by Zoe Sharp
“You didn’t read the small print when you signed up for this, did you?” Todd asked. He raised his voice, speaking to the group of us. “We need hundred per cent effort from you lot. Anyone who isn’t prepared to put the graft in and you’re straight out.” He waved an arm towards the edge of the gravel, where it faded out into the gloom in the direction of the forest track we’d come in on.
He turned back to Jan. “It’s a long walk out of here, but you can use the time to reflect on what a failure you are. On how you haven’t got the guts and the dedication to make it.” He shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. So, what’s it to be – twenty press-ups, or the next flight back home?”
They continued to stare each other out for a moment longer, then Jan dropped slowly and reluctantly to the frozen gravel.
Todd watched her complete the first three, then turned away. How many press-ups she actually managed to achieve was immaterial, I realised, it was the capitulation he’d been after.
Oh God, one of those . . .
I’d come across enough of Todd’s type – the control freaks and the macho bullshitters. First in the army, and then in the brief period I’d spent working the doors in a local nightclub. I’d found out early that I didn’t like playing the game their way. Sean had warned me to keep a low profile, but if this was their attitude, it wasn’t going to be easy. Perhaps it was a good job there was someone as bolshie as Jan to do the answering back.
“OK people, listen up,” Todd shouted. “We’re going to start out nice and easy with a straightforward little jog . . .”
His idea of a little jog, we quickly discovered, involved several klicks of rough forest tracks, at a pace he must have known hardly any of us could hope to sustain. The ground was frosted hard enough to concuss your joints with every stride. If it had been wet, the mud would have been impassable.
As it was, within the first kilometre we became widely strung out. I was thankful that I’d spent most of the previous year working at the gym, and so was fit enough to keep up with the middle of the field, at least. I didn’t have to put the brakes on in order to stick to the inconspicuous position Sean had recommended.
Two of the other instructors played sheepdog. Todd showed off his superior stamina by roaming up and down the line, goading us on. Sometimes he fell back almost to the rear and sometimes he’d sprint past to harangue those at the front.
I was surprised to see Blakemore lead off at the head of the group, despite the comments of the big German the night before. Blakemore was quick enough but he moved with a slight awkwardness, compensating for his damaged knee.
Bringing up the rear was the Belfast man, whose name I’d learned was O’Neill. I remembered his unguarded gesture last night at supper and wondered how he’d come by the hurt he was so obviously trying to mask. It surprised me that these two were the ones out running with us. If the Major didn’t even allow for injury time among his instructors, how was he going to treat the rest of us?
Without breakfast, my body had just about used up its available reserves after around five klicks. My thigh muscles were blocky and buzzing and I could feel my pace weakening with every stride. The cold air was murderous as I sucked it down into my lungs, burning my chest from the inside out.
When the man in front of me started to slow, I couldn’t have been more grateful at that point. More and more of us fell back to a walk, then tottered to a stop. I bent over, hands braced on my knees, and tried to drag air into my system through tubes that suddenly seemed totally inadequate for the job.
“What the fuck’s going on?” Todd demanded as he came pounding up from giving them hell at the back. He didn’t seem to be out of breath and was barely sweating. “Have you pathetic lot given up already?”
For a moment there was a silence that was almost fearful, then someone dragged up the courage to speak. “We’re not sure of the path, sir,” he said.
“What?” Todd roared. “Who’s that? Where’s Blakemore?”
“Erm, I’m McKenna, sir,” the same man supplied. “Mr Blakemore, he, erm, just sort of dropped back.” He spoke hesitantly, in case he was blamed for the bad news. “I think his knee might have been giving him some trouble.”
Todd swore under his breath. “Come on then,” he said sharply, and led off at a furious pace. I dragged in a final lungful of stationary air and forced my quivering limbs back into a jog. It was worse starting up again than if I’d kept running.
When we got back to the Manor, Todd and O’Neill had us doing ten minutes of star jumps and sit-ups just off the gravel, on the icy grass. We were doing full army sit-ups, which I never recommended to anyone when I was working at the gym. I didn’t think it was a point worth mentioning to these two.
It was only then that Blakemore reappeared. As he came past me I noticed he was moving the same as he had been when he set out, with no apparent increase in his limp.
O’Neill must have seen that, too, because he broke off shouting vicious encouragement and grabbed Blakemore’s arm, spinning him to a standstill. “Where the fuck have you been?” he said, keeping his voice low. “Todd’s been doing his fruit.”
“Don’t panic,” Blakemore said calmly. His mouth twisted into a derisive smile. “He’s just mad ‘cos he didn’t think of it himself. “
O’Neill skimmed his eyes over the nearest of us to see if anyone was obviously listening in. I forced a bit more effort into my latest sit-up. “You know what the old man said about us sticking together,” he went on, speaking quietly through clenched teeth. “He’s going to go ballistic if he finds out you’ve been off on your own.”
“So don’t tell him,” Blakemore said, careless now.
“Yeah, and if anyone else finds out, that makes us both look bad, doesn’t it?” O’Neill muttered.
Blakemore shrugged his arm away. “Well,” he said coldly, “I’m not the one with secrets. How about you?”
Four
After we’d showered and grabbed breakfast, they hustled us straight into the classroom. Gilby conducted the first lesson himself. He announced it, in the manner of someone expecting a round of applause, as an introduction to the art and science that was modern close protection work, and a debunking of the myths. Basically, it was an extended version of his welcome speech from the night before.
He was only mildly condescending towards the women in the industry, even admitting that they might have their areas of particular suitability. I smiled sweetly when he caught my eye, and tried not to show how much I was grinding my teeth. But, almost to my surprise, the more he spoke the more interested in the subject I became.
Annoyance and curiosity were useful emotions. They kept me awake. After the cold and the exertion of the morning, the stuffy heat of the classroom began to have its effect. Some of the students were visibly struggling not to fall asleep.
At one point McKenna nodded so hard that he nearly fell off his chair. He only got away with it by turning the movement into a violent coughing fit. He was a skinny youngster with a pale complexion that seemed to go pink at the slightest provocation. By the time he’d finished he was flushed from his prominent Adam’s apple right up into the roots of his hair.
Gilby paused and momentarily closed his eyes during McKenna’s performance. The show of mild irritation was natural enough, but that wasn’t what bothered me. It was the sudden utter immobility that came over him.
The way he did it made my skin tighten.
I’d come across men before who had that same innate stillness and it always put the fear of God into me. Gilby may have carried off a civilised gloss, but underneath was something dark, that coiled and slithered. And just for a moment his flash of temper had let it show. I’d thought him another out-of-touch officer, a borderline upper-class twit, but I’d been wrong.
I glanced sideways at the others, but the majority of them hadn’t noticed the change that had come over him. The ex-policewoman, Elsa was one of the few that had, I saw. Declan was just looking bored.
“The days of mus
cle-bound heavies in dark glasses are over,” Gilby continued, as though nothing had happened. “There will always be occasions when you’re called upon to provide a visible deterrent, but most of the time you’ll need to blend in with the rich, the famous, and the powerful.” He cast a critical eye over the disparate bunch of us as we wilted in our chairs. “I imagine for some of you that’s going to take quite some learning.”
He checked his watch, nodded sharply, then swept up his papers and walked out with his back ram-rod straight.
“I wonder how well your man there blends into a crowd,” Declan muttered as we gathered our notebooks. “You’d spot him for army brass even if he was wearing a dress.”
***
We went straight from there into a class for unarmed combat with Blakemore. The instructor must have been using an ice pack on his knee since the morning’s run, because when he sauntered into the room designated as the gym there was no sign of the limp.
After spending more than four years teaching self-defence classes for women, it was interesting to be on the receiving end. Blakemore was showy, I considered, but with the underlying grace that denotes an expert. The coarse construction of his face, the heavy layout of his features, could have fooled you into thinking he was little more than a thug. I hadn’t been expecting such finesse or delicacy of technique, but it would seem my first impression of him had been the right one.
Now, he demonstrated half a dozen moves for restraint and removal of someone who might be approaching your principal in a threatening manner.
I was surprised to see that he was using O’Neill as his guinea pig. The Irishman was clearly unhappy to be put into repeated arm- and head-locks, and then dropped onto the crashmats under foot. A couple of times I caught him passing a hand over his ribs as he got to his feet. The looks he levelled towards the impassive Blakemore should have been enough to make him shiver.
Blakemore, however, absorbed each barbed glance without reaction. When he was done he picked up a pair of big sparring pads and tossed one across to the other man hard enough to almost make him stagger. What the hell’s going on here?
“OK,” he said, turning to the rest of us, “that’s the kind of thing we’re going to be showing you over the period of the course. To begin with, though, I want to find out what kind of a punch you can pack. Form two lines and let’s see what you can do.”
I watched the big blond German I’d sat next to the night before line up in front of Blakemore. He had a bodybuilder’s stance, with his arms pushed out away from his sides slightly by the sheer over-development of his upper arms and lats.
I’d learned that the German’s name was Michael Hofmann and he was ex-army, from an elite regiment that was the German equivalent of the Paras. No great surprises there, then.
Now, he squared up to Blakemore, who was holding the pad up across his chest and stomach with his arms tensed through the straps on the back. He was leaning hard into it, feet braced wide apart. Everybody stopped and watched as the big man moved forwards to take his first swing.
Hofmann smiled very slightly, and hit Blakemore with an explosive uppercut that compressed the thick foam pad almost to its fullest extent. It was a testament to the instructor’s upper body strength that he didn’t so much as shift his feet under the onslaught. Even though he rocked back from the force of the blow and let out a grunt of effort.
Hofmann looked vaguely disappointed, a frown creasing his brow as if he couldn’t compute why the other man was still standing. When someone the size of Hofmann hits you, you generally fall over and stay down.
By comparison, Shirley – who was next – barely made a dent in the pad. Blakemore grinned at her.
I turned my attention to the row I was in. Ahead of me, McKenna flailed wildly at the pad O’Neill was holding, to greater noise than effect. When he’d exhausted himself it was Jan’s turn.
She stepped forwards and I noticed O’Neill’s attention was elsewhere, that he was more interested in what was happening to Blakemore. I don’t know if Jan saw this, but she hit the pad low and right, at a point that corresponded almost exactly to the area I’d seen O’Neill favouring when Blakemore had been playing with him. She was only slightly built, but somewhere along the line she’d learned how to punch, keeping her wrist locked straight, putting most of her body weight behind it.
O’Neill wasn’t prepared for the force of the hit. It rocked him. He had to take a step back to counteract it, to regain his balance. I saw the surprise and anger in his face.
As she walked to the back of the line Blakemore called across, “Hey – Jan, isn’t it?”
She paused, turned.
A smile spread across his face as his eyes flicked to his fellow instructor. “Nice punch,” he said.
Jan nodded briefly and as she turned away she was smiling, too. She knew, I realised, that O’Neill was injured and yet she’d deliberately set out to hurt him. What does that say about you? I wondered. What makes you tick that way?
I was still mulling that one over when it was my shot. O’Neill eyed me warily, but I made sure I produced a suitably lacklustre blow.
He treated Jan’s second turn with caution, too. This time she throttled back so that he nearly over-compensated for her unexpectedly feeble fist. That didn’t serve to endear her any more than the harder blow he’d clearly been expecting.
It was only as we finished up the class, when O’Neill handed his pad back to Blakemore, that he touched a hand to his side. He pulled a face as he moved his fingers gently, like he was testing a tender area of skin.
“You all right?” Blakemore asked him, although there was no concern in his voice.
O’Neill let his hand drop away. “I’m fine,” he said shortly. “Just fine. Leave it.”
With a brooding stare, Blakemore watched him walk out of the gym and vanish in the direction of the instructors’ quarters.
As the rest of us milled out into the main hallway Major Gilby put in an appearance. He informed us, to varying shades of dismay, that we’d each have to present a short talk to the rest of the class that afternoon.
“And what would that be about?” Declan asked.
“I would suggest that it has some relevance to the course you’re on,” Gilby clipped, with a fraction of a smile. “Some modern or historical event that illustrates close protection in one form or another. I want to see your take on the job. There have been plenty of assassinations or attempted assassinations to choose from. Look at all the political hits that have taken place over the past fifty years – Sadat, the Kennedys, Earl Mountbatten.”
He dropped the last name in with a flickered glance at Declan, as though the Irishman had been personally responsible for the terrorist bomb attack that had killed the Queen’s distant cousin. Did he needle O’Neill like that, too? “I’m sure I can rely on you all to come up with something different.”
Declan was too laid back to rise to the Major’s little dig. “And just where are we supposed to find out all the gory details at this kind of notice?” he said instead.
Gilby smiled at him, more fully this time. “There’s plenty of information in the library,” he said. “You’ll have an hour after lunch to do your research.”
Then, with his usual curt nod, he turned and disappeared again.
***
We had ten minutes to kill before lunch. Some of the students headed straight for the library, but I needed some fresh air. I grabbed my jacket and slipped out through the main doorway, trying not to shiver at the cloak of cold that instantly wrapped itself around me.
It was just before noon and in theory the sun was at its height. In reality it was practising low-level flying techniques, barely skimming over the tops of the trees to the south of me.
I stuck my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket and hunched down into the collar, trying to make a windproof seal. It didn’t work particularly well.
There was a selection of cars on the forecourt, most of which apparently belonged to the instructor
s. There was one motorbike among them, a black Honda CBR900RR, a FireBlade, and I felt myself irresistibly drawn over to have a closer look.
The bike was a nearly new model, with less than four thousand kilometres on the clock. I didn’t know who owned it, but whoever it was they certainly rode it with more guts than I would have done.
The back tyre was worn right to the edges on both sides and the hero pegs on the ends of the footrests were roughed up. You don’t get them like that unless you’ve been scratching them on the road surface round every available corner.
With a regretful thought to my RGV sitting abandoned in my father’s garage, I straightened up and strolled across the gravel towards the corner of the house. I had no particular aim or destination in mind, and I took the opportunity to get a feel for my surroundings in daylight for the first time.
Now I could see it properly Einsbaden Manor was a magnificent old place, imposing and severe, in grey stone that hadn’t weathered enough to lose the detail of the original carvings. Two large flat-roofed wings extended outwards from a semicircular central tower, with three rows of evenly spaced windows laid out with almost military precision.