It was a wet day in late April when I met him in Sloane Square, one of those freaky chance encounters that occasionally happen in your life.
The place felt safe as the posh crowd wouldn't be out on a Sunday. However, I was far from the restaurants as they called the police if they saw me. Being homeless made me bad for their customers. You know the type - all teeth, sharp suits. They don't know a rifle from their elbow, but they pay people like me to do their dirty work and profit off our sweat and blood.
"Spare any change for an old solider, mate?" I asked for about the thousandth time today.
It had actually been a good day's begging on the whole, Sundays often were. I'd got about twenty five quid in my stash, enough for something to eat, something to smoke and the bus fare to try and get a bed for the night at one of the shelters.
My target dug into his pocket dropping a couple of two pound coins into my box, glancing at my face before shaking his head and walking away muttering to himself.
"Thank you, sir." I said out loud as he walked away, back stiff, "it's much appreciated".
Suddenly he stopped and turned around to look at me.
"Sarocha, Corporal Sarocha, is that you?"
I stared back at him, not really recognizing the chubby face or the curly hair. "What's it to you if it is?" I asked suspiciously.
"Corporal, what the hell are you doing on the streets? I thought you were in Afghanistan."
"Sorry mate, do I know you?" I asked loosening the blanket around me and putting my hand onto the handle of my knife.
He walked over and dropped to his haunches in front of me, he put his hand over his forehead and smiled and suddenly it hits me. I know this guy, used to serve with him.
"Lieutenant Jones, how pleasant it is to see you on this lovely night. Thanks for the cash" I added dismissively. Like I want to see anyone that I know when I'm in this state.
"I thought it was you, well, I mean that I knew when you spoke that the probability was that it was you. How are you Corporal?"
I looked at him sourly. "Oh, I'm just tickey-fucking-boo, Sir, as you can see. Oh and it was Sergeant not Corporal. I got promoted after I left Iraq. But I guess it's just plain Freen now."
"Congratulations Sergeant Sarocha, now why are you here on the streets? Why aren't you in Afghanistan?" He suddenly stood up shock etched on his face. "You haven't gone AWOL, have you? Because that would be bad and I would have to phone the police."
"No, I'm not AWOL, I got MD'd. Convoy I was in got hit in Grishk and I got cashiered. Desk job or the streets, so I chose the streets."
"Medically Discharged? Were you injured? Are you ok now?"
"I'm fine, the holes hurt in the cold and wet, but that's not a problem in jolly old England is it? Never a bad day since I've come home. It's just like being back in Basra, hot and fucking sunny every fucking day."
He blinked at my sarcasm but quickly dismissed it when he asked me, "I take it you had nowhere to stay when you left?"
"I did, but not anymore. You know how it is, Sir; no one wants to know a wounded pissed up ex-squaddie."
He looked at me appraisingly as if a thought had come across his mind that he liked.
"Well, I do. Get up, Sergeant, you're coming with me. I think some food and a hot bath would do you good, then I have a proposal for you that might get you off the streets."
'Not a fucking chance you fucking pervert. I may be down and out but I'm not becoming your fucking whore'.
I've got my hand on my knife and I'm pointing it at him with hate in my eyes. Surprisingly, he simply smiled at my look and ignored my threat.
"Not like that, Sarge." He dug in his pocket and handed me a card. "I'm working privately now for an independent company based here in London. We're always looking for talent and I just happen to know that you're exactly the sort of person we're looking for. I'm sure I can get you an interview with the boss."
I looked down at the card he'd handed to me.
Joseph Jones
Private Security Contractor
Great title, I flipped the card over. 'Secure365 Protection Services' it read.
I looked at it with reservation. The job certainly caught my attention. In a sense, that's no different to what I was doing for the Army, close protection work was what I was trained for, and I was fucking good at it; one of the best.
It would probably be shit, but then as I'm not all-seeing, how would I know?
And what really did I have to lose?
LT Jones had offered me a place to stay and the chance for a new start, maybe I should just take it and see what happened.
So, I took the offer. To be honest living on the streets isn't my idea of fun and the thought of starting again appealed.
"You won't regret this, Sarge." Jones said as we approached his car. "Time to get your dignity back", he smiled reassuringly as he looked at me.
"I'm not really dressed for an interview LT."
"Definitely not, Sarge", he chuckled. "I know you'll need a hot bath and a change of clothes. Probably a good haircut as well. I'll make a couple of calls, I'm sure we can sort you out."
"I'm not really in a fit state to sit on those leather seats. I'll sit back here." I said as I tried to open the back seat door.
"Sarge, please, don't be so silly. If you make a mess I'll just get the car cleaned, it's really not a problem."
To me, though, it is a problem. Being around normal, civilized people again has made me realize how terrible I look and smell. My clothes are torn and dirty, my shoes are caked with so much dirt that their original color is unrecognizable. Essentially, I look like a homeless person, and I've been living like this for weeks.
It felt strange to be in a car again but I dismissed the thought and got into the passenger seat of the car and buckle up.
'Perhaps then the nightmares would stop forever, and I'd be able to sleep again.'