Hero

A story from my book

To celebrate World Book Day shamelessly shill I thought I would publish a story from my collection Noughties: Eleven Echoes of a Dismal Decade. I hope you enjoy it buy a copy.

Martin stood behind the till and looked around the shop with the cold, measured gaze of a security guard. The big man’s lime green polo shirt made him look as if he had stolen a school uniform. It clung to him for its life.

Across the shop, a young man and woman were looking at a washing machine. Martin warmed, remembering when he and Emma had equipped their first flat. He strolled across, beaming what he hoped was a benign smile.

“Can I help?”

The couple turned around with a start. They froze, as if confronted by an angry bull, before realising that he was an employee. The young man, in a leather jacket and a beanie, relaxed and smiled.

“We’re just looking, thanks.”

“Do you have any other colours?” asked the woman, trailing her fingers unimpressedly across one model.

“Erm, no.”

The couple made their excuses and left. Martin wondered if he could have said anything more. No, but we can order one. No, but there’s some paint in the back. No, but have you considered that it’s a fucking washing machine. He looked at his phone. 10.37. It felt like it had been 10.37 for an hour. At least when people had used analogue clocks you could see some progress.

“Martin, have you got a minute?”

It was Paul, the manager. He looked even more unsmiling than usual. His thin, Bela Lugosi face looked tired and drawn. He walked like the cucumber Martin had always assumed was lodged inside his rectum had been driven an inch deeper.

“Sure.”

He followed Paul into his office - a cramped and cluttered room that seemed more like a broom cupboard. A woman was standing there. She had the lean body of a marathon runner and a short, orange hairdo that was simultaneously austere and childish. She looked Martin up and down like a farmer inspecting livestock.

“This is Sandra from Human Resources,” said Paul.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Martin.

“Likewise,” she said, sounding even less pleased to meet him than he was to meet her.

“We wanted to have a little chat with you, Martin,” said Paul, trying to push his sleeves without unbuttoning his cuffs.

“A chat?”

Martin did not think he meant the kind with tea and biscuits.

“We’ve had a report that you used inappropriate language,” said Sandra.

“Eh?”

“You were talking to a customer and you referenced an “Islamicist prick”.”

The words rang a bell, and he half-remembered the conversation. He saw no point in denying it.

“I'm sorry for swearing.”

“It isn’t about the swearing,” said Sandra, ““Islamicist”? You don’t think that is offensive to Muslims?”

“What? No, I don’t mean Muslims! I mean the, er – I mean the Muslims who want to make everybody else Muslims.”

“Isn’t that “Islamist”?” Paul asked.

“What? Oh. Maybe.”

“Regardless,” said Sandra, folding her arms, “How do you think a Muslim customer or colleague would have felt if they had heard such language?”

“Adil is my only Muslim colleague and he’s in Ibiza,” Martin blustered, “The only people there were me and this bloke who recognised me from back in the day. Oh, and Tim. It was Tim who told you wasn’t it? I thought I saw him snooping. He’s always been holier than thou.”

“It doesn’t matter who was there,” said Sandra, stubbornly, “It matters what was said.”

“Just to be clear, I was telling a story about how I stopped a terrorist.”

“I kno---”

“About how I stopped a terrorist.”

“We appreciate that Martin,” Paul said, trying gallantly to lower the temperature, “We’re not being anti-Martin here.”

“Of course not,” said Sandra.

“We’re not trying to punish you or make you feel bad. We just think that in this day and age, you – all of us – could use some extra training.”

“Training?”

“Sensitivity training,” said Sandra.

“Look, I sell washing machines,” protested Martin, “If you want me to be carefuler, that’s fine, but I don’t need any of that bollocks.”

Sandra’s lips retreated in on themselves but it was Paul who looked angriest. He had not kicked, and scratched, and clawed his way into becoming boss of a home appliance shop to have to deal with such blatant insubordination. He bunched his fists.

“Bollocks? Bollocks is it?”

“You know what I---”

“If you’re going to ignore simple instructions then I don’t need any of your bollocks.”

“Paul, I just mea---”

“Do you know what could happen to this shop if someone heard you talk like that? I’m not going to take that risk. No. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to let you go.”

Martin stood and left the room without saying a word. He walked out of the shop, picking up his jacket as he went, and headed for the tube. As he strode through the grey London morning, he saw a gaggle of protesters waving Palestinian flags. “Takbir!” “Allahu Akbar!” Perfect.

On the tube, Martin sat back and closed his eyes. Then he opened them.

He remembered that morning like no other. It was only natural. He had talked about it countless times. He had been on the tube, coming home from a long night at work, listening to Iron Maiden on his walkman. Around him were tired workers, travelling to and from their shifts, excitable holiday makers, clutching their suitcases, and exhaustingly drunk clubbers sleeping through their stops. Opposite him was a young man who looked Indian or Pakistani. He had his hood up and was fiddling with his shoes. Martin looked at him. What the hell was he doing?

That was when he saw the little flame of a lighter. Martin burst to his feet, leapt across the train and smacked his knee, with all the force that he could summon, into the young man’s face. He heard the satisfying crunch of broken bone.

The man dropped to his knees, but was still fumbling with his shoes. Martin fell across him and landed on his back. He thrust his arm around his neck and flung himself backwards, hearing a choking sound as he tightened his grip.

Martin felt pain explode behind his ear. Someone had kicked him in the head.

“Get off him bruv!”

“He’s got a bomb,” Martin snarled.

The man behind him saw the smoking shoes.

“Oh, shit! Call the police!”

“We’re on the underground,” barked Martin, as he felt the terrorist go limp and loosened his hold a little, “Sit on his fucking legs.”

For a while, everything was great. He was in all the papers. He appeared on This Morning. He met the Prime Minister, who shook his hand and said something about how he represented “the best of the British spirit.” He received a Queen’s Gallantry Medal - though, sadly, from Prince Charles rather than Her Maj. His local promised him free drinks for life.

But then it all went away. People stopped calling. People stopped recognising him. Emma got sick. He started drinking heavily. Emma got more sick. He drank more heavily. Emma died. He sobered up, for their daughter’s sake, but he had to stop working as a doorman because being around alcohol was too much to handle. That was how he got into retail. Now he had lost even that.

“What do you mean you lost your job?” asked Amanda on the phone, “How did you lose that job?”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Martin, “Political correctness. You can’t say anything these days.”

He scooped a pile of tomato-splattered cardboard into the bin. He always noticed how messy his flat was when he talked to Amanda. He knew he should take more care of it. He and Emma had just finished paying off the mortgage when she had been taken ill.

“Why were you talking about anything except washing machines?”

“Someone recognised me,” sniffed Martin, “That doesn’t happen every day you know.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Find a better job.”

It sounded simple. How hard could it be? It was not as if he was looking for six figures, bonuses and a company car. Well, it turned out to be difficult. Very difficult. He should have guessed. He was a 50-year-old man with a dodgy back who had only ever worked as a doorman and a shop assistant.

“Do you have any qualifications?” asked the manager of a coffee shop, eyeing the “education” section of his CV, which began and ended with his secondary school.

“I have a Queen’s Gallantry Medal.”

“No shit. Why?”

“Choking out a terrorist.”

Martin wasn’t sure that the man believed him, but either way he can’t have thought it qualified him to serve cappuccinos as he never rang back.

Anger stewed inside him. What kind of treatment was this? Okay, he knew it could have been anyone on that train. If he had stopped to take a piss it might have been someone else. But it hadn’t been someone else, it had been him, and after a few months of being treated like a hero he had been forgotten. Now he turned on the TV and found that people were being celebrated for scoring goals and deciding that they wanted to be called “they” rather than “he”. Was that fair?

He didn’t have anyone to complain to. He had lost a lot of friends when he had stopped drinking, and a lot of friends immediately before he had stopped, and he did not want to burden the few that he had kept with his complaints.

Then he remembered Twitter. He had opened an account around ten years before, and had enjoyed a flurry of attention before realising that he had nothing to say. It was the perfect platform. Somehow, he remembered his password: “12345678”.

“Lost my job because I didnt want “sensitivity training”,” he posted, “Cant get another. Nice way to treat a man after 30 years of honest work. Oh and kicking a terrorist in the face.”

He got some nice responses. “Sorry to hear that pal.” “This fucking country.” “Call yourself a woman. Then they’ll call you a hero again.” Some were not so nice. “Sounds kind of racist.” “Shut up, gammon.” “Nice knee. Shame about the brain.”

Martin thought that that was that until he got a direct message from Henry Sutcliffe. Henry Sutcliffe, a Twitter bio informed him, was, “Columnist @Telegraph, wine critic @TheSundayTimes, author of “The Death of Reason” and “The Feminist Delusion””.” “Hello,” the message said, “Sorry for sending this out of the blue but someone showed me your post and I wondered if you could give me more details.”

Martin told him what had happened. “Sorry to hear that,” Sutcliffe replied, “I wonder if you’re interested in meeting for a coffee and a chat? I’m interested in writing about your treatment in my column.” Martin looked out of the window at the soupy afternoon clouds before replying. “Sure.”

Henry Sutcliffe sat outside the fancy Marylebone cafe and smoked a cigarette that looked like an extension of himself. His hair was white but, even in his mid-forties, perfectly formed. He was lean under a crisp white shirt and a leather jacket. Martin approached him, feeling three times smaller than he was.

“Martin?” Henry asked, leaping upwards and seizing him by the hand, “So good to meet you, sir. An honour.”

“The pleasure is mine,” said Martin, with what he liked to imagine was sophistication.

“Sit down! Coffee? Cigarette? I think they have pastries or something...”

Martin sat down and took one of the long, thin cigarettes.

Around them were men in suits and women in tight jackets. Mobile phones rang, beeped and buzzed in an obnoxious symphony. Martin shifted in his chair before settling back. How many of these fuckers had choked out a terrorist? None!

“I was appalled to hear how you have been treated,” Henry said, “Appalled. This country. When I think how much people are paid for juggling words and figures and here you are...”

He glanced upwards as if to compose himself.

“It turns my stomach.”

Martin shrugged.

“Life.”

“It shouldn’t be. Here, do you want a coffee? Tell me again what happened.”

Martin was halfway through telling the story of his heroism on the tube before he realised that Henry had meant the story of his firing. The journalist listened intently as he talked, though, and made notes in a little black notebook, so he continued before moving on to the events that followed. As he told the story of his meeting with his boss and the flame-haired HR representative, Henry shook his head and clicked his tongue against his teeth.

“Awful. Awful. And all too common. Have you thought about going to an Employment Tribunal?”

“Yeah.”

“You will probably lose.”

“Oh.”

“That is what this country has come to, I'm afraid. But I shall do my best to make your case. Have you thought about writing a book?”

“I haven’t even thought about reading one.”

Henry exploded into laughter which ended almost as soon as it had begun.

“Well, think about it. I can recommend ghost writers.”

The article came out two days later. “Why Do We Neglect Our Heroes and Reward Our Enemies?” was the headline. Martin found himself contrasted with some jihadi (or alleged jihadi) who was suing MI5.

“I found Mr Smith to be a sensitive man with that blunt, charming honesty of the British working class.” Sensitive? Where had that come from? And he couldn't remember telling Sutcliffe about his “frustration with the government’s anti-extremism efforts, or lack thereof, in Britain’s educational and cultural institutions.” But he was glad to see his name back in the newspapers, and his story in print. He hoped that it had made Paul squirm.

Several other journalists messaged him over that week, asking for statements. Martin was happy to oblige. The questions were slightly odd. What did he think about “wokeness”? He had no idea what it was. It sounded bad.

“Dad’s in the paper again sweetheart,” he announced to Amanda when she rang him.

“Which this time?”

“The, er – the American Spectator...”

“Oh, I read it every day.”

He thought that she was joking.

“How is it going with jobs?”

“Well,” said Martin, ponderously, “I did get an email from a man in Chicago saying I could go to work for him.”

“What kind of job?”

“Insurance salesman.”

“I think we should focus on England for now, Dad.”

Martin sheepishly agreed. After he put the phone down he sat at his kitchen table, listening to the cars outside, as the evening darkened like a bruise.

Henry Sutcliffe had not been reading his DMs. Martin had sent him two - one asking if he had any contacts who might be able to help him find a job and one asking if he had seen the previous message. He knew that he had not. The little tick beside it was still grey.

The next morning, though, his mobile phone sprang to life.

“Martin! Great to hear from you. Henry Sutcliffe here. Are you busy?”

“No.”

“I wondered if you might be looking for a job?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. Have you ever heard about the RI? The Raziq Institute. No, probably not. Basically, it is a little organization that promotes secularism and anti-extremism.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, I do some work with the lads over there and they have a project that you might be interested in. It’s sort of trying to provide a positive, relatable face for moderation. Of course, you will be paid. Interested?”

Martin was unsure of what the hell Henry was talking about, but he was curious, and he liked the sound of pay.

“Sure.”

“Excellent. Are you free on Wednesday? I'll send the address.”

The Raziq Institute was based in Pimlico. Martin found its offices in a grand Georgian building that also appeared to host solicitors, estate agents and a mysterious business called “Wolf Operations”. An austere secretary with Slavic features and a suit dress attached to her like clingfilm looked at Martin with deep scepticism before establishing exactly who he was. She waved him down a hall which was as sterile and minimalistic as a dental surgery. Arriving at the door that she had motioned to, he knocked.

“Come!”

Martin pushed open the door. Inside was a rather more ramshackle office. Books, folders and loose leaf paper littered the room. This was how Martin imagined universities.

A mouselike man was crouched behind a laptop in a depressing suit. Next to him was a young woman with pinched cheeks and ash blonde hair who Martin recognised as an intern without knowing exactly what an intern was.

“Martin Smith?”

Martin nodded and the man ushered him in and towards a chair. The woman scooped up a book that had been lying on it.

“My name is Robert Norman. Director of Operations. I keep this show on the road.”

“Oh,” said Martin, trying to sound impressed.

“You’ve spoken to Henry Sutcliffe, I think? How much did he tell you?”

“Well, he said something about, er – something about improving the image of, er – something about a job.”

Norman smiled.

“Yes, it is about a job, Mr Smith. It’s a campaign we're working on and we thought you could help us with.”

“A campaign?”

“A campaign for unity. For unity against the extremes of the right and left.”

“Where do I fit in?”

“We're going to unite people who represent the moderate, sensible, good-humoured spirit of the different communities who make up modern Britain. Muslim Britons. Black Britons. White Britons. People who promote a positive, cohesive, unideological image of our nation.”

Martin nodded and scratched his cheek. He still no particular idea of where he fit in, though he suspected that it had something to do with white Britain.

The door opened and two men strolled in. One was a short, lean, nattily dressed Arabic man with a Morrisseyesque quiff and a hipster moustache. The other was a tall, broad-shouldered black man with a crushing handshake and an engaging smile.

“This is Mohamed Badra,” Norman said, “Our chairman. And this is Everton Green.”

“I’m an author,” Green beamed, “Lives Not Knives.”

“Great.”

“How are you doing Martin,” asked Badra, rhetorically, “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?”

Badra smiled.

“Follow me.”

Badra led Martin, Green, Norman and the intern out of the office, down the back of the building and through an exit. He walked out into a grimy back street. Martin began to feel uncomfortable. What was this? Was a sleek black car with tinted windows about to sweep down and whisk them away?

Badra led them round a corner and stopped outside a pub. It was a plush faux-traditional pub, with lots of wood, red velvet and persnickety bar snacks.

“Here we are,” he said, brightly.

They walked in. Martin looked around. It had been a long time since he had been in a pub. He saw people smiling, and talking, and laughing. He saw beer, oceans of beer, beer filling glasses, and held in bottles, and gushing from taps.

Badra spoke to a waiter, who led them to a secluded table where a thin young man in a blue t-shirt was setting up a camera.

“Has Norm here let you in on what we’re up to Martin?” Badra asked, leaning on the edge of the table, folding his arms and talking in a fast, clipped way that made him sound excited and annoyed at the same time.

“Yeah,” said Martin.

Two people had tried to explain it to him and he was still none the wiser. He wondered if that was his fault or theirs.

“It’s a podcast,” Badra said, “Drinks in Moderation. Just a bunch of blokes from different backgrounds meeting over a pint. A bunch of blokes who like football, and banter, and Britain, and dislike extremism and woke nonsense.”

Well, that made some kind of sense.

“But why me?” asked Martin.

“Because you kicked a terrorist in the nuts,” said Badra.

Martin laughed. It had been the nose but never mind.

“Up for it?”

Up for a drink and a chat?

“Sure, why not.”

They sat down, with Badra in the middle and Martin and Green on either side of him. The intern put glasses of beer in front of Martin and Green and a glass of Coke in front of Badra.

“Sorry for not drinking,” Badra said, breezily, “I never know if God really hates drinking but in case He does I’ll save my sins for something else.”

Martin looked down at the drink.

“Alright guys,” said Badra, “Follow my lead. I’ll start off with a few questions to get us going. Are we okay with the camera, Norm? I---”

“I don’t drink,” said Martin.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a Muslim too.”

“I’m an alcoholic.”

Badra and Norman looked at one another. Green nodded across the table, silently approving of Martin’s resolve.

“God, this isn’t good,” said Badra, leaning back his chair and sighing as if the weight of the world had fallen on his shoulders, “No offence, Martin. I completely get where you’re coming from. But we can’t have our salt of the Earth white guy drinking orange juice. What kind of optics is that?”

“I could get some non-alcoholic beer,” said Norman.

“That’s worse!”

“How about I take one of the beer bottles,” said the intern, “Empty it and fill it up with water again. He can drink out of the bottle. Nobody would know.”

“Brilliant,” said Badra, clicking his fingers, “I knew there was a reason we kept you around.”

The girl smiled and headed for the bar.

“More than one reason,” said Badra, watching her leave.

She returned with a beer bottle full of water. Martin tasted it, feeling a strange, familiar hint of alcohol. The young man finished fiddling with the camera and gave a thumbs-up.

“Alright, gentleman,” said Norman, “We’re going to start with a toast so if you could raise your drinks in the centre of the table.”

They did.

“Perfect. On three, you’re going to say “cheers” and then we shall begin. One, two, three...”

“Cheers!”

“So, guys,” said Badra, launching himself into a question as if they had been chatting for hours, “What do you think about reports that ISIS have been fundraising in London on behalf of jihadi brides?’

“Well,” said Martin, stirring himself into action, “We should find whoever is doing that and kick them out of the country.”

“Cut,” said Norman, appearing from behind a camera with a look of tolerant disdain, “Uh, Martin, that’s not the kind of tone we’re going for.”

“Oh,” said Martin, bemusedly, “Sorry.”

Badra frowned as the cameraman prepared himself again. He looked at Green as the young man gave a thumbs-up.

“Well,” said Green, “We have to go in there, into those communities, and say, “Look – this ain’t on. We aren’t going to put up with this. We have to sort it out. We have to do it now.””

“Absolutely,” said Badra, “And we need the three Is: intelligence, infiltration, and ideas. Policing is essential. But we have to engage people intellectually as well.”

“Yeah,” said Martin, “Of course.”

“We also had reports this morning that British soldiers are being investigated for far right extremism,” said Badra, “What do you think, Martin, are there parallels between jihadis and white supremacists.”

“Well, yeah,” said Martin, taking a nervous sip of his sparkling water with its twist of Heineken, “I mean they’re all fu---well, they’re all headbangers aren’t they.”

“Not very British is it,” said Green, cheerfully, “Any kind of extremism I mean.”

The conversation stumbled on. Martin did not contribute much except for the odd yeah or sure or definitely. Only when Badra asked a question about the football did Martin summon up the inspiration to say a few words about Gareth Southgate and video assistant referee. When they finished, Badra clapped his hands and nodded.

“Thanks, Martin. Great job.”

Green shook his hand.

“Nice meeting you man.”

“I'll be in touch about remuneration,” Norman said.

“Excuse me?”

“Pay.”

Badra and Green had left and Norman and the young man were packing up the camera. Martin drifted out and down the street. He thought he might have done a bad job, and he did not know what to do next. Perhaps Henry Sutcliffe could help. Martin called the journalist. The first time he rang, Sutcliffe did not answer his phone. On the second attempt, he got through and heard his bright Etonian voice.

“Martin, hello.”

“Have you got a minute, Henry? I wanted to talk about...”

“You know, this isn’t the best time, sadly,” said Sutcliffe, “I’m just going to a debate at the Oxford Union. “This house believes that sex is biologically determined.” Hot stuff, as you can imagine. I’m in favour, of course. Then I’m meeting with a little group of authors and academics. A salon if you will. They want me to talk about my latest book. Very boring, I’m sure. They’ve said there will be some good booze but I have my doubts.”

“Oh,” said Martin.

“But I must prepare. Can’t just wing these things, you know. Much as I’d like to. So, we must catch up later. I’ll let you know when I’m free. Whenever that is.”

“Sure.”

Martin passed another pub. Something about it turned the pavement into glue. It was an unpretentious place: a dingy little boozer where off-white paint peeled off the walls and the sounds of cheers and curses could be heard above the vague crackle of football commentary. Martin peered through the doorway, listening to cheerful clinking of pint glasses. It was like the ringing of church bells. Why not? What not have a drink? He’d found work after all.

Martin pottered in, getting a few suspicious glances from the locals as he approached the bar and ordered a pint of beer and a bag of crisps. The crisps made it seem sensible. He ordered smoky bacon. It was practically a meal.

Martin took his glass and drank. What a drink it was. You never lose your taste for beer. Colleagues, friends, women, all can fade into the mists of time. But you never forget the feeling of an ice cold beer. It transcends all circumstances.

It was so enjoyable that Martin emptied his glass before realising that he was in danger of doing so. He looked at it with disappointment. Well, no harm in one more. He ordered another beer, as well as another bag of crisps. Cheese and onion. Balance.

People were milling benignly around him. Mark Knopfler was crooning on the radio. A woman opposite him had such astounding globular buttocks that he could not help surveying them with scientific curiosity.

But something was wrong. Darkness was setting in.

He remembered his last appearance on TV. It had been on a comedy show, late in 2009. As far as he remembered, it had been a tribute to the noughties – a half-assed attempt to exploit an occasion no one felt especially sad or happy about. He had been asked to stand there, smiling awkwardly, while a parade of gurning comedians tried to remember who he was. They guessed “rugby player”, “soldier” and “BNP politician” before the presenter asked him to remind them. The joke was meant to be on them but he had felt embarrassed.

Martin felt embarrassed now. What was he doing, talking about “moderation”? He didn’t know what it meant. It was the sort of word that politicians used to sound respectable – like football managers talking about “consistency” or car salesmen referencing their Italian clients.

He drank his beer and watched as a young woman shook her dreamlike hips. He was getting the backwash now. He was getting the sour dregs of painful memories. He thought about Emma’s illness, and how alcohol had colonised the parts of their life not being colonised by cancer. His weakness. He had hated himself for not being able to make her well, but now he hated himself for not being able to make her happy.

Martin finished his pint and ordered another. He took a sip, caught himself, and put it down again, looking at himself in the glass. What the fuck was he doing? It tasted as flat as he felt.

Stomping out of the bar, leaving a trail of baffled expressions in his wake, Martin shambled down the street, feeling foggy and not knowing if it was the alcohol or the emotion.

As he crossed the road, he saw a man and woman lurking in a doorway. Martin slowed. Through the darkness, he could see that the man – dressed in some horrendous sweaty leather jacket – had pinned the young woman against the wall. As Martin approached, he heard raised voices.

“If you ever...”

Martin saw the young man’s fingers rising from the woman’s arm to her throat.

“Hey!”

The man spun around.

“Leave her alone,” Martin told him.

“Mind your fucking busine---”

Martin hit him, straight as a piston, on the nose. Again, he savoured that crunch, so instantly familiar. The man dropped to his knees, but then leapt up again, with drunken valour, and crashed into Martin’s chest. Martin threw him against the wall, feeling a nasty twinge in his back, and saw blood leaking from the man’s nose and splattering on his shirt and on the street.

“Leave him alone,” the woman yelled, but Martin was not listening. The man collected himself and stumbled forwards again, muttering curses. He aimed a punch at Martin and missed, comically and pathetically. Martin grabbed him by the shoulders and tossed him to the ground.

“Get off him!” the woman howled again.

Martin stomped away, leaving the man a bloody, beaten mess. He heard him groaning, and the woman hyperventilating. Even as he left the scene, he could see people looking at him. Glancing down, he realised that his shirt was smeared with blood. He zipped up his jacket and continued. His hand was broken and his back was aching as he barrelled down the street.

His phone rang. It was Amanda.

“Hey Dad!”

“Hey sweetheart.”

“We wondered if you wanted to come for dinner at the weekend?”

“Sure, I’d like that.”

“Are you outside? You’re sounding funny.”

“Just been for a run,” said Martin, “Thought if I’m not working I can at least do something to improve myself, you know?”

“Ah,” Amanda said, “That’s good.”

“Yeah. Everything is good.”