You Have 159 Journalists Outside Your Door
Harriet Freeman was seriously pissed off with her boss. He had sent her off without notice, twenty miles out of her way to some God-forsaken town in the middle of nowhere, to get a photo and a comment out of some crazy teenager.
When Harriet arrived at the door of the non-descript semi detatched suburban house, it was already under attack from literally swarms of press.
Elbowing her way forewards, Harriet thrust her microphone right into the face of the timid eleven year old boy on the doorstep. People yelled questions, camera's clicked, and the boy stared with huge, scared eyes.
Harrie realised something was amiss when she saw the bag of newspapers slung over the boys shoulders. 'He's the bloody paper boy!' She yelled to the croud, caught up in a media frenzy. There was confusion everywhere, and the innocent little boy slipped between the hoards of shouting adults and sprinted pell-mell down the road.
I can see them all through the blinds at my bedroom window. They scramble forwards like animals, desperate for a story, a fat lump of money too. I don't regret what I did.
The man is OK, the news presenter tells me, eyebrows knitted together in a dissaproving frown. It's obvious that she thinks I'm a phycho too. Intensive care, of course, but he's not going to die. Thats a good thing.
I've given up explaining. I'm not talking to any of them outside. Although, there's one woman on the doorstep, who helped the paper boy escape from the glare of the cameras.
I don't feel sympathetic for him though. I think I've forgotton how.
I'll be safe in prison. I will go prison, I'm sure. Safe. The word makes me feel secure, warm. Callum is nothing but a bad dream. A nightmare.
Harriet Freeman slipped out of the throng of journalists, and nimbly scaled the fence next to the house, dropping silently into the garden on the other side.
She stole forewards, back pressed against the unforgiving damp brick wall. Strains of Boney M floated through an open window, as did the smell of freshly cooked muffins.
There was no sign of the girl, or her family. It only took Harriet a second to asses the situation. Her Boss had made it clear, get them to talk, or don't bother coming back.
When you worked for MI5, it was a good idea to listen too your Boss.