This is the conclusion to Not Long Now and Unfortunately
 

"Unfortunately?"

"That's what my client said. Now, what about the corruption?" The publicist was not happy with the first question.

When the next question from the Sicilian lady reporter was a near repeat of the first, the press conference was over. This was unfortunate for the respectable journalists and wouldn't be usable on that evening's TV news.

They returned to the room on the sixth floor, a hotel porter now blocked access to anyone who wasn't a guest. The press conference had been the producers' idea, a way to garner publicity for the film. Ironically the publicist hadn't been happy, his client wasn't ready, hadn't been briefed and there was too much in her past that could distract from the real story, just as it had.

To put it mildly, this had been a disaster when it should have been an outstanding success. What was the reporter's name? Was she a plant? The conspiracy theories now kicked in. When you're dealing with multimillion corruption with deep ties and deeper graveyards you need to tread carefully and assume the worst.

The publicist now needed the full back story if they were going to rescue this wreck.

She'd been one of those unfortunates, mis-identified at birth as a boy. Her anatomy was, formerly, vague, and the doctor overseeing maternity that night was probably pissed. A simple blood check would have confirmed, or rejected, the gender that was to go on the birth records.

Her parents had been understanding, as she got older things would sort themselves out, but they didn't. Fortunately puberty was delayed, but when it did kick in it was near fatal. By then she'd done her GCSEs and left school, as a boy.

A month later she was in hospital being re-identified as a female, this time the doctors were very sober and vastly more experienced than the village quack in a cottage hospital sixteen years earlier.

School records can't be altered, not completely. This was in the fifties so computers were an eon away. The school certificates couldn't be re-issued they said, but she could hardly stay as John, could she? She was now a girl with an invalid education. Try getting a job when you can't even prove you went to school?

She wanted to sue the cottage hospital but it had closed and the doctor had passed away, gout apparently. She also couldn't afford solicitor fees so the idea was irrelevant. Her parents decided she'd bring shame on them, even though they could have fixed the problem by asking for confirmation, but doctors were god then and you didn't challenge God, did you?

She left home before she was pushed and went to a women's refuge in the next town. It might have been easier if she was pregnant but the idea of sex was repugnant, unfortunately many of the other teen girls were indeed up the duff, looking forward to a free council house and state handouts for life.

She was helped, of sorts, and worked in a cafe for a few months, seeing the best and worst of humanity. That led to a factory canteen job and finally school kitchens, ironically in her home town. She'd changed her surname and had blossomed, but remained a spinster.

Fate dealt her another cruel blow when the menopause struck just after her forty fifth birthday. She started to lose her hair, what remained went grey and wild. She started wearing wigs in order to avoid stares.

She retired to the coast and settled down to write about her life in kitchens, buying her beachside shack as a retreat from the hustle and bustle of life. Unfortunately she started to see the underbelly of business, officialdom and how the two intermeshed. It wasn't always pretty, or obvious, but she was patient. The battles started when her little parcel of sandy land was threatened.

She had title, but that didn't seem to matter. She wrote what she saw, what she heard and what she discovered. Eventually someone noticed her scribbling but she was still writing her kitchen diaries, wasn't she?

The book, under an alias hadn't mentioned her seaside town, and had fictionalised the participants sufficiently enough to throw off suspicion. It was published quietly, without an advance, but sold well in most English speaking parts of the planet. Eventually her publisher suggested she got an agent and that resulted in the film, after a decade or so.

She'd had so many years to prepare for this eventuality but right now probably only had minutes to decide their next move and was was out of ideas.

The publicist was battling phone calls, CNN wanted an exclusive. It rang again, the police wanted an exclusive. Everyone wanted an exclusive. Then that nice Sicilian journalist rang and said something not very nice, along the lines that she was waiting and would keep waiting, how unfortunate?

The hotel front desk called the room, she had to leave as she was causing too much disruption. The journalists were in the bar, in the lobby, in the carpark, in the way. And it was the last of those that really riled them, unfortunately.

More quick thinking, a car was needed, an escape plan and a bolt hole, before someone made a hole in her head with a bolt. The police rang again, they'd really like that exclusive, could they send a car?

She was worried, the local police were up to their armpits in the mire and would like to see this problem dealt with. A deal was done with the out of town squad, the sharp suit and earpiece brigade, as well as the bulge under the jackets.

Fifteen minutes later the stage was set, the actors were in place and everyone knew their part. How she managed to lose her wig was never determined, but she felt pretty naked. She had a spare but it was in her case and that was nowhere to be seen.

Somehow, with a little good fortune, they set off. The car was actually a van, the sort with blacked out windows. There were three of these vehicles and they kept changing places, just like in the movies. Things got difficult when a fast red Italian sports care raced up and slotted in between two of the vans, causing one to brake hard. Now there were two.

More cavalry arrived and detained the nice suited man with the automatic weapon in his red sports car. The two vans accelerated, going faster than was allowed, or sensible. Unfortunately one had a tyre burst, now there was one.

She wasn't happy with the arrangements and told this to the smart suits. Her publicist was screaming into his phone, asking for the CIA, or MI6 or whoever. Then the battery died and he screamed louder.

Her case, she discovered, was on a seat behind her. She needed her spare wig, even though more important matters had arisen. Like the helicopter that was now tracking them, or the smoke coming out of the exhaust, not that she knew either of these things and, regardless, it would't nave altered her imperative need for a wig.

The menopause had been cruel to her, very cruel, especially after she'd been brought up as a boy. How could they have got it so wrong? Puberty was a disaster, near fatale, until the error was discovered. One in a million they'd said, well now she had a one in a million chance of surviving the journey.

The van conked out in the middle of nowhere and the sharp suits were looking worried. So was she when they showed off their hardware. The publicist fainted, it was probably for the best reasons.

The helicopter landed and they transferred, not that the suits gave them any choice. Up they went, ahead were darkening skies as the next storm rolled in. The pilot could choose up, down or around. He chose down and regretted it almost immediately when the rain hit.

Oh how she wished she could be sat in her shack, instead of being in a helicopter about to crash, or so it would seem.

The next crash was a wave hitting the shack, she'd fallen asleep and had missed the première. Perhaps she should go home, the storm was here.