“We need fresh blood,” said the boss, sacking me at 58. Little did he know, I was the undercover auditor sent to shut down his branch.
“Geoffrey Archibald, you understand how it is. The companys shifting directionwe need new energy, a modern perspective.”
Victor Stanley Whitmore, the branch manager, leaned back in his oversized leather chair, which probably cost more than my annual salary. The chair creaked theatrically, as if mourning my departure with the same insincerity he was.
He twirled an expensive Parker pen between his manicured fingers like a conductors baton, orchestrating the reality of his sunlit office, steeped in the scent of luxury cologne.
“We need youth,” he finally declared, setting the pen down on his mahogany desk.
The words hung in the air like a grease stain on a crisp white shirt, poisoning the atmosphere of leather and performative success.
I studied him in silence. His perfectly styled hair, lightly silvered at the templesno doubt a touch he considered distinguished. The Swiss TAG Heuer watch flashing carelessly as he adjusted his cuff. The smug posture of a man whod never once doubted his right to decide others fates. He couldnt have been older than forty.
He belonged to that breed of “efficient managers” who confuse an MBA with life experience and see anyone over fifty as dead weight, an obstacle to the corporate ships glorious voyage toward new horizons.
“Youre an excellent specialist,” he continued his rehearsed speech, avoiding my gaze while admiring the city skyline through his floor-to-ceiling windows. “Your expertise is invaluable, but the market dictates its terms. Energy, drive, digital transformation. New horizons demand new speed. Were implementing CRM, migrating to the cloud, exploring neural networks. Itll be challenging for you.”
I nodded slowly, keeping my expression weary but compliant. Inside, there was no anger, no bitterness. Just the cold, methodical click of a Geiger counter in my mind.
Item #12 in my preliminary report: “Unjust dismissal of valuable employees based on age to clear space for loyal hires.” Check.
His talk of “digital transformation” was particularly rich, given that just last week, Id traced server logs showing funds siphoned through fictitious IT services.
“I understand,” I said, my voice flatpossibly too indifferent.
Whitmore clearly expected something else. A scene, pleas, curses, reminders of decades served. He even tensed slightly, gripping the armrest like a shield. But there was no attack.
I just watched him and saw something else entirely. The double-entry bookkeeping Id pieced together over three weeks of this “probation,” cross-referencing shadow servers with official reports. Kickbacks disguised as “marketing services.” Ghost employeesnames on payroll whod never set foot in the office.
And, of course, his mistress, Emily Clarkson, hired as his deputy at triple my salary, her sole duty being to accompany him to business dinners.
“Well pay you everything owed. Three months salary,” he added with visible relief, assuming the “old man” had simply broken. “Take it as a personal favour.”
I nodded again. Three months. Such generosity. Especially against the budget hole Id uncoveredone the size of a small towns annual spending.
“Right then, Victor Stanley. If the company needs youth, so be it.”
I stood. He had no idea my full report120 pages with scans, covert recordings, and transaction trailswas already on the CEOs desk.
He didnt know the board had voted yesterday to forcibly restructure his branch.
And I wasnt just a sacked 58-year-old accountant. I was the liquidator. My job wasnt to salvage the rottenit was to demolish it, clearing space for something healthy.
“May I collect my things?” I asked, playing my part to the end.
“Yes, of course,” Whitmore replied hastily, already mentally ushering me out while dialling Emily to share the “good news.” “No rush.”
He was wrong. I was in a hurry. Because at 9 a.m. sharp, a team would arrive to seal every officestarting with his.
Walking through the open-plan floor was my own personal Via Dolorosa. Dozens of eyes stabbed my backsome with pity, some with smug relief, most with fear, imagining themselves in my shoes.
I felt those stares. Item #13: “Fostering a toxic workplace culture based on fear and nepotism.” Check.
At my old desk sat a twenty-five-year-old with an undercut, a wireless earbud gleaming in one ear. He didnt even look up as I approached, engrossed in his phone.
“Those are my things,” I said calmly, pointing to the small stack of books and framed family photo hed shoved aside for a pizza box.
“Oh, right,” he said, removing his earbud. “Take it, grandad. Need space for my second monitor. TikToks not gonna watch itself.”
His smirk oozed entitlement. I recognised himStanley, Whitmores nephew, hired last week as an “SMM specialist.”
I began packing silently. Then, a figure in a tight designer dress materialised beside me: Emily Clarkson in the flesh.
“Geoffrey Archibald, what a shame,” she cooed, though her eyes glittered with malice. “Well miss you. You were such a vintage touch to the team.”
“Im sure,” I replied evenly, not looking at her.
“If you need work dont be shy. I could put in a word. Theres a night watchman job at a posh estate. Quiet, perfect for your age. They even allow crossword puzzles. And dominoes.”
It was a low blowcruel, precise. A final humiliation in front of the whole office. She wanted to see me crack.
I looked up slowly, studying her like an entomologist examining a venomous insect. She flinched, adjusted her hair, and hurried off.
Item #14: “Nepotism and appointment of incompetent personnel, directly harming company interests.” Another bold check.
At the exit, a timid voice stopped me.
“Geoffrey Archibald”
I turned. It was Lucy from accounts, a young woman Id helped avoid Whitmores wrath for minor errors.
“Here,” she handed me a chocolate bar. “Dont let it get to you. They wont last.”
Her eyes shone with genuine kindness. The only one brave enough to speak.
“Thank you, Lucy,” I smiled. “Good people always stand out.”
Outside, I inhaled the crisp evening air and dialled one number.
“Its done. Tomorrow at nine. Be ready.”
At 8:50 a.m., I stood at the business centre entrancenot with a cardboard box, but in a sharp dark suit. Beside me were two security officers and the silver-haired head of legal, Andrew Victor Lissenden.
Whitmore arrived first. Spotting me, he frowned, then smirked.
“Geoffrey Archibald? Had second thoughts? No need for dramatics.”
Just then, Lissenden stepped forward.
“Victor Stanley Whitmore? Lissenden, head of legal. This branch is under immediate suspension pending investigation. Hand over your pass and phone.”
Whitmores mask shattered.
“What joke is this? Ive got approvals!”
Emily arrived by taxi, followed by Stanley. Whitmores gaze flicked between Lissenden and me. Understandingthen hatredflared in his eyes.
“You You did this, you old relic!” he hissed. “Revenge for the sack? Ill destroy you!”
He lunged, but security blocked him. Emily, ever the attack dog, sneered:
“Pathetic, vindictive snitch! Running to daddy like a child! Whod pity you?”
I met her glare, then Whitmores.
“Victor Stanley,” I said, steel in my voice. “This isnt revenge. Its an audit.”
“I was sent to assess this branchs viability. My report,” I allowed a faint smile, “was damning. Particularly the financial discrepancies, fictitious roles, and kickbacks.”
Whitmore paled. Emily recoiled.
“Now,” I extended my hand, “your pass, Victor Stanley. And yours, Emily Clarkson.”
The rules were mine now.
