The Mentor

3

There were seven missed calls on the Batphone when Aston got back above ground. He steeled himself then hit redial.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Mac demanded. ‘Why haven’t you called?’

Aston explained that he’d been a couple of hundred feet underground and it was difficult to get a signal. He hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic, but that’s how Mac took it. When Mac calmed down, Aston attempted to fill him in. He didn’t get far.

‘Shut up and listen. You think I’ve just been hanging around with my dick in my hand waiting for you to call? Is that it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Too bloody right. If I spent my life waiting for you, I’d never get anywhere. While you’ve been off gallivanting I’ve been working my arse off trying to figure out what the hell’s going on.’

Gallivanting, Aston stopped himself from saying.

‘If you’ve got anything you think might be useful,’ Mac added in a voice heavy with sarcasm, ‘bung it in a report.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And if it’s not too much trouble I’d like that on my desk first thing in the morning. And it’d better fucking well be there.’ With that the line went dead.

‘Cunt,’ Aston whispered at the mobile.

Miraculously the bike was where he’d left it; any other day it would have been nicked in two seconds. He cycled back to Vauxhall Cross through near-deserted streets, the wind pushing past him a welcome relief after the suffocating tunnels. It was almost midnight and still humid; the night was a thunderstorm waiting to happen.

He banged away at the keyboard for almost an hour, taking no notice of what he was typing. His hands were sore, fingers weary. The injuries were superficial – minor scratches and cuts, an abrasion on his left palm – certainly nothing requiring hospital treatment. Some antiseptic and an Elastoplast … job done. All he could think about was the dead baby. He typed faster … if he could somehow get his brain to work quicker then maybe he could outrun those nightmarish images. Fine in theory, but all that happened was he made more typos. He didn’t bother reading the report through when he finished. If it read like it was written in Chinese he didn’t give a shit. He e-mailed the report to Mac’s secure account and headed for home.

His mother had warned him he’d end up in the poor house, and for once she’d been right. The poor house in question was a three-storey red brick building in Pimlico that had been constructed in the late 1800s by a philanthropic mill owner. It had lain derelict until 1995, when it had been restored and converted into ‘studios and apartments’ … estate agent doublespeak for ‘bed-sits and rabbit hutches’. Aston had bought a one-bedroom hutch on the first floor, which the estate agent had assured him was money well spent. The area was up and coming, he was investing in the future, in ten years’ time the apartment would be worth double. Whatever. All he knew was that a large chunk of his paycheque disappeared each month just to keep his toes from slipping off the first rung of the property ladder.

It was pushing two by the time Aston got home. He was physically and mentally exhausted. Laura was crashed out on the black leather sofa, as innocent as an angel. She was wearing grey jogging bottoms and a tiny tight red T-shirt with BABE written in spangly pink letters on the front. She was snoring lightly, even though she swore blind she never snored. Aston had considered recording her so he could present her with irrefutable evidence of her crime, but she’d find some way to wriggle out of it. When it came to arguing she was as slippery as a Southern lawyer.

The fallout from her evening lay across the laminated floor. Aston knew the danger signs. Used tissues were scattered like so many crushed lilies; a box of Milk Tray was within reaching distance; she’d demolished half a tub of Häagen-Dazs. An empty DVD case sat open on the floor in front of a hi-tech stack containing all the latest gizmos. Mission Control was his one indulgence. He always had to have the latest toys. It was a boy thing. He picked up the DVD case. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Not good. She only watched that when she was on a serious downer. The TV was on and tuned in to BBC News 24, the sound a low mumble.

Aston perched on the edge of the sofa, carefully so it wouldn’t squeak. He brushed her fringe from her face, gently pushing the black strands away with his fingertips. God, she was beautiful. He wanted to wake her; didn’t want to wake her. After the day he’d had he needed to feel her arms around him, an affirmation of life to get rid of the stench of death that still clung to him even though he’d scrubbed himself raw in the shower back at Vauxhall Cross. Right now he needed that more than anything. But she looked so peaceful sleeping there, it didn’t seem right. He leant in close, kissed her forehead. She stirred but didn’t wake. Aston went to the bedroom, got a duvet, draped it across her, then fixed a drink – a JD and coke. He settled into the TV chair, the bottle close to hand, leant back and the footrest came up. He took a sip, ice cubes rattling, and stared at the box, too wired to sleep.

They’d been living together for almost six months, seeing each other for about a year. Laura was the first woman he’d lived with and looking back he wondered how long she’d been planning her assault. First the electric toothbrush appeared. It turned up in the bathroom cabinet one day and sort of stayed there. Next a change of clothes turned up. Made sense. If she was staying over, which she was doing more often than not, then she needed fresh clothes. Before he knew it there was a battered old teddy living at the bottom of the bed, a box of Tampax on the bedroom windowsill, and he was having to fight for wardrobe space.

Laura still didn’t know what he did for a living. She thought he worked for the Foreign Office over on King Charles Street in Whitehall; a lie he’d told so often to so many people there were days he almost believed it. It was one of the first things they taught you on the IONEC. You don’t work for us, you work for the Foreign Office. The I’m-A-Spy conversation was one he’d been meaning to have. It was on his mañana list. He felt he owed her the truth, but how did you start a conversation like that? Hi honey, hope you had a good day; by the way, I’m a spy. Then there was the fact that he’d have to apply to personnel for written permission. Probably in triplicate. It was much easier to live in denial. He hadn’t planned on becoming a spy. When he was little he wanted to be an astronaut; at secondary school he told the career’s officer he was going to be a movie star. By the time he got to the sixth form common sense had kicked in. He got four grade As in his A levels and ended up studying business at Oxford.

Growing up, the subject of his real father was a big no-no. Whenever Aston asked, his mother would get twitchy and quickly move the conversation elsewhere. In the end he gave up asking. He’d overheard her talking with his stepfather once. They’d thought he was asleep but he’d got up to ask for a glass of water and heard them on the other side of the lounge door. When he realised what they were talking about, he’d pressed his ear against the wood, not daring to make a sound. All he learnt was that his father was a lying son of a bitch who should be strung up. Strong words from a woman who considered ‘damn’ a dirty word. His mother was birdlike and anxious, a professional housewife who always worried what other people thought. If the Browns got a new car then she wanted one, too. But it had to be bigger, and better, and newer.

His stepfather wasn’t a bad person, just terminally boring. He was a financial analyst, which, as far as Aston was concerned, said it all. His mother had married Brian when Aston was four. Brian owned a big house in the sleepy little village of Great Bedwyn in Wiltshire and commuted to London each day, which meant that Aston hadn’t seen him much, and that was fine. There were no stepbrothers or stepsisters and that was fine, too. Brian had tried. He’d brought him up as his own, done all the usual Dad things, like taking him to football matches and teaching him to shave. But no matter how hard he tried, Brian wasn’t his father.

Brian and Aston’s mother had split up a couple of years ago and this had shocked Aston. For a woman so sensitive to other people’s opinions, this was totally out of character. Aston had thought Brian and his mother would go to the grave together. He certainly hadn’t expected her to run off with Roy, the small, balding lead tenor from the church choir. The gossip must have spread around the village like wildfire. His mother still lived in Great Bedwyn – in sin – and seemed happier than he’d ever seen her.

There had been little love between his mother and Brian, and his mother’s motivation to marry had always struck Aston as pragmatic rather than romantic. A single mother in the Seventies, she’d simply done what was necessary to survive. Aston didn’t blame her. He’d had a pleasant middle-class upbringing, lived in a comfortable house, never wanted for anything. Things could have been very different.

Aston was first ‘approached’ a couple of days after his Finals. He knew Professor Charles Devlan by sight and reputation; most students did. Devlan was a computer genius, although according to his students Computer God was more accurate. He had a long grey ponytail, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and was about as un-Oxford as it was possible to get – eccentric in ways that left his colleagues scratching their heads. Aston could never work out why he was a lecturer when he could have been earning millions in the private sector.

‘Mind if I walk with you for a bit?’

Aston was on his way to the library to drop off some overdue books. He turned and saw Devlan beside him, a big smile lighting up his boyish face. Aston shrugged and said he didn’t mind, thinking it a bit strange.

‘Aston, isn’t it? Paul Aston?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Aston replied, wondering how he knew his name. He’d never attended any of Devlan’s lectures; there was no reason he should know who he was.

‘So, Paul, have you thought about what you’re going to do when you leave?’

‘Well, I was planning on taking a year out, do some travelling. After that, I’m not sure. My stepfather has a job lined up for me at Barclays but I don’t know if that’s the route I want to take.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Devlan paused. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered working for the Government?’

‘Not really.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you have. Maybe you should think about it, Paul. I’ve got a few contacts. I could point you in the right direction. Anyway, must dash.’ And with that he was gone.

It was one of the most peculiar and intriguing conversations Aston had ever had. In particular, the emphasis Devlan had placed on the word ‘Government’ had left Aston in little doubt of what he was getting at.

The offer appealed to the Walter Mitty in him and three weeks later he was flicking through a copy of The Economist in the reception hall at 3 Carlton Gardens, an elegant old building in SW1 that overlooked St James’s Park. A secretary appeared and Aston fought the urge to cock an eyebrow and call her ‘Mish Moneypenny’. He followed her across the marble floor, up the stairs to the mezzanine.

Mr Halliday was a bear of a man who topped off well above the six feet mark. His brown striped suit was years out of date and made him look like a bank manager from the Forties. He even had a pocket watch, the silver chain dangling from his waistcoat. His hair was snow white, clipped in a neat short back and sides, Brylcreemed in place. He offered a hand and Aston braced himself for a bone crushing. Halliday’s grip was surprisingly gentle. He pointed Aston to a seat, then sat down on the other side of the mahogany desk and pushed a sheet of paper and pen across the burgundy leather blotter.

‘Before we get started,’ he said, ‘I need you to read and sign that.’

TOP SECRET was printed in red across the top of the sheet and the words sent electricity shooting up Aston’s spine. Underneath the extract from the Official Secrets Act was a space for his signature. He made his mark, pushed the sheet back across the desk.

‘Excellent.’ Halliday reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a green ring binder. ‘Now I’d like you to read this.’ He put his hands behind his head, rocked back in the chair, and didn’t say another word until Aston finished.

There were more than thirty pages in the folder, each one tucked safely away in a clear pocket. The first part gave a history of MI6 and set out the service’s aims and objectives. The second part was an A to Z of life in MI6: six months on the IONEC; a couple of years manning a desk at HQ; after that, alternate three-year home and overseas postings until compulsory retirement at 55. What it amounted to was the next thirty-odd years of his life being mapped out for him. This didn’t sit well with Aston. He did the interview on autopilot, his mind already made up. Thanks but no thanks.

The year he spent travelling was a blast, the three years working for Barclays a prison sentence. His escape came in the form of a chance meeting with Professor Devlan in Camden Market one rainy Saturday afternoon. Aston was browsing through a second-hand book stall, turning the pages of a Stephen King novel he couldn’t remember if he’d read or not, when someone said his name. He looked up and recognised the professor straightaway. The ponytail was a bit whiter, but the boyish face hadn’t aged at all. They got chatting, and on hearing that Aston’s career wasn’t everything it could be, the professor suggested he reconsider working for the Government. Aston said he might just do that. The next day he wrote a letter and mailed it to 3 Carlton Gardens. At the time he didn’t find anything suspicious about his chance encounter with Devlan. Lots of people visited London. In retrospect, it had obviously been a set-up. Ten days later Aston was once again following Mish Moneypenny up the marble staircase to Mr Halliday’s office.

Halliday had changed considerably since they’d last met. He’d lost almost six stone, and, more impressively, had shrunk by a good five inches. His eyes had changed from brown to a piercing ice blue; they twinkled as if he was sharing a joke at the universe’s expense. If asked, Aston would have placed this incarnation of Halliday in his mid-forties, however, there was something he couldn’t put his finger on that led him to believe he was in his fifties. His hair had once been blonde and had now faded to the colour of sunbleached corn; if there was any grey it had been hidden by chemicals or plucked. They shook hands then went through the same rigmarole as before: the signing of the OSA form, the reading of the green folder. This time Aston considered each question carefully before answering. Halliday wanted to know everything, from his inside leg measurement to his political leanings, from his family history to his criminal record. Aston left Carlton Gardens feeling as though he’d been buggered by the Spanish Inquisition, convinced that he’d screwed up the interview.

Halliday must have thought differently, because two weeks later Aston found himself in Whitehall where he spent the day undergoing a gruelling series of civil service tests and interviews. The following week he was back at Carlton Gardens for a grilling by a panel of MI6 officers. Halliday mark II was hovering in the background, no doubt listening for any inconsistencies in his answers.

The final stage was the security check, an extensive excavation of his past where every cupboard was checked for skeletons. Aston’s juvenile conviction for shoplifting presumably didn’t count because a couple of months later the acceptance letter dropped onto the doormat.

The IONEC passed in a blur with weeks alternating between London and MI6’s training facility at The Fort in Portsmouth. Aston quickly discovered that alcohol was the oil that kept the cogs of MI6 turning smoothly … not that this was a problem. He also discovered his love affair with booze was shared by George; one of the many things they had in common. They were equally competitive, always trying to upstage one another, and the IONEC soon turned into a two-horse race. In the end Aston pipped her at the post. George ended up with a ‘Box 2’ on her staff appraisal form – above average. Aston got a ‘Box 1’. Of course, this was another excuse to go out and get pissed.