"Pamela Isley, private logs, "dry growth formula" Log #1, Day #1:

I cannot even begin to express how excited I am about this new project. I have finally been given enough funding to actually achieve my goal. If it succeeds it will be the biggest breakthrough agriculture has ever seen. Imagine what it will do for Africa if I manage to grow something in such harsh conditions. The current goal is to make a water and nutrients substitute, something that can be mass produced and hopefully that the soil will only need one treatment of. The first step is to recreate the same chemical formula that plants get out of fertile soil. Once this is done I will try to make it into liquid form for easy dispersal. Then, assuming the plants grow, all I have to worry about is cost and production."

"Pamela Isley, private logs, "dry growth formula" Log #2, Day# 6:

I have been analysing the best type of soils for growing plants. I have twenty different soil samples and a control group of only ten, which is unfortunate. I have taken all the usual and necessary actions for the experiment; same amount of water dripping in, same amount of sunshine etc. anyway that's all in my written notes for our benefactor. Clearly I expect the soil containing volcanic ash to thrive the most and the sandier soils to produce less than the rest. Despite this I still need to perform the experiment. I am using strawberries in this instance because of their speed and size. Although more useful plants would bare more accurate results and needed information I just want to get started! Once the fullest possible growth has been established I will rate the soils from one to twenty based on growth speed, foliage, amount of fruit and the same things I always do. Now it's just a matter of waiting. Jim should be done recording the growth since plantation two days ago; I should go and write up a report for the boss. Ergh, my least favourite part of the job. Hey Jim-."

"Pamela Isley, private logs, "dry growth formula" Log #3, Day #13:

Some of the more fertile soils have already started to sprout. It really is just a matter of waiting for the results. In the meantime I have been studying the soils and figuring out their exact mineral composition. It's a slow process but once I have my list from one to twenty it will be easier to figure out which minerals cause the plants to either suffer or thrive. I plan on- So Pammy about that date? Jim please stop calling me that and I told you I'm far too busy here. Oh come on Pam Pam, I'll be great; I'll rock your world, promise. Jim I hate 'Pam Pam" even more. How many times do I have to say no? I've told you I don't date co-workers EVER. But have you ever had a co-worker as charming and handsome as me. Not to mention the fa- Hey is that thing on Pam? What thing?... Oh damn, sorry. Hang o-."

"Pamela Isley, private logs, "dry growth formula" Log #4, Day #20:

Some of the plants are still growing in the less fertile soils and I have made significant progress with the mineral research. I hate all this waiting but even if I figured it out right this minute it would still be years of testing, but just to know that I could do it, that one day… What am I saying? If anyone can do this it's me. I still have eight more soil compositions left to go but it's so dull and time consuming, I have Jim helping me of course. I wish the boss would stretch the budget for another person but I know he's right when he says it's better spent on the actual re- So Pam co- No. Aw you didn't eve- No. But I- No. Come o- NO. OUT. Plea-OUT. What was I saying...? Damn it. Anyway there wasn't much to report in the first place. Over and out."

"Pamela Isley, private logs "dry growth formula" Log #5 Da-."

"What? No, please." Pamela listened to her own voice through the distortion of her recorder rewinding "Please be here, please, please, please."

"NO. OUT. Plea-OUT. What was I saying? Damn it. Anyway there wasn't much to report in the first place. Over and out." Pamela threw the device at the wall, realising her mistake to late. The recorder bounced off the wall and landed on the sofa. The tape case lid had popped open, it looked alright but she was almost too scared to check. Slowly rising from her position on the floor her legs almost gave way. Pamela liked to sit down on her legs and then slowly sink down until her legs were to either side of her and her buttocks touched the ground. A lot of people could not even achieve this position let alone be comfortable but Pamela loved it. She would lean forward sometimes, mainly when she was reading or writing balancing on her elbows, her bum slightly sticking up. Jim used to say it made her look like a cat… but that was in the past now. That was 'before.'

Pam made her way to the couch which she never used, tentatively walking on her toes first before putting her heel down. She was naked apart from the silkiest and softest underwear she could find. The dress she had worn out, a gift from... was it mark? Lay in the corner near the door where she had thrown it off. Through the windows the moonlight only just illuminated her, her long red her almost, but not quite covering her backside. She paused before the couch looking down at herself, at her scars. She could see the line up her stomach, going over the side of her breasts; she unconsciously felt the connecting line on her side, almost on her back. Not that she could actually feel it anymore, but you could still see it. What had once been a burning mark, a horrid dead grey, green colour where it looked like the skin had bubbled away, was now a smooth, silky and only slightly green patch of skin. Her hand went up to touch the small dots on the side of her face and neck, usually covered by her hair. She shut her eyes for only a moment, remembering, before shaking her head as if to forget.

When Pam realised what tape she was up to her heart fluttered and a lump slid down her throat, not seeming to want to go away. She took a deep breath and tried to force herself to hit the playback button. The recorder itself had been fine but the tape inside had been thrown out and smashed against the wall and then the floor. Thankfully the last few recordings were on a second tape which was listening to now. She had listened to all but one, she had even listened to the part where she and Jim had made love, in fact that's what took up most of the space on the tape. She listened to the parts where she became frustrated with going nowhere and she listened to Jim's soothing voice calming her rage. She listened to the subtle noise of a kiss on the cheek as she talked, a hug more like a tackle and worst of all Jims bad jokes that she never used to find funny but now made her laugh so much she cried. She listened again and again until she realised she was no longer listening, just skipping the parts until his voice came back. The realisation that after all this time she loved him just as much was like she had just physically ripped her own heart out. Pamela Isley, the woman who prided herself on her own strength found herself broken on the floor, with salty tears dried on her lips, unable to press play.

It had been two days since Pamela had listened to the tapes and almost every day she got home she sat on the floor not pressing play. On the third day she came close, telling herself she had to but remembering why she could not. She lay awake in bed, the blankets thrown to the floor as usual, she glistened with sweat as the sunlight seemed to radiate through the window in its brightness. Pam found herself panting and realised she must have been dreaming again, if you could call it that. She wondered what it actually was this time, the vague delusional memories she has, or worse, what had actually been happening.

Not bothering to put on clothes, she walked slowly to the window; it seemed she did everything slowly nowadays. She opened the door to the balcony and lay amongst her plants, the damp soil clinging to her body and the rich smell filling her nostrils. She lay for hours basking in the sun and the smell of her plants slowly becoming more into focus as the earth smell faded, the faint whiff of jasmine and then the sweet almost cloying smell of honeysuckle. One by one each plant came and went until she felt her pale skin begin to burn. The first thing she had done when moving into the apartment, located in an expensive building and on the highest level, was to fill the balcony with the best soil money could buy and slowly fill it with flowers and small shrubs. Regretfully it was not deep enough for trees but she made do in the courtyard, not that she was, technically, allowed to. The balcony whoever was only hers, no one hanging around just her and her plants. Once again she mentally thanked Anthony Garcia for buying it for her, what a fool he was.

She perched herself on the edge of the small pool she had, watching the waterlilies in their slight movements before delving in. The clear cool water slowly washed away the soil from outside and she watched it slowly sink downwards. She tried once again to pat one of the fish but as usual it was only the koi that even swam near her. Sometimes they rubbed up against her legs and reminded her of cats wanting attention. Finally clear of her morning depression she dried off in the sun and went to her wardrobe. She looked at the dark red dress with the plunging neckline and clinging fabric, knowing she had to wear it but knowing how it would feel on her skin, against her scar. She put it on in disgust, but if she was to get what she wanted then the man her had brought it for her, John Walters, would have to get what he wanted to and Pamela always got what she wanted.

She met John at a hotel again this time; she wished his wife would go on one of her trips again so she could access his computer. John Walters was a weedy man with long but balding hair; to begin with he had been a nervous and uncomfortable man, always sweaty and constantly fidgeting. Now he looked much the same but with Pamela he was confident, in her love for him as well as his control over her. All was a lie of course; Pamela could change into a dominatrix at the drop of a hat if she wanted to. In fact sometimes she had to, it's hard stringing so many men along but she needed their money, codes and information and unfortunately she wasn't a master thief. She had been working on John for a long time, playing the shy and insecure little rich girl. He had taken to her simply because his wife was the opposite; always telling him exactly what to do and never letting him touch her. So Pamela was quite, subservient and always willing, wanting and to please. John was important because he designed weapons. Not guns or ammo, but bombs and warheads and she knew she would need them, if only as a threat. It would take a while, but she would get there.