"Well, not quite sacked," Arthur said, looking away, feeling close to tears. He turned back, shaking his head a little. "Just stood down, indefinitely, I think. There's some security concern, it seems." He had never confided anything to anyone before and now he was. He chuckled to himself.
"I suppose you've been there a long time, wherever it is ..."
"Allied Insurance Limited."
"And they can't afford to sack you?"
"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," he said. "I am British, you know. And you're not. You're Australian. You're expendable."
"I'm a New Zealander but that's okay."
"Oh, dear, I'm sorry," said Arthur, embarrassed.
"No problem, mate. It's just an error, not a sin," said Greg, smiling broadly. "I'm expendable?"
"You're a foreigner and expendable," he said, looking him in the eye for the first time. "We tend to look after our own."
"Right."
"And who do you ... did you work for, Greg?"
"Empire Aid Bank."
"EAB?" Arthur asked as his eyes nearly flew out of their sockets. "Oh gosh!"
"Oh gosh what? You know something, Arthur?" Greg asked, looking awkward.
"Long story, young man, but there's a connection with a case I've just been working on. You have any dealings with the Egyptians?"
"Nearly did," said Greg, laughing. "Seems like my contacting them could have started World War III. Well, seems to be the reason I'm here, smashing Suzie's café about and not over there teaching Africans about finance." The waitress turned up with their two coffees and seemed to be very familiar with Greg.
"Is it safe to approach now, sir?" asked a young man, suddenly appearing at our table.
"It'll be safe if you stop that stupid sir thing," said Greg, slapping the young man's arm and bumping Arthur's coffee again. Then Arthur looked around to see three policemen at their table. He was shocked to think they'd crept upon him, unawares, and also because he was already in enough trouble with authorities. They started asking Greg pointed questions and Arthur waited a moment and quietly slipped out, wondering how 007 would have handled it. Arthur was sure Mr Bond would not have been shaking as much as he was at that moment.
Accidental Hero
Monday, 5th March 2012, 11.34 a.m.
As he stepped from the café and crossed the street, he had the sensation that his feet weren't touching the ground. He kept his head down, like a child, thinking that if he couldn't see anyone, the authorities could not see him.
"Hello Sir, it's nice to get outside for a while, isn't it?" wafted a vaguely familiar Australian accent. He turned and recognised the new receptionist.
"Yes, yes, it is, young lady, very nice," he said, smiling. "Now please excuse me for asking, but can you tell me - are you from Australia?"
"Very close, Sir, I'm from New Zealand," she said brightly.
"Ah, my apologies."
"No problem, Sir. And the Australians would be flattered," she said, chuckling at her joke.
He knew it was a joke but didn't understand. "Yes, yes ..." he said, finding her enthusiasm infectious. She was slightly shorter than him - probably about five foot four inches - with light brown hair and a fringe, making her look pixie-like. She seemed to have more energy than all the plodders and striders about him, put together.
"Anyway, my name's Halee," she said, offering her hand. "Busy place, this London town, isn't it?"
"Yes, I suppose it is," he said, shaking her hand uncertainly. "Oh, ah, my name's Arthur."
"Yes, I know, Sir, though I have to call you Sir - it's the rules here, apparently."
"Mmm, lots of new rules, I dare say," he said, finding this simple conversation in the street quite exhilarating and remarkably easy.
"So where are you off to Sir - some secret mission?" she asked, chuckling again.
"Oh, no, actually I'm just ... aah, on my way home," he said, feeling a huge burden falling from his shoulders from the disclosure.
"Oh hell, are you okay?" she said, looking concerned.
"Yes, I expect so," he said, "I'm not altogether sure, actually. It's all been a bit sudden."
"You look like ... can I call you Arthur?"
"Ah, yes, of course."
"You look like you need a big hug, Arthur," she said, throwing her arms around him. Her sudden embrace stunned him, though it felt quite reassuring as his eyes misted over and he wondered when he was last hugged.
"Look Sir, you seem shaken," she said, standing back and looking in his eyes. "Do you want to go over there and have a coffee?"
"Actually, I've just had one, thanks," he said, disappointed the hug was over, despite it feeling uneasy in a busy street.
"Well, I meant, do you want to talk about it?" she asked. He could feel her warm breath on his face and realised she was still holding his limp arms.
"That's very kind, Halee, very kind indeed," he said, feeling the tears welling up in his eyes and an odd sense of closeness with someone he had never really met before, someone from the other side of the world, someone who listened. "However, I really should go," he said, feeling conflicted between the warm feeling of a caring human and the awkwardness of hugging and talking to a young lady.
"Okay Arthur, if you're sure, I won't intrude," she said, looking at him with concern. "But you know where I live, so to speak, so you just tell me if you want to bend my taringa."
"Your what?"
"My taringa, ears - if you want to talk. It's a great medicine," she said, letting his arms go. "And remember, this too shall pass." She turned and walked off, her bright red top and iridescent blue skirt contrasting sharply with the black masses she disappeared into. He tried to remember where he had been going then turned about and headed for the underground station with a warm glow and a melancholy heart. As he turned into the all-too-familiar station, the customary dread returned, the tears stopped, his jaw tightened and his eyes became those of everyone else here - looking through and not at anything in particular.
On the way home he saw empty seats and realised it was the first time he had ever sat in the train at midday - very different without the rush-hour crowds. Outside East Croydon station, he realised he needed time to prepare himself before meeting his wife with the news. He turned away from home, crossed the dual carriageway, turned left over Lord Atkinson Street and headed for the park he'd seen so many times in passing on his way to the library, of a weekend.
He walked down the steps to the sunken garden. As he sat on the park bench he noticed the three other people in the park - an older chap reading his newspaper with his dog beside him and a young woman with her little girl, both eating ice creams. His bench was some distance from the others and he felt comfort in his aloneness, as well as a vague sense of shared ownership of this soothing green paradise. He looked around at the mown lawns, interspersed with gardens and trees, with ivy growing up the walls to the road, interrupted only by the steps down which he had come and, at the other end, a tiled tunnel that, presumably, went under the road to some other part of town.
He sat and smiled as tears threatened to well up and burst out again. The mask of commuter isolation began to melt away and he looked at the three other people. Really looked. They all smiled back, one by one, and the warm glow and melancholy returned together.
He looked up and realised, with mild surprise, that England does, indeed, have blue skies, at times. As his mind soared up into the open blue skies, delighting in the freedom and simplicity, the beautiful nothingness, he realised what a busy place it was up there. There was never a moment when there wasn't a plane marking the blue blackboard with its white, chalk-line vapour trail. He supposed he had heard them before but never actually listened or looked. Quite obvious, really, considering he was sitting somewhere between Heathrow and Gatwick airports! He had spent his life beneath the flying humans and, as he tried to calculate how many used the skies each year, he wondered where they all might be going. And then there was Gatwick, Stansted and hundreds - maybe thousa
nds - of other airports around the world and there could be millions in the air on any day, all going somewhere. So many people, so many places to go and, with a jolt, he saw his own life as a complete nothingness, a grey unmoving speck amid the colourful movement all about him. He'd done nothing but go to work every day, tend his small garden, read books of others' adventures and watch others' dramas on television. Where were his adventures, his dramas, his life?
He couldn't stop the tears as they began to ease out and he knew he couldn't hide them. And nor did he care. He sat, allowing the disappointment and bitterness leak from his soul, the sobs of pain to shake his body. Just a useless little man in a useless little job in a stupid useless world. He was powerless to live a bigger life, he was powerless to make a visible and lasting contribution and he was powerless to stop his body reacting to it all. For once, he didn't care what anyone else thought.
"Chloe! Chloe! Come back!" yelled the mother from across the park, jolting him back. He looked over to see the little girl - in her blue boiler suit and with blond curls bobbing - trotting over to him with her half-eaten ice cream extended in front of her.
"Are you sad?" she asked, standing in front of him, her large blue eyes full of concern.
"Yes I am," he said, trying to smile as he leaned forward, wiping his eyes.
"Would you like my ice cream, make you feel better?"
"Th ... thank you so much, dear," he said, as the tears stopped.
"Here," she said, with her dribbling ice cream nearly in his face.
"Oh, no, that's very kind but you have it all," he said, gingerly sitting back a little. "I'll feel fine by and by."
"But you're sad, Mister."
"Yes I am, Sweetie, but you finish it. It looks yummy."
"Chloe, dear, don't bother the man," said the mother. Arthur was unaware that she had walked over to them and had her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "I'm really sorry, Sir."
"That's no trouble, Madam, she's a very kind little girl," he said.
Suddenly he heard the sound of footsteps in the tunnel to his left - many, loud footsteps - coming his way. As he started to register and analyse these sounds, a thin, dark, wild-haired man rushed out of the tunnel towards them, looking back frequently, fearfully. Arthur had no idea how he did it but, in the moment, the instinctive and protective father within him reached out and scooped the two females off the path and, a little untidily, onto the bench beside him, just as the runner, looking back yet again, dashed towards them unsteadily.
No sooner had he reacted to this, than he saw a second runner, dark skinned, short curly hair, tattooed and solid, come racing toward the first man. The front-runner faltered, unsure what to do as the large brick wall loomed before him, quite unaware he was about to run into Arthur and his two charges. He looked back, momentarily, saw the three on the park bench and went to swerve away, had Arthur's instincts not cut in again. Someone - it certainly wasn't his own conscious thoughts - shot his foot out and tripped the man, sending him sprawling. The larger runner behind took immediate advantage and tossed himself headlong through the air, crashing on top of the smaller one.
"Oomph," came from both of them. The smaller one lay still, perhaps unconscious, while the larger one on top rose to his knees and started rifling through the other's pockets with reckless disregard for the apparently lifeless form he was frisking. He quickly found what he was looking for after tearing the man's denim jacket open, popping a brass button off and yanking out two small plastic bags with what looked like, to Arthur, washing powder, inside. The black man leapt up and went to make off with his prize when he stopped. He turned to Arthur, panting, with a huge smile. Arthur's fearless instincts vanished and he was back in very conscious fear. He drew the stunned mother and girl closer for protection.
"Cher bro', you're the man!" said the muscular, tattooed man in an accent Arthur hadn't heard before. The man extended his hand and instinct shot Arthur's hand out, to be engulfed in a brown paw that shook his vigorously. "That was choice, bro'. Kia ora Matua!"
The man turned and - whether it was some trick of the light or a malfunction in Arthur's brain - just disappeared ... just, well, wasn't there. Still staring into the space where the brown man had been, he realised more, many more, footsteps were racing up the tunnel towards them. As the panic gripped him again, he leapt up, stumbled and fell over the still-prone man who was beginning to moan and move. Arthur looked back from ground level, fearing the worst and saw several police rushing towards him.
Uncertain about what to do, he rolled off the man and lay there, as before, staring at the sky with body and mind in neutral.
"Grab that man!" yelled one of the police and Arthur winced in anticipation of being grabbed. Nothing happened and then he saw two policemen pounce on the now-reviving body beside him.
"Oomph!" the man said again as two policemen pinned him down. Arthur heard a definite crack and a yell.
Still unable to move or think, a face suddenly loomed into his, a blue peaked hat slightly askew.
"Are you okay, Sir?" asked a still-panting but kind voice.
"Uh, yes, I think so," said Arthur, suddenly wondering where his glasses were. Hands grasped his and he was gently hauled up to a sitting position.
"Are these yours, Sir?" asked the same kind voice as his glasses came into view.
"Uh, yes, I think so," said Arthur, again. He put his glasses on and the wider world came into view again. He looked around a little giddily and saw that the previously-prone man had been handcuffed, rolled over and eased into a sitting position.
"You weazley little bastard!" said the handcuffed man, less than an arm's length away. Arthur's panic returned and he tried to leap up, failing miserably as he wobbled and fell like a newborn foal.
"That's enough of that!" yelled the previously-kind voice, now in authoritative tone. "Hold him right there, Constable, till we get these people safely away."
"Yes, Sergeant," answered the constable who pushed rather vigorously down on the wretched man's shoulders, pinning him back to the ground while the other two police stood menacingly by.
"Now, Sir, let's see if you're okay to stand," said the sergeant. "Take it easy, Sir. You're a hero but a very shaky one!" he said.
Arthur managed a weak smile.
"Are you okay to stand, Sir?" asked the sergeant.
"Uh, yes, I think so," said Arthur. The sergeant's comforting arms were under his shoulders, easing him up. He stood, still in the security of those uniformed arms and realised the mother and girl were still on the park bench, both rigid.
"Come over and sit down here," said the sergeant, easing him back to his former seat. As he plumped down, a little giddiness returned and he nearly fell forward and off. "Oops, just sit back a little, Sir," said the sergeant.
"Uh, yes, I think so," said Arthur, yet again.
The sergeant moved over to the mother and girl, where the female constable was tending them. "Now, how are you two, okay?"
"Alright, I think," said the mother, arm around her daughter while wiping ice cream from her face.
"Right, just stay here for a minute, please, while we take this man away to be processed." He said, indicating the dark, hand-cuffed man who was being marched off, with a definite limp.
"You've got quite a hero here, haven't you?" said the sergeant, looking over at Arthur. "Saved you from a trampling and then tackles a thief." It took Arthur a moment to realise he was the subject of this praise.
He looked over at the young woman and her child. They both looked like dolls - stunned dolls - with blonde hair, pale skin and pale blue eyes. The female constable was crouched in front of them, getting details and reassuring them they were safe. The woman looked over at Arthur and smiled a grateful smile. Embarrassment caught at his throat and he had no words but nodded and smiled back. He felt he should offer support or something but his body was in no mood for action. He looked away and wondered what a normal man would do.
"Now, if you're feeling better, we'd
like you to come to the station," said the sergeant.
"Pardon?" said Arthur, not quite comprehending the request.
"Just to get a statement from you," said the sergeant, "if you're okay to come with us now ..."
"Look, I'm very sorry, Sir, but I've had rather a bad day," pleaded Arthur. "Could I do this another day? It's all been a bit much, really."
"I understand, Sir, this incident has shaken you badly," said the sergeant, "but we do need to know what happened."
"This incident, I'm afraid, was nothing at all," said Arthur, trying to explain. "It was this morning that was unsettling, quite unsettling."
"Excuse me, Sir, perhaps you'd like me to look after this man while you take these ladies to the station and see to the prisoner," came a female voice behind the sergeant.
"Oh, well, if you're sure, I'd be much obliged, constable," said the sergeant leading the woman and her little girl away. The constable sat down next to him.
"You said you'd had a bad morning," she said, "Do you want to tell me about it?"
"Ah, um, yes, I suppose I could, thank you," said Arthur, wondering where to begin and why she might be interested.
"I'm Constable Broughton - Amanda Broughton," she said. "Call me Amanda if you like."
"Ah, yes, Amanda. Hmm, I'm Arthur Bayly - that little I do know!" said Arthur, his confidence growing.
"Well, you haven't lost your sense of humour yet. That's a good start," said the constable, smiling at him. "And your morning was pretty bad, was it?"
"Yes it was, my dear ... Amanda," said Arthur. "I've been working for the firm for thirty years - all my life - and, today, I've been, well, sent home for security reasons I don't quite understand."
"Oh!" said Amanda.
"Yes, oh is about all I can think of at the moment," said Arthur, smiling sheepishly.
"And this security situation - do you need protection of some sort?" said Amanda.
"I'm really not sure," said Arthur, not wanting to face the question that had been stalking him since his wee chat with Mr Lord.
"Okay," said Amanda, becoming more animated, "I know you're probably in shock but I suspect you need to ask your employer what the problem actually is."
The Last Stand Down Page 3