by Haywood, RR
RR Haywood
RECRUITED
A Mike Humber Novella
rrhaywood.com
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Recruited first published in The Book of Shorts. Volume One
Copyright © R. R. Haywood 2014
R. R. Haywood asserts his moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events, unless those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or undead), is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Design, Cover and Illustration by Eddyart
Also by RR Haywood
The Undead.
The UK’s best-selling zombie horror series.
The Second Reality.
Huntington House
A Mike Humber Detective Novel
The Book of Shorts
Volume One
‘Good morning, you are through to The Carlisle Group. How can I help you?’
‘Hi, I’m sorry for the background noise, I’m using a telephone box. I er…lost my mobile.’
‘That’s quite alright, Sir. I can hear you perfectly. How can I help you?’
‘I saw an advert in the local press. It said you were hiring?’
‘Yes, Sir. We are currently hiring. May I ask what background you have?’
‘Background?’
‘Yes, Sir. What background do you have? Are you military or police?’
‘Military? The advert just said you were looking for ex-police officer… investigators… that sort of thing.’
‘Of course, Sir. We are currently running several recruitment campaigns across a wide range of services.’
‘Oh I see, right…yeah that makes sense. I’m…I was a detective.’
‘Very good, Sir. May I ask for some more information?’
‘Sure, what do you want to know?’
‘You say detective. Was that localised criminal investigations or…’
‘CID? Yeah I was on CID for years but I worked units too.’
‘Which units did you work, Sir?’
‘Er, major crime, murder team, sexual offences…that was after doing my stints on the street crime, burglary and drugs squads…’
‘Thank you, Sir. May I assume you are top level interview trained?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘And may I ask if you ever undertook yousee?’
‘Yousee?’
‘Yes, Sir. Did you ever work yousee?’
‘Oh…you mean U C…undercover…yes, yes I did.’
‘Prior to investigations, Sir. What was your work history?’
‘Er, well uniform obviously. Then I worked through the public order teams, riot training, unarmed house entry…after that I was on the armed response units for a while before I went for the full time tactical firearms teams and then I made the jump into investigations.’
‘Interesting. Forgive me saying this Sir, but you do not sound very old.’
‘I feel it sometimes…I’m thirty nine.’
‘Thirty nine? When did you leave the police?’
‘Er…this feels a bit unusual to be going through an interview over the phone.’
‘It’s not an interview Sir. I am assessing your suitability to progress and I fully understand if you are unable or unwilling to divulge further information. I am sure you can go through it when you come in.’
‘Come in?’
‘Yes, Sir. You are exactly what we are looking for. Are you physically able bodied? Suffering illness, disease or disability?’
‘Er…no…none of those.’
‘Do you have any medical issues, drug or alcohol dependency?’
‘No.’
‘Are you declared bankrupt or have any county court judgements against you?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any criminal convictions?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have a pen?’
‘…Sorry, a bus went past. What did you say?’
‘A pen, do you have a pen?’
‘…for the love of god…sorry, another bus. You’ll have to repeat it.’
‘Not a problem, Sir. Do you have a pen for the address?’
‘…Fuck me…shit, sorry! Another bloody bus…three in a row…’
‘Don’t worry. Can you hear me now?’
‘Yes, yes I can hear you. You said something about a dress?’
‘…address, Sir. Do you have a pen for the address?’
‘Oh address! Sorry…er…yes go ahead.’
‘Carlisle House. Boroughfare Road…’
‘What road? There’s a lorry stopped right next to the phone box…’
‘Boroughfare Road…’
‘Sorry, I can’t…hang on…OI MATE…I’M ON THE PHONE…SOD OFF…EH? NO YOU GET FUCKED…shit, sorry…did you hear that?’
‘I heard it, Sir.’
‘Bollocks. Am I sacked already?’
‘No no, it’s quite fine, Sir. Are you ready if I repeat the address?’
‘Carry on, I’ll write it on the lorry drivers face if he doesn't sod off.’
‘Boroughfare Road…do you want the postcode for your satnav?’
‘Satnav? I don’t have a satnav.’
‘When can you come in?’
‘I suppose today is too soon?’
‘Today is fine, Sir.’
‘Really? Shit, I was joking…god I’ve got to stop swearing so much…’
‘Come as soon as you are able.’
‘On my way then.’
‘And your name?’
‘Er…Mi…Michael…’
‘Michael?’
‘Shit…er it’s Mike.’
‘Michael Mike?’
‘No, I meant it’s not Michael, it’s just Mike.’
‘Mike…and your surname?’
‘Humber…Mike Humber…’
One
There is only the slightest pause when she hears my name but she carries on with the same level of good humour and professionalism as before. I glare out of the grime covered window of the telephone box at the lorry driver giving me the finger while he revs the engine.’
The Shaven headed fat prick is wearing a vest to show off his tribal tattoos. He smirks while I shove the end of my finger into my right ear trying to blot out the sound of his diesel engine. He’s right there. Six fucking feet away pushing his fat foot down on the accelerator while laughing as I struggle to hear what’s being said. Oh fuck me, he’s waggling a mobile phone at me now and making the wanker sign.
The call ends with a click in my ear but I keep the handset pressed against my head while I peer up and down the street. Not a camera in sight, which is just ironic. The traffic is heavy but then this is London and when isn’t the traffic heavy?’
I shuffle my body to disguise the fact that I press the metallic lever down to cut the line. When I lift it again the dial tone is loud. I thumb three nines and wait for the call to be connected.
‘Emergency services. What service do you require?’
‘Ambulance please…’ I place the receiver gently on the shelf knowing the call tak
er will transfer the call to the ambulance control room. They will hear an open line but will be able to see the number displayed on their computer systems. They’ll know someone requested an ambulance and they’ll know the location.
‘That was rude,’ I call out after leaving the phone box. ‘I was calling someone about a job.’ I’m hoping he’ll see the error of his ways and immediately apologise.
‘Buy a mobile you fackin’ twat.’ Sitting in his cab he waggles his phone at me again and laughs. ‘Fackin’ job issit?’ he carries on a broad cockney accent. ‘Do me a favour…’ Rolling his eyes he shakes his head and offers me another wanker gesture.
I clear my throat. ‘Are you going to apologise?’
‘Do what?’ He roars with laughter. ‘Fack off you old beardy cant.’
Old? Beardy? Did he just call me old and beardy? I’m only thirty nine.
‘Cleanin’ the bogs yeah?’ he asks me with another cackle that comes from his fat gut, ‘or you offerin’ to suck someone off? That it? You suckin’ cants off for a quid are ya?’
‘So,’ I look at him with a puzzled expression, ‘you’re not going to apologise?’
‘Fack me,’ he snaps, ‘you’s a fackin’ freak, go on…fack off you peado cant.’
‘U,’ I enunciate clearly for him.
‘What?’
‘U…cunt has a U not an A…it’s cunt…you are a cunt not a cant…’ I point at him in the manner of a teacher and load the patronising tone on heavy. ‘You,’ I say slowly, ‘are a fat cunt…not a fat cant…a fat cunt…an ugly cunt…a fat ugly cunt…not a fat ugly cant…’
He’s out of the cab and dropping to the floor as the first flush of anger spreads red across his face. ‘Call me a cant…’
‘Cunt…I called you a cunt…’
‘Wansome?’
‘Pardon? Did you say something cunt?’
‘Fack me.’ He rolls his eyes with mock disdain.
‘No thanks, I don’t fuck fat cunts…’
His first swing is expected and right on cue. He advertised it a mile off with his fist clenching while pulling his arm back for a good old haymaker. A side step and he overshoots with the momentum of his swing.
‘You missed,’ I let the words hang for a second but I can’t help myself from adding, ‘fatty.’
Confusion ruffles his features as he spins round and this time he sees me properly. The first impression of a grizzled old man with a shaggy beard is corrected and I can see his eyes re-assessing their opponent. The beard is shaggy and the flecks of grey only make me look older than I actually am. This time last year I was badly out of shape, an alcoholic and addicted to sleeping pills. But that was a year ago when my self-loathing was causing me to self-destruct. Now my self-loathing is deeper, stronger and ingrained in every facet of my existence. Self-loathing is not adequate. I detest myself on a molecular level. I detest what I was, what I did and who I am. I detest that I served seventeen years but fucked it up when I beat the shit out of a child rapist on full colour high definition CCTV. I detest that he walked away without a single charge against him and a pay-out for police brutality. I detest that I became a drunk, alienated from everyone I ever loved. I detest that my wife left me. I detest that I was so desperate and so addled on pills and Vodka that I took the first job offered to me and stumbled into a trap at Huntington House. I detest that I was so desperate for love that I walked straight into a honey trap in the form of Tessa and I detest that I watched her getting beaten and raped and I detest that I killed the men that did it.
I’ve seen the darkness of man and everything he is capable of and that shows in my eyes as the lorry driver lets the first tendrils of fear flicker across his face.
There was a ghost in Huntington House. I saw him and he saw me. He beat me with a pool cue while I was sparked out in a drunken stupor on the pool table in the games room.
I’ve seen and given death and now I’ve seen what comes after so this piece of shit lorry driver with his swaggering sense of righteous confidence does not faze me.
‘Go away,’ I speak clearly, ‘or I’ll hurt you.’
He doesn't want to walk away. Pride keeps him there as common sense screams inside his head to get the fuck away from this lunatic. But there are people watching us. People across the street and people slowing down in cars who saw the first swing and now want the whole fight. A big lorry driver against a bearded old man? He can’t walk away from that with any sense of pride left.
‘That your lorry issit, mate?’ We both turn to see the uniformed traffic warden staring down at the double yellow lines the lorry is parked on. ‘Can’t park there, mate,’ he adds with a tut while jabbing his stylus at the hand held computer device.
‘I’m just going,’ the lorry driver says quickly.
‘Good.’ The traffic warden doesn't even glance up. ‘You can take this with ya then can’t ya.’
‘Oh come on, mate,’ the lorry driver groans.
‘Rules are rules,’ the traffic warden continues jabbing his machine and takes a look at the number plate of the lorry.
‘My fault,’ I say with a step towards the traffic warden, ‘I fainted and this chap stopped to help.’
‘Eh?’ The traffic warden finally glances up.
‘I said,’ I rub my chest and wince, ‘I fainted, passed out…this kind man stopped to help me.’
The warden scoffs with a leer, ‘yeah alright, you,’ he looks at the lorry driver, ‘are still getting a ticket.’
‘He was helping me,’ I interrupt, ‘giving medical aid…’
‘Course he was…where’s the ambulance then?’
‘Right behind you.’ I grin happily at the warden who turns to see two women dressed in green coveralls and carrying big red bags stride towards us.
‘Everyone alright?’ the first woman shouts. ‘We had to park round the corner…bloody traffic is murder…who called us?’
‘He did.’ I point at the now very confused lorry driver. ‘I fainted and he stopped…I said don’t worry about the ambulance but,’ I shrug, ‘he insisted I get checked out. I said he should go before he gets a ticket but he said he wouldn’t leave me on my own…’ I stare at the traffic warden. We all stare at the traffic warden.
‘You ain’t giving him a ticket are you?’ the paramedic asks with an edge to her voice, ‘someone giving medical aid at the roadside and you’re giving ‘em a ticket? I’ll just give the Evening Standard a call shall I?’
‘Eh? No…’ the traffic warden bleats, ‘er…s’fine.’ Sliding the computer into the pouch on his belt he turns and quickly walks off.
‘Bloody wardens.’ The paramedic glares daggers at his back. ‘Right then, let’s have a look at you.’
‘I’m fine now,’ I say cheerily, ‘happens all the time…low blood pressure…’
‘Yeah but still, we’re here now.’
‘No no,’ I hold my hand up, ‘I didn’t bang my head or anything and my new friend said he’d drop me home.’
‘Did I?’ the lorry driver asks. ‘I did,’ he adds with a nod.
‘Just get your name then.’ The paramedic shows her long service by not bothering to talk me into it. This is central London and they don’t have time to piss about with idiots.
‘George Chambers.’ I use one of my old pseudonyms from my days spent undercover knowing that the false records created for George Chambers will still exist. I give them the date of birth matching the record and the address too. She scribbles it down, asks me again if I’m alright then they walk off. Like I said, this is central London and they don’t have time to fuck about.
‘Boroughfare Road, please mate.’ I grin at the lorry driver.
‘You’re fackin’ barkin’ you are.’ He shakes his head but walks towards the lorry. ‘Did you call the ambo?’
‘I did.’
‘What for?’
‘For you.’
‘I ain’t hurt,’ he scoffs.
‘You would have been.’ He stops to stare at me and again s
ees past the bearded weirdo to the man reflected from my eyes.
‘Fair one,’ he mutters, ‘jump in.’
Two
Turns out the lorry driver isn’t so bad after all, apart from being a fat cunt that drives in a part sulking part shit scared silence. We navigate the chocked roads heading southwest out of the city. I have no idea where Boroughfare Road is or how far away but the Garmin satnav stuck to the dust coated windscreen knows the way so I sit back and relax while Sean Pertwee’s dulcet tones guide us along the route.
‘Boroughfare Road.’ He pulls up gently and waits for me to get out.
‘You sound like a cabbie,’ I remark pleasantly while making no effort to get out. He nods back and out of pure malice I let the silence stretch while he nervously thumbs the steering wheel. ‘See you around then?’ I ask but he just stares ahead and doesn't reply. ‘Ah well, thanks for the lift mate.’ I open the door and drop down into the street and the engine is already gunning to go as I slam the door shut.
Alone again. A fleeting encounter with an angry lorry driver but it was a contact with another human being and for a few seconds I was in a situation I controlled. I could have just walked off, found a bus stop or gone for the Tube. Anything else, something else. But I didn’t, I went for the confrontation not caring if I won or lost. What does that make me? It makes me more of a cunt than the lorry driver.
I feel grimy and in no fit state to attend a job interview but I’m down to my last tenner so everything hinges on getting employment. My clothes are clean but old and worn, my jeans have those lighter bits showing the threadbare material and my t shirt, one of the only two I own, has now been washed so many times that it hangs limp and faded. I scratch my beard, feeling the thick bristles and denouncing myself for being a complete prick for not at least going home to have a shave and a shower.
God, what am I doing? And that was a rhetorical question before you strike me down with lightning bolts of disdain. Fuck you.
I head down the street while my mind turns to the matter in hand. The Carlisle Group. Who the fuck are they? I’ve never heard of them but then I’ve been out of the game for a while now.
