**Diary Entry The Audit**
*”We need fresh blood,”* the manager said as he dismissed me at fifty-eight. Little did he know, I was the undercover auditor sent to shut down his branch.
*”Gerald, you understand. The companys shifting directionwe need new perspectives, young energy.”*
Victor Whitmore, the branch manager, leaned back in his oversized leather chair, which probably cost more than my annual salary. The chair creaked in protest, underlining his feigned sympathy.
He twirled an expensive Montblanc pen between manicured fingers, conducting reality like an orchestra in this office bathed in morning light and the scent of luxury cologne.
*”We need youth,”* he finally said, placing the pen on the mahogany desk.
The words hung in the air like a grease stain on a crisp white shirt, poisoning the atmosphere of leather and false success.
I studied him silentlyhis perfectly styled hair with distinguished streaks of grey, the careless flash of his Rolex as he adjusted his cuff. His smug posture, that of a man whod never doubted his right to decide others fates. He couldnt have been older than forty.
He belonged to that breed of *efficient managers* who confused an MBA with life experience and saw anyone over fifty as dead weight, slowing the corporate ship on its voyage to new horizons.
*”Youre an excellent specialist,”* he continued, avoiding my gaze, eyes fixed on the city skyline beyond the window. *”Your experience is invaluable, butthe market dictates. Energy, drive, digital transformation. New horizons demand new speeds. Were rolling out CRMs, migrating to the cloud, integrating AI. Itd be difficult for you.”*
I nodded slowly, maintaining the expression of a weary but resigned employee. Inside, there was no anger, no bitternessjust cold calculation, like the steady click of a Geiger counter.
**Point No. 12** in my preliminary report: *”Unjust termination of valuable employees under the guise of age discrimination to clear space for loyalists.”* **Check.**
His talk of *digital transformation* was especially ironic given the server logs Id uncovered last weektraces of funds siphoned through fake IT invoices.
*”I understand,”* I replied evenly, perhaps too indifferently.
Whitmore had expected something elseoutrage, pleading, curses. He tensed, fingers gripping the armrest, bracing for an attack that never came.
I simply looked at him and saw what he couldnt: the double-entry books Id reconstructed over weeks of *”internship,”* cross-referencing shadow server data with official records. Kickbacks disguised as *marketing services*. Ghost employees drawing salaries without ever setting foot in the office.
And, of course, his mistress, Charlotte Edwardshired as his deputy on triple my salary, whose only *duty* was accompanying him to business dinners.
*”Well pay you whats owed. Three months salary,”* he added, visibly relieved, assuming the *old man* had accepted his fate. *”Thats the best I could secure. Consider it a favour.”*
I nodded again. Three months. Such generosityespecially against the budget hole Id uncovered, one the size of a small towns annual spending.
*”Very well, Victor. If youth is whats needed, so be it.”*
I stood. He had no idea my full report120 pages of documents, covert recordings, and financial trailswas already on the CEOs desk. That the decision to restructure his branch had been made yesterday morning.
That I wasnt just a redundant fifty-eight-year-old accountant. I was the liquidator. My job wasnt to save what was rottenbut to tear it down to its foundations.
*”May I collect my things?”* I asked, playing my part to the end.
*”Yes, of course,”* Whitmore replied, already mentally ushering me out as he dialled Charlotte to share the *good news*. *”Take your time.”*
He was wrong. I was in a hurry. Because at nine sharp tomorrow, auditors would swarm this placestarting with his office.
Walking through the open-plan space was my personal Calvary. Dozens of eyes pricked my backsome pitying, others smug, most fearful, imagining themselves in my shoes.
I felt every glance. **Point No. 13**: *”A toxic workplace culture built on fear and nepotism.”* **Check.**
At my old desk sat a twenty-five-year-old with an undercut, a wireless earbud glinting in his ear. He didnt look up as I approached, scrolling through TikTok.
*”These are my things,”* I said calmly, pointing to the modest stack of books and a framed family photo hed shoved aside for his takeaway pizza box.
*”Huh? Oh, right.”* He tugged out his earbud. *”Take it, grandad. Need the space for a second monitor. Gotta keep up with the algorithm, yeah?”*
His smirk dripped with arrogance. I recognised himStanley, Whitmores nephew, hired last week as an *SMM specialist*.
As I packed, Charlotte appeared in a fitted designer dress.
*”Gerald, what a shame,”* she simpered, though her eyes gleamed with malice. *”You were such a vintage touch to the team.”*
*”Im sure,”* I replied flatly.
*”If you need workdont be shy. I could put in a word. Theres a night watchman job in a gated community. Quiet, perfect for your age. They even let you do crosswords. Maybe dominoes.”*
A low blow, meant to humiliate me publicly. She wanted to see me break.
I met her gazelong, steady, like an entomologist studying a venomous insect. She looked away first, adjusting her hair nervously.
*”Well, good luck,”* she muttered, heels clacking as she retreated.
**Point No. 14**: *”Nepotism and promotion of unqualified individuals, directly harming the company.”* Another **check.**
At the exit, a soft voice stopped me.
*”Gerald”*
It was Emily from accounts, a young woman Id helped avoid Whitmores wrath over minor mistakes. She pressed a chocolate bar into my hand.
*”Dont let it get to you. They wont last.”*
Her eyes shone with sincerity. She was the only one who dared approach me.
*”Thank you, Emily. Good people stand out.”*
Outside, I inhaled the crisp evening air and dialled a single number.
*”Its done. Nine tomorrow. Be ready.”*
At 8:50 sharp, 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 head of legal, Anthony Clarke.
Whitmore arrived first. Seeing me, he scowled, then smirked.
*”Gerald? Changed your mind? No need for dramatics.”*
Anthony stepped forward. *”Victor Whitmore? Clarke, head of legal. This branch is under immediate audit. Hand over your pass and phone.”*
Whitmores mask cracked. *”What joke is this? Ive got approvals!”*
Just then, Charlotte and Stanley arrived. Whitmores gaze darted between Anthony and methen understanding, then hatred.
*”You You did this, you old bastard!”* he hissed. *”Fired you, and this is your revenge? Ill ruin you!”*
He lunged, but security blocked him. Charlotte, ever the opportunist, struck next.
*”Pathetic, snivelling sneak! Running to tattle like a child!”*
I looked at her, then at Whitmore.
*”This isnt revenge, Victor. Its an audit.”*
My voice was steel. *”I was sent to evaluate this branch. My report was unfavourable. Especially the part about embezzlement, ghost employees, and kickbacks.”*
Whitmore paled. Charlotte recoiled.
*”Now,”* I extended my hand, *”your pass, Victor. And yours, Charlotte.”*
Now, I made the rules.
