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  By now the police had arrived and were quick to climb over the gate. The three scruffy youths were making no attempt to run away. They were only fourteen or fifteen years old and had all been drinking. Tom had only been unconscious for a minute but now he was coming to, he recognised the messages from his senses that he had felt several times before. His condition had never been presented to a doctor and so remained undiagnosed. Tom knew that when he became angry and his adrenaline levels were high enough he could lose consciousness. It had happened first at home, when he was just ten years old, during a dreadful argument between his parents. Tom had stepped in to try and stop the shouting when the darkness first afflicted him. His mother thought that he had been hit by his father when he collapsed to the floor. There were several other occasions during his school years, but in each case it escaped detailed investigation. During his time as a student at Imperial it had happened twice, both times on the rugby field, but it was thought to have been a knock on the head or winding. Tom did not want to talk or even think about this problem as he was convinced that it would go away.

  The taller of the two policemen, PC Jackson, ran to the boy with the broken jaw and then radioed for an ambulance. The youth who had been kicked in the groin shouted “That bastard tried to kill us, we was only getting our football!” He continued to rub the nether reaches of his groin. Tom was sitting up and felt able to stand despite the buzzing in his head. He was desperately trying to put together the sequence of events. He remembered making the telephone call to Kensington Security but he was not sure how he came to be near the gate to the road. The second policeman, a Sergeant, looked at the three youths and then turned to Tom, “Bloody carnage here mate. I think we got here just in time, don’t you?” It was a rhetorical and deliberately sarcastic remark. The policemen took brief statements from two of the boys which gave Tom the extra time that he needed to piece together what had actually happened. They were unable to have any form of dialogue with the lad with the broken jaw and so the Sergeant turned to Tom. “So what do you think happened here Tarzan?” he asked. Tom did not like the attitude of either of the policemen but told his story in as calm a manner as he could manage. He could not be sure that he had remembered everything but deliberately did not mention his brief moment of darkness.

  The Sergeant showed little emotion at any stage. “That lad there says that you attacked them and that was the only reason he hit you with the stick.” Tom made no attempt to correct the story. “He also said that you had said that you were going to kill them. Is that true?” Tom could not be sure if he had made a threat but denied the allegation and reiterated his own account. “As soon as I saw these guys climbing the gate I phoned for help. I only came out from the building when I thought this little bastard was hurt.” There were small beads of sweat on Tom’s forehead and his heart was pounding as he struggled to defend his actions. He was desperately trying to remain calm and not spark another fainting attack.

  The ambulance was just nearing the top of the lane and PC Jackson asked Tom to unlock the gate. Behind the ambulance was a Kensington Security patrol car. Whilst Jackson and the ambulance crew were busy with the three boys, the Sergeant took Tom to one side. “Look lad. This does not look good for you. I know these boys are not angels but not one of them is sixteen. You’ve got no witness to defend your story. If you end up in court, the judge will take one look at your size and your fitness and he’ll side with these scrawny little shits.” The man from Kensington Security had heard most of the conversation. “My sheet tells me this site’s got CCTV so that should ‘elp, wotcha fink?” The Sergeant did not reply but went straight to the back of the ambulance to assess the injuries.

  “You did a good job ‘ere then young man.” said the patrolman “Pity I ain’t got me cam’ra.” Tom felt very uneasy. “What do you think is going to happen? I was just trying to help the youngster who I thought had fallen. They jumped me. I was just defending myself.” Tom looked around for somewhere to sit, his head was still a little fuzzy. He perched on the edge of a stack of broken pallets and cradled his head in his hands. He was not there long before the police sergeant beckoned him to the police car. In the back of the car Tom was formally cautioned and warned that he may be charged with assault. In a strange way Tom felt relieved as the scale of his plight was clearer and there was still some hope.

  It was several hours before order was restored to this run down corner of Battersea. The Kensington Security patrolman had to take responsibility for the site. The ambulance took two of the boys to hospital accompanied by PC Jackson. A second police car eventually arrived to take the third boy to Battersea Police Station. Tom was also driven there by the police sergeant.

  The arrival processing at the police station took forever. Identities had to be stated and verified, pockets were emptied, fingerprints and DNA samples taken and finally the police caution was repeated. By now it was nearly 7am on Thursday morning and much to Tom’s surprise he was given breakfast. Tom waited in a cramped and smelly cell until after 9am when the detailed work of questioning, formal checking of statements and cross questioning took place. A duty solicitor provided Tom some support but did not discourage the aggressive and often humiliating police questioning. By the end of that day Tom was charged with common assault which the duty solicitor confided was far better than the potential charge of grievous bodily harm which had been a possibility. Tom was feeling tired, lonely and dispirited and he was totally crushed when he was told that he would have to remain in the police cells until his remand hearing in court, probably on the following Monday or Tuesday.

  He was offered the use of a telephone to call a family member or a close friend. This offer made him even more dejected. He did not see the point of contacting his mother in France and he had no siblings to offer comfort. There was also no girlfriend. He felt so wretched that he could not help the tears that streamed down his cheeks. The duty constable took pity on him. “There must be someone who needs to know where you are. What about a friend, if you don’t want your mother involved?” Tom shook his head and stared back across the interview room table at the young policeman. He then realised “My bloody rent is due today. I better call my landlord.”

  Tom was allowed access to his mobile phone in order to look up the landlord’s number but he was not allowed to use it to make any calls despite there being three missed calls and several text messages. He was able to see that two of the missed calls were from Imperial College but his mobile telephone was taken away before he could read any of his text messages.

  Life in police custody was dreadful. Having been charged, the rules did not allow Tom to be questioned any further and so he was left on his own in his tiny, smelly cell. No, he would not be allowed to use his mobile phone and no, there is nothing to read – “this is a police station, not a bloody library”. About every three hours the spy hole in the cell door would slide open for a brief moment and then clang shut again. The minutes seemed like hours and the slightest noise made him sit up in the hope of company, a visit or release. Supper was delivered on a plastic tray with a plastic plate and a plastic spoon. The lumpy stew was barely warm and not at all appetising. He found sleep difficult, not least because the lights were on all of the time. He dozed, woke up, walked around and then dozed again. At 7am on Friday morning his cell door was opened and he was given his breakfast tray. He declined the chance of a visit from the police doctor and was again refused access to his mobile phone: “I’m not a bloody terrorist. I just want to keep my life ticking over.”

  Several more hours went by and then, shortly before 11am, he was ushered back towards one of the interview rooms. He had a visitor, Jasmine. He told her everything. “Oh Tom, what a mess. You’ve got the job. I typed the letter last Friday and posted it myself. When I had heard nothing by Wednesday morning I tried to call your mobile and sent you a text as well. Then yesterday morning, I had a phone call from someone called Charlie who said that you had missed your pub quiz night and that your landlord k
new what was going on. Well, that evening, after work, I went to your flat and this awful man, he stank of booze, said that you were here. He said that you had missed your rent and he was going to throw your stuff out. I wasn’t sure what to do and so I called in sick this morning and went to the cash machine and paid your rent for you. Then I came here.”

  They sat across the table from each other in silence for a moment. Neither knew what more should be said. “Oh, thanks for paying my rent. I’ll pay you back as soon as they let me see daylight again. I think they expect me to go to court early next week. I’m sure that things will be fine once I can explain everything. Look, you won’t mention this to anyone at Imperial will you? I really want the job.”

  Jasmine could see the hopeless look in his eyes and hear the desperation in his voice “No problem. I’ll tell James that you called to accept the offer.” He brightened up and, for the first time in days, managed a smile. “Who’s James?” he asked. Jasmine was relieved to see him cheer up. “Professor James Gordon – you met him at the interview – he’s your new boss. Don’t let him hear you refer to him as James though. You must call him Professor Gordon.” She said. “When does he expect me to start work? I may be tied up sorting this lot out for at least a week. It could be more.” Tom sat back in his chair. Jasmine paused, then replied. “Well, if it was up to James you would have been there the day after the interview. But, despite what he might say you can’t start work until after the 5th of April as the funding only starts in the new financial year. So you’ve got 5 weeks to get your life in order. It would be useful for you to drop into my office as soon as you can, so we can sort out the paperwork.”

  Tom was feeling much more positive now in many ways, “Well, of course I will be there as soon as I can – I would like to see you again anyway.” He felt that he had broken the ice but Jasmine became defensive. “Oh Tom, you’re really sweet but I’m..” she hesitated, “I don’t want any complication okay?” Tom gave a false smile and looked down into his hands.

  The duty constable looked at his watch for the third time and then ushered Jasmine out of the room and took Tom back to his cell. Tom’s emotions were certainly being tested. He sat back down on the narrow bed and soon got back into the habit of listening to every tiny noise outside his cell. Lunch would be next, or so he thought. The duty constable collected him again and took him back to the interview room. No, Jasmine had not returned. Instead there was the familiar face of the duty solicitor and the police sergeant who had originally arrested Tom at the plating works. The sergeant looked grim. “Thomas Brooker, I am Sergeant Morris and you know Mr Franks the duty solicitor. Your case has been reviewed by the Criminal Prosecution Service and the charge against you is to be withdrawn. You will however, still have the police caution on your record. You are free to go.” Sergeant Morris’s expression changed. He had completed the formal part of his duty. “In my view Mr Brooker, you are a very lucky young man. You need to thank your Kensington Security people for getting the video from that night to us pretty sharpish. It just about backs up your side of the story, although it might not have stood up to court scrutiny. Still it was enough for the three young men to admit their side of things.”

  Tom was delighted, of course, but he was also concerned “Why do I still have this police caution hanging over me? Surely I am completely innocent.” The Sergeant responded in a business-like way “In cases like these, we have to examine the facts and assess whether your reaction was proportionate to the threat or violence that you experienced at the time. We, the Police, thought that you were excessive in your response to the attack but the Crown Prosecution Service took a different view. They have concluded that there was an element of doubt that could only be tested in court. This doubt concerned your assessment of the scale of the attack and whether you thought that you were in a fight for life situation.”

  The duty solicitor took the Sergeant’s point forward. “It is very simple, Mr Brooker. If you were made to appear in court the outcome would depend on the strength of argument or performance of the barristers and judge on the day. A strong prosecution line would focus on the age and size of the boys. Unarmed, not one of them presented any real threat to you. The law is a little weak in this area and Sergeant Morris is right in what he says. Now, if this proves to be a one-off incident then you have nothing to fear. I would advise you not to challenge the police caution as there is too great a risk that one or more of the young men you hit might see an unfavourable outcome as a reason or even justification to pursue you in the civil courts for damages.”

  Tom was grateful that a line had been drawn under the whole business and was only too pleased to be out of the police station and on his way home. He had a lot to sort out; some back pay, the whereabouts of his trusty moped, the money that he owed to Jasmine and preparations for his new job. The next couple of weeks just flew by.

  Chapter 3 – Hush Hush

  The business with the police was now almost forgotten and Tom was beginning to settle into his new role as “Mr Fixit” for Professor Gordon. Tom felt that the job had the right balance between routine duties and new challenges and he was delighted to have the freedom, for most of the time, to use his initiative. He was grateful for the help that Jasmine had given him but wished that they could be more than just friends.

  James Gordon was old fashioned but, at 51 years, did not consider himself to be old. He kept himself fit with occasional squash or badminton and loved walking, especially in London. He liked scientific precision but was a hopeless administrator and all too often forgot quite important deadlines. He considered his research to be the second most important thing in his life. His wife, Alison, meant more to him than everything and everyone else in the World. Either Alison would telephone him during the day or he would telephone her. They had no children, just each other, held together by the strongest of bonds. For this reason he had not forced the pace of his career and, like a leaf in a stream, was content to bob from here to there as chance would dictate. His academic career had been somewhat spectacular none the less. He was one of the youngest scientists to be awarded the prestigious Hughes Medal from the Royal Society for his work in magnetism. He was chosen by the BBC to introduce and contribute to an occasional series of television programmes about science in society. Although not noted for his teaching ability, he was always popular with his students and had even been known to risk a beer in the student union on very special occasions. In recent years his academic load had reduced to make way for his research which was considered by the Faculty of Natural Sciences and Imperial College to be of the highest priority. His work had attracted considerable sponsorship from the medical industry, the UK Government Department of Health and several European institutions. The Professor was not a “political” man and he steered clear of the cut and thrust of college matters, and for this reason did not benefit from the entirety of his sponsorship grants. It did not matter, the work progressed at a satisfactory rate, there were never any arguments over resources or money and the output of the research was welcomed by every sponsor.

  The new financial year brought in additional sponsorship grants and for the first time in his career Professor Gordon had to spread his knowledge and expertise across two quite different areas of research. His traditional work on magnetic resonance remained balanced between the Institute of Biomedical Engineering and the Faculty of Natural Sciences. His new work, for the UK Ministry of Defence, was classified and would be funded through existing UK Treasury channels set up for other MoD work undertaken by Imperial College. Although Tom was not told, his employment was entirely funded through this new research line and there would be no question of him being tasked by anyone other than Professor Gordon. The hush-hush work did bring with it some special challenges. The first such challenge came to light during the visit of Inspector Morton-Farrell from the Home Office. He was in fact a Metropolitan Policeman in Special Branch but assigned to a small department that looked after the security aspects of highly sensitive G
overnment projects. The meeting took place in Professor Gordon’s cramped and scruffy office, tucked into the rear corner of his smaller research laboratory.

  The policeman was perfunctory. “Professor, the purpose of my visit today is to ensure that the necessary security procedures are initiated and that you are familiar with the significance of Project Argus.” Morton-Farrell paused only long enough to make a note that the door was shut and that their conversation was to be private. “First of all, I must see your college photographic ID and check that you are the real Professor Gordon.” This caused some mild amusement which Morton-Farrell ignored. “Date of birth? Town and county where you were born?” He checked the answers with the notes in his notebook. “You may recall Professor that you were required to provide some details for the Defence Vetting Agency, about two years ago?” At first the Professor took this to be a statement but after a pregnant pause said “Sorry, yes. I do remember. Loads of questions about parents, relations, addresses and foreign travel.” The policeman’s tone was impatient. “I want you to tell me now who else you consider needs to have access to information relating to the research that you will be conducting, under Project Argus. Then we can initiate similar vetting procedures for them.” Morton-Farrell stared directly into the Professor’s eyes. James Gordon soon looked away as he thought carefully. “My new research assistant, Tom Brooker, is obvious. I don’t have a secretary any more – we all seem to do our own typing now. Oh, what about Professor Martin McClean, the Faculty Principal, and the rest of the hierarchy for that matter?”