I pinned a blog post on 15 Questions Authors Should Ask Characters on my 'Writing' Pinterest board and it gave me an idea...
Under what circumstances would someone interview the hero of my books,
Tom Sheridan?
It occurred to me that as a
covert operative working for The Agency, he would need to have a regular psychiatric evaluation to ensure that he was fit for duty.
I didn't stick
slavishly to the 15 questions posed in the blog post but did capture the
essence of them. Here's the result:
Interview with an Agent: Thomas John Sheridan
Tom
Sheridan took a deep breath, closed his eyes briefly, steeling himself, then
knocked.
“Come
in,” said the muffled voice behind the anonymous door. He stepped in.
Like all
the rooms at the headquarters of The Agency, there were no windows, ten stories
below ground there was nothing but the bedrock of the city. Dr Sequiato’s
office was on the upper level and every now and then, when there was silence,
you could detect the distinct rumble of a tube train overhead.
It was a
stark room. Stripped bare concrete walls, but Dr Carey Sequiato had tried to
make it more comfortable, yet neutral, by hanging some obscure art on the walls
and introducing some rugs. There were scatter cushions on the two wide sofas
that faced each other like battle lines across the room. She was sat on one of
them, her legs crossed, her knee just peeking out below the hem of her pencil
skirt. Spectacles too big for her face perched on her nose as she studied a
buff folder brimming with paperwork. She looked up and a smile of
acknowledgement flickered across her face.
“Good afternoon Agent Sheridan,” she said,
“I’ll be with you in a second.”
She twiddled a shiny Parker pen in her fingers,
then slipped it between her thin lips, a look of concentration on her face. She
held the pen there like a cigarette. Another ex-smoker like himself - at least,
he considered himself an ex-smoker now, it had been almost a month since his
last cigarette.
He walked further in, hovering close to the couch
opposite her, waiting to be invited to sit.
He glanced around the room. One of the big canvases looked
like a Rorschach
test. Each time he looked at it he saw something different. Today he saw Batman
screaming - that was a new one.
He rocked back on his heels, his hands clasped
behind his back.
Her eyes flicked up. She put the file down on
the couch beside her, took the pen from her mouth and laid it on top. She slid
her glasses off.
“Sorry about that. I was just reading your most
recent file,” she said.
She smiled and laughed a little at him.
“You can always spot the agents who are
ex-military,” she said, “You just can’t shake off that army discipline can you?
Have a seat, no one instructed you to stand at ease.”
He smiled back briefly, embarrassed to have
been called out on his army background by her again. It had been years ago, but
old habits were hard to shake, in his mind, he was just being polite, but as a
psychiatrist she read so much more into it. It made him uncomfortable, being
read. When Sasha did it, he was OK with it, just about, he had come to expect
it, but when a virtual stranger, someone he met once a year for his annual
psychiatric evaluation did it, he felt vulnerable.
He tugged at the thighs of his trousers and
perched on the couch, his hands clasped tightly on his lap, back straight.
She threaded her fingers together and rested
her hand on her knee, offering him a wide smile.
“Relax Agent Sheridan. May I call you Tom?”
“Sure,” he barked.
“This isn’t an interrogation, Tom. Whatever you
say to me is completely confidential. Rest assured, I’m not trying to catch you
out and I’m not about to go telling tales to Milton. This is your opportunity
to get whatever you need to off your chest and express how you feel. Is that
alright?”
“I guess.”
She shook her head lightly. She was clearly
used to dealing with people who were naturally suspicious, it came with the
territory. It took a certain type of person to do what he did. To operate in
the shadows, to analyse and assess people and situations for threats. To keep a
healthy distance from everyone, if for no other reason than their own safety.
“I have a few questions to run through with
you. Personal things. I’m trying to get to know you better, Tom. To find out
what makes you tick, to assess how you think and feel about things. That way I
can assist you with strategies to cope with some of the issues you have to deal
with in your day to day work. This is a formality, your capability is not in
any question.”
“Then why do they call it a psychiatric
evaluation?”
“I am evaluating you, yes. But I’m not assuming
you’re unfit for duty in any way, unless you give me cause for concern. I’m
here to help you. That’s my job.”
“OK,” he said.
“You sound reluctant.”
“Do I?”
She nodded and sat straight, looking directly
at him, as if she was trying to climb into his skull.
He swallowed, his throat dry.
“Help yourself if you’d like some water,” she
said, gesturing to a jug surrounded by glasses on a small side table. He looked
at it, thought about it for a moment, then looked back at her.
“Ready?”
He shrugged, “I guess.”
“What do you think of yourself, Tom?”
He hadn’t expected that to be her first
question, and raised his eyebrows.
“What do you mean?”
“When you look in the mirror, what do you see?”
He crinkled his chin, frowning.
“I’m going grey at the temples. I should
probably shave more often I suppose.”
“OK, so physically, you feel older?”
“Of course I do, I’m pushing fifty. I could be
fitter, but I stay in shape. Equally, I could be worse.”
“You think people perceive you as scruffy or
lazy?”
“No. I just can’t be bothered to shave every
day.”
His fingers were starting to ache and he
loosened them, dropping his hands between his knees.
“Are you starting to feel more relaxed now?”
He shrugged.
She fell silent for a moment, her eyes seemed
to pass over him, analysing his shape and form in the seat. He cleared his
throat and sighed.
“You’re keen to get out of here as fast as you
can aren’t you?”
“I have work to do.”
“Then shall we move on?”
“If we could.”
“I told you this was a formality but your
wellbeing is important. Do you think you look after yourself?”
“Probably.”
“Really? So you eat regular, sensible meals?
You don’t smoke or drink? You take time to be kind to yourself do you?”
“Kind to myself?” he said with a small laugh,
“What does that mean?”
She raised an eyebrow and glanced at her pen.
She looked like she was itching to start writing some notes on him, like he was
some kind of experimental lab rat.
“Can we just get this done so I can go back to
work, doctor?”
“I don’t think you’re taking this process very
seriously. Do you take your mental wellbeing seriously?”
“What are you getting at?”
“You’re always very suspicious, aren’t you? Do
I seem like your enemy, Tom?”
“Are you?”
 |
| Clive Owen as Tom Sheridan* |
|
|
She heaved a heavy sigh and paused. She uncrossed
her legs, tugged her skirt down and leaned forwards, resting her elbows on her
knees, her eyes connecting to his.
“Shall I tell you what I think?”
“It seems like you are going to, whether I want
to know or not.”
“Would you like to know?” she tilted her head
and narrowed her eyes.
“Honestly?” he said.
“Yes please.”
“It doesn’t bother me what people think of me.
If it did, I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I wouldn’t be able to deceive
people for a living.”
“Is that what you do, deceive people for a
living?”
“What would you call it?”
He shifted in his seat, closer to the edge of
the couch, his feet planted firmly and rubbed his neck, rolling his head.
“You seem weary with it. It’s getting to you
isn’t it?”
He held his hands together, resting them on his
knees and shrugged.
“I’m not trying to trap you, Tom, I’m simply
trying to understand.”
He laughed quietly to himself, doubting that
anyone would ever understand, he struggled to understand it himself.
“What’s important to you, Tom?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Important. What’s the most important thing to
you?”
He wrung his hands together and looked away,
thinking for a moment.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t. I’ve lost track.”
She sat up, shuffled back into her seat and
smiled at him, her face softening.
“You’re very good at saying words but giving
nothing away. You’re skilled at evading personal questions. But I believe you
when you say you don’t know what’s important to you, and I thank you for your
candour.
 |
| Clive Owen as Tom Sheridan* |
He shuffled back in the seat and looked at her.
Really looked. She was a little younger than him, neat and prim. She kept her
jacket on, buttoned up. A blouse underneath, buttoned right to the collar. She
dressed older than she was, and her glasses added to the effect.
In his assessment, she wanted to be taken
seriously. She wanted her colleagues to respect her for her skills as a
psychiatrist instead of being judged for her looks. If she wore some make up
and more flattering clothes, she’d be attractive, but she didn’t want that. Her
aloofness, the conservative attire and formal appearance kept her
professionally distant. But there was a brightness in her eyes, a fascination
and curiosity. She liked to probe into people, as if seeing their vulnerability
would make her less self-conscious. He imagined that she hadn’t had much
support from her family when she decided to go into psychiatry and that baggage
has stayed with her, making her constantly question her ability. But she knew
her stuff. She had the guile to probe and slowly break down her opponent with pointed
questions. He’d already given away more than he’d wanted to. He’d gone into the
meeting consciously being guarded in his answers but she’d worn him down in
other ways. He had to respect that about her. He also had to admit that he was
starting to feel more comfortable about speaking to her. He still didn’t trust
her, he didn’t trust anyone, except maybe Sasha, but he was willing to give
Carey Sequiato the benefit of the doubt, if only to get this meeting over with.
“What about relationships?”
“What about them?”
“I asked what is important to you. How about
who?”
That was easy to answer. There were only two
people on that list, but he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to admit.
“That’s a very short list!” he laughed at
himself, feeling pathetic somehow.
“Do you struggle to make friends?”
“I don’t really have any friends.”
“Family?”
“I don’t have any.”
“No one? Mother? Father? Siblings?”
“My parents are both dead and I was an only
child, thank goodness.”
“Why thank goodness?”
“My father had enough trouble raising me, he’d
never have coped with more than one of us.”
“You only mentioned your father. What about
your mother? What happened to her?”
“Cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I hardly remember her. I was very young when
she died.”
“And how did your father cope with that?”
“He didn’t,” he said, sitting back and folding
his arms, “He found answers in the bottom of a bottle. Resented me for being
all he had left of the woman he loved.”
“Was he a mean drunk?” she said. She had been
sat still, but her little finger started to twitch, like there was some pent up
energy trying to escape. He guessed she must have thought she was onto
something. Perhaps she was? He’d not thought about his father for a long time.
He’d tried to forget the old bastard.
“You could say that. But I learned to defend
myself from a young age.”
“You learned to fight?”
He shrugged, “it’s what I do.”
“Do you feel like you are always fighting?” she
said. Her foot twitched now too. She was getting through, and he was letting
her.
He’d allow it. Let her take a glimpse if it
would satisfy her. Give her just enough to make her feel like she’d made a
difference then he’d be able to get out.
“Don’t we all?”
She smiled and said, “I suppose we do.”
“So who’s on the very short list of important
people in your life? Clearly not your father?”
“He was important in the sense that he forced
me to be independent and self-reliant. I cared about him, of course I did, he
was my father, even though he was an old bastard.”
She laughed mirthlessly with him.
“I battled as a child to seek his approval and
quickly realised how futile that was so I sought approval elsewhere. One of the
people on my list was someone who’s opinion of me always has mattered.”
“And who was that?”
“His best friend, Frank.”
“Your father’s best friend?” she said, checking
her understanding.
“That’s right. Frank Fitch. He was more of a
father to me than my real father ever was.”
“And how did Frank handle that?”
“I was the son he never had. He and his wife
sheltered me and cared for me while my father was off on one of his benders. He
tried talking to my father about me many times but the old bastard was far too
stubborn to listen. I know Frank cares about me. He tells me all the time.”
“How does that make you feel?”
He chewed it over in his head for a moment and
one word came to mind, “Accepted,” he said. A smile flickered across her face.
“Do you think you inherited any of your
father’s traits?”
He raised his eyebrows, realising that he was a
lot more like his father than he’d thought until that moment.
“Stubbornness. I struggle to express how I feel
to people I care about. Anger, but never on the scale of the old bastard’s
temper.”
“You keep calling your father the old bastard.
Is that how you view him?”
“Wouldn’t you?” he said.
“I couldn’t say. What about Frank? Did you
inherit anything from your surrogate father?”
He gazed up at batman screaming. It seemed less
of an angry scream now and more of a grimace, like the dark knight was
embarrassed to be so exposed.
“Compassion. Determination.”
“You associate positive words with Frank and
negative ones with your father. You’re very perceptive too, and not afraid to
admit that both strong male role models in your life have made you the person
you are today. I’d say that you are a pretty well balanced person, Tom.”
“Is that your official assessment?”
“It’s a professional opinion. But there’s more
to you. More layers. Do you ever let anyone in?”
He shrugged, sat forwards and clasped his hands
between his knees, “sometimes,” he said.
“You know yourself well, but you’re hard on
yourself too.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’ve just been very honest with me and drawn
an outline of a man who struggles to reconcile the facets of himself. You
harbour a lot of guilt and give yourself very little credit. You say you
struggle to express how you feel to people you care about. You’ve expressed
yourself very well to me. Maybe you don’t find it as difficult as you think?”
“Try telling that to Sasha.” He laughed to
himself then immediately regretted what he’d said. He’d mentioned her. Opened a
door that he didn’t want Carey Sequiato poking her head around.
“Sasha? You mean Dr Blake?”
He nodded.
“She’s on your list isn’t she?”
He swallowed and reached for the water jug. He
poured himself a glass and took a deep drink.
“Is she on your list?” she said, then answered
her own question so he didn’t have to, “I see it in your eyes, Tom.” It sounded
almost like an accusation.
“Yes she is. I have a responsibility towards
her as an asset.”
“An asset?” Carey raised an eyebrow. “For a man
who claims to deceive people for a living that was a poorly disguised lie.”
He swallowed and clutched the half full water
glass in his hands between his knees. He could feel his hands wanting to shake,
but the glass gave them stability.
“Was there a question in there, doctor?”
“Perhaps.” She crossed her legs again and
leaned on them. She seemed to be making a conscious decision to control that
twitching little finger and foot. As if she knew she’d hit a nerve when they
discussed Sasha and she didn’t want him to see it. She wanted to get more out
of him, to creep behind the shield that he held in front of Sasha. He didn’t
want to discuss her. Didn’t want to admit something to Carey that he hadn’t
even admitted to Sasha. She may be reading him, but he was reading her too. He
may not have a fancy doctorate, but he had enough experience to be able to size
up an opponent and adapt.
“Then ask it,” he said. He quickly assessed
what his response would be so he could call her bluff.
“What’s your opinion of Dr Blake?”
 |
| Kate Winslet as Sasha Blake* |
“She is an intelligent woman, an excellent
archaeologist and a competent investigator. She’s bought some great skills to
The Agency and I think we complement each other well as colleagues.”
“Why do you think you work well together?”
“She’s not afraid to challenge me over my
assumptions. Or challenge me over anything for that matter, we hold each other
accountable. I identify the components of a puzzle and she has an aptitude for
thinking them through and finding solutions. She has a wealth of knowledge that
complements my own knowledge of antiquities.”
“She’s the brains and you’re the brawn?”
He chuckled, “something like that.”
“And you feel responsible for her? You want to
protect her?”
“That’s my job. I bought her on board. We’re
partners, we look out for each other.”
She shifted position, looking at him with her
head tilted, she chewed her lip and that little finger started to twitch once
more.
“When I said that maybe you don’t find it as
difficult as you think to express the way you feel, you said; try telling that
to Sasha. What did you mean by that?”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.” He forced a
smile and tried to look casual.
“Come now, Tom. That was a really poor attempt.
If you’re going to lie to me, at least put some effort into it.”
He sighed irritably.
“Both times you’ve lied to me during this
conversation have been about Sasha,” she said, “Why is that, I wonder?”
He shrugged and sipped at his water before
topping it up and using the glass to steady his hands once more.
“You know, when you described how you feel
responsible for her, that it’s your job to protect her, I had a thought that
you were her guardian angel but actually, I think it’s the other way around.”
“What do you mean?” he said, trying not to
sound prickly.
“She’s your Achilles heel. She’s your biggest
weakness, because she’s precious to you. But she’s also your greatest strength.
She gives you purpose. She gives you hope.”
“What makes you think that?”
“When you spoke of her, you talked as if you
were giving an employment reference, but your eyes and body language betray
you, Tom. As soon as I said her name something changed. Your posture shifted,
you were less confident and sure of yourself, because you felt fear.”
“Fear?” he scoffed.
“Yes fear. I see it in your eyes now. Fear that
you’re going to get caught out – literally, caught with your pants down, one
day. That I’ve discovered your guilty little secret.”
He chuckled to himself, shaking his head and
sipping his drink, trying to avoid eye contact with her.
“And what secret would that be Dr Sequiato?” he
said, giving her a severe look.
She leaned forwards and he couldn’t help but
lean closer too.
“That you are in love with Sasha Blake,” she
whispered and a grin flashed across her face, before she sat back.
He swallowed, trying to keep the guilt from his
eyes.
If he lied, she’d know it, so he said nothing,
pursing his lips and waiting for her to fill the tense silence.
“Does she know?” she said.
He looked down, his eyes drifting away. He took
a long deep breath and looked up at her.
 |
| Clive Owen as Tom Sheridan |
“I don’t know.”
He ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed
the back of his neck again.
“You’ve never told her?”
“Of course not. That would be unprofessional.”
She raised her eyebrows at him and grinned.
“Aha!” she said, “So now you’ve answered my
earlier question.”
“Which one was that?” he sighed. He felt worn
down now. He’d let her get to him, let her get behind the mask. He couldn’t
help but admire the fact that in a well focused conversation she’d got more
out of him than he’d ever given away to anyone in one sitting. She’d be a good
interrogator and he made a mental note to tell Milton as much. Torturing a
suspect was never a reliable way to get information, a man would say anything
to stop the pain. But what she’d just done to him was real talent.
“What’s important to you? You said you didn’t
know, and you meant it at that time but I think I see,” she said, “Your
professional pride. If you do something, it’s important to you that you do it
well. You’re loyal and hardworking. They’re positive qualities, one’s you
already associate with Frank.”
He was lost for words for a moment, hesitated
and finally said, “Thank you. I think,” and threw her a smile.
“I wasn’t complimenting you, Tom, I was making
an observation.”
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat and fidgeted.
“Don’t be sorry. Do you think you’re a good
man, Tom?”
He forgot to breath for an instant, she’d just
thrown another intimidating curve ball at him and he wasn’t ready to catch it.
“Pardon?” he said.
“I asked if you think you are a good man?”
He didn’t know what to say. He’d asked himself
that question many times and each time he found a different answer.
He shrugged, “I don’t know.”
She leaned forwards again and tried to capture
his eyes. He allowed her to.
“You really don’t know do you?”
He swallowed, took a sip of water and glanced
up at Batman – even he looked disappointed that Tom didn’t have an answer.
“Are we done?” he said after a long pause.
She checked her watch.
“Well, I don’t have any more questions but we
do still have a little time. Is there anything else you think we need to talk
about? Anything you want to say?”
“Not really.” He sat forwards, planted his feet
and got ready to stand, pressing his hands into his knees.
“How do you feel?”
“What do you mean?”
“After our conversation? How did it make you
feel?”
He flashed a grin.
“A little bruised.”
“Your ego, you mean?”
“Perhaps,” he looked at his watch, then
rearranged his shirt cuff before propping himself up.
“Well,” he blew air through his lips, “Thank
you, doctor.” He held a hand out to her.
She looked at it with wide eyes for a moment,
then stood. She offered him a small smile and took his hand. She lingered for a
moment, a long slow handshake and gave him a searching look.
“You don’t have to wait until your annual
evaluation.” She released his hand and reached into the pocket of her jacket.
She handed him a business card. “If you ever need to talk about anything. Get
anything off your chest. Please call me. That’s why I’m here. You don’t have to
be fighting alone all the time, Tom. Sometimes it’s OK to let someone help
you.”
Writers: Have you ever 'interviewed' one of your characters?
Curious about Tom and Sasha? I've been serializing the new book, 'Solomon's Secrets' on this blog - read the first 14 chapters from here onwards
Help support the publication of Solomon's Secrets with an independant publisher by ordering the book now from the crowdfund:
eBooks: £3
Paperback (inc P&P): £10
(Image sources:)
*Image from: http://www.kinopoisk.ru, on Pinterest
*Image source: www.huffingtonpost.co.uk
*Rorschach image from: http://wallpoper.com
*Kate Winslet image source link broken, found on Pinterest
*Clive Owen image source link broken, found on Pinterest
