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  He was now in his bed sitter, “between jobs” and feeling quite sorry for himself. His room was in a dilapidated basement flat, an oasis of poverty in Elm Park Gardens, just off the fashionable middle reaches of the Fulham Road. He had lived there for almost 3 years. The flat was owned by a once successful journalist, Angus Merchant whom, through a combination of alcohol and depression, had lost his way in life. Perhaps not surprisingly, Tom had met Angus in the local pub not far from Elm Park Gardens.

  Tom was a keen pub quiz competitor and through this had met Charlie, an elderly and bright eccentric with excellent general knowledge. Tom would seek out the old man with his unkempt mottled beard and would usually team up with him for the monthly quizzes. They enjoyed each other’s company and Tom did not mind being forced to learn all sorts of trivia. Tom was able to recite the winning FA cup teams and most of the racing classic winners from 1945 onwards as well as other “little gems” that he was told could clinch a close quiz. Although Tom took his instruction seriously, he could not remember a single quiz night when a little gem made any significant difference. “But Tom, my dear boy, having these facts at your finger tips will one day save your bacon. Trust me on that one.” It was through Charlie that he had met Angus Merchant who rather liked the idea of taking Tom in as a paying guest in order to make ends meet.

  Angus Merchant had been a successful feature writer and did a short spell as a deputy editor. It was this latter assignment that had been his final undoing. He was already used to a life of liquid lunches in Fleet Street and did much of his research through face to face encounters in restaurants, clubs and pubs all over London. When he was promoted to deputy editor he kept the same routine and eventually was sacked. He found it impossible to re-establish his previous position and so his spiralling journey of decline had begun. He was still able to get the odd article into print, but his influence with the broadsheet editors had all but disappeared. In the summer time, he would wear a crumpled cream jacket, a poor choice given his deteriorating personal hygiene. The rest of the time, he would wear a light tweed suit with or without a waistcoat depending on the order in which the items presented themselves, having been scattered the night before. He would occasionally be touched by the threads of habits past and put a carnation in his button hole or apply a splash of aftershave. At most other times he was lucky to remember to shave.

  Tom did his best to avoid his landlord whom would either be drunk or hung over and looking for sympathy. He had enough money to last about two more weeks and realised that he had to pull himself out of this rut and find proper employment. It was after his second coffee and the dipping of the last of the custard creams that he finally had a glimpse of a realistic future. He had seen an advertisement for an assistant in the Faculty of Natural Sciences at Imperial College; an engineering background, practical approach to problem solving and good interpersonal skills were demanded. In order to stand any chance of getting this job he had to sort himself out.

  First, he needed to work on his CV. He managed to reduce it from four pages of loosely connected facts to a punchy one pager of condensed life which he was able to re-type on an electric typewriter in the Imperial College student union office. The application form was straight forward and he delivered the large A4 envelope in person.

  It took 5 days before his application was acknowledged and by now Tom had been forced to find yet another temping job. He was delivering leaflets for a marketing company. He had been chased by a pair of dogs, propositioned by a lady older than his mother and had the start of a blister on his left heel. His mobile rang and a secretary in the Imperial College Faculty of Natural Sciences invited him for an interview the following week. The remaining leaflets in his satchel were stuffed into the letter boxes at the next block of flats – perhaps someone would benefit from 70 or more half price yogurts or was it home delivery pizza today? He needed to focus his full effort on the coming interview. It was now Thursday and the interview was at 10am next Tuesday.

  Tom Brooker’s wardrobe consisted of one tatty Austin Reed jacket, countless pairs of jeans, most of which needed burning, a variety of cheap shirts and some grubby sweaters. He went shopping that afternoon and was surprised to find that Marks and Spencer in the Kings Road had everything he needed.

  The following day Tom showered early and dressed in his new “interview” clothes. He looked in the mirror and was pleased with the minor transformation. He was no longer the grubby student but the five o’clock shadow looked scruffy. He quickly took off the jacket, tie and shirt and had a wet shave and made an effort to trim his sideboards. He was not happy with the final result as his hair looked even longer sitting atop his now whisker free face. He reluctantly decided that it was time for a haircut. He went around the corner onto the Fulham Road and spent fifteen minutes reading a year old copy of “What Car?” followed by five minutes of hollow banter from Wayne, the spotty youth with the scissors. Perhaps he should have paid an extra £5 and had Nigel but Wayne seemed to be doing a good job. When the minor ordeal was over he went back to his bed-sit and had a second shower to get rid of the loose hair clippings. He put his smart clothes on again and hardly recognised the young man staring back at him from the mirror. He removed the tie, unbuttoned the jacket and set off for Imperial College.

  His plan was to find out everything he could about the job on offer and try to get some additional intelligence from the girls working in the Faculty of Natural Sciences admin office. What a morning he had. On the way to Imperial he bumped into Charlie who was also walking towards Exhibition Road. “You need to do everything you can to get this job. When it comes to the interview, trust your instincts and whatever you do – be yourself. Make sure you tell them how good you are with your hands – they want a practical type just like you.” Tom liked the old man but had had enough of his company by the time they reached the college.

  Jasmine, the newly promoted office manager, was slightly flattered to be asked so many questions by this rather nice young man. He discovered that only three other applicants had been invited for interview. The Physics Department had created this job by amalgamating the responsibilities of two other posts which had been vacant for over six months. They wanted an intelligent individual, able to tackle almost any practical task, and someone with the gumption to work unsupervised. None of the other applicants had degrees but one had been doing similar work elsewhere in the University of London. The salary was published as £17,000 but would be reviewed after 6 months and should rise to £19,000 by the end of the first year. “Well done Jasmine”, he thought as he made his way back into Exhibition Road.

  Over the coming three days the euphoria turned into excitement which then became anticipation and finally reduced to nervous dread. Despite making some effort to prepare for this interview his old nerves had returned and he feared another failure. He walked the mile or so to Exhibition Road and into Imperial College. The familiar buildings were a blur, voices echoed without meaning and then he was in the waiting room. Another candidate was still in the interview room. He kept looking at his watch. Every sweep of the second hand deepened the hollow in his stomach. His ordeal was made worse by the odd burst of laughter from the interview room. Eventually the other candidate emerged, smiling and looking very relaxed.

  “Should I go now and save the embarrassment?” he thought. There was a further delay. His watch face was blurred, he was perspiring despite the air conditioning and his heart was in overdrive. He walked across the room for the seventh time under the punishing gaze of the secretary. “Get a grip, you fool. She will tell them how nervous you are.” The door opened behind him. “Ah, Mr Brooker.” A stocky man in a crumpled grey suit filled the doorway. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Do come through. The board are ready for you now.” The grey suit swayed its way to the far end of a long mahogany table. The chair in the middle of one long side of the table was empty. On the other long side sat three men and one woman. None of them looked very friendly. On the left hand end of the table was
the grey suit settling back into his chair. On the right hand end was a familiar face, Jasmine. Tom managed a brief smile which was not acknowledged. How could there have been laughter in this room just a few minutes ago?

  “Right, let’s get cracking.” The chairman of the Board was sitting at the centre of the table directly opposite the empty chair. “Let me introduce the Board. On my right is Dr Jane Humphreys. She is on secondment from The Massachusetts Institute of Technology and is an expert in molecular photometry. On my immediate left is Dr Ian George, an Astro Physics specialist, and next to him is Professor James Gordon who is leading our research in bio-molecular magnetics. You met Mr Broadbent at the door. He is our deputy in Human Resources and finally we have Miss Jasmine Archbold who is secretary to the Board.” The Astro wizard leant across and muttered in the Chairman’s ear. “Oh yes, I am Professor Martin McClean, Natural Sciences Faculty Principal.”

  Tom was still halfway between the door and the vacant chair. He felt paralysed but knew that he had to make the three extra steps to the chair. It felt like an eternity but he made it. Palms sweating, heart pounding and head swimming, he fought to compose himself. “Do sit down Mr Brooker…and do relax.” The Chairman extended his hand towards the vacant chair. “We are here to find out about you so that should not be too much of a challenge, should it?” Was it sarcasm or just an unfortunate phrase? Tom’s heart raced.

  “Tell us a bit about yourself,” invited the Chairman. Tom had expected this question. “Well, my late father was an engineer. He started his career with British Rail and finished with British Airways. He encouraged me to make things, take them apart to mend and sometimes make improvements. I went to the Grammar School in Salisbury. By my GCSE year I was convinced that I wanted to become an architect but Dad felt that engineering would be better. I must admit that I did enjoy things mechanical and was quite content to read mechanical engineering here at Imperial. I did quite well in my first and second years but had a disastrous third year. There were some family problems that came to a head during the lead up to my finals. I don’t want this to sound like an excuse for my poor showing at the exams but it did upset me quite a bit. Anyway, I got a Desmond and so here I am.” Tom sat back feeling that he had got the pitch about right.

  “Mr Brooker,” Professor Gordon lent forward, “what is a Desmond?” Tom smiled and noticed that Jasmine had a cheeky grin on her face. “It’s a second class honours degree sir, a Two Two… Desmond Tutu.” That seemed to go down well and even made the crusty Chairman chuckle. “Oh, and I forgot to mention that I played rugby for the College and founded the Imperial College HG Wells Society.” He paused as he noticed the expressions of curiosity across the table. “HG Wells attended the Royal College of Science here in Kensington before it became Imperial. He didn’t finish his studies due to ill health and that was when his writing career started.” Tom sat back again. Professor Gordon responded “I am glad that you entered into college life and how interesting. I am a great fan of HG Wells but had never heard of your HG Wells Society.” The Chairman moved the interview forward. “Yes, most interesting Mr Brooker.”

  The ice had been broken and Tom felt a little better, but now the assault began. “Do you envisage making a career in this field?” “What measuring instruments would you need to determine the strength and frequency of a series of magnetic pulses?” “Why is glass brittle?” “Can you explain why you have had no meaningful employment since graduating?” “If you could choose an assistant from two candidates would you choose the clever lazy one or the industrious fool?” “You were introduced to the Board. Can you now tell me the names of everyone in this room?” Tom was not doing well and felt worse after getting only three of the names right. He did remember Jasmine’s name and her smile helped a lot.

  Professor Gordon asked, “Why should we choose you Mr Brooker?” Tom surprised himself with his reply. “Sir, I am a very practical person. I am not afraid to have a go at anything.” He glanced up at the clock in the middle of the wall behind the table. “That clock is not working. I have no doubt that I could make it work whether it is battery powered or clockwork. I might not be able to remember the right measuring instruments for magnetic pulses but I could make an electromagnet. I may have failed to impress you but this is such an artificial situation for me. Give me the screwdriver and spanner or tell me what needs to be fixed and I can do it. I believe that if you start a job, then you should see it through. I am not a clock watcher and am not the type to skive off or neglect my duties. If you do take a chance with me, I promise that I will not let you down.” He sat back and did his best to appear calm as he surfed the remains of the adrenaline rush. There was a brief silence as his words were digested.

  “Well, do you have any questions for us Mr Brooker?” asked the Chairman. Tom had no question lined up but felt that he had to ask something. “I am not certain whether I will be responsible to an individual senior member of staff or whether I will be a resource for many to task?” Tom sat back.

  “The successful applicant,” began the Chairman making a point about the presumption in Tom’s question, “will work directly for Professor Gordon but may, as required, be seconded to work elsewhere in the Faculty but this would most likely be confined to the Physics Department.” Tom smiled. With that the interview was concluded. As Tom said farewell, the Chairman said “We will write to you in due course, Mr Brooker.”

  Tom walked briskly down Exhibition Road recalling every painful moment of the interview. “How should I know how to measure magnetic fluxes and how come they seemed so relaxed with the other candidate?” He waited to cross Cromwell Road and decided that this was not his finest hour and that alternative employment should be sought as soon as possible. He decided to drop in at the temping agency on Gloucester Road and see what work was available. Once there, he spent fifteen minutes looking through the various vacancies displayed on the main notice board. Nothing caught his eye and so he sat down and waited for one of the staff to be free. An hour later he was no better off and walked back towards the Fulham Road and his basement room. It was nearly 2 o’clock and he was very hungry. After a very quick plate of beans on toast he set off again to sign back on with Kensington Security Solutions, expecting to be back in work before the end of the week.

  Tom had resolved to stick with the security job for as long as possible in order to build up some savings. He thought that it was time that he went down to the south of France to visit his mother, but without a car that would be difficult. Perhaps he should save up for a motorbike. He took every bit of work that the security company offered him and amazed his supervisor by working every day over the Christmas holiday. This had two advantages for Tom. It meant that he was not at a loose end, or stuck on his own at Christmas and he was paid double time. By the middle of January he was working a more reasonable four shifts a week and was able to resume a modest social life. He had contacted Jasmine hoping to get a date but she was still playing hard to get.

  In mid February he was assigned to guard an electro-plating works in Battersea. His first 4 night shifts had been very quiet and he had even managed to squeeze in a couple of hours sleep between routine check-in calls. Tuesday night was different. The plating works was on the outskirts of Battersea, at the end of a lane and surrounded by derelict industrial buildings. As he rode his ageing moped up the bumpy track he saw the familiar signs “Warning Security Zone. Kensington Security Guard Dogs on Patrol.” He was partly amused by the sign and partly uneasy as he represented the sum total of security for this rather isolated site. “Woof!” he said to himself.

  At about 1 am, he heard some noises from the area near the road. From his window he could see three young men attempting to climb the five foot high main gate. He followed the Kensington Security procedure to the letter. He first called their emergency number. He simply gave the four digit code for his job and put the phone down. He then went to a place of relative safety from where he could continue to observe the criminal activity. He was not
there long. One of the youths had fallen from the top of the gate and was lying on the ground on the inside of the perimeter fencing. The others had run away leaving the injured youth screaming in pain. Nobody could hear the boy’s distress call except Tom. He ran out to the front gate as quickly as he could. He should have been more wary. As he started to bend down by the side of the youth on the ground the screaming stopped and was replaced by a broad grin. He was hit from behind. Luckily the lump of wood that smashed into his shoulder broke and reduced the significance of the blow. It had been aimed at his head but alcohol and drugs had spoilt his assailant’s eye. Tom was quick, he had made great efforts to maintain his fitness and his rugby training was serving him well. He hit the youth who held the now broken stick, squarely in the face. He pushed the one who had been screaming back to the ground and kicked him very hard in the groin. The third miscreant was starting to climb back up the gate when Tom grabbed him by the feet and jerked him back down. The teenager fell badly with most of the impact taken on his chin. His jaw was broken and he just sat whimpering with his back to the gate. Then, Tom noticed the return of a familiar foe. The darkness was setting in as he began to lose his balance. He collapsed in a heap and lost consciousness.