A/N: Yup, I've actually written some more. I've had a lot on, so I'm sorry it took me so long. The parts in italics are Marcus's thoughts... not sure if I make it clear in the text, but I like the effect it created so I left it in. Also 'Pan' means 'Mr' in Polish. I appreciate that that could have been confusing.
The waiting was over. A week's worth of procrastination and anxiety had finally resulted in an interview, although due to it taking place in a cafe that could only be described as 'cosy', it felt a lot more intimate than that. The week's delay had been his doing; she'd emailed to say that she was free 'as soon as possible', but he'd told her she'd have to wait 'until he had a gap in his schedule'. This was partly to give himself time to prepare mentally, but for the most part to give the impression that he led a busy life. Whilst dressing, he reflected upon just how childish this was.
The meeting was a breakfast appointment, a concept completely alien to Marcus; although after a career spent solely in the military this was hardly surprising. However it seemed fundamentally wrong that someone could ask to meet you over breakfast. He usually spent his morning meal slowly becoming human in the company of the XFM breakfast show and a bowl of weetabix, and to interrupt this felt somehow perverse. He surmised it to be an American concept, reasoning they were the only people gregarious enough to feel the need to be this obtrusive, and after frequent dealings with them throughout many operations and postings, he knew the aforementioned stereotype to be ostensibly true. Lay off the yanks Marcus. What if she's one? That'd be a fine mindset to be in.
Picking clothing was a challenge, not least because the weather was, as usual, behaving in a consistently inconsistent manner. In the end, he chose trainers, the smartest jeans he owned (although this was only by virtue of their being black) and a blue shirt so neutral and austere one could have easily mistaken it for being Swiss.
Wow, two national stereotypes in 5 minutes. I thought we had to be respectable today? Mornings always brought out a vague xenophobia in him, although he mused that this was probably one of the qualities that'd made him a good soldier.
He left earlier than he needed to. The cafe was a couple of miles away, but it seemed to him walking there through crisp fresh air was a much better way to start the day than to cram into a hot acrid tube carriage and pretend to read a free newspaper to avoid making eye contact with anybody. That was what he hated most about the tube, the absurdity of dozens of grown men and women sitting together, but steadfastly refusing to communicate with one another, even through so much as a smile. He then came to the realisation that this seemed rich coming from a man who'd barely spoken to anyone for the past few years, and compounded his own misery by breathing in air that was brimming with petrol and the sickening odour of the yeast fermentation at a presumably upwind brewery. He was undeterred however. Fetid it may be, but the unnecessarily winding streets hemmed in by red brick flecked with concrete and glass felt comforting, a reminder of the city that he loved, but so rarely explored any more.
He arrived almost exactly on time at a cafe he knew to make good breakfast, hence his suggestion of it as a meeting place. Called 'Mother Brown's' by its Polish owner in an abysmal attempt to achieve a home-grown cockney feel about it, the place usually only did business of any note at lunchtime, and had subsequently become a haunt of Marcus's when he wanted to get out of the house on a morning. As he walked in a bell tinkled, and a grin appeared behind the counter, followed by Mr Szczęsny, the owner.
"Ahhhh, Pan Burns! What can I be getting you this morning?"
"Just a coffee please Mariusz. Oh, and do you mind if I smoke in here?"
By way of a reply Mariusz placed an ashtray on the table and winked, before busying himself behind the counter, making as he always did a seemingly inordinate amount of noise to prepare a relatively simple beverage. Marcus lapsed as he always did into a catatonic state, cigarette in one hand, staring blankly at the ceiling, waiting. The place was empty except for him, and he once again felt the beautiful sense of isolated involvement that only sitting alone looking out onto a busy street could provide, and that he sat at the front of the cafe often to achieve. The bell on the door tinkled once more and he looked round.
A woman walked in. Marcus hadn't been sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't her. Tall and slim, dirty blonde hair waved and curled its way down to her elbows, framing a face that had skin so pale it practically glowed, but in places was so freckled she almost looked tanned. Grey eyes sat above a nose that was exactly the right size for her face, and had a bend at just the right place and angle. A green dress split by a thin belt was businesslike enough, but shorter than any he'd ever seen a professional woman wearing. Then again, with legs like the pair striding towards him, it would seem a terrible waste to wear anything longer. She stretched out a hand and snapped Marcus out of his stunned reverie.
"Hi, I'm Heidi. It's nice to finally meet you."
She took his hand, her slender fingers still managed to execute a pretty forceful handshake.
"Marcus. It's a pleasure."
She sat down, and then started at the sight of the ashtray and Marcus' hastily abandoned cigarette smoking in it. "Sorry, if you mind I'll put it out" he blustered.
"Are you joking me? I've always thought somebody must realise what a piss-take the ban is" and illustrated her point by producing a packet of Silk-Cut and lighting one.
Christ, this girl just gets better and better. Marcus retrieved his own and relaxed a little, sliding back in his seat.
"So what're the breakfasts like here?"
"Palatable. Except for the bacon; really good bacon."
Mariusz bustled through the doorway in time to only hear the end of Marcus' sentence. Setting a coffee cup down, he beamed at the pair of them. Heidi looked up and began to order whatever extravagant breakfast it was a woman like her ate. Marcus used the opportunity to have another look at her. She wore what appeared to be no make-up, but on closer inspection was an extraordinarily subtle eyeliner and mascara, and a pale pink lipstick that was applied so thinly it genuinely looked as though her lips were just that colour. She smiled at Mariusz. Her teeth were an off-white that looked wonderfully natural, not shockingly white as so many women had theirs made artificially, and the gap between the front two was the perfect width to be endearing. He was again interrupted, this time as he heard her say
"...anyway, two bacon sandwiches please."
Marcus started: "No, I'm just having a coffee, I'm not hungry."
She grinned "You might not be, but I am." She proceeded to chuckle, an extraordinary thing for a woman her age to do, but that she pulled off effortlessly, before adding "TWO please" to Mariusz, who quickly scuttled back the way he had come. She shifted in her seat. "So Marcus, tell me about your background."
Ah, it's started. Bugger it.
And so he told her. He told her about growing up in Middlesbrough. About his life as a kid, and going through school. About how he'd dropped out of London Met University in his first year, and had stayed in London to enlist in the Royal Marines, and his eventual selection for the Special Forces, and the gruelling 19 week training course that had followed. She stared intently the whole time, nodding and retorting politely at all the correct moments, whilst somehow furiously scrawling notes with her left hand at the same time. After an hour, she knew as much about him as any of his closest friends.
"Listen, I've got to go. My editor needs me back at the office."
"Oh." This felt like an abrupt end. He'd built this meeting up in his mind for so long, but all had happened was that he'd talked at her about his life. She hadn't asked him about any of his actual experience in the regiment, which surely was why she had wanted to talk to him in the first place. Then it hit him. He was boring. She'd assumed that he'd be an interesting, swashbuckling, devilish hero in her majesty's service, when actually he was just an awkward bloke in need of a shave. She'd listened just long enough to appear polite, but was now using the pretext of having to leave for the office in order to cut both her losses, and the end of the meeting.
Fuck, am I really that bad?
Her phone rang. She snatched it up in one hand whilst gesturing apologetically with the other. Even from the other side of the table, it was clear that the woman on the other end of the line was apoplectic with rage, and the tinny earpiece was just loud enough for her angry cries of 'ridiculous review', 'subjective opinion!', 'offended the ambassador' and 'not supposed to be eaten' to carry to Marcus. Heidi's face remained unchanged as she nodded solemnly at each outburst. When the noise receded, she muttered "I see", and then hung up.
"That was my editor. Apparently I don't make a good art critic. I really will have to go now, but I'll email about another meeting."
She smiled, shook his hand a second time, and all of a sudden Marcus was left alone in the cafe once more, with only some cigarette butts and a dirty plate to convince himself that he hadn't just imagined the whole thing.
He paid and left, trying to ignore the knowing smiles and winks that Mariusz kept giving him as he handed over his change. The air was warmer and clearer now, although it still had a distinctive scent. The east end always had done. The best way to breathe in Dagenham, a pub landlord had once told him, was to 'throw open a window, and stick your head inside the nearest building'. He chuckled and continued on, reaching his front door with nothing short of relief. He started to clamber the stairs, only to have the usual peace of his sanctum interrupted by a shout:
"Hello Burnsy!"
What. The. Fuck?
Marcus dashed upstairs and threw open the door into the living room. Tony lay sprawled on the sofa, a can of beer in one hand, the TV remote in the other.
"You really should ask my permission to just come into my house you know Tony." Tony bounced to his feet with all the grace and elegance of an excitable puppy, slopping beer as he did so.
"Never mind that now! What happened? What was she like!"
"Don't you have a job to go to?"
"Early lunch break" Tony cried, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Now tell me what she was like!"
"She was..." Marcus struggled. "Tall".
"Tall?"
"Tall." Tony looked impressed. Marcus thought further. "And Pretty."
"Pretty?"
"Pretty."
Tony nodded appreciatively; "How tall?"
"About... six foot?" Marcus offered.
"And how pretty?"
Marcus chewed his tongue. "However tall six foot is, that's how pretty she was too."
Tony twisted his face into what he thought was a knowing expression, but that merely made him look constipated. They stood for a moment.
"So is that it then? All done and dusted now?"
"No. She said she'd email me about another meeting."
Tony grinned so widely his head was in danger of splitting in half. "Did she now? Did she indeed?" He laughed enigmatically and shimmied into the kitchen. "Cuppa?"
"Go on then."
Marcus wasn't sure what to think. Did he, and would he continue to, like these meetings? Was it right to be telling a complete stranger such detail about his life? And had he been so struck by her simply because he'd locked himself away for so long? And, most importantly, what was he going to solve by sitting around asking himself rhetorical questions? He reasoned that the logic behind the last question was a bridge too far, especially when it was still morning, so lit another cigarette and turned on the TV to distract himself.
'BBC TWO - F1: The Monaco Grand Prix: Live'
Sport. A bit of live sport would distract him no end. He turned it on.
"Whilst the extent of Bleekenheimer's injuries are still not clear, the violence of the crash and the urgency with which he was removed from his car and taken to hospital suggest-"
Okay. Maybe not then. Music! A music channel!
"-paying tribute today to the legendary punk rocker, who lost his battle with cancer last week. The band's groundbr-"
This was getting ridiculous. The News. How can you go wrong with the news?
"For a second night the rioting has continued throughout Bradford and Leeds, with police reporting dozens of casualties to officers from petrol bomb and knife attacks. There were sp-"
Marcus sighed and turned the TV back off. Tony returned, bearing two tea mugs and a packet of biscuits.
"Thought you might need them, so I brought them round"; Tony brandished the digestives.
"I see." Tony had made it sound like he wasn't feeding himself properly. "I can assure you I'm not the sort of man who relies solely upon digestive biscuits for sustenance."
"Ah, but these are chocolate AND... get this? Caramel. I mean, what kind of geni-"
"Tony, can you shut the fuck up about biscuits for a minute? Cheers."
"Tetchy. Still thinking about your journalist friend?"
"No actually, I'm thinking about how the hell you managed to get into my flat."
"Oh, I got a key cut." Such was Tony's character; Marcus accepted this without argument or response. "So when you think she'll get back in touch?"
As it happened, it was two days later. Buoyed by the fact that he hadn't managed to commit some sort of hideous social faux pas the first time round, Marcus replied and had organised another meeting. Two more days, and they were back in the cafe, again alone, except for an overcrowded ashtray, and a by now chronically curious Mariusz.
"So" Heidi began, her courteous smile creasing the lower part of her face. "When did you actually become active in the regiment?"
"Around... 2012 I remember it was"
"I'll understand if this is impertinent or of difficulty, but when was your first operation?"
Marcus sighed and thought back. "You watched the Olympics on TV didn't you?"
"Yes, obviously."
"Let's just say you didn't see everything."
...
July 26th 2012 – 11:54:07
Sgt. Marcus Burns
22nd SAS Regiment
Constitution Hill, Westminster, London. U.K.
...