Civvies (8 page)

‘You don’t say a word unless you have to. I’ll do the talking, just nod your head, right?’ Steve nodded and said, ‘Right.’ Or that’s what Dillon thought he said. Sometimes he could understand Steve plain as day, other times it was a mangled croak, like a bullfrog with an attack of hiccups. The radio had said cloudy with the possibility of showers, but there was blue sky and a faint breeze, not cold, almost a touch of spring in the air. They came down the concrete stairway from Dillon’s flat, brisk and purposeful, wearing identical grey suits (bought off adjacent pegs), slim black ties, and rubber-soled black shoes. Freshly shaved, hair trimmed and groomed, the pair of them moved with a lightness of step and casual agility that only came with a regime of hard punishing exercise, coupled with the discipline to maintain the body as an efficient fighting machine, because in their profession if you weren’t superbly fit, you were dead. Most civilians were slobs; ten minutes on Heartbreak Hill at The Depot in Aldershot would give them cardiac arrest. ‘Frank… Frank!’ Dillon looked up to see Susie’s tousled head poking over the third-floor parapet. ‘What?’ ‘Somebody called Taffy — said it’s very important.’ ‘What?’ ‘On the telephone!’ ‘Tell him to call tonight,’ Dillon shouted, striding off with Steve across the paved courtyard, not bothering to look back. As they came round the corner into the street, Dillon nodded towards a royal-blue Mercedes idling at the kerb, a young black guy at the wheel. Done out in a chauffeur’s garb of neat dark jacket, crisp white shirt and black tie, he exuded the same hard, clean energy as the other two, giving Dillon a broad cheery grin. ‘He was only on transport,’ Dillon told Steve in a muttered aside as they came up, ‘but he’s a good lad.’ They climbed in the back, Dillon doing the introductions. ‘Cliff Morgan, Steve Harris…’ Cliff stuck his hand out, but Steve seemed too busy settling himself on the contoured, brushed upholstery, taking in the walnut trim, the plush fixtures and fittings. ‘Appreciate this, Cliff,’ said Dillon, slapping his shoulder. ‘We owe you one!’ Cliff gave a quick nod, shifted into Drive, and off they shot.

Avoiding the gridlock of Oxford Street, Cliff cut across Tottenham Court Road and jinked up the backstreets to Portland Street, the Merc surging smoothly into Regent’s Park Crescent, the classical, elegant facade of white and pale cream stonework bathed in gentle sunshine. To Dillon, this part of town had the alien reek of wealth and power; he felt like a non-swimmer whose feet couldn’t quite touch bottom, and a knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach, making it hard to catch his breath. Embassies and trade missions — diplomats and bureaucrats — the nameless, faceless power-brokers of the globe inhabiting a rarefied stratosphere he knew nothing of and could barely imagine. Of course, blokes like him and Steve weren’t meant to — that was the whole point. That was how these high-flying wankers kept their closed shop nice and cosy and exclusive. Blokes like him and Steve were just expected to sort it all out when they’d made a balls of it. Shovel up the shit after it had hit the fan. It seemed to Dillon he’d been doing that all his life. From the glove compartment Cliff took a glossy laminated folder, fancily embossed with the name Samson Security Company, and handed it to Dillon. Cliff seemed a bit on edge himself, Dillon thought, even though it was their picnic. ‘Here — just do exactly as I’ve told you,’ Cliff said, eyes steady and serious. ‘You got all the legit stuff here, but any letters you got from HQ, show ‘em.’ Dillon patted his jacket to show he’d remembered to bring them. ‘They particularly asked for guys with terrorist training — your Army records should clinch it.’ ‘Oh yeah?’ drawled Steve sarcastically. ‘Yours ga-get you — this — did it…’ ‘Shut it!’ Dillon snapped from the side of his mouth. ‘What did he say?’ asked Cliff. Dillon opened the door. ‘Nothing, and look, thanks mate.’ ‘Don’t foul up on me Frank, this is a good firm, a good job, I don’t want to lose it.’ Dillon winked. He didn’t intend to blow this one, with or without Steve’s help. He shoved Steve out ahead of him and warned him to keep his mouth shut, but Steve brushed his hand aside. ‘He ga — a ugh—pratt, only—Ever g-hone transport.’ Dillon straightened his tie, giving a warning look to Steve, who, for all his problems seemed incredibly relaxed. His hair was washed and combed, he had shaved and was wearing a clean shirt that Susie had pressed for him and one of his suits from when he had been in the money. He looked more like the old Steve, handsome, his green eyes clear, and standing a good three inches taller than Dillon. Steve was back. This was the first time Frank realised how far he had come in so short a time. ‘G-after’gu — Mate’, Steve smiled, giving a mock bow, but he did follow Dillon, nervously touching his throat, aware that the tie was irritating his skin. He hated wearing collars, they restricted him, made him fearful he would not be able to get to his tube fast enough if he had an emergency… but then he knew Dillon was there, that made him feel safe. As if in confirmation he tapped Dillon’s shoulder, and winked… ‘We’ll G-it gub job, — no problem.’ Dillon shrugged Steve’s hand away. Bloody Steve was his problem and he knew it, even doubted if getting him back on his feet was all that good a thing as he was now bound to help him even further. It was like the blind leading the blind.

The house was a fortress. After the battery of security cameras covering the portico entrance, the white-barred windows of double-paned, shatter-resistant glass, the steel-lined bombproof front door, Dillon was expecting at least an X-ray scan and body frisk. But the letter of accreditation did the trick, that and their neat, respectable appearance — amazing what you could get away with wearing a suit and tie, Dillon always thought. Stroll into Buckingham Palace, have tea with the Queen, maybe even get to sit on her bed. They were conducted across the marble-floored hallway, large black and white squares like a giant chessboard, and along a carpeted corridor into an ante-room with dark red walls and a gleaming parquet floor, and told to sit and wait on ornate gilt chairs outside a pair of huge double doors with curved handles in the shape of scimitars. They looked to be made of solid gold, and it wouldn’t have surprised Dillon to learn that they were. A crystal chandelier tinkled faintly from some non-existent breeze. Given the choice, Dillon would have opted for a ten-mile tab in Advanced Wales with full pack rather than endure this. He was glad he’d showered that morning and put on fresh underclothes, he didn’t want to sully the opulent atmosphere. ‘You okay?’ Dillon asked in a whisper after Steve had cleared his throat six times in as many seconds. Steve nodded glumly, staring at the polished floor, wrapped in his own thoughts. He had to wear his tie loose and shirt collar undone, a strip of gauze and adhesive tape just visible below his Adam’s apple. Dillon started as one of the double doors silently opened and a slender dark-skinned man with oiled black hair and gold-rimmed spectacles glided into view. He wore an immaculate silk suit that changed colour as he moved, hand-stitched shirt and grey silk tie, the dull gleam of gold on his wrist, fingers and from the fob chain looped into the pocket of his embroidered waistcoat. Salah Al-Gharib crooked his finger. Dillon wet his lips and obeyed, Steve trailing a couple of feet behind. It was like being summoned into the sultan’s palace. The large room had white-panelled walls edged with gold, a Persian carpet floating on the polished floor. Over by the window overlooking a walled garden, a six-seater sofa and three deep armchairs in white leather were grouped around a low table of beaten copper and mosaic tiles. Above the marble fireplace, a mirror with scrolled edges, and in front of this a huge desk, made to seem even bigger because all it contained were four telephones, each a different colour, and a leather blotter without a mark or blemish on it. Behind it, reclining in a winged leather chair, Raoul Al-Mohammed gazed into the remote distance with heavy-lidded eyes, dark folds of skin beneath resting on swarthy bloated cheeks. Never once did he look at Dillon and Steve, nor acknowledge they were even breathing the same air. In their grey suits they were no more substantial than vague grey blurs, so it didn’t matter that they shuffled uneasily like two schoolboy miscreants summoned to the headmaster’s study, awaiting the clap of doom. Raoul Al-Mohammed twitched a finger, and Salah Al-Gharib, his principal secretary, ghosted forward and placed Dillon’s folder in front of him. He flipped it open, laced his dark-haired fingers across his stomach, and with heavy, sombre eyes began to read. Dillon sneaked a glance at Steve. But Steve was still in some faraway place, not of this world at all. Ignoring a black cab’s furiously tooting horn and its driver’s mouthed obscenities, Cliff pulled out into the swirl of traffic and headed north round the Crescent towards Marylebone Road. In the back, Dillon was chortling and jumping about with almost childish glee, as if he was the birthday boy who’d just been given the present he’d always wanted; even Steve seemed a mite excited, cheeks flushed, some of the old devilry dancing in his eyes. ‘He closed the folder, looked over my letters, never said a word. He just gave a nod to the other geezer and walked out of the room!’ Cliff looked at Dillon through the rearview mirror. ‘He’s a real bastard. Used the firm six times in the last two years.’ His lip curled. ‘Fired two or our guys because one of ‘em was caught smoking. But take his crap and you could see two grand minimum in the hand on top of your fee…’ ‘How you gonna handle it,’ Dillon was concerned to know, leaning over the front passenger seat, ‘when they pay the company?’ ‘Taken care of.’ Cliff flashed his confident smile. ‘I’m having a fling with the secretary, she’ll lift it before it gets to accounts.’ ‘SaiD he WanTs uS — rouNd tHe clOCk — onE dRiviNg — oNe —’ ‘What did he say?’ Cliff interrupted, frowning. Dillon interpreted, ‘We’re to be on call twenty-four hours, one driving, one baby-sitting. Two weeks definite, could be longer. Start Monday.’ Cliff gunned the car to beat the lights and spun right into Baker Street at the Planetarium, broad black hands caressing the wheel, steering with his fingertips. He laughed aloud, shaking his head. ‘You lucky so-and-so’s… you just got yourselves a class A earner!’

Bugger this for a game of soldiers, Dillon was thinking. He looked down at his new pair of shoes, up to the welts in mud, and then glared round at the heaped-up wrecks, rusty engines, crazed windscreens, leaking sumps, the assembled detritus of a thousand crashes stacked under the viaduct that carried the lines south-west from Waterloo. Leave it to me, Steve had said. Famous last fucking words. Might as well leave brain surgery to Stevie Wonder. Dillon could see Steve through the window of the lean-to shack that passed as an office — at least see as much of him as the cracked, filthy panes and cardboard covering the gaps allowed. Patience worn to a brittle point, Dillon was about to storm in when Steve emerged with a mechanic in overalls sagging with grease and engine-oil. The mechanic, sixty if he was a day, was thumbing through a dog-eared ledger, pausing now and then to wipe his nose with the back of his hand. Dillon unfolded his arms. ‘Where’s the car, Steve?’ The mechanic said, ‘Hopefully picking up the bride — it’s not due back until four.’ He looked up from the ledger, eyes bloodshot in the corners. ‘How many days did you want it for, Steve?’ Dillon’s nostrils were white and pinched. He burst out angrily, ‘What is this…?’ ‘The only day it’s needed is the Wednesday of the first week,’ the mechanic went on, ‘there’s a big funeral from twelve till —’ ‘Forget it.’ Dillon made a sweeping gesture with the flat of his hand and turned away, yanking his shoes from the mire. He took one look back at Steve. ‘Stay away from me, okay?’ And really meant it. ‘Arms dealers, that’s what they are — and the prat gets a weddin’ Roller lined up!’ Dillon stood at the press-ups bench, his hands underneath but not touching the bar Jimmy was hefting, acting as safety back-up as the big lad did ten reps with forty kilos. Face contorted, lower lip between his teeth, Jimmy strained with the last one, got it full stretch, and Dillon eased it onto the dead-weight brackets. ‘You know he’s a liability…’ Jimmy panted, taking in deep breaths. He relaxed, broad muscular chest beaded with sweat, the veins standing out over the bulge of his biceps. He not only looked good, he had all the gear to show it off: black cutaway singlet, dark-grey exercise shorts with purple stripes and high vents at the sides, Reeboks that must have set him back a hundred and forty pounds. ‘Don’t know why you waste your time with him.’ Upside-down to Dillon, his forehead wrinkled as he looked into Dillon’s eyes. ‘You wanna see if I can line something up?’ ‘Not with that crook Newman. Why do you keep trying, Jimmy? I don’t wanna know.’ Dillon wasn’t angry, just a bit pissed-off. He slid another two ten kilos onto the bar, snapped the locks shut. He sighed. ‘If this had worked out, Cliff could have farmed out more work on the QT…’ Jimmy snorted derisively. ‘I heard Sambo Morgan was still doin’ transport — just switched his uniform. He’s another prat!’ He jerked his thumb, indicating the bar. ‘I’ll need a hand with these, just do three to five reps. I don’t understand you, Frank. At The Depot you wouldn’t give Cliff the time of day, now… Uggghhhhhh shit!’ His arms tautened, muscles solid and bulging as he took the strain. ‘Okay, I’m set.’ ‘Right now I need any break I can get,’ Dillon said grimly. ‘What do you come out with — uhhhh! — at the end of the day?’ ‘Fair whack — course, we got to hire the uniforms.’ Dillon’s cupped hands followed the rising and sinking bar. He said, ‘Don’t strain, mind your back… easy now…’ The three character traits most highly valued — and actively encouraged — by the Parachute Regiment were aggression, aggression, and aggression. Not only directed at the enemy, but internalised too, to make a man overcome his natural inclinations of fear and self-preservation when standing at the door of a Herc, hooked up to the static line, Red on, Green on — go, go, go! You didn’t just fall out of the aircraft (that way the slipstream would whirl you round and you’d end up with a faceful of rivets), you had to punch yourself into the air in order to get clear. Dillon had seen a seasoned Para freeze at that moment, and it took three despatchers to heave him out, bashing his arm to make him let go of the strop. Focused, controlled aggression, that’s what was required. And that’s how Jimmy went at it now, grunting and scowling each time he pushed the bar to arm’s length as if he bore the sixty kilos a personal grudge. Possessing a good physique, strong bone structure, and being in peak condition did the rest. ‘We’ll have to shell out a few readies to Cliff for puttin’ us on it,’ Dillon grunted, settling the bar on the brackets. Jimmy sat up, towelling his neck and shoulders. ‘But you need a motor, right?’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ ‘No kiddin’?’ Dillon’s face lit up. Jimmy put his arm round Dillon’s shoulders, gave him a fat smile. ‘Let’s have a shower first, eh?’ Mary Davies let herself in and dumped the two plastic carrier-bags of shopping next to the hallstand, kneading her fingers to get the circulation going again. She stared with undiluted hatred at the wall at the foot of the stairs. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump – Behind the pounding bass, the sharper stacatto rattle of a snare drum coming from next door’s back bedroom. The punk drummer paused, a moment’s blessed respite, and then started over again, practising the same machine-gun attack, paused, repeated it. ‘Taffy?’ Mary shouted up the stairs. ‘Taff?!’ When there was no answer she picked up her shopping and headed for the kitchen, calling, ‘Meg, did your Daddy go out? Can you hear me? I’m surprised I can hear myself with that racket! Megan…’ Mary pushed open the door with her backside and stopped dead at the sight of the contents of her fridge stacked on the kitchen table: packets of frozen foods, processed cheese, carton of eggs, fruit juice, a full and a half-empty bottle of milk. And next to the washing machine, a gaping hole where the fridge had been. Mary slowly shook her head, faced screwed tight. The bailiffs had even taken the Wylex plug. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump –