QSFer Eule Grey has a new FF horror thriller novella out: Hungry Butterfly.
Downtrodden charity worker Brenda can’t believe her luck when she gets a new job on a medical trial. It’s a dream position with a generous wage—almost too good to be believable. Life has never been better…
Until Brenda discovers some concerning facts about the company facilitating the trial. Why is FixMe so impatient for results? She keeps telling her manager you can’t change lives overnight, but Thomas doesn’t listen.
She should have noted the red flags.
Fortunately, Brenda isn’t ultimately responsible for the trial’s ethics. Who’s going to care if she forges signatures? One or three teeny-weeny fibs don’t matter.
She should have called the police.
Bells ring when Brenda starts ‘forgetting’ things. Where did she leave her case notes, and why can’t she remember writing them? Then Brenda’s customers disappear, but it’s too late for regrets.
She should have run.
It’s a constant struggle to remember what truly matters. Brenda doesn’t mean to lie or cheat, not at the start. What begins as a second chance at adulting ends with a trail of body bags and a broken butterfly.
She shouldn’t have done it.
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Excerpt
Brenda
Thomas almost smiled. “We need evidence, Bren. It’s not enough to say you’ve made a difference. We know you have, of course. We are behind you, supporting you all the way. Certainly. But the funders—You understand. What FixMe need, FixMe get! Ha, ha, ha.”
Brenda’s stomach created a series of sounds and sensations similar to an operative building site. She became breathy and lightheaded and felt under attack. When she tried to speak, all that came out was air. “Off. Oof.”
A spray of spit landed on Thomas. He removed his glasses with a Dickensian grimace. “How many cases have you got? I trust you’ve brought the notes?”
Notes? Cases? Brenda turned a snort into a cough. She’d known on the first day the job would be a pile of crap.
FixMe, a newly established charity, worked with people stuck in a cycle of crime. The job description boasted a worthy ethos and decent pay. The cold realities of the work had proved less attractive—no training or support, no induction, no structures or pathways, no risk assessments or colleagues.
All Brenda had been offered as support was a tiny office in a storage facility. Thomas was based far away at an undisclosed location. Once a week, Brenda received an email with a list of names to contact and a reminder that she was doing an extraordinary job.
Since starting the job, she’d trailed the streets, visiting crack dens and prisons. Got nowhere. She’d made hundreds of desperate phone calls to the police and cried in the storage facility toilets. Increasingly, she’d return home by one o’clock and chain-smoke in bed.
“Fourteen cases,” she lied. “Two more sign-ups this week.” She’d meant to say four, which would’ve been an exaggeration since she had no cases. No cases. Zero. A big, fat nothing.
Thomas pointed one long finger; hand poised in mid-air. “Fourteen?” His fingernails were brown as if he’d been scratching at graveyards.
Brenda nodded and then couldn’t stop. Her head went up and down like one of those car toys attached to the dashboard, trapped by motion and movement. Stuck forever.
“You’ll need to up your load to fifty by the end of March.” Thomas licked his lips. “At least. A hundred would be even better, wouldn’t it? Hmm?”
Brenda’s voice hit the unpleasant notes of a shriek. “Fifty?”
“You sound surprised, Brenda. Fifty. Yes. If we want to get paid. And we all want money, don’t we?” Thomas tapped the desk with his FixMe pen, decorated with pretty butterflies. “Payment by results. It’s the deal. Hasta la vista, baby.”
Brenda’s resolve not to argue snapped. The words tumbled out. “But it’s not possible. It’s not! We’re talking about people with numerous barriers who’re entrenched in harmful behaviours. Most of them have mental health issues. There’re no easy fixes. It’s hard enough getting hold of them in the first place. They leave custody and disappear. I have no way of finding them.” Under the table, Brenda’s hands found each other. Her bottom lip wobbled. “I’m struggling. I can’t do it.”
Thomas sighed. He tapped his pen on the desk every few seconds.
To Brenda, the noise of the pen was a frantic heartbeat and the background music of a cult horror film. Tap, tap, tappety tap.
Thomas tapped aggressively. “Have you sought referrals from statutory services? Police and Probation. Social Services. Et cetera.” His head began wobbling like Brenda’s. “I presume so because you assured me it was the case last time we spoke. Hmm?”
Had she? Brenda tried to think back, to be professional and robust, efficient and resourceful, and all she’d promised at the interview. Effective? She’d been drinking too much and not sleeping, and anyway, her memory wasn’t what it used to be. “I. Yes.” It was all she could manage.
Thomas shifted some butterfly-patterned papers. When he spoke, it reminded Brenda of a film about interrogations. “Last supervision. The fourteenth of the month. Two p.m. You reported the project as going well with no issues. We’ve had ten supervisions altogether. It’s been gratifying having such a dedicated and positive employee.” He smiled nastily.
Brenda suddenly needed the toilet.
Author Bio
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