The Big Man

I sat in the old armchair, flanked by two small tables, each containing a single item of brooding menace. One was the old phone - once cream, now a sickly yellow - a landline, the only form of communication here, too far out into the country for any mobile signal. The other was the flat matte black of the Glock 17 pistol. Chambered for 9mm Parabellum bullets, seventeen of them in the magazine, I’d never needed more than two for any job so far.

This had been my pistol since the Big Man had assigned him to this role. The Big Man - he had been the one who changed the organisation, structured it into independent cells to lessen the dangers of any infiltration, so we could take the fight to our oppressors from across the grey ribbon of sea to the east, gain independence for our small island, freedom from the mainland. Only the Big Man knew who led each cell, and the oppressors could never catch him, would never dare, not unless they wanted everything to burn.

Like all the young men who volunteered for the organisation, I hadn’t applied or been officially approached - nothing was official, there was only the look, the knowing, a gesture, an understanding, the back rooms of certain bars. You found them or they found you. And then perhaps you would be given a test to see if you could be trusted. For me, this was an envelope - with a hand written name - and an address to memorise, an order to deliver it to another cell, then wait there as they opened it.

Halfway to the destination, and in a spot where I knew I couldn’t be seen, I opened the envelope and read the printed note:

“You have passed the test. We want initiative not blind loyalty. Call the number below."

A number with an area code I didn’t recognise. I stood for ten minutes or more as I decided what to do. Before I left the city I’d visited a friend of the family - a forger, a man who conjured up passports and identity cards that could fool any soldier on the street - and it was easy for him to quickly copy the handwriting to an identical envelope. I used that for the note, sealed it and delivered it as instructed. I burned the original envelope.

I’ve never been as scared as when I handed it over, and the burly old fella - wide as an oak, salt and pepper beard - took it into another room to open, returning with a small plastic bag of fresh ashes that he gave to me.

‘Here’s your receipt. Go home now and don’t get spotted on the way. We’ll be in touch.’

The next week, I was pulled into another back room and that was where I met him. The Big Man. Tall, powerful, as magnetic as you’d expect from the occasional sighting on TV. Not an unnecessary word as he talked. My heart pounded high in my throat, trying to escape.

The phone on his desk rang, he waited for it to settle between rings and then answered:

‘Hello…’ A long pause as he listened, I couldn’t hear the other end. ‘Good man. Well done. Now don't go to the original address. Head to this one instead: 37 Meteor Street. There’ll be a warm welcome for you.’

He put the phone down and looked at me, that grey glare, his eyes - hard as diamond - invited me to speak.

‘How did he do on the test?’ I asked.

‘Him? Don’t worry about him. I wouldn’t trust that one to find his own cock in the dark if you tied a bell on it.’

‘So did I pass the test?’

‘It isn’t a case of passing the test or not, it's how you pass the test. There's four outcomes. Sometimes we never hear from them again. That tells us they’re scared. Maybe scared we already know they’re an informant, but either way, no use to us. Most of them carry the letter all the way unopened. We know what they're useful for.’

He paused, turned his head on its side as if he was taking my pulse, just by looking.

‘If they open the letter and call the number,’ he continued, ‘we know they’re curious, but followed an instruction after disobeying a previous one. Inconsistent.’

This is when he pulled the Glock out of a desk drawer and placed it in front of me.

‘Now, if they open the letter and pretend they didn't, that tells us something entirely different. Of how we can use them. Especially if they think they got away with it.’
He spun the gun around on the desk.

‘So which end of this would you rather be looking down?’

I picked it up. Heavier than it looked.

* * *

The cream phone rang, dragging me back to the here and now. I let it settle between rings, picked up the receiver and listened.

‘Good man. Well done. Now don't go to the original address. I need you out in the country, there’s a farmhouse two miles west of the last phone box as you leave town on the coast road. There’ll be a warm welcome.’

I checked my gun again and waited.

Bio: After two decades of working in TV in London and elsewhere, A.J. O'Toole has recently moved to a village in the North West of England to work on short fiction and a novel. He can be found on social media at @scribblerotoole.bsky.social.