Writing for Fun
March 2017
Arthur - Vivian Burdon
I reckoned old Arthur didn’t like me. Always remarking on this or that – my poor attitude, my shoes not shiny enough, no pride in what I was doing. Apparently, he didn’t like the ‘cut of my jib’. Whatever that meant! I don’t think he would have liked anyone working with him, he saw it as an insult, questioning his ability to do his job. He was, what my Dad would call, ‘a pompous knob’.
I didn’t protest to Arthur, but he was wrong. I took a great deal of pride in my job. I couldn’t believe I had been ‘recruited’ and had got such a great position straight out of university. Mum danced me around the kitchen with joy when I officially cleared security.
I trained hard and read loads about different techniques of surveillance and security. I knew more technical stuff than Arthur. But he did have years of experience ‘in the line of duty’ so to speak and because of that I allowed the old fool to teach me all he knew. Everyday. Endlessly.
I’ve been over and over my testimony about that night in my head. I still can’t believe it myself! Arthur didn’t care, all he said in his defence was ‘It’s about time they brought down that edifice of spying and intrusion.’ ‘Spying on ordinary people,’ he’d shouted . . . ‘It’s not right.’
Still, on that night I don’t think he was planning to bring down GCHQ! When that dark car approached along the gravel drive, no lights and engine purring, he prickled . . . the old war horse had kicked in. I was impressed. He snapped into our well drilled threat response. With rehearsed hand signals and head nods he manoeuvred me out of sight. Arthur’s hand rested easily on the machine gun slung across his chest but he stiffened when three men got out . . . Outnumbered. Plan B, we knew what to do.
Nice as pie they were . . . asked politely to be let through the security gate. Arthur actually laughed out loud at their audacity. Two of the men pulled out guns and . . . the third . . . he was at my back with his gun to my temple. Arthur was stock still but his eyes scanned back and forth and you could almost hear his brain whirring, assessing the situation. Then blow me he said, ‘Ok lads, here you go’ . . . and opened the gate! He opened the bloody gate! As the third man released me, Arthur grabbed my arm. ‘Come on son, dying for this mob is more than your job’s worth,’ and marched me off down the gravel drive.
The interior guards got them. Arthur knew they would. ‘It was for the best,’ he said, ‘You’ll be out in five years and still have a life.’ He got longer, but he reckoned he would get looked after better inside than on his own in his dotage. For me, I’m not so sure . . . we should have resisted. Put up a fight. After all that was our job.