2084 The End of Days Read Free

people in the 2080s wore spectacles due to the huge advances in laser eye treatments. Her dress sense was also that of early 21 st century frumpiness. Christ, thought Jill, who wears jeans nowadays? Ruthie was apologetic and cowed when she spoke.
    “Oops. Er, sorry Jill. It’s just – um – Ed’s meeting started over 15 minutes ago. He’s been asking where you – er – are.”
    “Ah know, ah know, Ruthie. Tube’s a bucking mess again this morning!”
    It crossed her mind that she would have to stop using that awful word ‘bucking’. Jill grabbed her eTab100 for her notes at the meeting, waving back at Ruthie as she hurried out the workstation.
    “Sorry, Ruthie, can you clean up that mess for me. Please? Ah gotta go or Buckley’s gonna bucking have me for breakfast…!”
    As Jill rushed down the corridor to Senior Investigative Editor William J Buckley’s office her thoughts raced over the shitty morning that she had had so far and how it just seemed to be a reflection of how her whole life was at present. Everything had been so different just a short ten months ago. Jill had been an up and coming investigative journalist at the Glasgow Herald when the job came up in the London Times. She had just won the prestigious Scottish Journalist of the Year award, particularly for her explosive exposé on the ‘sex, lies and videotape’ scandal involving the seriously aged Scottish First Minister and the gorgeous young Chinese Attaché. Buckley and his News Editor were like putty in Jill’s hands and she literally breezed through the interview and into the job at the Times. Jill’s promotion was perceived in the British journalistic community as being a particularly meteoric rise. She moved down to an overpriced little flat near Kew Station. Soon after Jill met the handsome, ambitious property dealer Khan al Ahmed at a summer press party on one of the slick floating club-restaurants on the Thames. Khan moved in with her and life, sex and her job had been going just fantastically. However, in the last few weeks things had cooled down between her and Khan. Jill had been working long hours on a story about a sex trafficking cartel operating through the Dover – Calais ferry routes. Khan had been away most of the time up in Manchester working on a potentially huge property deal. They had hardly spent any time together. Then two days ago Jill had received that strange lovey-dovey text message from Khan. It was not the kind of thing that he normally sent her. The text had plagued her since she read it, but she had not raised it with him - yet. Khan was due back from Manchester tonight and she needed to broach the subject with him.
    Jill arrived at the glass door of the office which was marked ‘William J Buckley – Senior Investigative Editor’ and she sheepishly pushed it open. Six heads swung round to glower at her and totally out of character Jill blushed slightly as she made her apologies.
    “Sorry, Buck, the bloody Tube was frazzled again. I was actually thinking that I could do a piece on it…”
    Buck Buckley cut her short and jabbed his finger at an empty seat.
    “Oh, sit the fuck down, Jill!”
    As she did so her ruddy-faced boss continued his rant towards the whole editorial gathering.
    “Anyone else late this morning because the Tube was frazzled…? No!? Didn’t fucking think so? So – Jill - can we get on with this morning’s fucking agenda? Lot’s to do. Can we just get on with it?”
    “Yes, Buck - ah’m sorry Buck.”
    That ‘bucking’ word flitted across her mind again as Jill snaked herself into the empty chair, feeling all eyes still burning on her. Everyone else basked in the triumphalism of making it to the meeting on time. Christ Almighty, Jill thought to herself, Khan is going to feel her wrath tonight. As her favourite Scottish poet Robert Burns had penned 300 years ago, “nursing her wrath to keep it warm” . The thought then crossed her mind on the name of that decades old Star