding to be her. She posted comments on everything, without expertise or experience of the issues involved. Her feeds started off as disjointed updates then shared memes and finally mutated into a ghastly amalgam of the two, pulsing and seething with the need to be heard. She lacked focus or direction so her harm was minimal, the kind of encounter that people referred to when they considered how freedom of speech was a double edged sword.

 

Then Raymond Kessler walked into an elementary school with an assault rifle and his mom’s brains drying on his army jacket and Chris found her true calling.

 

The truth.

 

A truth.

 

Truth.

 

Chris started to believe and then prosecute the unfounded accusation that Kessler had been a state actor, working to undermine the second amendment. She posted these evident truths in thick blocks of text, links to sites crawling with malware and pop up ads and if anyone dared to question her, they became collateral damage. Pointing out that using eighteen dead children to advance a political agenda was spurious flew straight over her head. Chris had her cause now and woe betide anyone who got in the way of that.

 

Few people did, so she went looking.

 

Kyle Brannigan was eight years old, shot in the head by Kessler whilst trying to run from him. His parents had been publicly vocal in pushing for stronger legislation, unaware that the battle had already been lost after Sandy Hook and in a world where time was sometimes measured in a number of school shootings ago.

She started to stalk them. Trolling was such an odd word to use, with its roots in fairy tales and mythology, and Chris seized the word for her own empowerment. She commented on their feed, creating new accounts when they cottoned onto her and blocked her, even pulling off a rudimentary denial of service attack on the website they put up to solicit donations for a scholarship in their son’s name.

 

Chris followed the Brannigans around without ever meeting them. She would have been able to claim a degree in their broken, muted world without their youngest son but it was not enough. She saved her welfare, borrowed money from people around the park and took herself over to Michigan to follow them in person.

 

When she got her nose broken by Kyle’s mom with a kick honed from three years of krav maga, that was the beginning of the end. The police, some of whom had seen the awful sight of children’s bodies carried away in bags held no sympathy with her and when the District Attorney announced charges founded on the Valenti Act, Chris saw it as an opportunity to make her case, to feed the poisonous myth of her ego.

 

Instead, she had been cast down into perpetual silent exile. She was not even allowed a cell phone unless the FSB approved the make and model.

 

She returned to the park, finding that the FSB staff had already removed her laptop, her desktop, the broken tablet that she had found and rebuilt with sheer will. None of them made eye contact with her, even Shereen who had left a gig with the TSA to sign up with them.

 

She sat in her trailer, unnerved by the silence until she pulled the emergency bottle of hootch that she had as the only legacy from her mom and started to drink.

 

2.

 

The silence was the worst of it. She started to leave the television on, fighting the twist of anguish when the anchormen begged for people to post on social media and provide content for the show. She managed two days before putting her foot through the screen and buying a radio from the pawn shop, trading the last of her mom’s jewellery for some, and some forged scripts for Percocet for the rest of it.

 

The rest of the trailer park gave her a wide berth, lost as they were to their screens. Chris vacillated between a superior contempt and a yearning envy without pausing to reflect on anything she had done. All the people that she had collaborated and shared information with were as far away from her as though they were on a different planet.

 

What made her maudlin was that she knew nothing about the people behind the user names and accounts they held. They might have known about her from the news or the trial, and every day she hoped that one of them might go analogue and write to her, alleviate some of the burden of exile. She had cast herself as a martyr without considering how that might look each day.

 

After a month, she was stood in the stained, peeling lounge of a shack just off the interstate, handing over the last of her forged scripts and getting something heavy wrapped in grease-stained cloth as well as a sarcastic warning to be careful.

 

Chris could not afford too many bullets, so she knew that she could not gain the attention that Kessler did. She was forbidden from leaving the state, and where she lived had been dying by degrees, long before she was born.

 

She walked into the grounds of the public school one autumn morning, shaking with tension and fear, the gun jammed into the pocket of the oversized coat as she willed herself into action. Her jaw had started to ache, growing in intensity until a second burst started in her chest and her mouth filled with a sharp bloom of nausea. She staggered, dropped to one knee as the gun slipped from her pocket and skidded across the asphalt.

 

She tried to look up as one of the security guards advanced on her with his gun drawn, eyes bulging with terror as another sharp stalactite of pain pierced her through the middle. She glared around the empty playground, heard the soft laughter of children and shook her head to remove it from her consciousness.

 

When the small, cold hand touched her face, she did not open her eyes.

 

‘It’s okay, Chris, you can let go. I’m not mad, you can come and play with us.’

 

She turned her head as much as her pain would allow, struggling to breathe beneath the impossible block on her chest and looked into the smiling eyes of a child.

 

She tried to say she was sorry that she had been lonely and angry and that she wanted to be a good person.

 

Kyle smiled at her and giggled before he took her hand again. He understood, but children always do.

 

She left, relieved to escape the pain and mass and followed Kyle somewhere else entirely.

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bath beauty creative writing desire dominance emotion empowerment erotic writing erotica fiction hunger love lust passion pleasure psychology seduction sensuality sex sexuality short fiction short stories Sir social media spoken word strength surrender touch Uncategorized wildness women writing

Sir 2.0 Episode 3: Spoken Word/Audiobook

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art bath beauty creative writing desire emotion erotic poetry loneliness love lust man masculinity passion poetry psychology seduction sensuality short fiction short stories silence social media stoicism strength Uncategorized wisdom women writing

Reflections in two mirrors

He sent them to be seen by her. That he had tangible proof of his commitment to his purpose and his growth. Each session, each rejection of easy but costly temptation was there in the heft of his pectorals, the lines and striations in his hip flexors and the way that the softness around his jawline was disappearing. He loved the reaction, knowing that she carried the coiling heat of want within her. A talisman against the bland sweep of days. He could not fake the look in his eyes, in a moment sourced in purest expression of his primal, sexual self. Such awareness and acceptance was rare, he had denied it before, but now he was comforted and protected by it.

She struggled with it. She knew the angles to offset the parts of herself that remained distasteful to her. Her body rebelled with the marks of time, but his reaction cast its  magic over her. A litany of informed praise, fuelled by want rather than need. Through him, she saw herself and it rubbed raw against everything else around her. A sweet pain, an eroticized grief that in its rejection, left deep scars that only he would be able to heal.

Now the mirror, the chain of static images connects them both and they pretend it is not there for the sake of sanity.

It remains though, and it would take so little yet so much to pick it up again and feel its comforting, powerful weight.

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art beauty books creative writing desire dominance emotion empowerment erotic writing erotica fiction hunger love lust masculinity passion pleasure psychology seduction sensuality sex short fiction short stories Sir spoken word strength surrender touch Uncategorized wildness women writing

Sir 2.0 Episode 2: Processing (spoken word)

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anxiety beauty culture dark places desire dominance emotion empowerment erotic writing erotica experience fiction fragile hunger lust passion pleasure process psychology seduction sexuality short fiction short stories Sir surrender touch Uncategorized wildness wisdom women writing

Sir 2.0 Episode 2: Processing.

86

You swallow but your throat is acrid with tension. You cannot make out the details of the people watching you, only that they are there. The gown continues to shift up on the back of your legs, adding self consciousness, drop by drop, over the stir of emotions that collide and change within you.

‘To complete processing, you will undergo a cursory medical examination and a bathing procedure. Once those are complete, you will be assigned sleeping quarters and then left to your own devices until tomorrow morning.’

You narrow your eyes against the light. The voice has retreated behind an air of routine and its emotional content is all that you have to go on in terms of figuring out what is going on here. How much trouble, you potentially are in depends on what information you can glean from your present circumstances.

‘The correct response is yes sir.’

Your heart beats hard and faster. There is a low murmur of conversation, and a stifled giggle which rakes its nails down your spine. A hot flash of humiliation bursts in your stomach, a perfect emotional time travel, taking you back to high school again. The spotlight is hot, and you can feel perspiration beginning to teem underneath your arms and at the small of your back. At this precise moment, every sense is sharpened, ready to cut like a theatre of eager surgeons. Whether it’s you or someone else, depends on the response you give.

‘Yes, sir.’

You raise a hand and a titter snakes through the audience.

‘Am I being held here against my will?’

The laughter grows and someone calls out ‘not with those thighs, dear.’ Your cheeks burn with blood and tears well in the corners of your eyes.

‘Don’t laugh at me.’

That draws a series of oohs.

‘What upsets you more, being held here against your will or being laughed at?’

The voice comes through, silences the others in its wake. The way a comet burns up air on its passage through the night sky.

‘Don’t play doctor with me. I want an answer to my question.’

The voice gives a dark chuckle that makes you shiver to be its subject.

‘What if you had already been asked that question?’

You frown, aware that the spotlight makes every expression exaggerated. Another ripple of laughter starts up. It hurts more than the first time and you start to back up.

‘Stop right where you are.’

You jerk at the change in tone and volume and in response, the back of your gown hitches up a centimetre, highlighting the backs of your thighs where they meet your ass. You give an involuntary yelp, which fuels the embarrassment even further.

‘I wouldn’t, there’s nothing wrong with me.’

He pauses and the laughter dies away again. It’s application reminds you of a whip or a paddle and its sting unsettles rather than the pure, stable joy of pain that you enjoy. That you recognise this comes to you unbidden and without import.

‘My point, exactly.’

A wall to the left bursts into brilliant, white light and coalesces into a screen. A series of numbers dance across, teeming in patterns of deliberate complexity before it opens on a woman’s face, smiling.

Your face.

‘Hey, look you’re probably freaking out about now, but that’s kind of the point. I am you and you are me, before all this starts off.’

You watch yourself give your name, date of birth, social security number, mother’s maiden name and that you have paid to experience SIR, signed a raft of paperwork to avoid indemnity and that you should just relax and go with it.

Offscreen, a female voice asks you onscreen how you heard about SIR. You smile, and you recognise yourself, the telltale blink that you give and the bitemark on the inside of your lip that you could probably slip the edge of your front teeth again and find the indentation by instinct.

Your capacity to tear yourself to pieces without cause, a thought arises, might be part of why you are here.

Not that you are sure what here means.

‘I go to a munch two towns over once a month and one of the subs there went. She did not stop talking about it so I looked into it and -‘

You watch yourself spread your arms and grin. A hopeful light twinkles in your eyes. If this is not you, then it’s terrifying in its accuracy.

‘Here you are. Or I am. Sorry, I get tongue tied with things like this.’

The interviewer chuckles and you join in, a little ahead of the beat and the audience in the room follow along. The screen fades into black.

‘We’ve installed a block on your memories. We don’t change anything about you, and at every turn, we’re a bit like the opposite of a supermarket. We always offer choice. You are here because you want to be, but part of what makes this so popular and so important to maintain discretion is that we agree that this is all part of the play.’

Your breath is molten in your lungs and a heat begins to pool in the pit of your stomach, drawn downwards by gravity and you clench your thighs together to make the sensation flare deeper and warmer.

‘So, I volunteered for this?’

A hum fills the air and you experience the interview directly again. The leather chair underneath you, the scent of the Ethiopian coffee that you were offered on arrival and the drive over, calculating how much this was going to cost you. Chrissy had said it was ‘life-altering’ and you knew that your life could use some of that.

Some people went into simulations about the zombie apocalypse, you came here.

‘Does that answer your question?’

You stare into the darkness. The want is bolder than your fear, it puts a leash on it and a muzzle. The courage hardens your nipples, relaxes the muscles between your thighs, opening and transforming the emotions into fuel for the engine of your desire and your fear and your need.

There have seldom been clear distinctions between them and that, you know is part of why you are here. You smile and lower your head. Deferment is part of it, and you know that there is expectation and a responsibility here for you. It is a misconception that the submissive is powerless, and you stopped explaining this to vanilla types a long time ago. Here, you have the power and the voice, the eyes in the darkness are asking you to take it.

‘Yes, where do we start?’

The table is wheeled in with stainless steel stirrups mounted on telescopic stands mounted on the ends, a section cut away in the middle and velcro straps at the top end. A second table is brought in with a bowl of steaming, lilac and coconut scented water and a natural sponge. You run your tongue over your lips, and your heartbeat drowns out the thoughts in volume and rhythm.

No one is laughing at you now. Which is a good place to start.

‘Whenever you are ready.’

TO BE CONTINUED.

 

 

 

 

 

Categories
creative writing fiction short fiction short stories Uncategorized writing

WAIT FOR THE NEXT CALL

‘Hello, is that repairs?’

A wavering, shy voice. Elderly. The kind who attempts to make conversation with strangers because it’s worth the risk to alleviate the crippling loneliness. They’re awkward or lovely, ghosts in dying skin who apologise for having something break down in their properties, or vicious isolated assholes who never pause to think that their lives are perfect projections of their own self-loathing. Mentally, I flip a coin.

‘Yes, it is, how can I help you?’

You want to get the information, then off the phone. They will have been waiting for ten minutes or more, so you give them the opportunity to be listened to.

‘I can’t get out.’

I look over at the planning table. Harry, one of the carpenters is off sick, there are three evictions scheduled for half an hour’s time and the afternoon is packed with people who have cried wolf about their upvc windows.

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.  Have you lost your keys?’

She pauses and I hear her trembling breath over the line. I keep the smile on my face, so that I sound bright, but truly, these ones are a double edged sword. They’re happy that they can get an appointment, but they give you the wrong information about the problem. You send a plumber when the issue really requires the roofing team and so on.

‘No, I can’t get out. They won’t leave me alone.’

If it is kids, then we have to tell them to call the police. Or their estate manager. The former are about as likely to turn up as the latter but it’s not our problem. I don’t mean to sound cold but it’s really about avoiding attachment. I don’t give my name because the odds are, you’re speaking to someone with nothing better to do than hassle the council about why your neighbour got a new kitchen and they didn’t. If you give your name, they’ll ascribe to you any number of promises.

Never mind that these are the people who either don’t vote or vote in the people who cut housing budgets but we can never discuss politics with any degree of equanimity anymore.

Ah, equanimity, another word we can’t use. Being clever is dangerous with these lot. They either feel insulted or kin, and the consequences are equally shit for both.

‘No, it’s not that. I’ve called the police but they can’t get in either.’

I ask Penny if she’s had any calls from the police about needing to force entry anywhere but she shakes her head.  She has another call come through, it is lunchtime, after all.  

‘OK, well let’s start at the beginning. What’s your address?’

She gives it, and I’m confused. There are certain addresses, which when confirmed, elicit a groan of sympathy. This is one of them. One of the worst ones.

The tenant there, Chelsea Harford, is at least sixty years younger than whoever this woman is.

‘And are you the tenant?’

She sighs and begins to weep. A woman crying makes my skin prickle with discomfort.

‘It’s okay. I’ll send someone out to you as soon as I can.’

Ken picks up the job on his PDA. An odd pang of compulsion has me calling him to give him the details. He chuckles and says it will be fine. Ease the door and then be on his way to the other three jobs to get done before five.

It isn’t until the following morning, that I notice he didn’t get to them. The planners are calling his mobile, his landline and the company PDA as Harry stands there, debating with Ian, about what might have happened.

I go to the disabled toilet and wretch up the three cups of coffee I’ve already sunk that morning. Much like trying to put out a fire with gasoline, but it all comes up, burning and stinking.

Then, I go back to my desk and answer the next call.

‘Hello, is that repairs?’

It’s her again. There’s someone shouting in the background though, and I can barely hear her voice underneath the desperate force of a grown man rallying against his imprisonment.

I feel her voice, though, I truly do.

‘I can’t get out.’

A glance around the room and seeing everyone typing, on the phone or trying to sort out a problem. No one looks up, no one sees the tears on my face and the desperate, savage panic that has me in it’s grip.

All I can do is finish the call, wait for the next one.

Wait for the next one.