A few days later, he phones the man and says that he is interested in what he said, about him maybe finding some work for him. “What would I need to do?” he asks. “Exactly.”
“We should meet and talk about it,” the man says.
They meet at a pub near his apartment and he explains that his agency provides close personal protection to VIPs, celebrities, and high-net-worth individuals. “Bodyguards, in the vernacular,” he says.
“Okay,” István says.
The pub has a terrace in front and they’re sitting at a table under the leafy branches of a tree. Mervyn, like most of the men there, is wearing an open-necked shirt and sunglasses. Those red trousers again, and what seem to be Gucci loafers. The same strong-smelling perfume. It’s midweek, early afternoon. Facing him across the wooden table, István feels dull-headed—he took the Tube in immediately after waking up.
“Interested?”
“Sure,” István says.
“You’ll make a lot more, potentially, than whatever you’re making now.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know what you’re making now.”
When István tells him, and even though he exaggerates the amount, Mervyn makes a dismissive movement with his hand. He says there’s the potential to make up to fifty pounds an hour from close protection work, depending on the qualifications and experience of the individual, and also on their personal qualities.
“You told me you were in the army,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s an excellent start.”
They talk a bit about István’s army experience and then Mervyn says, “You got an SIA license? You’ll need one.”
“What is that?” István asks, lighting another cigarette.
“Security Industry Authority license,” Mervyn explains. “It’s a formality really.”
“Okay.”
“Actually, you should have one to do what you’re doing at that strip club.”
“Working on the door?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” István says. “It’s sort of informal.”
“Yeah, that was my assumption. You don’t have a criminal record?”
“Here?”
“Or at home. In Hungary.”
“I actually do,” István says.
“Here?”
“No.”
“At home?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” István says.
“What?”
István tells him.
“The man died?” Mervyn asks.
“Yeah,” István says. “Yeah, he did.” He feels unexpectedly shaken. It’s been years since he’s talked about this, and talking about it now he understands, as if for the first time, the extent to which it has affected his whole life since then.
Seeing that he’s upset, Mervyn pats him on the shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says.
István nods.
“How old were you?” Mervyn asks him.
“Fifteen,” István says.
“You were a minor?”
“Yeah.”
“It should be all right, then,” Mervyn says. “Nothing else?”
“No,” István says.
It turns out, though, that to get the SIA license he first needs to do a two-week training course in close-protection techniques that costs more than a thousand pounds.
When István says he doesn’t have that Mervyn offers to lend him the money.
“No,” István says.
“Why not?”
“No,” István says again.
And again Mervyn says, “Why not?” He takes off his sunglasses. “It’s the least I can do,” he says. “After what you did for me. You might have saved my life. I’m saying I’ll lend you the money, that’s all. You do some work for me after you’ve got the license and you’ll be in a position to pay it back. Don’t worry about that.”
István doesn’t say anything.
“Don’t worry about that,” Mervyn says again. “I’ll get my money back. And then some.”
The course is in Romford. He takes the Overground and it’s a short walk from there. He has to set an alarm for six thirty and it feels weird to be up so early. To be starting the day at that hour. He isn’t used to it anymore and he struggles to stay focused as he stares at a well-built man in an Under Armour T-shirt standing next to a whiteboard and talking to them about physical intervention and when it is and is not justified.
There are twenty or thirty of them in the room, at these little desks. At some points during the day, it feels unpleasantly like one of those dreams where you’re at school again. Most of the others are sort of like him. About half of them are English and the rest are foreigners, mainly from Eastern Europe. There are three or four women. Otherwise it’s men. He’s one of the older ones.
The course has three modules: “Working in the Private Security Industry,” “Working as a Close Protection Operative,” and “Conflict Management.” Subjects covered include first aid and defibrillator training—standing around in a circle with one of them being “the subject”—as well as potentially more interesting things like evasive-driving techniques (“If you can’t call for help or reasonably get to a safe area, then you must lose your pursuers on the road”) and anti-ambush training (“In potentially hostile environments we need to utilize some specific skills to prevent or survive an ambush, these are sometimes referred to as Protective Intelligence skills, or situational and tactical awareness skills”). Toward the end of the second week there’s also a short introduction to firearms which some of the others seem to think is exciting.
He listens to them talking about it at lunch one day. A few of them have gone for lunch together at a place near the station. “Shooters tomorrow,” one of them says, as István squirts ketchup and then tucks into his Full English. There’s a rumor that a special instructor will be coming in with a selection of handguns for them to look at and for a while they talk about who already has experience with firearms.
“What about you?” someone asks István, who hasn’t said anything yet.
István nods, eating.
“Yeah?”
He explains that he was in the army. They have questions about the weapons he used.
He tells them it was mostly the AK-63…
“You mean forty-seven?” one of the others says.
István shakes his head. “No, sixty-three,” he explains, with his mouth full. “It’s basically the same as the classic AK though. It’s a variant. Made in Hungary.”
“What’s it like?” someone asks.
He shrugs. “It’s a decent weapon.”
Disappointingly for most of them, the firearms session turns out to involve looking at pictures on a screen and talking about how to deal with a situation where someone else pulls a gun. Do what they tell you, seems to be the main advice. Don’t try to be a hero.
At the end of the second week they do the tests. He has trouble sleeping the night before. Luckily the tests are easy. There are multiple-choice questions where two of the four answers are obviously wrong so you always have a fifty-fifty shot even if you don’t know. Most of them pass the first time, and someone organizes a meal at the Romford Nando’s to celebrate.
When he tells him that he passed the test, Mervyn takes him to lunch at the pub near his apartment. They have a sort of fancy fish and chips, with white wine.
“Well done,” Mervyn says.
“Thanks,” István says. He says he hopes he’ll be able to pay him back soon.
“I’m sure you will,” Mervyn says. “Of course, it’s not just about having the license,” he says. “Personal qualities matter as well. For the sort of work we do. The higher-end work.”