Sylvia Bluck

Jack Rogers sits alone in Reception, gazing at a photo of a single gold sandal abandoned by a marble fountain. Even with pretentious blurring, he can tell it’s Rome – which is where he ought to be right now, in a sunny piazza with Deborah – not starting some mysterious desk job in London. It should have been him who got the job in Rome, not Hugo Fucking-Browne with one brain cell who smirked every single day until he left. ‘Do come for a visit, Jack, when you want to see a real diplomat in action.’ Smug bastard.

Jack checks his watch again, then goes back over to reception. ‘Can you call Alexis Grey again, please?’

The receptionist doesn’t look up. ‘She’s on her way.’

‘She’s been on her way for twenty minutes,’ says Jack.

With a heavy sigh, the receptionist taps a few numbers on a keyboard, then tips her head to one side as if listening attentively. ‘She’s on her way. Do take a seat.’

She puts on a bright administrative smile which fades before she’s bent back over her notepad and Jack pulls a face at the top of her head. Probably recording another example for her PhD in passive-aggressive reception skills. He wanders over to the water cooler, fills a paper cone, and tips out the water, drop by drop.

Alexis Grey. He knows as much about her as he does about the job in the Displaced Persons Unit. Which is precisely nothing. ‘And don’t waste your time trying to find out,’ the Director of Human Remains had said. ‘The incomparable Alexis will explain everything when you start.’ The incomparable Alexis whom no one except the HR Director seems to have heard of. She isn’t even listed in the office directory let alone on social media. In his imagination, her name conjures up an older woman in her thirties, dark, slim, tailored, with discreet gold jewellery. He examines his reflection and runs his fingers through his hair. Alexis Grey, he murmurs to himself.

‘That’s me,’ says a voice behind him. ‘Jack Rogers?’

He jerks around to see a tall woman with wild grey hair, with an amused look on her face. With one glance he takes in her purple velvet tunic, flowing almost to the ground, and a black shawl embroidered with sprawling red roses.

This really can’t be her. No one in the Foreign Office looks like that.

She swirls the shawl around her shoulders and he catches a whiff of cigarette smoke.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. Urgent phone call.’

Urgent fag break, more like. He holds out his hand and smiles. ‘No problem. Pleased to meet you.’

Alexis takes his hand in a tight grip. ‘And I’m very pleased to meet you, Jack. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re joining the Unit at a very exciting time.’

‘Am I?’ he says. ‘That’s good to hear.’

‘Got your pass?’

He nods, and putting aside dreams of sunny Italian piazzas, he trudges behind her through the turnstile and out into the gentle drizzle of the central courtyard. They cross to a porticoed entrance at the far corner, and almost crash into a gaggle of officials pouring out, talking at double speed. ‘Did you hear her on the Today Programme? … God I know … never sticks to her brief … we’ll be on damage limitation this afternoon …’

‘They probably work for our revered Foreign Secretary, poor things,’ says Alexis, as she holds open the door for Jack. ‘Luckily, we have nothing to do with her – which is just as well, given her track record for destroying all that she touches.’

Jack gives the officials an envious look before he hurries up the steps into a marbled hall. People are clustered in alcoves with their takeaway coffees, engaged in earnest discussion. He sighs. Only last month, he was sitting on one of these gilded sofas with Deborah, planning the posting to Rome.

He jumps as Alexis puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘Look up,’ she says, and he follows her gaze to a ceiling frescoed with fully-clothed and virile Anglo-Saxons, ministering to scantily clad Africans.

‘A typical example of racist colonial art?’

‘I agree. Truly incomprehensible that any government keeps it … but that’s not where I’m pointing.’ Alexis looks behind her like a pantomime villain, and whispers loudly. ‘Our office is past the fresco and up another floor. Quite hidden away.’

Jack peers at a tiny balcony hugging the ceiling and his shoulders slump. He knew it. An obscure job in an obscure office, as far from the action as it’s possible to be.

‘I’m not much of a climber these days,’ says Alexis, walking over to what looks like a broom cupboard but which turns out to be a tiny lift. ‘I expect you’ll mostly run up the stairs, a keen mountaineer like you.’

Jack gives her a sharp look as he squeezes in beside her. She must have been checking him out, as he certainly didn’t put mountaineering on his CV. As the lift clanks and whirrs its way up four floors, he wonders what else she knows.

‘Now, ignore the fresco and look down,’ says Alexis. ‘You get stunning views – and I don’t suppose you get vertigo.’

Jack leans over to catch a last glimpse of people talking, laughing, and taking phone calls. People in the middle of things.

‘I always think they look like busy little mice, scurrying about, fantasising that their wordsmithing will change the world.’ Alexis gives a mocking laugh. ‘So much wasted effort. And of course, they have no idea what’s going on up above them.’

‘And what is going on exactly?’

‘Aha,’ she says, tapping her nose. ‘Wait till we’re in the secure room.’

His curiosity flickers, then dies. Probably some tedious consular work, glamourised by a load of excessive secrecy - that sacred cow of the Foreign Office. He looks round to see Alexis disappearing down a dark corridor and he follows her up a steep and dimly-lit spiral staircase, catching up with her at a tattered green baize door. For a smoker, she’s pretty fast.

Alexis holds her security pass to a discreet monitor and when it beeps, the door clicks open onto another narrow corridor. Lights flicker on, illuminating a series of set-piece black and white photos along the walls. Jack stops to take a look. All the photos are of men in suits and high white collars, staring out from a past world.

‘Deadly, aren’t they?’ says Alexis. ‘Imagine working with all those stuffed shirts. Taken in the Durbar Court between the wars before the final decline of empire. I should take them down, but every time I see them, I thank God I don’t have to work with them.’ She shakes her head. ‘They really thought they were entitled to impose their views on the world, didn’t they?’

Jack has a sudden vision of Alexis with her wild hair and colourful shawl, sitting in the midst of those sepia men, railing against empire, blowing smoke in their shocked faces.

‘They probably wouldn’t be happy to know they’d been relegated to such an obscure corridor,’ he says, ‘especially by a woman.’

‘An excellent point,’ says Alexis with an approving glance. ‘Although an obscure recycling bin might be an even better home for them.’

She heads towards a security door made of gleaming steel, swipes her pass in the card reader and the screen above their heads flashes into life.

‘I’m back,’ she calls, before turning to Jack. ‘Meet Ahmed in Security. Every time you go in or out, he’ll carry out a check.’

A voice booms out. ‘Hello, Jack. Nice to meet you. Look directly at the screen.’

Alexis nudges him. ‘Try not to blink. Retina recognition.’

‘That’s right. Look straight ahead.’ A red light sweeps across Jack’s eyes. ‘Now switch off your mobile phone, please, and put it in the box on the wall.’

‘What?’ Jack looks to Alexis, and she nods.

‘No mobile phones past here,’ says Ahmed. ‘Don’t worry, it will be perfectly safe.’

Jack drops his phone in the box and then they’re through. The door clicks shut and he follows Alexis along another corridor to a panelled Victorian door.

‘This is the last door, I promise,’ she says, reaching up to the top ledge and bringing down a tooled leather pouch. She presents it to him. ‘One of our little rituals for new team members.’

Jack takes the pouch, not sure he likes the sound of team rituals. As he loosens the cord, he catches a faint scent of oil and he peers inside, expecting some startling revelation. He pulls out a brass key, the bow moulded into ornate swirls and curlicues.

‘After all that hi-tech?’

‘A little reminder of the past,’ says Alexis. ‘I thought, given your background as a historian, you’d appreciate it – and in an original 4th century pouch.’

‘My background?’ He frowns. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘You’ll see,’ says Alexis, and then with a theatrical flourish, she pushes open the door. ‘Welcome to the Displaced Persons Unit.’

Jack steps into the room and after the dark corridors, his eyes are dazzled. Light streams through tall windows illuminating ruby velvet throws flung over deep sofas and a rug of vivid blues seeps across the floor to the skirting. Bookshelves overflow the space between the windows, and a vase of red roses adorns a low table.

Jack stares. ‘This is the office?’

Alexis surveys the room with a satisfied smile. ‘Everyone who works here adds their contribution.’ She points to a lacquered screen, decoupaged with Victorian roses. ‘That’s one of mine. The business part of the office is behind there.’

Jack goes over to take a look, expecting more than two ink-stained oak desks. One is covered with books and discarded biscuit wrappers with a large brown teapot at the centre; the other is bare, except for a desktop screen and a landline. Then he clocks it.

‘Just us?’

Alexis laughs. ‘Don’t look so alarmed. The rest of the team is based in Haywards Heath, but they’ll be here soon enough, and we’ve got lots to get through before then. So, park your things and get a coffee. The kettle’s over there on the trolley.’

She gestures to an alcove where a blackened kettle rests on a single gas ring. Jack’s jaw drops. Sofas and rugs are one thing … but a gas ring? He turns to ask how Health and Safety ever allowed it, only to see her lighting a gold-tipped cigarette. He scans the ceiling. No smoke alarm.

He gets out his coffee kit. Alexis must have some special dispensation to ignore the rules. Like that old guy running the post room who was allowed to keep an antique desk and beaded standard lamp until he retired. Jack grinds the coffee beans, wondering if anything would happen if he complained about Alexis smoking in the office.

‘That coffee smells good,’ she says, blowing smoke in the general direction of an open window. ‘I thought you’d come equipped. Quite the connoisseur, aren’t you? What’s that? Kenyan or Ethiopian? I believe they’re your favourites.’

‘You seem to know a lot that’s not on my CV.’

‘That’s the vetting process for you.’

Holding the cigarette in the corner of her mouth, she goes back to her desk and pours herself a cup from the large brown teapot. Jack shudders. It must be stone-cold.

‘Not a tea-lover?’ she says. ‘Personally, I don’t think you can beat a strong cup of Assam with a good old-fashioned biscuit.’ She holds out a packet of custard creams. ‘Want one?’

He shakes his head and takes the cafetiere over to his desk, watching her brush crumbs from her shawl. She meets his eyes and smiles.

‘So, now you’re sitting comfortably, tell me. What’s your best guess of what we do?’

‘You want me to guess?’

Despite the smile, she looks serious. ‘Surely you must have wondered about all the secrecy and security?’

But he hadn’t. He’d barely given the extra security checks a thought. Too busy being pissed off about Rome. In fact, the only thing he’d done was to try and find out about Alexis. He takes a sip of coffee, giving himself a moment to think.

‘The Displaced Persons Unit could be a euphemism for managing political refugees … perhaps from China … North Korea … or even Russia?’

Alexis nods. ‘There are certainly parallels between refugees and our displaced persons. However, good to know you weren’t able to find out what we do … or even who I am. I saw you searched for me on social media and dating apps. That tickled me.’

Jack blushes.

‘Oh, don’t be embarrassed. Of course, you were curious.’

‘Yes, but how do you know what I’ve been searching? Is my phone being tapped?’

She gives a wave of her hand. ‘We could do that if we wanted but there’s no need. We have a whole range of tactics for keeping the Unit secret.’

Jack folds his arms. ‘I still have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you going to tell me what it is you do here? Or is it twenty questions?’

‘I like your sense of humour, Jack, but be patient a little longer. First, you need to know the implications of working in the Unit.’ She shrugs off her shawl and leans forward. ‘Everything – and I mean everything – is classified top secret. Nothing leaves the room. No documents, no photographs. Nothing. And absolutely no discussion with anyone outside the team. Is that clear?’

‘You know I have top-level vetting. I do understand the rules.’

‘And I asked you if everything I just said is clear.’ This time she doesn’t smile.

‘Yes. It’s clear,’ he says.

‘Good. Because the work of this Unit is far more restricted than anything you’ve ever worked on.’ She pushes a document towards him. ‘This sets out the extra restrictions involved in working here, and the penalties if you breach them. Come and read it through.’

He goes over to her desk, glances through the pages and picks up a pen.

Alexis lays her hand flat on the document. ‘No, Jack. Read it properly. The secrecy provisions are very stringent and lead to certain imprisonment if you breach them.’

Jack nods and this time makes a show of reading it. Not much different from the usual official secrets stuff, taking all his rights away and threatening dire consequences if he mentions anything to anyone. He signs and hands it back. Alexis scoots her chair over to a wooden filing cabinet, files away the papers and then gestures for him to return to his desk.

‘Right. Now all that formality is out of the way, a very warm welcome.’ She gives a cheerful smile, pulls the shawl back around her shoulders and settles back in her chair. ‘Firstly, I want to apologise for depriving you of that post in Rome. I know it led to your break-up with Deborah and it must have been a very difficult and disappointing time for you.’

Jack looks away. So she even knows about that … although he’s damned if he’s going to discuss it.

‘However, the reason you were pulled off the Rome posting is because you’re perfect for this job. I’ve wanted you in the team ever since I read your excellent thesis.’

‘You’ve read my thesis?’

‘I was particularly struck by the clever way you describe fourth-century Britain – the food, the smells, people’s expectations – very meticulous and insightful.’ Alexis takes another custard cream, dunks it in her cold tea and nibbles the wet edge.

‘Thanks,’ says Jack, watching the soggy remains of the biscuit slide into the tea, ‘but what’s my thesis got to do with this job?’

‘It shows your ability to get inside the skin of people from the past. And that’s central to the work here.’

‘Now you’ve got me worried. I didn’t join the Foreign Office to continue my career in history ...'

‘Didn’t you?’ asks Alexis. ‘And I thought diplomacy was all about history.’

‘… and I didn’t join to work on migration and refugees either. This Displaced Persons Unit sounds uncomfortably close to what the Home Office does.’

Alexis nods. ‘It does sound a bit like that – partly on purpose - although I can assure you, we have absolutely nothing to do with the Home Office. I wouldn’t let them near our displaced people.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Not in a million years.’

Jack bumps his mug down onto his desk, harder than he intends and coffee splashes over the rim. ‘So, who are these displaced people? Just tell me.’

‘You might want to wipe that up first,’ she says calmly. ‘It’ll ruin the oak.’

‘Wash away the ink stains, more like,’ Jack mutters as he fetches a cloth and deals with the spill. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Done.’

Alexis is still for a moment before she speaks. ‘What you’re about to hear will surprise you and you won’t believe it at first. No one does. So I’m asking you to be patient and suspend your disbelief.’

‘All right,’ says Jack, ‘but I do hope you’re not going to tell me you deal with aliens.’

‘Not aliens,’ says Alexis. ‘Our displaced people are rather unusual but they certainly aren’t displaced from another planet - or even another country.’ She pauses, a gleam in her eyes. ‘They’re displaced from another time. Time travellers if you will. Although I don’t like using that term, it carries too much baggage. You’re probably already thinking of time machines and H.G. Wells. And it also makes it sound like our displaced people time travel regularly or have control over it.’ She flashes a bright smile. ‘They don’t, of course.’

Jack stares at her. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this and he starts laughing. He can’t help it. Some lucky people get posted to Thailand. He gets posted to Cloud Cuckoo Land.