One Year At A Time - Year 1

 

YO-YO

1. A Brief Introduction

Offhand, I can’t think of anyone who looks good in a purple suit, with the possible exception of Prince. And the jury remains out on that. Yet, here I am, resplendent in purple, pushing buttons and speaking only when I’m spoken to. Even the machine I pseudo-control has a voice, so the provision of basic, general information to uninterested individuals is something I don’t need to do. Unsure if I have an opinion about that.

In case you haven’t worked it out, I’m a lift attendant. Quite ironic, given how Prince died, but I digress. What, I hear you cry, they still exist? Yes, they do, but they’re a dying breed as technology continues to pick off the more rudimentary jobs in the world and automate without compassion or apology. There are certain parameters: -

            1. Such jobs are usually only available in bigger cities with tall buildings.

            2. Having a lift attendant is proof the employer wants to make a statement.

            3. Wearing garish clothing is mandatory.

            4. The job is not generally well-paid.

            5. You need to be aware that people who regularly travel in lifts are ignorant.

            6. By extension, lift attendants are masochists.

You don’t really want to know why I ended up applying for this job. That’s a statement rather than an open-ended response to a question. The bald truth is it’s what I do from 8am until 5pm each weekday, breaks excepted. I have the right profile; pleasant nature, introvert, well-mannered, tall, no scars or tattoos, no obvious accent, no halitosis, a full set of working limbs, good command of language, a nice smile, happy to work unsupervised and independently, and the ability to completely ignore the abuse often aimed in my direction by individuals who should know better but don’t. Being the perfect size to fit into an off the peg uniform helps too. It’s a shame it’s purple.

I have no real interest in what goes on in the offices beyond the lift doors. My responsibility is getting employees to and from these places quickly and efficiently. It’s what I get paid for. Of late though, I’ve reached a conclusion. It’s borne of spending an awful lot of time by myself. The people I travel with in my lift don’t care about me. If I disappeared tomorrow, no tears would be shed. I’m as important as yesterday’s news in a discarded paper, and equally anonymous.

Do I want respect? Do I need the thrill of acknowledgement? No more than anyone else, I think but, then again, I’m not anyone. Stuff has happened in my life that makes my view of the world slightly different to that of others. At least, that’s what the doctors tell me, and I always listen to such people as their comments are important, especially when I’m the subject of their pronouncements. It’s a shame they don’t seem to be able to find a way to make me properly well. Apparently, I’m existing but not thriving.

No-one was more surprised than me when I got the job. With hindsight, I now understand why the company was finding it difficult to recruit. It’s not for everybody, particularly those with a desire to communicate and a hatred of the colour purple. It might go some way to explaining how I succeeded at interview. That, and a partially fabricated CV, which I can only assume my employers never bothered to follow up. I’ve no idea why they should do this but it seems they did. One day, serious questions will be asked, because they should have done.

“What is your name?”

It’s Tuesday afternoon, around 3pm. The only passenger in my lift is the old man who asked me the question. He got in at the 21^st floor. We’re going down to the ground floor.

 “It’s Winston, sir,” I reply, slightly stunned that someone wants to speak to me.

“Are you ex-services? You have that look about you.”

“Yes, sir. Army.”

“Splendid. How long since you left?”

“Two years, sir.”

“Do you miss it?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, Winston – good name for a soldier, that – a word or ten of advice. Never assume that just because a company has offices in the nicer part of a town, it is somehow better than a competitor not so extravagantly located. Sherry, Brookman & Partners are a shower of bastards who want to charge me a fortune for below-average work they have undertaken on my behalf. I have just walked out of their luxury, well-appointed office on the 21^st floor after telling their most senior partner precisely what I think of him. He can shove his outrageous invoice for dreadful services rendered where the sun no longer shines.”

The automated voice announces we are approaching the ground floor. I prepare for the doors to open.

“Sorry to unload on you, Winston. It’s been a bit of a day. Thank you for listening.”

And, with that, the old man thrusts a £10 note into my hand.

“Get yourself a drink after work,” he tells me. “Remember what I’ve told you.”

The old man walks away. It’s the first time I’ve received a tip, even though I’ve been working here for one Christmas already. I look at the note, before pushing it into my pocket. It’s a lovely gesture, and so unexpected. I feel strangely angry about the treatment he received, even though it’s really nothing to do with me. I want to do something to help him.

2. A Change of Routine

On a normal day, what might be referred to as late-morning or early afternoon are my quietist times. Demand for my services, such as they are, is limited. I can only assume my clients, as my employer inexplicably likes to refer to the individuals who use my lift, are hard at whatever work they do. I try to keep busy, but sometimes time passes so slowly. I have sometimes invented games to play in my head to pass the time.

However, since my conversation with the man who gave me £10 last week, I’ve started to take an interest in the 21^st floor. If the lift stops there, I peer through its doors and try to imagine what goes on inside the offices of Sherry, Brookman and Partners. I’m starting to recognise the faces of clients who get in and out there regularly.

I Googled the company from my flat recently. Their website is impressive. They specialise in all aspects of company law. There are photos of all the senior partners, smiling into the camera and trying to look respectable. I didn’t recognise any of them, so I must assume they arrive before I start work and finish after I do. Long hours with massive salaries to compensate. I imagine it’s not the kind of work that can be done from home.

The games I’ve been playing to pass the time have stopped. Instead, I’m wondering what the fallout was from the discussion between the senior partner and the man I spoke to in the lift. Which senior partner was involved? Was someone sacked for what they did to upset the man? Was there a massive argument within the offices after he left? Did anyone actually care about what happened? My curiosity knows no limits.

It’s Wednesday afternoon, almost 2.30. The doors close as the lift’s presence is required on the 21^st floor. I feel a small tingle of excitement as I travel upwards. What will I see? Who needs to exit the building at this time? Will I recognise anyone? It’s not a long journey, but I look around the lift to make sure it’s presentable. I need to make a good impression.

The lift doors open. Three men get in, one requesting the ground floor in a foreign accent. Each holds a shiny briefcase. I push the button; the doors close, the automated voice explains what’s happening and the journey begins. There is no conversation. The men look downwards, as though checking their shoes remain suitable for purpose. I look at the clients. Their faces are expressionless. One is a senior partner – I recognise him from the company website. I don’t know the other two.

Within seconds, our destination is reached. More automated announcements. The doors begin to open.

The foreign-sounding man suddenly swears. He does so in English.

“Shit! I’ve left my phone in the office. I’ll have to go back and get it. Where will you be?”

I’m not great on accents, but this man sounds Greek. He speaks excellent English though.

“Around the corner, at Macallans. Can I order you a drink?”

This from the person I didn’t recognise.

“Whisky over ice. Glenmorangie by preference. I’ll see you in 10 minutes.”

The man stays in the lift, whilst his colleagues depart. The senior partner hasn’t spoken at all.

“Sorry about this,” he says to me. “Back to the 21^st floor please.”

I make the necessary arrangements, and the upward journey begins again as the announcements are made.

“You do this all day, every day?” the man asks, thankfully in English.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Jesus,” the man says. “You must enjoy your own company. And wearing purple.”

I make no comment.

The lift arrives back at the 21^st floor. More announcements as the doors open.

“Can you hold the lift here? I’ll only be a moment.”

Without waiting for a reply, the man gets out and disappears through some large doors. It’s not possible for me to detain the lift if other clients request collection, but it’s the quiet period so demand is non-existent. A potentially difficult situation is therefore avoided, but I can’t take credit for this. The man returns and we’re ready to descend again.

“Thank you,” the man says, although I’ve done nothing. He begins to check his phone as the automated announcement explains what is happening.

“Doesn’t that voice grate after a while?”

It does, but it’s not my place to say anything.

“Are you allowed to speak?” he asks suddenly.

“Yes sir,” I reply. “I did respond when you asked me something a few seconds ago.”

“So you did. I’m sorry, I forgot. It’s been a busy day.”

“It’s not a problem, honestly,” I tell him as I mentally prepare for more announcements. It stops me from thinking the man is an idiot. I will do that later when he’s gone.

The doors open, but the man stays in the lift.

“I couldn’t do your job,” the man says, shaking his head. “It would drive me mad. And that automated fucking voice! I’d want to smash the lift up after a while.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“You must be a low reactor. What’s your name?”

“It’s Winston, sir.”

No-one is calling for the lift. The man seems intent on talking to me rather than catch up with his colleagues. I wonder why.

“You have a nice face, Winston. What time do you finish your incredibly dull job today?”

I think I know the reason now.

“5pm, sir.”

“Do you know the Goodheart Hotel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m staying there tonight. Would you like to have a drink with me later, say 9pm?”

“That would be nice, sir.”

“Wonderful! I’ll see you in the bar then. I promise to give you my full attention. I’ll have finished my work by then. Please don’t wear that suit. Oh, and stop saying ‘sir’. It’s really not necessary.”

“Thank you, s…I promise I won’t wear this suit. 9pm in the bar. Looking forward to it.”

The man gripped my shoulder, before exiting the lift without saying anything more or looking back. He must be the kind of guy who’s used to getting his own way. A client on the 17^th floor interrupted my thought processes. Back to work.

When I arrived at the offices the next morning, there were police everywhere. I was initially prevented from entering the building until I explained who I was. Even then, I was taken to one side and interviewed briefly before I could enter the lift and start work.

It seems a gentleman of foreign extraction, who’d been visiting offices here on the 21^st floor yesterday, had been found dead in his hotel room at 5.30 this morning. After being shown a photograph of him, I confirmed he’d used the lift at around 2.30pm yesterday afternoon; twice in short order in fact, after he’d forgotten his phone and had to go back to the office to collect it. As far as I could recall, he’d said something about going for a drink with colleagues at somewhere called Macallans when he left the building. That’s all I said I knew.

Whilst cause of death hadn’t been established yet, the indications were it had been a grisly end. The policeman who interviewed me said so in excited but hushed tones. I think this must be his first involvement in a murder enquiry. Although I could confirm this was indeed the case, I wasn’t about to admit anything. Let’s just say if the man had answered my questions immediately and honestly, rather than mess me around, his demise would have been somewhat less gruesome.

3. Time Flies When You’re Having Fun

What had I found out from my interrogation of the soon-to-die foreign gentleman? Well, he was indeed Greek as suspected, and employed by Sherry, Brookman and Partners, but definitely not a gentleman. It’s been 2 weeks since his body was discovered, and I still have some bruises from our encounter. Not all of them can be blamed on the interrogation.

He denied all knowledge of involvement with the old man I wanted to help, and it took a long time for me to accept he was telling the truth. As he so eloquently put it as I produced my pliers to try to persuade him to stop lying to me, ‘Please! I look after SBP interests abroad. I’m not even a partner in the firm! I don’t know this person! Why are you so interested anyway? You’re only a lift attendant!’

Only! That word sealed his fate. Forgive me if I don’t go into details. I stole his passport as a memento. It’s well-hidden in my flat, along with others I’ve obtained over several years in various ways. Some of them are still valid. Is there a word for people who collect the passports of others? I would Google it, but I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Anyway, by virtue of the fact I’m still wearing a purple suit each day, it would seem the police haven’t managed to identify and arrest the murderer yet.

I don’t exactly hide in plain sight, but I’ve discovered over the years that I’m quite good at somehow blending into, rather than standing out from, a crowd. Being quiet and, as one person no longer in a position to offer a comment once eloquently described it to me, introspective, has its benefits. An ability to change one’s outward appearance also helps, especially in an environment where there may be a lot of CCTV cameras.

The excitable policeman has been back to the building where I work. He’s showed me a screen-grab of a person seen at the Goodheart Hotel on the night of the murder. Did I recall seeing him at any time that day? Yes is the correct answer, as it was how I looked in the mirror before I left my flat that night, but no was the answer I gave because I hadn’t looked like that whilst I was at work and I didn’t share my lift with anyone resembling the person in the screen-grab. Enquiries are apparently continuing.

It’s been very quiet on the 21^st floor. Those clients arriving and leaving the offices of Sherry, Brookman and Partners lately look upset, tired and fearful. The death of their colleague handling foreign interests has clearly had a profound effect on them. Good. I’m sure old man who was kind to me isn’t the only person they act for who is upset by their business practices. Maybe it will be a wake-up call for them to behave more honestly in future.

Thursday; early afternoon. My presence has been requested by someone from the 21^st floor. I still feel a thrill as my metal box glides upwards, silently and serenely, towards its destination. Everything is ready as the doors open to admit the client. And it’s not any old client either! It’s one of the senior partners, the one I recognised from the SBP website, who was with the now-deceased Greek gentleman on that fateful day not so long ago. As was the case then, he ignores me. He scans some papers in his hand instead.

The doors close, the automated announcement explains what is happening and the downward journey begins. The client is my only companion, not that it makes much difference. He says nothing. I look straight ahead, used as I am to the silence, and think. Would my life be improved if there was music playing in the lift? It depends on what music is playing, I suppose. Even if I liked it, and that’s a big ‘if’, I’m sure it would drive me mad after a while. I smile to myself in gratitude at the present arrangement.

“What’s so funny?” the client asks as the lift approaches ground level. He’s stopped reading.

“It’s nothing, sir” I reply.

“You’re laughing at me. Admit it.”

“No, sir, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Tell me why.”

I’m not sure which part of the person’s character I dislike most. Is it his arrogance, or the presumption he’s right? Or, maybe, both. Whatever it is, I’m suddenly annoyed.

“I’m not laughing at you, sir. I was smiling about something to do with my job here.” I wonder if he detected the new severity in my tone?

The doors open before the person can say anything else.

The person stays in the lift. He turns to face me. “You’re lying. I hate people who lie. Especially those people who should know better. I intend to report you to your superiors.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself?”

“It doesn’t matter what I say. You have already reached a conclusion and decision, both of which are wrong. You are both an idiot and a bully.”

“How dare you speak to me this way!”

“I’m simply telling you the truth. It’s something you appear to take great satisfaction in hearing. It’s no wonder the reputation of your company is appalling.”

“What do you, a jumped-up lift attendant in a hideous purple suit, know about my company? When did you become an expert in business? When I’ve finished speaking to your employer, you won’t even be able to get a job washing dishes. I intend to make an example of you.”

The client stormed off.

It was probably the phrase ‘jumped-up’ that did it. Something inside me snapped. I left the lift and followed him out of the building. But I was too late. The taxi he must have requested before leaving his office was moving away into the afternoon traffic with him in it. I returned to my place of work with murder in mind.

The policeman was no longer so excitable when I saw him the next day. In fact, he looked worried. I was taken to one side when I arrived, to be interviewed before I could begin work. It seems one of the senior partners at Sherry, Brookman and Partners was found dead in his flat late last night. Amongst other injuries, his tongue had been cut out. The suspicious death of one employee at SBP could be considered unfortunate, but two initiated a different investigative response. What information did I have that might assist the police in tracing a potential serial killer holding a grudge?

Being a lift attendant doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Well, not knowingly anyway, but that’s probably the same for most people. It’s a point that was lost on the senior partner. My employer has arrangements with several taxi companies. Using an unregistered mobile phone, I was able to contact the one who collected the senior partner and request the drop-off address, explaining some important papers had been dropped whilst he was getting into his taxi; papers he needed for a meeting later that evening.

Obviously, I didn’t use my own name, and I told the taxi company I’d make my own arrangements to deliver the papers. I admit I took a gamble on the partner waiting until the next day to report me following our discussion, a gamble that appears to have paid off. The look on his face when he opened the door of his flat was priceless. I’m not sure that description fitted so well when I produced my knife and forced him back into his flat so we could start our discussion.

The things you do to help people!

4. Endgame

I’ve been on TV. Correction: reconstructions of the events leading up to the recent murders of the two Sherry, Brookman and Partners employees have been shown on TV, with subsequent requests for help made by the police. Some grainy footage of a heavily disguised me entering a hotel prior to the first murder was also shown. I recorded the programme. Having slowed down the film afterwards, and studied it extremely carefully on numerous occasions, I can report there’s very little chance any suspicion will fall on my shoulders. I’m good at changing how I look. I’ve had plenty of practice.

There’s been an almost continual police presence at my place of work since the second death. As well as this, SB&P have employed private security to reassure their staff they care about the obvious threat to their safety. There are two burly individuals stationed at the entrance doors to the offices, one on each side. I can see them from my lift when it stops at the 21^st floor. It’s a mystery to me why they’ve done this. Neither death occurred on the premises. I suppose it’s SB&P’s way of showing they are a responsible employer. Responsible possibly, but honest? I don’t think so.

I’m regularly escorting police officers to and from the 21^st floor these days. They might not be wearing uniforms, but I can tell who they are. Occasionally, I get asked questions about whether or not I can remember seeing anything unusual on the days in question. I always give the same reply, which is ‘no, I’d say if I’d seen anything’. My response is written down and immediately forgotten. I assume this is the case; otherwise, why keep asking me?

I’ll say one thing for the police officers though: they talk to each other when in my lift. It’s quite refreshing really, much better than my usual clients. From what I’ve overheard so far, they are baffled. The disgruntled client aspect has been investigated. Some leads are being followed, but they’re not overly optimistic.

When the hotel room of the Greek employee was searched for clues, his gay lifestyle was revealed. No idea how, but there’s a thought a mysterious, possibly violently jealous, lover may be involved. Part of me wanted to scream ‘you’re way off the mark’ when I heard this, but I demurred. Apparently, the dead man was married; his wife allegedly wasn’t aware he was gay. I find this hard to believe. From my own interactions with him, I have to say he did not strike me as unfamiliar with either his sexuality or how to find a male partner. It’s not something I intend to mention though. I feel sorry for the two children though.

Monday morning, almost 10.30. It’s been busy so far, the start of another working week. The lift doors open as it reaches the ground floor. Three clients leave and one gets in. As the doors close, I recognise my new client. It’s the old man who gave me a £10 tip a few weeks ago.

“Winston, isn’t it? I never forget names.”

“It is, sir. How are you?”

“Mystified, if truth be told. I need to go to the 21^st floor to be interviewed by a couple of detectives about the murders of two Sherry, Brookman and Partners employees recently. Apparently, my frustration at the awful service they provided gives me a motive. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.”

“I suspect they are only doing their jobs, sir. You will be eliminated from their enquiries once you’ve spoken to them.”

“I bloody well hope so. It would have been much easier for me to attend a local police station, but they insisted I come into town. No idea why. Anyway, enough about my problems. How are you getting on?"

“Very well, sir. I’m still enjoying my job.”

“You keep a very clean lift, if I may say so.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The automated voice announces our imminent arrival at the 21^st floor.

“No doubt I’ll see you later, Winston.”

“Yes, sir. Good luck.”

The old man leaves the lift, waving an arm in a gesture of farewell as he proceeds towards the SB&P office entrance. The lift doors close in preparation for travelling to the 30^th floor to collect another client. I smile to myself. Why aren’t there more people like him around?

It remains a busy day. In fact, I lose track of time as I yo-yo between floors, picking up clients to deposit in offices or at ground level so they can re-join the hustle and bustle of the world outside. There’s a request for a collection from the 21^st floor. I check my watch – almost 4pm. I really had no idea. Instinctively, I know it’s the old man waiting, having finally been released from his interview with the detectives.

I make sure the lift looks as immaculate as I can make it as it ascends. When the doors open, my instinct is proved correct. The old man is there, together with two other males. A woman appears at the last second, seemingly eager to escape the clutches of SB&P. Her arrival acts as a dampener to any thoughts of conversation between the others and, apart from the automated announcements, it’s a silent descent.

The lift doors open and the clients depart. The old man stops suddenly, turns and shakes my hand, before resuming his exit strategy. I don’t watch him because I’m reading the note he’s covertly passed to me during the hand-shake. It reads ‘Plough and Flail, 5.15’.

Still wearing my purple uniform, I arrive at the pub at 5.10pm. It’s just around the corner from where I work, although I’ve never been in the place before. The old man has been waiting for me. He waves and I walk over to where he’s sitting. It’s an alcove, parts of it obscured from other customers. There’s what looks like a gin and tonic in front of him.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“A beer would be nice, sir. Preferably IPA.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange. And please stop calling me ‘sir’. You’re not at work now!”

He gets up and wanders over to the bar. I sit down and think. Why did he want to see me? Why did I readily agree? Why all the subterfuge? My thoughts are interrupted by his return. He’s got me a pint of something that appears to tick all the boxes. He passes it over and sits down again.

“You’re probably wondering about all the secrecy,” the old man says after taking a large gulp of his drink.  “All will become clear in due course. By the way, my name is David. Thank you for meeting me. Do your uniforms come in other colours?”

“My pleasure, David, and not that I’m aware.”

“Oh well, I’m sure you’re used to that colour by now, although it does tend to stand out somewhat. Anyway, to business. The gentlemen who got in the lift with me were the interview detectives. We had a long and, at times, complicated discussion earlier about why two Sherry, Brookman and Partners employees should be targeted in the way they were. I didn’t hold back; the comments I made to you when we first met remain valid.”

“Thankfully, it soon became obvious I could not be the murderer. My alibis for both occasions were confirmed. However, the reason I was asked to attend the SB&P offices was to walk through my meeting, as it were, by re-enacting my visit in its entirety. Arrive at Reception; get shown through to the Senior Partner’s office for the meeting; leave in high dudgeon, that kind of thing.”

“They didn’t ask about your lift journeys?”

“No, Winston, they didn’t. After that, the detectives showed me the hotel CCTV footage prior to the first murder and played me the tape of the phone call made to the taxi company requesting the address of the Senior Partner.”

“The call was recorded?”

“Yes, Winston. Apparently, it’s standard practice within the taxi company, just in case a dispute arises about something at a later date.”

“Highly sensible.”

“Indeed, Winston. Tell me something: what do you know about me, other than I’m a client of Sherry, Brookman and Partners?”

“Nothing, David. This is only the third time we’ve ever spoken to each other.”

“You’ve never researched me on-line, or asked anyone about me?”

“Of course not, David. Until a couple of minutes ago, I didn’t even know your name.”

“Interesting. I’m ex-services myself, which is how I was able to tell you were a soldier when we first met. I developed a fascination for human behaviour, and persuaded the Army to sponsor me whilst I obtained a psychology degree. This was in the days when the services had money available to throw at all sorts of things.”

“I really enjoyed the course and obtained a first-class degree. The Army utilised my newly-obtained abilities, putting me in charge of an experimental unit specialising in post-traumatic stress disorder treatments for soldiers following combat situations. Have you ever heard of such a unit?”

“No, David.”

“Not really so surprising, Winston, because the top-brass decided PTSD wasn’t an actual illness and closed the unit down. This was a long time ago; attitudes have changed immeasurably since then. I was disgusted, and left as soon as I could. I set up my own company, providing therapy services aimed principally at services veterans. It was very successful, though I say it myself, and now has suites in several UK towns and cities.”

“In fact, the reason I was at SB&P when you first saw me was in connection with a premises lease problem that had spiralled out of control because they hadn’t done their job properly.”

“I had no idea.”

“Why on earth should you? After all, as you’ve already confirmed, you didn’t know anything about me. My wife tells me it’s time I started to take things a little bit easier. I’m coming round to her way of thinking. Until SB&P screwed up the lease problem, it had been my intention to get them to handle the sale of my company. I receive regular offers from all sorts of companies wanting to purchase it. To date, I’ve politely ignored all of them.”

“So, I’m having second thoughts about using SB&P to sell on my behalf. Then I see an item on the news about the murder of one of their employees. It gets me thinking, as the murder occurred not long after I visited their offices. Other than my conversations with the senior partner there and, of course, you, I’ve spoken to no-one about how I felt I was treated. Not even my wife.”

“To be fair, it was more of a rant than a conversation.”

“You are correct, Winston. But I’m a specialist in identifying and treating individuals suffering from PTSD-related illnesses. The news item reminded me of our conversation, and I began to think about you. Sad as it is to say, I believe you need help. Did you see combat when you were in the Army?

“Yes, in Helmand.”

“A dreadful place. Did you lose any friends or colleagues?”

“Several. Patrol vehicles blown-up by improvised explosive devices. Parts of bodies all over the place.”

“Do you think the experience changed you?”

“How do you mean?”

“Do you have any close friends? Do you have trouble sleeping? Do you suffer from panic-attacks? Do you prefer to be by yourself? That kind of thing.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Understandable. Have you sought medical help since leaving the services?”

“No.”

“Why not, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Do you really believe that? Do you get angry for no obvious reason?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Do you feel society is ignoring you? You put your life on the line continually to protect your country, and what thanks do you get?”

“It’s unfair.”

“I’d say it was a bit more than that, Winston. Are you surprised when someone treats you as an equal? Do you think you’re at the bottom of the heap? Do you feel worthless?”

“Yes.”

“How are you fighting back, Winston? Are you doing anything to make your life better? If you aren’t qualified for the jobs you want to apply for, do you fabricate your qualifications and hope for the best?”

“I’m not sure I should answer that question.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone, Winston. But, after I started to think about you, I saw another news item, this time about the murder of the senior partner at SB&P. I admit I had some real suspicions after watching that. Having seen the CCTV footage and heard the phone call today, I’m of the opinion you are the murderer. You are organised, intelligent, cunning and seemingly without remorse; a killing machine in need of recalibration.”

“You are wrong.”

“I don’t think so, Winston, but I believe I understand why you did what you did, regardless of its severity. Your view of good and bad has been skewed by your combat experiences and life after the Army. You expect to be treated badly because you’re no longer functioning in the same way you once did. Recent experience has shown this to be true so, when someone treats you with kindness and respect, you want to show a level of appreciation that is above and beyond what may be considered standard.”

“I complained to you about poor service at SB&P, then gave you £10 to get yourself a drink after work. After hearing my story, you felt sorry for me, wanting to do something to rectify my obvious annoyance and frustration. It appears you went to an extreme I would never countenance, but was logical to you. I suspect it’s not the first time you’ve done this either.”

“I don’t agree, David.” 

“Perhaps. I’d like to help you because I think you’ve received appalling treatment, but it may be too late now. I want to provide you with a sporting chance though. It’s 5.40pm. I am expecting the detectives to arrive here at 6pm to arrest you, because I told them what I suspected and what I was prepared to do to assist them. However, I didn’t tell them what time I was meeting you.”

“You therefore have 20 minutes to make good an escape and try to start anew. You have the capability to do this, in my experience. I would recommend you see a therapist if you succeed. I would also recommend you incapacitate me, preferably temporarily rather than permanently, so I can’t attempt to detain you. I promise I won’t struggle. You must have learned a number of ways to do this in the Army.” 

David was right. I left him unconscious but alive at the rear of the alcove, having partially smothered him. It the hardest thing I have ever done. As promised, he didn’t protest until he started to suffer. Even then, he was a gentleman. He thrashed his arms around but made no noise, thus attracting no attention. I left the pub. In the distance, I could hear sirens, but I didn’t hang around long enough to find out if they were coming for me. 

I’ll find another job in another town under another name. No idea how just yet, but I’m a pretty determined kind of guy. The prospect of not having to wear purple again is very appealing.