Chapters (55)
- Cover
- ANNA WHARTON
- Dedication page
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- Praise
- THE IMPOSTER
In the silence of the office, the machine spits out copies into the tray, a rhythmic mechanical beat.
And then something else. A bleep at the other end of the office. The release of the door. A cough. The click as half a dozen ceiling lights flicker on above the reporters’ desks. Chloe ducks behind a tall spider plant perched on Sandra’s desk and watches as a late-shift reporter heads towards her desk. Chloe freezes. Wincing now at the copier, glancing between the machine and the file. She has just a few cuttings left. She makes a quick calculation. Could she manage without them? No, she needs every cutting, every detail. Any missing part of this jigsaw might be the most vital.
Chloe sticks her head out from behind the plant. The reporter is typing away at her computer, oblivious to her hiding outside the editor’s office. The light above Chloe has gone off now, but she knows the second she moves it will flicker back into life, alerting the reporter. And then what? Could she be arrested? Charged with breaking and entering? Is it even stealing if she’s only copying?
A huge wad of cuttings waits in the copier tray, at least half a packet of A4. She pictures someone finding them in the morning. Surely that would pose more questions? No, she’s not leaving without them, or the rest of them. She has to finish.
She takes a deep breath, though her heart is pounding. She steps out from behind the plant with the last few cuttings in her hand, willing a pretence of confidence into her stature. She doesn’t look back towards the reporter’s desk, not at first. She just carries on, telling herself she’s working overtime, making it look like that too. She even dares to hum a little to make it feel more realistic – if only to convince herself.
Finally, it’s done, the machine spits out the last sheet of A4 and Chloe scoops them up quickly, pushing them into her handbag. She winces at the creases that appear in the paper – it’s hard to erase that archivist in her – but she has to hurry.
She returns the file to the archive, takes one last look at her old desk, and then, with as much confidence as she can muster, walks down the long carpet of the office. Her hand grips the strap of her bag on her shoulder; underneath it, she feels her heart is hammering inside. As she gets closer she sees the reporter is wearing earphones as she types. Perhaps she’ll even be able to slip right by? She’s level with the newsdesk now; just a few more feet to go until she reaches the doors. She looks straight ahead, fixes her eye on her target.
But then:
‘Hey.’ She hears a call. She ignores it, increases her pace a little. Then again: ‘Hey.’