Civvies (18 page)

There was a cheer as Dillon came out. A long drive ahead of them, and the lads were eager to be off. Dillon walked to the jeep, hefted Steve’s holdall from the back, dropped it on the gravel. He jerked his thumb. Out. Steve slowly climbed out. Dillon took a fistful of money from his pocket and offered it. Steve backed away, fear in his eyes. Dillon gripped his lapel, pulled him close, and without even bothering to look at Steve, stuffed the money in his top pocket. ‘Take it! You’re on your own, Steve.’ Steve’s face was white. The fear in his eyes was now mingled with the abject, cringing look of a whipped dog. He hesitated, then reached out a trembling hand, tried to catch Dillon’s arm. Dillon jerked his arm free. He climbed into the passenger seat next to Jimmy, looking straight ahead. The jeep backed away from the front of the hotel, wheels churning gravel, and shot off down the driveway. Lashed to the radiator was a stag’s head — old MacFarland’s stag’s head — that Jimmy had swiped from the bar. Steve saw the spread of its antlers above the hedgerows as the jeep sped along the lane, heard the bellow of a song floating back on the breeze, gradually fading, fading, fading away. ‘Ten green bottles Hanging on a wall, And if one green bottle Should accidentally fall…’

The stag’s head went up, antlers raised high, scenting danger. It stood poised on the crag, all senses alert, its massive tawny flanks quivering slightly. High up on the facing southern slope, Steve lay cushioned in the coarse grass, hidden by the waving fronds of heather. The wooden stock of Jimmy’s L42A1 sniper rifle, fitted with a cheek rest, nestled against his shoulder. 7.62mm calibre shell, muzzle velocity 838 metres per second. Effective range 1,000 metres plus. Steve squinted through the sighting telescope. Beside him lay his empty holdall, his kit neatly spread out on the grass. Next to his wallet, a single photograph of Steve in his parade uniform. Face shining, smiling into the sunshine. Silver badge of winged parachute, crown and lion on his Red Beret. The Red Beret he was wearing now, with his jeans and denim shirt and the neckerchief swathing his throat. Clearly outlined on the ridge, the stag slowly turned its head. Poised, muscles tensed, nostrils twitching, it looked in Steve’s direction, seemed to stare directly into Steve’s eyes. The crack of the rifle shot scattered the peace of the valley. Screeching birds scattered, wheeled into the sky. Before the first echo had died away the stag was leaping down, crashing through the bracken, seeking the safety of the wooden glen. On the grass, Steve’s kit lay undisturbed, the photograph spotted with three splashes of blood, the largest one obscuring the smiling face. The impact had thrown the body backwards, arms flung wide. The rifle rested between his legs. Some distance away, the Red Beret lay on the grass, unmarked, pristine, cap badge shining bright.

Dillon stood in his boys’ bedroom, looking over their board with all the photographs. There was one in the centre of Steve, his arms wrapped around Dillon laughing, there was another with his trousers dropped mooning to the camera. Dillon removed the picture of the two of them, touched Steve’s smiling face. He whispered softly, ‘Goodnight Steve, sleep quiet…’ Jimmy barged in carrying a black plastic rubbish bag containing all of poor Steve’s possessions. He seemed completely unaware of what Steve’s suicide meant to Dillon. ‘We best get a move on. What you want me to do with his gear?’ Dillon shrugged, said there was no one to collect it, give it away, anything but he couldn’t deal with it. ‘What about his mother?’ Dillon shook his head, didn’t want her to see Steve’s few pitiful belongings, knew it would hurt her. She had his medals, she had those to remember Steve, that was better than sweat-stained T-shirts, old sneakers and a baggy coat. ‘Okay, but we should get going, got a busy day.’ Jimmy said impatiently. Dillon nodded, wanting Jimmy out, needing him to go and leave him for just another second, but then he turned and followed him down the stairs and out into the courtyard. Jimmy tossed the black plastic bag into the bins. Dillon said nothing, he couldn’t, he just touched the pocket where he had slipped. Steve’s photograph, touched it, as if to say, it’s okay, I cared, I care Steve. ‘I want to go to the crematorium.’ ‘Shit, we already been there!’ ‘I want to go again,
ALL
RIGHT?
THAT
ALL
RIGHT
WITH
YOU?’ Jimmy slammed the door shut. ‘Fine, that’s where you wanna go, that’s where we go…’ They drove in silence. It was a simple plaque, set in a small square plinth of smooth grey stone. Wreaths of clustered dark green leaves and flowers wrapped in clear cellophane, each with a message of condolence, were placed beneath it in a bed of red stone chippings. The biggest wreath had the Regimental crest as it centrepiece, with the motto Utrinque Paratus woven below in tiny white flowers. Clad in his worn black tracksuit and his wrinkled Pumas, Dillon crouched on his heels, surveying the display of grief. He looked at the motto, and his lips silently mimed the words, ‘Ready for Anything.’ Anything but civvies, Dillon reflected bitterly. First Taffy, now Steve. A roll-call of battle honours, in reverse. Which one of them next? Jimmy? Dillon gave a small sour grin. Definitely not Jimmy, Mr Jim’ll Fixit — not if Jimmy had anything to do with it. More likely himself. Much more likely… He stood up as a middle-aged woman in a straight fawn coat with large round purple buttons approached along the path. For a long moment she gazed at the plaque with sad brown eyes, then rested her gloved hand on Dillon’s arm. ‘I never had the chance at the service to thank you. I’m just going to keep…’ Mrs Harris made a vague gesture towards the condolence cards. ‘My poor boy, he — he lost his way. I couldn’t help him, but I know you tried.’ ‘Frank — hey, Frank!’ Jimmy hailed him from the gated archway to the crematorium, beckoning urgently. No respect for the dead; not much for the living either, come to that. Ignoring him, Dillon said, ‘Me and a few of the lads are starting up our own company, security work.’ ‘That’s good, good.’ Mrs Harris nodded emphatically, large brown eyes fixed on him. ‘You stick together.’ Dillon gave her a quick, tight hug and hurried away. Jimmy was sitting in the jeep at the kerbside. As Dillon got in, he said, ‘It was on the cards, Frank.’ There was contempt in his voice. ‘If he hadn’t topped himself some bugger would have done it for him. He was a waster!’ Dillon didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure who he was most angry with — Jimmy, Steve, or himself. In the early spring sunshine they drove through Bethnal Green and up into Hackney. Somewhere near the London Fields mainline station Jimmy took a left off Mare Street, and in a few minutes drew up outside a row of rather shabby-looking shops and basement offices. There was a betting shop, greasy spoon cafe, and a travel agent’s — super shine travel agency — with flyblown posters in its grimy windows. Dillon wasn’t impressed, and even Jimmy’s breezy enthusiasm failed to dispel his doubts. ‘It’s not the greatest, I know, but it’s a start. Lick o’ paint here an’ there…’ he swept out his hand as if unveiling the find of the century, ‘… we’re in business!’ Jimmy skipped past a couple of overflowing dustbins and a small mountain of black plastic bags spilling rubbish onto the pavement and went down a short flight of stone steps bordered by rusting iron railings. ‘Come on, follow me, sunshine…’ Inside, the dark passageway smelled of vintage cat piss. It was littered with bricks and half-empty cement bags gone hard, and everywhere thick with dust. ‘All this’ll be cleared,’ Jimmy assured Dillon, bustling ahead. ‘Harry’s gettin’ a skip, right…’ He produced a key and unlocked a door that a puff of wind would have blown off its hinges. ‘Here we go!’ Dillon nodded dubiously to the floor above. ‘That Super Travel place looks like a knockin’ shop,’ he said, following Jimmy into a small dingy room with a plain wooden desk and few hardback chairs. The filthy window gave a grand view of the iron railings, rubbish tip, the legs and ankles of pedestrians. Above the bricked-up cast-iron fireplace, Jimmy had nailed the stag’s head to the bare plaster. ‘We got it for one hundred a week, plus there’s a bog outside, washbasins, and —’ Jimmy threw open the doors of a cupboard with a flourish. ‘Ta-rrraaaaaaa!’ ‘Christ!’ Dillon exclaimed, goggling at the two shelves of office equipment — telephones, answering machine, Xerox, fax, computer and laser printer, all brand-new, still in their boxes. ‘Where did all this come from?’ ‘All legit, it’s bankrupt stock,’ said Jimmy smoothly, and before Dillon could even draw breath, he was onto the next item on the agenda, fingers clicking, busy-busy-busy. ‘What you think? White walls, get some pictures up, carpet down — be a palace!’ Harry Travers blundered in carrying two four-litre drums of paint, two smaller cans under his arms, paintbrushes and rollers stuffed in his pockets. Jimmy did a double-take on the labels, glared at Harry. ‘Pink? Pink?’ Harry shrugged. ‘The white was double, an’ we got one gallon free. Whack it over that corridor… it’s not a bright pink,’ he reassured them earnestly, ‘it’s soft shell…’

Dillon, wearing baggy blue overalls spattered with paint, trudged up the steps and heaved three bulging black plastic bags into the skip that was half on the pavement, half in the gutter. Cliff was sweeping up with a broom, his black face and short wiry black hair covered in a film of cement dust. Glancing left and right with a pugnacious frown, he said, ‘Every bugger in the street is tossin’ their rubbish on — I go inside for a minute an’… look,’ he burst out angrily, ‘that’s not ours, that armchair.’ Dillon turned to go back down. ‘Hey, Frank, how’s it lookin’?’ Cliff asked. ‘If you got a pair of sunglasses, I’d wear ‘em,’ Dillon advised. He went along the passage, eyes half shut in a painful squint. The pink couldn’t have been pinker. It coated every surface — walls, ceiling, skirting boards, including the wires running up by the door frames and across the ceiling. Even the cast-iron electric box Jimmy was working on, standing on a ladder, a screwdriver in his teeth. Holding a torch, he was poking round inside, a spaghetti of coloured wiring trailing down. ‘You know what you’re doin’?’ Dillon asked him apprehensively. ‘We got the telephones all connected, no charge,’ Jimmy mumbled past the screwdriver. ‘Until the
GPO
suss us.’ Dillon sighed, wagging his head. Everything was moving fast, too fast. He wanted time to stop, to think, to consider, and Jimmy was charging on, as only Jimmy could, full steam ahead. Throwing caution and everything else to the winds. ‘Ah!’ Jimmy chortled triumphantly, and threw a switch. The fluorescent striplight in the passage buzzed and came to life. Dillon shielded his eyes against the shrieking pink glare. Jesus Wept. Like a bleeding boudoir. Or a Bangkok cathouse. Jimmy hurtled past him, yelling excitedly, ‘Cliff — Cliff, is the sign lit up?’ The four of them gathered on the pavement, grinning a bit self-consciously, looking up proudly at the glowing neon sign, a red arrow strobing the way down to the basement.

STAG
SECURITY
COMPANY

No one but a Para would know it, Dillon realised, but the name was sort of appropriate —’stag’ being the term for sentry duty in the Parachute Regiment. Thus: ‘stag on — stag off,’ alternate periods on guard and standing down. ‘Well, we got the premises, we got the phones,’ beamed Cliff. ‘How we doin’ with the kitty, Frank?’ It was an innocent question, but it stung Dillon on the raw. He felt he was on a treadmill that was spinning faster and faster, and he couldn’t keep pace, couldn’t even pause to catch his breath. ‘Still got a few quid!’ he snapped irritably. ‘Few quid?’ Harry’s eyebrows shot up in his big beefy face. ‘What we gonna drive — dinky toys? We’ve not even got a motor, never mind a security wagon —’ ‘Friend of mine’s got a garage,’ Jimmy winked. Of course, Dillon thought, rely on Jimmy to have a friend who just happened to own a garage. ‘He’s got somethin’ to show us,’ Jimmy said, already vaulting into the jeep. He bashed the horn. ‘Come on you dozy buggers!’ The treadmill was spinning out of control. The ‘garage’ turned out to be more of a wrecker’s yard. Half an acre of quagmire piled six-high with junked cars, vans and lorries. But Jimmy was confident that his mate Fernie would have just what they were after. He shoved open the double doors to the main workshop and disappeared inside, his voice echoing from the cavernous interior: ‘Oi, Frank, come an’ look over this baby, it’s a cracker… armour-plated. Frank!’ Dillon stood with Harry and Cliff peering into the open bonnet of a metallic-gold Ford Granada with crimson stick-on speed stripes, Y reg, 94,000 miles on the clock. He glowered at the open workshop doors as Jimmy kept yelling for him to come take a look-see. ‘I dunno, Frank,’ said Cliff doubtfully, bent right over, his nose nearly touching the spark plugs. ‘A lot of oil in here…’ Harry said scathingly, ‘There would be, you soft git — that’s the engine.’ A sudden shattering, stuttering roar, accompanied by a series of farting backfires, made them all spin round. An old rust-streaked security wagon, dents and scratches in every panel, radio antenna dangling over the smeared windscreen like a broken reed, chugged into the open, surrounded by a miasma of blue fumes. Jimmy leaned out, waggling his thumb. ‘Hey, Frank — look at this mother!’ He jumped down and at the third attempt managed to slam the door shut. ‘It’s a bargain!’ The three of them looked at it in silence, and then at each other. Dillon scratched his head. Bargain? More like a death-trap on four bald wheels. He fretted about the money situation all the way back to base. They needed ready cash to buy transport, and they needed transport in order to make some ready cash. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Jimmy had something cooking on the back-burner; but why was it, Dillon brooded, that Jimmy’s cooking always had a bit of a niff to it? They bought two six-packs of Red Strips at the local off-licence and sat in the pink office with the stag, two silent telephones, and an empty filing cabinet for company. ‘I see the toothpaste and sleeping bag’s still here,’ Jimmy said, returning from the lavatory, zipping up his flies. He gave Harry a meaningful look. ‘You not found a place to kip yet?’ ‘It’s tough with no dough!’ Harry protested. Jimmy put his jacket on. At the door he said to Dillon, ‘If you want to think about it, call me later. But it’s money in the hand, enough to put down on the Granada and the wagon.’ His tone said, if you can’t shit, get off the pot — let’s do it! Dillon finished off the can, crumpled it in his fist. ‘You known why!’ he said, spots of colour appearing in his cheeks. ‘I want us to be legit — we start off doin’ dodgy runs, and we screw up —’ ‘How?’ Jimmy leaned over the desk, arms spread wide. ‘Tell me how? It’s carryin’ gear from A to B, and it’s five grand cash!’ ‘Nobody gives nobody nothin’ for free, Jimmy. An’ I told you, anything to do with this Newman sucks.’ Jimmy made a dismissive gesture, as if wafting away five grand. ‘Fine, say no more…’ ‘So how dodgy is it?’ asked Cliff. ‘I mean, what is this A to B crap? What do we have to do?’ Jimmy sighed and chanted off, ‘We pick up gear from Heathrow Airport warehouse and we take it to the East End. How can it be dodgy? It’s all been through Customs.’ He tapped his open flat palm. ‘Five grand cash, in the hand…’ Harry perked up, sucking Red Stripe from his moustache. ‘Sounds the business to me! What’s your problem, Frank?’ Dillon closed his eyes, rested his forehead on the tips of his fingers. ‘Okay,’ he said wearily, ‘let’s go for it.’