Fried Egg

My brother Adam, runs a writing group in New Milton, Hampshire. Each month members are given a word or a phrase to use in a short piece of writing. For June 2026 the phrase was 'I came home on the last train'.

It was a spring morning, a day or so before the blue moon.  A day when I woke up and smelt the roses, their scent having settled overnight in the back courtyard.  The sky was a heat-filled blue, marked only by the black dots of swifts who filled their beaks with invisible insects.  Summer was just around the corner and the first load of washing hung on the line waiting for the sun to clear the brick wall, waiting for the breeze to catch and take the scent which it would then claim as its own.  Everything and everyone was waiting.

            I picked up my fried egg keyring from Japan and unhooked the front door key and put it on the kitchen table, grabbed my bag and walked out the front door.  I’d been told to move.  Told they’d had enough of waiting.  The thing was, it seemed to me no-one actually knew what we were waiting for.

            My feet took me a familiar route, and I paused to look at the newly renovated Phoenix Café, which had truly been resurrected from its previous incineration.  A couple who sat at a table on the pavement smiled as their coffee and hot chocolate arrived and I wondered what they would now be waiting for.  ‘Enough dawdling’ my feet seemed to say as I carried on, down the lane and over the railway bridge. Onwards, forwards, away and from seemed to be my mantra. 

            That was three years ago.  Three years, since I walked away from my husband, adult step-children and my so-called life which I’d been waiting to start.  The newspaper article from the time explains a lot.

“Local woman missing / abducted.

The family of local woman, Katy Bradford, aged 43, have reported her missing or abducted.  Her husband George, aged 52, and the COO of Globatech was unable to recall the clothes his wife was wearing when she dropped him at the station that fateful morning and was forced to call a well-known food delivery company for supper that night.

            It is believed Katy has hazel or green eyes, or possibly one of each colour.  Auburn or light brown hair and is somewhere between five foot six and six foot (according to her step children, Stella aged 22 and Vernon aged 29).  She is thought to be around eight stone nine pounds, but may have put on some weight in recent months.

            Her handbag is of a beige colour, with a crossover body strap of some description.  No recent photographs of her are available but the family agrees her key ring is that of a fried egg, or possibly, a burger.

            Dierdre Harrison, sister-in-law, aged 46, advised reporters Katy has most likely been abducted by aliens.  Mrs Harrison said her sister was not a believer, but this, apparently, makes her abduction even more likely given the preferences of certain alien types. 

            Anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of Mrs Bradford should contact the local police on the number below.”

There were two subsequent articles, one a follow-up on the first and the second after another year which read ‘presumed dead?’.  That said it all really.

            Being married to George had been part of the plan, part of my job description you could say – just another borrowed life while I did my work and waited for information about embezzlement, money laundering and / or human trafficking.  George had never realised what was going on.  He was paid well for not asking questions.  I was paid well for providing answers, but after all those years we were still no closer to finding out who the mastermind behind Globatech’s dodgy dealings was. 

            The change of identity had been easy.  When you’re the daughter of a convicted identity thief, you get to know a thing or two.  Mum had always told me to have my own money and an escape route, having established various identities for me when I was little – mainly because we were always on the move, Dad doing what he did and all.  That’s why my employers paid me so well.  I knew how to do stuff.  Just as I knew, three years ago, where I was going and who I was going to become – the PA to Michael James, a Board Director at Globatech.

            Everything had been prepared, my flat, my look, my history, my friends.  The biggest challenge would be meeting George in his work environment, but I knew he wouldn’t recognise me.  I’d had a little bit of cosmetic surgery and been working out at the gym.  It had taken at least ten years off me.  The only thing I had to battle with was my conscience.  That’s where Mum came in, she was my “de-brief”, my case manager so to speak, the only thing real in my life.  She was my home.

            It turned out Michael James was a vaguely decent guy, once you put aside his misogynistic behaviour, his mood swings and his tendency to shoot any messenger.  I played the game; got him his coffee, managed his diary, typed his correspondence and sorted out the meetings and the tech he couldn’t manage.  Over the years I became indispensable, trustworthy, loyal.  I was “the ‘go to’ person”, making sure I was friends with all the right people, from the receptionist to the CEO’s EA, Pat Higgs.  We’d go to lunch together, discuss the latest Board meetings from logistics to agendas, processes and availability.  As a single mum with little social life, she wanted someone to understand, a shoulder to share the burden.  I was more than willing. 

            Then it happened.  There was an email in Michael’s in-box.  Admittedly it was marked Strictly Confidential, but that hardly counts, does it?  After all I knew everything about Michael. I knew what his wife, Lucy, did. Where his boys, Jake and Ethan, were at school and the subjects they were studying.  I knew about his holidays abroad with his mistress, Jules, and the presents he’d send her from his expense account.  I even knew he was the father of Pat’s child.  I’d thought there wasn’t anything else to know and, to be honest, I was getting a bit bored with waiting, so I clicked the message open.

            This was what we had been waiting for. All the key players in one place at a private meeting, later that afternoon, at a hotel across town.  A briefing of the latest issues involving a certain cargo shipment, of where it should have been taken and off-loaded.  How considerable payments had been made to certain employees and members of the constabulary to keep them quiet.  How important it was to everyone at Globatech that the matter was contained. 

            It was exactly what we had been waiting for.  I printed a copy, saved it to my flash drive, closed it and marked it as unread.  Then picked up my bag, and left the building, asking Pat if she wanted a coffee from the local café, by way of cover.

In the café I ordered a single flat white, found a seat, sent a message and waited for the reply.  The café was busy, teenagers ordering their daily dose of sugar in one syrup-filled latte.  A ping on my phone.  There were OAPs chatting in a corner about the state of the country.  I tapped my phone.  The waitress brought my drink and a glass of water.  I thanked her and opened the message. ‘Job done’

            I checked my watch, it was eleven forty.  Michael was on one of his ‘shopping sprees’ with his mistress.  I pinged a thumbs up emoji and relaxed.  My waiting was done.  After I finished my coffee, I went back to my flat, tidied up, ate what was left in the fridge and packed.  I checked I had everything I needed, removed the door key from my fried egg keyring and left it on the table in the lounge.  I walked out the door and my feet carried me past the row of mini-marts where illegal drugs and services could be obtained. Past the small supermarkets and the late-night pharmacy and, past the chippy crammed with young men who’d drunk too much and needed something to soak up the alcohol before they could drink some more and then stagger home at some time in the morning.

            I carried on.  Checked my watch and then tapped open my phone.  There was one message ‘Payment made.  Happy Holidays.’  It was code and caught me by surprise.  I didn’t have to wait any more.

It took another year to bring the case to court and the trial itself lasted months.  Michael, needless to say, went to jail and Lucy found out about his affairs with both Pat and Jules.  In an ironic turn of events Pat and Lucy became good pals while Jules moved on to another wealthy “midlife crisis”.  George, apparently, had had his own suspicions but the substantial bonuses he’d received had been linked to an NDA. He was given a community service order. 

As for me, it was simple. I had no job, a more than healthy bank account and a host of identities to use so I came home, on the last train.