DUET : Chapter Six, Part Two

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TRIGGER WARNING: This passage mentions routine torture in all its forms, including rape.


Bond quietly sits, bathed in sunshine, waiting for his mission to appear.

Whitehall Gardens are glorious, spring cautiously emerging everywhere, and 007 enjoys watching the world stroll past, relishing in the realisation that winter really is over and done with. This is where he’ll run later, but for now it’s full of people on their way to work, welcome smiles and cautious conversations. The sunglasses, for a change are a necessity and not part of a disguise, coffee on the bench to his right tasting richer than it has done for some time. Everything just seems better with fair weather and no jacket, especially surveillance.

He picks Ronni up on the far side of the park, outline registered without thinking. The way she moves is committed to memory, stride matching whatever she’s listening to on the iPod: her fondness for latte made him change his regular morning order, and he’s beginning to enjoy it. Only in this job does attention to detail count as an advantage and not obsession: grateful for the opportunity to lose himself in process, he’s succumbed to Ronni completely. Eyes too dark to be jade but too light for grass, smile always genuine even when she deceives, body honed now to physical perfection. She also looks stunning in the uniform, he concludes, traversing across his line of vision on the other side of the park. Black jacket, skirt just below the knee, boots that would soon give way to shoes and stockings, hair always down and tied back. The same colours on the palette that trees and shrubs would soon wear but without her grace, hair moving as delicate branches of the still-bare trees, perfect combination of factors that made her particular whole an enjoyable brief to shadow.

Bond is all too aware of how much rides on this woman’s shoulders, Departmental hopes on what this will finally herald. He also understands that if she succeeds, which is an increasing certainty, they may never see each other again. He can’t help but feel sad at the prospect, because of everyone that has crossed his path since he shot the Section Chief in Prague, she’s who he’d just most like to hang around with at the end of a difficult day. He doesn’t love her, or crave a physical connection. This isn’t about forgetting anything, using Ronni as distraction. He just knows they are two sides of the same coin: it has been a long time since there was anything in common with anybody in this job. That’s the key, why Q pushed the pair of them into each other’s gravity. She still doesn’t fully understand the forces working here; he is more than aware of where this will end.

His charge is almost to the other gate, blissfully unaware of his presence: he can only guess at the anticipation in her stomach, mind undoubtedly full to bursting of the possibilities the next months will bring. Bond’s binned the empty coffee cup, keeping pace behind; shadowing to the Barracks. He’ll make damn sure she knows 007’s in the building as this first day of training begins. The job in the next few months is simple: be there and pick his moments, find ways to get under her skin just as he did with the questions at Millbank. He’s used to flirting with beautiful women and getting paid for it. This will be different, because he is in no position to dictate terms. This isn’t to get what he wants, it is to make sure Ronni arrives where she deserves, because this is one woman who is going to fulfil her dream, payment for what’s been lost and given up along the way.

He has a vested interest in her success, and is not about to throw that away for anything.


‘This is your desk, Special Agent Ashby. I’ll give you 30 minutes to acquaint yourself with the Mainframe and then we’ll begin with the initial orientation session.’

She hadn’t planned on her own space in the Barracks, especially not with Internet access, and the desk is an unexpected surprise. It’s more sophisticated than anything she’s had the chance to play with before, keyboard embedded into the glass surface, but Ronni doesn’t need it. As the handler walks away she’s aware of being stared at, looking up to meet the gaze of a woman at a terminal opposite she guesses is in her late 50’s, regarding with what appears as genuine warmth. The reaction is instinct, using the touchscreen terminal to capture this woman’s image, then setting the face recognition software to work.

Her office partner is Naomi Walters, same Army graduation class as Amelia Sheppard, retired from active service in 1985: there are restricted access markers on her file which means Walters is someone worth getting to know. There are two other women in the building she’s not seen before either, and there is the feeling that Q might have stacked the deck since her last visit to better balance the range of training experience the Department has to offer. A quick look at the Civil Service’s Social Activities website allows identification of both: Rachel Frasier was retired from active service in 1998 after an accident that left her walking with a stick, even more inaccessible details that leads Ronni to think that maybe she could have been close to 00 status. Bond had said it himself, nobody for twenty years had presented her potential.

That meant she could be confident that Grace Cartright-Miller was the last person who’d held the number, because attempting to even access that personnel file sends Q to her desk with a speed that is a surprise.

‘I did wonder if giving you Mainframe access would be a wise move this early in the process, especially with your predisposition to curiosity.’

‘What was her number, Q?’

‘She was 002 until 1990, and I would politely ask you not to pry any further until you’ve earned the access privileges.’

‘Did you bring them all here for a reason?’

‘I looked at our roster, and we weren’t nearly as diverse as was acceptable. You’ve clearly been a positive influence, but now please ensure you don’t have M over here reminding me at how other agent’s history is not part of your current training schedule.’

Ronni shuts down the terminal, but is determined to learn as much about these women as possible from them, without the need to access any records. First she needs to get through the initial orientation, which proves more of a challenge than she’d ever considered would be possible.


Every day is different, some nights uncertain of how she gets back to the Hotel at all. In the end Ronni gives up, sleeping on a small camp bed in the Barracks as the weather is warmer, because it’s just less painful than walking home alone. Her head hurts with the knowledge that’s packed into it, body aches and bleeds with the drills and the assault courses and everything thrown at her simultaneously. She is tortured, forced to do the same, nerves stretched to breaking point and beyond. There is Yoga and Karate and Tai Chi plus old fashioned bare knuckle fighting and it is that which finally breaks her, reducing the rational to tears of frustration and a moment of anger she knows has the potential to send her back to Carnegie, but doesn’t care.

The force with which she is able to hurl the metal chair after the combat session is undoubtedly satisfying, vital release of pressure that stops her from disintegrating completely. She’s smart enough however to pick the room with the faulty CCTV to meltdown inside: even in the depths of despair, training is good enough to kick in and protect her. Clearly something positive has come from all the abuse, and this alone gives hope that she will finally succeed.

Sitting crying in the darkness, a hand reaches out to her arm.

‘They have to hurt you like this, because there’s no better way to make you understand.’

Grace is squatting by her, still unbelievably fit for a woman in her 70’s, dark towel in one hand and water bottle in the other. Ronni knows enough now to understand this is off the record, light from the CCTV camera obviously disabled. She drinks greedily, blood wiped from cheek and skull, looking up into eyes that she knows served opposite an Old School 007. This was the woman who’d saved Bond’s life on numerous occasions, and ultimately allowed that iteration of the designation to retire with all his limbs intact. Her Bond had been the shortest serving of them all, but his tenure had straddled one of the most difficult periods of the Service’s history, and that counted for a lot. This woman had come out of retirement simply to be here; asked by Q to return, observe, and pick her moments.

‘He threatened to rape me if I didn’t give in.’

Grace’s eyes harden at Ronni’s admission, squat turning to sit, deep inhale as she considers how the latest bout of training has panned out.

‘You think this stuff doesn’t happen?’

Ronni stares in amazement, not the response she’d expected.

‘Young lady, this world you currently inhabit is often far too full of itself for everyone’s benefit. People are routinely raped regardless of sex if they don’t succumb to the demands of their jailers. You don’t believe psychological warfare isn’t as potent now as it has always been?’

‘I knew that the training was going to be harsh -‘

‘You have no idea of harsh, this is playtime. They’re treating you like china, because they know you need to make it through to the end intact, but honestly you have no clue of how brutal the reality is for a woman in the Service. In the field there are absolutely no rules, everything goes and will. The trick is never to get yourself in a position to be threatened to begin with. Either kill them or don’t give them a chance to dominate. You should have knocked your trainer out the moment he used that line, forced them pull you off him.’

‘I’m told to use myself as a weapon, but how is that possible -‘

‘You knock them out, you disable them or you kill them if they present a genuine threat to your safety. If there is no choice, sometimes…’

Then comes the sickening realisation that Grace could well speak from personal experience.

‘The Service tries to equip you for everything. It can’t prepare for the moment when you know you have nowhere else to go. That’s why you have to ensure it never happens to begin with, that you never have to relinquish control. This is the reason you always go everywhere with a gun. If you want to condemn someone? Shooting through the crotch makes a potent point.’

The older woman rises, effortless yet determined, and Ronni wishes she’d lived half the life this agent had. Still so strong, clearly without fear, she takes the almost empty bottle and towel and is gone as the CCTV springs back into life.

An hour later her logistics schedule is scrubbed, thrown back to the Barracks sparring ring. When 007 appears as her opposition, Ronni knows her weakness just changed Q’s game plan.

It takes two more days of totally brutal beatings before Ronni drags herself into Q’s office without the appointment she is required to register first: eating lunch when she arrives, staring open mouthed at the disaster area her body now resembles. Confident at least one rib could be broken, the chest pain refuses to recede whilst coccyx has been bruised from being slammed against a post at speed. Ronni gives into the certainty that whatever Q has ready to counter with won’t allow for rest, because that’s what her life has become, a continual battle. She is surprised therefore when motioned to sit, which can only be accomplished with some difficulty.

It would probably be easier if it hadn’t been Bond that had done this, pretty much destroyed her totally in hand to hand combat. Of all the people fought, he was the only one who never treated her differently, and although Ronni was grateful, this was where it ended. She might beat him eventually, but not right now. It would be enough however, especially for Q.

‘You win, I’m never going to be as good as him.’


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OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER:

Everything related to James Bond (007) belongs to Eon Productions and Danjaq LLC, except the bits in here that are mine and I made up. I get how this works.

DUET : Chapter Six, Part One

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SIX.

A week after Bond leaves Scotland, so does Veronica.

The helicopter ride is ridiculously enjoyable, far north all the way down to East London, and Ronni allows herself a moment of self-indulgence with the choice of musical accompaniment for the journey. The morning after their first meeting, 007 had left a parting gift that garnered a grin, despite herself. Her iPod was returned, scratches and all, with brand new set of bone conduction headphones and a note: ‘You’ve earned this back, don’t make me regret stealing it.’ She’s too scared to use it at first, no means to charge, but when the appropriate equipment arrives via internal mail the next day she takes this as a sign ownership isn’t going to get her into trouble. Two days after that a new laptop appears, Gregory cancelling the scheduled afternoon Psych assessment without explanation.

They were moving her to Stage Two ahead of schedule.

The highlight of the flight is the last five minutes, where the pilot takes her down the Thames, showing London in the glory of an early Spring afternoon. Millbank is still a shell, but scaffolding is being erected, construction apace to return the building to its former glory, and the pace of change is reassuring. Ronni’s stomach won’t settle, excitement threatening to reduce her to a wreck of nerves, and the entire trip is a reminder of what there is to look forward to. This is how things will work: already used to the international travel, exotic locations… the only difference is that you’ll be sent there to kill people and save lives. It’s no different from the Air Force, why military service is required for any 00 agent’s resume.

She’d come close to having to shoot someone only once, saved by circumstance. The reality didn’t phase her then and it doesn’t now. Metrics maintain that your first kill is the hardest, because of the inevitable guilt that results. Ronni has no qualms about lives taken if the rationale justifies the effort: what bothers her more are the innocent casualties. Those decisions where a simple yes/no analysis won’t work, consequence and possibility overwhelming a basic need to get the job done. Now she’s over-thinking and it is time to focus on the music, best way of reducing the complex to an aside. Whitehall had started pairing 00’s wherever possible as a response to the issues that Real World developments presented. Ronni thinks she’d still always prefer to work alone.

The parallels Bond had drawn inside with him are more obvious than ever before.


007 stares in the hallway mirror and knows Ronni was right: he is a model, not sure that’s the way things should be. The Paul Smith jacket still fits after a decade, one of the first items Q Branch supplied, nod to retro past that remains very much the present. This uniform worn, rules taught: all a part of the next stage of the journey that Veronica begins. Except she wasn’t scared by the potential, and sure as hell won’t make the mistakes he did, because this is a woman who’s not afraid of what the journey entails.

Suddenly, she had evolved into a role model for how the game should be played.

He’s being stared at: looking down, black and white of Scott Redgrave regards impassively, liberated from Ronni’s file whilst preparation for transport took place at Millbank. It occurs to James that Q must know by now it is missing, the same way he’d repossessed Ronni’s iPod, and that if nothing had been mentioned then no-one was going to question the decision. It was the understanding that she might not want distraction now but there would come a point when it were needed if they were as attuned as he suspected. Taking it upon himself to be the curator of her past, it could be presented with a flourish when the final reward was attained.

Bond only now acknowledges how alike the two of them look, that this might be an issue as time went on, but concludes that Ronni’s far smarter in that regard, and it’s only him that obsesses about past relationships. This woman’s doing it right, and you’re the one who’s wrong, and maybe it is high time you started learning that. His bike sits outside, ready to ride to the Heliport, to begin this part of the surveillance detail. There were far less qualified people who could do this as practice but 007 had decided he was on this assignment until he signed the woman off himself.

It might be egotistical, but making himself a part of her training was absolutely the best thing to do for them both.


After a wait of over an hour at the Docklands Heliport, a courier appears and hands an envelope to the woman who waits, delivered without a word. Inside is a Hotel keycard, postcode plus £100 in cash. Ronni turns plastic over in her hand, wondering what is expected of her, suddenly filled with the thrill that everything that transpired from this point onwards became part of the training. She wastes no time and hails a cab, asking the driver if postcode is enough to get her to a destination: the man pulls out an iPad from the driver’s side door and locates the address, and she’s being deposited outside an expensive Hotel front in Whitehall thirty minutes later with the first tickles of excitement in her stomach.

The room’s on the first floor: standing at the door there is suddenly the wish for a weapon, feeling particularly naked without anything but her hands as defence. As she pauses outside a dozen different scenarios run through her head simultaneously, quietly confident that even without bullets, she’d be able to hold her own if challenged inside. Without a second thought, the door is opened into a room that’s beyond what’s expected on the Civil Service’s current budget.

Two sizeable and elegant suitcases sit shut on the double bed: placed on the nearest is a phone, which begins ringing on cue. Checking the caller ID, Ronni laughs for the first time since she left Scotland.

‘I see you have successfully arrived at the next stage of our adventure without incident. Welcome back Veronica, I hope the frozen north was not too inhospitable.’

‘Thank you Q, I appreciate the welcome, and a great deal more beside. Would you thank 007 for me, I truly enjoyed Kylie Minogue on my way down the East Coast.’

‘Between you and me, Special Agent Ashby, I think you are being quite the positive influence on 007. I saw him taking cream in coffee yesterday, I don’t think I ever remember that happening in my tenure here.’

‘You take your stimulants where you can find them, Q. Maybe if you didn’t run half of us in a permanently dehydrated state there wouldn’t be this obsession with caffeine as a substitute.’

She runs hands over the cases, unzipping one whilst listening to instructions. The rest of the day is for herself, restricted to the Hotel room: expected to arrive at 0900 the following morning for the first day’s worth of secondary orientation at the Barracks, where the real work will begin. Q is deceptively vague but Ronni can guess that everything is about to become very brutal, and the possibilities are making her unreasonably excited.

‘You’ll want to open both cases, by the way, Moneypenny was given a very specific brief on what to buy you and I think you’ll not be disappointed by the choices.’

Ronni does as she is told and is met by a Walther PPK nestled on the top of a rather stylish Alexander McQueen jacket, and she can’t help but stop and stare. The palm print sensor on the back made this piece of equipment worth more money than most things she’d ever owned. There is a reticence to hold it, in case it isn’t real; index finger traces the length of the barrel, mind slowly filtering the possibilities.

You remember the day when you asked your father for shooting lessons. Despite the argument, he finally gave in. In fact, if it weren’t for that head start, you’d not be nearly as competent as you are now. Perhaps there is something to thank him for after all.

‘I suggest you spend some time adjusting your holster’s shoulder strap, the fit’s always problematic when one introduces breasts.’

‘I’m sorry Q, but that’s one part of my body you are not getting to adjust.’

‘Your breasts have been quite the topic of conversation in the last forty eight hours, it’s been a while since we had to factor in anything over a 32C into the equation and this has caused more than a little consternation.’

‘Why does this not surprise me in the slightest?’

She can hear him smiling on the end of the line, that is certain: this amuses far more than it normally would. Apparently the ability to fire a comeback as fast as she can a pistol is as important a skill to a 00 as shooting said weapon straight. Ronni can do one from instinct, but the other is going to need some practice. Q should be impressed that she’s found something that needs work at.

‘You have plenty of time to get organised. Room service arrives at 18.00 hours, I’ve picked some suitable things for you based on how well I know your life by now. I’d expect Bond to be playing the provocateur from the moment you wake up tomorrow. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

The line goes dead, yet Ronni can’t take her eyes off the gun. Finally she picks it up and watches the grip illuminate in a sweating palm: mechanism registers, safety is off and she’s holding a live firearm for the first time outside a range or military service in thirty-five years. Dramatically she spins, facing reflection in the mirror, ready to shoot for the heart: no games any more. Scenarios are history, she’s loaded with live ammunition.

Welcome to a completely different world.


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OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER:

Everything related to James Bond (007) belongs to Eon Productions and Danjaq LLC, except the bits in here that are mine and I made up. I get how this works.

Shut Up

We interrupt your normally scheduled fiction this morning with an important aside.

I’m quite late to the Social Media game, if truth be told. In fact, I can remember when Twitter launched and all my mates were jumping on the bandwagon thinking ‘seriously who the fuck wants to talk in real time what’s THAT about’ and now? Well, I get the appeal, and the usefulness, but I also understand that a lot of the time, people do genuinely get lucky. Unless you are an ACTUAL REAL CELEBRITY with, you know, movies and presence and history? Being a long term media fixture doesn’t happen. [*]  Life’s too full of cats and GIFS and all that other stuff. To make that leap you need to be an actual icon and there aren’t too many of those any more. Mostly, if you can manage 15 Minutes of Fame? I’d be more than satisfied.

ALMOST SIX FIGURES

Now, you’d think, looking at this Tweet of mine from last week, that actually 99k impressions (where that’s your Tweet making it to someone’s feed, but they may not actually read it) is pretty good. Except actually, that’s woeful. The official Warcraft Twitter account has approximately 793,000 followers, so that’s about an eighth of the fanbase there, and there’s no idea of who actually read the post. Fortunately, Twitter provides a girl with metrics, and if you thought the impressions were bad?

OH MY GOD :O

These stats are frankly WOEFUL: basically, approximately 100 people took any kind of interest. Four replies is less than most of my Blog Post links get in a day from a regular audience and FIVE FOLLOWS? That’s just stupid. What this proves is that even when you get retweeted by a major player, the impact is often minimal, if at all. What matters more is what you put into your feed to begin with, and for most that means keeping a 24/7 stream of content and comment. Just having more people follow does not make you a significant player, because of the 793K followers Warcraft have I’m betting quite a few aren’t actually real. Many will be selling gold, or using this feed as a means of creating their own content. A fair few won’t listen unless there’s an Expansion or Patch imminent, and even more simply follow because it’s an ‘official’ account and therefore that’s what you do.

Maths however, it must be said, has a tendency to make certain types of people act like idiots, because of the notion that if you have a bunch of numbers, this must always be in some way equatable with actual facts. Yes, metrics are great, but as Ford will tell you, all the marketing and statistics in the world won’t mean you’ll never get an Edsel. Ironically World of Warcraft itself could well have suffered this same issue with the current Expansion, but I doubt we’ll ever know. My point this morning is twofold: being ‘popular’ is really horrendously relative, and thinking you ARE popular is even more dangerous, because then you believe you have the right to go off on all manner of ridiculous self-propelled rants, and that’s just WRONG. That also goes the other way too, for all the people who like to remind writers like me we should allow everyone a voice and the right to use it.

Personally, I only believe that’s true to a point.

THE BEST .GIF EVER.

Tact is becoming a lost art in the Virtual World, and this makes me sad. When everyone else is offering their tuppence worth on something, should you even bother with a response? Some days I’d say yes, others I’d say no, and the fact that I’ve written this post at all says to my own sense of right and wrong that some people don’t think nearly often enough before they go off on a rant. Personal indignation is all well and good, but soapbox posturing only really works if you get up, walk away from your PC, and then do something about the issue in reality. Virtual change is a lifetime away from actual difference making, and that has to extend to every part of your life: actually eat better, don’t say it, walk don’t drive, make changes that are reflected in all walks of your life. Respect other’s privacy, treat people as you wish you would be. You know, all that basic common sense stuff. But mostly, most people don’t give a fuck about things until they see them personally causing detriment to their own existence. Then the indignation flares.

And with Social Media as a soapbox to potentially millions if you hit the right combination of luck and positioning? You’d better be damn sure you can justify yourself. Mostly, I’d like a lot of people to never press Tweet right now. I am as guilty of this as the next person, especially when it comes to contentious issues. It’s the need to make a point in the conversation that never ends, and never gets tired.

Except after a while, it does.

==

[*] No, those people aren’t celebrities. NO, they’re NOT.

DUET : Chapter Five, Part Two

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‘You were right, 007, she turned you down.’

Sheppard looks confused and Bond suppresses a smile as Gregory closes the office door. 007 had been sceptical as to whether coming here would have the effect the facility’s director believed it would, as indeed had Gregory himself, but both had agreed that Ronni could yet again do with a shove. It had been a month, high time she was out of mourning. The older woman had obviously not yet grasped the significance of Gregory’s statement, and she sits opposite by the wood-burning fire, increasingly perplexed.

‘I’m sorry, where is Special Agent Ashby?’

Amelia Sheppard was used to getting what she wanted, and this would be the first time anyone had declined an invitation from her for some years. Bond grasps, because no-one ever turns her down, she’ll simply assume it’s personal to her and not understand the significance or subtlety of Gregory’s questioning. At least not without explanation. The irony that she’s completely misinterpreted the mindset of the only female agent she’s ever had through the Facility during her tenure is not lost on him either. So much for empathy.

‘I offered her the opportunity to meet 007 and she politely declined.’

Sheppard’s face is a picture, Bond decides, all mock indignation and amazement on his behalf, none of which is at all necessary. He’s not considered what she might think of him, and it is easy to see how she might view this very public visit. Perhaps something a little more low key was called for, that he and Gregory could arrange a less visible liaison…

‘Did she say why?’

Gregory pauses, and Bond quietly bets he’s considering not being entirely truthful with his Boss.

‘She believed that placing 007 and herself together was, in her own words, ‘asking for trouble.’

Bond has become very good at tuning people out when it suited him, and as Sheppard’s indignation turns to anger he sits politely, allowing Gregory to deal with the fallout. They won’t call Ronni back because she’s proved, at least in part, that they can’t manipulate this woman into a confrontation. He’ll wait until he’s alone with Gregory and suggest staying the night to pick his moment, because there will be one. She won’t sleep knowing what happened, stubbornness not to be used having the capacity to land her in trouble. He’s got enough of a handle on the woman by now, pouring over the assessments and metrics, understanding this is all about what she wants from the programme and not the other way around. They already own her soul.

It’s more now about how she chooses to spend her time in Purgatory.

He’s increasingly determined to meet this woman conscious, as close up as possible. He’ll be waiting, if only to see if he grasps what truly is at stake if she fails.


Ronni can’t sleep and is on her fourth circuit of the grounds, under cloudless skies for the first time since she arrived at Carnegie. The niggle remains: today was a wrong turn, perhaps she should just have been sociable and had done with the whole exercise. Mostly there’s irritation at being poked and prodded by people who don’t seem to understand what she will be regardless: the knowledge of dealing with her own frustration at an inability to move on is of secondary concern and will soon be forgotten. When the mileage is done everything hurts: now she sits in darkness in the Refectory, second bottle of water from the vending machine. One is never enough, yet they continue to ration. She found a way to break the machine as a matter of priority.

Ronni knows how to get what is required when it matters.

The rest of her day had continued without even a mention of the incident with Gregory: they’d meet again in the morning, discussing whether the performance had fit the predicted metrics. It wasn’t as if they’d send her back home any time soon, there is nothing left anywhere on Earth to call her own. She was an orphan by choice, and at this moment this decision suited the situation just fine.

‘I hear that putting the two of us together is asking for trouble.’

Bond’s the genie in a bottle, appearance pure theatre: he’s been running too, sweat stains on chest and under arms and Ronni now understands what all the fuss is about up close. He is a poster boy, blonde hair, piercing blue eyes with just the right amount of rugged charm, but this is all a front. You don’t remain the longest serving active 00 with just a skincare routine and an expensive wardrobe. He’s a mask, and a damn good one. Sitting down opposite, both facts are abundantly apparent, even in the poorly lit dining area.

‘If Q Division dragged you all the way up here just for me, they wasted your time.’

‘I happened to be to be passing. The last time I visited-’

‘Both Service and car suffered some damage, Q alluded to customary thoroughness in doing the job properly.’

‘Q’s spoken about me?’

‘He warned about believing everything I heard, and using you as a role model. I think he has a point.’

‘That’s the real reason you turned down the meeting?’

‘I objected to being made to look like a model when that’s the last thing I ever signed up for. Yet here you are, doing just that. Doesn’t it bother you?’

‘Not when I use it to hide real intent. Sheppard clearly doesn’t understand you as well as she thought. Gregory’s far better informed. I know who I’d rather believe.’

Ronni can’t help but smile, despite herself. She could imagine the pair in collusion, trying to find a way to engineer a meeting, so that Bond could see her close up. This would be just another test, like all the others, and after ten miles in only just above freezing temperatures, adrenaline is already preparing for a confrontation

‘What the Director considers motivation is a long way from my definition. I don’t think the woman has ever fully understood me since I arrived.’

‘Give Sheppard more credit, it was far harder to gain Agent status in her youth. She worked with my predecessor in the 70’s, saved lives for her Country. History helps in understanding relevance.’

‘I have no doubt she was exemplary. It doesn’t mean I have to like her.’

‘Appreciation of service given would be appropriate.’

‘You came all this way to remind me to respect my elders, Bond?’

‘When you’re out-thinking the people who are supposed to be training you, it’s time to change the game plan. I’m simply here to give you another shove.’

‘They’re making you earn your pay by shadowing me?’

‘I am by nature curious. Your motivation is something I’ve taken an interest in, since you walked into MI6 and made everyone reassess their priorities.’

He leans back in the chair, using body language well. Non threatening, open, almost inviting. Gregory has told Ronni she should talk to more people: is this what he’d meant? Perhaps Bond really was also a method of subtle intimidation to boot: she’d never have expected such a big fish to swim past this part of the pond. She was nothing special, after all. At least not yet. She won’t answer him though, and wonders at the response as a result.

‘I doubt that M would ever have sanctioned your Bereavement if a lot of people weren’t absolutely sure you’d be capable of what was being asked. The department’s under stress right now, especially after what happened in Millbank. You’re a considerable investment many people can’t afford to have fail.’

‘You sound like my late father, he always considered the best lives in terms of equity.’

‘It isn’t just effort expended, what comes from the process matters more. In this case, you’re the best chance the Department’s had for a female 00 in 20 years.’

‘And what about Eve?’

‘You won’t stop asking until you get an answer, will you?’

‘I’m also curious by nature, 007. I think that must come with the territory.’

‘Eve failed the final assessment, to kill her second target. You’d do well not remind her of that when she’s in earshot.’

‘I was kind of hoping we could be friends, but I think maybe I’ve lost my chance to find anyone to share that opportunity with.’

‘I don’t think so. Friendship isn’t about just one person trusting another, it has to work both ways. You just need to find the right place to start.’

‘Is that an offer, Bond?’

‘I don’t think you’re struggling. Gregory however is concerned you’re still not grieving. I believe all you need is time.’

‘I think if Dr Gregory wants to know what’s wrong with me, he could ask a simple question, and I might surprise him with the answer. I understand you never stop grieving when losing someone you love, that’s carried with you until the last breath. The trick is how you deal with it on the journey.’



Bond doesn’t want to like her, but he does.

He’s tried not to draw the parallels but Q pushed, red-flagging everything not yet dealt with in a non-existent personal life, because his approach to trauma is flawed and this is sound. You don’t pretend it never happened, press a button, everything returning to the way it was. You use anger and grief, loss as fuel. Propelling life forward, keeping memories of those you’ve loved alive. It maintains sanity and grants vital strength.

Veronica is a model example of how he should be dealing with loss and never has, and that’s why they’re here: he can’t remember ever being impressed by someone who understood what it was like to deliberately give your life for an ideal you desired.

‘What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger?’

Ronni considers his response, dishevelled and clearly exhausted: dark circles rim jade eyes, bruises and scratches on neck and arms from combat training. This beauty is unmistakeable, but that isn’t what compels: she is moved by a need he could easily damage if selfishness motivates at such a delicate point in development. What has already been sacrificed makes him shudder: there are days he still yearns for love lost. She had walked away from a perfect life, however fractured Q might convince him it was in truth.

Her motivation was far more seductive than first grasped, and Q’s warning rings constant in his head: ‘Don’t screw this up for her, 007. She has to succeed, and not simply for the reasons you might think.’ When she finally speaks, Bond grasps what it was the young man meant.

‘Or in your case, what tries to kill you. I hope my life as a 00 could be as charmed as yours.’

‘I don’t know, being dead for a while wasn’t nearly as liberating as I expected, even if the fringe benefits were considerable.’

‘I don’t think you’ll ever truly walk away from your number until they drag you from it screaming.’

‘And you know that how, exactly?’

‘Because I expect them to have to kill me before I stop doing this.’

Something happens to her at that moment, shift that Bond can register as body language adjusts, moving shoulders upwards. Ronni allows herself to believe for the first time since this engineered confrontation that she was more than capable of bettering him. James knows she’d fit the designation just as stylishly, but she’ll have to fight every step of the way, far harder than he would ever have had to, because this wasn’t her world, and would remain his for a very, very long time. Eventually, history might consider her a game changer. If she could make it to the end.

When she made it to the end, and they had to forcibly separate her from the number.

Bond’s job is done, and he should leave. However, there is a desire to share: not because of a need to impress. There is no-one to talk shop with, and there ought to be. He misses a pooled understanding of what this life entails, wants her to learn that and everything else because she’s truly is the best fit for the 00 designation the Department has seen for as long as anyone in living memory could recall.

For that fact alone, he craves friendship more than anything else.


There is silence, deliberately loaded and suddenly charged. Ronni waits, expecting this to be the moment where Bond either leaves or suggests they go shower together. When he does neither, her surprise is genuine.

‘If I told you the truth, would you believe me, or would you think this was all still part of the assessment?’

She watches him falter, mask slipping, and Ronni suddenly can’t breathe. Bond’s shift into genuine honesty is almost worryingly apparent, freedom from fear or desire. This isn’t what was expected, no overtures to what she’d been told to watch for. He’s almost scared: child-like demeanour desperate for connection, and the calm she holds shifts balance of control into her hands without a word.

‘Depends on what you’re prepared to share with me.’

‘You’re better than me, at so much of this. Your range scores are beyond remarkable. Being the best there is, that’s how this game works and you’ve already grasped the truths, ahead of the curve. You know you can do this, all that needs to happen is to convince everybody else.’

‘Including you?’

‘No. I don’t need convincing, that’s not why they bought me here. I’m supposed to try and make you fail.’

‘So you are a metaphor for my inability to believe in myself?’

‘Being a metaphor is a waste of time. Life is far more interesting when you just live it. That’s why I can’t ever walk away.’

Bond’s comment resonates, understanding of principles grasped; all that is needed now is practice. Ronni stands, leaning across the table that divides them: hand placed to his face. She needs to check he is actually solid and human: just them, alone and exposed in the semi darkness. He doesn’t break eye contact the entire time, allows deliberate destruction of the personal space between them because that’s what’s required to establish a trust. Ronni isn’t afraid of anything, not right now. She’ll never, ever be afraid of him.

Only of herself.

‘That’s the whole point, isn’t it?’

She doesn’t look back, leaving words hanging and him alone, walking away as a different person. There is confidence inside that she knew existed but couldn’t utilise; until now, and only then does it register he’s not just here to shadow progress.

Bond’s been sent to make her stronger.


007 sits in the dark, long after Ronni has left, and knows he can’t go back to Active Duty.

Not just yet.


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DUET : Chapter Five, Part One

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FIVE
 

Before, she’d heard of Carnegie House only as rumour.

Ronni has run around it countless times now, concluding that God had a really bad day when he created Scotland in the Spring. Hell would undoubtedly be more welcoming: at the highest point of this building there is no sign of major town or city for miles in any direction, only hills and the possibility of mountains, were they not permanently covered by cloud. It’s bitterly cold and all there’s been is rain for the last forever, as she’s become totally immune to everything that the place can throw at her. Gun drills, assault courses, countless psych tests, more legal waivers and release documents: nothing phases any more, and all she wants to do is finish this last lap because it means being warm again. The cold hurts, in a way that she’d forgotten, ache that sits in the fillings of teeth and the marrow of bones.

Tears only fall as she runs, still mixing with the rain, undoubtedly the best means to hide fragility from ever watchful employers.

Part of her mind cannot keep from reminding what a dreadful mistake’s been made, whenever anyone else laughs or talks. There’s probably two dozen people here, of various nationalities, but everyone is steadfastly avoided, a deliberate move on Ronni’s part. When she does eat in the small public refectory and not in her room it is away and alone, out of the way, and this continued behaviour is causing some concern for Dr Gregory. He keeps pushing for socialising, but she’ll counter that in this job the last thing you want to do is fraternise with other secret agents. You look for people who don’t know who you are, because then you’re not ever going to be forced to talk shop. Gregory is yet to push her over her reticence, but Ronni knows that it’s only a matter of time.

Q’s advice still sits in her mind: reminder to be herself, to let everything else find a level around that constant.

There’s a car coming, Ronni registers, moving slowly up the gravel track. This is unusual: normally there’s the Post van, or an anonymous Supply Transit from wherever counts as civilisation this far into nowhere, but no-one visits by car. You get flown, it transpires, helipad at the back of the facility by the shooting ranges the preferred method of moving anyone in or out. Ronni shifts to one side but keeps running, catching a glimpse of silver paint as the car rumbles past, consciously taking the path away from the main building and down to the large wooded area that covers the eastern part of the estate. It sounds old, she notes almost absent-mindedly, jogging quietly under the canopy of trees, particular cadence that reminds of Scott’s bike, and suddenly there is a compulsion to stop and look back up to the front of the house.

Even if she didn’t recognise the model, that registration number is committed to memory.

BMT 216A

The car is an antique, and an expensive one at that. It’s also a very public hangover from a past Ronni knows the Service embraces only for a very select few. In this case, for one man. MI6’s poster boy, if such a thing weren’t a massive contradiction in terms. It was inevitable that at some point their paths would cross, because he’s doing the job she’s always wanted. That shouldn’t have happened for quite some time.

Making sure she’s out of sight, hidden by the trees but with a view of the front of the house, Ronni needs to know there is no mistake in this assumption. Director Sheppard appears, looking even more impeccable than normal in tweed and pearls, immaculate hair protected under a large golf umbrella held by one of the facility’s support staff, and there’s absolutely no doubt who steps out of the car in dark blue Tom Ford.

Ladies and Gentlemen, 007 has entered the building.


‘You can stop any time you like, you know.’

Marcus has been standing behind her for at least the last ten minutes, and this is her fifth target dummy, bullets all beautifully concentrated in exactly the right spots. There is no doubt this bit of the job can be completed in her sleep, but this isn’t the field, and that’s not a living breathing person. At some point there has to be an understanding that Ronni’s not quite sure she’s adequately grasped, where training stops and instinct begins. It is apparent where both sit, but getting them to exist simultaneously…

‘I can’t get warm here, I’m permanently freezing. This is a great way way of forgetting that I’m in hell.’

‘For what it’s worth, I’d ask for you to cover my back if this does end up being the afterlife and not another badly paid civil service placement.’

‘Oh, I bet it’s not that bad.’

‘You’re the one with the potential to make more money than just about everyone in the building, including Supervisor Sheppard, and I’m betting you’ll be the one with least use for it.’

She’s never actually spoken to the Range Supervisor at length before, apart from pleasantries or asking for ordinance: she’s staring at him now, knowing that he must have a family to go home to, maybe children to kiss and play with. The loss makes her ache, body tensing and mouth going dry, inevitable consequence of sacrifice. There are no tears because she’s perfected the art of hiding from strangers after a month of practice, but the stab in her chest is suddenly more painful than ever. Veronica has begun to think that this is penance, that this guilt will remain as fresh for the rest of her natural life. Perhaps she should simply embrace the fact as Dr Gregory has suggested.

‘So, does this place ever get warm at all?’

‘Needless to say, Spring is pretty much the same here as every other season, it just rains a wee bit more than Summer.’

Marcus takes the gun from hands that Ronni registers are shaking, not simply from cold and understands that her unscheduled trip, running away from what she saw at the front of the house, is being brought to conclusion. She doesn’t want to be in the main building because of what it contained.

Not what, Ronni. Who.

‘Do I get into trouble for exceeding my Range allowance?’

Marcus knows where she should be. Everyone who deals with Ronni is under strict instructions and a very tight leash from Sheppard, but people have begun to cut her a break, which is why she’s been sneaking in here under the guise of practice when what’s been craved is to not be under scrutiny. If Bond is here, they’ll have him under a pretext. Perhaps she shouldn’t assume it was her… but come on. Everything is a test, from here until they give you the 00 designation. Which they will, and that means the best there is came to laugh at the new girl.

No, you don’t get to belittle me.

‘You’ll be in more trouble if you’re not ready for your Orientation on time. Go.’

Ronni trudges back to the house, entering through the back door and drags herself up to a room she now detests, peeling off wet clothing without a thought. Standing in the shower under scalding water she wonders how her pregnant sister is doing, that perhaps considering them all dead as Gregory had suggested was the way forward. Leaving her family aside and moving on was all part of the job: understanding that by killing herself she had been reinvented anew, rising from the ashes of her old existence. She didn’t feel like a Phoenix: mind was flat, fear simply wouldn’t fade despite Gregory’s assertions that eventually it would, that it took a long time for a Bereavement victim to recover.

Only now came the understanding why everyone referred to her as a victim.

She emerges from the shower to find an outfit hanging on the back of the room’s stripped wooden door: materials that feel thick and substantive under calloused fingers. Knee length skirt, heavy blouse and fitted jacket, all in muted greens, clothing she knows that wouldn’t have looked out of place in her mother’s wardrobe if she had access to it. However, it is the Mary Janes that make her smile, despite herself. They are identical to a pair she almost lived in before this began, down to the delicate fabric bows on each heel. The grip of normality takes hold, just for a moment, and steadies as she bends down to pick one up and stare at it.

There is a small bag of make-up too, foundation and powder, enough to give the impression of effort that she knows is being suggested she takes. Whatever is about to happen there is a requirement to make effort to attend, and so she does. Bond’s presence continues to irk, this is a change to schedule that never happens at Carnegie. Thirty minutes later and mood has shifted from irritated to combative: as if on cue there is a knock. Gregory stands at the door, demeanour very much approving.

‘Well, I think I can say you passed that part of the assessment fairly conclusively. I had wondered if you’d grasp the significance of throwing a spanner in the works after a month of working to the programme.’

‘A potential 00 has to be ready for anything, adaptive at a moment’s notice. I did read the Manual.’

‘Yes, but there is a world of difference between the intake of knowledge and the application of its understanding, Ashby. Shall we go downstairs?’

There is muted laughter as Ronni follows her psychologist down the large expanse of stairway, from what she knows is Sheppard’s office, depressing acceptance that all this effort is designed to display her as the latest attempt to get a woman into active 00 service. The Facility Director’s speech from the first day of Ronni’s tenure rattles around her brain: ‘There is a simple reason why there are no female 00 Agents currently in service, and it has absolutely nothing to do with this being the remains of an Old Boys Club. If you want to change the game, you’re going to have to sacrifice everything that you are to do so.’

Ronni wishes she’d asked more about the three women that she now knows trained here before, confident Eve was one. It was the two who failed she’s more interested in learning about, but there is no access here to any Mainframe, laptop simply for training exercises. None of those agents would have taken kindly to being made to dress up either: Ronni knows that’s a lead in she can use if needed. Because she is damned if that’s going to happen now: if Sheppard wanted sacrifice, and a clear statement of intent, that’s what was going to happen.

First up however, she’s going ask Gregory for the truth and see what that gives.

If she doesn’t have to play a game, maybe this is progress.

‘Where are we going?’

Gregory stops on the stairs and turns, eyes as always immediately locked on hers, unwavering focus from a man who seems almost ageless.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’m sorry: where are we going, Sir?’

‘You know, in the month you’ve been here I think that’s the first time you’ve actually asked me anything, Special Agent Ashby.’

She’s breathing hard, sweat forming at the small of her back, finally warm enough for the environment. Veronica wonders if pushing the point of their destination is required but Gregory is doing what he is paid to do, give the answers in his time and without any other concern.

‘I am reminded of our last one-to-one session, where you told me that there will come opportunities where I will be given a chance to use my own discretion as to the suitability of particular assessments for my needs. I feel perhaps this may be one of those occasions.’

‘But we have a very special visitor, Ashby, and Director Sheppard is giving everyone in the Facility the opportunity to meet him. I thought that considering who he is you might benefit from that experience.’

Ronni works the sentence in her mind: everything has been a test with Gregory, from the moment they first locked horns, and she guesses this is absolutely no different. Opportunity means that whatever this is may not be compulsory, at least not yet…

‘If I were to respectfully decline the Director’s invitation would it negatively impact my success in this Assessment?’

At this Gregory tries to suppress a smile but largely fails, and deep inside an indignation flares that Ronni’s not experienced for some time. You’d better not mock me. Gregory has done this more and more of late, pushing for an emotional reaction, attempting to exploit a weakness. It is never going to happen, because I am better than that, and you know it.

‘Why on Earth would you not want to meet 007?’

‘I would have been happy to do so having not been asked to dress in the manner that the Director felt was appropriate to meet her guest. I’m being judged as much on how I look as how I’ll perform. Add to that the belief that I’m sure 007 has no real desire to meet me. Being wheeled up here to lend his support to a project that up to now has pretty much been an unmitigated failure is I’m sure the last thing he’d rather be doing. I don’t think as a result this is a meeting that is suitable for either of us.’

This is nothing about anyone else and everything to do with you. This is nothing to do with bolstering, all that’s needed is time. They’re pushing to see how you’ll react to being held up beside a legend. You don’t show them you care, because this isn’t about how good he is. It is about how ready you are.

‘With respect therefore, Sir, I feel I should decline Director Sheppard’s offer: perhaps another agent would benefit from the meeting. The confidence boost on my part is unnecessary, I assure you. Plus, given Bond’s reputation with the opposite sex, I’d argue putting the two of us in the same place is just asking for trouble.’

She doesn’t break eye contact with the man, not for a second, knowing they have crossed an important threshold. Everything has been completed without question since arrival, not once has she pushed back. This however smacks of something that makes her feel uncomfortable, and knowing Bond’s modus operandi Ronni decides that drawing the most basic of conclusions won’t be unacceptable: Sheppard didn’t ask him here to paint me as an equal, she wants me to aspire to be like him, and that’s absolutely the last thing I will ever want to do.

Gregory stands, staring at her for a long time, before coming to a decision.

‘Yes, on reflection I can think of several people who would gain a lot more from this kind of experience than you would. I’m sorry to have dragged you away from scheduled Orientation, Special Agent Ashby, you may get changed and return to the gymnasium.’

As Gregory walks away, Ronni can’t help but wonder if she passed or failed the test she was given.


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DUET : Chapter Four, Part Two

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He’s not expecting her to be naked under the covers, and it phases him.

Bond uses the micro-hypodermic with unsteady hands, trying not to think, waiting for the subtle change in breathing that means the secondary drug is working correctly. He remembers this room from his journey; driven here voluntarily, no baggage to dispose of on his behalf. There is a real need for clothing because it’s just above freezing outside and frankly she needs to be covered for his sanity, but reminds himself to tell the support staff to remove it when they return her to bed. It is uncomfortable dressing the rag doll that Ronni’s now become, but if he’s going to protect on the way out of the building, this has to be done.

The agent deserves nothing less than his total respect.

As the first rays of dawn begin to push through the curtains, 007 hears the transport arriving, and scoops the woman up in his arms. He doesn’t need to be here, this could have been done by the Transition people, but the guilt that keeps building because of what has been given up to arrive here continues to taunt, drives the need to involve himself in this journey. Carrying her out the front door across to the waiting medical team he’s in Venice, moving Vesper from the wreckage of the house she died in, and he has to shut everything out, unable to look as the nurses gently strap her onto the stretcher sitting across the back seats of the helicopter. It disturbs him the number of women he’s known and never actually understood, the fact most appear to die or shut him out before he gets the chance for revelation.

Perhaps this time will be different.

‘She was naked when I drugged her,’ he tells the eldest, stern looking woman in her late fifties who gives Bond a look that he won’t hold, but knows is understood. Walking away the air moves, Medical Evac ascending into the dawn, heading almost as far north as it is possible to get. He could have taken a lift, he surmises, but doesn’t want to go home again in a hurry. The same route needs to be travelled, as he did with M, because it occurs that there are a lot of ghosts from their time together which could do with being exorcised on his own terms. He also needs to run the Aston Martin’s new engine in after they rebuilt it from the shell it had been reduced to by Silva’s helicopter gunship.

This time, the journey to Scotland is taken because he wants to.



There are birds singing outside her window, and they are becoming annoying.

Ronnie lies for a while, eyes closed, revelling in the comfort this bed affords, that feeling so safe and warm as she does is just wrong. To experience such bliss when the people that love her are in pain…

The people that love her.

There is a clock by the bed that wasn’t there before: it is 05:45. Sitting up suddenly Ronni panics: this is not the same room she went to sleep in. The new place is smaller and more homely: the bookcase has gone, in their place is a TV and laptop. She’s still naked though, which means that whoever moved her did so with such skill that she never woke: as a reflex arms are checked, searching for a hypodermic mark. If there were more drugs, she doesn’t have evidence. Perhaps it was in her food: still starving there is a look to the end of the bed, in case someone else has arrived with breakfast.

Instead of a tray, on a large wooden blanket box is a newspaper, very deliberately left opened.

Wrapping the sheet around her Veronica gets up, heart in mouth. The Telegraph’s headline covers the entire top of the broadsheet’s page three: ‘British Trade Mission’s Flight to Disaster.’ They’ve printed the picture of her as a bridesmaid at Emily’s wedding, she assumes because it will be the most recent one the family could provide. Reading the dispassionate report, body goes numb, finally the reality of what she has set in motion sinking in. She died. Greg Fisher has also gone, killed with her and two other people in the accident when their light aircraft was struck by lightning. Ronni wonders if he’s here too, somewhere in this house, reading the same newspaper.

He’s more of an Observer guy, she muses for distraction, staring at the picture of herself looking out that is blurry enough for no-one to really recognise. The date at the top right corner stops all thoughts in their tracks. Today is Monday 4th: I’ve really been asleep since Saturday night?

This pushes her to the TV: met with a selection of domestic channels and major satellite news networks, it is indeed Monday. Veronica’s discomfort makes her itch, that three days have passed since being drugged, probably twice. This could all be an elaborate deception to unsettle, but it seems an awful lot of work just for one person. She needs to have a clear head and so waking up properly would help. The palatial bath has been replaced by a far more conventional shower: standing under almost freezing water moments later, trying not to think about anything but what could be ahead.

This routine comes from habit, locking worry away, leaving it for another moment. Sitting on the bed, dressed in blue jogging bottoms and t-shirt, the clock ticks over to 6.30: there is a knock almost on cue, and Ronni is ready.

‘Come in.’

The woman who enters is also dressed in blue, tailored trousers and jacket, same electronic tag attached to the breast pocket as was standard at Millbank. She’s immaculate, hair and makeup perfect and clearly expensive, with an air of immediate authority. Ronni stands without thinking, and the woman smiles before waving her hand and shaking her head.

‘It’s fine, Special Agent Ashby, we have no need for ceremony this early in the morning.’

She added the Special there just for you.

Ronni allows the thrill to surface, understanding progress, that this is as close as she’s likely to get to a celebratory pat on the back. There’s also the inevitable air of being assessed, that this woman’s seniority isn’t just marked by age. Her boss is clearly ready for business, and pulls out a tag for Ronni to attach to the bottom of the t-shirt.

‘We have a lot to do, but I’m afraid that none of it is particularly pleasant. Sadly in these days of compliance plus Health and Safety it seems to be a lot of paperwork and fuss before anything interesting happens, but considering the investment you can see we’ve already made in your future, I’m sure you’ll not have a problem with some formalities.’

Ronni glances at the paper, suddenly conscious of what had already been put in motion to get her this far. This is Stage One proper of Active Designation: life of assessments, increased training and the certainty you’ll be expected to end a life. If you can do it twice without crumbling under pressure, the carrot at the end of the stick is a fat and juicy one indeed, reward placing you amongst a discreet pile of very select individuals.

The awarding of the 00 prefix was never, ever to be taken lightly.  


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DUET : Chapter Four, Part One

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FOUR

She dreams of Scott, arms around waist on the Triumph Bonneville that had belonged to his father. It is the day they rode to London for the first time, just the two of them: sitting by the river, eating chips and planning their future. The calm inside Ronni is beautiful, whole body warm and safe, as he reaches over to embrace, two jeaned pairs of legs dangling over the Embankment. July is brilliant, bright and welcoming, calm within her brief yet glorious. Then the ache begins, somewhere below the breastbone, pain terrible and undiminished. She’s standing, looking at his gravestone, trying to understand why life was so fucking unfair. 

After that the black is all she craves, until memory of what has happened since wakes her.

Everything transpires for a reason, Scott had said, like that November day they’d met on Platform 4, when he’d shielded her in the rain. She remembers the night he asked what she’d wanted to be after exams were done: the only person trusted enough to share true heart’s desire. ‘I think you’d make a wonderful spy, no-one would know what you really were until it was all too late.’ Ronni supposed at first she had done this for him, because of the belief in her ability. After a while the understanding coalesced it wasn’t death that motivated, instead the notion of what she’d only ever felt comfortable talking about with him in the room, being able to make a difference in the most unexpected of fashions.

Finally consciousness wins its battle and Ronni is aware of being awake, that the world is moving oddly outside the darkness: perhaps it might be an idea if she worked out where this was. Only when opening eyes is there discomfort, and disorientation. The ceiling is high, immaculately plastered, moving strangely as she stares at it.

Ronni has absolutely no idea where here is.

Whatever they drugged her with has left brain odd and unfocussed: sitting up carefully, taking in the large Victorian-build surroundings sparsely furnished and deliberately anonymous. She appears to be restricted to what is a palatial bedroom by her standards and an en suite with the biggest cast iron bath she’s ever seen. Discovering a fridge tucked behind the bathroom door there’s no need to further test the bounds of captivity. Provided with a selection of drinks but no food, Ronni knows she won’t want to eat until whatever was placed in the bottle clears her system completely. That came from a scenario ‘played’ with Eve during what she assumes was the previous day: just how much else might have been prepared for without direct knowledge was yet to be determined.

She needs to drink until the taste of water makes her ill, then stay awake at all costs.

Ronni’s also learnt her first important lesson on this journey: you don’t trust anyone, regardless of who they are. Everyone is potentially the enemy. Next time someone offers you something when thirsty, think twice.

There’s no television to watch, but a very decently appointed bookshelf that runs across one wall. Choices stretch from Chaucer to Dan Brown, with pretty much ever major literary landmark in-between, so she decides on a Hemingway collection and tries to get brain to stop wandering. She’s aware of falling asleep a couple of times, before drinking: sharpness slowly returns on the fourth choice of focus and the same in bottled water, lucidity finally a constant. Looking up it is now dark outside, and Ronni wishes she had something to anchor her to a timeline. As if by magic there is a knock at the door and a small woman with cropped dark hair appears with a tray, leaving it at the foot of the bed before departing without a word.

Dinner is impressive, albeit small: chicken wrapped in bacon and stuffed with asparagus, steaming boiled potatoes with butter and spinach. Ronni doesn’t appreciate how hungry she is until it’s finished and left wanting more, but there is no other movement from the door or indeed anywhere else, and only then does she grasp being in the same clothes from the day before. An exploration into the large wardrobe at the far end of the room finds a selection of decent underwear and the same anonymous blue sweats she’d find when training, and it is time to test out the bath. There is even a bottle of unlabelled yet exotic salts: sinking into perfumed water five minutes later she allows herself to consider how the transition will work.

If this is Saturday, then my family will think I’m finally on the way to Mumbai. The plan is for her to take a small plane to the north of the country: that is when it will happen, some accident will be engineered and her life will be lost, probably in a fire so the body that is returned will be beyond physical recognition. There’s been no preparation for this either, no-one had spoken about what happens afterwards, assumption that is being covered somewhere along the line.

Ronni’s glad there is minimal baggage, that friends she had could be counted on one finger. Lissa was the closest thing she had to a confidante, but never got the faintest inkling of what Veronica was. Their relationship was very occasional spa trips and the odd Friday night and mostly stories about her life in PR and the new guy who she’d seemed increasingly interested in. Mark would show his true colours in the next few days: was he the man who’d nurse her through grief or buckle under the strain?

Fatigue hits Ronni almost as soon as she returns to bed: noting that dinner things have gone, books returned to their places, and there is no doubt that whatever she does from this point onwards will be closely monitored. She’s too tired however to care about clothing and slips naked into bed, last thoughts before unconsciousness about her youngest sister, missed far more than she’d previously considered.

It is too late: regret is a luxury she no longer can afford to indulge.

All she has now is herself.


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