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Approached on the street by Don, Simon had thought it was another pick-up attempt. Some people seemed attracted by his mop of fair hair and boyish looks. It was March, 2013.
He’d politely declined the offer of ‘going somewhere for a drink and a chat’ and said he didn’t mean to cause offence but Don just wasn’t his type.
“I’m not trying to acquire you as my boyfriend, you idiot. I‘ve a genuine job proposal for you,” had been the response.
Si told him he already had a job, well, two in fact. One in ‘the music industry’ he did for pleasure and the other, as a part-time fixer, he did for the tax-free cash. Don told him he knew all about his job at the little music shop and, in a slightly indirect way, he was his tax-free cash employer. They went for the drink.
In the pub, Don said he’d been keeping an eye on him and had received good reports regarding his versatility, ingenuity and ability to think on his feet. He also knew the basic content of some drunken conversations he’d had, the sort that usually end up with phrases like, ‘hanging’s too good for them’ or ‘ I’d shoot them myself’.
Don told him he admired his consistency and he was just the sort of person the organisation he worked for required. Si was curious. What would it entail, he’d asked. He was worried, because he didn’t really think he could shoot someone; it’d been the drink talking.
Don laughed and said, “Of course not. We just need you to look after one or two select people. Make sure they’re in the right place at the right time, with the right equipment of course, then, get them home safely. That sort of thing.” He left him a business card containing only a phone number.
They’d had him travel to Scotland. At the quiet edge of a small town lay a wooden architect-designed house, grounds and parking for several cars. He spent two weeks there, completing timed tasks, navigating around the countryside and generally improvising when the brief suddenly changed. He was one of three. Ostensibly, they were an international supplier of ‘fixers’ to the rich and famous but something didn’t feel quite right. He was beginning to think the other two were simply there for his benefit. They seemed to believe the situation genuine.
At the termination of the course, they were told they’d all performed wonderfully and that only one of them could proceed to full employment. The others should not view themselves as having failed because should another vacancy become available they would be on the short list. His colleagues seemed giddy at the prospect.
It was no surprise when they took him to a small room and told him he was the lucky candidate. He’d seen the other two through the window, walking away carrying their bags.
It soon became clear he’d have to attend another training session. This time it would be two weeks on Exmoor. He was fairly sure the Royal Marines Commando courses used the place and when they gave him a little slide show of the next accommodation, the smell of the Army Cadets’ store wafted back through his brain. His alert state had risen from curious to intrigued but he was also concerned. He had the silly feeling this next phase was, for some reason, going to entail physical exertion of the type he’d more or less given up.
His interlocutor seemed to pick this up because no sooner had he thought it than they smiled and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to get yourself ready for it. It doesn’t start for another month yet.” He attempted to look unperturbed and squeezed a smile out.
From his time in the cadets, he knew enough about the military to know a lot of what the Army did was simply to see how much shit you could take and whether you’d wimp out and run home to your mum. He’d sort of done that once and both his parents had sent him back the following weekend, having convinced him it was a game of bluff he was born to win. The sense of satisfaction it gave him to soak up the crap whilst others crumbled could only later be compared with a pint of real ale.
For the next two weeks, Simon dragged his sorry body from his house to the train station and back; two miles in all. The next week he made it three miles. The following, four. Combined with the ten push-ups and ten sit-ups he’d done every morning and evening, before going to the pub, he even managed to lose weight although he was somewhat disappointed that a rippling six-pack was nowhere to be seen.
At least he was better prepared than he had been and the reading of a blog about training for marathons in which the writer stated ‘one should never go the whole distance in training’ comforted him.
It was the hardest two weeks of his life. The staff who met him at the front door had grinned when they saw him and asked if he was sure he had the right address. Obviously ex-military PTIs by their dress of tight tracky bottoms and even tighter vests, they’d no sooner issued him with a pair of shorts, trainers and undersized top than they insisted he join them for a little run. Their idea of ‘little’ needed to be revised.
They also made a point of ensuring he would hear their supposedly private conversations regarding the likelihood of his still being there after three days. He thought of his parents, now long gone, and hunkered down.
At the end of the two weeks, he wasn’t a commando, far from it, but he’d taken all the shit they gave him and completed every task to their satisfaction.
The two PTIs made a point of giving him their respect and he reciprocated by telling them, with a grin, he’d originally thought them a pair of twats but he wasn’t so sure now. Then he went to the bar in the pub in which they sat, laughing, and bought a double round.