It was morning, and Marcus lay crumpled on the sofa, his head lolling as he drifted in and out of a restless doze.
He reached forwards blindly, the sunlight from the curtains cutting a vicious swathe through the dusty haze, before his hand clasped around a small velvet box. He flipped it open, and gazed down at the flimsy strip of maroon material and cast metal that constituted the only lasting thanks he'd received for his actions. Letting the Victoria Cross fall into the crumb laden carpet, Marcus Burns reflected upon the events that had led to him to receive it.
The events of October three years ago were still heavily discussed in the media. The most unfortunate consequence of the attacks had been that, in a nation whose governmental system was dominated by red tape and bureaucracy, it would most probably be years more before the inquests, commissions and committees finished scrutinising the attacks, and even longer before fatuous and contrived 'reforms' that would undoubtedly be recommended were implemented. It was particularly ironic because in comparison to the rest of the war, the events in London had been relatively insignificant. But the public outcry and fear had been of a type not seen since the blitz of the early forties. Naturally, the two black-clad Special Forces men who had been photographed emerging from the tube in Westminster had become an object of feverish speculation, to the point that Whitehall had seen it fit to divulge their names.
Alistair Wallcroft and Marcus Burns had become national heroes. Television interviews, magazine, book and film deals bombarded them, and dignitaries couldn't get enough of them. Wallcroft had loved it, telling the story of the events on the tube to anybody who would listen, and always in the same hushed, reverential tones. Marcus hated it, and rejected every offer.
Unfortunately there were those that could not be refused. The visit to Downing Street had been the worst.
The televised ceremony involved the Prime Minister expressing his official gratitude, and the Queen issuing their decorations. After hearing this sycophantic itinerary, Marcus had been predisposed to cynicism; what was wrong with the Prime Minister's unofficial gratitude, or was he such an obsequious man as to not possess any? And as for the Queen: a woman of her age stand around in mid-December handing out medals? She ought to be in the Palace knitting or whatever bollocks it was that old women got up to.
Her Majesty had been nice enough. Her thanks had seemed improvised and genuine, and her issuing of the VC whilst ceremonious and protracted, was almost tolerable. The Prime Minister on the other hand was different. His gregariousness was as pervasive as it was false, and his handshake swift and austere. The air of self-satisfaction that he had exuded disgusted Marcus, and he had felt inclined to cut the man short.
"Myself and indeed the entire British nation wis-"
"I didn't vote for you, and I did what I did because it was my job."
Marcus had retraced his steps and returned to the chauffeured Jaguar that had brought him there, a flicker of amusement playing across his face as he saw the stunned expressions of half a dozen government officials dancing in the paparazzo's camera flashes.
The media offers had diminished since then, and a generous early retirement package meant that Marcus had spent the intervening time as if it were a lazy school holiday, doing practically nothing except exist in his flat. Doing his best to convince himself he was some sort of dilettante, rather than confront the truth that he was a man in his mid-thirties, with no girlfriend, job or family ties, and only a handful of friends whom he seldom spoke to.
At 9:52AM, the phone rang.