Union Jack(Christopher Long) The black car in which I am one of the passengers, cruises along the motorway at a steady speed before slowing and indicating for a turn into the industrial estate situated on the outskirts of Greymoore. A collection of tired looking red brick constructions including pet shops, car showrooms and fast food restaurants. The car pulls up to the curb. We get out, I glance at my phone to make sure we are going in the right direction and head towards the only building that breaks this endless sea of red, a vibrant yellow home to a business called ‘MediaWish’. Two signs are fixed to the front: the first is a large blue neon sign jutting out several centimetres from the wall flashing periodically, cutting through the pre-dawn gloom, advertising to passing motorists and pedestrians. The second, also blue, is smaller and positioned above the entrance proclaiming their slogan, ‘Today’s idea is tomorrow's reality’, serving as a promise to potential clients that with the help of the companies fully trained audio visual technicians their media related dreams are achievable and, in between the two lines of text fixed onto the wall, is the hand painted logo: a figure watching in amazement as a genie emerges from a magic lamp.

During my research on this unfamiliar area a week earlier, I had to learn the building was once a failing furniture superstore. Now under new ownership it has been refurbished, expanded and standing four storeys high it dwarfs the one storey buildings around it. These changes have made it the most successful business on the estate. The company produced a wide variety of media formats including advertisements, short films and audiobooks, both popular and lesser known titles. Among these is a weekly interview podcast with a global audience ‘Under Scrutiny’ hosted by Maurice Blackwell, my former flatmate, previous programmes have featured in depth discussions with some of the biggest names in the world of performing arts, television, entertainment and current affairs. I am being interviewed on today's episode. If it goes well I could win more support for my cause. Having listened to his previous interviews it is clear to me that Maurice is a very skilled interviewer and I need to be at my best. Alongside me matching my brisk pace is my bodyguard James who's diligence and dedication to his profession has kept me safe throughout my political career. He is a well built man wearing a white shirt, dark suit and tie.

On the drive here I had successfully adopted the calm laser like focus I employed in all my media appearances to achieve my desired outcomes. However, as we draw closer to ‘MediaWish’ it became increasingly harder to maintain due to the number of restaurants on our route which offered all day breakfast, my mouth begins to water and my tummy rumbles growing in volume with each one we walk past. James looks over concerned: “Are you alright Ms Diamond, should we stop?” he offers, I shake my head and try to forget about my need for food. This is just the first interview in a packed schedule for the day of smiling for the cameras and being sociable, when all I want to do is go home and sleep.

As the last fast food restaurant before our destination came into view I turned irritably to James: "I will be fine to do the podcast by myself. I will be back in an hour. While you wait, could you buy me some breakfast from here? I’m starving”. He hesitates, but at a reassuring glance from me, James nods: “Of course, Ms Diamond”.

I continue on by myself imagining the reprimand I would receive from my boss if this disregard for protocol was reported: “Catherine, is this true? You went to your media interview in Greymoore alone? James is there for your protection not to be a servant! What the hell were you thinking?” I push this scenario to the back of my mind as I approach the main entrance of ‘MediaWish’. The tinted glass in the automatic doors obscuring my view of the interior, I take a deep breath and take one step forward. The sensor detects my presence and the doors slide open welcomingly.

Revealing a large airy foyer, a see-through voluntary donation box stands to one side of the door. A sign taped to it states that all the money collected is used to support the business; people have been generous; it is almost full of coins and notes of various denominations. I put my own contribution in, before continuing to survey the room. Pot plants are positioned in all four corners. There is a medium sized waiting area, where an assortment of comfortable looking chairs are clustered round a low brown table with magazines on its surface. Drink machines are mounted on the wall. A large floor to ceiling window offers a glimpse of the first rays of the sun, lighting up the sky in a fiery red. Gentle instrumental music plays through wall mounted speakers and at the far end of the room stands a row of five oak desks. I walk towards one across laminate wooden flooring.

Behind the desk, stands a tall red-headed young woman in a branded light blue polo shirt and black trousers typing on a touch screen computer. She turns as I approach and smiles “How can I help, Ms?” she enquired. “Catherine Diamond, I am the guest on ‘Under Scrutiny ’ I say. “one moment”, the woman replies, focusing on her computer screen again. After a few taps on screen, she turns her attention back to me and comments “ah yes, here we are, If you’d like to take a seat”. “I will let Mr Blackwell know that you have arrived”. “Help yourself to refreshments”. ”Thank you” I say and walk to the drinks machine, the sound of my footsteps changing as I move from laminate to soft beige carpet.

Selecting the button for ‘Milky hot Chocolate’ from the wide variety of options available, I wait for the few seconds needed for it to dispense the beverage into a plastic cup, before taking a seat, sipping it and leafing through a magazine absentmindedly. Thankful that for now, at least, my stomach has stopped grumbling. That would not sound good on an audio recording.

A few minutes later I hear a familiar voice: “Catherine Diamond, the medical prodigy!”, “it’s been a while.” I look up, Maurice is smiling at me. The only indication that time has passed at all, is his once slim figure, that has filled out considerably. Despite this change in his physical appearance, he is still recognisable. Tall, with black messy hair and blue eyes, wearing blue jeans and a dark sweater.

My instinct is to stand and embrace him. However, conscious of my position in the public eye, I am reluctant. What if I hug him, someone takes a photo and posts it online? It might cause a scandal for my party and I could lose my job. “Mr Blackwell, nice to see you”, I say, offering him my hand to shake. He looks confused, but takes it. “Nice to see you too,” he replies. On the way to the lift, as we pass the reception desk, Maurice says: “Thank you, Karen”. When the lift arrives and we are inside, my professional front melts away and I embrace my friend. It is great to see you. You're looking well and never seem to age". "What can I tell you I have good genes", he replies. "A podcast host is quite a change from medicine. What happened?”. “I was struggling with the workload and I never liked blood anyway”. “So instead I took a course in media, started ‘Under Scrutiny ’ from my bedroom which was very enjoyable at the beginning only having a small audience. I loved interacting with the fans on social media, answering their questions, replying to comments etc. However, as its popularity grew I soon became overwhelmed by the pressure of doing everything myself and I needed help. After a few weeks, I heard from a friend about MediaWish. I have never been happier. My podcast is award winning and I have interviewed amazing people, some of my heroes. “I am thrilled for you. “Thank you”, Maurice says. Suddenly, the elevator voice announced: “Fourth floor, please mind the doors.”

As they opened, we encountered a group of MediaWish employees. They exchanged pleasantries with Maurice and greeted me. Once they had gone, we continued walking down a corridor with light blue carpet and off white walls. Passing wooden doors with brass name plates indicating the number of the recording studio. Reaching one marked studio 16B, he leads the way inside. It is a small room that is packed with so much recording equipment that I have to mind my step. There are wires everywhere. I am introduced to the other occupant of the room, a short blonde man in his forties named Darren, who according to Maurice is not only an MediaWish technician, but a lifesaver. The man waves away the compliment. A round table dominates the centre of the room. I am shown to my seat by Darren who adjusts my microphone, “You're all set”, he tells me, before walking to a silver laptop. Pausing briefly to have a word with Maurice.

Maurice settles himself opposite me, and in the pre-record silence that stretches between us, he looks through some notes for the podcast. I move my chair from side to side. Maurice takes a sip of water. The silence is only occasionally interrupted by the sounds of mouse clicks. Maurice clears his throat and, at a nod from Darren, starts speaking in a slow and deliberate tone, telling his listeners about the sponsors for this episode. Then he introduces me: “My guest on today’s episode of ‘Under Scrutiny ’ is Catherine Diamond, the member of Parliament for Rose Valley South. Age thirty eight, she is a minister in the governing Union Jack party, and a vocal supporter of the controversial ‘Minimise the Migrants’ bill. Which proposes that the UK send illegal refugees to foreign countries, rather than helping them integrate into our society. Supporters of this bill argue that, if written into law, it will transform the British economy making it stronger and more stable. Critics ask a simple question: is it lawful to wash our hands of the refugee crisis?”. “Catherine Diamond MP, welcome to the podcast”. “Thank you for having me, Maurice. Happy to be here”.

The first part of the interview goes well. During this section I am charming, charismatic and witty, sharing humorous anecdotes about my political career. When the topic changes to the bill, my tone shifts seamlessly becoming serious and self assured. I am eloquent, not a word is wasted, skilfully avoiding all the traps Maurice sets for me with the phrasing of his questions. I do not say anything that could be misconstrued. In my mind, I picture myself as an athlete running a race. I am almost at the finish line. The crowd is cheering wildly. I am going to win and the bill will pass into law. Then, suddenly: disaster. Maurice asks one final question: “Ms Diamond, true or false, the motivation for your entire political career, not to mention your support of this bill, is due to two illegal immigrants violently murdering your parents, both medical professionals, when you were in your twenties?”. In my head, the cheering turns to gasps as the runner trips, stumbles and falls. I am speechless as I desperately try to process his words. My mouth flexes up and down but no sound comes out. All I can do is stare blankly at him. The only sound I can hear is my own heart beat. Something breaks inside me, memories bubble up gradually at first then faster as if they are being carried along on a river current. I thought that I had done enough to protect myself, burying these unwanted recollections in a place of numbness so deep in my heart that I would not have to face them anymore. But, that’s the thing about your past, no matter how careful you are, how many precautions you take, it always finds a way into your present.

**********

It was late evening when my phone rang in the library of the Medical School. l was revising for some upcoming exams. The call was from a number I did not recognise. I tried to ignore it, but it persisted and the continuous buzzing was starting to draw attention. So, I went outside and answered. The police informed me that they had been given my number by a neighbour, who had also alerted them to a break in our family home. The suspects had fled before they arrived. My parents had been taken to hospital with life threatening injuries. The female voice was still talking when I dropped my mobile in horror. It bounced once and smashed on the pavement. I rushed to my small flat, packed in a daze and in between sobs. I told Maurice what had happened. Grabbing his car keys, we drove through the night reaching the Hospital, only to be told that my parents had died from internal bleeding and other injuries. I never made it back to the car, my legs turned to jelly and I broke down in the hospital corridor howling like a wounded beast. Maurice tried his best to console me but nothing he said brought me any comfort. The pain is unbearable, I felt helpless. I wish I could have helped in some way, then they might still be alive. In the darkness that followed, lacking motivation and falling into the black hole depression. I dropped out of Medical School, pushing Maurice away. I started to self harm just to feel something, anything.

After a long manhunt, the police arrested the two responsible. They were illegal immigrants. I insisted on going to the court to hear the sentence. I wanted to look them in the eye and ask why they had taken my parents' lives? I yelled my question from the ‘Public Gallery’ repeatedly but no one heard, my voice getting lost in the noisy courtroom. After the verdict was read out, the men, obviously scared, tried one last desperate appeal to the judge: “Please your honour we have families.” After a brief moment of consideration, he responded in a booming voice: “Get these men out of my courtroom”. As they are led away still protesting I smile with satisfaction, you should have thought of that before taking them from me. That day, a flame of hatred was lit which burnt uncontrollably within me. I needed to channel all my rage into a cause. Stopping this tragedy from happening to others, but I had no idea how. It was during this uncertain period that I discovered politics, specifically a party called ‘Union Jack’. One of their pledges, if they got elected, echoed my own desire to keep our streets safe. I became single minded in my determination to join the party and help them to gain support. Then, maybe in time, we could secure enough parliamentary seats to make a difference.

Throughout the years of campaigning my hatred grew and spread like a cancer to include not only the perpetrators of my parents’ murder, but all illegal immigrants. I eventually became elected as a Union Jack local candidate. My popularity, both within the party and with the electorate, steadily increased. When we got into power, with a landslide victory, I was invited to join the cabinet, later embracing the ‘Minimise the Migrants’ bill.

********

The memories fade as quickly as they had appeared, leaving me feeling bereft, across the table Maurice is looking at me expectantly. I was certainly not going to open up to an audience of strangers. when I found my voice was small, frightened and came out in a whisper: “No, Mr Blackwell, that past event has nothing to do with my support of this bill.” I lie. A hand gesture from Darren indicates that my response is too quiet for the recording equipment to pick up, Maurice asks me to repeat my answer. This time my voice is louder, more certain: “No, those events are not connected”. He smiles: “Fair enough. Catherine Diamond, MP for Rose Valley South, thank you so much for your time today”. "You're welcome,'' I reply. Anger simmering underneath my composed expression. Maurice finishes the episode as he always does, by thanking his guests for allowing themselves to be put under scrutiny and the audience for listening.

In the silence that follows the recording session several things happen. Darren presses a key on his computer “that’s a wrap” he says, and walks over to congratulate Maurice on another great episode. He assured me “Do not worry about the silence during the last question, I will edit it out before we upload the episode”. I thank him, grateful that the audience will not notice my stumble. Darren offers to buy us a coffee. We both decline.

Maurice relaxes, leaning back in his chair, removing his headphones. Darren leaves the studio. Then, I let my rage boil over, getting up and marching towards Maurice “Why did you have to ask me that question?!”. “You knew that the topic of my parents death was off limits and you just announced it to the entire world. My personal secretary emailed a list of topics I wouldn't answer questions about, and you disregarded it”, I shout. “It's very important to give my audience an insight into your motivation for becoming an MP, and you can't expect that just because you have an official government document that all interviewers will avoid broaching difficult subjects, it's their job and mine" Maurice says calmly. “Oh, you journalists are all the same, going ahead oblivious to the hurt or pain it might cause!!!”. “Oh, you think I’m the one who’s unaware of the consequences”, I nod. “Isn't that exactly what you are doing with this bill?“. “Excuse me! We are trying to protect innocent people!”. “Look, no one is denying that what happened to you is a terrible tragedy. But you can't blame every refugee or foreigner for the action of two murdering scum bags”. “Everyone deserves a chance to rebuild their life”. “Nothing good will ever come from letting immigrants invade our country”. I warn, scooping up my coat and handbag, and marching from the room. Maurice calls after me: “One of these days you might be proved wrong”. I don’t respond, just keep walking to the lift.

When it arrives, I return to the foyer which is now packed with people either milling around or queuing up at all seven desks. Barging my way through. Wishing I could take black my donation. As the doors open, Karen says something, her voice is drowned out by the noise of heavy rain. I hesitate a moment, before running through it toward the car. I can hardly see where I am going. The weather matches my mood: stormy. Reaching it, the doors unlock. Pulling open the rear passenger door I get inside. James is sitting waiting for me. I settled myself on the leather seat. The black opaque partition that divides the back and front seats slowly slides down with a squeak. My driver’s head comes into view. Frank is a skinny middle aged man with silver hair that is turning white at the temples. He is wearing a grey chauffeur cap and smiles at me in the rear view mirror, before passing me a blue towel. I dry myself and hand it back to him. “How did it go?” he asks. “I don’t want to talk about it”. How long until we get to the television station?”. “Usually twenty minutes but in this weather it will take much longer, according to the forecast this rain is only going to get heavier. At least, you will have plenty of time to practise your responses for your next interview. I will leave you, so you can practise”. The partition moves back up and the car drives into traffic. The silence is complete only punctuated by the sound of rain on the roof and the swish of windscreen wipers.

I’m too hungry to even think about preparation. As if reading my thoughts, James hands me a brown paper bag. Thanking him, reaching in and withdrawing a bottle of water, napkins and a rectangular cardboard container. Inside is a toasted brioche bun filled with melted brie cheese, thin slices of sausage, pineapple chutney, and tomato. It looks delicious. I take a bite and think it is the best breakfast I have ever eaten. The chutney is warm but not too spicy and doesn't overpower the flavour of the caramelised red onion sausages. I make a mental note to order from ‘The Surfing Sausage’ again. Relaxing, I sip my water in between mouthfuls, letting the cool liquid quench my thirst and the breakfast satisfied my hunger. I have always enjoyed these car journeys, thinking of them as my oasis of calm in between the media hurricanes. No cameras, microphones or interviewers asking me tricky questions. Just peace and quiet. It feels as though in this car, surrounded by its protective metal body and with James by my side, nothing can harm me. I lean my head back and the motion of the car makes me sleepy. Undoing my seatbelt to be more comfortable, I allow my eyes to close, just a quick five minute nap to recharge my batteries. Somewhere in between dream and reality I hear the distance sound of squeaking tires.

Then a sudden violent impact jerks me into wakefulness, propelling me forward and I am flung off my seat. There is an audible crack as my head hits the partition, my body bounces off it slamming into the footwell, the impact winds me. The forward motion of the car stops abruptly, rolling me onto my side as we are halted by an immovable object. I am in so much pain, I taste blood in my mouth, I choke and my eyes are on fire. Just as I pass out I hear the continuous sound of the car horn.

I wake disoriented and woozy. I can’t open my eyes or swallow. There is something in my mouth. How much time has passed, I cannot say. I hear unfamiliar sounds: rhythmic pumping and high pitch beeping. In my confusion I imagine them to be the breathing and steady pulse of an enormous beast. I lie very still. There is pressure on my face. I soon discover the source of the pressure: a bandage has been wound tightly around my head. Also a plastic pipe has been inserted into my throat. Where am I? What is this place? Am I alive or dead? How did I get here? Think, what is the last thing I can remember: the car accident. Oh god, Frank and James, what happened to them? I wish I could find the answers to my questions, but I seem to be the only one here.

It’s OK, the beast seems to be sleeping. I am petrified, every muscle is tense on alert. I drift in and out of sleep. In my subconscious the accident repeats on a loop. Each time I wake, I want to scream but I can only gargle. I sob quietly with nowhere for my tears to go, the bandage is soaked. Time passes in this eternal darkness. Then suddenly I hear new sounds. Voices. They are far away indistinct but I am definitely not imagining them. Excitement fills me. Hopefully these people can tell me how I got here, but maybe they are just a food supply for the beast. I pray that soon one of them will approach my bedside. When I hear footsteps, I am overjoyed. A soft voice begins speaking, at first I am afraid. They might wake the slumbering creature and I have no way of warning them. But nothing happens. The breathing and pulse remain steady, relief floods my body. I am now free to focus on the person's words. “Welcome back Ms Diamond.” That is a funny thing to say, I think, where have I been? The voice continues: “My name is Doctor Reed, head physician at Hill View clinic. You have been in a coma for two months after being involved in a collision with a cement truck. You are out of danger. I bet you are very confused and have a lot of questions. We will answer them soon, I promise. For now we will take out the respiratory tube so we can see how you get on without it. You will soon start to feel human again. My team will instruct you on what to do.”

When the procedure is done and the machine goes quiet, I almost laugh at my stupidity thinking that it was a monster. I must be on pretty strong painkillers. When the doctor tells me the extent of my injuries I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Dr Reed and his team had saved my life. When I was first admitted my face was a hideous mess of bone and flesh, my legs were crushed and twisted, but thanks to a series of lengthy surgery procedures I am alive. Frank and James were not so lucky and did not survive the impact. I wept for them; they were good men who did not deserve such a fate. The moisture of the bandage seems to make it constrict. It feels like my face is going to implode. There is so much pressure on it, I cannot wait for the day I will be free of it.

They remove the bandage after another week. When my vision clears, I feel emotional towards the doctors and nurses for everything they have done. I look around the small room, taking in every detail: black wooden floor, red floral wallpaper, the moss colour curtains, the wooden door and a French window which is partially open, in front of it a net curtain dancing in the gentle breeze. I observe my surroundings with increasing delight as if I am a baby seeing for the first time.

There is a gentle knock at the door, it opens and a man enters. He is blonde with blue eyes wearing a stripy shirt, black trousers and shiny black shoes. There is a grey pen light clipped to his shirt pocket. He approaches me: “Ms Diamond, you’re awake. Would you be so kind to follow the light for me?” He shines the light in my eyes and I do as he asks. I recognise his voice as Dr Reed, the physician who was so kind to me during the early part of my stay. He continues: “Good,” he nods approvingly. “I bet you are pleased to get rid of that bandage.” I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to give him a hug. Dr Reed hands me a mirror and I’m delighted to see how successful the facial reconstruction has been. I try to get out of bed but I'm too weak and just fall back. Dr Reed sees me and shakes his head: “No Ms diamond, not quite yet. I know you must be eager to get out of bed but let's get you a wheelchair before you try that again. With these words he leaves, closing the door behind him.

I am left alone struggling to stay awake, not wanting to relive the nightmare waiting for me in sleep. However, my efforts are no match for the combination of painkillers circulating in my bloodstream and the warmth of the sun streaming through the French window. Soon my eyelids grow heavy and close. A knock at the door pulls me out of sleep. I am soaked in sweat. The floral gown I am wearing clings to my body making me feel gross, I am hyperventilating and my eyes dart around the room in panic. Gradually remembering I am safe my breathing slows: “Come in,” I say in a sleepy voice. This time I have two female visitors. One pushes a lime green wheelchair in front of her. They introduce themselves as Kate Myers and Abbie Sanders, both physiotherapists. Kate is tall with shoulder length brown hair, wearing a white tunic and light blue trousers. Abbie is small, with ginger hair and glasses. “Your rehabilitation begins today,” Kate says cheerfully. I let out an involuntary groan. “We will go easy on you,” Abbie smiles. They slide a sling under me and hoist me to the wheelchair. “Ready, one, two, three: brakes off!” Kate adds. I am pushed down a long corridor with windows on either side overlooking a garden. Dozens of colourful flowers grow in between luscious green grass. I am mesmerised. We travel in silence, the only sound is the occasional squeak from Abbie’s trainers on the polish floor, as she walks beside me. We stop in front of a white door. The sign upon it reads ‘Physiotherapy Department’. The room is large and packed with equipment. After the initial session my limbs are so sore that I swear I am going to do everything my power not to visit that torture chamber ever again. But, over time, the pain vanishes and the unsteadiness on my feet becomes a thing of the past. Finally, I can walk unaided.

Weeks pass and with my recovery almost complete, I am looking forward to going home soon. One morning, I am sitting reading when Dr Reed appears in the open doorway. He clears his throat politely, I look up. He is wearing a cream linen suit: “Ms Diamond, it’s such a lovely day. Would you like to join me in the garden for some breakfast? The remainder of my team will be joining us, you will be able to meet them." This invitation fills me with excitement. To date I had only met a fraction of the medical staff that work in the clinic. They always seem to be rushing. It would be nice to have a chance to meet them in a casual setting. "Thank you, Dr Reed. I’ll be delighted.” “Good come join us when you are ready” he replies and leaves. When he is gone I tidy my room before making my way along the main corridor into the garden. A long white metal table and chairs are positioned in the shade of a sprawling beech tree. I walk towards it. Dr Reed is reading a medical journal, Kate and Abbie sip from their cups in silence and the other people, who I don’t recognise, talk amongst themselves in hushed tones. It is only when I get closer and hear snippets of their conversation that my footsteps slow and then stop. I am paralysed with fear. They have foreign accents, some even have strong ones that remind me of my parents' murderers. The colour drains from my face.

I beckon to Dr Reed frantically, he gets up and walks towards me. A look of concern etches on his face: “Are you okay Ms Diamond? You look awfully pale. Come on, everyone is waiting for you.” “I can't,” I whisper, “Do you know those people?” Dr Reed nods: “Yes, they are my colleagues.” “Are they British?” “Some are, others are immigrants and even refugees from their homelands. They are valued members of my team.” I cannot believe what I'm hearing. “Why them?” Dr Reed thinks for a minute before he replies: “Everybody, regardless of their background or circumstance, deserves a chance to have a better life.”
“Immigrants killed my parents” I reply. “Well these ones saved your life, without their skills and compassion you would not be here today.” I want to argue but I know he is right. Walking with him to the table and sitting down I am introduced to Dr Reed’s colleagues who nod their heads in greeting and say how nice it is to see me up and about. At first I am rigid, every muscle on high alert, I refuse to join their light hearted conversations. However, as breakfast progresses, my body slowly relaxes. I find myself joining in and listening to their stories of escaping their homeland. By the end, I come to realise that there is good in everyone and the loathing I have felt for so long slowly drains away, replaced by empathy.

When I am finally ready to leave this place of miracles that has healed my body as well as my mind, I take one last look around my room and walk to reception and have them call a taxi. When it arrives, I say my goodbyes. Dr Reed gives me his business card and says: “If you ever need anything Ms Diamond, don't hesitate to ask.” I thank him and get into the back seat of the car. Dr Reed leans in “before I forget there is one more thing, a few days after you first came to us you had a visitor. he came almost every day and stayed till the evening sitting quietly by your bedside, I apologise not telling you before it slipped my mind, it feels so long ago” “who was it?” I ask with excitement rising within me, for the entire duration I thought I hadn't had a single visitor “ I am afraid I don't remember his name” . At my disappointed look he continues “he is the host of the podcast ‘Under Scrutiny’. “Have a safe journey home Catherine ''. he closes the door and the car moves off, turning in my seat, I wave until the clinic is out of sight, I turn back around and give the driver my address to begin the ride home. As we drive Dr Reed’s revelation replays in my head, it leaves me feeling a mixture of happiness and regret. Maurice had been there for me and I keep pushing him away. by the time I reach my flat I am exhausted and do not even wait for the cab to drive away before closing my front door, it feels good to be home.

I spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on household chores, I am doing some dusting when I come to a decision. I can no longer support the ‘Minimise the Migrants’ bill, not after all that has happened. Sitting down at my computer I wait for it to boot up, my fingernails tapping on the keys impatiently, When it has I write two documents: the first a letter of resignation effective immediately to be emailed to Prime Minister, second a speech to be given at the Parliament the next day during the pivotal debate on the ‘Minimise the Migrants’ bill. Throughout the former task I agonise for hours over the correct words and phrases to use to strike the right balance of professionalism and respect. By the time I am satisfied with the way it reads it’s too late to send it, so I put it in the draft folder for later. I have no such problems with my speech. It pours out of me, my fingers dancing over the keyboard typing with the strength of my new found conviction. When I finish I am ready for bed, falling asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow firmly believing in my course of action.

In the morning I dress in my navy blue business suit, print out my speech, read through it once, put it in my jacket pocket and walk from my flat to the House of Parliament. The confidence I had felt the previous evening has evaporated, leaving me wondering whether I was making a huge mistake. What if as a direct consequence of actions innocent people get hurt? I couldn't live with myself. Doubts plague every step of my journey and by the time I reach the Parliament building and enter the lobby I feel sick with nerves. Trying not to let them show I enter the Chamber, my colleagues rush over surrounding me, welcoming me back and offering condolences for the death of Frank and James. I thank them nod and smile but their welcomes sound hollow, their sympathies disingenuous with all their friendly offers of drinks and invitations to barbecues, not one of these people came to visit me at the clinic. Walking to my seat I wait for the debate to start, my palms sweat profusely, when it commences, the voices around me seem distant and muffled as my colleagues stand to make speeches or respond to statements. The only thing I can hear with any clarity is the sound of my own heartbeat beating against my rib cage. I breathe in and out slowly to calm myself. Gradually my heart rate slows and the conversations around me become more distinct. Moments later, the speaker's clear, refined voice briefly quietens the murmuring in the chamber “The right honourable lady for Rose Valley South.”

I stand to wild applause, waiting respectfully for the clamour to die down before I begin “Thank you Madam Speaker,” my nerves gone. I deliver the speech with my usual confidence that has characterised my time in politics, telling the house that regrettably I can no longer support the direction my own party is heading in, least of all the ‘Minimise the Migrants’ bill. “What if the people on the boats have valuable skills to teach or share?” I conclude with a question: “Who are we to judge a human being not worthy of our help just because of the methods they are forced to use when fleeing their homeland?” Retaking my seat to booing and shouts of ”Here here.” An MP from my party stands and makes a joke at my expense together with thinly veiled insults, which provokes laughter from all sides. The noise suddenly reminds me of a pack of hyenas and I am their prey. It is amazing how unforgiving the political machine is if you no longer toe the party line. I realise at that moment that I do not belong in this world if ever did. After the debate ends everyone files out, no one looks in my direction. I walk alone to the exit.

Once outside I make a call, Maurice picks up almost straight away “Catherine are you okay” he enquires “yes do you fancy a drink,” “now? It's the middle of the workday, shouldn't you be preparing the illegal bill or finding some other way to make people's lives difficult?" he laughs. “I quit'' I reply. “you what” he asks surprised, “I quit “ I repeat myself before continuing “the business of government even at its lowest level doesn't concern me". "Why the change of heart?" “Meet me at the Welcoming Walnut café in two hours and I will explain everything” “How very Jason Bourne of you, should we wear disguises”? “no, there is no need for that” I responded, "I'll be there,” Maurice replies. I hang up, and press send on my resignation email. There will be repercussions because of my departure and I didn't want to deal with them, so removing the SIM card from my phone and crushing it underfoot thereby ensuring I could not be contacted.

In town, I buy three things: a new SIM card, a disposable shower cap and a box of hair dye. Utilising a public bathroom. I say a silent farewell to my blonde hair I have had since adolescence, before applying the colour and waiting for the chemical to take effect. Once the process is complete, I admire my auburn haired reflection for a moment, before heading to meet Maurice.

By the time I reach the café, he is already waiting for me. Sitting at a corner table cradling a drink. ”Hey Maurice”, he looks up, “Catherine I like your hair”, he compliments. “Thank you, I needed a change”, his chair scrapes back on the lino and he walks over and embraces me. This time I have no hesitation in returning the hug, we stay intertwined for a long time. When he pulls away, I realize I am crying. “Hey, what's the matter?” he says soothingly. “Thank you for coming”, I said in between sniffs. “It’s OK, I told you I would. “No, not to this café, to the clinic”. “Dr Reed told me you were my only visitor when I was in the coma, I don't know what to say”. “You don't have to say anything Catherine, that is what friends are for”. “I was so mean to you and shut you out of my life”. “Friends lookout for each other, and it wasn't your fault. You had lost your parents and were grieving. I do not know how I would react if circumstances were reversed”. “Now come on! I'm dying to know why you quit your job”, he guides me to the table and I take the seat opposite him. A server walks over holding a coffee pot, “would you like a top up, darling?” She enquires in an East London accent. Maurice nods, she fills his cup and turns to me: “anything for you, Ms?” “a orange juice, please”. “Can I get you anything to eat?” She adds, taking a cream colour notepad out of her bum bag and a pen from behind her ear. “ yes, two Welcoming Walnut sandwiches thank you”. Maurice responds. "Coming right up”, she says. When she is out of earshot, Maurice leans forward eagerly: “So tell me, why did you decide to leave?”. “I had a transformative experience in recovery, I now realise how utterly ignorant I was about immigrants and refugees". “I knew you would change your mind”.

When our drinks arrive, we sip them in silence for a while, then Maurice asks: “What are you going to do?” “I'm not sure but I will think of something.” “I'm sure you will,” we toast to new beginnings. Spending the remainder of the time talking about trivial topics. I even laugh at his jokes. “It's so good to hear you laugh again. I don't think you even laughed once the whole time you worked in government. Did you even experience joy?” I try to ignore his comment but I realise deep down he's correct, I was so consumed with rage. But, here at this square table in the Welcoming Walnut with Maurice, as we meander from topic to topic, I feel reborn.

Afternoon drinks turn to evening ones and the content of our glasses becomes increasingly more alcoholic as we move from bars to nightclubs, talking, laughing and dancing. It's late when Maurice hails a taxi, I say goodnight and get into the back of the cab. I realise I am feeling quite tipsy and struggle to focus on what the driver is saying. He is a thick set man with a droopy moustache that seems too large for his face. My eyelids feel heavy and I want to close them. When the taxi pulls up I pay the wrong amount: “This is far too much, madam” the man protests. “Keep the change,” I reply, feeling a buzz. I don't know whether this is caused by the alcohol I have consumed or the altruistic deed I have just performed, but I like the feeling and want to experience it again. As for how I am going to achieve this, it is a question for another day. The cab drives away. I go inside, head upstairs and crash into bed.

In the morning, I regret having so much to drink. I have a pounding headache and I feel dizzy. Moving carefully to the bathroom, I take a hot shower and drink multiple glasses of water to rehydrate myself. Making scrambled eggs and forcing myself to eat. By mid afternoon I feel better. My mind is clearer and I have a revelation. I know with sudden clarity what I want to do with my life. Finding my handbag I pull out Dr Reed’s business card. Going into the lounge I sit at my desk and turn my computer on.

In order to cut all ties with the woman I was, I set up a new email account and sent a copy of my resume and a covering letter to Dr Reed, silently hoping that it would have a positive outcome. Over the next few days, I jump each time I hear a notification on my phone only to be disappointed. A week later I received a response. I open the email in trepidation, “what if I don’t get the job!. My fears are unfounded however. I read its contents over and over, and each time the smile on my face grows wider.

Within a week, I am back at Hill View Clinic, only this time as an employee. My new role at the request of Dr Reed is to raise the profile of the clinic. After devising a media advertising campaign with the help of Maurice which is run on television, radio and online.

The Hill View clinic, in addition to its reputation for clinical excellence, gradually became known as a place of safety for refugees needing guidance, food or medical attention. The number of new arrivals increases daily. They have nowhere else to go. Dr Reed and his team are tired but happy and are in the process of securing bigger premises and recruiting more staff. Even my limited medical skills are put to use. I am nervous at first however, under the watchful eye and tutelage of Dr Reed, I am becoming more confident in my abilities, and even thinking of maybe returning to Medical School.

The media campaign attracts unwanted attention too. Hill View is now a target for anti-immigration protesters. They wave placards and chant just outside the entrance. My blood goes cold thinking I used to be one of them. Closing the heavy green curtains to block out the noise, I turn back to my patient, an elderly Syrian woman. She looks up at me with fear in her eyes, obviously distressed by the scene outside. I reassure her that she is safe. The woman seems to understand and relaxes, laying back on the pillow. I am taking her blood pressure when she grabs my arm: “Thank you for helping us,” she says in broken English. “You're welcome.” Then I said softly: “Someone had to.” Finishing my work, I walk away thinking how proud my parents would be of me and how lucky I am to have found a place where I truly belong.

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