A Single Narrative

Chapter One:

David Bradford hesitated outside the offices of Whinstone Ltd, the small academic publishers who had changed his life over the last 7 months.  He was conscious of the coffee stain on his new jacket and knew that it didn’t do much for the ‘casual’ image he had tried to cultivate recently.  In his mind he rotated the phrase ‘some thing for me, something for them, something for them, something for me’ and found to his embarrassment that he was speaking out loud.  Shutting himself up he tried again to rub away the coffee stain before ‘she’ could see it; pushed open the glass door and went inside.

Sitting at the reception desk was the usual porter but stood behind him was another man who he’d not seen before. 

‘Good morning Mr.’ errr …’ said the porter, who was clearly somewhat nervous of the new man behind him.

‘Bradford’ said the man standing.

‘I must be visiting too frequently’ David said, ‘you know my name now but I don’t remember seeing you before!’

‘Oh it’s all part of the service’ said the man with only the tinniest hint of sarcasm.

‘Usual room?’ David asked.

‘No, not today Sir’ replied the porter ‘you’ll be based on the 7^th floor in the Conference Suite’.

‘Why there?’ David asked, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.

The new man put a hand on the porters shoulder to hush him up and said ‘There are some new people to meet you Mr. Bradford.  They are interested in your work and you’re already late.  There will be too many for the usual room.  Please go straight to floor 7.’

David didn’t reply but wished he had a suitable reply for the ‘you’re already late’ comment. He headed straight for the lift.  The door was already open and he pressed the number 7.  He had never been to the 7^th floor before but he assumed that it mirrored the rather dingy publisher’s offices he was used to on the 6^th floor.  He found it strange that you could have a prestigious address; a marble and glass exterior, brass plates on the door frame and then a plastic and glass interior.

As the lift door opened he lifted his arm to check the state of the drying coffee on his jacket.  This movement, coincident with the opening of the lift door, had a strange effect. A man on the far side of the lift door witnessed the movement of his right arm towards his left lapel and made the same movement himself, but he did this so fast that David saw nothing more than a blur.  His hand, however, went inside his jacket and stayed there.  His stare was odd, very odd; the sort of stare that only lives in someone who sees people as objects or risk assessments rather than human beings.

David, somewhat bemused, said ‘Oh, sorry, I was looking for the 7^th Floor’.  He actually knew he must be on the correct floor because not even he, at his most hung-over, would confuse any other number with the number 7, it was his house number and the age of his son when he had been ……..

The man outside the lift kept his hand firmly inside his jacket.  David thought his pose resembled an early James Bond about to pull a gun out of a shoulder holster but he couldn’t quite believe why anyone associated with Whinstone Ltd would want a gun (except perhaps to shoot themselves, in an attempt to relieve the tedium, he thought dryly).  The man said ‘Mr. Bradford, you’ve found the 7^th Floor.  To your left please.’  He turned towards David’s left and barred any potential movement to David’s right with his arm.  As he turned, David noticed the translucent curly wire coming from an earpiece and disappearing between the shirt and jacket collars.  Oh, David thought; he must have a radio or something; listening to the football maybe.  It’s not a gun after all!  Having been warmed by this thought he asked ‘What’s the score?’  The man looked at him blankly.  David tapped his left ear in a gesture he hoped would amuse the man.  The man just looked away.  David tapped his ear again ‘Football score?’ he enquired. Expressionless the man pointed again that David should go to the left.

Ahead of him were double wooden doors.  Doors far older than the building, he guessed and probably purchased from a now defunct London  Above the doors were the words ‘Conference Room’ and next to them a green fluorescent fire exit sign with the figure of  a man running in panic away from an imaginary white plastic fire.

The right hand of the two doors was open just far enough to see a dark blue partition, obviously placed to prevent any view of the inside of the room.  In front of this, a desk with two men standing importantly behind it; one slightly taller than the other.  From somewhere beyond this he could hear the clink of coffee cups and the low murmur of people talking.

David approached the open side of the door and looked at the two men.  ‘David Bradford.’ He announced himself confidently.

‘Thank you Mr. Bradford’ said one of the two men.  ‘If you would just empty your pockets and bag onto the desk.’

‘What?’ said David in genuine surprise. ‘What’ again he said it. ‘You’re going to search me?  What are you looking for?  Guns?’

‘We hope you’re not carrying a  gun Mr. Bradford.’ Said the taller man.  The other picked up a black ‘wand’ like electrical instrument off the table, giving David room to empty his pockets and bag.  David’s pockets were not stuffed with any surprises.  He had deliberately not overfilled his new jacket so that ‘she’ might not see him as a rather slovenly and disorganized dresser.  In fact, the jacket was new; a deliberate attempt to impress ‘her.’  His sister would certainly approve of this over his old leather bomber jacket.  When he had first seen ‘her’ it was like a teenage love at first sight.  He was captivated by her beauty, long blond hair and constantly smiling face.  Despite his close relationship with Brenda Coombs he just couldn’t bring himself to ask about her.  He didn’t know her name or why she worked there.  Actually he didn’t know if she did work there he just assumed it!

‘The bag now sir.’

‘Yes, OK’ replied David with some reluctance.

He lifted the varied contents of his shoulder bag out onto the table:  10 Silk Cut, a plastic cigarette lighter, a file with papers in (the draft of part of his next publication), an A-Z of London, his Moleskin notebook, his Swiss Army knife and his phone.

‘Sorry about the fags’ said David somewhat embarrassed.  ‘And I only carry the knife in case I need it.’

The shorter man waved the electric wand over the contents of his bag and pocket. No sound.

‘It’s not very good’ said David, ‘It didn’t bleep at my keys or knife!  How good is that?’

Then, as the ‘wand’ moved over the phone, a long whining note sounded.

‘Thought so’ said the taller man.

‘I’ll just check the rest of him’ replied the shorter of the two.

There was no sound as the ‘wand’ moved over his clothing but, as it returned towards the phone, it whined again; the same single tone, used because if its annoying, piercing, alarming screech.  At this, a third man appeared from behind the blue screen, ‘The phone huh?’  Both men nodded ‘Yes sir’ they said; he continued: ‘Mr. Bradford has anything happened to your phone recently?’  David looked dumb. ‘Mr. Bradford, has anything happened to your phone recently?’

David struggled to reply ‘Well, only, well I changed the battery and SIM card a couple of days ago.  The phone company, Orange, wrote to me and said they had detected a fault with my phone and I needed to replace the SIM and battery.  They said I should do it as my phone might not work without it.  Why?  It works fine.’

‘Mr. Bradford’ said the man referred to by the others as ‘Sir’, ‘your phone has been tampered with.  We will deal with it.  Don’t worry.’’ He turned to his colleagues, ‘bring them in now.  Remember, evidence, all the evidence you can get.’

At this instruction, the taller of the two used a small radio to contact someone.  After a few seconds an elderly man walked calmly through the left door of the conference room and went straight to the table.  Placing a brief case on the floor, the man opened it and took out a folded thick grey cloth (about the size of an average pillow case).  Carefully unfolding the cloth, he lifted towards the table and over the phone.  David hadn’t seen the computer cable trailing from the cloth at first but he did catch sight of a white connector.  Reaching down to the brief case again, the man now lifted out lap top computer, opened the lid pressed the power button. He plugged the USB cable from the grey cloth into the computer and waited.  After a few seconds he moved his finger over the mouse pad and selected some options on the screen.  David couldn’t see clearly what was going on so he moved closer and was immediately stopped by the taller of the two men who had searched his bag.

‘Time to go inside I think Mr. Bradford’ and he ushered David through into the main part of the conference room past the blue partitions.  ‘We’ll collect your various bits and pieces together and return them to you during the meeting’.  David glanced at his wallet and his all important note book.  ‘Everything will be quite safe with us Mr. Bradford.  Don’t worry.’

David entered the conference room in a somewhat confused state and looked blankly at the seven people sitting around the table.  He was surprised at the number there; usually he met Mrs. Coombs (his publishing agent) alone and the meetings were more social than work related.  This meeting looked far more like a business gathering. Recognizing Mrs. Coombs gave him some feeling of security but he sensed all as not well.  Mrs. Coombs spoke first:

‘David, great to see you.  Good journey?  Oh, I see you stopped for coffee at your usual venue!’ (She was a pedantic dresser herself and noticed faults in others way faster than she noticed any good points).  She stared at the stain on his jacket lapel. ‘All this must seem a bit strange David but these people are so interested in your work and wanted to meet you so I thought our scheduled meeting would be a good opportunity.  Let me make some introductions.’  David sat at the end of the table nearest the door, wondering about the contents of his bag and pockets on the table outside.

Mrs. Coombs gestured to the man on her left. ‘Now David, this is Mr. Dawson from the Home Office.  As you know David, there has been considerable interest in your work with young people and Mr. Dawson is quite a fan of yours! Now there’s Ms. Simons also from the Home Office, she advises and assists Mr. Dawson in matters relating to extremism and she liaises with Mr. Mealing who works with the Police and he also deals with extremist culture. Last, but not least, there’s Mr. Khan and he has an interest in how you might work with young people from other countries, cultures, heritages. Isn’t that right Mr. Khan?’ 

Mr. Khan answered politely ‘Well actually, we are great admirers of the work you do with youngsters and we have this idea that your processes might well work with others of the same age.   What do you think Mr. Bradford, or can I call you David?’

‘David, please call me David.  Everyone is so formal!  What exactly are we meeting for?’

‘We’re meeting to..’ Started Mrs. Coombs but was quickly interrupted by a fifth man from behind the blue screens. ‘Let me introduce myself.  Usman Khan, no relation to the other Mr. Khan incidentally!  I’m so grateful to Brenda, oh, Mrs. Coombs.  David, you’re right, we are so very formal here.  Let’s make it a bit less formal!  David, I’m going to change the strategy behind this meeting, and there was a strategy David!  I think it would be much the best idea if you gave us all a quick summary of your work.  You see, we’re all from very different backgrounds and have heard about your work in many different ways.’

‘So what part in this meeting do you play Mr. Khan?  Or should I say Mr. Khan Number 2?’ said David.

‘Good question David and I insist that everyone calls me Usman, it will be so much less confusing in the long run!’  replied Mr. Khan.  ‘For the moment, let’s just say that I coordinate the work of some of the others in the room.  Now, I really do think that a summary of your work would be very useful and, David, time is pressing at least for some of us!’  His tone was pleasant but commanding.  David got the feeling he commanded or at least controlled people on a regular basis.  He felt he just had to do what Usman had asked him to.  Strange this; he, David, didn’t often do what others asked automatically.

 ‘Well, OK then, here goes.’ said David who was now well rehearsed at explaining his ideas.

‘The Department for Education knew that I had been trying to do some work with young people. It was aimed at getting them, the youngsters, away from any form of extreme criminality. For some reason they became interested in this, and a couple of other projects that seemed to be working well at the time, so they called a meeting of various project leaders in London. The school where I was teaching got quite a name for it at the time.  Originally we were targeting any form of extreme behaviour.  Boys gangs, girl gangs, firearm based crime, drugs, car crime, all of that sort of stuff.  We tried providing alternatives.  You know, things that kids could do in the evening.  The Community Cohesion lot got interested to but they mostly wanted to deal with problems between communities and not within them. The thing that made it special I guess was that it was tied into what the kids could do at school as well.  The best example was the boxing.  If a kid was doing GCSE PE and had issues with the police then you could target that kid.  Get him to do his main piece of GCSE course work on boxing and help him with it in the evenings through a local club.  It sounds simple when I say it now, but it worked well at the time.  Results went up; kids stayed out of trouble.  Not all of them, but quite a high proportion.  Like all of these projects though, it faltered because too many kids came and too many adult supporters dropped out.  It all fell apart so we tried a different approach. We just got the police to identify kids that they reckoned would become real threat to their communities or beyond rather than having projects open to everyone.  The Police were very limited with the supply of intelligence at first but they grew to trust us.  As time went on they shared more and more information so that we could target the hard core of potentials as we call them.  At first it was the usual suspects but over the last few years the sort of kid they identified changed.  They were often ‘untouchable’ at first but the combination of a limited school curriculum, late starts, loads of rewards, compulsory stuff in the evenings and the like, well it just got better again.  Not with every kid but with most I guess.  They put some money behind it and the Local Authority took it over together with the Community Cohesion lot and now it’s falling apart again. It always does when L.A.’s get hold of things!  Anyway, when they took over I spent my time writing the material for teachers to use in the school based part of the project.  By chance, I sent some off to some publishers. Loads of people were buying it which is how I came to be here.  More meetings with the education people followed and it became clear that they wanted a twist in the project to target other types of criminality too.  You know, religious cults, sub-cultural groups that kids were falling into and the like. Big ask that was, but I produced some curriculum related stuff for them anyway. We put some stuff on Teachers TV and The Life Channel, local press and radio got interested too. My meeting with Mrs. Coombs today was to take this aspect of my work further’.  David felt arrogant when he called it ‘my work’; it made him sound like writer or an academic; then again he was a writer and something of an academic too!

‘And how are you proposing to take your work further?’ said Usman.

David wondered how much to say now.  The continuation of his work was always going to be controversial in both the religious and cultural sense.  The obvious conflict with someone of a potentially Islamic background had not escaped him either.  Still, they seemed a respectful group; serious, maybe they had university educations and were big enough to think beyond their own hang-ups.  He said ‘There is a theory, called the Single Narrative Theory, that..’ David didn’t finish the sentence.

Mr. Khan interrupted: ‘Good; the Single Narrative agenda.  That’s what we thought. What do you understand by this term Mr. Bradford; just so we’re all clear?’

David had first wanted to reply with a rather sarcastic response to this interruption but, the money, and the chance to maybe spread his ideas further tempered his resentment.

‘It’s an idea that’s been around in military circles for some time’ he replied.  ‘It came out of various places; Iraq was one of them.  The idea is based on an analysis of terrorists or freedom fighters who’ve been caught by security services and questioned as to their motives. What they all have in common is that they follow a Single Narrative agenda.  In other words they only have one script or way of thinking.  They have no other paths or ways of seeing anyone else’s point of view.  If you think like this then you’re pretty certain to believe you’ve got right on your side when it comes to things like suicide bombing or blowing up tanks with roadside bombs.  People like this can be unstoppable and undetectable. Other people bent on violence tend to be stuck in an area or a way of life.  They’re just there because they’re there, not because they choose to be.  Followers of a single narrative make a choice to adopt it at the expense of everything else.  You see we in the West with our ways of thinking don’t understand a Single Narrative viewpoint.  People who follow just one way of thinking aren’t necessarily after territory or wealth or resources; they’re after ideals.  In the West we’re conditioned into thinking in terms of land and resources and wealth and we don’t give much credence any more to ideals.’

‘And how did you get to know about this Single Narrative David?  You obviously have sufficient credibility to get a significant article published in The Independent too.’ said Mr. Dawson from the Home Office.

‘Because the Department for Education told me a bit about it at one of our meetings a month or so back and because it’s all over the newspapers every now and then.’ replied David.  ‘I’ve also been researching it on the Web and at the University library.

‘And is Manchester University library a well stocked research base for work of such a philosophical bent David?’ said Mr. Dawson, laying deliberate emphasis on the word Manchester.

David paused too long and Dawson knew it.  He wondered why the mention of the library in Manchester.  These people had done some research into him for sure.  His home address was London.  How could they possibly know he had stayed with his Sister in her student flat in Manchester and blagged his way into the library almost every day for the last 4 weeks?  Had he mentioned Manchester himself? David replied ‘Oh yes, it’s fine.  A great place but I’m sure I’ll find better places if I, or we, decide to go any further with this.’

Mrs. Coombs looked up in alarm at the thought that there was any doubt that his work would continue.  It was a small market but had some growth potential.  Besides she herself thought it important to do something with these yobs that seemed to be turning every neighborhood into a no-go area after 9pm. As she turned, David couldn’t help noticing that, when her head stopped moving, her double chins carried on wobbling for several seconds!

‘Now David’ she said. ‘Haven’t we been supportive with your other work?  Aren’t you my very favorite of the education writers?  Of course we’ll be taking it further.’

‘Well’ said David ‘all this authoring stuff isn’t exactly making me rich.  With my experience I could go back into teaching at quite a high level and earn far more than I get doing this. Or, maybe I should try another publisher now I’ve got some experience in the game?’ 

Mrs. Coombs smiled nervously but deep down she knew that no other publisher would take his work. His sort of stuff had a very limited market and Whinstone’s had all of it anyway.  However, all of these other people had wanted to meet him so perhaps she should be a bit more active in keeping him?  She had never heard of the Home Office and police sending someone to work with a publisher before, let alone attach someone to her office on a near permanent basis.  Susan Golding had been a real asset since her arrival; a capable, highly intelligent, hard working sort of a girl.  She wasn’t posh in the overt sense of the word, but she was very well brought up.

‘Oh David, we’ll take a good look at the money with this next round of your work, you know we will’ she replied with that huge grin, supposed to exude confidence but usually left David regretting eating anything with calories in it!

Usman Khan moved from the blue screens to the head of the table.  This was clearly deliberate and the others respectfully moved to accommodate him.  ‘Brenda, David’ he said ‘lets move things on now.  David, all around this table feel that there is something more that you can offer: something that your work might be able to offer to young people from other countries as well as our own.  For some time now we have been looking for an ambassador for one of our projects.  Someone skilled at working with young people.  Someone who could relate to teachers and the issues that they have with students.  Someone who can take a strategic idea and convert it to day-to-day good practice in a school.’

‘How do you know that person is me?’ replied David.

Usman Khan rolled a chair towards the table and sat down. ‘Well David’ we actually know quite a lot about you.  We know when your lying and telling the truth for example.’

‘What’ David exploded with a mixture of surprise and anger.  ‘You imply that I lie!’  How have I lied?’

‘David’ replied Usman quietly; ‘the meeting with the DFES when they apparently briefed you about Single Narrative thinking.  They didn’t actually brief you did they?  What you found in that briefing room was a paper prepared by the Security Services for Cabinet office officials.  Deliberately or not, that paper was left in a place where you could find it.  Your newspaper article was based upon that document.  I am well aware, David, that the document you found was in line with your thinking and the work you were doing with young people, but some of its contents are difficult for Government agencies to explain: difficult given the explicitly religious content of parts of it, and particularly difficult given the immediate terrorist threat to the UK.  We actually feel that you were rather, how should I say, circumspect, in the way you have used the contents.  You could have caused significantly more embarrassment to us so we appreciate your sensitivity.  However, whether you stole, found it, or were meant to find it you have forced our hand and we must now show that we are responding to an overt need rather than dealing with things in the covert way we favored!’  Usman’s phone rang.  He lifted it from his pocket and answered. ‘Yes, good.’ That was all he said on the phone.  He turned to David and said: ‘And, I should add, it’s pointless you denying anything.  That call just confirmed that we found the document in your flat.  Apparently it wasn’t even hidden.’

All in the room looked at David.  He felt a strange mixture of anger, embarrassment and confusion.

‘Just hold on’ he said (rather too loudly). ‘That document was just handed out in the briefing pack at the meeting.  I’m sure everyone must have had one, not just me.  And what the f*** are you doing in my flat!  Who the hell do you think you are anyway!’

Usman was still clam. ‘If, as you say it was handed out in the briefing pack then you were certainly the only person to get one.  This would add weight to the theory that someone targeted you for receipt of that document.  As to your other points, I have told you who I am and if you wish to see the warrant for our search of your flat then a copy is available at your local Police station; you weren’t there when the warrant was executed you see David; you were here!’

David stood, so quickly that his chair flew several feet behind him. ‘I’m off to find another publisher and see what state you’ve left my flat in.’

‘Sit’ demanded Usman in such a quietly aggressive tone that all in the room looked at him.

‘F*** you’ David replied.  The two men appeared from behind the blue screens; the same two that had searched his luggage.  They blocked his path. ‘Move them’ David said.  Although facing the two men David was clearly speaking to Usman Khan.

‘Don’t be silly, David’ said Usman. ‘Sit down.’

‘If you think your two henchmen can stop me you’re about to have a surprise.  I’m well able to deal with these two. Now move them before they get hurt.’

Usman looked exasperated, sighed and said: ‘David, I am only part way through my description of what we know about you.  You cannot “deal” with these two.  They are more, far more, than a match for you.  They are my personal bodyguards.  Your boxing expertise, although very capable, will be of no use here.’

David ignored him and told the two to move.  They stood unflinching. ‘Move’ shouted David.  Neither were anything like his size and didn’t look particularly fit anyway.  He went to walk between them.  They moved closer to bar his path.  David side stepped to his right.  They blocked his path again. The same to his left. David walked straight at them and they both moved to stop him.  Almost instinctively, David tucked his arms into his sides, his hands close to the side of his head and threw a punch to the stomach of the man on his right. The punch never connected; David’s legs went from underneath him and he sprawled embarrassed on the floor.  The two in front of him were capable after all.  David jumped up and got serious.  The same stance, but this would be no mild jab to a fat stomach; he launched a fierce left hook to the taller of the two who, with remarkable speed, moved backwards just out of range.  Unknown to David the second of the two moved behind him.  The pain that followed was intense, crippling, blinding and David fell to the floor gasping from the Tazer shock to his back. ‘F*** you’ was all he could gasp.

‘That was a mild shock David.  Please don’t do that again’ said Usman.  ‘We need to talk and I would much prefer to do it in a cooperative way rather than a confrontational way.  You have much, very much to gain from cooperating and a lot to loose from trying to walk away from me again.  Help him up’ he instructed his two bodyguards.  They bent towards David but he pushed them away and stood, shakily at first, before turning to Usman.  He weighed up in his mind the likelihood of getting past the two but this wasn’t a fair fight.  He wasn’t sure yet what had brought him down but he knew it was something like an electric shock. ‘I’m not finished with your two “bodyguards” yet.’

Usman looked up and smiled ‘I know, but I will not fight fair, you know that.  Man for man, if this room were a boxing ring, you were a match for most at your weight.  But you are now older David and the sort of combat my associates deal with is seldom without the aid of some form of technology and you simply cannot match that.  Your fighting experience should have told you when to let go of your aggressive feelings and focus on the next fight.  If you’ve lost that ability then you are not the man for us David.’

David was surprised at this last comment ‘the man for you’ he said ‘what do you mean by that?’

‘I’ve already told you; we need a sort of ambassador, a capable ambassador, to work with people in this room, and some others.  There was a picture being painted for you David; that is before your “interruption.”

David picked up his chair and sat ‘go on then’ he said reluctantly.  The two bodyguards walked back behind the blue screens as David stared after them. Usman continued: ‘I need your full attention now David, time is pressing, at least for some of us.  I’ll continue with what we know about you and then I’m going to invite you to join a small undertaking that might well interest you.’

‘I’m listening’ said David turning away from the blue screens towards Usman.

Usman turned the laptop on the table in front of him so that he could see the screen. After tapping a couple of keys the cooling fan on the ceiling mounted projector hummed and the wall behind Usman Khan turned dark blue.  Watermarked into the background was a pale blue Royal Crest of some description and under this the words “Single Narrative Re-Parenting.  CONFIDENTIAL.  CLASSIFIED 3.”  Usman switched to the next page which read “David Bradford – Background 1.” Beneath this, in smaller type and superimposed on the same Royal Crest watermark, was the following information:

DoB:                           17.3.71

Age:                            37

Gender:                       Male

Marital Status:             Single (wife deceased, 17.705)

Dependants:                Non (son deceased, 17.7.05)

Criminality:                 Minor.  Caution, cannabis possession 9.11.92

Residence:                  London SE2 (spasmodically with Sister in Manchester M3)

Religious affiliations:    Non known current. EC 10.91

Political affiliations:      Non known

Education:                   Stetford Boys School, 9.82 to 6.89 inc.

                                 Cambridge University, 9.89 to 6.93

Qualifications:             ‘O’ level 7, ‘A’ level 3, 2.1 En Lit, MA (En Lit).      

Representations:          England, Seoul Olympics, June 88. Boxing LW. Silver.

Profession:                  Teacher 9.94 to 3.06

                                  Self employed writer 3.06 to (ongoing)

Usman Khan read through the information quickly and dismissively apart from one interruption by David, ‘What’s EC?’ 

Usman replied ‘Evangelical Christianity.’

‘I don’t think that’s true’ said David indignantly.

‘Davina Appleby’ replied Usman.

David stood, ‘she was just a fling!  I only went to the bloody church a couple of times.’

‘We know’ said Usman, ‘but she had a significant influence on your time at Cambridge. You pursued her with a vengeance; I can understand why, I’ve seen the photographs.  To be fair, she pursued you too but your failure to give up your apparent life of violence, in the form of your boxing, was too much for her. And now she designs clothes at the higher end of the fashion market.  You missed out on some money there David!’

‘Photographs’ said David. ‘What sort of people are you?’

Usman ignored him and switched to the next screen: “David Bradford – Background 2.”

Parents:                       Hilda Bradford, teacher.

Assif Bradford (born Assif Afchina), Cultural Liaison Pakistani Embassies various.

Siblings:                      Sister. Hannah Bradford – MA Student Manchester University)

Heritage:                     Mixed race (Pakistani, White European).

Languages:                  English, Urdu, (limited Arabic).

Health:                        Good.

Physical Fitness:          Good.

Financial Status:          Debt to £234,000 (Mortgage £203,000 Credit remainder)

Income:                       Currently undetermined (self employed writer)

Credit Score:               993

Address:                      Flat 4a, Kingfield Road, London, SW13 4GY.

Email:                          Boxingboy@aol.com

Mobile:                        Orange network 01919127829

These last two entries flashed red on the screen.

‘What’s with the fancy flashing bits?’ Asked David.

‘Oh that’s just that your mobile and emails are being intercepted’ said Usman.

‘By you?’ asked David in shock.

Usman looked directly at him ‘Yes, for the last couple of months anyway; but that flashing red text is a warning that a third party has been monitoring you closely too.  That’s why we dismantled your mobile earlier.  It was bugged. David, there are many people interested in you, and in particular in finding out what you know from that document you “recovered” from the briefing. The only surprise is that someone hasn’t tried to recover it before now, but we do have a suspicion that they probably have, but left the original in your flat.’

David tried hard to soak up the fact that his phone and emails had been monitored and that the “secret” paper he found in his briefing pack was more significant than even he thought it was.  He had genuinely thought that all of the education staff at the briefing had been issued with the document.  It was one of the few times in his life that he had felt trusted and admired by a government organization who had seen fit to trust him with their thinking.  The fact that their thinking followed similar lines to his was also a surprise.  He had certainly used some of the briefing document to structure his Guardian article on the importance of working with disenfranchised youth.  He had recognized the consequences of not doing this for some time.  The Guardian had shocked him by publishing his article and had even paid him for it!  Strange, although he had sent his publishing credentials and CV with the article, he still didn’t feel that anyone would listen to him let alone publish his piece.  It had obviously touched a nerve though and they had offered a similar fee for a follow up article on challenging the Single Narrative.

Something for me, something for them rolled though his mind.  After all, that’s what he’d come here for; offering something to his publisher and expecting something significant in return.  Usman had said that there was something in this for him.  There had been a lot of talk so far but nothing that could further his work or bail him out of his imminent financial crisis.  It was also clear that he could hide nothing; they knew him, needed him but he resented the feeling that he needed them also. He decided to go for it: ‘So what’s this ambassador role and what’s in it for me?’

‘At last!’ cried Usman smiling brightly, ‘to the point.  We actually have several more slides on you and your work to date.  We’re also aware of your research degree ambitions and your need for some urgent and significant financial remuneration.  We have actually this morning brought your current account in credit by £5,000; a gesture of good will if you like. David, we want you to work on researching a number of youth organizations both in this country and abroad.  Each of these organizations has, we believe, links to what might be called subversive political groups, groups who favour direct action of some sort to further their aims. We cannot go into detail here but we will do at a different venue shortly.  You seem ideally placed to support us; your mixed heritage gives you an understanding of different cultures; your school based material and your article makes you a serious candidate for research into this area. You have some fame as a boxer and we can spin that to a variety of audiences and, apart from your minor indiscretion with cannabis, you have a clean background. We feel as well that the tragedy of your wife and son might also motivate you more than many.’

‘What if I say no?’ said David. He was well used to disguising any emotional involvement over the death of his family.

Usman smiled ‘Then the £5000 credit reverts to the old overdraft figure in a matter of seconds and you will loose the main part of my offer which you have yet to hear.’ David gestured for Usman to continue: ‘David, we are offering you a salaried position for 12 months and, after then, and if your work for us is successful, we will support an application to the Social Science Research Council for a PhD in Single Narrative re-parenting.  We will also support, with reasonable expenses the work you do for us and this will be in addition to your salary.  During the next 12 months any additional work you do, your published education material for example, would need to be cleared by us well in advance of submission to Mrs. Coombs. We have placed one of our colleagues in Mrs. Coomb’s office to liaise between the Home Office and Whinstone’s.  Her name is Susan Golding, perhaps you have met her?’

‘Don’t think so’ said David wishing full well that he had met her: at least he could call her by a name now rather than the she or her she had been before.

 ‘Anyway David, what do you think of our little idea?’ insisted Usman.  He wanted and needed David on board and he was a little disappointed that Susan, the rising star of his office, hadn’t captured David’s imagination by now.  Still, he thought, they had only seen each other a couple of times.

David was thinking.  Apart from his desire to drop the two body guards nothing was unreasonable.  He needed the money; the offer was just what he needed.  Nothing to do but say ‘yes’ he guessed.

‘OK.’ David knew he could say nothing else.

‘Good’; said Mr. Khan.  ‘David, I have to go now and I’m going to leave you in the more than capable hands of my colleagues, particularly Mr. Dawson and my name sake the other Mr. Khan.’

Usman Khan nodded a goodbye to the others around the table and left the room. Mr. Dawson, a rather fat man with not a hair on his head, moved to be opposite David.

‘Now David, can I suggest a comfort break and some refreshment?  At this point Mrs. Coombs, we would ask you to leave and I would remind you of your commitments in relation to our dealings with Mr. Bradford.’  This last sentence sounded threatening but she replied ‘Of course, no worries, see you later gentlemen oh, and lady’ (nodding at Ms. Simmons).

‘I’m fine actually’ said David ‘but I guess a coffee would be good.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Dawson, ‘you’re something of a coffee man aren’t you?  I’m a tea man myself.  Tea and cake hey Ms. Simmons, just like the good old days.’  Joan Simons got up and pushed the old tea trolley out of the room. David could tell by the look on her face that she regarded Dawson as a fat sexist pig but was way too polite to say so.  David was uncertain about their relationship but guessed she had a subordinate role to him and resented the tea girl jobs he gave her. She returned with a fresh trolley and poured coffee for David, tea for Dawson and water to Mr. Khan and Mr. Mealing.  David guessed that they worked together, at least recently, because Ms. Mealing didn’t ask the others what they wanted she just handed out the drinks then turned to David and said ‘no sugar isn’t it?’

‘That’s right’ said David.  He now wasn’t surprised that they knew even the way he drank his coffee.

Now David’ said Dawson, ‘there are no formal contracts but you can trust us.  You will receive a salary of £3471 a month after tax; this is a significant improvement over your current earnings. It will be paid directly into your current account and will be transferred from the Whinstone Ltd salaries account on the first of every month.  This is merely a ruse to confuse anyone snooping into your new found wealth.’  He reached into his brief case and took out a brown envelope. ‘In here are two credit cards, one Visa the other Master Card.  Us these for legitimate expenses only; and David, don’t be stupid with them!  Here is a new passport as your old one had only two months left on it; we recovered the old one this morning. Here is your new phone, same number, we will sort the contract out but you will receive your usual monthly bill.’ Dawson passed the Blackberry box to David and the envelope containing the credit cards and passport.

‘How do I know that ones not bugged too?’ said David tapping the Blackberry phone box.

‘It is bugged’ replied Dawson, ‘and the micro SD card might have smaller capacity than usual because it acts as a GPS tracking device too. Don’t play around with it though David, this sort of thing costs a lot of money. Oh, and also in the envelope…’

David felt the breath dragged out of his body.  He watched in slow motion as the window glass behind Dawson fell in a cascade of tiny pieces.  He was conscious that he had coffee over his jacket for the second time that day and was also conscious of an intense ringing in his ears.  All around him fell to the floor and Mealing threw himself at David knocking him down.  David looked at him and read his lips ‘Keep down, keep down’ he made out, but heard nothing.

Slowly his hearing returned.  All in he room had the same problem but through the dust he heard Dawson shouting into his phone ‘F*** f***, f*** how did that happen.’  He hung up his phone and looked around ‘apart from deaf, everyone OK?’  He checked every person but especially Ms. Simons who looked away from him.  David expected her to cry or something but she, and everyone seemed unmoved; dusty but unmoved.

‘What was that? asked David.

‘That was Usman Khan or at least his car’ replied Dawson.  He turned to Mealing and the other Mr. Khan. ‘We’re in trouble, get him to his flat, grab the minimum of kit and then go to number 3.  Wait there until you’re contacted.’

The two body guards ushered David out of the room.  David looked back towards the others and recognized the same confusion on their faces that he saw in himself.  Like a bad fight, his head spun and he knew enough about this feeling not to trust his own judgment until he felt more normal. On his way out he caught sight of Brenda Coombs crying at her desk, her window too was missing.  There was still no sign of Susan Golding.

Ezekiel Quickfinger