A WORLD WITHOUT YOU

They had no more use for him. In an age of artificial intelligence and advance defence equipment, his function was now becoming increasingly obsolete, and no longer it seemed did he possess any significant symbolic value for the country he'd served so devoutly. For in an age which examined Britain's past with a fine toothcomb for any historical wrong doings, why would he be anymore spared scrutiny and reappraisal than all the other 'antiquated' cultural traditions and icons of the past century that had defined the post colonial age in the shadow of the British empire.

Bond was cancelled, if for no other reason than he was defunct to a modern world that despised its heroes. Only a shallow re-imagining of him by someone else in some other guise of 007 would allow any resemblance of his name to extend beyond his remaining years. But he wasn't sure he even cared anymore.

"Apathy is a hell of a drug," he'd told M once. "It'll knock all false hope out of you."

"But at least it'll keep you grounded," M retorted with a characteristic smirk.

In some ways Bond was relieved. For decades, along with her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, he felt as if the entire country's collective self esteem had rested on his shoulders. He'd be lying if he hadn't thought of it at times as a great burden. Of course, it was an honour, too, but Bond knew better than most that nothing, not even honour, lasts forever. He'd dispatched enough lives to know this certainty and now he had finally reached his own expiry date.

Of course, they would try and re-brand another version of him and pretend that everything was the same as before, but everything had changed. The world was colder now. Darker. And heroes saving the world from evil super villains and ensuring happy endings was for the birds. Besides, he was self aware enough to know that he had been a parody of himself for years and no amount of new man existential posturing could escape that fact.

Back in the day he'd heard of secret agents being forcibly retired to a secret location called Inverlair Lodge in Scotland where they would be sedated with women, prescription drugs and booze, to say nothing of endless games of backgammon. He knew that sort of thing didn't happen any more but he wouldn't be taking any chances. Happily, he'd bought his own secret village near La Altagracia in the Dominican Republic where he would spend the rest of his days diving off waterfalls, picking fruit and dreaming of Britain from afar.

Besides, he thought, perhaps home was better thought of from a distance anyway, where you couldn't get your heart broken quite so directly when it all turned to shit.

In some ways he treated his country of origin like all the women in his life - with a certain degree of icy coolness. Only when they and it were in grave peril did he step up and reveal his true feelings, and even then not always without a certain degree of detachment.

He knew why. Ever since losing his parents, he did everything in his power to prevent himself getting hurt ever again.

But deep down, he hurt as much as anyone.

He just didn't like to admit it.

He couldn't afford to.

There was a send off for him which he hadn't expected at the Merchant Taylors Hall in Threadneedle street. Friends and foes within MI6 had all gathered to say their goodbyes to the man who couldn't escape the feeling that he was attending his own funeral of sorts.

Only it wasn't just his funeral he contemplated while splashing cold water on his craggy looking face in the washroom. It was the nation's, too.

They ate swan, courtesy of the King and drank an 1863 port courtesy of the House of Niepoort as the final speeches were delivered amongst a fog of cigar smoke. This was surely the last rites for toxic masculinity right here, he laughed to himself, pouring himself another glass of the fortified wine.

"We won't forget him who know him. And yet who amongst of us can say we truly know him? For true knowing in these covert circles would be considered a failing of any secret agent worth his or her salt. We'll remember what you represented at your best, which was the gold standard in protecting queen and country."

A final round of applause eventually dissolved into silence as at the very end of the evening a young treble soloist was brought out to sing before the guests and sang with heart piercing purity, so that Bond almost felt embarassed that such sublime music would be performed in his honour, a man with more blood on his hands than most serial killers in history.

Nobody does it better
Makes me feel sad for the rest
Nobody does it half as good as you
Baby, you're the best

He would think back on that evening years later in his private resort in the Dominican Republic, remembering how that young boy's voice touched his soul in a way he hadn't felt since before the childhood tragedy that defined his entire adult life.

The past felt to him now like a dream and each day as he got further away from it, the less he chose to remember.

Gazing southwards at the Caribbean sea, he thought how the present disperses into the future with no real regard for the past. In this way it was sort of dispassionate and unsentimental.

A bit like Bond himself.