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Sometimes I quizzed him. “Is it illegal?”
“Not in the actual sense.”
“Tell me, honey.”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Is it MI5 or MI6?”
“Not even warm.”
“It is drugs, isn’t it? You wouldn’t have to go abroad so often if it wasn’t.”
“There’s lots of jobs that take people abroad.”
“Okay, tell me seventeen. And I wouldn’t want Jacob mixed up in something shady.”
“Come over here.” And he wrapped me in his arms while I did things to him and he to me until the cares of the world disappeared in a swirling vortex of desire and eventual fulfillment.
As the Bible says, “And behold, it was very good.”
Jacob seemed to enjoy his new job that, as Lex had promised, was his and his alone. I interrogated him mercilessly, until he begged me to stop, about the nature of the work and how Lex was involved. Apparently, though, Lex seldom appeared in the office, and when he did, it was just to sweep through, dispensing smiles and questions regarding the lives of the staff, about which he seemed to have a compendious knowledge. The work was just an ordinary job, seemingly related to fruit importation but paying twice the salary of Jacob’s previous branch managership.
No secrets to be divulged there, and my curiosity grew until I realized it might cause a rift between me and Lex, which I certainly didn’t want, so I dismissed it as far as I could and concentrated on my own career.
Much of it was repetitive in that I had similar assignments, but the people were different and often interesting, and I tried to give a different slant on each one, probe a little deeper, gain that much more without being too intrusive. This was a talent that I never knew I had before, and it stood me in good stead. I think I was really being ap
preciated and hoped for even greater glory.
And then I had an enormous stroke of luck, though it certainly wasn’t lucky for everyone. The actual details are boring, so I won’t go into them. The point was that a gentleman living in Bristol, had a complaint, which he wanted to bring to the attention of his MP, a Labour member whose surgery wasn’t until the following Saturday. He wrote complaining to the paper that this wasn’t good enough, and I was given the assignment of looking into it. I thought, Let’s make a ‘thing’ of it. I planned to go up to London and personally speak to the MP on his behalf. I emailed the MP, who replied immediately (that’s Labour for you) and arranged for tea with me on the terrace of the Houses of Parliament for the following day, Tuesday.
Rail to London, Paddington Station, Underground to Westminster. I emerged into the metropolis with its smells of diesel exhaust, a flavour of curry (was it?), and hordes of people going about their business, either politely or pushing past without a sorry or excuse-me. It wouldn’t happen in Bristol, I tell you. Well, probably not.
The Thames flowed smoothly if slightly murkily under Westminster Bridge (I wonder what Willy Wordsworth would think!) and I was just about to turn into the road, which led past Old Palace Yard and the entry into the Mother of Parliaments, as we rather boastfully call it, when there was a disturbance behind me.
I turned towards an old-looking black taxi careering wildly along the pavement toward me. There were screams as it hit and knocked down several passers-by. From the direction it was taking, it was going to miss me by a country mile, so instinctively I felt for and produced my smartphone. Suddenly the vehicle swerved on and off the pavement, alternately knocking people down and then missing others. I sent up a private prayer and punched in 999, shouting “Ambulance and police, Westminster Bridge, urgent” at the woman who answered. I rang off and then switched to movies, following the taxi on its devastating path but ready to jump into any available refuge if it looked as if it was heading my way—I’m no hero!
I filmed it as a woman was tossed into the air, her pram flattened. The taxi carried along the pavement for perhaps twenty yards, knocking down a young man and a couple of boys. It then returned to the road and tried to speed off, but it crashed into a building and stopped, the front left side crushed. A broken whir sounded as the driver tried to restart the engine. Then he got out, glanced around, shouted something, and raced off into the crowds of people who were either trying to flee or, driven by curiosity, coming to see what had happened.
I watched the carnage with horror but took a few still shots of the scene. I know this sounds insensitive if not disgraceful, but the journalist in me took over, and anyway I didn’t know what to do to help.
Then a thin man with grey hair stepped up with what looked like a measure of confidence. “I’m a doctor,” he said, going from one to the other on the pavement.
He looked at me and indicated the young man nearest to me. Blood was gushing from a wound in his leg. “You seem to be fairly compos mentis. Hold this guy’s leg just here and press hard until the blood stops. Then just keep hold. Has anyone phoned for an ambulance?”
“I have, and the police.”
“Good man.” He was attending to the first woman who had been hit and was now lying flat on her back. He was pressing on her chest with both hands, one on top of the other.
Gradually the blood from the guy whose leg I was pressing, right up near the groin, lessened and then stopped. I could feel his penis with the back of my hand.
“Sorry about this,” I said.
He smiled weakly. “No worries. In other circumstances, I’d enjoy it.” He sounded Australian.
“The paramedics will be with you soon.”
“What’s your name?”
