101,' he said curtly.
The voice that came down the line was thick and awkward. 'I'm ringing about the advert for the project. The secret one.'
'Before we proceed, I must inform you that the work requires you to sign the Official Secrets Act. Are you prepared to do that?'
There was a second's silence and then Rubble said, 'You want me to sign the Official Secrets Act?'
If you are selected to work on this project, yes.'
'Yes!' he said with childish pleasure. 'I'll sign it. .. if you want me to.'
'Good. Are you a British citizen?'
'Yes.'
'Are you able-bodied?'
'Able what?'
'Are you physically fit? Not handicapped in anyway?'
'No.'
'Have you been, or are you, a member of any subversive group as outlawed by the Government's Anti-terrorism Bill, 2002?'
'I'm not a member of anything.'
'OK. Now, for the selection process you will be interviewed in your home. This is in order to conduct a psychological test. What is your address?'
'Well,' replied Rubble. 'I live in a caravan just outside Breystone.' He began speaking from memory, having studied the old road map in his caravan countless times. 'It's on the B5085, near Wilmslow.'
'Yes - we've traced the phone box you're calling from already.'
Rubble looked around him. 'You know I'm in the phone box on the village green?'
'That's correct.'
'Well,' he peered around. The only person he could see was an old woman feeding the ducks. 'I live in a caravan. It's ...' He'd never had to give directions to his home before, and now he struggled to begin. 'You go from the village green past the duck pond.'
The voice interrupted him. 'This caravan. Is it the one on Embleton farm?'
'Yes! That's where I work, how did you know ... ?'
'We have satellite tracking. Is the caravan located on a lane? Behind a small copse of ... are they silver birches?'
Rubble had crouched down in the phone box and was angling his head to look up at the sky. 'They're beech trees. You can see them at the moment?'
‘Of course. Now, I can send an agent to interview you the day after tomorrow. Nine P.M.?'
Still looking up at the sky, Rubble replied, 'Yes, nine P.M. Thank you ... Sir.'
'And the last thing. Do not - I repeat - do not, leave the advert with this number on in the phone box. Keep any adverts you have with you in your caravan until the agent arrives. You must not show them to anyone and you must not tell anyone about this conversation. Is that clear?'
'Right, OK,' said Rubble, hurriedly stuffing it into the front pocket of his overalls. 'It's a secret.'
'The day after tomorrow, at nine then.' Before Rubble could reply the line clicked and the ring tone returned to his ear.
Tingling with excitement, he replaced the phone on its cradle and pushed the door open. Checking no one was watching he saluted quickly up at the sky and then set off proudly towards the farm.
Eric returned the phone to his satchel and sat back in his chair. Nervously he tapped a finger on the desk, eyes darting uncertainly round the room. After a few minutes he decided that he would go to the farm and interview Rubble purely as a sociological experiment; just to see how much a mind, wholly ignorant of the outside world, could be moulded into believing what was acceptable and justified.
Chapter 15
'Gold Blend all right?' said Zoe, holding up the jar.
'You're paying, darling,' replied Clare smiling. 'I'm just as happy with the own brand stuff.'
The girl made a retching noise in the back of her throat and placed the jar in the shopping trolley. 'You bloody students, I'd rather drink soot.'
They sauntered along the aisle, bored by the whole affair. 'What else do we need?' asked Zoe, restlessly eyeing the shelves of tea bags.
'You forgot the shopping list, you dozy cow,' Clare replied light-heartedly.
'Yeah, yeah, I think we're all right for brews. Sugar?' she asked, pointing at the pallet of paper wrapped brickettes at the end of the aisle.
'No, there's a spare one under the sink.'
'Right, that's it
The voice that came down the line was thick and awkward. 'I'm ringing about the advert for the project. The secret one.'
'Before we proceed, I must inform you that the work requires you to sign the Official Secrets Act. Are you prepared to do that?'
There was a second's silence and then Rubble said, 'You want me to sign the Official Secrets Act?'
If you are selected to work on this project, yes.'
'Yes!' he said with childish pleasure. 'I'll sign it. .. if you want me to.'
'Good. Are you a British citizen?'
'Yes.'
'Are you able-bodied?'
'Able what?'
'Are you physically fit? Not handicapped in anyway?'
'No.'
'Have you been, or are you, a member of any subversive group as outlawed by the Government's Anti-terrorism Bill, 2002?'
'I'm not a member of anything.'
'OK. Now, for the selection process you will be interviewed in your home. This is in order to conduct a psychological test. What is your address?'
'Well,' replied Rubble. 'I live in a caravan just outside Breystone.' He began speaking from memory, having studied the old road map in his caravan countless times. 'It's on the B5085, near Wilmslow.'
'Yes - we've traced the phone box you're calling from already.'
Rubble looked around him. 'You know I'm in the phone box on the village green?'
'That's correct.'
'Well,' he peered around. The only person he could see was an old woman feeding the ducks. 'I live in a caravan. It's ...' He'd never had to give directions to his home before, and now he struggled to begin. 'You go from the village green past the duck pond.'
The voice interrupted him. 'This caravan. Is it the one on Embleton farm?'
'Yes! That's where I work, how did you know ... ?'
'We have satellite tracking. Is the caravan located on a lane? Behind a small copse of ... are they silver birches?'
Rubble had crouched down in the phone box and was angling his head to look up at the sky. 'They're beech trees. You can see them at the moment?'
‘Of course. Now, I can send an agent to interview you the day after tomorrow. Nine P.M.?'
Still looking up at the sky, Rubble replied, 'Yes, nine P.M. Thank you ... Sir.'
'And the last thing. Do not - I repeat - do not, leave the advert with this number on in the phone box. Keep any adverts you have with you in your caravan until the agent arrives. You must not show them to anyone and you must not tell anyone about this conversation. Is that clear?'
'Right, OK,' said Rubble, hurriedly stuffing it into the front pocket of his overalls. 'It's a secret.'
'The day after tomorrow, at nine then.' Before Rubble could reply the line clicked and the ring tone returned to his ear.
Tingling with excitement, he replaced the phone on its cradle and pushed the door open. Checking no one was watching he saluted quickly up at the sky and then set off proudly towards the farm.
Eric returned the phone to his satchel and sat back in his chair. Nervously he tapped a finger on the desk, eyes darting uncertainly round the room. After a few minutes he decided that he would go to the farm and interview Rubble purely as a sociological experiment; just to see how much a mind, wholly ignorant of the outside world, could be moulded into believing what was acceptable and justified.
Chapter 15
'Gold Blend all right?' said Zoe, holding up the jar.
'You're paying, darling,' replied Clare smiling. 'I'm just as happy with the own brand stuff.'
The girl made a retching noise in the back of her throat and placed the jar in the shopping trolley. 'You bloody students, I'd rather drink soot.'
They sauntered along the aisle, bored by the whole affair. 'What else do we need?' asked Zoe, restlessly eyeing the shelves of tea bags.
'You forgot the shopping list, you dozy cow,' Clare replied light-heartedly.
'Yeah, yeah, I think we're all right for brews. Sugar?' she asked, pointing at the pallet of paper wrapped brickettes at the end of the aisle.
'No, there's a spare one under the sink.'
'Right, that's it
Similar Books
