THE MAN IN THE BACKROOM

He balled up the brown paper from his lunch and closing one eye, took careful aim. Using his famous over-arm bowling action he lobbed it into the wastepaper basket. 'Nice one, Fred' somebody in the crowd yelled, and a drift of fragrant smoke brought the hot, savoury smell of wors, lotion on tanned arms and Castle lager drifting across the pitch. A cloud floated across the sun, and glancing round carefully he noted the positioning of the fielders. Walking back from the crease he took a long run and as he pitched the ball he knew it had the speed. Then the announcer's awed voice came over the tannoy, '.. and the ball left the bowler's hand at 186kms/hr'. One of the fastest deliveries on record.' The crowd roared and as one rose to their feet, waving their hats and shouting applause.

Ja, those'd been the glory days. He'd never forgotten them. Nothing like a good Wanderers cricket match to stir up the blood, his own and the spectators. He'd loved every moment of it.

Walking down the passage to the gents loo he belched loudly twice.

"Damn Gladys. Told her not to put dog-tongue polony on me sandwiches. Always gives me indigestion. No imagination that girl. Never thinks of anything interesting to give a bloke in his tucker. Have to speak to her again tonight."

After relieving himself and washing his hands, he rinsed his false teeth under the tap. Re-inserting them he then pulled a few stray hairs from his nostril with a small pair of tweezers he kept in his top pocket. Deciding to get a breath of fresh air before he attacked the Sales Ledgers once more, he soon changed his mind when he felt the force of the wind blowing off Paarden Eiland beach and the open sea beyond the harbour entrance.

Standing on the front steps, his mind moved over the sorry state of the Sales Ledgers waiting for him in the back office. "Hellava mess those books are in, and no mistake," he mused as he listened to the windows rattling with the force of the nor-wester blowing off the sands at Paarden Eiland. "God, what a desolate beach that one was, an' no mistake, and no point in trying to cross the busy main road to take a walk on the beach. It's just a mess of mussel covered sea-weed, bits of wood from dumped crates, empty beer cans, and fishing nets. Makes you sick how nobody seems to care or make an effort to keep the place clean or remove the junk. Gets worse every year."

"Remember once, years ago, when the SA Voyager was wrecked on the rocks at Sea Point. All sorts of things washed ashore. They mounted an armed guard to protect the stuff. Poor little rookie soldiers had to stand there in the wind and rain, guarding an empty beach. Right fools they looked. Some sort of chemical canisters had washed ashore that the government swore were highly poisonous. Said people could get contaminated, so they were guarded night and day until they were removed. Real nine-days wonder that wreck was, Cape Town folks talked about it for months, and years later the boys were still diving the wreck and taking whatever they could find. The wreck was the same year the Durban July favourite Sea Cottage was shot. In the end the horse ran - think it might have even finished amongst the winners. Fantastic horse. Bet the bookies lost a packet on that race - nobody expected the animal had a chance!"

Sucking his teeth and scratching his crotch, he pulled the door open, holding it against the force of the wind and sauntered back to his dingy little office. Opening the morning paper he put his feet on the desk, the paper over his head, and snatched 40-winks.

'Only thing to do really, helps me to get through the day, seems to chop it up into two sections. After lunch the afternoon seems shorter, and two cups of strong, sweet tea from the little klonkie always cheer me up. Then I look forward to the thrill whistle of that skelm with the Cape Argus. Soon's I hear him, I know the working day's nearly over.'

The months dragged by. Dreams of past glory on the cricket field; dull repetition in the office. He knew he was lucky to have the job, but couldn't wait until he was free of the shackles and could return to the life he'd known before. One day, the summons came, as he'd always known it would.

After quietly sorting out anything that linked him to his past, he packed a suitcase and deposited it in a luggage locker at Bellville Station. As soon as he'd received his last pay-cheque, he walked away. After a week or two, his absence was noticed. "Where's Paddy?" someone asked, everyone assuming he must be off sick and that he'd already phoned in. "Dunno, "Spares replied.

Winging his way through the skies, Paddy returned to his old haunts, and seamlessly took up where he'd left off. Issued with a Magnum 45 and an assortment of passports and credit cards, he assumed his new identity as a retired schoolmaster of a minor boy's school in Wales. No worries that anyone would check. He'd been away so long, his face had faded from people's memories and his dossier was already gathering dust in some gloomy archive. Soon he was taking short trips to Amsterdam, then Dubai and Kuwait. He established his credibility as a sophisticated, urbane man with interests that took him to foreign cities. Imperceptibly his style of dressing improved so that fairly soon he wore the look of a man of reasonably cultured, if not completely refined, tastes.

Life changed. No more dog-tongue polony sandwiches and endless days at an office desk. With his increased interest in life he found he'd lost 5-kilos in weight, and was fitter, more energetic and mentally sharper than ever. He frequented the local gym and although he kept a low profile, found he'd attracted the attention of one trainer - a super-fit, muscle-bound short-haired blonde named Kit. Although he liked her, he played it cool, finding an excuse every time she suggested a Chinese or a curry. Pleading a widowed sister working shifts who needed him to baby-sit in the evenings and help her two youngsters with homework, somehow without arousing suspicion, he continued to refuse her invitations. Then one day there was a message for him. It was the mission he'd been waiting for. He recognised it's importance as soon as they briefed him. Called to the dingy office just off Waterloo, the one with the grimy north-facing windows letting in a few chinks of dim light and dirty pigeons cooing outside, he listened to the sounds of trains departing for the Continent, taxis hooting and the roar of buses from the coach station. Then the door opened, and without ceremony 'J' took his place. Glaring at him over black-rimmed spectacles he gave his orders. 

"At 0500 proceed by Eurostar to Brussels, then change for Zurich. A banker's draft will be waiting for you at Credit Suisse. Go to the dead-drop where you'll find your instructions for the next stage. Proceed from there."

Gradually, with Paddy as the king-pin, the secret force went about its business, eliminating the enemies of the people and equalizing the power. Always, behind the scenes, were the unseen hands pulling the strings.

"Who's this guy, Vladimir? he queried on one occasion.
"None of your business," came the brusque reply. "Operators obey orders and don't ask questions."

Days later, riding the 137 from Hammersmith to the City, he saw a Daily News headline reading, "Another Russian Oil Oligarch Dies of Mystery Illness" and smiling to himself, he slipped off the bus outside the Albert Hall. Ducking down side-streets, sauntering through shop entrances he emerged from service doors to mingle with groups of smokers catching a break. Gradually he made his way to the dingy room opposite Waterloo Station. Taking his seat at the desk across from 'J', he  thought of the man he'd glimpsed as he entered, and remembered the missions they'd been on together. That was the fellow he'd pulled off a sinking ice-flow somewhere in the Artic circle, saving his life, and that was the man who, only two days ago had worked with him to execute the latest mission. Any flicker of recognition could be fatal for both. It was their only insurance, a matter of life and death; they had to keep the masks on come what may.

Barbara Durlacher

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Name	Comment	Date
James Tobias	I must admit to being a little apprehensive with the following: "Ja, those'd been the glory days","Fred", "Gladys". Thought to myself, here we go - another story harping on the "good old days". Although not obviously evident there did seem a hint of it. Not sure what the purpose of the piece was, probably because I didn’t get on the POV. Perhaps it was a little over my head, or beyond my personal experience. points 2 - This writing needs a bit of editing and/or re-writing	2007-12-15
Louis Harris	I love a good ol' spy story and the machinations behind spying. You love to mix your writing with nostalgia and that's your very own uniqueness. You don't use state of the art equipment to come to a conclusion  and that's what might be missing but it doesn't detract from your story.  Gremlins = A little wordy, but i find that this is your Barbara style of writing and its all good. The 1st sentence didn't grab me, but the last sentence did. What's good about the piece:  It has your voice and stamp.  There was a good feeling of mystery, and suspense to it. A nice spy meal.  You have a great way with description and your use of passive voice is minimal.  What could be made better? Perhaps "J" needs more characterisation.  Perhaps your protagonist needs to be seen in an action scene. Perhaps the story needs to be a little longer to encompass these points. Perhaps I'm wrong.  Points 3 - Very promising piece of writing	2007-12-15
Mandy	Barbara, I will agree with Louis, I felt your intro was not gripping enough to hold the reader. I also agree with James that I got a bit lost in the story. I like your nostalgia - I think you do that very well without it being 'the good old days'. You have a very particular style that you must cultivate within the confines of a good storyline Points 2 - This writing needs a bit of editing and/or re-writing	2007-12-18