An extract from current W. I. P.

Bondzie stopped off at the coffee machine and poured himself a mug full of such a tarry looking near-black ooze I had to refuse his raised eyebrows as an offer. It looked like something surgeons would draw from a smoker’s lungs. Thank god for the water flask. I followed him into his office. He closed the door, almost on me, with a swift but near-silent, definite ‘click’ of the latch, and stepped behind his desk. I perched on the edge, until seconds later a timid knock was followed by a junior clerk wheeling in a chair.

As I sat down, Bondzie pulled his screen around at an angle. He motioned for me to shift my seat to where we could both see it. A keyboard password, a mouse click or two, and up came the media player.

Bondzie broke the silence.

“She’s up on the top floor. Bitter as hell. Didn’t go the way she’d expected.”

“What did she expect?”

“You’ll see. And, try not to freak out.” He clicked on Play.

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