Sunday Serial: 240 x 70, by Gill James,6. Whistleblowing 18 April 2018, cold tea,

So, I've done it. There's no going back.  The people who need to know have been informed.  It's up to them now.  Yes, I'm afraid. But I'm brave as well. Actually you can't be brave unless you're afraid. That's what my mother always said and she's right.

I'm standing here with my back to the wall. It's cold and grey. At least I can see everything, though. I can see if they're coming to get me.  The law's on my side, isn't it?  It will protect me, won't it?

I'm out of a job, of course. They sacked me as soon as I made it clear that they'd been acting illegally, that they'd been telling lies, that they'd been cheating and that they'd tried to deceive people to meet their own greedy ends.    

I might end up on the streets. Employers don't like people who've been disloyal to their previous employers.

For the moment, though, I have money in the bank. My parents will help for a short time.  They've said so. It won't be forever, naturally. They're not rich. But they've been careful and saved. I don't want to deprive them or my siblings. It wouldn't be fair. 

I slip my hands into my jacket pocket.  It enfolds me in its luxury. It has a fake fur lining. It's a limited edition designer number. Deep brown and shiny. I wore if for that meeting.  It gave me confidence.

I have to tell Amanda now. How will she react? I'd like to think she'll be with me 100%. Or she’ll  just bundle the children into the car and drive to her mum’s.   

I’ll be left to live on the streets.       

About the author

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.  

She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.

She is a Lecturer in Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.    

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE

https://twitter.com/GillJames

 

Sunday Serial: 240 x 70, by Gill James,5. Survivor 6 March 2018, spring water,

You wouldn’t have guessed. He is so confident, so self-assured. And he glows healthily. He's pretty fit, too. In both senses of the word.  You wouldn’t mind a date with him, would you? Of course you wouldn't. I'm lucky. I get to see him every day

They say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.  I always thought that was a bit of a cop out or a well-worn cliché. Along with the university of life and the school of hard knocks. He's had them all. But he more than survives. He lives.  

But look at what happened to him:

·         Abused and beaten by his parents.

·         No education

·         Sold to the slave trade

·         Abused by his employers

·         Survived an explosion but left blind

·         No money available for rehabilitation

·         Robbed at gunpoint 

·         Left homeless and sleeping on the street

He overcame it all. Now he almost rules the world. You wouldn’t want to cross him. Not in a million years. He’s a tough one now. He stands no nonsense.  

Yet, he’s the kindest of men. Rich but doesn’t expect people to do his dirty work. His home is open to everyone.  He has a guide dog now and supplies many others with them. Always says “Let me have a look at you.”  Looking, of course means touching but always in a respectful way. There's a sense as well in which he can look straight through you. He can tell when you're not being genuine. 

He gives most of his wealth away. He says, “You take it, honey. You need it more than I do.” He says that to everyone. 

A true survivor. Big time. Love him! How can you not?

 

About the author

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.  

She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.

She is a Lecturer in Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.    

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE

https://twitter.com/GillJames

 

Saturday Sample:Face to Face with the Führer by Gill James , black coffee

 

London 1976

She looked at the young man curled up in the doorway. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, at least. She would try her best not to wake him. She must get inside though. This meeting was really important.

It was getting worse. It showed up more at this time of day anyway. They got lost in the crowds as the day wore on. Somebody should do something.

This one looked about the same age as she was then. Goodness, something like this –  or worse – could have so easily happened to her.

It wasn’t as bad, now, as it had been then. Not yet. It was similar enough though. It was as if it was all starting over again. Nobody had really believed it was going to happen back then either.

Could she do this? Well, she’d have to try. Gingerly she stepped over him. This sort of thing wasn’t so easy any more. She cursed. Why did people have to get old?

He stirred slightly. The smell was awful. Then, to add to the bad body odour, he farted. It was a bad one and suggested an upset stomach.

No wonder with the sort of food he probably has to eat.

She fumbled in her handbag and found her purse. She slipped out a large note, looked over her shoulder to see that no one was watching and posted it into his begging tin. He nodded and grunted.

Don’t you dare spend it on drugs or alcohol, young man.

She knew she shouldn’t do it, really. There were systems in place to deal with these people but they just weren’t working fast enough. She’d always preferred a more direct method. Wait for the authorities and you’d wait forever. Sometimes you needed to stop them anyway. The authorities aren’t always right.

She pushed open the door. In seconds the world of the young man was left behind. Now she was in the plush foyer of the five-star hotel where she was to meet the reporter. She recognised the soft notes of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons – wasn’t that Spring playing? Nice.

She sat down on one of the overstuffed armchairs. Goodness, the carpet was so thick here and the parquet area round the reception desk so polished.

She watched some of the guests going up to the desk. All furs and smart shoes. Not her scene really. Not anymore. She smiled to herself. Actually, though, no less than she deserved after all of that.

A waiter, all in black and white, made his way over to her. “May I help you, madam?”

“Can you bring me a pot of black coffee, please?”

“Certainly, madam.”

She was getting into her stride now. Yes, she would be able to tackle that reporter, she was sure.

The coffee arrived. She took a sip. It was very good. This was the life most certainly. Now then, what should she tell him when he arrived?