"Why I am always late for everything?" Rob Choke groaned as he jogged through the crowded train station.
The morning had started so well. Rob had got up at six o'clock and enjoyed a leisurely cup of coffee in front of the television, before strolling to Watford Underground Station with the intention of catching the twenty past seven train to London. However, upon reaching the station entrance he realised that he had left his mobile phone at his flat and raced back to pick it up. Once he had returned to the station, he saw on the departure board that all trains to the capital were late. A guard told him that someone had been taken ill on one of the earlier trains so all incoming trains were delayed by ten minutes. If it had been any other day, Rob would have been happy to wait, but today was the first day of his new job so the nerves began to get to him.
A good twenty-five minutes after arriving at the station, Rob found himself on a packed train heading towards Baker Street Station. It felt like all the commuters in south-east England had converged in his carriage and he found himself wedged between a fat man reading The Guardian and the unnecessarily large handbag of an important-looking woman. Rob straightened his wonky blue tie, wiped his palm across his sweaty forehead and exhaled loudly.
The journey went smoothly apart from the abrupt stop which nearly led to Rob and a few other standing passengers ending up sprawled across the carriage floor. Stepping off the train onto the air-conditioned platform, Rob was able to temporarily relax. He followed the other commuters like a sheep to the Jubilee Line platform, glancing at his watch to see that he would still make it to Canary Wharf in time. His manager had stressed that he wanted to see Rob in the office at half past eight to go over his new role and Rob did not fancy earning himself a pay deduction on his first day for being late.
The platform was overwhelmingly busy, with equal numbers of commuters and tourists filling up the space. Rob was surprised to see quite so many visitors braving the early-morning rush hour until he read the shirts of the man and woman in front of him. How could he have forgotten that the London Olympics had started today, after all the warnings Kerry had given him about taking public transport during their duration?
"Bloody Olympics," said Rob bitterly, avoiding eye contact with a flag-wearing woman next to him who had turned to give him an evil stare.
Rob's train arrived and everyone crowded on, or at least they attempted to get on. There were still at least three lines of people in front of Rob still trying to board the train as the doors pinged to show they were closing. Rob resisted the urge to fling his briefcase on the floor and have a tantrum like the toddler in front of him was doing. It was eight o'clock and the next train going to Canary Wharf wasn't due to arrive until quarter past.
Rob stepped away from the platform edge and sank onto a nearby bench. He passed the time by trying to beat his high score on Temple Run and was almost caught unawares when the train pulled into the station. But Rob wasn't going to miss this train. He sneaked past a man with a bike and a Japanese couple foolishly brandishing Olympics tickets and made it into the carriage in time.
Now he had arrived at Canary Wharf with two minutes to spare and was using his athletic ability to his advantage as he sped through the gaps between slow commuters. One Canada Square, his new office, was right in front of him and he was confident he would make it in time. He slowed to a walk as he approached the front entrance and was just about to adjust his tie for the final time when:
"I think you've dropped your phone, mate!"
Rob spun around to see a tramp walking towards him, hand outstretched with a Blackberry in his grip. He had seen the man begging in the area before, hoping to convince the wealthy hedge fund managers and bankers to part with their plentiful cash. Few would donate to him but on his previous trips to Canary Wharf for job interviews, Rob had always dropped a five pound note into the lowly man's lap. He had always seemed very polite but Rob was still wary of him as he approached.
"I didn't realise I had dro- oh, that's not my phone," Rob told him, glancing at the bright pink case in mild disdain. "Thanks anyway, though."
Rob was about to set off again but just as he was about to move, the tramp said something very quietly.
"I thought an ex-CHERUB kid would have been able to see through an old pickpocket's trick."
Rob spun around, all thoughts of his impending job gone from his mind. He could see the tramp was smiling through his thick greying beard. "What did you say?"
"James Adams, it's been a long time."
Rob's eyes grew wide as he registered what the man had just said. He took a step closer to him so he could see him properly, despite all his facial hair and pockmarked skin. The older man was a similar height to Rob, if not a little taller, and Rob could make out bulging muscles beneath his dirty khaki shirt. He recognised the slight South African twang in his voice. He recognised the distinct scar above his left eyebrow. He recognised his narrow eyes, full of steely determination.
"Ewart Asker!" He gasped. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Ewart frowned. "Keep your voice down!" He snapped, putting his hand over Rob's mouth until the younger man stepped out of reach. "I'm here because of you. I've been waiting for you to recognise me ever since you've been dropping money in my pot, but you never did. Here!" He shoved a scrap of paper into Rob's hand as a concerned policeman strode over.
"Is this man bothering you, sir?" He asked Rob, completely ignoring Ewart.
"No, no, everything's fine," Rob said awkwardly. "This man was just asking if I'd dropped a phone."
"I see," replied the policeman, insinuating that he had already seen through Ewart's ruse. "Well if it isn't yours then you might as well head off. I'll sort this chap out."
The policeman placed a firm hand on Ewart's shoulder and guided him back towards his sleeping bag, which was lying against the side of the underground station. As he left, Ewart nodded firmly at the note in Rob's hands. He then readopted the persona of a harmless homeless man and let the policeman return him to his bed.
Rob unfolded the note, written on the back of a receipt for cigarettes. It read:
Meet me during your lunch break in Patel's Café. I'll be in the corner wearing a flat cap.
Rob had no idea how Ewart knew when his lunch break was, but he tucked the note in his trouser pocket and made a mental note to look up the location of Patel's Café on his phone once he was safely behind his new desk.
He glanced at his watch. It was exactly half past eight. Rob may have been outside the right building but his office was on the 34th floor of the gigantic tower.
"Shit!" He cursed, and ungracefully legged it up the never-ending flight of stairs.