Oxfam

This was my submission for the second round of the NYC Midnight short story challenge. Participants had 7 days to write a 2000 word story based on a random prompt. I was given ‘political satire/secondhand/a newswoman.’

Oxfam

Millie was half-listening to Monir next to her in the back of the Uber as he described filming a rat infestation in one of the city’s many estates, while the Uber driver aggressively drove at everything like they owed him money.

‘I’m telling you Mills. Literally as I’m filming this rat is squeezing out little rat babies on the sitting room floor, while there’s some loud nonsense on the telly and auntie is trying her best to use me as a human shield. Never. Never have I seen anything like that.’

‘Yeah? Crazy…’ Millie offered.

‘Nah, you know what’s crazy? Didn’t even get a nomination for television awards. Not. A. Sniff.’

‘Huh.’

‘Millie. They didn’t even get me a ticket to the ceremony...’ Monir looked out of the moving car at the city blurring past.

‘Always next year?’ Millie offered.

‘Yeah maybe. I just thought that story was the one, you know. I was following twitter for days and we got like 3,000 re-tweets. Even Gary Lineker linked us.’

‘I drove Gary once to the airport,’ the driver offered from behind his glass shield.

‘What was he like?’ asked Monir.

‘Nice guy. Gave me thirty pound tip, ten pound more than Phil Collins.’

‘Yeah he looks like a nice guy.’ Monir agreed.

The driver took his eyes off the road and turned around.

‘Only person I ever drove with a perfect five-star rating.’ The driver held his gaze longer than either Millie or Monir were comfortable with.

With impeccable timing, the driver turned back in time to swerve a cyclist, wind his window down, shouting something that Millie imagined must be incredibly offensive in his native tongue before he shifted his focus antagonising the stationary traffic in front.

Millie chewed on her fingernails anxiously.

‘You’re quiet.’ Monir looked over at Millie.

‘Yeah, sorry. I dunno, I’m just a bit –‘

‘Unsure?’

‘Yeah, unsure. I’ve always been under everyone’s radar. I don’t know why Mr Griffiths has sent me on this job.’

‘They’ve passed around some of the copy you’ve done for the site. It’s good, you’ll be good, you just got to turn up when these jobs get offered. That’s it. You’ll get what you need.’

‘What if I do the wrong thing?’

‘Don’t see it like that.’ Monir continued. ‘Picture yourself as the question hanging in the air. Viewers want drama, scandal, we just have to be there to catch it. We’re just a camera lens recording whatever moves or looks like it might tell a story later. We throw a flash bang then sit back and let the story reveal itself.’

‘I guess that makes sense.’ Millie re-read the email that Mr Griffiths sent her that morning.

‘Monir?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Why do they call this guy Oxfam?’

Monir looked at her as if to say are you serious and creased up.

‘Millie, Millie. Don’t ever call Oxfam Oxfam, okay?’

‘Yeah sure,’ she replied, perplexed. ‘But why is he called Oxfam?’

‘Right, cos.’ Monir giggled through his teeth, like a boy who’d set some bangers off next to a cat. ‘We call him Oxfam yeah cos everything he gives us is second hand.’

‘As in it’s not his intel?’

‘I wouldn’t call it intel. Intel is a stretch. Oxfam just has an ability to spend all day doing nothing in the right kind of places. He knows where to overhear conversations, which hotels and pubs will have people leaving together that shouldn’t be. He buys just enough coke to be able to find out who else has got a hook up that day. And he sells that stuff on, gives it to a good home.’

‘What should I call him then?’

‘Don’t worry about that, he just starts talking.’

The driver let out one final garbled mash of ‘Ode oshi fucking blind oponu! Yeah? Doko mi fat nob, fucking English prick!’ to the world outside and guided the Prius gently against the kerb and unlocked the rear passenger doors for Millie and Monir to make their escape.

‘You must be Millie.’ A thin, ginger thirty-something dressed like a teenager leaned against the side of the coffee shop as though he was lying down on it. Millie noticed how little Oxfam cared about social graces by the vintage Gary Glitter shirt he wore, complemented by offensively red basketball shoes and a varsity jacket with the sleeves rolled up.

‘Hi. Yes, I’m Millie, nice to meet you.’ She noted as she held her hand out Oxfam held his gaze at her chest, which made her adjust her jacket.

‘Yes, Monir. Wha’ Gwan?’

‘Oh, not a lot, bro. You know.’

‘Yeah seen, seen.’ Oxfam took a deep snort on his nose, likely clearing some residue from the night before. ‘So, you want to know what I’ve got?’

‘Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t!’ Millie offered.

Oxfam beckoned with his head to come closer, never taking his eyes of her breasts.

‘So the Minister for Pensions is known to really, really care deeply about the older voters. You get me? He likes them old. The wrinklier the better. Bags under their eyes, nipples scratching the shins, you know what I’m saying. More hair in their ears than on their – ‘

‘- you are painting a vivid picture.’

‘Yeah,’ Oxfam smiled and looked between Millie’s chest and Monir’s face. ‘Well the Minister has had a bit of an evening away from home. Was seen by one of my bredren wining and dining last night. I’d say eighty-year vintage, at least. Took her back to Park Royal. Been in there all night.’

‘And he’s still there?’

Oxfam nodded, ‘Checkout is eleven, they serve breakfast til twelve. I reckon he probably enjoyed a night of cleaning the dust out before getting their gums around some hard-boiled eggs.’

‘Bro, you are sick.’

Oxfam smiled and nodded at Monir, mistaking his comment for a compliment.

‘Anyway, you didn’t hear it from me, understand?’

Millie didn’t really feel like saying thank you to this creep but left him with a quick thanks anyway.

Oxfam stayed leaning against the wall like he had nowhere to go.

If there was a hotel in the city a Minister would take an 80-year-old mistress for a hot night of snoring and toothless love making, The Park Royal would have been top of the list. The hotel was built in the 1920s and sturdy enough to have survived German bombers, but chic enough to have evaded demolition and a new lease of life as a Gherkin, or a Walkie-Talkie, or a Shard. It was stuck in the past, which likely would have been appealing to an octogenarian such as the Ministers new beau. Even the doormen wore top hats and coattails, reminiscent of a time when the white and wealthy could enjoy the city for themselves.

‘How should we play this?’ Millie spoke in a hushed tone to Monir.

‘I dunno why you’re gassed! You work on this stuff all the time. Get on that high horse, make him feel small.’ Monir adjusted the lens and checked the camera screen for battery time, then double checked his bag for extra batteries, SD cards - checking, double checking.

‘Are you nervous?’ Millie jabbed Monir in the side, as they half crouched by a hedge, in plain sight of passing traffic but just out of the notice of the patrolling doormen.

‘Whatchoo talking about nervous? Bruv, I’ve done this bare times. I just like to check you know. It’s my ritual.’

‘Ok, looks like you’re nervous to me.’

Monir beamed and put a strong arm around Millie’s shoulders. ‘Shut up with your talk! Man’s been ready for this moment all his life! We just got to be bold and strong, Sis.’

Monir’s pep talk had the desired effect, and Millie felt resolve building in her. This was her moment. She would take this by the horns and put the fear of God in the Minister. She would let him know the world was watching, and they knew now he was a scumbag unfit for office. A good-for-nothing-empty-worded-waste-of-taxpayer-money who clearly only took the job to secure access to vulnerable old women. Truly this sort of gotcha could be the leading news story for weeks! It could get picked up by the tabloids, maybe even by the BBC! This could be the break Millie needed to get her out of this rut, this late-twenties purgatory. That feeling that nothing will ever change or get better. Maybe this will be the time that Millie can show all of us that things can change, we just need to take the bull by the horns and swing for its balls –

‘Millie, that’s him, that’s him! Time to shine.’

Millie and Monir stood up in unison straightening their invisible suit jackets as they walked ahead with purpose. The Minister was arm in arm with the woman, who looked close to ninety. Shameless! The absolute sicko! The smugness, the sense of untouchability that lets a man like him walk around without fear of recrimination. Well, not today! Today was a day that the light of justice, the lens of journalism would shine on his dirty secret!

‘Minister! A minute please!’ Millie piped authoritatively, with the exact tone of voice that could be mistaken for law enforcement. She swelled with pride knowing that after those first few words she had this in the bag.

‘Millie, wait.’ Monir was fumbling with his camera and barely keeping pace.

Millie walked with confident strides, powerful composure.

‘Minister, will you explain why we have found you at The Park Royal this morning with someone who is not your wife?’

‘S-sorry, who are you?’ the Minister offered with some confusion.

‘Millie Brussel, Bait Britain News Network. Minister, please explain to the audience at home why we have found you this morning with a woman who is not your wife?’

‘What on earth are you on about? This is – ‘

But Millie Brussel, Bait Britain News Network was not having that today. She wasn’t having any excuses, any mealy-mouthed responses from this slimeball. She wanted the truth.

‘Minister – what would you like to say to the world about your fetish?’

‘Who put you up to this?’

‘Do you find older women easier to take advantage of?’

‘How dare you!’ The Minister roared; red faced. Beside him, the frail old nonagenarian held a pale hankie with her frail, skeletal hands, lifting them to her toothless mouth and letting out a pained sob.

‘Minister, maybe you would like to tell the viewers at home what it is about geriatrics that fulfil your dark needs? What can they do that your wife can’t?’ And there and then, Millie knew Monir was right. When you throw the flash bang in, the story reveals itself.

‘This is my mother, you sick woman!’

Millie noticed that Monir hadn’t been filming. What she had thought was the video camera screen was instead a mobile phone he was desperately waving in front of her.

‘Email from Griffiths telling him the intel was duff, that the Minister was taking his mum for an operation today.’

Millie turned to The Minister and his mother with a curled lip.

‘Intel was off,’ she offered as she thumbed in the direction of Monir’s phone screen.

‘What piss-stain station did you say you worked for?’ The Minister punctuated each word with a finger into Millie ‘s shoulder.

‘I work for all-politicians-are-mother-fuckers-dot-kiss-my-b-cups.’

She walked away from The Park Royal Hotel, the top hats and coat tails, the perfectly trimmed hedges, the white privilege, the now-laughing production assistant, the angrily vibrating phone in her pocket, the fake pleasantries of daily life, the traffic wails, the door slams and dog barks and helicopter buzz, the incessant chatter of six million people.

It felt good to be moving towards nothing for a change.