Civvies (14 page)

Hearing the jeep crunching over the gravel, Sissy MacFarland nipped out from behind the reception desk and skipped through the doors and down the steps. ‘Mr Harris, can I talk to you for a minute?’ Steve nodded, giving her a shy smile. He gulped down some air and brought up a burp: ‘Yeah! Sure!’ Sissy looked startled. He was polite all right, and very good-looking too, but she hoped he wasn’t drunk at this early hour. Steve pointed to his throat, swathed in the loose silken scarf, and said in a slow croak so that she understood, ‘I just had — my tonsils — out.’ ‘Oh! I’m sorry.’ Sissy smiled, dimples in her cheeks. ‘I was wondering when your friends would be back. I really need to talk to them…’ She bit her lip, and went on anxiously, ‘There’s two local boys going to get themselves hurt — this Malone could even kill them. They’re going for him tonight.’ Steve’s mouth opened, worked soundlessly. The poor boy’s throat must hurt terribly, she thought, because he then scribbled something down on the back of the list and handed it to her. Sissy read it and quickly shook her head, dark curls bounding against her pale neck —’Och no! It’s not Malone they’re after… It’s the stag.’ Steve felt better, he’d put a few pints down, and now he had something to do. It was important, he had to warn the lads about the poachers. He took a heavy swig from a bottle of scotch, and then turned the jeep round to head back to the camp.

Dillon tensed up, listening again for what had sounded like somebody or something disturbing the bracken a few yards away from the hide. Wearing his one-piece
DPM
combat suit with hood, lying full-length on a bed of straw, he peered through the six-inch gap, trying to discern a distinct shape in the darkness. Not a bloody sausage. Then a low whistle, and Dillon relaxed as Jimmy slithered in, teeth white against his blacked-up face. He crawled between Dillon and Harry, cradling what looked like a brand-new weapon. Dillon stared more closely. An L42 sniper rifle fitted with an
IWS
night sight. ‘I dunno how you do it!’ Dillon marvelled, envy in his voice. ‘It’s all down to contacts,’ Jimmy bragged, chuckling. ‘That prat Steve come back with the nosh?’ Harry grumbled. ‘I’m starvin’!’ Dillon reached for the headset as the radio emitted a couple of snaps and crackles. He twisted a dial, boosted the power with the slide control, listening intently for Cliff. ‘You know what we should do?’ Jimmy ruminated, lovingly running a lightly-oiled rag over the L42. ‘Entice him down onto low ground… they like apples. We get him as near to the truck as possible — give ourselves a hernia if we try and lift his carcass, and —’ he squinted through the night sight, crooked his finger alongside the trigger. ‘Pow!’ ‘Word of advice, mate — keep stum about nobblin’ that stag,’ Harry advised him. ‘Don’s passionate about it!’ Dillon held up his hand for quiet, pressing the tiny button microphone nearer his mouth. ‘Zero contact,’ he confirmed. Blur of static and Cliff’s voice, clear as a bell. ‘Alpha One to Zero. Two kids moving out of grid range south-east. Suspects armed. Looks like a crossbow. Over.’ ‘Zero to Alpha One. Maintain position and surveillance. Out.’ Dillon flicked off, frowning. ‘Going the wrong way for the salmon,’ he said, and turned to Jimmy, eyes narrowed. ‘Sounds like they’re after the stag…’ ‘Shit! He’s ours.’ Jimmy wriggled backwards. ‘Okay, I’m on my way.’ He hesitated for a second, waiting for the nod from Dillon, and crawled out. Harry folded his arms and stared morosely into the darkness. ‘I wouldn’t mind nickin’ a salmon,’ he said with feeling. ‘I’m bloody starvin’.’

Pacing himself, Steve jogged for a quarter-of-a-mile, alternated it with a ‘double’ — double-quick-time march — over the same distance. To his right, behind the chain-link fence, the compound and the salmon tanks, to his left open countryside. Judging roughly where the hide was, he came off the lane and onto the grass verge, intending to cut across below the ridge. In the pitch-darkness he had some difficulty locating the trip-wire the lads had laid, eventually found it, and carefully stepped over. He set off at an easy run, not because he was knackered, but because the little hummocks of tough, wiry grass were treacherous as hell, and he didn’t want to finish up with a sprained ankle or, worse, a broken leg. Steve had remembered the trip-wire. He’d forgotten about the pressure pads, set at fifty-metre intervals, until he stepped on one, triggering the battery of sulphur flares which zoomed up into the dark sky, blinding white bursts of light that blanked out his vision, turning night into day. Stumbling, almost falling, blinking furiously, all that Steve could see was a mass of whirling red dots imprinted on his retina. High above, the fizzing flares drifted slowly downwards. Steve covered his face, mouth flapping open and shut, realising too late that he was caught out in the open, exposed to enemy fire. Where was the rest of his section? Why the hell hadn’t he taken cover, the first rule when encountering SF, Sustained Fire? Tracer was coming at him. Masses of red streaking dots filling the sky. He heard the rattle of machine-gun fire, opened his mouth to scream, to howl, to cry for help, and nothing came. A mortar shell landed right in front of him, and in the gritty explosion a voice yelling, Corporal Harris, take cover: Harris, get down! Harris, take cover, get back, Harris, this is an order! The voice echoed through Steve’s head, but he could see Big Blackie Jeller crunched up, howling with pain, could see him, and no way could he turn back and run for cover. Big Blackie was his mate, and he hesitated just a fraction before he disobeyed the order and went back for him. As he gripped Blackie’s hand, he felt the burning red-hot sensation rip through his neck, the blood filled his eyes, his mouth, everything was red, everything was over. Then came the darkness, weeks of darkness, of terror. He didn’t remember being stretchered back, airlifted to the hospital, he remembered nothing but that moment of terrible scorching pain, and now it was back, squeezing the life out of him. Rooted to the spot, Steve shook all over, his arms in uncontrollable spasms, fingers twitching, and his mouth, gaping, filled with his own blood, unable to cry out. Don found him, curled up like a child, hands over his head. For a second Don thought someone had been caught in one of the traps. He slithered and eased his way closer, and then he realised it was Steve. Steve huddled in wretched mute hysteria, his eyes wide, staring into oblivion. Don gently eased him to sit up, but Steve seemed afraid of him, and not until he had wrapped him in his arms repeating that it was all right, that he was safe, did Don feel the rigid tension released. But Steve’s hands were still like a vice, holding on to Don, and Don sat with him, rocking him, talking to him. Don, who was too shy to talk to anyone, understood, had no need for words, because he had been in that darkness, he had been in that mute land of fear. Steve tried, once, twice, and then burped out, ‘Poachers — two kids.’ Don gave a pat to Steve. ‘Good lad, I’ll go tip off the lads… they’re up in the hide, can you make it there?’ Steve nodded, watching Don move like the clappers, bent low, zig-zagging out of the way of the flares, heading back to the camp. Steve was alone again, listening to his own heartbeat slowly returning to normal, unlike the rest of him, that would never come back.

Kids, that’s all they were, one of them barely fifteen, caught out there on open moorland which a moment ago had been inky black, now lit up to the horizon with the brightness of a film set. Even while the shock of it was still registering, their young faces frozen with panic, Harry and Cliff broke from cover, running swiftly and silently down the slope, and were upon them from behind. It was nasty, quick, brutally efficient. Grabbed by their collars, kneed in the back of the legs, stamped into a prone position, faces pushed into the ground, arms twisted behind their backs. Handcuffs slapped on, sacks rammed over their heads, muffling their terrified screams. Worse was to come, and it came in the shape of Malone, crashing through the bracken, red-faced, veins bulging in his neck. Pumped up like a mad bull, he charged forward and took a vicious, swinging kick at one of the hooded shapes, swung round and booted the other with all his sixteen-and-a-half stone behind it. ‘Hey! That’s enough, Malone. Back off!’ Dillon ran up as the two boys rolled and squirmed in agony, shrieking and slobbering in pain. ‘Cliff, get the bag off the kid’s head,’ Dillon ordered. And stepped in front of Malone as he was about to land another brutal kick, shoving him in the chest. Glowering at Dillon, Malone snarled. ‘You don’t like it? You got somethin’ to say about it… ?’ He extended his hand, fingers curled, gently beckoning. ‘Come on then, come on, Dillon, let’s have you!’ Dillon didn’t move, didn’t speak. Slowly, deliberately, Malone unzipped his quilted jacket and tossed it down, flexing huge shoulders, hairy tattooed arms and hard biceps straining the sleeves of a black T-shirt. He beckoned again, smiling. ‘Don’t, Frank!’ Cliff spoke quietly in Dillon’s ear. ‘He’s a madman, he’ll kill you… back off him.’ ‘Don’t tell me,’ Dillon said in a tone like cold steel, ‘what to do.’ Turning away, he cupped his hand under the blood-smeared frightened face of one of the boys. ‘You okay, son?’ Dillon ruffled the boy’s hair, then stooped to pick up Malone’s jacket, was about to throw it to him when Malone flicked out a left jab, catching Dillon off-balance. Clutching the jacket in two bunched fists, Dillon took a threatening pace forward. ‘Frank — don’t,’ Harry said, shaking his head. Cliff stepped in, snatched the jacket from Dillon and handed it to Malone. For perhaps five seconds nobody moved. Everybody waiting to see if Dillon, seething with rage, was going to take Malone on. Nobody else wanted to, but was Dillon the man to do it? Did he have the bottle? The fifteen-year-old kid was whimpering, and as Dillon went to him, wiping blood from the boy’s nose, Malone laughed. A loud, derisive laugh from the belly. And, shrugging into his quilted jacket, started to make soft little clucking chicken noises, black eyes glinting with triumphant bravado. Turning his back on Malone, as if he hadn’t heard, Dillon said stonily, ‘We got a job to do, all right? Now, let’s get on with it!’ But he had heard right enough, and everybody knew it.

Little Phil’s hacking cough had awakened her, and as Susie hurried through in her bare feet, Kenny was at it too. She didn’t turn on the light, didn’t want to wake them. A chink in the curtains let in an orange glow from the corner streetlamp, giving a sepia tint to the glossy photographs pinned to the walls. Dillon and the lads, kitted up in jumping gear, boarding a Hercules, thumbs-up to the camera. A couple of the less gory shots from the Falklands. Two photos of the platoon in smart No. 2 dress-parade uniforms, collars and ties — sunlight flaring off their cap badges, taken on the square at The Depot. A large blowup in full colour of a sky filled with blossoming white and yellow parachutes —
NATO
manoeuvres in Germany. And postcards and mementoes from all over the world, every continent Dad had served in, plus bits and pieces of Para equipment: webbing,
HALO
goggles, tropical-issue water bottle, Parachute Regiment shoulder flash, the quick-release box off a PX1 harness, camouflage pattern forage cap, empty magazine clip. To the boys a hallowed shrine, material proof that Dad had been one of the famous ‘Red Devils’ — the meanest, toughest, fittest bunch going. In the lower bunk, duvet kicked off, Phil was burning up, twisting and coughing in his sleep. Susie felt his forehead and the backs of her fingers came away sticky. Anxious now, she checked on Kenny in the top berth, pyjamas soaked with sweat, breath rasping. Both boys were really sick, no doubt about it. The door was pushed open and Susie’s mother peered in, hairnet over bulging curlers like an alien’s headgear. ‘It’s mumps!’ Susie whispered, distraught. ‘Look at their throats…’

Don Walker found the tell-tale signs at first light, and shouted Dillon over to have a look. The two village kids had been taken into police custody, and now it was back to the more serious business — the business they were being paid for — protecting the salmon tanks. It was at the northern end of the compound, sixty yards or so from the fence, where the lane branched off into a rough moorland track. Thick hedgerows of thorn and thistles stretched away, clumps of juniper bushes dotted about. Squatting on his haunches, Don pointed out the tracks to Dillon and Cliff. ‘They’ve been here all right — look, tyre treads, five fag ends. There was two of ‘em, and it wasn’t the kids, they came in a van.’ He prodded the soft churned earth with his finger and looked meaningfully at Dillon. ‘These are scrambler bike tracks.’ Dillon walked a little way up the lane, surveying the general area, and came back. ‘Cliff, you and Don start cutting this hedge back, it’s too good a hiding place…’ ‘What about Steve?’ Cliff interrupted, dark face a bit haggard from lack of sleep. ‘He’s always pissed, Frank, we want him off our backs.’ He jabbed his thumb into his chest. ‘We’re doin’ all the work!’ Dillon nodded wearily. ‘I’ll talk to him.’ ‘Hey! Frank!’ ‘Kick the waster out — why should we split our dough!’ Cliff grumbled. Dillon made an impatient swipe to shut him up as Jimmy drove up in the jeep, slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. Christ, Dillon thought, somebody else with a grouse. Jimmy leapt out, eyes blazing. ‘I just caught that bastard Malone red-handed! All that gear I got, the sod’s been paid more’n five hundred quid. And two hundred for the radio!’ Jimmy leaned nearer, fist up, voice getting throaty. ‘I tell you, Frank — you don’t take him, when the lads hear about this, you’ll have to fight ‘em off.’ Dillon closed his eyes, just for a second, to keep his sanity. Knowing Malone for the devious bastard he was, he sussed out what must have happened. Malone had been giving Griffiths some bullshit about how he’d organised the operation, got the radio and the latest sophisticated weapons, smooth-talked him that he was masterminding the whole show. The estate manager had swallowed the story, and forked out seven hundred to defray Malone’s out-of-pocket expenses. Only Malone hadn’t paid a red cent for the gear — Jimmy had, or Jimmy had made deals — didn’t matter how they had come by the gear, the point was they had done it without Malone. Somehow Jimmy had caught Malone bragging that he had pulled it all in, dogs, flares, radios, weapons, and the piece of shit was collecting a rake-off on the sly, as usual crapping on his mates from a great height. Dillon couldn’t even pretend he was surprised: par for the course. He said, ‘You catch him at it up at the office then?’ ‘Yeah!’ Jimmy was totally fired up. Reaching into the back of the jeep, he grabbed a pair of shears, snapped them under Dillon’s nose. ‘I’ll cut his balls off!’ Half-an-hour later, when they returned to the compound, Malone hailed them. Dillon sniffed more trouble. A police car was parked outside the wooden office building, and over by the tanks Griffiths was talking with two uniformed officers and doing a lot of gesticulating. ‘What’s going down?’ asked Dillon as Malone strode up, looking thunderous. ‘That bloody wimp Griffiths, he’s shittin’ in his pants —’ Malone’s black brows met in the middle as he glared towards the tanks. ‘He wants all the weapons in his office… the kids reported us to the cops.’ Still boiling about the money, Jimmy snapped at him, ‘That was down to you, Malone!’ ‘I’m doin’ my job,’ Malone rasped through his teeth, and Dillon half-expected him to stick one on Jimmy. ‘You don’t like the action, you know what —’ Jimmy cut his short. ‘Gettin’ well-paid for it, are you!’ — his voice like a whipcrack, and Dillon had to act fast. He had the jeep in first, spun the wheel and shot off even before Malone could bunch a fist.