Departures - Nine Months Ago

Holden's current predicament could be traced back at least nine months ago. He'd been thoroughly bored at work and seriously considering packing it all in. In those moments of reflection and when he was being honest with himself he could admit he was suffering some kind of a mid life crisis. Other guys would probably have chucked in their jobs and gone off to Pamplona to run with the Bulls, taken up an extreme sport or shacked up with a girl half their age. But Holden simply wasn't that adventerous.

The only thing stopping him was sense it wouldn't make much difference, he was bored with his job but he had no idea what he'd do if he left its warm reliable nine to five routine. He wanted to do something outside, something physical, something other than sit on his backside infront of a computer screen all day. Unfortunately, the sort of work he thought he might be interrested in invariably involved a massive paycut.

Occassionally, he thought about rejoining the army, but even he wasn't foolish enough to think at thirty-six he'd be able to recapture the life he had at twenty-one. Neither was he able to ignore the fact he'd gone to seed, when he dared weigh himself he clocked in a good two stone overweight and it was hard to ignore the way his knees creaked. A regular fitness routine had gone out the window shortly after he'd married Paula, replaced by regular meals. The vagaries of life with young children made it hard to get back into any kind of fitness routine without a level of commitment which Holden simply didn't have.

The answer had come a few weeks later the kids were in bed and Paula was cooking supper while Holden sprawled out on the settee to watch the news. Typically the lead story was about Iraq, another car bombing somewhere north of Baghdad, he was only half listening. The reporter, some square jawed blue eyed boy straight out of the BBC school of foreign journalism was interviewing a some guy about the bombing, Holden had only really started listening when he realised the guy the reporter was talking to wasn't a soldier but a security contractor, apparently this guy was earning about 500 quid a day, significantly he didn't look much younger or much lighter than Holden.

The conversation over the supper table was stilted to say the least, he explained to Paula that he wasn't happy as work but hadn't known up until that point what he might do instead, then he talked about getting a job in Iraq. She was worried surely it was a young mans game and he wasn't exactly fit. He countered, they wanted mature men not youngsters, he didn't add that no one likes to write a letters home to mum and dad to explain how little Johnny got blown up and they still haven't managed to recover all the bits of the body. He agreed he was carrying a bit around the waist but an exercise regime and propper work would soon burn it off. Then he talked about how he could earn five hundred a day, easy money. Money they could pay off the debts, clear the credit cards, hell if he did it for a couple of years then he could probably give up work completely if they were careful with the money.

She asked him whether he wouldn't miss her and the kids, Holden told her about the twelve week cycles, twelve weeks on three weeks off, he'd be spending more quality time with the kids than he did now. Finally, Paula sighed said she'd support him if this was really wanted to do, but they couldn't afford for him to be out of work long so he'd need to get a move on, he'd smiled told her how lucky he was to be married to her, her how much he loved her. Six months later as he'd lie awake in his rack he'd wonder bitterly why she hadn't put up more of a fight.

Holden handed in his notice a week later. Having done some preliminary research Holden had discovered there was now a Security Industry Authority who required him to hold a licence before he could be employed in the industry. He had drawn three grand from the mortgage account and signed onto a course, with an accredited company.

Two thousand quid meant he got to spent three weeks on an old abandoned airfield in the midlands. Training in the roles and responsibilities of the "high risk close protection operative". Learning among other things about counter surveillance, escort drills, route reconnaissance and planning and tactical driving techniques. The staff were all former SAS or Royal Military Police and they all seemed to know what they were talking about. He passed the course, passed with flying colours actually and he'd enjoyed himself despite the fact all the other guys were younger and noticeably fitter than him and most with a couple of tours of Iraq with the army under their belts.

After the course came the waiting, finding a job proved more difficult than he'd expected. Two months later and he'd only had two weeks work neither of which had paid anywhere near the 500 he'd heard abput. The work mainly involved driving a rich Kuwaiti and his family around London and carrying the shopping bags when asked, his instructors would have had a fit if they'd seen him in such instances, but try telling that to the guy who's paying you when he hands over the Harrods bags.

Needless to say the atmosphere at home was getting distinctly frosty. After a few weeks Paula started dropping hints, perhaps he should go cap in hand and see if he could get his old job back. By the end of the second month she'd stopped dropping hints and simply started yelling at him to sort his life out.

His break had come a few weeks later a friend of a friend pointed out his former platoon sergeant Paddy Green was now working for Armburst, a Private Military Company working in Iraq he'd made phone calls and arranged a meeting. They'd met in a Pub off the Euston Road shared a few pints as they talked about old times, then the conversation had turned to work. Paddy had not pulled any punches.

"Look putting aside the bitchiness and backstabbing and all the fucking waltermitties the fact is the business is bursting at the seams with guys and gals looking for work. So if you're looking to jump on the Iraq Gold Rush the last train left long ago. I'm paying 230 quid a day and that’s more than a lot of companies are paying.

Some well known names are paying as little as 150 per day. I mean you could earn more laying bricks on a building site back home. Profit margins are king not the blokes safety.

I mean if this is some mid life crisis why don't you go run with the bulls or start jumping out of aeroplanes, this work isn't going to make you feel any better about not getting up every morning with a hardon. Do you really want to go back to a world where the ability to not fall asleep while stagging on in a corridor for 12 hrs on 12 hrs off , for weeks on end is the key skill. You'll be treated like gash by clients who haven't the faintest. Or you'll be doing convoy work through shite hole Province in a vehicle with no armour and losing most of your team if you bump into the bag guys.

Can't say anything about the 'Stan 'cos I haven't had to go out there yet, but I bet its no better. Listen, this line of work has always been about knowing the right people, making the right contacts and your face fitting. You've been out for a long time now and you don't know anybody, your carrying a bit extra around the waist an thats being polite and frankly yer probably past it by a good couple of years."

He didn't say anything at first just nodded his head an almost whispered "I suppose so", then he'd stood thanked Paddy for his time, the disappointment writ large across his face.Paddy sighed.

Look, I'll fucking regret this I know I will, but I'll make some phone calls see what I can do"

He'd flown out to Iraq a week later.