London commuters are divided into 2 clear breeds: Those that meander and those that march. Marion fell into the latter category, her heeled boots clicking against the dirty train station tiling as she strutted through a very busy London Bridge train station. She glanced at her watch, overly aware of the minutes trickling by. Lateness was her pet peeve… And yet, here she was, running behind schedule on her first day. This new appointment had come as a complete surprise, the ominous email appearing in her inbox some days ago now. It had been staring back at her from the screen, strange and out of place amongst the spam that flooded her inbox. Marion had responded with an inspired flourish of fingers rapping on the keyboard. The interview had gone ahead. She’d been invited back today.
Tapping her Oyster card on the reader, the folding doors granted Marion access to the Underground. The flurry of commuters bottlenecked at this access point, a strangers breath kissing the back of her neck as the escalator crawled beneath her feet. Marion shuddered. She hated the proximity of it all; Sandwiched in to the station platform like sardines. She reached into her handbag and pulled out her antibacterial gel. Squeezing a pea sized amount in her palms, the ex-MI5 agent vivaciously rubbed the solution across her hands. Returning the gel to her bag with a satisfied sigh, Marion turned her attention to the fast approaching escalator exit. She hopped on and off the tube, gazelle-like with her nimble steps. Ducking and weaving between bumbling bodies, Marion focused her laser-sharp gaze ahead of her, beelining for the Tube station exit. Instead of waiting patiently on the escalator, she shouldered her way into the fast lane.
Gusts of fresh air vacuumed into the station’s exit stairwell and tousled Marion’s dark hair that hung loosely around her shoulders. The smell of sweating bodies and dust made her nose crinkle in disdain. She clicked her tongue at the commuters treading aimlessly ahead of her, obscuring her path. They didn’t have somewhere to be, clearly. She sidestepped them, heels clicking against the steps in quick succession. Her urgency fuelled the boot-clad steps that took her to the address marked on her maps app with a glowing blue dot. Her dark, thickly lashed eyes scanned the exterior. It was a non-descript office building that had an off-white wash weathered by London air. Marion moved with a hurried elegance as she mounted the entrance steps, adjusting the straps of the handbag on her shoulder.
Entering the Rogue Row office felt like taking a large jolt back in time. The decor was dated, lacking any thought and personality. The whir of an air conditioning unit and a distant hum of voices ahead lead her onward. She saw the small group of women who occupied what looked like an attempt at a Briefing Room. Two of them had taken a seat, the backs of their heads reinforcing Marion’s lateness. Erin Delaney, the infamous ex-agent herself, stood at the projector screen. Her critical gaze tore away from her audience to greet her.
“Sorry I’m late, Director” Marion said, her French accent subtle but turning her speech to cursive. She huffed an exhale, the only sign of her diminished composure.
The late arrival was met with an arched brow from Erin whose reputation of running a tight ship preceded her. Marion inwardly winced, wishing she’d barged every commuter walking at a leisurely pace out of her way. Displayed on the prehistoric projector screen was Rogue Row’s first brief. Marion squinted to see the small print, skim reading the assignment.
“Marion Martin,” Erin said flatly by way of greeting. “Your decidedly more punctual neighbours are Dr Price aka Ellie and Avalon.”
Erin’s tone was bored, disguising her irritation with indifference but tapping her index finger like a metronome on the desk she stood behind. Marion nodded, taking the slight from her Director on the chin. She knew better than to offer excuses. In Erin Delaney’s eyes, no protest was adequate and Marion knew it. She turned to her new colleagues and offered a wry smile.
As if uninterrupted, Erin took a stack of case files from beside the desktop and crossed the small distance to where the chairs sat in audience of her. She handed out the miniature case files, printed and enveloped in a beige paper folder. Written across the front in black permanent marker was “Rogue Row Case 001.” Marion chewed back a bewildered smile. The budget for this branch must be nonexistent. This was not the glamorous, slick delivery of a brief she’d grown accustomed to during her stint at MI5.
“That’s a good start, Ellie-“ Director Delaney nodded, picking back up from the conversation they’d been having before Marion barrelled in. “Indeed it’s unsurprising that a case like that crossed your desk back then. The Homeland Party have been on MI5s radar for a while. I guess they hoped the extremists would get bored and crawl back to the holes from whence they came… An assumption that hasn’t aged well, as you’ll see from the files in front of you.”
Marion fingered the pages within the folder in her lap. Her big, dark eyes eyes landed on some photos of the recent Homeland Brother victims. She bit down on her bottom lip, one victim in particular staring back at her from the page. She couldn’t be any older than 17, at a glance. Marion lifted the file closer, analysing the description beneath the forensic mid-range shot. The girl had been badly beaten. Her eyes bloodied and swollen shut, a sickening watercolour of blues and purples. The poor girl’s cheekbone was almost certainly broken, her original facial structure barely decipherable. Marion felt the usual fire of injustice light within her as she continued to comb through the file, Erin’s voice fading to background noise.
“Marion?” Erin was curt. She was staring at her expectantly, arms folded across her chest. “What’s your first thought on how best to proceed here?”
Marion cleared her throat. She couldn’t erase the image of that poor young victim staring back at her. Repressing the feelings of defensive rage, the young Intelligence Officer rose her eyes to lock with Erin’s. She pressed her lipglossed lips into a thin line as she constructed her answer. The Homeland Brothers background check flashed through her mind, along with their most recent threats to roll out their “Remigration” plans. There’d been some article printed on some large-scale terrorist act entitled “A Call to Leave.” Something of a gut feeling told Marion to start there.
“One thing about right wing extremists is they love an audience,” Marion said, focusing on keeping her voice composed. “They’ve already been using Mike Turner as their publicist with that “Call to Leave” article… Any decent journalist won’t expose their sources but… It’s likely he’ll be in their circle. I’d stick an SOI on him, put him under covert surveillance.”
Marion nodded to signify the end of her answer, satisfied with her contribution. She didn’t look to Erin for approval. Instead, her eyes dropped back to the file in her lap and the young girls bloodied eyes that singed a hole through her chest.
Director Delaney quickly turned her attention to Agent Ava and Dr Ellie Price.
“Same question to you two,” Erin said, brandishing the file gripped in her hand. “If the decision were yours, where would you start?”
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