Adapt Or Be Cut

Chapter 1 [Chapter 1, Draft 2]

Habits were more dangerous than secrets. Secrets could be buried; habits exposed them. That’s why someone had spent three mornings last week, and three mornings this week, tracing the precise movements of the man leaving Norfolk Crescent.

At 6:52am on Monday, 6:56 on Tuesday, and 6:50 on Wednesday, the front door clicked shut, and the man emerged, bag slung over his shoulder, the same every day. He turned right onto Great Stanhope Street and passed the bakery at James Street West, avoiding the Riverside footpath entirely. Not once did he glance over his shoulder.

That Thursday, the observer had stationed themselves further down James Street West and noted the man’s passing at 7:03am his brisk pace uninterrupted by the chatter of passing students or the honk of a distant car. By 7:12am they had both reached St James Parade, and a precise note was scratched into a small pad.

This morning, the observer lingered outside the college which, if his calculations were correct, was approximately fourteen minutes into the man’s journey. The air was thick with the sharp scent of burnt coffee, but his focus didn’t waver. At 7:11am the man appeared, moving predictably toward the station, stepping inside at exactly 7:15.

Seventeen minutes. Always seventeen minutes. The rhythm was clockwork, utterly dependable. Dependable was good. Dependable got paid. The observer unchained his bike and rode off.

---

The Bath Spa Evening Post’s headquarters, was probably once a Georgian or Victorian masterpiece. Joe didn’t know which. He didn’t particularly care. As he navigated his way through the narrow corridors all he knew was that it was outdated, a relic of another era struggling to keep pace with the demands of the present. Once designed to echo with polite conversation, it was now bustled with the clatter of keyboards and the hum of printers. Every inch of space had been claimed in the name of efficiency. Desks crammed into corners never meant for them, piles of papers teetering on top of filing cabinets, and partitions thrown up to carve the original sweeping rooms into a rabbit warren of cubicles. Even the light seemed claustrophobic, squeezed out by fluorescent strips that cast a cold, blue sheen on everything they touched.

Joe had worked here long enough to know that the building’s state wasn’t the only thing in decline. The paper itself was limping along, fighting an uphill battle against falling sales and rising costs. It was a battle Joe understood better than most; he’d been in the trenches for years, calculating margins, wringing value out of every inch of advertising space, keeping the paper afloat despite the odds.

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Joe was rarely called to Katherine’s office, so he knew something was up. His guess? Another round of layoffs. They’d become a grim routine, cropping up every year or two like clockwork. Each department was expected to trim two or three employees. The numbers were calculated with surgical precision: cuts big enough to save money but subtle enough to send a quiet message to the survivors—work harder, or you could be next.  

As Joe stepped into Katherine’s office, the first thing he noticed was the once white window—a sash frame with peeling, cream-tinged paint, evidence of decades of neglect. Beyond it, Westgate Street buzzed with mid-morning commotion, oblivious to the decay inside. The air carried a faint whiff of damp, the brown stain creeping along the plaster a silent reminder of problems left unaddressed.

Katherine’s desk was disconcertingly bare. A closed laptop sat dead centre, flanked by a coaster on one side and a phone on the other. Too tidy, Joe thought, for someone who wielded any real authority. Behind the desk, Katherine lounged in a black leather chair, its padded armrests swallowing her arms as she cradled a coffee mug in both hands. Her movements were precise, her expression as blank as an out of office email reply.

“Good to see you, Joe. Take a seat,” she said, gesturing to the chair across from her. The greeting was polite but as detached as always. Joe lowered himself into the seat and immediately noticed the height disparity—her chair set higher than his. He dismissed this as a deliberate power move. Katherine wasn’t intelligent enough to do that.

“Joe, I’m going to get straight to the point” she said, returning her coffee mug to the table.

“The company has been conducting a thorough review of operational costs. It’s nothing unusual, just routine diligence. Of course, as you can imagine, a significant portion of expenses stems from wages.” She offered a faint, rehearsed smile as if trying to soften the blow of a door she hadn’t yet opened.

“This is the case across most industries incidentally,” she continued, her tone growing distant, as though reciting from a training manual. “Labour costs, as I’m sure you understand, are always under scrutiny. It’s the same for multi-nationals, retail giants, even the hospitality sector. And newspapers, well… we’re no exception. It’s not about singling anyone out, of course, but about aligning our practices with broader efficiencies.”

Where was she going with this drivel? Joe wondered. Had Katherine forgotten they’d sat in this very room, hashing out the exact same issue two years ago? He knew the score already. So why the unnecessary build-up?

She hesitated, just for a moment, her gaze flitting past Joe’s shoulder as though seeking approval from an invisible mentor. “Head office has been paying particular attention to The Bath Spa Evening Post. Not in a negative way, far from it. They see potential here, Joe. Real potential. The kind of opportunity that comes with a careful cost-saving exercise.”

Joe bit the inside of his cheek, struggling to suppress a laugh. “They see potential,” he thought, the phrase looping in his mind like a bad jingle. It was almost too much. Katherine was either completely out of her depth or so thoroughly brainwashed by HQ’s buzzwords that she actually believed them. The idea that the head office saw anything beyond a spreadsheet in this paper was laughable. If she bought into that nonsense, then she was more of a robot than he’d ever imagined.

Katherine’s fingers traced the rim of her coffee cup, her voice slipping into a practiced tone that Joe suspected was reserved for moments like this—when the corporate script demanded optimism.

“Joe, I want to take a moment to acknowledge the incredible work your team has been doing,” she said, her words so polished they felt hollow. “The dedication, the long hours, the passion—it doesn’t go unnoticed. Head office sees it, and so do I. It’s a testament to your leadership and the culture you’ve built here.”

Joe fought the urge to roll his eyes. This was page three of the HQ handbook: butter them up before delivering the sting.

“And you, Joe,” Katherine added, leaning forward slightly, as if the gesture could inject warmth into her tone, “your loyalty and work ethic have been extraordinary. I don’t think anyone else could have kept this ship steady through such turbulent times. You’ve been a rock.”

Joe offered a tight-lipped smile. She has no idea how close to sinking this ship really is.

“We’re all in this together,” Katherine continued, her hands spreading in a gesture meant to unite. “And sometimes, the right thing to do—the responsible thing—is to accept a little short-term pain for long-term gain. It’s not easy, I know, but it’s what will secure the future of this paper.”

Joe sat still, allowing the words to wash over him. Short-term pain for long-term gain? He’d heard that line a dozen times before. It usually meant one thing: his pain for someone else’s gain.

Joe sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. He had played along long enough. “I get the point, Katherine,” he said, his tone sharper than he intended. “How many of my team do I need to cut this time? Two? Three?”

Katherine blinked, her lips parting as if to respond, but then she smiled faintly and shook her head. “Joe, it’s not about numbers right now. It’s about the bigger picture—about positioning us for long-term success.”

Joe’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t about to let her wriggle out of this. “Is it more?” he pressed. “Four? Five? Just say the number Katherine. Let’s skip the dance.”

Katherine sighed, a carefully measured sound of exasperation. “Joe, why are you being like this? You’re jumping ahead. Nothing is finalised yet. These are just discussions.”

Joe leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “Katherine. How. Many?”

She hesitated, her gaze flitting to the corner of the room as if the answer were written on the wallpaper. When her eyes returned to Joe’s, they carried a flicker of discomfort, quickly buried under her corporate mask. “Maybe Fifteen. Or ten. Maybe only eight or nine”

Joe froze, the weight of her words hitting like a sledgehammer. “Fifteen?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. That was nearly his entire team.

Katherine pressed on, her tone softening as though to cushion the blow. “HQ wants to merge your department with Display. Combined, the headcount needs to go from thirty-five to ten. It’s about streamlining, Joe. Efficiency.”

Joe stared at her, his mind racing. Thirty-five to ten. He could feel the floor shifting beneath him, the air in the room thinning.

Katherine reached up with deliberate slowness, her fingers brushing against the loose strand of hair that had fallen across her face. With a subtle, almost absent-minded motion, she swept it back behind her ear, her fingertips lingering for a fraction of a second as if the small gesture gave her something to focus on. The movement was precise, almost practiced, yet betrayed a flicker of nervous energy beneath her composed exterior just long enough to plan her next line. “This isn’t personal, Joe. It’s about the survival of the paper.”

There it was. The perfect moment, handed to her on a silver platter, to show a glimmer of genuine human connection—a chance to demonstrate empathy, to step out from behind the corporate mask and offer words that might actually resonate. A single sentence, heartfelt and unscripted, could have shifted the entire tone of the conversation. And yet, Katherine let it slip through her fingers. Instead, she defaulted to the sterile comfort of the company’s pre-approved jargon, the same hollow phrase HQ had drilled into her until it echoed like a mantra in her cold, robotic mind. Her voice, void of emotion, delivered the words with mechanical precision, as though empathy was a task she could outsource to someone else.

Joe wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or lash out. One thing was clear—Katherine had just handed him a crisis dressed up as an opportunity, and he was the one who’d have to make the cuts.

Katherine leaned back, her practiced expression returning to neutral, as if the last five minutes hadn’t just detonated a bomb under Joe’s department. “Look,” she said, her voice measured. “Nothing has been finalised yet. These are just ideas at this stage. So, please, keep this to yourself until we have more concrete details.” She paused, her eyes locking on his, trying to project authority. “It’s important that no one else knows just yet, Joe. It’s early days. Just an idea. Keep it to yourself.”

Joe stood, his chair scraping loudly against the worn floor. “Sure,” he said, keeping his voice flat. “Just an idea.” He adjusted his tie, but the tightening in his chest wouldn’t loosen. Katherine had said everything she needed to, but not a word of it had been for his benefit. The memo might as well have come from voice-activated robot sent from HQ, Katherine’s job reduced to a mere transmitter for their directives.

As he reached the door, Katherine called out, her tone softer, almost pleading. “And Joe, remember—this is about the bigger picture. We’ll get through it. Together.”

Together. The word sat heavy in the stale office air. Joe glanced over his shoulder, meeting her gaze briefly. “Of course,” he replied, before leaving her office.

Joe hadn’t made it back to his own office before Colin intercepted him with a frown. Joe felt his pulse rise, bracing for yet another petty issue that seemed trivial in light of Katherine’s bombshell.

“Joe, can I grab you for a second?”

“Not now Colin.”

“But it’s important.”

“Can it wait until this afternoon?”

“No.”

“What is it Colin?” Joe kept his tone patient.

Colin folded his arms, a deep frown settling on his face. “It’s this parking situation, Joe. Someone’s been parking in my space again. It’s not the first time this has happened. I think we need to call a team meeting about it and right away”

Joe suppressed a groan. A moment ago, he’d been grappling with the fact that he needed to sack the majority of his team in the name of efficiency and streamlining, yet here was Car Park Colin, obsessing over a parking space.

Joe nodded, trying to keep his composure. “I appreciate this is important to you Colin, but I have other things I need to focus on at the moment.”

Colin scowled, clearly unsatisfied. “It’s the principle of it, Joe. If I can’t even park without someone taking liberties, what’s the point of anyone having designated spaces?”

Joe fought to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I get it Colin. I will deal with it, just not right now.” He turned to continue toward his office, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

As Joe entered his office, he shut the door and sank into his chair, the tension from his meeting with Katherine tightening around him. That wasn’t a discussion. It wasn’t a trial balloon or a brainstorming session. This was a death sentence for his team, and he was on the list too. Thirty-five down to ten. The math didn’t lie, and neither did the hollow tone in Katherine’s voice. The only question now was whether he’d be asked to wield the axe—or feel its blade.

He couldn’t stop what was about to unfold, but one thing was certain: Katherine’s scripted platitudes and HQ’s spreadsheets wouldn’t save them. He’d need to figure out his next move fast, because whatever came next wouldn’t just be survival of the paper, it would even be the survival of the fittest. It would be the survival of his team. The survival of him.

The weight of fifteen livelihoods—and his own—pressing down with every step. Katherine had managed Joe for years, but if she thought he’d just lie down and let this happen, she didn’t know Joe Broadfield. Not yet. Not at all.

Over the next few hours, Joe sat at his desk, staring at the papers in front of him as if they might rearrange themselves into answers. His mind was restless, a tangle of thoughts from the morning’s meeting that refused to settle. The weight of it pressed on him, but the clock ticked forward, and another appointment demanded his attention. With a practiced motion, he shrugged on his suit jacket and stepped out of the office.

The walk to Victoria Park took just ten minutes from Westgate Street. Nestled close enough to the city to be convenient but far enough to escape its noise, the park was their usual meeting spot when the weather allowed. Quiet. Out of the way. Unremarkable to anyone not looking for it. It suited the purpose perfectly.

Joe welcomed the walk, the fresh air filling his lungs as he pushed his hands deep into his pockets. It was a mild summer afternoon, the kind that might lull most people into idleness, but not Joe. Not today. He kept his jacket on, his tie tight at the collar, his thoughts as buttoned-up as his appearance. Around him, life carried on without pause—a cluster of tourists wandered past with cameras slung around their necks, a group of mothers gathered on the grass, chatting while their children chased a scuffed football. The park’s ordinary hum was almost disorienting against the backdrop of his frayed nerves.

He walked along Royal Avenue and had just passed the bandstand when he saw him.

Frank was walking toward Joe with the unhurried stride of someone who had never needed to rush for anyone. No words passed between them as he approached, and yet the space between them tightened with an unspoken gravity. Frank was the kind of man who made people step aside without realising why. In his late fifties, maybe early sixties, his face bore the unmistakable marks of a life spent resolving disputes with his fists. The swelling of old injuries clung to his features, giving him an air of menace that even his sharp, tailored suit couldn’t soften. He moved deliberately, each step carrying a quiet authority, and though Joe pegged him at five foot ten, something in the way he carried himself made him seem taller.

Frank’s gaze never settled, glancing past Joe as though he were an afterthought, a piece of scenery rather than the person he was here to meet. He stopped just a few feet away, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, his stance loose yet coiled with purpose. Joe waited, the stillness between them stretching thin. As Frank slowed to a halt, Joe hesitated, unsure which way this would go. He followed Frank’s lead, his own movements careful, deliberate. Frank, as always, offered no acknowledgment. The silence felt heavier than any conversation could.

Frank veered off the path, his polished shoes pressing into the dry, soft grass as he made his way toward the bandstand. His pace was unhurried, maybe deliberate. “What have you got, Joe?” he asked without turning his head.

Joe froze for a moment. Frank never used his name—not like this. It sounded clinical, detached, as though being read from a chart. Just like the time when Joe was eight or nine years old and that teacher came in and read out his name in front of the whole class, taking him away with the other stupid kids for extra spelling lessons. The unease prickled the back of Joe’s neck, but he pushed it aside.

“A security guard was sacked at Sainsbury’s over the weekend,” Joe began, his voice low and steady. “They’ll be placing an ad on Thursday to recruit a replacement.”

He stopped, letting the words hang in the air. Frank said nothing, his expression as unreadable as ever. The silence stretched out, thick and suffocating.

“Okay,” Frank said finally, his voice flat. “I’ll give you fifty.”

“Fifty?” Joe repeated, his breath catching. “That’s worth two hundred—maybe two-fifty.”

“It’s a supermarket,” said Frank, quietly and calmly. “It’s not a bank. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“What’s going on, Frank? Why the sudden change?” said Joe.

Frank’s face remained impassive, his dark eyes giving nothing away. Joe could feel the muscles in his jaw tighten as he waited for an answer. When it came, it was as sharp as a knife.

“Times are getting tough, Joe. If you want more money, I need better information.”
Joe blinked, taken aback. “Better information?” he snapped. “I always give you solid leads, Frank. I make you thousands every month.”

“And I make you thousands too, Joe,” snapped Frank.

Frank’s gaze finally locked onto Joe’s, cold and unflinching. Joe was the first to look away.

“Information means nothing on its own, Joe. You know that, right?”

The words landed like a slap, leaving Joe momentarily speechless. He looked away, his eyes scanning the park as if the answer might be hidden among the trees.

“So that’s it, then?” he muttered. “You’re going to shortchange me now?”

Frank’s lips curled into something that could have been a smile but wasn’t. “Times are tough, Joe,” he said again, his tone almost mocking. “If you want more cash, I need more results. Step it up a little. Do a bit more. You are clever, Joe. I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Just think about it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” snapped Joe.

Frank looked at the ground, lightly kicking a dandelion head, not even hard enough to break it from the stem. “Life moves on, Joe, and we either move with it, or we get left behind. You can’t afford to stand still and wait for the rest of the world to catch up. You need to be three steps ahead of everyone else. You understand that, Joe. I know you do. Adapt or be cut. It’s that simple.”

Without another word, Frank turned and walked away, his figure retreating into the afternoon haze.

Joe watched him go, his mind churning, the weight of the day pressing heavier with each passing second. But something bubbled up inside him—a mix of frustration and desperation that refused to stay silent.

“I’ve been loyal to you all this time, Frank,” Joe called out, his voice carrying just enough to halt Frank’s stride.

Frank turned slowly, his posture as calm as ever, but his eyes—this time—met Joe’s directly. It was a rare and unnerving moment, those dark, guarded eyes locking onto his with a precision that felt calculated.

“And I’ve been loyal to you too, Joe,” Frank said, his voice steady and measured. “That hasn’t changed.”

Frank turned away and started walking. Joe stood rooted to the spot, the echo of Frank’s words reverberating in his mind. Loyalty. The word felt hollow, its meaning frayed by the tension that had just passed between them. Whatever this was, Joe knew one thing—it wasn’t the same as before.

Joe lingered, his feet refusing to move, as though some unseen force held him there. The park seemed to shift around him—the shadows lengthened, the air cooled, and the once-cheerful sounds of children playing faded into something distant and detached. It was as if the world itself had drawn a boundary, leaving him on the outside, staring in.

The dandelion Frank had nudged swayed gently in the breeze, its seeds trembling but not breaking free. Joe’s gaze locked onto it, an image of fragility and defiance that felt too familiar. Something about the way it held on disturbed him, a whisper of meaning just out of reach.

Joe couldn’t focus, the weight of Frank’s words pressing down on him long after he walked away. He never made it back to his office, instead wandering aimlessly through the park, his steps as directionless as his thoughts. The hours dragged on, his mind circling back to the dandelion, its fragile defiance stirring an unease he couldn’t shake. By evening, the question remained, unanswered and unwelcome.

---

At 18.35pm, the observer circled lazily on his bike, wheels tracing loops and figures of eight on the corner of Great Stanhope Street and Norfolk Crescent. He didn’t have to wait long.

At 18:41, the man appeared, his steps unhurried as he approached the door. A turn of the key, a quiet click, and he disappeared inside.

The observer smiled, jotted the time in his notepad, and pedalled away into the fading light.

The observer didn’t know who wanted to know—or why. But as always, ignorance was part of the service.