RECRUITED: A Mike Humber Novella (Demon Series Book One) (2 page)

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.

Assess the facts and make an informed decision. The Carlisle Group. Group means a collective, a number of individual parts and the call taker said there were different recruitment campaigns running for both police
and
military. Right, so The Carlisle Group are recruiting ex-soldier and the only reason anyone does that at the moment is for the private security contracts in the Middle East. Afghan and Iraq, they both need a constant supply of personnel trained to the standards of Western military to protect the diplomats, the politicians, the engineers, the politicians hookers and rent boys and fuck knows whoever else.

I would imagine they also provide ex-marine soldiers for the anti-piracy jobs on the cargo ships and oil tankers. Why police though?

I know some of the big conglomerate companies have fantastic internal investigation teams. The global oil companies, software manufacturers, pharmaceutical giants. They all have investigation response teams ready to deploy to negate the risk of any potential whistle blower.

But she asked if I had done any UC, or
yousee
as she put it. It’s a fairly well known terminology to use but that specific phrase is rarely used by anyone outside of the agencies. Covert intelligence gathering, covert surveillance, she could have used those phrases but she asked about
yousee.

So they have need for covert operations? Again that could be down to the highly paid bods in the big companies being watched so they don’t leak important corporate data. Fuck it, I guess I’ll find out in a minute.

The area is purpose built for private industry firms with sleek executive logos emblazoned on sleek executive boards surrounded by perfect landscapes of short grass, shrubs and bushes. One of them even has a pond with benches and picnic tables filled with tie wearing office types eating wholemeal sandwiches stuffed with organic fucking olives. Wankers. Yeah, save the planet while you jab your fat sausage fingers at your iPhones while wearing your designer office wear knocked together in some Chinese sweatshop full of malnourished children.

Carlisle House doesn't have a sleek executive logo on a sleek executive board. It has a brass plaque discreetly mounted to the side of the double glass doors. Understated and a message all on its own.
You are here because you should be here.
Interesting. Approaching the doors and I can see straight away they’re made from thick panes, same with the windows. Armoured glass? If not then it’s very close to it. A big guy wearing a conservative suit stands at ease inside the doors. A slight incline of his head tells me he is wearing a covert earpiece and that someone is talking to him. He about turns, watches me approach and only when I’m almost there does he punch a code into a panel to open the doors.

‘Mr Humber?’ A polite tone with an expectant gaze. He looks sharp and well suited to his role. Clearly a former soldier and probably from the Paras or Marines.

‘Hi,’ I nod back and step through. Someone told him I was coming and someone made the assumption that the beardy weirdo walking towards their building was said Mr Humber.

‘Please,’ he taps the panel to secure the doors, ‘go straight to reception.’

‘Cheers.’

Reception is like a mile away across the bloody great big lobby. No armchairs, no sofas. Nothing. Just a tiled expanse of floor that sweeps up to the desk beyond which a woman wearing a telephone headset sits. She smiles as I get closer and stands to greet me, ‘Mr Humber?’

‘I’m impressed.’ I smile back.

‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’ She smiles as though meeting me is the highlight of her day. ‘We really appreciate the prompt response.’

She said
we
. Not
the company,
not
I
but
we.
That’s either good training or an honest respect for the company who employs her.

‘We have to sign you in.’ She taps some buttons on a keyboard. The counter top under my elbows lights up. ‘The stylus is right there,’ she indicates the black pointy thing I assumed was a pen, ‘name, address, date of birth,’ a perfectly manicured finger points at the lines on the screen, ‘and then sign there please.’

Using the stylus I write the details and go to hand the pen back before remembering it isn’t a pen but a plastic pointy thing that’s attached to a cord that’s attached to the desk. Why do that? There’s a seven foot gorilla standing right in front of the armoured door.

‘Right.’ She smiles up at me after checking I managed to write my own name correctly. ‘That’s the first test passed.’ She gives me a sultry look with much fluttering of eyelashes. ‘I will take you through.’

I should ask where we’re going but I don’t care. I’m rendered speechless and turned into a dithering drooling idiot that dumbly follows the nice smiling woman. She leads me past the desk to a nondescript door. She swipes a card through the reader on the wall, then presses a series of buttons in the number pad before finally leaning ever so slightly forward to mutter quietly into an unseen intercom. She glances back with an apologetic smile as the door buzzes, clicks and swings inwards.

‘Mr Humber,’ the suited security guard standing on the inside greets me with the same proficiency as his comrade on the main door, ‘Please empty your pockets into the tray and step through the detector, thank you, Sir.’

He indicates a clear plastic tray and it takes me all of about two seconds to empty the meagre contents from my pockets. My last ten pound note, duty free tobacco, rolling papers and a lighter. He shows no reaction but motions to the door-frame sized metal detector which I step through. He still waves a wand over me and quickly pats down my legs with a high level of thorough skill. ‘Your belongings.’ He holds out the tray.

The receptionist beams at me like I just scored high on a Mensa test and indicates to follow her, which I do, seeing as she keeps smiling so nicely.

A wide staircase leads up and I step quickly to gain her side rather then walk behind and be at risk of staring at her backside. She seems to acknowledge the gesture with another smile but this one looks genuine, not that the others didn’t look genuine, but this one just looked more genuine. Fuck it. She smiled nicely.

At the top we head down another corridor before she stops and opens a door to the side. ‘Take a seat,’ she says brightly. ‘Now, forgive me if I’m wrong,’ she says as the door closes behind her, ‘but you look like a coffee drinker, yes…’ she adopts a pseudo look of examination, ‘strong, with milk…and one sugar?’

‘Well done,’ I grin. Truth be told I would have said the same thing if she offered me a bucket of piss to drink.

‘I’ll be right back, make yourself comfortable.’ She exits the room through an internal door as the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I’m being watched. I can feel it. This place has better security than the bloody counter terrorism unit headquarters, but then that is guarded by men with guns so I guess they don’t need all the electronic shit. Armoured glass. Highly trained elite soldiers young enough to have only just left the service. And I’m being watched.

Those thoughts frolic through my mind within a split second as I cast a casual glance round at my surroundings. Leather armchairs adorn the room with a nice dark wood coffee table in the centre. Magazines of general interest and the daily broadsheet newspapers stacked neatly. A basket of fruit and a plate full of individually wrapped mini chocolate chip brioche rolls. My mouth waters at the sight as I haven’t eaten today but pure stubbornness kicks in. I’m craving a smoke too but I can’t imagine they’ll take too kindly to me lighting up in here.

No artwork on the walls. No crappy posters either. Plain walls but with a large LCD clock fixed to the middle of the wall opposite me. That’s where the camera is. Wide angled and no doubt with audio so I offer a wry smile and wave to whoever is watching me.

‘Here we are,’ she beams again as she bustles back into the room holding two big mugs, ‘your coffee.’ She holds one out and takes a seat next to me while gripping her own mug with both hands. ‘Do say if you don’t like it.’ She gives me a look of such earnest intent that I would happily chew a finger off if it meant pleasing her.

‘Smells nice.’ I can’t believe I just said that.
Smells nice?
What a dick. Who the fuck smells coffee these days? Like some fucking cheesy Nescafe advert.

‘I love the smell of coffee,’ she imparts quietly and thereby saving me from a whole new level of self-hatred.

‘On a break?’ I ask politely.

‘Keeping you company.’ She laughs lightly. ‘It would be rude to leave you alone.’

‘Oh I don’t know,’ I reply with a first sip at the coffee. ‘I’ve got the camera watching me…did you see me wave?’ Fuck me this coffee is delicious.

‘Yes,’ she laughs again, ‘I saw you wave and smile. Well done, by the way, only a few realise they’re being monitored.’

‘Do I get a prize?’

‘You do.’ She flutters those eyelashes again. ‘I made you an extra special coffee.’ The way she says it with just the slightest of over accentuation of her lips as they shape the words has me shifting with slight discomfort. ‘So,’ she says without taking her eyes off me, ‘you’re Mike Humber.’

Bollocks. I hate this bit. ‘Afraid so,’ I mutter and take another sip. This is when she either tells me what a hero I was for beating that creep up or what a fool for letting such a dangerous man walk free. But she doesn't. She doesn't say anything until the silence feels oppressive even to me and I’m the king of using oppressive silences. I refuse to take the bait and sip my coffee without uttering a word.

‘Stubborn,’ she remarks, ‘with an awareness of social manipulation.’

‘Eh?’ I glance over in surprise, ‘you trying to socially manipulate me then?’

‘Of course.’ She grins coyly.

‘And there was me thinking you liked my company.’

‘Of course,’ she repeats this time with a trace of humour.

‘I wasn’t going to fill it.’

‘Fill what, Mr Humber?’

‘Mike. I wasn’t going to fill the silence.’

‘I know you weren’t. So,’ she lets the words hang for a second, ‘is this the point where people pass judgement on what you did? They either tell you what a hero you were or perhaps they offer some disdain for the consequences of your actions.’

‘It is and they do.’

‘Well,’ she says with sincerity ‘then I shall do neither of those things.’

‘Thank you.’ I glance over with genuine sincerity and for a second the bantering mask slips and I see the real woman staring at me. ‘It gets…’

‘What?’

‘Nothing, nice coffee.’

‘It gets what?’

‘Tiresome,’ I mumble, ‘it gets tiresome.’

‘They were your actions, Mr Humber…sorry, Mike. They were your actions and…’

‘Every actions has an equal reaction,’ I finish the sentence off. ‘It does, and yes…my actions had a reaction and a consequence which I accept and take responsibility for. However, it doesn't mean that it sits lightly.’

‘But you did it though,’ she persists in such a politely flirtatious way it knocks me off guard.

‘Yes, yes I did it,’ I shrug at her and take another sip.