“Sam Johnston, P.I.  Move and you’re dead”. 

Despite the commanding tone of voice, Sam peered at his reflection in the mirror and couldn’t help thinking that his unconventional uniform of faded blue present-from-Nan pyjamas and bed hair oh-so-slightly reduced the menacing effect of the statement.   Not to mention the fact that his deadly weapon consisted of his gangly, stretched out arms with fingers pointed in the style of a gun. 

Even in the correct attire, Sam knew he’d have a hard time convincing anyone that he was about to kill them in cold blood.  Ruffled sand coloured hair framed a slightly mischievous face that looked much younger than his twenty-seven years, in spite of his fondness for cigarettes and curries.  Over the years this, coupled with his lanky frame tended to provoke various forms of abuse from men and the mothering instinct from women, much to his eternal disappointment.

Padding through his flat into the dingy broom-cupboard that passed for a kitchen, Sam let out a yawn as he switched on the kettle and lit his first cigarette of the day.  He wrinkled his nose at the stale smell emanating from the sink, overflowing with unwashed plates and cups, and made a mental note to attempt some cleaning tonight.  Would fishing yesterday’s tea bag out of the bin be too disgusting, considering there were no fresh ones left?  Another note: better do some shopping as well. 

Why he had insisted on moving out of home so quickly?  Technically it was about time, and bachelor-with-your-own-pad status had many advantages.  Then again, so did having your own personal cleaner and a magic fridge that restocked itself on a regular basis, even if you did have to put up with the occasional (OK, constant) bit of well-meaning maternal nagging.  Looking back, Sam reckoned he could have got away with living at home until he was at least thirty, thus guaranteeing him roughly a hundred more Sunday morning post-hangover bacon sandwiches.   But he wasn’t the type to carefully weigh up all the pros and cons of a decision, and it stood to reason that he hadn’t been able to see past the exciting prospect of a new life opening up before him as soon as he’d landed his first real job.  He was going to be a Private Investigator, and as far as Sam knew, none of these guys still lived at home with Mummy.

He’d been ecstatic when he got the job.  It seemed to have some amazing perks…not least being able to pretend you were James Bond on a regular basis and, considering his distinctly un-macho status in life so far, seemed a real mark of achievement – a real man who was going places in life.  A real man with his own place and – eventually, if he wasn’t being overly optimistic – a string of sexy, adoring girlfriends to go with it.

Sam smiled wryly, puffing on his cigarette as he recalled the magical first words Pete Bellingham, his unenthusiastic trainer-cum-mentor, had uttered to him on his first day: -

“Best not tell anyone what line of work you’re in now – you never know who you’re talking to. Just say you’re in insurance if anyone asks.”

Sam had a strong suspicion that Tom Selleck would never have signed up for ‘Magnum P.I.’ if that had been the opening line of the show. 

Pete's words had signified Sam’s introduction to Real Life, and nowhere in his glittering dream of a new, independent lifestyle had he made allowances for routine office work, making his own tea and taking out the rubbish. “Is this it?” Sam asked himself on a depressingly regular basis.

A fleeting look at the digital clock on the cooker (telling the time being the only thing it was regularly used for) revealed that it was nearly nine o’clock, almost an hour later than Sam had expected.

Not wanting to give Pete the satisfaction of his being late again, Sam stubbed his cigarette out on the kitchen counter and raced through the hallway into the bathroom, where he sprayed himself liberally with deodorant (no time for a shower) and turned the laundry basket upside down, searching frantically through the crumpled pile of clothes for anything that he could pass off as clean.  Finally he settled on dark blue jeans and a not-too-creased black T-shirt, it having passed the ‘freshness test’ of a quick sniff under the arms, before pulling it on hastily as he ran out of the flat, banging the front door loudly behind him.

The engine died after the third attempt to start the car.  Ironic really, Mum having bought Sam the Ford Fiesta because “they’re so reliable…” Why she had to choose one in a disgusting shade of sludge-green was more of a mystery.  Sam couldn’t imagine a car more removed from the Bond-style Aston Martin he regularly fantasised about.  “Come on you bastard…” he muttered as he turned the key repeatedly in the ignition.  Finally, the engine roared loudly into life and Sam’s familiar journey to work began.  Sam noted that he always seemed to pass the same miserable faces along the way no matter what time he left in the morning, and idly wondered if other people considered him to be one of them.  He certainly felt like it sometimes, especially on these grey Monday mornings when it felt as though this drudgery was never going to end.

The journey didn’t take long and Sam pulled up in a parking space outside the office, a shabby, non-descript building on the High Street.  As always, he smiled ironically as he noticed the giant sign proudly displayed above the office door, painted in cheery blue letters: ‘Covert Investigations Limited’.  The building’s location in the High Street, sandwiched between Woolworths and McDonalds, did nothing to make the place any less conspicuous and perhaps unsurprisingly, the agency didn’t get many face-to-face visitors. 

Pete was waiting for Sam by the front door, his heavily creased face showing the usual disapproval.  Although casually dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, he still managed to look impeccably groomed as he tapped his foot impatiently, watching Sam get out of the car and raising an eyebrow at his dishevelled appearance.

Fifty-three, divorced and with no children to worry about, Pete now considered himself married to the job, the long hours he regularly put in being testament to this fact.  On first meeting him a week ago, Sam had excitedly quizzed Pete about his juiciest cases, reckoning he’d been around the block more than enough times to pick up some amazing stories.  Pete, however, had always remained infuriatingly tight-lipped, referring only to hard facts; no speculation, no gossip, nothing at all interesting in Sam’s opinion.  He made the job sound as though it were akin to watching beige coloured paint dry, although Sam couldn’t work out whether the job really was this boring, or if just being around Pete was the problem.

Sam’s first task with Pete had been the clichéd case of trailing a man accused by his wife of having an affair with his secretary.  Having met the woman, Sam could see why her husband had been tempted to stray and had almost wondered out loud why they should stop the poor man having some fun every now and again, but consoled himself with the excitement of actually trailing someone, taking photos and recording conversations.  Hopes that were dashed when it had taken all of half an hour for Pete to catch the offenders in a nearby bar, record an incriminating conversation and present it to the wife, so matter-of-fact he had been in handling everything.  Sam had been itching to find an excuse to stay around and witness what had happened when the husband came home, but their job was done and it was back to the office for some thrilling paperwork.  That episode had reinforced Sam’s conclusion that he would gladly slit his wrists if he thought he’d turn into Pete when he reached his fifties. 

Determined however to start the day on a cheerful note, Sam flashed Pete a huge grin as he approached him at the door.

“Morning matey.  Fancy a quick cuppa before we get going?  I’m gasping…”

Pete checked his watch.  “You should have thought of that before you decided to turn up late again this morning.  Come on, we’ll take my car.”

“Why the rush?”  

“Didn’t you read the briefing?” There was a hint of exasperation in Pete’s monotonous voice.  “We should have been there at 9 o’clock sharp to start the watch.”

Sam nodded, not wanting to admit that no, he hadn’t read the briefing properly.  All he knew was that he was going to be spending all day stuck in a car with Pete outside a grim tower block.  His mind only had room for a few depressing facts, never mind checking the finer details like the actual time the nightmare was due to start.

Pete strode briskly over to his blue Mondeo, impeccably parked in the first space outside the office door as if advertising the fact that he was always the first one there in the mornings.  Sam slid into the passenger seat.

“Funny last week, wasn’t it?  Wish I’d been a fly on the wall when the husband got in.”

Pete offered a raised eyebrow in reply, and the rest of the journey continued in silence as he drove the car slowly and smoothly through the tree-lined streets, finally pulling in near Hedgerow House, a grubby tower-block whose name belied the fact that there was no greenery to be seen for a good few hundred yards.  Graffiti House might indeed have been a more fitting name, considering the fluorescent writing strewn across the front of the building, the vibrant colours standing out in stark contrast to the merged greyness of the building and surrounding sky.

Next to Hedgerow House was a parade of shops, among which were the usual cut-price convenience store, an ‘Everything’s A Pound’ shop and a corner pub with some of the windows half-heartedly boarded up.  From the car window Sam spotted two young men, almost identically dressed in dark hoodies, oversized jeans and the obligatory Burberry headgear, kicking litter around the parade.  Sam stared blankly at them for a moment, considering the prospect of spending the best part of the day in this depressing dump, turning back to Pete as he silently reminded himself to keep focused on the job in hand, once he knew what it actually was.

“Could we just go over the details again, quickly?”

Pete sighed as he leaned over and took a digital camera and a black and white photograph from the glove compartment.  “We’re waiting for a Mr. John Ingram to come out.  He’s claiming disability benefit for a broken leg; the insurance company think he’s putting it on.  We need to get a photograph of him coming out of the building, and then we need to follow him and make sure we get some footage of him walking around for a while.” 

Pete delivered the statement in his usual manner; straightforward and unemotional with no embellishment or opinion added to detract from the facts.  Sam nodded in understanding, studying the photograph of John Ingram and stifling a yawn. 

The two men sat, not saying a word, watching the entrance doors to Hedgerow House.  Pete had parked in an excellent observational position, obscured from general view by a van parked on their left side, and by the huge green recycling bins on the right. 

Suddenly the theme tune from ‘The Muppets’ cut through the silence in the car, making Sam jump.  He glanced down at his ringing phone and shot a worried look at Pete.

“Sorry mate, this is urgent.  I’ll just be a couple of minutes…”

“Don’t be long” grunted Pete, his eyes not moving from Hedgerow House.  “And make sure you turn that thing off when you come back.”

Sam got out of the car and ran round to the back of the recycling bins, out of Pete’s sight, as the call went to voicemail.  It was only his Mum and Sam knew the call wouldn’t have been any more urgent than a rundown of her trip to ASDA and how expensive baked beans were getting these days.  He was, however, grateful to her for providing him with a handy excuse to finally go and get something to drink; something he did consider to be pretty urgent at this point in time.

The parade of shops was quiet; Sam concluding that at a quarter past ten most of the locals were either at work or still in bed watching ‘Trisha’.  He headed into the convenience store and scanned the selection of drinks, eventually settling on a Diet Coke for Pete and a Red Bull for himself, not forgetting a box of the all-important teabags for later.   

Having paid the bored shop assistant, to whom he’d have gladly awarded a trophy for ‘Most Unenthusiastic Employee in the World…Ever’, Sam left the shop and headed back to Pete’s Mondeo.

It was then that Sam suddenly felt a sharp blow to the back of his head, making him lose his balance and topple forwards onto the concrete, his arms reaching out in front of him instinctively for protection.  The drinks and teabags flew out of his hands and rolled into the road.

Bewildered, he turned to look at the source of the blow.  One of the young men he’d seen from the car window was standing behind him, brandishing an empty glass beer bottle.  The oversized black hoodie and Burberry cap obscured most of his face, but Sam could vaguely make out a pair of dead eyes and thin lips, stretched in anger.  His skin looked rough and pallid, as though being out in daylight was an unusual occurrence.

A thousand things went through Sam’s mind at once as he stared up at the man, ranging from what Pete was going to say to how much the guy looked like one of his old school bullies.  Did all bullies have the same features – was it genetic?  Could he just get up and run off, or was this serious?

Shaking, he tried to pull himself to his feet, but as he did so the beer bottle crashed down on the back of his neck, with a determined force that sent Sam back down to the ground with a thud.

The man bent down towards Sam.

His voice was rasping and venomous, sounding much older than he looked which only made him more of an imposing figure.  He gestured Sam to get to his feet and pushed him roughly into the nearby alleyway that separated the convenience store from the corner pub.  Sam looked round fleetingly.  There was nobody in view, not that this man seemed to have any real concern about passers-by.  Sam tried to swallow.  His throat had gone completely dry and he felt almost paralysed by the fear that was creeping through him. 

In the confines of the alleyway the threat of the knife was now an obvious reality as it glinted menacingly in the man’s hand.  Daylight seemed way off into the distance; another world.  The man stood in front of Sam, shadows obscuring his face.

“I…didn’t see anything” Sam spluttered, confused. His voice didn’t sound like his own.

The man delivered a vicious kick to Sam’s stomach, winding him.  He bent double and let out a groan. 

“Seriously…I don’t know what you’re talking about…” 

Sam could make out a series of injection marks on the man’s wrist as he raised his arm and brought the knife close to Sam’s face.  The smell of stale sweat permeated his nostrils and Sam winced, petrified as he closed his eyes and braced himself.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

They both jumped.  From the corner of his eye Sam could make out Pete’s bulky silhouette, standing at the entrance to the alleyway.

The young man turned to Pete and flashed the knife, his eyes glinting dangerously against the reflected daylight.

Pete took a step closer.  “Come on son, this is silly.  Give me the knife…” He spoke in a low, authoritative tone that Sam hadn’t heard him use before - it was almost hypnotic.  Sam felt himself being drawn in as Pete took another step towards his assailant.

The man stood still, as if he didn’t quite know what to do next.  As Pete took a third step towards him he turned from Sam and raised the knife to Pete in defence, uncertainty in his eyes as they flitted from him back to Sam.  Suddenly he lunged towards Pete, holding the knife in his outstretched arm. 

With one swift movement Pete grabbed the young man’s wrist and thrust his arm upwards, sending the knife spiralling out of his hand towards the ground, landing at Sam’s feet.

The man twisted himself free of Pete’s grasp and, pushing past him, charged off at lightning speed out of the alleyway.  Pete set off in hot pursuit, at a speed that belied his age and stocky build.

Alone, Sam exhaled deeply for what seemed like the first time since the encounter.  His entire body was shaking as his legs gave way and he slid down the wall onto the ground, next to the knife.  He stared vacantly at his distorted reflection in the blade.  He had always imagined himself to be strong and capable in a crisis, but he’d never been more scared in his life.  He felt a surge of disappointment wash over him as he thought about how cowardly he’d been…how human.  And in contrast, how brilliant Pete had been.

Hearing footsteps heading back towards the alleyway Sam bristled, then breathed a sigh of relief as Pete appeared.  He spoke in a soothing tone, slightly out of breath.

“I’ve lost him… but I’ve called the police.  Come on son, let’s get you back to the car.  Are you hurt?”

Sam shook his head, unable to speak.  He looked gratefully at Pete as he helped him to his feet and brushed off the mud and gravel that was stuck to his clothes.

“We’ll go to the hospital, get you checked out anyway.”

He led Sam out of the alleyway and back towards the car.