“Outstanding Contribution” (flash fiction)

Outstanding Contribution

Little bit of flash fiction I did the other day for a weekly flash competition I’m in. The prompt was to do with realising you’ve made a terrible mistake, and the word limit was 1,000 words.

999w

I should like to give you some background first. It’s unbecoming to brag, but between you and me I have a terribly important job, and I am rather good at it.

The entire village works for the Ministry in one way or another, it is no secret what I do. Geoff at the market asks me how my day was when I buy vegetables, and I give an annual talk for Deirdre at the primary school about the necessity of our expedited prison system.

We all understand, you see. The world may not work the way it used to, but my job is no different from Geoff, from Deirdre, or even yourselves. It isn’t as though this job is a new idea; this country had an official executioner until the 1960s. The crisis of the last few decades might mean that our methods are somewhat rushed, but I like to think I bring professionalism to the role.

You’re quite right, I’m getting off the subject. Please, there’s no need to be rough, we really are all on the same team.

It was the bum end of an early shift. I’d performed seven disposals that morning when the Minister arrived with his aide. Couldn’t tell the aide from Adam, they come and go all the time. As I can see you’ve checked, they signed the register and made their way to Cell 23.

No, I most certainly did not listen to what went on in there. We do not get involved in interrogations. I do what I can to ignore the sounds, a little sudoku here and a crossword there.

I was trying to tease out “Dull river crossed by fish (4)” when the cell opened again. The Minister walked swiftly down the corridor, his back turned and hat replaced. The aide made his way to my desk, face pale. Not, I suspected, a successful interrogation.

The young man told me the Minister would like me an Expedited Disposal on the occupant of Cell 23 immediately.

Now, I understood the procedure well enough, and this was a deviation. If you would check my records, you will see that I am one of only 30 per-cent of Disposal Associates to achieve a rating of ‘Outstanding Contribution’ for each of the last three years. I know, if I may say so, my onions.

This gentleman did not act like he was on a spot-check. A forced laugh and a patting of pockets came before a theatrical slapping of his forehead as I reminded him of the process. Of course, he said. How silly of me, he said, such an instruction must only come from the Minister.

Although, he said (and here his lower lip turned up into an desperately pathetic sulk), the Minister had left for an urgent meeting with the Security Service and was incommunicado for the day. He briefly went on a tangent about the Faraday cages these meetings were held in, before stopping bashfully. Ah, youthful enthusiasm.

The young man sighed, bloodied knuckles tapping on his teeth. How were we, two professional Crown servants, to solve this conundrum? And then, with a speed that caused his gore-soaked tie to flick dull red spots onto my desk, he threw his finger up in triumph.

Of course! The Minister had signed the order. He produced the note (yes, this same note, stains and all). Signed, proper and official, with His Majesty’s seal.

He wrung his hands as I inspected it. And oh, gentlemen! You should have seen the wretch. Ill-fitting suit, cheap glasses, ruined white shirt (awful decision in this work). I took pity on the boy. It doesn’t do to be a roadblock to Government, not in these times.

He made sure to take my name as he left. That’s how you know they’re going to put in a good word.

Once he left, I did my duty. They must have really roughed up the fellow this time: they’d gone to the trouble of putting a bag over his head. He didn’t move at all as I raised the barrel to his forehead, sat limp in the chair in a too-large prisoner’s uniform.

I called down for the cleaner as I usually do. Paula (nice girl, thick as a post) said that she didn’t think there were any more booked today. She didn’t understand, and I had to explain twice. That girl couldn’t think her way out of a paper bag.

It’s curious how some things only come into focus when explaining them to another. The Minister had dashed down the corridor in a dreadful hurry, and a hat indoors? And hadn’t Cell 23 been quite a stout man?

Once Paula agreed to do her blasted job, I took another look at the slip. Ministers must be frightfully busy, I’m sure it’s normal to photocopy a signature. And the Royal Seal.

I sat there for a spell, and it was then I elected to end my shift and amble home for a late lunch.

There was a queer atmosphere around the village, silent but for Ministry cars barrelling down the street. I was grateful to shut out the world and sit in my lovely cottage, turn on the television and try to relax. University Challenge, an all-Oxford matchup, Balliol facing Wadham. I couldn’t focus on it.

Doing my best not to think about what had happened, I fell asleep. I told myself, as mum would say, it will all come out in the wash.

I woke when your boys knocked my door in with a ram. Unnecessary, though I suppose forgivable, given the circumstances.

And that brings us to the present. I’m very sorry to hear about the Minister, really I am, and I do hope you catch that rascal from Cell 23. I hope you can see that this was a rare lapse in an otherwise stellar career and allow me to return to work. After all, my job is terribly important, and I am rather good at it.