Civvies (23 page)

The meeting the next morning with the NatWest bank manager wasn’t exactly ‘an interview without coffee’ — Para slang for a telling-off by the C.O. — but it didn’t bode well, not in Dillon’s estimation. Along with Harry and Cliff, freshly shaven, all three tarted up in their best suits, he did his level best to present an image of sober respectability allied to a keen business brain. The only thing he lacked was the Masons’ secret handshake. Whether the bank manager was taken in by the act was doubtful, but at least they were given coffee and biscuits. Coming out into the street, though, Harry was cautiously optimistic, a bit puzzled by Dillon’s obvious dejection. ‘Well, he said he’d put the wheels in motion. I mean, that’s something, isn’t it, Frank?’ Dillon wrenched his tie loose, striding along with the buff document file jammed under his arm. He snapped irritably, ‘Harry, without a guarantor we don’t stand a chance in hell!’ ‘Should have had Jimmy with us!’ said Cliff vehemently, and it was all Dillon could manage not to blow up at him too. ‘I mean,’ Cliff went on, ‘who do we know that’s got that much clout?’ He stopped suddenly, smacked his forehead with his hand. ‘Christ! … I forgot!’ Dillon’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You know someone?’ ‘The bloody weddin’!’ Cliff broke into a trot. He flagged his arm frantically. ‘Come on, follow me… I’m in the
NCP
car park!’ Dillon and Harry exchanged a look that would have bored holes in galvanised steel and set off after him. Five minutes later, standing by the Granada, Dillon impatiently checked his watch, reckoning they might just make it by the skin of their teeth if Cliff didn’t take all day getting the white Rolls-Royce. Harry sat behind the wheel, keeping the Granada’s engine ticking over, ready for the off. They both looked up at the sound of squealing tyres. But neither one could believe their eyes. Dillon actually thought he was suffering from a bad case of the DTs. Down the concrete ramp came Cliff, driving a long, black Daimler hearse tricked out with silver horseshoes and plastic wedding bells, pink and white ribbons fluttering from the radio aerial. As the Daimler bounced into the street, Dillon clasped his face in both hands, eyes bulging. ‘You pillock! What the hell are you drivin’? White Roller… white? Cliff scowled out pugnaciously. ‘I know the difference between black an’ white, mate! This was all I could get.’ With a horrible clashing of cogs, he rammed into first. ‘Now follow me, we’re late!’ Dillon leaned weakly against the Granada’s bonnet. Harry stuck his head out, blinking as he watched the disappearing Daimler. ‘Hey, Frank,’ he said, scratching his chin. ‘That’s a hearse…!’ Dillon slowly turned his head to look at him. Why, with his crown of thorns, was he surrounded by pricks?

The bride, her three bridesmaids, her mother, sister-in-law, her father, and the best man, who had returned from the church in a panic as the bride was over half an hour late, were standing in hysterics looking up and down the street. The bride burst into floods of tears, as the chief bridesmaid went inside the house to call for a taxi. The bride’s father was ready to kill, fists clenched he threatened and shouted, as rows of neighbours stood looking up and down the road. The cheer went up as, the car horn blasting, Dillon and Harry hurtled into view in the Granada the white ribbons already trailing the floor. Harry had been in such a hurry to stick them up, now they had blown loose. The bride almost fainted with relief, the best man was shouting for the chief bridesmaid to stop calling the taxi when round the bend, at the top of the road, and hot on the heels of the Granada, with silver bells, bows, streamers of white ribbon, horseshoes and large strips of Christmas decorations the shop had thrown in for free, came Cliff, hat rammed on, car horn blasting. It’s tough to actually disguise a hearse, even covered in decorations and two seats rammed in the back! As Cliff stepped out, trying to appear nonchalant, the father of the bride, already in a state of hysteria, lunged at Cliff. ‘That’s a fuckin’ hearse!’

Cliff sat in the office, his head bent back, holding a bloody tissue to his nose. The bloody nose was a present from the bride’s father. Occasionally he closed his eyes and uttered a low moan. ‘Don’t be a wimp, it’s not broken,’ Harry growled, leaning over for a look. He flopped down and sucked fresh life into the fat cigar he was holding — a present from the best man. ‘It was just that you were drivin’ the hearse,’ he said by way of comfort. ‘We got her to the church on time!’ exclaimed Cliff furiously. ‘Wasn’t as if she had to lie down…’ ‘He apologised, didn’t he?’ Harry said. He gave Dillon a look. ‘But if Jimmy was here he’d have a fleet of Rollers —’ snap of the fingers ‘ — like that!’ Dillon flicked confetti off his shoulder. ‘Jimmy’s got us into enough crap. We’re better off without him.’ ‘You think he really signed on then?’ Harry blew smoke and watched it billowing up past the stag’s head. ‘I’ve often thought of doin’ a mercenary stint meself, but some of ‘em are crazy bastards. He should watch out —’ ‘He’ll be okay,’ Dillon interrupted sharply. He stared off somewhere. ‘You know Jimmy…’ ‘Nobody ever knows Jimmy.’ Harry ploughed on regardless. ‘He’s one of those weird guys — he was demoted more than any other bloke. He was officer material, could have gone right to the top, but… you know what he is?’ His blue eyes sought Dillon’s. ‘I don’t want to talk about Jimmy,’ said Dillon, tight-lipped. ‘Just gonna say he was a —’ ‘Shut it, Harry!’ ‘Kleptomaniac,’ Harry said, puffing on his cigar. Dillon cackled a sour, hollow laugh. The phone went, and with a tremendous, grudging effort he reached over to answer it. Newman had delivered on that much, at any rate, had BT reconnect the line. ‘Stag Security,’ he mumbled into the receiver. Cliff sat up and threw the bloody tissues into the waste basket. ‘That weddin’ cost us the last of the kitty… maybe if I’m broke, unemployed, it’ll get me out of me own weddin’.’ ‘Well it was good while it lasted!’ Harry said, the wise, ancient philosopher. He gave out a long sigh, suddenly dejected, and slumped down in his chair. ‘I’m goin’ to miss old Jimmy.’ Dillon had finished the call. He sat with his head in his hands, staring unseeingly at the desk-top. He said to no one in particular, ‘I don’t believe it…’ ‘It’s not Jimmy, is it?’ Harry asked quickly. ‘No,’ Dillon said. ‘No. No.’ He arched back in the chair and then slammed his fist down on the desk. The other two looked at him, alarmed, but his face was alight, positively glowing. ‘I think we’re in with a chance for that bank loan,’ Dillon said, eyes dancing. ‘We got a guarantor…’ Harry sat up. ‘You jokin’?’ ‘Thirty thousand quid.’ Amazed. Incredulous. Gobsmacked. ‘It’s Marway.’ A movement above Dillon’s head had caught Harry’s eye. He said, ‘Hey! Frank—!’ ‘No, listen — we’re in business!’ The massive stag’s head was ever so slowly tilting forward from the chimney-breast, its huge weight dragging the nails out of the plaster. ‘But Frank —!’ ‘Shut up, because you know what?’ Dillon exalted, dreams filling his eyes, words bubbling out of him. ‘We’re gonna make it the biggest, the most successful —’ arms up, fists clenched,’ — Taxi! Chauffeur! Security Company! — in London. Yesssss… we’re gonna make it, I know it, I feel it!’ The stag’s head jerked. With a quick nod to Cliff, Harry tossed his cigar butt to the floor, the two of them jumping up. Dillon bent down to pick up the discarded butt. Directly above him the stag’s head came loose and toppled, grabbed by Harry and Cliff in the nick of time. Puffing away, Dillon strolled forward, airily sweeping out the hand holding the cigar, the mogul at his ease, business tycoon of the year. He turned to find Harry and Cliff, red-faced and straining under the weight of the massive stag’s head, holding an antler apiece. If it hadn’t been for their quick thinking it could have crashed down on Dillon, and killed him. Unaware of the near miss, Dillon turned. ‘No, leave that up, lads,’ he said, wafting a hand. ‘It’s lucky.

They were standing in a row, like statues. All three wore new grey suits, peaked chauffeurs’ caps of the same grey material tucked under the left arm, shiny black shoes. Completing the ensemble, crisp white shirts and the Regimental maroon tie patterned with the winged parachute motif in dark blue. Behind them, in vee-formation, a gleaming silver Mercedes stretch limo with tinted windows and the metallic-gold Granada, polished to within an inch of its life, sporting a new radio antenna. And behind these, square on, the resprayed and refurbished wagon with a new set of wheels, new windscreen, and emblazoned on its side panel,
STAG
SECURITY
COMPANY
, in the Para colours of maroon and dark blue. Across the yard, Fernie in his baggy, greasy overalls leaned against the workshop doors, arms folded, looking on. Last month, he reflected, these geezers had to cadge twenty quid off him for gas. Now they were done up like a dog’s dinner, with their own transport fleet fitted out with cellular radio links. Funny old world. Harry’s neck chafed inside his size-fourteen collar. He had an itch just below the privates department where the suit material was rubbing him. His bloody feet hurt too, cramped inside the stiff new shoes. From the side of his mouth he muttered at Dillon, ‘How much longer is he gonna be!’ ‘Shut it,’ Dillon said, turning his head just as the flash went off. The photographer looked up from the tripod camera, a pained expression on his face. ‘Can you hold your positions, please!’ All three looked to the front, legs slightly apart, hands clasped in front of them, motionless as zombies. The camera flashed three time and the ordeal was over. ‘Okay, that’s it… thanks very much.’

Susie opened the flaps of the cardboard box, took out wine glasses four at a time and lined them up on top of the new dish-washer. Helen was at the kitchen table, unwrapping cling film from plates of sandwiches, pork pies, sausage rolls and Marks & Spencer quiches. Harry was sorting out the beer. He’d wedged the eight-gallon aluminium cask on the draining-board and was screwing in the brass tap. One of Harry’s mates, Tony Taylor, humped in a crate each of Newcastle Brown and Czech Budweiser, stacked them next to the Hotpoint tumble-dryer which still had the Rumbelow’s label, and the guarantee card in a clear plastic sleeve, stuck to its side. From the living-room came raucous bursts of music — a snatch of Tina Turner, rasping Little Richard, Donna Summer on heat — as Cliff got the stereo system set up. Several other anonymous bodies that Susie didn’t know from Adam wandered in and out, bringing in more crates, bottles of Thunderbird, six-packs of exotic foreign beers. My God, she thought, they had enough booze to float the Titanic. The guests had already started arriving. Every few seconds the doorbell would go, laughter and loud voices as newcomers spilled into the hallway. Somebody must have been answering the door, though Susie hadn’t a clue who. She heard Cliff yelling, ‘One speaker’s not workin’… hang on,’ and by Christ it suddenly was, as Eddie Cochran’s Twenty Flight Rock nearly ruptured her eardrums. Above it Harry bellowed, ‘Somebody answer the door!’ as the doorbell drilled away in the background. Susie glanced across at Helen, slicing ham and mushroom quiche into quadrants, mother and daughter exchanging looks of alarm and foreboding… and the party hadn’t even started! Wearing a broad pleased smirk, Dillon was standing next to the microwave, several folded newspapers under his arm, one held open at arm’s length. He was telling Wally with smug pride, ‘I’m gonna have this framed — good publicity. Get the stack sent to the barracks, wait till they see this!’ Wally put his mouth close to Dillon’s ear, yet still had to raise his voice above the bustle, the music, the ceaseless doorbell. ‘Hey, Frank! I got some info. Important. Those two bastards your lads were after, word is —’ ‘Not now, Wally, eh?’ Dillon held the paper up. ‘You seen this, second page? Merc .. . looks good, very impressive, eh…?’ ‘I told Harry,’ persisted Wally, ‘it’s a reliable tip-off. Those bastards are here, Frank, in London.’ He looked to Harry, who was wiping his hands on the tea towel, and Harry returned a slow, conspiratorial wink. But Dillon wasn’t in the mood to listen; with an edgy, abrupt movement he folded the newspaper and slid it onto a shelf with the others. ‘Not tonight, Wally,’ he said. ‘This is a celebration.’ Harry gestured around with his thumb, ‘Now’s the time, Frank, with all the fads arrivin’ —’ And just then, to add weight to it, the doorbell went again. ‘We can get a dozen —’ ‘Leave it out,’ said Dillon shortly, and turned away to grab himself a bottle of Czech Budweiser. ‘My God, we’ve got enough food for an army!’ Helen exclaimed, surveying the laden table. ‘You might just be seein’ one,’ Dillon grinned, his high spirits soon back, ‘the lads from the caterin’ corps did all this. Have you seen the paper?’ He knew damn well she had but he wanted to chalk one up, gloat a little. ‘Well, I hope to God they like pork pies, or we’ll be eatin’ them for months.’ Helen was having trouble finding fault, and the best she could manage was a tart, ‘You’re wearin’ your eyes out lookin’ at that newspaper…’ But all she got from Dillon was another broad grin. Harry clapped his hands. ‘Right, I done my share, I got to go an’ pick up Trudie.’ He went out, cuffing Wally on his bald head, who was handing bottles from the crate to Dillon, who in turn was lining them up next to the cask on the draining-board. ‘Tell everyone, coats upstairs,’ Dillon called after him, the doorbell competing now with Chuck Berry who had no particular place to go. Dillon frowned at Wally. ‘Trudie?’ ‘She’s the manageress from the travel agency.’ Wally’s eyes rolled. ‘An’ she’s bringin’ a few of her friends…’ Dillon nearly said something, but Susie was at his elbow, bottle of red, bottle of white, in either hand. ‘Frank, you should answer the door!’ she reprimanded him, anxious to keep up the proprieties. Dillon kissed the tip of her nose and meekly did as he was told.

By nine-thirty the place was jumping. Susie reckoned they had half the battalion there, plus wives, girlfriends and assorted hangers-on. Some of the men she knew by sight, from the early days in married quarters when Dillon was based at Montgomery Lines, as the barracks were known. But most of the faces were young and strange, Toms who’d joined since the Falklands and come to know Dillon as their Sergeant
PJI
, Parachute Jumping Instructor, during their three-week Basic Para training at Brize Norton Clutching a glass of wine, Susie squirmed through into the living-room. She hoped the neighbours wouldn’t complain. The stereo seemed to be permanently at top whack, even though every time she went by she tweaked it down — obviously somebody immediately tweaked it up. Above the heat and noise and swirling cigarette smoke, Kenny and Phil peered through the banister rails, huddled together to make room for the constant flow of people traipsing up to the bathroom. Helen was standing on the bottom step, pointing a stern finger. ‘Bed you two — you’ve been told twice! Now come on…’ Susie stepped over somebody’s legs, got bumped in the rear by a jiving girl, and steadying her glass called up, ‘Do as you’re told, you two! You got a drink, Mum?’ Helen pushed the boys ahead of her. She leaned over the banister, face like a thundercloud. ‘I want a word with you! Come up, come on!’ On the landing, having got the boys inside, Helen kept her hand on the doorknob, holding the door shut. She turned to her daughter with wide, outraged eyes. ‘There’s four women down there,’ Helen hissed, ‘an’ if you don’t know what they are, then —’ Susie half-closed her eyes. ‘Mum, just don’t start… they’re celebratin’. I dunno who half these people are.’ ‘Tarts,’ Helen said in a furious whisper. ‘You got tarts down there! Never mind half a ton of pork pies…’ And when Susie couldn’t help it, burst out laughing, Helen did her Mrs Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells act and flounced into the bedroom and slammed the door. A tall, slender black girl came out of the bathroom. She gave Susie a bright smile. ‘Hello, I’ve not been introduced, but I’m Shirley, Cliff’s fiancee.’ Susie said hello and they went down together to join the fray. Fifties rock ‘n’ roll was in favour at the moment, Elvis in his prime, never as good again, with My Baby Left Me, Bill Black’s thudding bass making the backbone shudder. The two women eventually made it past the whirling bodies into the kitchen. A dozen or so ex-Paras had done a flanking move and set up base camp around the beer keg. In the middle of them was Harry, foaming pint in one hand, the other clamped to the ample waist of a blonde woman who was more than well endowed everywhere else. She clanked with jewellery, from earrings in the shape of swinging dragons down to a gold anklet laden with chunky gold star-sign charms. Probably a social worker, Susie decided charitably, which wasn’t far wide of the mark. In expansive mode, Harry was giving with the gab to some of the younger blokes. ‘We got an armour-plated security wagon. We got a stretch Merc used to belong to some Iranian, Ford Granada an’ — he took a swallow, sucked his moustache ‘ — suite of offices. You need a job mate —’ belch ‘ — give us a call.’ Wally flagged Dillon over, draped his arm matily around Dillon’s shoulder. ‘Hey Frank, you met Kenny Hill, he was in the Gulf, he’s just got out… any chance of him joinin’?’ Fishing in the breast pocket of his shirt for a card he didn’t have on him, and was too pissed to find if he had, Dillon said grandly, ‘Give me a bell — you got one of our cards?’ He pulled away from Wally and did a Wagons Roll wave of the arm. ‘Come on, lads, move into the other room… in — the — other — room —!’ As the group began to move, Cliff was excitedly telling them. ‘We went into the bank manager, showed him our references. We got the loan an’ we got more business than we can handle!’ Helen came through, manoeuvring past them with two handfuls of dirty plates and glasses. Susie was pouring a glass of wine for Shirley. Helen stacked the plates in the dish-washer and put the upturned tumblers and wine glasses in the top tray. ‘Go for one of these, love,’ she advised Shirley. ‘They don’t half make the glasses sparkle.’ Shirley took the wine from Susie. ‘It was a toss-up whether I got one of these or a microwave,’ she said, big brown eyes everywhere, taking everything in. She spotted Cliff just inside the living-room door, and at the third shout, because the music was blasting out, he got the message and came over. ‘They got a new washing machine, tumble-dryer, dishwashing machine, an’ a fridge.’ Practically the same height as Cliff, Shirley looked at him, quizzical, and nudged him with her elbow. ‘So you tell me, how much you been given?’ Cliff touched a finger to his lips and winked. Susie rushed past them, having caught a glimpse of her boss and his wife, all at sea in the crowd. Marway was smiling as she brought them through to the relative calm of the kitchen, but his wife had a wincing expression, unaccustomed to a sweltering roomful of burly sweating men, some interesting looking women, and Green Onions at sixty-five decibels.