The Consultant - NaNoWriMo2021

Chapter 3

The following morning, I slept in until nine, which was out of character. I had arrived back in my own rooms after three and as usual, had no memories of what had transpired with Felix. We had fallen asleep together but at some point, I had woken and carefully extracted myself from the arms and legs that threatened to cut off my blood supply, and headed home. After making coffee, I meandered through the college's quadrangles and arrived at the Porters' Lodge; the nerve centre of every Oxbridge college and the first port of call for directions, gossip and post.

'Ah Miss Dunbar. I s'pose we'll have to start calling you Dr Dunbar soon won't we?'

'Oh don't worry about that Frank, Fin will do just fine.' Frank, the Head Porter at Boleyn College almost choked on his tea.

'Fin? That would never do Miss, not while I'm in charge. You'll be Miss Dunbar until you pass your viva, then Dr Dunbar until the university comes to its senses and offers you tenure.'

'Tenure! You must be joking Frank. I'm trying to get out of here, not commit to a life sentence.'

'They all say that Miss, but you'd miss it if you left us. You know you would.' He started a tuneless whistle as he turned behind him and reached up to my pigeon hole.

'Here we are Miss, just the one for you this morning, hope it's something nice.'

Frank handed the envelope over and flashed me a paternal smile.

'Ere, Ronny!' Ronny, the Under-Porter and general dogsbody came sauntering in, a cigarette dangling from his lips and his tie fashionably low.

'Put that bloody thing out, do your bloody shirt up and try to look respectable man. For heaven's sake. And don't let me catch you walking on the fellows' lawn either you lazy bugger. Sorry about that Miss, he's still learning, aren't you Ronny.' Frank leaned over and gently cuffed Ronny across the head. It was comical to watch; Ronnie was easily twice the size of Frank, but he took it in good heart, and began to tighten his tie.

'Have fun gents – catch you later.' I wandered back to my rooms, taking perverse enjoyment from walking directly across the Fellows' Lawn, which, as a Fellow, I was completely entitled to. It was a petulant show of power but I doubted Frank and Ronnie were even watching, in fact I hoped not; I hadn't meant to be so petty, but the arrival of the envelope had unnerved me. It was anonymous aside from a London postmark, but the quality of the paper and the distinctive cursive lettering told me everything I needed to know. This was from them, and it meant my fate had been decided. I sped up, keen to get back to my coffee and some peace so I could open it. Avoiding anyone who looked like they might want to stop and chat, I took the stairs to my turret two at a time and closed the door carefully. Moments later I was at my desk, coffee in hand, staring at the envelope like it contained the most treasured secret in the world.

I really wanted this. I had worked hard for it; Christ I had even chosen to study languages at undergrad to make me a more attractive candidate. I did a masters degree in Arabic; spent a year in Beirut and then followed up with a doctorate in ancient Semitic languages. To be fair, I didn't really want to do a doctorate but as usual, I had to live up to the untarnishable reputation of my dearly departed brother and follow in his footsteps. There is something ironic about spending your life doing things you don't want to do, to compete with the ghost of a dead brother whom you despised because he was so fucking perfect.

But this job, this career with the Secret Intelligence Service, this was something I really wanted, and I wanted it for me, or at least mostly for me. It's the only thing I have ever really coveted, but during those ill-advised moments when I am being truly honest with myself, I also want it because I harbour a secret but implausible dream. In my dream, I will one day discover who it was that planted the bomb that went off early one February morning and having completely failed to kill it's target, widely assumed to be a bunch of radical feminists who met in a café on Jericho street, instead settled for just one person, an innocent bystander. I will discover this information and I will use my newly acquired skills as an intelligence officer to track this individual down, extract a full confession, and then throw the fucker of the roof of a multi-story car park. Hopefully that will give me some closure and I can think of my brother as a beloved sibling who was tragically killed, rather than a smug, condescending dick who masqueraded as a paragon of virtue.

I closed my eyes, counted to ten in Aramaic and ripped open the letter. It was a single sheet with just two paragraphs and I scanned them quickly, impatient to rip off the band aid.

Dear Miss Dunbar,

Further to your recent interview at Malvern Terrace, I am delighted to inform you that the SIS wishes to offer you a position as Junior Intelligence Officer (trainee). Assuming you wish to accept this offer, please telephone the above number at your earliest convenience.

Please note that the start of the aforementioned position is contingent on your successful completion of a short term assignment that you will undertake in your own time, and unpaid, though expenses may be reimbursed if the appropriate receipts are submitted. This short-term assignment will last for no longer than six weeks, and if successfully completed, will result in a full time contract being issued.

I look forward to receiving your decision as soon as possible,

Yours,

Blah blah blah. So had they offered me the job or not? Was I a spy now? Maybe a trainee? No, I would possibly one day be a trainee junior spy, if I pass the aptitude test that I have to complete during my unpaid internship. This is ridiculous, and I am intensely annoyed that there is now another, hitherto unknown step in the process, but if I complete it, I'm in, and today, that's all I care about.

I sip my rapidly cooling coffee and stand up to stretch, absently rubbing my behind where in the shower this morning, no doubt I shall find more stripes. What that kinky old fucker gets up to I have no idea, but he clearly embraces his fantasy wholeheartedly, and I have the marks to prove it. I sigh at the complicated life I seem destined to lead, but the warm glow that accompanies my into the shower is not just from Felix's ministrations; it's the knowledge that I've done it, and I'm going to be a spy. In my parents' eyes, Alex was perfection personified and being dead and all, that will never change but maybe, just maybe, in a few weeks, when I can finally tell them I'm a spy, they might be impressed that their daughter has gained entry into Britain's most exclusive club. Perhaps they will finally be proud of me, and perhaps I can get over this crap that stalks me wherever I go, and actually move on with my life.