by Peter Cocks
He didn’t tell me his name. Too personal, he said. He didn’t want any mateyness, and he didn’t give – or get – any. The only name he called me was a four-letter one I would never have used in front of my mum.
I held my temper as he chased me around a muddy assault course, screaming at me as I skinned my knees and elbows crawling across corrugated iron sheets. I didn’t flinch as I cut my legs on brambles and broken glass, scraped my back to ribbons crawling under barbed-wire fences. And I didn’t complain when he loaded me up with a backpack full of rocks and told me to run round the whole circuit a second time, twice as fast.
I went round again, his voice roaring in my ears the whole time. In fact the more he shouted and screamed, the stronger I began to feel. The pain dissolved as my determination not to break increased. I threw myself across ditches and up rope walls, the rocks digging into my back and making me yell with angry resolve. My hands burned down to the raw flesh as I swung on a rope across a ditch crammed with shopping trolleys, shit and sump oil. At the other end, I smashed my face into a wall, making my nose bleed and my eyebrow swell instantly.
When I made it back to the start – in double-quick time – my breath was hot and rasping in my dry throat, and blood, sweat and drool poured down my face. So when he called me a wuss who wasn’t fit to lick his boots, let alone kiss his arsehole, I lost it.
I shrugged off the backpack and launched myself at him, letting off an explosive punch that I dearly hoped would spread what was left of his nose across his face. He caught my fist in a huge hand and sidestepped my blow, twisting me, causing me to lose my balance and fall back in the mud. I jumped straight back up and went for him again, this time anticipating his move and landing a smacking right-hander into his mouth, splitting his lip. This seemed to anger him a little and I was suddenly on the receiving end of a right backhand that caught me on the neck. It felt like being whacked with a tree trunk and I went down again. I was on my feet in an instant and at him with both fists when I saw his face. Through the blood trickling from his split lip, he was grinning from ear to ear.
Not taunting, but warm and friendly.
“Nice one, my son,” he said. “You got balls of steel.” He put his hands up defensively to catch the punches I was about to throw, but the fire went out of me. I dropped my fists and rested my hands on my knees, panting heavily, half laughing, half crying with pain, exhaustion and relief that it was over. He patted my back and I spat dryly into the wet mud, a smear of blood mixed in the spit. From the corner of my eye I saw Ian Baylis approaching. His mate Oliver was with him.
“How’s he getting on, Jim?” Baylis asked.
“By Jove, I think he’s got it!” Jim said in a mocking voice. Then, serious, “He’s as hard as nails. I think he’d have killed me if I’d given him half a chance.”
Oliver checked the stopwatch, raised his eyebrows and showed it to Baylis.
“Never seen anyone do the course that quick second time around,” Baylis said, allowing himself a glimmer of a smile. “Well done, Eddie. Let’s get you a hot shower and some dinner. We’ll make a man of you yet.”
NINE
I woke up the next day stiff with the pain in my bones. Every muscle and sinew in my body seemed to be screaming for help. I tried to roll over and make myself comfortable on the lumpy mattress, but wherever I moved, something else hurt. The sun was streaming through the thin curtain, so I knew I wouldn’t get back to sleep. I swung my legs out of the bed, feeling my hips creak, and put my feet on the cold floor. Where I had been lying, the sheet was speckled with spots of blood. I looked down at the broken toenails and blisters on my feet, at the scratches that criss-crossed my legs, and suddenly felt proud that I had survived this far. Some inner strength had made me go the extra mile. I got to my feet and staggered across to the washbasin, found a couple of ibuprofen in my washbag and swigged them down with cold water. I splashed my face and looked in the mirror. In just a few days I thought I appeared leaner and fitter. OK, my face was scratched and cut, and I had a black eye, but – and perhaps it was just my imagination – there was definitely a new look of determination in my eyes.
Hard as nails, he’d said. Balls of steel. I could handle whatever they threw at me.
The fifth day was different from the rest. Ian Baylis eased off a bit, only throwing the odd question here and there to make sure I was still quick off the mark. If he called me Eddie, I jumped to it. I’d almost forgotten my real name. Like someone learning a foreign language in another country, I almost began to dream as Eddie. Different dreams, different places.
They gave me a crash course in driving. I knew the basics because I’d had a few lessons, but they gave me my test anyway. And I was pretty chuffed when I passed.
The day after, Baylis took me to a new part of the building. In a nasal voice, a thin man called Hamish Campbell talked me through some of the technology I would need. Most of it was pretty basic: two mobiles, one an iPhone for personal use, the other a small Nokia, a hotline to Baylis and his operatives. The iPhone had all the usual apps, but plenty of other extras like navigation stuff and an encoded keyboard I could use to send encrypted messages. This was top-notch gear, quite a few steps up from my T-Mobile pay-as-you-go.
I panicked, thinking I wouldn’t know how to work it all, but Campbell assured me I would pick it all up in due course. He also instructed me to take out the SIM cards every night to cut down the likelihood of being tracked by anyone else. He gave me some shoes that had been adapted for me, so that if you lifted up the insole, there was a little hollow in the heel with specially cut slots for storing SIM cards and memory chips. There was also a USB stick that Campbell said had the memory capacity of half a dozen laptops, so I could copy the whole contents of someone else’s computer if I needed to. It slotted neatly into the back of the other heel and could be easily pulled out without anyone noticing. He stressed the importance of removing the SIMs every night.
Campbell spent the rest of the afternoon explaining how to install spyware into someone else’s computer, giving me a web address where I could download a bit of software that would track incoming and outgoing mail on someone else’s account. He showed me how to install the download and activate it where the computer’s user would never find it. He also backed up the software on my memory stick, so I had the spyware with me if I couldn’t get an Internet connection.
There was lots of other stuff I would have to learn in due course, he told me: code-breaking, surveillance techniques, lock-picking and the rest.
After we’d finally been through the IT business, Campbell hauled a briefcase up on to the desk.
“Time for a bit of fun,” he said. “I know it all looks a bit Secret Squirrel, but some of it might be useful.”
“A bit what?” I asked, laughing.
“Secret Squirrel.” He smiled. “You’re too young to remember, I suppose. He was a sixties cartoon squirrel who was a spy. He’s got tricks up his sleeve…” Campbell began to sing the theme tune in his nasal voice. “Most bad guys won’t believe, a bulletproof coat, a cannon hat, a machine-gun cane with a rat-tat-tat-tat!” He mimed the machine-gun cane, tapping his foot to make the rat-a-tat. It was the most animated he’d been all afternoon.
There was a cough from behind us.
“Glad to see you’re having fun, chaps,” Sandy Napier said.
Hamish spun round.
“Commander Napier,” he gulped, his mouth opening and shutting like a decked fish. “Yes, er, I was just showing Eddie some of our surveillance gear, sir.”
Napier grinned and tapped the glass of his diver’s watch.
“Well, get on with it, man, we’re running out of time. We’ve got to get Eddie kitted out yet, and I’m gasping for a drink. You’ll be joining us later, of course, Eddie?”
“Yeah, I mean, yes, sir.” I didn’t have a clue what I was meant to call him. Of everyone I’d met so far, Napier was the one who scared me most.
“Thanks,” I added, and Napier left.
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“If in doubt, always call him sir,“ Campbell offered helpfully. He rested the briefcase on the bench and opened it. The box of tricks included an ordinary-looking digital watch that could record up to eight hours of conversation in a five-metre radius. It had a push button that operated the stopwatch and also set off the voice recorder. There were also several magnetic tags that would fit inside the petrol cap or under the exhaust of a car to track it on a phone or a laptop. He showed me some small magnetic microphones that I could use to bug rooms. Said I’d be needing them pretty much from the off.
I nodded, impressed.
Campbell snapped the case shut. “Boys’ toys,” he said, then tapped his nose with his index finger. “I think you have an appointment with a lady next.”
TEN
“Sorry I’m late, Eddie.” Her hair was black and glossy, tied back in a ponytail, and she was wearing less make-up than when I’d last seen her. She wore jeans and a crisp, fitted white shirt over a vest.
She was stunning.
“Anna,” she said, holding out her hand. I remembered the firmness of her handshake and the direct look in her eyes. The dimple when she smiled.
“I remember,” I said. “From the model agency.”
She smiled and raised an eyebrow as if she wasn’t sure whether or not I was being serious.
“Looks like you’ve been through the mill.” She touched my cheek in a matter-of-fact way. I flinched instinctively, and she drew away. I cursed inwardly. I wished she’d put her hand back and touch my face again. Touch anything she wanted.
“I remember my induction week well,” she said. “I think that bloody sadist Jim Owen enjoyed putting me through it even more than usual, pervert that he is.”
“You mean…?” The penny was beginning to drop. “You work as…”
“Yup, me too. You didn’t think I really worked for that cheapo modelling outfit, did you?”
“Well, I…” I started to make excuses.
“Sugacubes Modelling Agency,” Anna squeaked in a sing-song voice, mimicking a receptionist answering the phone. “Can I help you?” She looked at me, questioning.
“Of course I didn’t,” I lied. “I knew it was a front.”
Anna gave me the benefit of the doubt. “Help me in with these things, will you?”
I went to the door of the office and helped her carry a dozen stuffed carrier bags and a clothes rail full of trousers, shirts and suits.
“It’s taken me all day, two parking tickets and a near clamping to put this lot together for you,” she said.
“How did you avoid the clamp?”
Anna put her hands on her hips and looked at me.
“How do you think?”
“Feminine charm?” I tried.
“Yeah, right.” She grinned. “Actually, I broke the traffic warden’s neck with a single blow.” She laughed, mimed a karate chop across my own neck, then started unpacking the bags. She pulled out T-shirts, socks, pants and sweaters, and stacked them on the table.
“These all for me?” I asked incredulously as the pile grew.
“We’ll see what looks right on you and ditch the rest,” she said.
She considered me for a moment.
“Hm, Gap’s OK,” she said, feeling the edge of the grey hoodie I was wearing. “Nice and anonymous. But I think we want to go upmarket a bit and lose the skateboard labels.”
“I like this Vans shirt,” I said defensively. “I’ve had it for years.”
“Looks like you haven’t taken it off for years,” Anna said, grinning. “C’mon, try some of these on.”
She handed me a navy-blue Lacoste polo shirt and a pair of jeans. I looked around for somewhere to change, but there was nowhere to hide and Anna didn’t bat an eyelid as I stripped down to my pants and put on the clothes.
“Better,” she said, looking me up and down. “Pretty good.”
She threw me more shirts: Paul Smith, Ralph Lauren, some soft knitwear, then deck shoes, Nike trainers and a pair of suede desert boots. I tried on other combinations and became less embarrassed at standing half naked in front of this hot-looking woman.
“I think it’s all working, Eddie,” she said. “You wear clothes well. But I’ll take back the Calvin Klein stuff because it makes you look a bit gay.”
“Cheers,” I said.
“No, gay in a good way.” She laughed. “It’s just that I want you looking a bit rougher and tougher for this gig, a bit more casual. Queeny’s not going to go down all that well.”
“So how do I look now?” I asked. I had on a pair of washed-out vintage Levi’s, deck shoes, a checked, short-sleeved Ralph Lauren shirt and a navy Aquascutum windcheater.
“Cool,” she said, handing me some aviator sunnies. “Yeah, cool and a bit preppy. Possibly a bit indie band. Like a South London boy who spends all his wages on clobber should look. You look like Eddie Savage.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I chose them, you cheeky bugger,” she said. She paused for a moment. “But your hair’s still a bit too floppy.”
“Floppy?” Defensive, my hand went to my fringe.
“Did I say floppy?” She grinned. “Sorry, I meant it looks a mess. We’ll sort that out next.”
A minute later she was pushing me down into an office chair with a scarf around my neck and snipping away at my hair with small scissors. After ten minutes she rolled the chair in front of a mirror and tousled my hair with her fingers.
“Gives it a bit more texture,” she explained, admiring her work. She put her hands on my shoulders and squeezed.
“Like it?” she asked.
I looked in the mirror at my battered face and at the new, shorter hair. I had to admit, it did look good.
Rougher, tougher.
“Yeah, I like it.”
“Good. OK, let’s pack this lot away.” Anna ruffled the top of my head again. “The boss wants to see us for a drink.”
***
Sandy Napier gathered everyone together in the library: Ian Baylis, Oliver, Jim, Hamish, Anna and one or two other faces I had seen during the past few days. Everyone was drinking red or white wine except Sandy Napier and Jim the Pitbull, who drank whisky.
I chose white and regretted it; it wasn’t very cold and tasted of old wood. After the first glass I switched to red, which wasn’t much better, but I drank it anyway. I stuck by Anna and we chatted for a bit. Not only was she great-looking and had a sense of humour but, stupidly, I felt protected by her. I don’t know why, she was hardly maternal. Maybe it was just the feminine vibe I got from her after living in a violent, sweaty world of blokes for a week.
Maybe it was just that I fancied her to bits and would have crawled over broken glass just to drink her bathwater.
Of course, all the other blokes tried it on with her in different ways. Ian Baylis came over and made what he thought were smart remarks, but which just made him look like the sexist wanker he was. His head wobbled a bit when he talked at her. Jim the Pitbull flexed his muscles and reminded her of how bendy she had been when she did her assault course. He looked like he might be about to drop and do some push-ups to try and impress her. Campbell the techno spod took a different approach and made silly jokes at the level of his Secret Squirrel song on the assumption that making a girl laugh was half the battle. He mostly chuckled at the jokes himself, snorting when he laughed.
Cool.
Only Sandy Napier stood back. He acted as if talking to girlies was a bit shallow. Or maybe they weren’t his thing. Given the options available to Anna, I started to reckon I wasn’t such a bad choice. I think the wine was getting to me. Just as I was fantasizing about my chances, Sandy Napier tapped his glass with a pen and called for silence.
“Thanks for coming, everyone,” he announced. “I’m not going to say much. As most of you know, I never do. I just wanted to give a few words of welcome to our new recruit, Eddie Savage. Eddie is the youngest operative we have ever taken on – indeed, I have bent the r
ules backwards to make it possible. It was a risk, and I am glad to say that my gamble shows early signs of paying off.”
I glanced over at Ian Baylis, who looked determinedly straight ahead. Anna smiled at me and winked. Napier continued.
“In terms of our organization, I would like to remind you all that Eddie does not become strictly legal for a while, so for most purposes he doesn’t actually exist. Given that, I hope that you will all give Eddie what you can in terms of support and protection. That’s all. I’m sure you’ll join me in wishing Eddie all the best.”
He raised his glass.
“Eddie Savage.”
That’s rich, I thought. I’m putting my cock on the block and, like Steve, I don’t actually exist.
“Eddie Savage,” they chanted.
ELEVEN
Once Sandy Napier had gone back to London, Ian Baylis rallied the troops together to go to the pub. We piled into a couple of official Jags and raced down the country lanes the mile or so to the village. Baylis and Jim were driving, and no one seemed too concerned about the amount they had already drunk. I guess they had a Get Out of Jail Free card.
I sat in the back and engineered it so that I was next to Anna. I already felt flushed with the wine, and the pressure of her body against mine on the back seat made me breathless. I opened the window a gnat’s.
In the pub they bought round after round and, although I was a bit slower than the rest, I must have had four pints of lager. On top of the wine, I was feeling quite pissed. There was lots of laughing and joshing, but I kept pretty quiet. I didn’t want to make a prat of myself and, in particular, didn’t want to behave like a prat in front of Anna.
“You’re quiet,” she said, sipping a pint of lager with the best of them and with no apparent effect.
“It’s been a busy week,” I replied.
She smiled and patted my leg. I noticed the slight unevenness of her white teeth that made her lip curl sexily when she smiled.
