Chapter 7: Spread ‘em

“Not much of a holiday then,” said Kate, as she buttered a warm slice of toast. We were having breakfast and as Kelly had spent the night at our house, my little family was complete. Ideally I’d have my parents there as well, but I saw them three times a week these days and that was more than I had been used to anyway.

“Best I’m going to get, I’m afraid, what with Edwin being so young. We were gone for a week, all in all. That’s not too bad.”

“We’ll make longer trips when Edwin can walk,” added Melody. “He was in good hands with Caroline, but I don’t want to be away from him for more than a few days. But Martin, you can take a trip with Kate or Kelly if you like.”

“Exams,” sighed Kelly. “Well, not exams. Tests, for certificates. You know what I mean.”

Kelly had to wait until September until she could start at the LSE, but so as not to lose a year she had signed up for a special intermediary course that would allow her to keep up the pace of studying and improve some of her grades. She sailed through it all and had a bit more free time than I found ideal, but at least she was in school and not working for Keller & Fox. Besides, she was occupied with something else: Carstairs’s Britain, which was the working title for our next project.

“How is the documentary series coming along?” asked Melody. Kate just snorted.

“Not great,” said Kelly. “Apparently you can’t just show up with a camera crew. Almost every location I’d like to visit is owned by the National Trust. They want to see permits, scripts, God knows what else. It’s nearly summer and we haven’t confirmed a single location yet.”

“I thought it was a bit optimistic to announce you’d be back on the air within a year,” said Kate, looking up from her phone. “These things take ages. Now if you want to do a sitcom, I can get twelve scripts, a studio and a cast together by August.”

“I’m not doing a sitcom,” I announced. “As in: ever.”

“I just feel bad I’m going to break a promise to our fans,” said Kelly. “I’ve been getting a lot of questions on Facebook.”

“Screw ‘em,” said Kate. “They’ll take what you give them and like it. It’s not like they are paying you, is it? Well, the ones who actually buy the DVD or the tickets do, but that’s a very small part of ‘em. The rest of them are just scroungers, who think that just because they paid for the license fee you owe them something. It’s like ... I dunno, paying for an internet connection and then expecting that all websites provide you with free, quality content. I bet you those same people get pissy when you even suggest they can buy the DVD of the series instead of waiting for a weekly episode. You should try that, actually. See how that works out for ya. Fans ... Fuck ‘em.”

“Yes, thank you Kate, your opinion has been duly registered,” I said, hoping to end this rant. I can’t stand that, when people just go off and vent their spleen.

“I like our fans,” said Kelly, who isn’t as scared of Kate as she should be.

“Well then go on Graham’s show again, or do a skit for Comic Relief. Maybe sign up for Strictly. Hey, that’s not a bad idea actually: Martin can stand to lose a bit of weight.”

“By the time Strictly airs, she’ll be in her first year at the LSE and she won’t have time,” I said, relieved to find an excuse. I like dancing, I really do. But participating in Strictly Come Dancing would likely be the death of me. They rehearse for several hours a day! Apart from that, Kelly and I wouldn’t be allowed to team up but each be assigned a professional dancer. I’d only be next year’s comic relief, like Jimmy Tarbuck, Ed Balls or John Sergeant. Besides, I’d have to spend several days a week in a dance studio, getting very physical with a professional dancer. Those couples invariably get very comfortable touching each other and I try Mel’s patience enough as it is.

Melody came downstairs. She had been up for a while, as Edwin generally woke up at seven.

“He’s gone back to sleep!” she whispered excitedly. “Might be good for an hour! So I need all of you to be quiet and to sod off, okay? Thanks.”

We were all on our way out, so we just giggled. An hour to herself was a rarity for Melody. Just then, a car horn sounded just outside our front door. Mel’s face contorted in rage and she raced outside, even though she was on slippers and in her bathrobe. Kelly held her hand in front of her mouth and Kate guffawed.

“Oh, bloody brilliant. Ali’s here...” I sighed. We could hear not so muffled voices via the open front door, with Melody explaining what she would do to my driver’s intestines if he ever sounded his ruddy horn again.

Ali, or Algernon as his mum calls him, is my driver. He is the worst driver on the roster at Keller & Fox in terms of his demeanour. Ali doesn’t seem to understand it is his job to drive me to work and to any appointments I may have with vendors or in recording studios, but thinks that he and I are mates who happen to do a lot of carpooling. How, in his deranged imagination, he managed to come up with the money for a top of the line Mercedes I do not know, but he gets annoyed when I’m late. Peter and Caroline never use him and I need only say the word to have him replaced, but I won’t.

You see, I once tried to break Ali, to mould him into a decent, presentable chauffeur. Instead, he broke me, or at least my resolve. His relentless good mood, his eagerness to interact with every human being he’s ever met and the fact he has the reflexes of a coked up lynx made me decide to keep him on. I myself can’t stand authority figures and there are very few people in the world I consider my superiors. Being Dutch, I’m an egalitarian through and through: I don’t need people to doff their caps or address me as ‘Sir’, really. If I want to be treated with deference, I can just pop into any supermarket and wait for people to identify me as Carstairs. And so I conceded defeat and now I had a driver who I could cuss out and share a joke without him batting an eyelid. Apart from that, I knew that Ali would always have my back. He considered me a friend and he takes that as seriously as I do.

“Fucking maniac,” mumbled Mel, as she came back in, using both hands to keep her bathrobe shut.

“Did you kill him? Only I left my Oyster card at the office and I hate driving through rush hour,” I said, after I had my last sip of tea.

“No, he’s alive. His right ear may come off later today, though. I yanked it fairly hard.”

“Fair enough. Kate, need a lift?”

“No fwankf...” said Kate, devouring another hot cross bun. “I’m gwonna ... mfff...”

“Yes, okay, that will do. Right, that’s me off.”

I got up and kissed both Kate and Kelly’s forehead. Mel got a proper kiss.

“See you tonight, gorgeous. There’s an ingredient list on the countertop.”

Mel does the shopping, I do the cooking.

“Bye, sweetheart. I’ll call you after lunch.”

I put on my Chesterfield coat, grabbed my briefcase and my hat and left the house. When I wear a suit, I wear a Fedora to go with it. I have to have something to cover my bald noggin, and a baseball cap would clash with my suit. I tried a hooligan cap for a while, a grey one, but it made me look like a flasher when I wore it with my Chesterfield and like a granddad when I was out in regular clothes. Besides, I’m a celebrity. I can wear whatever the bloody hell I like.

Ali got out from behind the wheel and opened the rear passenger door for me.

“Good mornin’, Mista King.”

That was as civil as it got. He’d learned to open doors and greet me with something other than: ‘Hey man!’ and at that point I just gave up.

“Good morning, Ali. How’s your ear?”

He rubbed it and pulled a pained face.

“Your missus was a bit upset. I didn’t know your nipper was asleep, did I?”

“You should be savvy enough not to use the horn at all, you moron,” I said, before he shut the door. I could see his asinine grin as he walked around the bonnet and got in. He switched the radio on and as it was tuned to BBC Radio Two I didn’t make him listen to Jazz FM. And then I closed my eyes, because I needed all the shut-eye I could get.

Five minutes into the trip, I opened my eyes again and found we weren’t following the usual route.

“Delays, Ali?”

“No, ‘s all good man, just chill.”

“Then why aren’t we on the A40?”

“Woh? ‘Cuz we ain’t going to the office.”

I sat up straight.

“Then where are we going?”

“You don’t know?”

“I very clearly don’t. Where are you taking me?” I said, not bothering to hide my annoyance. He’d barely register it, anyway.

“We’s going to the training academy. That’s why I honked. Don’t wanna be late.”

“The what?”

“Training academy, just outside Twickenham. It’s where we take the advanced driving tests and all the rest, you know?”

I was aware that our drivers took regular refresher courses in defensive driving techniques and also trained with firearms. They never carried them, because you really don’t want to be pulled over and be found to have a gun, but they were taught the basics.

“Oh, that. But what am I supposed to do there? Twickenham? That’s nowhere near the office!”

“I got a call from Miss Keller. No arguments, she said,” shrugged Ali.

“Oh, we’ll see about arguments!”

I whipped out my phone and dialled Caroline’s number. She picked up right away.

“Good morning, dear. I just won five pounds. I take it you’re not happy?”

“What the hell am I going to do in sodding Twickenham?!”

“All sorts of things, I imagine. You are taking the introductory and then the advanced security training course at Armstrong’s academy.”

Armstrong was our in-house security agency. They used to be hired as muscle for special events, such as when a particularly famous singer came to do a concert in London. As I had insisted we upgrade our office security, they now also provided our doormen and the people who screened everyone wanting to enter the media monitoring centre. These men weren’t your stereotypical, overweight underachievers either: many had a background in law enforcement and the military. Armstrong ‘operatives’ as they were called had come to retrieve me from the building site where I had my fight with Sebastian and nearly lost Kate.

“WHY?!”

“Because I say so. Peter will meet you there, he’s done them before. It’s just like the maze game, Martin. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

The maze game was what Caroline called Team Fortress 2, which I had taught her to play. She could remember every corner of every map, not to mention each and every keyboard shortcut, but the actual name of the game continued to elude her. Our IT boys worshipped her, because she would occasionally join them for a game on a Friday afternoon. I was always present as well, but I was just cannon fodder. Caroline, on the other hand, kicked ass. We once let her loose on a live server and after thirty minutes three Russian teenagers were crying in their headsets. It was a sight to behold, let me tell you.

“Caroline, I’m not interested. I’m dressed for the office, I was going to take my daily swim and my shoulder still isn’t quite alright.”

“I’m sure they will take all that into account, dear. Oh, ask to be the VIP when they do that particular exercise. Frightfully good fun. Enjoy!”

And then she hung up on me.

Five S-class Mercedes were parked outside what seemed to be a disused warehouse, which sat in the middle of a large field that had a number of concrete structures scattered about. Most of those structures had no doors or windows. It looked like one of those fake villages used for training by special forces and emergency services. Trees and a fence shielded the terrain from view and a moat kept out people who might want to peek through the fence. They also had a racing track with some obstacles, for the advanced driving course. There was even an area they could flood, to practice skidding on wet roads.

Keller & Fox owned six of these cars, of which mine was the most modest version: I didn’t have a satellite phone or a DVD player at my disposal. Caroline had one in Royal Blue, which she was given special permission for. It wasn’t here and neither was her driver, Richard. The rest of them all stood outside, smoking and chatting. Peter stood amongst them, one of the lads. He waved as I got out.

“Hi Martin! Ready to have some fun?”

I clearly wasn’t one of the lads, because the smokers immediately put out their cigarettes and everyone straightened their backs as I walked towards them. The building wasn’t in such a bad state of repair as it looked from a distance. Some windows were painted to look as if they were broken, but they were perfectly intact.

“Peter, what’s all this about?”

“Told ya, didn’t I?” said Peter to the drivers, as he took one last drag of his cigarette and flicked it away.

“Listen, you’re doing this. Caroline’s orders. All drivers take these courses and so will you and I. It’s gonna be the best week of your life, trust me.”

“A WEEK?!”

“The introductory course is a week, yeah. Harris and your lad haven’t taken that one yet, so we’re all doin’ it as a refresher. Then next time we do the advanced course, with a couple of extra lads from different companies. Look, there’s gonna be lunch and everything. You’ll be fine.”

A few drivers giggled, because Peter had promised me, the big lad, lunch.

“Oi!” said Ali, standing behind me. “Don’t tick off me guvna, aight?”

“Yes, thank you Ali. I can manage. In fact, we’re leaving.”

I turned around and nearly walked into him. He really, literally had my back.

“Oh come on! Caroline says you should do it!” pleaded Peter.

“Yes, I know. This isn’t about me learning anything. This is P.E. class. And I’m not having it. Come on, Ali.”

Ali didn’t move. In fact, he held out his hands, although he did give me an apologetic smile.

“Listen, Mista King. Hear me out, aight? Suppose you and me and Kelly go on a trip some time. Like, to a film set or summink. For ya docco.”

Ali liked to use hipster TV jargon, as he was in show-business (in his mind). Docco means documentary series.

“So suppose someone liked the look of her and, like, pulls her into a room. Or a car. What then?”

“Then I will kill them.”

Ali’s eyes went wide and it looked as if he shivered.

“Yeah ... Or ... turn ‘em over to the coppers, maybe. Just make sure she’s safe first before you start killin’ people.”

“He’s still going to kill them, though,” said Peter, behind my back. I quickly raised my hand vertically, to make him shut up. Ali continued his speech.

“So wouldn’t you like to know how to breach that door your Kelly is behind? Or how to communicate wiv’ me without making noise an’ stuff? All ‘dem tricks the bacon use when they do a raid? Learn to shoot a gun?”

“Look at me! Look at how I’m dressed! This is a two thousand pound suit! I’m not shooting any guns and I’m certainly not kicking down any doors!”

“We’ve thought of that. We brought a new outfit in your size. Caroline bought it for you, sneakers and everything.”

Caroline can determine anyone’s physical dimensions, including shoes, to a tenth of a millimetre. I guess she learned to do that when she was leading a dancing troupe through Europe, creating and mending their costumes on a sewing machine in cheap hotel rooms.

“Come on, Mista King ... What you learn today may one day save your family,” said Ali.

I sighed. He was right, obviously.

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

The other drivers gave a polite applause, probably to make up for the fact they’d laughed at me not two minutes before. We all went inside, which was a shame because it was a lovely spring day. Indoors it looked like what I imagine a run down gym looks like, although I’ve never set foot in any other gym than the one below Keller & Fox’s main building. Two burly men with military style haircuts (not exactly bald, but very short and square) emerged from an office.

“Hi guys! Ready to have fun?” said one, in an American accent. Peter shook hands with them.

“Absolutely! We’re all here.”

“Great! You too, Al Capone?”

That was directed at me. I calmly took off my hat and coat, with Ali serving as my footman.

“Bring it on.”

“Alright! I’m gonna make a prediction here: you are gonna be on the ground, helpless, within the next ten minutes.”

I would have forced a sarcastic laugh at that point, but I didn’t really need to because one came naturally to me. As soon as I was out of this suit, I was going to fuck up anyone who laid a finger on me.

“Ooooh, game on!” said Peter, excitedly. We were taken to a changing room and I was handed a brand new pair of ... clothes ... that people wear when they do sports. Jesus Christ, I don’t even know the words for them! What a Bulgarian might wear to his wedding: matching trousers and a jacket, in dark blue, with a white stripe and one of those checkmarks. Gym wear? Training suit? I know we call them ‘camping smoking’ sarcastically in Dutch. There was also a pair of sneakers, or trainers or whatever those are called. A pair of thick, white socks in a paper wrapper had also been provided.

I was the only one to use a changing booth, because I absolutely detest locker rooms and I can do without seeing anyone’s underpants, so everyone was waiting for me to emerge. My suit was on a hanger, with my hand made leather shoes and socks underneath. I had my wallet and my phone in my hand. The others wore similar outfits, but their shoes looked used.

“Put those in a locker. Your suit will be fine, your Lordship,” said Peter, slightly impatient. “Now let’s get a move on, because they’re waiting for us.”

We stepped back into the hallway, where our hosts were waiting. They both wore khaki trousers and short-sleeved black shirts with faded heavy metal band logos. One had a tribal tattoo. I kept my distance, because I remembered their prediction.

“Alright! Seven minutes to get changed and two of you came in wearing track suits. You should help each other, guys! That’s what it’s all about.”

“Can’t help him if he uses a stall, can I?” answered Peter, nodding at me.

“Bite me,” was all I had to say. Ali giggled. At the far end of the corridor, a young woman appeared. She was dressed for office work and carried a tray with several mugs.

“Oh, hello! I made you all tea!” she said, sounding slightly nervous.

“Yeah, not now, Lara,” said one of the hosts. “We wanna get a move on.”

“Oh ... Yes. Of course,” she said, somewhat disappointed.

“I’ll take one,” I said, reaching for a mug and smiling at her.

“Ohmygodohmygod! Is that you?! Mister Carstairs?!”

Two drivers sighed audibly.

“Ah, yes, well spotted.”

She handed the tray to one of the drivers.

“Can we take a selfie? Please?”

“Lara! Not now!”

“It will only take a second!” she said, as she produced a phone from her cleavage. “Please?”

I nodded to the others and moved next to her.

“Won’t take a second, gentlemen. Sure, I’ll take a selfie with you.”

She put her arm behind me and held out her phone. Then she tripped me up and kicked the back of my left knee, making me sink to the floor sideways. Her hand held the back of my head as it hit the concrete floor, so I didn’t crack my skull. At the same time she produced a pistol from somewhere, lodged her knee in my stomach and aimed directly at my face. I wanted to push her away with my one free hand, but she did something with her thumb that made the pistol produce an ominous click.

“Don’t move. I mean it,” she said, as the drivers scattered in all directions. Except for Ali, who seemed ready to kick her in the head. Peter pulled him back.

“No fair, Ali. The lady just won. Besides, she’d kick your ass.”

“WHAT THE FUCK!?” I bellowed. “GET OFF ME!”

“I told you you’d be on the ground within the next ten minutes, didn’t I?” grinned one of the hosts. The woman, thirty and with short, dark brown hair, smiled at me.

“Hi. I’m Lara Armstrong. I’ll be your instructor today. And you’re going to be trouble, I can tell.”

Peter’s head appeared over her shoulder.

“Hey Martin, is this the fastest a woman ever got you on your back?”

“Your mother was quicker,” I answered, as Lara got off me. She offered her hand so I could get up. She was about Mel’s size, except she was white and looked like a receptionist.

“You boys need to discuss something outside?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” said Peter. “I get competitive on days like these. We’re buddies, actually. Aren’t we, Martin?”

“That’s pending review,” I mumbled.

“Good. We need team players here. After you, Mister Carstairs,” said one of the hosts. We were taken into a small classroom with about twenty seats. Lara sat on a table in front of the class, flanked by the two men.

“Okay, so, welcome. I’m Lara, I’m the CEO of Armstrong Security. My father founded it, now I run it. These fine gentlemen are Tom, he’s from the States, and this is William. Tom has a goatee, that’s how I tell ‘em apart. You are here for our introductory course for drivers and PSCs.”

“What’s that?” asked Ali.

“Private Security Contractors.”

“Mercenaries,” I explained, just to get back at her for kicking me to the ground. Lara just smiled.

“I knew you’d be trouble. Not mercenaries. Private security. We don’t solve problems; we just keep people out of harm’s way or get them out of trouble. Now, I know all of you from our defensive driving courses and some of you have done this course before, right? So who is new?”

I raised my hand, along with Ali and one other driver.

“Good. The rest of you won’t be bored, I promise. Okay, new guys: here’s what is going to happen. Today is going to be boring. You are gonna learn to move and operate in groups. When the shit hits the fan there is rarely any time for a meeting or even a huddle, so you have to determine your role in a group real quick and be able to communicate with hand signals. Most of ‘em are really easy. What’s this?”

She raised her left fist.

“Stop?” said Ali. I’d have guessed that, too.

“Kinda. It’s actually ‘freeze’. You saw this in a movie, right? This is stop:”

She showed us the palm of her hand.

“This is: I understand.”

Her thumb and index finger touched.

“So don’t give a thumbs up for that. Carstairs?”

“Should we be taking notes?”

“No. You should pay attention. Now, let’s review what happened in the corridor just then. All but one of you did the WRONG thing. Let’s start with you, Carstairs. You tried to hit me. I had a gun to your face and you tried to hit me. Unless you’re some ninja warrior that I don’t know about, you were going to get yourself killed. We do a special course on surviving hostage situations, you may wanna sign up for that.”

“Can I just ask that you do not refer to our assets by their character names?” asked Peter.

Lara ignored his request, but turned to him.

“What you did was wrong, too: you did nothing. You were on the same team and you just stood there, laughing. And then you restrained the only guy who did the RIGHT thing. I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“Ali!” said Ali, beaming with pride.

“Right. Ali had Carstairs’ back. And the rest of you, including the ones who did this course before, ran away. That’s your VIP, guys! That’s the package! As soon as there is credible information about a threat, you either haul ass or you prepare to meet it. And there was very credible information, because Tom just told you to your face someone was going to take you down.”

Lara sat on the edge of the desk, one leg dangling as the other one was extended slightly so her leather boot touched the floor. She was completely at ease and that reminded me of how Kate was capable of addressing large groups without needing so much as a second of preparation.

“Okay, so what we will be teaching you this week is how to remove people from dangerous situations. That’s all we will focus on. You’re drivers. You get paid what, fifteen quid an hour?”

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This Is Your Carstairs Speaking

Ron Dudderie

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