Page 3 of The Next Chapter

To Do:

Buy memorial plaque polish

Meeting with Mr Vandergilden 11am

Staff meeting 12pm

Balloon arch order to chase

Pay Elton vet bill

Get on top of emails

Nobody wants to be forgotten. That’s what this job has taught me. Everyone wants to believe that they’ve done something, anything, which transcends the confines of their own existence.

And in the case of Mr Chuck Vandergilden, that something is his proficiency with an M2 man portable, backpack flame thrower.

‘And you’re sure, absolutely sure, Sir, that you’d like to include all that in the memoirs?’ I ask him.

‘Now why the hell wouldn’t I, missy?’ he drawls in a thick Texan accent. ‘What I did in ’Nam’s the proudest God damn thing of my life.’

I pull at my collar. It’s hot. I can feel a bead of sweat working its way down my spine. A combination of the heat and Mr Vandergilden’s war crimes is making my skin prickle.

I draw a steadying breath.

‘And make sure you get the death toll.’

‘Death toll?’ I ask faintly.

‘That’s right. There was no more effective killing machine than Company C 1st Battalion. Them there Viet Cong didn’t know what hit ’em.’

He beats his chest. Actually beats it.

I mumble the words, ‘Geneva Convention.’

Luckily, we’re doing the interview over Zoom, so Mr Vandergilden, already hard of hearing, doesn’t properly catch it. The Wi-Fi in the office really is pitiful and every now and then that works in our favour.

I try to force my face into a smile, but chances are I look like that crazed Joker from the Batman movies. ‘Right, I think I have everything I need,’ I say around my fake smile. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to add?’

‘Nah, that’s everything, I reckon. When do I get the book?’

‘I should have a draft of your memoirs for you in six weeks.’

‘That should do it. Alrighty, then, I’ll be seeing you, Louise.’

‘It’s Lily,’ I tell him.

‘What now?’ He leans towards the computer screen.

‘Lily, my name is Lily.’

‘Huh?’

‘You know what, never mind. Goodbye, Mr Vandergilden.’

I disconnect the meeting.

‘Prick,’ I mutter to myself.