I always knew this would happen. What exactly, I’m not sure, but in my mind and soul I always knew it would. Something unexplainable that can’t be explained. Somehow, somewhere, they found me. I suppose it was unavoidable, I had it coming. But it still makes you wonder. Did someone rat me out? Or was it a coincidence?

It all began last year. Last year... what a memory. The day began like any other day. The morning was wet, it must have rained for two days straight, but I don’t remember very much of the weather that day let alone anything else. Except of course for the main point, on that rainy Sunday afternoon I was given my very first job. The Getter Done Job they used to call it. The idea was, if you could do it once, you could do it a million times. What a far off thought that seems now. The job consisted of meeting up with a certain acquaintance, making contact, picking up a package and getting the hell out of there before they could figure out who I was. It wasn’t much at the time, but for my first job I dragged as much life out of it as possible.

I ran through the downpour hopping over the puddles. The streets were empty except of course for a few taxi’s. Taxi cabs were too expensive for me back then, and besides, rain never hurt anyone did it? Totally drenched I reached the main road. I had to walk at least 2 miles before I reached the meeting place. When I finally did reach it, there were houses on either side of me, old antique houses, red bricks and all. My contact should have been there waiting. He was supposed to say “My.. what nice houses, I wonder if any are for sale.” And I “Yes, they are quite nice, aren’t they? The bricks look quite sturdy.” I always hated those code words, even in practice they were a nuisance. But the fact remains. He never showed up. And this my friend is where it all began to fall apart.

My name is Ronald Allen Sentel, born and raised in Southern Ireland a used to be devote Roman Catholic. I joined the QQQ not out of freewill but out of necessity. At the time the QQQ was the only opening, and I was desperate..at least desperate enough. I grew up hearing about spies and traitors. My father was a so called traitor, though that story is shrouded in mystery. A mystery I hope never to reveal lest of course I follow in his footsteps. My mother and father never told me the true meaning behind the QQQ only it was a sister of the LLL. The only two spy/espionage intelligence's that focused on traitors, and those traitors were picked off one by one.

Back in the 70’s they temporarily closed both the QQQ and the LLL because of the scandal my father was involved in. He never told me about it, and I’m glad he didn’t. High school was hard enough as it was, let alone being the son of a traitor.

To this day I believe he was murdered, murdered for what I’m not sure, but murdered nonetheless. My mother killed herself a few years after dad never came home. Some things you just never get over, or forget.

A year before that rainy Sunday I received a phone call. The Boss was calling me in, he must have finally seen my resume. Boy was that resume pathetic, but a resume it was. My name must have caught his attention. “Sentel.. Alfred Sentel’s kid” I bet he said.

I walked straight into that office nervous as hell but I knew I had to get that job. Any job would do. Sweeping the floor would be enough for me. After being on and off the streets you learned to take what was given to you, without complaints. The office consisted of a few uncomfortable chairs, pictures on the wall and a huge cluttered desk right in the center of the room. The walls were white, the floors were wooden, looked as if they had just moved in. Although I knew for a fact they had been there for at least five years. The Boss was balding, in his early 50’s, he must have been on the job for nearly 30 years, well aged yet still looking young. His blue eyes pierced through me, and to this day I think he was testing me straight from the start.

After a few sequential questions he offered me the job.

“Ronald, if I may call you that, your father was a good man, he may not have had the best ideas, or the best physique for his job, but in his prime he was fantastic. I believe you have that same spark, and I’m willing, if you’re willing, to give this a chance. It will take years for you to develop into your full potential, but I believe it’s possible if you work hard enough. How about it?”

And that was my first strike at destiny.

The job wasn’t supposed to be particularly difficult. It was designed to break the ice. To get the feel of the trade. But, as in every aspect of my life, the expected never occurred. My Getter Done Job turned out to be THE JOB. With one year of experience, I was accidentally given the keys to the whole kingdom.

I remember walking into that institute. The QLQ they called it. For some reason or another agencies mixed their names together. There were at least 15 students in each class. I was 20 then. The youngest of the bunch. The pressure was unbearable, yet I had to bear it. Every morning they woke us at 5:30 and taught us everything they knew. Deception, lying, stealing, killing, self-defense, you name it we were taught it. I remember one of the first things they taught us- the art of deception. Hard to master, yet once you did it, became easy as pie. Body language was everything. One glance of the eye could, and most likely would, give you away. You learned to control your subconscious and your subconscious liked it that way. At least you had better hope it did.

I made few friends at the institute. Most of my colleagues had grown up with mentors and knew what was expected of them. What had I to offer? A disgraced family name and to them I shouldn’t have been there, let alone participating along side them.

However, that’s not to say I had a horrible time. Johnson Tailor was my first not acquaintance yet not friend friend. He was around 5’8” short black hair, brown eyes, broad jaw line, introverted. Oddly enough we got along quite well. We swapped stories while all the time trying to outdo the other. I never really learned his life story, he was called away one day and never returned. No one seemed to care, and it was as if he had been wiped from existence. Would I turn out the same way? I did not know. Or maybe I silently hoped I would.

Life during that year seemed to fly by. We were given uniforms that consisted of black pants, a white undershirt, a gray sweater, black shoes and socks, a watch, and a black trench coat. The clothes were not very characteristic, lest people became suspicious. They did however have a slightly discolored patch on the left side of every piece of clothing, and that was your only way of identifying who your friends were.

And so, that fateful day came upon me with such speed it felt quite unnatural. Who knew if this was a dream or not, or maybe it was just a nightmare. Either way, I wasn’t sure what I had gotten myself into. Every day I wondered why I was given this chance. Why they didn’t just send me back out onto the street. With my reputation, and my family name, it is quite surprising that they didn’t. Maybe it was a publicity stunt, but at that moment in time, I honestly didn’t care.

That Saturday I packed my stuff, said goodbye, and off I went. The rain had just started, and so I used the little money I had on a taxi. I took a room at the motel Le Sleep Dejour, which wiped out my cash. The next day I’d have to go on foot. But right then sleep was the only thing on my mind. The room was painted green, on the bed there was a green quilt, the blinds were green, after being in that room 10 minutes I started to loathe the colour green. I never really liked that colour in the first place, and this just pushed me over the edge. The little edge I had left.

With a stiff neck and a bad back I began that fateful journey the next morning. Along the way I stopped at a coffee shop. It was called “Beans Beans Beans!!” I always thought that was an odd name. But right then all I cared about was caffeine.

After waiting an hour or two at the meeting place, I started to lose my consciousness. Either I was getting sick, or someone spiked my coffee. I fell over the grassy hill nearly smacking my head against a rock and passed out. I don’t remember much during that time, but what I do remember I hope never to feel again. The excruciating pain from whatever substance I was given was unbearable. I wanted to die. After a few hours the pain slowly but surely receded.

Uneasiness filled my soul. “Why hadn’t he come?” I thought to myself. “Did I get the instructions right?.. Am I at the right place?.. Is he dead?”.. Thousands of questions and scenarios ran through my mind. And yet, there was only one thing left to do, go back to headquarters and tell them what happened. Explain it. They had to know the reason behind it all.

And so I walked and I walked and eventually reached the institute. Where Boss should have been. But when I reached that white building with the many windows, I found nothing but an empty warehouse. Either I had lost my mind, or this was a conspiracy in the making.

Feeling light headed and woozy I decided to go back to the cafe and order lunch. I hadn’t eaten for nearly a day and a half, and I was finally starting to feel it. I reached that lovely cafe with the pretty park benches and tables. I ordered a steak sandwich and sat patiently waiting. To my surprise tightly folded underneath the sandwich was a note in scribbly handwriting, it read:

Santel,

It is quite wonderful that you are still alive. I am so very sorry for the excruciating headache you must have felt early this morning. It was the only thing I could have done to save your life. Please understand the reasoning behind my actions. Meet me under the southern tower bridge at 5:00 p.m. tonight. I will be patiently waiting for you. Enjoy the sandwich, it’s on me!

Signed,

JT

I did enjoy that sandwich. And it was my right. That headache was hell.

With three hours to spare I decided to walk down the street. I hadn’t been to this part of town in a very long time, and I felt the need to just walk.. walk unknowingly. It reminded me of childhood. When the days were full of happiness, when my parents were alive and well.

I sat on a park bench and just thought. I contemplated why the institue had suddenly disappeared, why someone had spiked my coffee, why my contact hadn’t reached me. Why none of this made sense. “This was supposed to be my ice breaker job! Not the you’re dying tomorrow one!” I thought to myself.

At quarter to five I began my walk to the southern tower bridge. The southern tower bridge got it’s name from a group of sailors when in the early 19th century they weren’t sure if the construction site in front of them was building a tower or a bridge, and so they combined the two names, and of course, it was located south of town. Now adays though, not many people visited the area. It was mostly reserved for the homeless on cold nights. Since it was summer though, it was nearly deserted. Hell, it was deserted. “Maybe that’s why this spot was chosen,” I told myself.