Time
C Cretag
Copyright ccretag hotmailcouk 2014
THUUUDDD!
I staggered as the pavement below seemed to roll and tilt wildly.
A masked heavy set man had inflicted an effective blow to my head with a wooden pole. He was laughing as he swung the baton through the air. With a cruel growl he raised the length of wood again for a second strike.
Another villain had grabbed me from behind. His clasp was firm, ensuring the full force of the following blow would be felt. As this further THUUUDDD arrived, a wave of nausea and pain washed through my body, leaving me shivering in a cold sweat. The night breeze was cool, but the wounds felt warm on my skin. I spat out a mouthful of blood along with some fragments of teeth.
Despite the nausea, I slowly turned to see three more shady characters in this hunting pack. One held an axe handle like a samurai sword. He looked the most nervous of the bunch, glancing constantly to the masked man for moral support and directions. Those thugs were right to be nervous, they were up against Secret Agent Jack Townsend. Although I was out-numbered five to one, they had no chance!
With the grace of a ballerina, and the force of a tornado, I slipped from the meaty hands which were gripping me and spun around in the air. Anchoring my left hand round the neck of the masked man, revolving like a spinning-top, kicking like a mule, four rascals were felled on the first rotation. In the graceful pirouette, bones shattered and blood flew through the air.
I stopped daydreaming and re-focused on the window my eyes had been staring through. The dreary reality of life involved being stuck uncomfortably on a noisy train to London, with the rain pounding the glass.
At first it had been captivating seeing the rain drizzle down the window. Solitary droplets of rainwater were creeping down the window pane, sometimes drops would join together and run faster, and other times they would slow down as they left an exhausted trail of liquid behind them. Seeing the raindrops race each other down to the ledge had seemed fun, some hours ago, but now the excitement had begun to wane and pushed me into an imaginary world.
For once though, these rambling dreams had the tiniest factual basis. I was travelling to an interview selection test for employment with the Government Agency MI5. Yes it was only advertised as a Data-Entry post, but surely it would not be long before they recognised raw talent and head-hunted me for more exotic assignments.
I had applied for the post, not because of any interest in Data-Entry, but in a misguided belief that working for MI5 would have huge status benefits. It would give an air of intrigue and excitement to rambling chats down the local bar. I could act mysteriously and tell people the well-rehearsed line ‘If I told you what my job was I would have to kill you!' It would give justification to my simple existence. People would think I was living in run-down studio flat due to being on assignment, in role you might say, playing the part of an ‘Average Joe' whilst really leading a much more exciting lifestyle.
Yes, a job at MI5 would be the answer to life's tedious routine.
A letter of instructions explaining the format of the assessment and interview had been sent to me, but in the excitement, and the daydreaming, the documents had been left at home. On the kitchen table, it still lay unread.
If this letter had been read, I would have known that the first part of the test was the PAPA, a Psycho-Analytical Personality Assessment. One hundred simple questions, about likes and dislikes, views and opinions. There were also the times for panel interviews after the PAPA was completed.
I walked through the Portcullis of MI5 headquarters with intrepidation, pausing to marvel the stone architecture of the prestigious building. A tall thin grey-haired man was standing by the entrance pillar and gave me a nod.
He then spoke quietly in a secretive tone. “Watch out for the lunatic lady! Day release from the Asylum,” he whispered, and pointed at a rather strange looking woman wandering in the forecourt.
Despite not knowing who this old man was, or approving of his choice of language, I was still glad of the warning because this odd woman was directly approaching me. Hobbling with a distinctive limp, and smiling inanely, she was showing off her discoloured crooked teeth. I wondered why I always seemed to be a magnet for the oddballs!
“PAPA?” she said hopefully.
Oh crumbs, I was taken aback by her calling me Papa, and the initial suspicions that this poor lady had psychological issues were confirmed. What to do? Play along in the Daddy role, or disappoint the poor woman by telling her I was not her father?
“PAPA over here,” she said pointing over to a blue door in the corner of the courtyard.
I stood still, wondering how best to reply?
My mind ticked over, considering whether it was best to play along with the Daddy-Daughter charade, at the risk of this poor soul being encouraged to increase attachment. She might want to follow me home and become some kind of ‘scary daughter stalker', convinced of my parenthood! Taking a deep breath while weighing up the options, it seemed like a no-win situation.
“Yes I'm Papa,” I mumbled quietly.
The woman looked at me with a content expression and said, “Been waiting for you.” Touching me on the arm she walked me across the courtyard to the corner door.
Oh no trust this to happen, I thought to myself, now she thinks I am the father she has been waiting for all her life, there will be no chance of ever getting rid of her!
This was my first interview, and the last thing anyone would want is a deluded surrogate daughter ruining it. She stopped outside the blue door and looked at me expectantly.
Deciding honesty was the best approach I spoke firmly, “Sorry I am not your father.”
“Not D A D D Y,” I repeated shaking my head strongly to aid comprehension.
The words left my mouth at about the same time my eyes fell upon the laminated card pinned on the door stating, ‘PAPA TEST, 11 A.M.'
Augghhh! I cringed, it was not the best of starts.
The test environment was basic, just like being back at school. Perched on tight chairs, under separate small wobbly desks, placed in regimental rows. The instructions on the paper said to make a black pen cross completely in either of the boxes labelled Yes or No.
Simple and straightforward? In theory, however nearing the end it had become repetitive and confusing. The same questions cropped up throughout the PAPA in different ways.
Are you a friendly person?
Do you have many friends?
Friends are the most important thing in life?
A friend to many is a friend to none?
It was impossible to be consistent with previous answers. These question writers at MI5 certainly knew how to interrogate subjects into states of confusion.
The very last question had me thinking:
Q 100) Are you more of a rule breaker than a rule maker?
Never having been one for rules and regulations, it was tempting to mark Yes for being a rule breaker! Then with a mischievous muse, and believing it was all a lost cause anyway, I recalled the instructions that the response had to be a cross within either the Yes or No squares. Defiantly I put a large tick right out of either box just to prove how much of a rule breaker I really was!
The panel interview was similarly disastrous. As chance would have it, the chief interviewer was the ‘Demented daughter-stalker!'
“Jack Townsend,” she said inquisitively, “would you like to explain your outburst earlier?”
Trying to justify confusing the chief of MI5 for someone with deep-routed parent issues, was difficult, even with the explanation that an old man at the entrance had given misleading information. The circumstances and motivations of which still puzzled me.
??
?It was nothing to do with your limp, or even the teeth,” I added hopefully.
She scowled, pointed to the door, and shouted, “Out!”
Leaving the MI5 interview room in a despondent mood, was a stark contrast to the buoyant optimism shown on the way in, just a few hours earlier. It was then I spotted the old grey-haired man again, still standing under the Portcullis archway. Even though he had jinxed my job chances, he had the audacity to introduce himself with confidence.
“Hello again, I am The Professor.”
“Professor what?" I replied
“That's right, Professor What,” shaking my hand with congratulations and announcing, “You've got the job… not at MI5, but a higher post, at MI.E.”
“I've never heard of MI.E.?” I stammered.
“Not surprising Jack – The Ministry of Excuses is so secret, even we don't know we exist,” he said seriously!
I was just about to walk away, and write him off as a crazy crank, but he continued.
“As a key part of the Establishment, it is vital we are able to recruit a free-thinker who can tick outside the box!”
It struck me that he was reading my mind, and it was this that compelled me to stick with the bizarre conversation. This one comment, that insightful remark, had me transfixed. Just how did he know about my rule breaking tick out of the box?
The next hour was a blur. Whisked away in a black London taxi, the Professor took me to MI.E headquarters – a tatty office in a dilapidated old building on the outskirts of