Keeping Every Receipt

Basil Trent announcing my past to a crowd of cameras was not subtle. Still, there was something almost decent about him pointing straight at me instead of inventing the usual rubbish about the bunker. I gave the officials enough rope to hang their own story, and when I walked out I felt briefly taller than I am.

Then the worker moved toward the service entrance.

I keep seeing the geometry of it. One wide shot, three sets of people pretending they were not watching one another. I was supposed to feel relieved that I had stayed. Mostly I was waiting for someone to produce a version of me I could not correct. That is the part I hate: public courage is mostly standing there while strangers decide what your face means.

The pint in Camden went unfinished. I replayed Basil’s voice and watched the broadcast frame after frame, looking for the moment my nerve became evidence. I saved everything. Of course I did. Keeping score is easier than admitting fear.

Back in the flat, the microphone queue was still unresolved. I stared at the wall and thought about all the things I have kept hidden, especially the one find I still circle without writing down. If Venn’s crew needs my name in the record, fine. I will not hand them the rest of me for free.