As regards chromosomes, I wasn’t born female and haven’t even called myself a woman for quite some time. Apart from on Facebook, but that doesn’t count. I used to be two very different women actually, but without any of the dressing up or worrying about what my backside looked like in tight trousers requirements. No, my excursions into the female gender were strictly confined to writing books. I have written novels under several different names. On two occasions they happened to be female names.
I didn’t consciously adapt my writing style in any way. No chick lit issued forth, which was a relief. Not just to me, but to any potential readers. I did, however, write a novel in the First Person with a female protagonist. The character in question, was far smarter than she realised, sassy yet insecure and nineteen years of age. Now, I can barely remember being 19, but I was certainly never a 19 year old female. It’s a tough ask, but writers need a good imagination and I relish a challenge.
As things turned out, having written the entire book I rewrote it again, this time in the Third Person. It wasn’t prompted by the stress of having to imagine the female thought processes, difficult for any man, but simply the added inconvenience of the narrative when portrayed through the eyes of a single character. This short piece I found amongst a mountain of long discarded scribbles isn’t about that character. It’s another woman altogether. I hadn’t even given her a name at this stage and she was destined never to appear again. Poor soul.
Disclaimer. If the truncated sentences irritate you, they irritate me as well, but were evidently a phase I was going through. As for the switches in POV, I never needed to get around to tidying it up, this is just as it was written, obviously in haste, at the time.
The Command Structure.
She thought back to yesterday’s conversation. Her question. She hadn’t expected confirmation of the answer so soon.
The Policeman had wanted to help. Point her in the right direction. ‘First question, who’s in charge? Who’s running the show? They’ll have the answers to your questions. Whether they’ll tell you or not; that’s another story. The top bloke, if you get that far, he’ll know everything. Has to if he wants to stay as top dog. Always someone after the job.’
She nodded. ‘Who gets to be top dog?’
The cop shrugged. ‘Depends. No set rules. The leader can have the IQ of an Oxford Don or he can be barely able to write his own name. I’ve seen both get to the top and stay there. What matters is wanting it enough.’
‘Wanting it?’ She asked, intrigued. She’d not given much thought to the command structure.
‘The top job, it’s not for everyone. Power, but with a lot of risk. Like leading a wolf pack, you know? There has to be a leader and the leader keeps the job by being the toughest nastiest bastard in the pack. The minute he shows weakness, he’s history. Same principle.’
She’d nodded, reckoning the analogy was a good one.
Now, a day later, it wasn’t so cut and dried. The man sitting opposite her held the power of life and death. It was evident in his every gesture. Part of the fabric of his being.
‘Looks like I found the boss,’ she said. ‘Or he found me. That’s you, is it? The boss?’
He stood and looked at her. Mildly intrigued. His bleak expression suggested she wasn’t regarded as a threat. No more than a temporary inconvenience.
Yet, here she was.
On his turf. Mouthing off.
He was evidently curious. Perhaps more than she could have imagined.
He looked at her, evaluating. Her eyes twitched.
Nervous!
He smiled, inwardly. She was right to be nervous. On impulse, he decided to answer her question.
‘There’s two ways of doing this job. Being the boss. There’s the zero tolerance method. Don’t get too close. People who work for me are a work force, they’re not mates. Come the day someone has to be let go, it’s a damn sight easier if they don’t see you as a friend. Or, you can be one of the boys. All friends together, both work and play. All part of one big happy family, getting the job done together.’
‘Which one are you?’ She looked as if she already knew the answer.
‘I’ve got no fucking mates,’ he growled.
Gulliver Smith 