I was of average height - around five-eight, average build - ten stone-six, with sandy hair, just hinting at an auburn sub-plot, physically very fit and of a slim, lithe build. I'd never had problems making friends, but had never had either the opportunity or inclination to form a lasting relationship with a girl, or anyone else for that matter. I'd had several girlfriends and wasn't a virgin, but had been so focussed on my career, so I'd sort of sidelined any attempt to form a relationship. Actually, now at the advanced age of twenty-nine, it occurred to me that perhaps my personal tragedies had something to do with my inability to relate to people on a close and intimate level.
Cautiously, I looked up and down the street. A few bored reporters were huddled under umbrellas by their cars, a couple of the photographers taking snaps, just in case.
"If you must. It's a bit of a tip, I have to warn you."
I led the way into the living room, making an attempt to tidy up as I went by picking stuff up and finding a temporary home for them in the nearest drawer or cupboard.
"Can I get you a coffee or something?"
"No thanks," she said, but meaning, 'I wouldn't take anything from you in case I caught something.'
"Okay, then who's your employer?" I asked.
"I'm not at liberty to say, but if you were to meet, you'll find out, won't you?"
I shrugged. "Look, I'm not meeting anyone unless I know who they are and what they want me for. I'm not a fool, I've been shafted before."
She glanced round the flat, her expression impassive. She was certainly a cool one, this elegant young woman. It was a nice flat and, when kept clean, was tasteful and worth a few bob. It also cost me nearly five hundred a month in mortgage repayments.
"No, Mr Carlisle, I never said you are, but we are prepared to offer you five hundred thousand pounds for a few weeks of your time."
"Oh yes, and what must I do for such an outrageous sum, murder someone?"
"That, you'll have to ask my employer. I'm only the messenger. I can tell you that it is unlikely that you would have to kill anyone."
"Have to? Does that mean I can if I want to?
She just looked at me.
"May I know your name?" I asked.
She paused, as if to decide whether to trust me with such a valuable piece of information.
"Sarah."
"Well, Sarah, thanks at least for that modicum of humanity. You see, of late I've been screwed by those who are supposed to be my friends, and so I'm not really in the right frame of mind to play silly buggers with all this secret squirrel activity. I trust powerful people about as much as I'd trust Adolf Hitler at a Bar Mitzvah, whether they claim to be government or otherwise. If your boss wants to talk to me, then why can't he come and do just that? Why the mystery?"
"My employer is not in Britain at this time, and the activity is necessary to prevent certain factions taking advantage of the situation."
"Like who?"
"I can't say."
"What can you say?"
"Your savings will run dry in about six weeks, at which point you'll be forced to sell this flat, which, in the current economic climate, is in danger of being in a negative equity situation, so you have to get a job soon. With your history, most employers will consider you a hero but a bad risk. I can't see you stacking shelves in a supermarket, which wouldn't pay you enough to pay the mortgage and your bills. Is that enough, Mr Carlisle?"
There wasn't much I could say, so I swallowed my pride.
"When?"
She opened her Gucci handbag and passed me a small envelope.
"Your ticket and some expenses are enclosed. I'm to take you to the airport."
I opened the envelope. There was First Class airline ticket to New York on a BA flight leaving in three hours. There were also ten thousand US dollars
"Do I have time to shower and pack?"
Sarah said very little during our journey to Heathrow. I rubbed my chin. I'd not shaved for three days, so the poor old razor had had to work hard, and I'd cut myself twice. I still had small pieces of toilet paper on them, so they wouldn't stain my last remaining clean shirt. I wore my only suit, feeling uncomfortable, as I did in anything other than uniform.
She drove the Audi fast and well, seemingly ignoring all speed cameras. As a result, we pulled up to the Terminal in good time. I carefully removed the toilet paper from my face, hoping the cuts wouldn’t start to bleed again, and alighted.
There was another terrorist scare on, so the place was in semi-chaos again. Armed police seemed to be everywhere and lines of patient passengers simply sat on the floor while harassed officials rushed about like brainless robots.
I presented my ticket to the BA desk and checked in. I only had a small case, classed as hand baggage, but they were difficult about even that, convinced that I was smuggling radiated liquid in my shaving gel. In the end, I removed a book and allowed them to check in the bag.
"Goodbye, Captain, and good luck," Sarah said, shaking me by the hand. She had a firm handshake and her hand was warm and dry. I liked Sarah, feeling sad that I wouldn't be able to get to know her better.
"I told you, I'm not a captain any more."
"If it's any consolation, I think you did the right thing."
"You mean punching that upstart's lights out?"
"No, I mean saving all those people."
I stared at her, as she smiled for the first time.
"Mind you, had you left them to be massacred - that would have been unforgivable."
With that, she turned and walked out of my life, or so I thought.
I wasn't used to first class travel, so appreciated it all the more. Once the cabin crew found out who I was, I had to put up with some hero worship, particularly by a little gay steward called Michael.
"Ooh, you don't look nearly so macho in a suit, that photograph made you look twice as big and tough," he told me, holding up the Telegraph.
"Sylvester Stallone is shorter than me," I pointed out.
He giggled, slapping me on the shoulder, saying, "Maybe, but he's only an actor, you do it for real!"
I dreaded to think what 'doing it for real' meant to him, so I shut up.
I avoided further attention by going to sleep soon after take off.
After a superb flight, the plane landed at JFK on time, but we were mucked about by the Americans while they decided whether to allow us to move to a terminal. These terrorists never needed to actually do anything to bring chaos to our airline travel, they just needed to make a threat and we stuffed ourselves. Al Qaeda must be laughing their socks off.
At the Immigration desk, I was met by an officious immigration officer who was looking for any excuse to deny me entry. I was studiously polite to him, which made him more uptight and anal than ever. Reluctantly, and in a manner that made it appear that I was forever in his debt, he stamped my passport and allowed me to pass through onto hallowed ground. I was about to ask whether I had to remove my shoes, but was able to control myself in time.
In the packed arrivals hall, I immediately saw a very tall black man in a black chauffeur's uniform. I suppose one has to call him an African American, but I never was one for political correctness. He held a card on which my name was printed - CAPT. R. CARLISLE.
So much for anonymity, I thought.