And I fucking need you ... where's the kettle?" I would of thrown her out, but she smelt that bad I didn't want to get that close to her. By way of explanation she took a soggy wad of paper from her Jean Jacket pocket and unfolded it before passing it to me. The photo had been taken three months earlier, a private commission, there were only three prints in existence and one was framed in my studio. "That's your work." It was not a question. She unfolded a second soggy mass. "This is mine." It was a pencil sketch of the exact same photo, except the viewpoint was 180 degrees out. The detail incredible, really incredible.The conversation that followed ended in Dee taking a shower whilst I put the kettle on. Anyone who hitch-hiked the length of England's second longest motorway without a penny in their pocket just because of a photo I'd taken deserved a shower and a coffee. I never actually offered her a job, I never got the chance, Dee simply told me I needed her to run the gallery and. No male could have ever mistaken her intent. We adjourned to a locked conference room. Things progressed rapidly from that point, making lunch pass more swiftly than I would have wished.I spent the afternoon in Brantwell's office in the bunker writing reports and arranging the lab to make things look like nothing had been removed. Volumes of reports Brantwell had derided in his diaries as false leads were catalogued and readied for shipment to the surface. As I left work that evening, I dropped my reports into George's box.George stepped out of his office and asked me to come in and sit down. George complimented me on all the good work I'd done recently. I was immediately on guard. George only took the time to compliment people when he had something unpleasant to say to them.George hid his thoughts behind a coffee mug for a second and then told me that I would receive another assignment tomorrow. Acting nonchalant, I said that one job was like the next, but that there was still more.
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