‘Good morning, Mr. Williams.’

‘Good morning Agatha. Keeping well I hope? And please, drop the Mr.’

‘Yes, of course—sorry. I’m doing very well, thank you, Thomas.’

‘That’s always great to hear. Not in need of a miracle, then?’

‘No,’ said the receptionist, smiling warmly, ‘no miracles for me.’

‘I’ll talk to you later, Agatha.’

‘See you later, Mr. Williams.’

I walked out of the reception room and into the bustling offices. I had no more time for anyone else, and marched directly to my cubicle, where I withdrew my chair and sat down. It was a job for the restless, and there was no time between my arrival and my look into the tray for that day’s pile of cases. But instead of a pile of  some five to ten folders, I was met with surprise. My metal tray was entirely empty, and there was not a single file in sight.

I turned in my chair and propelled myself slightly towards the cubicle behind me. I was in luck: it was not empty.

‘Michael,’ I said.

Michael was reading an open file, and closed it to look over at me. A wide smile spread on his lips at the sight of me.

‘Tom, how are you? You know, I heard what you did for that kid the other day. Beautiful work my man.’

The corners of my lips arched down.

‘What, the ice cream truck?’ I asked.

‘Yes. It was so simple, yet so brilliant!’

‘It was just a matter of getting the right amount of money.’ My displeasure turned to pique. ‘All the yellows can be solved with money. Not really much of a miracle.’

‘Hey!’ said Michael, ‘every little miracle is still a miracle.’

I tried to return to my original course of inquiry.

‘By the way, is today very slow?’

‘Slow how?’ Michael asked.

‘Well, I don’t want it to sound like I’m complaining, because I suppose it’s a good thing in a way, I just find it a little hard to believe. My tray is completely empty.’

Michael’s eyes widened slightly.

‘You haven’t heard?’

‘Heard what?’ I asked.

‘I mean, they’re only murmurs around the office I guess, but word is, that Winston has a dark red lined up for you.’

My own eyes widened involuntarily.

‘A high-volatility?’ I asked uncertainly.

‘Those are the murmurs, anyway.’ Michael confirmed.

My jaw dropped slightly ajar, and I felt somewhat stunned by the idea.

‘Anyway,’ Michael continued, ‘I have a dark yellow of my own to look at, and it’s seeming a bit hard to crack. Honestly, it looks a bit more like it should be a light red. I swear these cases are getting more and more difficult. But either way, I have to get back to it. Good luck.’ And he spun back to his desk, and reopened the file at the point he had closed it.

I thanked him, and pushed back up to my own desk. 

A high-volatility? It seemed difficult to believe. But then again, I was coming up on my third year in the CMI, and that was three quarters of the way to a potential senior position. However, at the same time, one typically had to be at least half a year into a senior to get their first dark red, and even then that was on the earlier end of the spectrum. I wondered whether Michael might have simply misheard, but I was not allowed many more moments of thought before my attention was tethered back to the present moment.

‘Thomas Williams,’ called out the voice of my boss, ‘if you could please come into my office.’

I left my desk calmly, wearing a look of obliviousness as best as I could don it, and walked through my cubicle aisle into the office.

‘Please, sit.’ commanded Winston from behind his desk, indicating with a vague gesture the seat on the other side. I followed the instruction mutely.

‘So, as I know the rumours here spread like wildfire, I’m sure you must have already heard of what I’m going to discuss with you here.’ said my boss.

I felt uneasy, almost guilty, though I knew the opportunity ought to be a promotion if anything.

‘I heard something, yes,’ I said.

Winston flashed a brief smile. 

‘Well, I won’t make you say it, as I’m sure you’re finding it hard to believe, but it is indeed true: you are being assigned an HV.’

My expression might have changed a little, but I had lived out most of the surprise at my desk. If I still showed anything, it was confusion, and Winston addressed it.

‘Yes, I’m sure you’re finding it hard to understand why I should assign an HV to you, a junior manus. There is a longer explanation I could give you, which I gave the board in order to clear this to begin with, but it all really comes down to one simple fact: over your short three years in the Corpus, you have shown unparalleled potential, and although this is still a drastic jump from the work you have been doing so far, I believe you have what it takes to advance farther than you ever have before: that your abilities are being wasted where you are right now, and that if given a little bit of a push, you could be doing a lot more good out there than you have so far.’

My expression did not change, but it was not my turn to speak anyway.

‘Now I know what you’re likely thinking,’ continued Winston, reclining in his chair and looking me in the eyes, ‘a dark red is a truck hit of a push, but you haven’t seen the file yet, and I believe it’s right up your alley, despite the increased volatility.’

My boss reached under his desk and produced a file. I had seen ones like it before, with the dark red strip across their top, but only in ephemeral glimpses, held by seniors walking through the offices. Winston placed it before me.

I broke out of my stasis to reach and open it, when my boss’ large hand pressed onto it.

‘I have to remind you that despite the extraordinary circumstances in which this file is finding its way to you, the typical classifications of secrecy surrounding the red files are in order. You are not to discuss the contents of this file with anyone, and you are not to share the file with anyone. Any course of action you undertake in the completion of the task this file details you will keep to yourself, and you will maintain anonymity and invisibility throughout the execution of any plans you might produce. Remember who we are.’

Winston pointed to the logo on the front cover of the file, showing two transparent crossed hands, and the subscript beneath it: Corpus Manus Invisibilis.

‘Here, sign this to show that you understand.’

And he passed me a thick stack of sheets, with a fine line at the front one’s footer for me to place my signature.

What my boss had said was correct. Although I loved the job, the tasks I had been assigned over the past three years had been trivial, and my execution of them almost mechanical. The work had lost all of the initial intimacy and charm that had drawn me towards it in the first place, and I knew deep inside that something more challenging was needed to reignite my passion for the objective I had come here to pursue. I took the pen Winston held up towards me, and signed the stack.

‘Perfect,’ he said, ‘now we can get to the mission.’

And I opened the dark red file before me.

***

I found a place where I could watch the house from the veil of darkness, without being seen.

It was a two-storey detached plot with a small driveway in front and a garage at its side. There were two other houses nearby, though quite far from the target, with about fifty metres between each of them. The time was around ten at night, and the lights were on in the ground floor windows.

In the cover of the thick winter darkness, I shifted my position to the small garden at the back of the house. Silently circling the perimeter, I listened carefully to any sounds coming from inside the building. Standing underneath the windows, all seemed quiet. I would have to employ another means of acquiring intelligence.

From the small pack I had on my belt, I produced a thin flexible camera attached to a handheld display. I placed the camera in the corner of the window to see inside the window above me. I made certain the camera could not be easily seen, and turned it on. 

An image of the inside of the house lit up on my handheld screen. The window above me showed into a finely furnished dining room, with an elegantly dressed dining table at its centre. 

Three individuals were sitting at the table in adjacent seats. Two adults, a man and a woman, who appeared to be parents, and between them a young teenage girl, who appeared to be the daughter. They were eating a late dinner, and I could see their lips moving in conversation. Some sound passed through the closed windowpane, but they were speaking much too quietly for full sentences to be intelligible. I looked back into my pouch, and removed a wire with what looked like a sticker at its end. I used the camera to ensure that the coast was clear, and quickly reached onto the window to place the sticker onto the windowpane. Taking the end of the wire, I found the audio jack and plugged it into the display, from which I removed a single earphone and placed it into my ear. The attached microphone provided a clear audio capture into the chamber, and I could hear the family’s conversation.

‘Could you pass me the mustard, honey?’ asked the man.

The woman passed him the mustard from her end of the table.

The man seemed to pause, and he animatedly inhaled and exhaled.

‘Don’t you just love evenings like this?’ he mused. ‘Sitting together as a family. A beautiful family.’

He looked towards the teenage girl, who was looking directly before her and chewing slowly on a piece of roast pork.

‘Don’t you agree, Angela?’

The girl was rigid, and nearly flinched at his addressing her. She kept staring forwards and nodded mutely as she chewed through her bite of meat.

‘Hmm?’ he pressed on, moving his face closer to hers. She retracted a little, but forced herself back into place.

‘Yes, daddy.’ she agreed.

The woman watched the two of them intently, frozen in place.

‘Finish your food and go to bed,’ said the man, returning to his own meal, ‘tomorrow’s a schoolday.’ He placed the final piece of meat onto his fork and into his mouth.

The daughter hurried her own eating and cleared her plate. When she was finished, she swiftly stood up from the table, plate in hand, and rushed out of a door on the left of the chamber. 

The two adults remained at the table for a few moments longer. The father was the first to stand.

‘Clean this up,’ he said to the woman, as he cleaned his lips with a napkin and left the room through the same door as his daughter.

Once the father left, I watched the woman for a few seconds, making sure her attention was not towards my window. She stood up from the table and started stacking the plates and grouping the cutlery, her face concealed from my view. In a single motion, I reached up to the window and detached the microphone and camera from their spots. I swiftly relocated myself under the window to my left, which should have corresponded to the chamber the father and daughter removed themselves to. With similarly routine caution as with the first window, I placed the camera down on the outside sill, peeking inside the chamber but unnoticeable from within. This window happened to be open, and removed the necessity of the microphone. I reactivated the display and looked in.

The room was an opulent tiled kitchen, furnished with marble countertops and mahogany cupboards. The father was alone in the chamber, standing at one of the cupboards. He removed a glass from inside, placed it on the countertop and reached over to his right into the next cabinet. From the cabinet he removed a bottle of whiskey, which he poured generously into the glass before him. He placed the bottle aside, and lifted the glass to his lips.

As he did so, I regarded carefully the cupboard he had drawn the glass from. Its top protruded ever so slightly forward of the other cupboards in the line. The father closed it, and poured another full glass, which he drank in a single gulp. As the door shut, I thought I could see the mildest twitch in its movement. It brought me to wonder whether the cupboard was all that stable. 

At that instant, a low murmur coming from above me distracted my attention. I listened to it carefully. It was not coming from the kitchen window, but above it still. I looked up to see another open window, one of the first floor, whose lights had now been turned on.

I looked back at the picture of the father on my display. He had slowed down his drinking, but was still occupied with his bottle and glass. He looked engrossed by his activity, and I affirmed that he looked little interested in moving any time soon. I undertook to investigate the sounds from above.

Above the kitchen window, there was a small awning, protruding about fifteen centimetres from the surface. I swiftly replaced my camera into my pouch and jumped one foot onto the windowsill, grabbing the awning with my hand. With my next movement, I pranced upwards, quickly placing my foot onto the overhang and using the support to complete the final few inches needed to reach the upper windowsill with my hand. I grabbed onto it, and pulled myself into a sustainable posture. With my free hand, I took out and placed the camera on the sill above. I took out the display, and turned it on. I attuned my ears to the sounds coming out the open window.

It was the voice of the young girl. The window showed into her bedroom. She was kneeling by her bedside. Her head was lowered, nearly buried into the duvet.

‘I don’t know how to pray,’ she said, ‘but please. I can’t take it anymore.’

I noticed the girl’s wrists were discoloured into a fading purple. She appeared to be on the verge of tears, but something from behind her alarmed her senses and brought severity to her disposition. She shot to her feet.

The door of her bedroom opened. The crooked figure of her caricatured father stood in the doorway. The girl stood erect, arms by her side and fists clenched. She appeared immovable, like an inanimate statue.

The father began to wade inside. The girl did not move a muscle. The father inched closer and closer. I felt my heart rate increase beyond anything I could remember feeling before. I disconnected the camera from the display and dropped back down to the ground.

I replaced the display into its place in the pouch and used both my hands to open the kitchen window. It widened with ease, and I made enough room for myself to fit through and jump inside.

I bolted to the cupboard that held the glasses and opened it. There were rows and rows of glasses, neatly lined in the pretty cupboard. I took one of the glasses and threw it at the ground.

The loud crash of smashing glass resonated throughout the silent house. I listened attentively above me.

‘Margaret!’ bellowed the father’s slurred voice. 

I could hear his footsteps pressing on the other side of the ceiling, walking back through the door and reaching the stairs. I relocated myself swiftly to the other side of the counter that sat in the middle of the kitchen, carefully concealing myself from the hallway door. The door shot open, hitting the wall with a full swing. The footsteps patted a few metres forward to the spot where the smashed glass lay.

I braved to peek around the corner of the counter.

I saw the father, confused in his drunken stupor at the particulars of the scene. He stood for some seconds squinting at the shattered fragments. He had lucidity enough to trace their origins to the open cupboard, and shifted himself in front of it. He stared aimlessly inside it, and stood swaying in place, investigating its contents.

I kept calm composure, but my thoughts were chaotic and restless. I watched the father intently, aware he would only stay still for so long. I knew something had to be done. I knew my window of opportunity was closing fast.

I leapt to my feet and sneaked behind him. He started turning around, but before he could see my face, I reached with both hands and grabbed firmly the top of the cupboard door. Resting the entirety of my weight on top of it, I pulled the door downwards, and I hoped and prayed for what I needed to happen.

Then, in a sudden and immediate movement, the entire cupboard became detached from its top screws. The glasses spilled out from its shelves and poured onto the father, followed quickly by the cupboard itself. The man let out a helpless gargle, losing his unstable balance and tripping over with the force of the falling mass.

He slipped backwards, and on his way down, the back of his head struck the marble countertop. His neck angled sharply, and he slid uncomfortably down the side of the countertop, the wooden shelves still piled on top of him. Once he finished his descent, he let out a mumbled cry. He tried to move his hands, but failed to. He looked to be choking, at a loss for air, but could not move from the floor. The heavy cupboard pressed down on his ribcage, and his inebriated muscles were helpless to aid him. His eyes searched for help, and I stepped back to remain unseen. Little groans left his lips, as he twitched searchingly on the tiled kitchen floor.

‘Honey?’ cried a sleepy voice from an adjacent room.

I inspected my surroundings swiftly. Footsteps were coming from the direction of the kitchen. 

I looked into the hallway. A pair of barefoot legs were descending the stairs.

I spun around, and leaped back out the window. I turned back, slowly closing it to its original state. I looked above me, and jumped to grab the camera wire from the upper sill, catching it when it fell, and placing it back into its place in the pouch, which I zipped up quietly once everything was in order. 

I made my way hastily away from the kitchen window, ensuring I would not be seen or heard through the night. 

I listened attentively. 

I heard no screams.

And with a smile, I disappeared into the darkness beyond.

28.VI.22