Jon Cornwall’S Adventures: Part 1: Unofficial Secrets

By David Higgins

John Cornwall started life as your original thin, asthmatic eight stone weakling who meets his first love only to see her snatched away from him by a brutal murderer. This sparks a unique skill in him that will change his life forever. As he slowly develops this new found skill he is able to use it to track down and seek revenge for the murder of his girlfriend. However, the use of this skill does not go unnoticed and soon a Chief Forensic Officer begins investigating only to discover that there is more to John than meets the eye. All the time John is also being secretly observed and evaluated.

John joins the Ministry of Defence and becomes embroiled in a major conspiracy which threatens his very life and belief in what is right and wrong, while his own private life suffers even more tragedy when the beautiful Vivian enters his life. John will need all his new found skill and more to help him just survive, but at what cost?

This book marks the first of a series of John Cornwall adventures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477241738

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© 2013 David Higgins

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/13/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4172-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4171-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4173-8 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Introduction

Dedication

The Interview

The Waiting

The Change

The Appointment

At The Ministry

The Interview Boards

London

Germany

The Legal Branch

Saudi Arabia

Internal Audit

Raf Brampton

Croatia And Bosnia

Author’s Note

Introduction

How is it possible that you can hate something as simple and inanimate as an alarm clock? But it’s true; you develop this immediate hatred for the thing every time it rings out at some ludicrously early hour of the morning. It’s not the alarm clock’s fault – it is after all only doing what you programmed it to do – and yet, every time, you cannot believe it’s telling you it’s time to get out of bed. As a result, a large number of these unfortunate instruments end up on the other sides of bedrooms, usually in tiny bits. How can we be so cruel to something only designed to help and aid us? But isn’t that typical of how we sometimes react and think under certain circumstances – or more to the point, don’t think?

Is this an example of what some psychologists refer to as ‘explosive anger’? Often accompanied with excuses like ‘I just didn’t think’ or ‘I just saw red’, but are any such reasons good enough explanations for wanton destruction? I doubt there are many of us who would answer in the affirmative, and yet in today’s working environment thousands of thoughtless or rash decisions are taken every minute of every day. Many of these decisions are harmless, but others can cost millions of pounds or affect an individual for the rest of his or her life. In the most extreme cases they can end life altogether. This book attempts to view life from the eyes of one individual so affected by these so-called decision-makers or anger-masters. Just like the alarm clock, most of us too are only trying to help or assist by doing our job to the best of our abilities but only too often end up getting kicked in the teeth instead.

If you had told me forty years ago that my life would change the way that it did I would have laughed at you and told you that you must be crazy. Little did I know then how a person can drastically change as a result of some of the things life can throw at him. I am sure that we have all suffered from that same depressing feeling when you have been woken up by that (hated) alarm clock and have thought, ‘I just don’t want to go to work today.’ The thought crosses your mind to simply turn back over on to that comfortable pillow, go back to sleep and call in sick later. A guilty pang then fills you with such remorse you have to get up and drag yourself into work, only to find that you wish – often as soon as you arrive at the office – that you had stayed at home after all. Either your in-tray has doubled in size or your backlog of work has multiplied overnight, and you were going to have to do twice as much work anyway because one of your colleagues has called in sick – another twist in one’s crazy little life! Hence the reason for writing this book: to put my own experiences in writing – with a little embellishment of course, as is the right of any author.

The story starts in the mid 1970s, just as commercial computers were being introduced into offices for the first time. It is based on my own experience working for the Ministry of Defence (MoD), mainly in the UK, over a period of some twenty-two years. For obvious reasons the names and identities of some of the people encountered have been changed in order to protect not only myself, but some of them as well (although there are a few of them that deserve no such protection). However, to all of whom I am deeply grateful; without them this book would not have been possible and my life would quite probably be very different. I have naturally embroidered a few accounts and have changed some of the endings to what could (and maybe should) have taken place. But most of the events are based on real life, albeit coated in places with a touch of humour and with the addition of course of a few fictitious characters and events. As this story is a mixture of fact and fiction I will leave it to you to decide what you think is the fiction – although you might be surprised if you knew the whole truth …

In some of the chapters I have taken a light-hearted approach to some of the stories and adventures that Jon encountered while others respect in tone the more mysterious events. I sincerely hope you will enjoy reading all of them and find the book amusing, if not interesting, as well as in some places thought-provoking. There are, I believe, some touching moments as well, which I firmly believe many of you will be able to relate to. I can honestly say I have enjoyed writing it – despite the number of years it took me to actually finish it – and trust that you will find as much pleasure in it. It is based on many good experiences as well as some bad ones, but I survived the bad ones and grew stronger as a result. That, as they say, is what makes you into the person you are today. Some of the details behind those actual regrettable events are really another story in themselves and are ones that I may save for another book, but as I said earlier, this book is a mixture of fact and fiction and you need to decide which is which. Although it pains me to say this, I cannot be as honest as I would truly have liked to have been as I, like all my Civil Service colleagues in the MoD, and indeed in most other Government Departments, have signed the Official Secrets Act. This is an Act that continues to be in force even after you have left the Civil Service. For this reason alone I cannot tell you everything that truly went on, but you will get a flavour of some of the politics and dynamics that go on in such a working environment through the experiences of Jon Cornwall – who, when all is said and done, is a fictitious character and therefore not governed by the Official Secrets Act. At least, that is what a lawyer told me!

Dedication

First and foremost my sincerest thanks go out to my loving wife, Christine, for putting up with me for all these years, always supporting me in whatever I do, teaching me the correct way to shut a door or turn off a light when leaving a room and mainly and simply for loving me for who I am. Christine has proofread this book several times, picking up numerous typos and grammatical errors. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I would never have believed that a French woman could find so many mistakes in an Englishman’s writings, but this is just an example of her many talents. I have always told her that one day we would win the lottery. To her credit she never ran out and bought lots of expensive things but just waited patiently for that grand day to arrive, smiling at me sympathetically. Maybe this book will help realise that dream. For this reason, together with many others (some too personal to mention here!), I dedicate this book to her – for forever plus one day.

To Christine’s family as well I extend my warmest thanks for welcoming me into their family and for treating me as one of their own, even though I am English and they are French – they are actually from Alsace to be precise, a French Region heavily influenced by Germany. We may have sadly lost Christine’s mother, Martha, but we will never lose our memories of her, and she will remain in our hearts to our final days. She was truly one in a million. I miss her to this day. I still smile when I think of those first few years when I was trying to communicate with Martha. She would be holding her faithful French–English dictionary, and hours of fun would pass by as we each tried to explain to the other what was meant or wanted.

A special mention must also go to my dear friends Chris and Clare. I must particularly thank Chris because his numerous ‘unusual’ situations provided me with plenty of ammunition for my Arabian adventure. As for Clare, she is simply the most genuinely wonderful, friendly, and lovable person you could have the luck to meet. She also shares my childish sense of humour. I may have lost touch with them over the years, but I will never forget the time we shared together in Saudi. That was special.

THE INTERVIEW

Date: February 1973

Age: 16

Condition: Non-active

JON’S EYES BLINKED repeatedly as he struggled to comprehend what was happening to him or even where he was. Something was clearly not right. He tried to move but found that his back was stuck to the wall. No, it was more than just stuck; his back felt as though it was actually part of the wall. Panic began to rise inside him as he thought to control his emotions. His hands and feet were free, so he lifted his arms up to see if he could give himself some leverage, but as he did so his eyes widened in shock as he stared in disbelief at his own arms … they were transparent. He froze briefly at the sight, and then he looked down at the rest of his body to find that that too was transparent. He was now trembling and about to scream out for help when he noticed two figures walking purposely towards him. He thought to call out to them but checked himself as he noticed that there was something not quite right about these figures. As they moved closer towards Jon he could see that they too were transparent, and their movement was better described as floating.

The two figures stopped right in front of Jon, no more than an arm’s length away. He could see the outlines of their bodies, which were shiny like billions of tiny stars. It was their eyes, however, that caught Jon’s attention; they were completely blue. No whites of the eye or pupils could be distinguished. The two ‘floaters’ quickly exchanged glances, nodded at each other, and then each grabbed one of Jon’s legs. He started to struggle, but the figures were too strong. They started to move back away from Jon, keeping hold of his legs. He could feel the strain in the centre of his body as the figures continued to pull. He could now feel his leg muscles being stretched and the very sinews of his body start to rip apart. He tried to scream but no sound came out of his mouth. He heard the balls in his hips popping out from their sockets. Then to his horror he watched the severing of his legs as his body slammed back against the wall. Strangely he felt no pain but assumed this was due to shock. He looked down but could not see any blood.

Each of the figures placed the leg he was holding against his own body and Jon’s eyes forced him to watch as his own legs were absorbed into their bodies, disappearing like droplets of oil into oil pools. Jon’s eyes could not believe what he was seeing as the two figures then appeared to grow in size, having nourished on his legs. They began to move towards him again, but this time they took hold of his arms. Jon tried desperately to scream, and then to resist, but they were both extremely powerful. He felt like a fly trapped in a spider’s web, watching while slowly being eaten alive. As the thought of his arms being violently ripped from his body became too much for him, his eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out.

*                 *                 *

Jon opened his eyes again to find himself lying on some grass; it was damp from morning dew. He sat up quickly and checked his body to find both his arms still attached. His legs were still part of his body too. He sighed heavily as he slumped back on to the grass, trying to calm his fragile nerves. ‘Just a horrible dream then,’ he thought to himself – albeit a day dream.

He looked up at a clear blue February sky. He watched as a white trail from a jet, passing high and quietly overhead, hung in the sky, slowly dispersing. It had a calming effect on him, so he relaxed a little, although he still felt disturbed by the dream. The sun felt strong as it struck down on his face, but the cool wind still made him shiver, and he was grateful for his overcoat, which he now pulled tightly closed around his neck.

Reality then slowly returned as he became conscious that he was lying outside the school gym and his thoughts quickly turned back to his future. He sat up again and rested his head on his hands, trying to weigh up the pros and cons of his next action. What he chose to do next could, and probably would, affect him for the rest of his life. He sighed heavily.

‘Boy, what a decision to have to make, especially for one only sixteen years old. Do I stay at school for another year or leave to start earning my keep?’ pondered Jon, the dream now a distant memory. It was the winter of 1973 and there had just been a long teachers’ strike, concurrent with the time when Jon’s class of C14 were about to complete their studies and prepare to sit their O level examinations. The length of the strike meant that students did not have sufficient time to study for their exams and therefore were left with the dilemma of either staying at school for an additional year or leaving without any qualifications, which in turn would limit their career opportunities.

Jonathan Cornwall (Jon to his mates) was your original mousy-haired, spotty, eight-stone weakling. He had never even been out on a date with a girl and was generally naïve, with little experience of life. He had started his first sixteen years of life as an asthmatic and was only now growing out of it, which was one of the main reasons for his limited encounters and skeleton frame. He was a teachers’ pet and enjoyed school. Maths was his favourite subject and he had achieved a rare perfect score in his last maths exam.

He had originally wanted to be a doctor, so he had been studying all of the sciences, no doubt following his father’s passion for helping people. His father was an ambulance driver, while teaching first aid in his spare time. Jon had already decided that he wanted to better his father and get more out of life than his father had ever managed – living in a small, rented council house in Croydon, while only managing holidays to the seaside in their second-hand camper van. Not that it was his father’s fault, but opportunity seemed to pass his father by. So far, however, Jon had achieved little himself in his short life, despite his disciplined studying and his good maths results.

He was known to be strong on the sports track, where he was quite quick, but even here his asthma had hampered him at first. When it came to football he nearly always found himself ‘volunteered’ as goalkeeper, a position nobody else wanted. However, Jon adapted well to goalkeeping and became quite skilful at blocking shots. Eventually his classmates started making bets with him to see if they could put the ball by him. As a result, Jon was able to put a little bit of money to one side. He quickly developed a real passion for track running though, which he took up following the advice of his doctor. Here, his light frame was an advantage and he did have good strength in his legs. Fifteen hundred metres was his best distance, and there were few at the school that could keep up with him. Even if they could, Jon always had a little extra left in the tank so was able to accelerate, coming into the last 200 metres of most races with his fellow runners eating his dirt. The sense of this sudden power and acceleration always invigorated Jon, and he felt unbeatable.

During his current school year Jon was also conscious of the fact that most of his school mates – if you could call them that – were leaving school, earning money, and apparently enjoying themselves. Many would boast about going to the movies regularly, dating girls, generally pigging out, getting drunk and being sick. Jon decided that he wanted a piece of this action too – if only a piece: He wasn’t very keen on the idea of pigging out and being sick bit, but he desperately wanted to be able to join in their secret conversations, to be ‘one of the lads’, so to speak. He did try to get into a gang, but they just laughed at him before kicking him all the way down the street. After that, he quickly decided that other approaches might be healthier.

As he sat on the grass he was trying to weigh up all the factors very carefully and come to the right decision. He was already starting to lean in one particular direction, particularly when he learned that his favourite teacher, Miss Ginger – who had these incredibly long legs, which were accentuated by the very short miniskirts she always wore – was leaving at the end of the term. Miss Ginger also had long ginger hair and was always a welcome sight in the morning as she did the roll call. Jon had regularly fantasised about her, along with most of the male classmates, but realised that that particular fantasy would soon be coming to an end. His head teacher was also being a strong influence in helping Jon come to a decision with words of encouragement such as, ‘You’re a loser Jonathan Cornwall; you were born a loser and will always be a loser.’ For some reason education suddenly lost all of its glamour – teacher’s legs were just never going to be the same again. So he made his decision: he would leave school in the summer with no qualifications – and no medical career. This was to be the beginning of many bad decisions Jon was to make. First, however, he had to consult his parents and get their blessing.

Not surprisingly his mother did not protest strongly at all, not being a supporter of the British education system. His mother had spent most of her life bringing up five children – two boys and three girls - while helping his father out financially by working part-time in the school kitchens. She had hinted several times that it was about time Jon brought some money into the house and contributed to the household funds.

‘Good on yer son,’ she encouraged on hearing Jon’s decision. ‘Perhaps now you’ll be able to pay for your keep. Of course I’ll not take much from your wage packet, only half of what you bring home.’ Jon simply gulped, as he had not expected to be making such a large contribution to the housekeeping so soon in his working life.

‘Education ain’t no good anyway. We manage alright, don’t we ’arry?’ added his mother as she looked across to her husband who was slumped in his chair – glass of whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other, not sure which one to attack first.

His father was, as usual, non-committal. ‘You make your bed son, you lie in it,’ was all he said, as he chose the cigarette, taking a long puff.

Jon’s father was a heavy smoker, a fall back from the latter part of World War II where he served in the artillery as a gunner. He loathed the Germans and never had a good word either for the French or the Americans. The French, in his view, couldn’t organise a wine party in a wine cellar, and the latter were too loud and too concerned with size. His life was fairly simple; he had spent his early teens in the army, had married Jon’s mother soon after the war ended and started working for the ambulance service, where he still served. The family lived in a small, rented, semi-detached council house, mainly because in his day buying property was something reserved for the middle classes. The working class never bothered about investments but rather simply rented whatever they could. Even the television was rented and you had to put a ten pence coin in the meter just to watch it for thirty minutes.

So that was that, decision made and communicated. Jon would leave school in the summer and join the working class. It was not as if his school was rated very highly in any case. It was quite simply an ordinary high school located on the outskirts of Croydon, bordering between Kent and Surrey. No one famous had ever emerged from this school, and it did not excel in any particular topic or sport. It also had no history or apparent ambitions. Its only usefulness to Jon and his family was its convenience to their home, in that they could walk to and from home to school. So, all said and done, it was not a particularly difficult decision to have to make in the end. Jon did regret not being able to pursue his career choice, but not all was lost, and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps he could take his studies up again at a later date – always the optimist.

So he would begin job hunting. How hard could that be!

Jon dug out his two-piece black suit from the back of the wardrobe – the only one he had ever owned – and tried to brush out some of the creases before giving up and instead hanging it on the wardrobe door. He then started scanning the newspaper for potential job opportunities. He noted the names and addresses of the mainly insurance contacts given on a few adverts, sent off his one-page CV, and then sat back to wait for a string of exciting job opportunities to arrive.

Later that evening Jon tried his suit on for size. He stood in front of his sister’s bedroom mirror gazing at his reflection, not really recognising the pale, skinny-looking person who stared back at him. ‘Am I really just a coat hanger for this suit?’ he thought to himself. His suit was in fact two sizes too big for him; his mother had said when she brought it home from the flea market that he would grow into it … besides, as she had pointed out, it was the same size as his shirt! Jon wondered if he would ever actually grow into these clothes.

Early one morning a couple of white envelopes dropped onto the hall mat. On quickly ripping open the envelopes Jon discovered that there were at least a couple of companies that were expressing an interest in him, even inviting him for an interview. So out into the real world he went, seeking out these unsuspecting insurance companies, looking for a future with a morale-boosting career.

Things turned from bad to worse for Jon as he quickly became all too painfully aware that it was not as easy finding a job as the career officer had promised. He had to endure twelve interviews during his first two months of job hunting that were pure misery. Basically the potential employers all reacted much the same way to his CV, which was either, ‘Come back when you have got some work experience or qualifications,’ or the more frank response, ‘Get a life kid and stop wasting my time – this is not a charity business.’

After a few months of getting the same response Jon was feeling at an all-time low. He was beginning to wonder if giving up school had in fact been the right decision. He currently had no education, no career, no money, and hence no future. Things were looking dire. Then one evening a family friend called Roy came to visit and on hearing Jon’s plight suggested that he tried applying to the Ministry of Defence who were currently recruiting. Roy reported that apparently they were taking on all sorts, even those that did not have the appropriate qualifications or experience. Jon took the description of himself as ‘all sorts’ positively as he liked Roy and knew he would never deliberately insult him.

‘Worth a shot,’ thought Jon. ‘After all, they can only say no (again, like all the others).’ It had never crossed his mind to think about applying to a Government Department such as the Ministry of Defence, but he liked the idea of working for an organisation that did something special like the defence of his own country. The following week Roy passed Jon an application form and encouraged him to apply. Jon looked through the application, scanning the minimum requirements. He decided he stood at least an outside chance of getting accepted for an interview, as he was certain he did have some intelligence and something to offer the world. So with nothing to lose, he applied to the MoD.

Miracles appear to happen, as two weeks later Jon was pleasantly surprised to read that he had been invited to take an entry exam. OK, it wasn’t the expected interview, but at least it meant that the Ministry had not rejected Jon’s application outright. He had been given the chance to demonstrate that he had a brain and he was determined to prove himself a suitable candidate for employment.

The entry exam took place a month later on a Friday and comprised of a series of multiple choice questions lasting four hours. The English test began simply enough and required the words in a sentence to be re-arranged so that the sentence made sense. He read the first one and smiled.

The station pulled slowly into the train and stopped.

The sentences grew more difficult, along with the length of the words, but Jon progressed diligently through the paper. The guidance notes advised the candidates that they were unlikely to complete all sections of the test in the allotted time, but that they should work through as many questions as possible. Jon was totally focused on the exercise and found himself actually enjoying the experience, as he scribbled his answer frantically or neatly placed the cross in the box he believed to be the correct answer. The more difficult maths test involved solving problems where you had to work out what the next pattern or design or number would be. This was something new to Jon, having never experienced a maths test like this before, but he found that he could analyse the sequences to see a logic underlying them, and he felt confident about his answers. Time was up all too quickly; Jon had to check the clock on the wall, which confirmed that four hours had indeed passed by. Having handed in their exam papers all participants were informed that they would be advised of their results in about three to four weeks’ time.

Six agonising weeks passed by during which Jon failed to hear anything from the MoD. He was beginning to wonder whether he would ever get his results when finally the long-awaited brown envelope dropped with a thud through his letter box. He took a deep breath and turned the envelope over a couple of times before slowly running his thumb under the flap. He pulled the piece of paper slowly out and to his own amazement found that he had passed with flying colours.

He would have to wait patiently for an interview, which he was told would not be for several months yet and, as it stated clearly in the letter, even this was no guarantee that he would be offered a job, but it did mean that he had actually passed a test outside of school and could now say that he had actually achieved something in his young life.

While waiting for his interview to finally arrive, Jon started working full-time at the restaurant where he previously had had a Saturday job immediately after school finished in July. It was called The Pluto Grill and was located just around the corner from West Croydon Bus Station. Although it was described as a restaurant by its owner it was really just a café – the type of place where you can choose what you like from the menu providing you have it with chips. The Grill was owned by a Hungarian called Lotzi, helped by his chunky but friendly girlfriend, Christine (Chris). The cook – although he always insisted on being referred to as a chef – was a thin, miserable-looking man called Frank. It was rumoured that Frank did not know how to smile, maintaining instead a permanent snarl on his face which always looked like it had a five o’clock shadow. The place itself constantly stank of stale fat but was popular enough with the locals and was always full to the brim on a Saturday.

It was while working at the café that Jon was to experience his first feelings of love – or at least at the time how he imagined love must feel. The woman in question was beautiful, with short, jet-black hair, even darker eyes, an hourglass figure, with small breasts and a backside you would die for. Her name was Mary. She had a pleasant manner and was very easy to talk to, with an incredibly warm smile and bright teeth. As she talked her head would tilt slightly to the right, accentuating her high cheek bones. Her eyes would glitter like diamonds; they seemed to be permanently alive with excitement. She would often wear tight trousers, which were practical for such a place, complimenting her rounded buttocks that looked as though they were smiling at you whenever she walked away. Truly one of a kind, Jon felt privileged to be working with her. She was a queen among the frozen burgers and a bright light in an otherwise dull restaurant. Even better for Jon was the fact she also worked occasionally on a Saturday, alongside him.

Whenever he saw her as she walked into the restaurant he would catch his breath, his heart would start racing, and his eyes would not obey him as they locked on to her face. If this wasn’t how love felt, then Jon guessed he must be seriously ill. ‘Perhaps love is a kind of illness – one that makes you do crazy things or thinks crazy thoughts.’ Jon’s most frequent crazy thought was whether a beautiful girl like Mary could ever be attracted to someone like him. Anyway, he could dream … and he did most nights about her.

On one particular Saturday, a day that will remain in Jon’s memories forever, their eyes locked together just as he was passing her a packet of twenty Benson & Hedges – cigarettes he knew to be her favourite. It was just a spur of the moment thing for Jon. He knew she smoked, so he decided to buy her a packet. For a few seconds they were oblivious to all around, looking deep into each other’s soul, both enjoying the sensation while not quite understanding that it was a desire reaching out from their love-deprived bodies. The sensation lasted until broken by a little old lady standing by the till.

‘Hey, you’ve short changed me by 2p, you dirty little crook. There goes any chance of you getting a tip, my lad, not that I was going to give you one anyway. Jesus, what a dump this place is. Give me my money, bone-face, and stop staring at that girl.’

Jon, ignoring most of what the lady said, subconsciously passed the lady her 2p, not taking his eyes off Mary. The little old lady grabbed her change and shuffled out of the restaurant, muttering to herself all the way out. ‘God knows why I come to this dump. Get nothing but insults and poor service. Then they try to rob you…’

He did not understand what was happening to him or why he could not take his eyes away from Mary’s, but he did know that he liked the sensation, already wanting to experience more of this wonderful feeling; it was like floating on air. Something passed between the two of them, he was certain of that. He felt sure that Mary felt the same. He was now on cloud nine, feeling like he was on top of the world. It then dawned on him that he suddenly felt alive for the very first time in his life. This new feeling flooding through his body brought along with it a new found level of confidence. Having forced himself to break contact he returned to the kitchen, the smile never leaving his face. It was later that same day that Jon built up the courage to ask Mary out to dinner the following Saturday. The time felt right, he felt right but she turned him down gently.

‘That’s very kind Jon, but I have to meet my mother that night, another time, maybe?’

He fell back to earth with a mighty crash, his confidence bursting like a bubble. Still, at least she hadn’t said that she was washing her hair, something he had heard was meant to mean ‘not on your life boy’. But he still interpreted her response as a flat refusal to ever go out with him. He felt suddenly deflated and could not see himself ever asking her out again for fear of a similar reaction or having to suffer similar rejection. What might have been?

For the following few weeks Jon kept his feelings and thoughts to himself. He would often sneak a peek at Mary when she wasn’t looking but that feeling deep inside would always begin to surface again. He felt strange, as if he was floating, or even as if he was trying to leave his own body. The feeling would always be there whenever he saw Mary. He quickly looked away in case Mary looked his way and instead tried to concentrate on his work, feeling guilty at peaking at her. Occasionally he would look out into the restaurant where he sometimes caught Mary looking at him. She would smile and her eyes appeared to be asking him something, but he could not understand what exactly. Not being able to face another disappointment, he said nothing, but simply smiled back.

The date of the MoD interview finally arrived, his mother somewhat delayed passing on the invitation to Jon, as she initially thought it might be some tax bill or similar bad news and was in half a mind to just throw the thing into the bin. It was the fact that it was addressed to Jon directly that made her hesitates. He eagerly tore open the brown envelope marked ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’ and read the letter. He got the interview. He was to report to the reception desk on Monday, at 9 a.m., at Sentinel House, Southampton Row in London in three weeks’ time for a formal assessment and interview. Jon ran up to his room where he bounced around on the bed until his mother screamed up the stairs, demanding he stopped ‘that racket’.

The very next day Jon asked Lotzi for that Monday off.

‘No problem, Jon,’ said Lotzi enthusiastically, ‘seeing as how you never ask for vacation. Doing anything special then?’ he asked casually.

‘No, nothing special,’ lied Jon. ‘I just agreed to help my father.’

Those three weeks felt like a lifetime to Jon but eventually the Monday of the interview arrived, so he slipped into his two-sizes-too-big for him suit and shirt, ready to do battle in them again. He caught the early morning number thirty bus from New Addington into Croydon. He made his way nervously to East Croydon Rail Station where he boarded the 8.05 to Charing Cross. Jon exited Charing Cross Station at 8.30 when the thought suddenly struck him, ‘Where the hell is Southampton Row?’ The Ministry had enclosed a map with the invitation, so he had a vague idea, but he needed specific guidance and needed it quickly. He looked around urgently for someone to ask; it’s strange how people are never around when you need them – a bit like a police officer. Uncertain as to which direction he should go, he emerged from the rear of the station, making his way towards the Embankment. Unbeknown to Jon at the time, he was headed away from Southampton Row.

As the anxiety levels started to climb, Jon spotted a tramp that was propped up against a bin under a bridge. ‘Excuse me,’ he said hesitantly, as he quickly walked up to him. The tramp didn’t move or look in Jon’s direction.

‘Excuse me sir, but can you help me?’ tried Jon again.

‘It’s no good talking to him, mate,’ said a voice directly behind Jon, coming from a cardboard box. Jon jumped at the sound of the voice and quickly turned around to face the box. ‘He’s buggered off to do his beggin’ in a better place now,’ continued the voice.

‘Other place?’ questioned Jon.

‘Bloody hell, boy, does I have ta spell it out for yer? He’s popped his clogs … dead.’

‘Dead!’ screeched Jon as he stepped quickly back away from the corpse. However, he was not looking where he was going and promptly tripped over a sleeping body. He stumbled, trying desperately to correct his balance, but he over-compensated, ending up on his backside and sitting in something wet and foul smelling.

‘Piss off!’ thundered the body that had suddenly been awakened by Jon tripping over him, Jon suddenly realised he had stumbled over yet another tramp.

‘You ain’t having much luck mate, is yer? That’s the bog, that is,’ continued the stranger, who had now started to extract himself from his home-made bed and was slowly making his way towards Jon. Jon could smell him long before the tramp reached him; he stunk like a mobile sewage works, making Jon swallow hard. He subconsciously took a step backwards, trying to keep some fresh air between himself and the tramp closing in on him. As the tramp walked towards him he couldn’t help but notice the various stains on the tramp’s torn trousers. He was about to ask him what they were, and then thought better of it. The tramp’s clothes appeared to be all the same colour – brown – with more patches than original cloth. His long mangy hair ran down the side of his face where it met his beard, the combined fuzz continuing down his scraggy neck only to disappear into his rags. His beard appeared to be acting as some sort of storage for items that didn’t quite make his mouth. Strangely, though, he appeared to have friendly eyes.

Jon’s attention now switched to the wet sensation he felt on his buttocks.

‘Shit, shit, shit!’ exclaimed Jon as he thought hard to regain his composure, which was quick enough to refuse the tramp’s helping hand. Jon looked again into those friendly eyes.

‘I – I – I’m looking for Southampton Row. Can you direct me please?’ pleaded Jon hesitantly; looking straight into the tramp’s eyes, where he was sure he saw pity. Perhaps the tide of luck was finally changing for him.

‘What does you think I am, a bleeding tourist office or something?’ the tramp spat out, his breath smelling worse than his clothes.

‘So much for that theory,’ thought Jon. Suddenly he had a brain wave and promptly pulled a pound note from his pocket. ‘There goes lunch,’ he sighed as he handed over his only pound. The tramp grabbed the note and then stuffed it quickly into his trousers.

‘Straight down this road and five minutes up it, pass ’olburn Underground Station, and your building is on the corner of the next junction,’ informed the tramp, who then turned smartly, almost like a solider, before quickly disappearing around a corner like a bolt of lightning.

Jon looked back at the still body and then turned to the other tramp he had woken earlier. ‘Should we do something about this body?’ he asked the tramp who was still lying on the floor.

‘Piss off,’ was the tramp’s only response. Jon quickly decided that this tramp had a somewhat limited vocabulary, so there was little to gain from continuing the conversation. As time was ticking on, he took one last look at the body, thought about picking up the dead tramp and taking it somewhere but dropped that idea as quickly as it came. Instead, he marched promptly up the road, leaving both bodies where he had found them.

Five minutes had passed by, but he still had fifteen minutes to spare. Jon decided it should be enough time for him to collect his thoughts and calm his nerves a little as well as to find the correct building. As he continued to walk up Kingsway he casually looked across the road, and his eyes locked onto a pretty young woman with long flowing fair hair. She was wearing an extremely short light blue dress, and she was walking at about the same pace as Jon. As he continued to watch her she suddenly stopped, looked down at her shoes and then bent down to tie a loose shoelace, keeping her left leg straight but slightly in front of her right one. This action caused her dress to rise even further up her legs, above any decent level. Jon couldn’t help but notice that she was wearing stockings, without suspenders, and he could now even see the bottom of her black knickers. This brought a broad smile to his face, together with some unusual movement in his trousers. Sadly neither feeling was to last long as he then promptly walked into a lamp-post and again ended up on his backside, this time with blood pouring from his nose. He quickly pulled a handkerchief from his trousers and stuffed it up his nose to help stem the bleeding.

‘Are you OK, sir?’ asked a concerned policeman, who had come around the corner and almost walked into him. ‘Looks like you took a bit of a nasty knock there.’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ replied Jon gingerly.

The policeman’s nose wrinkled a little as he leant towards Jon. ‘Must be having trouble with the drains again,’ he said. Jon shuffled uneasily to his feet, deliberately ignoring the policeman’s last comment, but he accepted the hand the policeman offered to help pull him up.

‘Do you know if I am close to Southampton Row please?’ Jon asked, trying to regain his composure.

‘You here for an interview with the MoD then, sir?’ the policeman asked.

Jon stared in amazement at the officer’s correct assumption. ‘That’s right,’ he confirmed, still clutching his handkerchief. ‘But how could you tell?’

‘Well sir,’ the policeman began, adopting a knowing pose as he slightly bent his knees and rocked gently on the heels of his shoes, ‘these parts is full of MoD buildings. Plus there’s the fact that you dropped this here letter, sir.’ The policeman handed the invitation back. ‘You couldn’t have fallen at a better place; Sentinel House is directly behind you on the other side of the junction.’ He turned to leave. ‘As you appear to have recovered I will bid you farewell, sir, but get that nose sorted out and good luck. Sorry about our drains. Not usually as bad this time of the year.’ Then he too was gone.

Jon wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his forefinger and then wiped his finger clean with another paper handkerchief retrieved from his jacket pocket. He walked slowly and carefully towards the corner building and entered through the main doors. A cold atmosphere immediately hit him while his eyes had to adjust to the darkness inside.

‘Can I help you love?’ questioned a middle-aged woman sitting behind a wooden reception desk. She wore a dark blue uniform with a white lapel and was looking straight at Jon over her half-moon glasses.

‘Er, yes – er – please,’ stuttered Jon. ‘I’ve come for an interview at 9 a.m.’ He looked at the clock, which read 8.55 a.m., and he was pleased with his punctuality, despite his little adventure on the way to the building.

‘Name?’ asked the receptionist

‘Jonathan Cornwall, ma’am.’

‘Cornwall-Mam,’ the receptionist repeated.

‘No, just Cornwall – Jonathan Cornwall,’ Jon corrected. She looked up.

‘Are you sure, love?’ she questioned.

Jon nodded his head, and he leant wearily on the desk. He then noticed the woman’s nose wrinkle and that she was looking at him in a peculiar way. He edged back quickly, both puzzled and embarrassed.

‘Can you smell drains?’ she asked.

‘No,’ lied Jon. She looked around, probably wondering if the toilet door had been left open again, but then she simply shrugged her shoulders. ‘Who are you here to see then, love?’ she finally asked.

‘Emma Phillips,’ Jon responded.

‘Phillips? There’s no Phillips in my book, but that shouldn’t surprise me anyway,’ the receptionist moaned. ‘They never tell us down here when there are staff changes.’ She pointed to the ceiling with her pen. ‘We are not considered important enough for the likes of them upstairs.’ She carried on mumbling to herself, complaining about MoD administrative staff and their inability to pass on even the simplest piece of information. ‘Of course if I was a Russian spy it would be different, wouldn’t it? I’d get everything I wanted then, wouldn’t I?’ she asked to no one in particular.

She picked up the phone and dialled an extension. ‘Reception here,’ she continued in her most polite telephone manner. ‘I have a Mr Jonathan Cornwall here who has an appointment with you at 9 a.m. … Room 212? … Yes, yes, I will, thank you. … My pleasure.’ She replaced the handset, filled out the top page of a green temporary pass and then handed it across the desk to Jon. ‘Complete this form and sign it, love, and give it back to me so I can stamp it. After that you should take the lift to the second floor, to room 212, where you will be met. The lifts are just around the corner on your left.’ Jon filled in the blanks – nationality, purpose of visit, etc., and then signed the form and