Open Writing

Two pairs of hands dragged me towards the door, my feet trailing. One pair of hands let go of me (presumably to open the door) and I sagged on that side.

Then the hands returned to grip me and I was restored to balance and then heaved out head first, like a glider.

I landed in the corridor.

The first thing I heard, or perhaps the only thing, was a voice. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ the voice asked. I looked up and saw Andy Trafford, minister of weaponry in the new government.

Do you know me? I asked.

Of course I do, he said, you're # # # # # [name deleted for security reasons] and we studied together at # # # # .

This was news to me but I didn't argue.

And, he went on, you work for that dreadful rag the Daily # # # #, don't you?

As I stood up a tiny man wearing a porkpie hat moved forward, officiously.

Don't worry, said Andy to this odd fellow, he's (meaning me) hardly likely to start a fight. Let's get him into a cell, where he belongs.

He snapped his fingers and the two men who'd heaved me into the corridor came forward and lifted me again in the same manner. They ran with me towards the lift, stopping only when my head was inches away.

Andy Trafford's pork pie hatted henchman followed us into the lift.

'Scum, aint yer?' he snarled, jabbing a syringe into my neck.

'Where am I?' I groaned when I came round.

'You're in a cell at the ministry of weaponry,' said the voice of Andy Trafford, even though he wasn't there.

*

A few months ago I was just an ordinary chap doing an ordinary job as crossword compiler of the Daily # # # # and now look at me - but of course you can't.

[PS: 'crossword compiler’ should have been ####.]