Dirty Deeds Done Cheap (16 page)

As I staggered up onto the main road, trying not to notice all those people gawping at me, but also looking around for my getaway driver, I spotted the car and, carrying my parachute, ran over to him. I was a couple of yards from the car when I stopped, horror-struck. Oh, no! The guy had brought his wife and kids with him to watch. So there I was, parachute in hands, totally naked and covered in mud – I’d definitely been in better situations. I frantically covered myself up with my parachute while this wife of a friend of a friend was screeching, ‘He’s not getting in the car like that!’ They managed to find some bin liners to cover the seats and I got in with the parachute wrapped around me feeling badly self-conscious. I sat down next to the kids, who were round-eyed and fascinated by it all. I smiled nervously and said hello to them.

Once I was in the car we sped away from the scene hoping the police wouldn’t come and catch us. We shot down the M5 southwards and it wasn’t long before we were home. It was now only about 08.45 and, as we pulled up, I thanked my new friend and apologised again to his missus and kids. If I’d known that they were going to be there I would never have jumped in the buff, but hopefully my parachute had covered most of my embarrassment.

As I legged it out of the car carrying all my shit with me, it dawned on me that I’d left my house keys in my jeans, which I’d left in Rodders’s Audi. So there I was, naked and carrying a parachute outside Rodders’s house, on a Sunday morning and hoping and praying that none of the neighbours were up. Rodders’s car wasn’t back and, after I’d pounded the door for several minutes, Rodders’s wife answered holding a copy of the
News of the World
. Now this was fucking amazing. Most of my mates are used to seeing me do crazy shit but she didn’t even bat an eyelid when she saw me. All she said was, ‘Good night, was it, Pete?’ and let me in. I just walked straight past her through the house and put the parachute rig on the washing line and turned on the hose to wash it down. After a while I hid behind my parachute and I turned the hose on myself in an effort to get off most of the mud, which had started to dry and crack on my skin. God, it was freezing, but I stayed under the jet until I’d managed to get most of it off, and then ran inside to jump under a hot shower.

After my nice hot shower and some breakfast I decided that, since it was my last weekend of freedom, I should really spend some more time in the pub. I rang up Rodders to see where he was and arranged to meet him at the local for lunch. We spent the afternoon going over my jump in great detail and with much laughter. Mark turned up later looking a bit sheepish, since he’d packed the parachute for me, and he kept apologising about its not having opened fully – he swore it had never happened to him before. Oh well, I’d survived it, that was the main thing, and he had packed it when we’d both been drinking.

Monday morning came and I rang up and spoke to the lawyer who was representing me in my court case. The Crown Prosecution Service were doing me for no licence, no insurance and failing to turn up in court. Well there would be no problem with licence and insurance – I had those. It was just the failure to turn up at court that was the problem. I had a quiet night and left early for Swansea Magistrates’ Court. I was up before the magistrates at 11.00. I just hoped this little escapade wouldn’t affect my going back to Iraq or get me banned from driving. I nailed it to court at breakneck speed on my bike, yet again breaking the speed limit – a bit naughty I know, but I was late. I met my brief outside and he didn’t think there would be too much of a problem. I had a rock-solid reason for not being able to turn up. What the hell – footballers do it all the time!

At 11.30 I was called. I went through all the bullshit that had happened and told them I’d been in Iraq and that was why I had missed the previous court case. All the magistrates looked at me incredulously. They all wanted to know what I’d been up to. So I gave a sob story about having to come home because of all the danger. Next thing, wham, bam, thank you, ma’am – three penalty points and a £100 fine. I was more than happy with that. All the magistrates wished me luck and I left the court looking as sheepish as I could.

As soon as I was home I checked my emails, then rang the office at the HQ in London to check my travel arrangements for going back. To my shock, I was to be travelling back on the Wednesday, only two days away! I started ringing around and saying my goodbyes, as I’d not got a lot of time left. A few friends had offered to take me to the coach station. I went down to the town centre to get some last-minute shopping. I wasn’t actually looking forward to going back. Don’t know why. But I was sure it would pass once I was on my way. When I was working in Iraq I honestly believed nothing would happen to me. However, the more I thought about it now that I was back in the UK, the more I realised that there was a very real chance of serious injury or death. It’s a humbling, sobering thought.

I went into my local to say goodbye, had a pint, then went home to sort my shit out, not that I had a lot to pack.

Wednesday morning came. I grabbed my bag and got a mate of mine, who drives a taxi, to take me to the bus station, then a coach to Heathrow. I was feeling pretty low and wondering whether it was really worth it. Once you’d got back into reality land you realised what you’d experienced, and it was sometimes tough to go back to Iraq. I moped around the terminal until my flight to Amsterdam was ready, then I boarded. Soon I got my work head on and started to wonder what – apart from the sixteen Gurkhas killed by the RPG – would be different when I got back. I hoped no one else had been injured, or worse.

We soon touched down in Amsterdam. I found out which terminal I had to get to and then I was off. Amsterdam Airport at Schiphol is so massive that it can take about twenty-five minutes to get between gates, so it’s worth checking your connecting terminal as soon as you get off your plane. I made my way to the departure gate before I checked the monitors again and saw, to my horror, that my connecting flight to Kuwait had been cancelled because of fog. I made enquiries at the desk but the staff there were unable to say when the airport would reopen, since nobody could predict when the fog would clear. I realised that I had to find a hotel and find one fast. Given the size of the airport and the sheer number of people it can contain, if all the flights were cancelled the hotels were going to be chock-a-block with thousands of people trying to get rooms for the night.

I had another concern as well: I had to try to get in touch with work and let them know that I was actually on my way back but was stuck at the airport. I eventually managed to find out that my flight had been rescheduled for 07.00 the next day. This was obviously going to screw up the travel arrangements from Kuwait, but there was nothing I could do; it was out of my hands. I still had to let the company know but at least I had the new flight times to tell them now. I managed to get in touch with them eventually and explained the situation. To my relief they said that it would be no problem and that they would sort out new travel arrangements for me.

I did have one bit of luck, though: when I arrived at the airport hotel, I found that, because I was classed as a frequent flyer, I could get an executive suite for only £110. I gratefully took the room, which, I’ve got to tell you, was pretty amazing. I turned on the telly but couldn’t find anything that I wanted to watch. I was feeling restless and a bit bored, so I thought, What do you do when you’re stuck in Amsterdam on your own? Answer: call a hooker. After all, I reasoned, it wasn’t as if I would be betraying anyone, as I was single. I discovered that the hotel offers a great service: it has photo albums of hookers that are sent up to your room so you can pick the one you fancy – what a great country! I made my selection from the photograph and sat down on the end of the bed feeling a little guilty (for all of about two minutes if I’m honest).

After only about five minutes there was a knock on the door. That was quick, I thought, and opened the door. I couldn’t fucking believe it. It was Phillipe. Not really the kind of shag I’d had in mind but it was nice to see him. I invited him in, curious about how he’d found me. Turns out that he had been due to catch the same flight as I was on (funny, I hadn’t seen him at the airport, but, as I said, it was a big place). So, as he was stuck also, he’d checked into the same hotel under our company name and he’d asked the receptionist if anyone else from the company had checked in and had been given my room number. I got him a drink from the minibar and told him that I was on for a shag. I asked him if he wanted second go. Not to worry, I said, I was paying, but I was going first unless, of course, she was up for a threesome.

Phillipe was a bit straight and serious and politely declined. I figured he probably didn’t want to see my mush staring back at him while he was trying to shag. No problem there, but he is far better-looking than I am (though I realise I have a bit of complex about my appearance). Phillipe downed his drink and said he’d see me at breakfast and left.

Barely five minutes after Phillipe had left, there was another knock at the door. I opened it and in front of me was a goddess (far better-looking than her photo had made her appear). I thought that she was definitely worth £70. I invited her in and introduced myself; she introduced herself as Michelle. She dumped her bag on the bed and sat down on the nightstand. She picked up her bag and started rummaging around in it, then she looked up at me and asked if I minded if she did a line of coke. Now I don’t even smoke fags, so I wasn’t up for it myself, but she was gorgeous and, if it relaxed her, what the fuck? Go for it.

She chopped herself a line up and snorted it quickly. I honestly think she was new to this game because she seemed really nervous – but maybe it was my ugly mug making her so jumpy. I hadn’t been laid for months and thought that it would probably be over very quickly, so I didn’t think she needed to worry. She picked up her bag again and found some condoms and handed one to me, then she stripped down to her underwear and looked at me expectantly. I don’t think I’ve ever got my clothes off so quickly in my life.

We got down to business and after only about five minutes it was all over. It was probably the fastest £70 she’s ever made, but I tell you what: from my point of view it was the best money I’d ever spent and definitely worth every euro. While I was still lying happily on the bed she got up and dressed herself again and after counting out her money she left. I rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning I woke up with a big smile. I rolled over and checked the time. Shit! It was already nearly 06.00 and my flight was due to take off in little over an hour. I jumped out of bed in a panic and dragged on my clothes. I had to get over to the airport damn quick, but what I really wanted to do was get Michelle back to fuck my brains out. I even briefly considered it – it wasn’t as though I was short of cash. I indulged the fantasy for a minute or so, then thought I’d best be off. I decided that I could always give the goddess a call on my way back home next time – if I made it, that is. I picked up my bags and left my room. I stopped by the restaurant but Phillipe wasn’t in there. I guessed that he had already left for the airport. I grabbed a roll of bread and legged it.

I practically sprinted through the terminal looking for my departure gate. I made it in time and I was soon boarding my plane to Kuwait. I looked around and spotted Phillipe sitting about ten rows behind my seat. I gave him a little wave and settled down. I dozed off pretty fast after watching a movie. I woke up and asked for a glass of water and soon the ‘Fasten Seat Belt’ sign came on and we were touching down.

There was the normal bag search once we got off the plane and, after clearing the terminal, Phillipe and I went outside. I’d been warned that no one would be collecting us from Kuwait Airport, so we got a taxi to the hotel where the company had its office. It was a boring trip: the taxi driver couldn’t understand a word of English, he had a full shemag on, and Phillipe wasn’t in a very talkative mood. So, as we travelled, I took in all the sights of Kuwait. The places we passed made it seem that the city was a shithole, and it was.

After arriving at the office that afternoon, we were met by Tom. He told us that he was having a bit of a nightmare repatriating the sixteen Gurkhas who had been killed. If you’ve been killed in Iraq sometimes they won’t release your body for a number of reasons. It can be a right pain in the arse. It’s a delicate, painful enough process at the best of times, and you need, by law, to be repatriated. After our chat with Tom I had a good think about what I was going back to. I was too hyped up and had too much going on in my head to settle, so, after leaving Phillipe at the office, I took a walk along the beach. It looked beautiful under all of the lights.

I returned to my digs after my walk and watched a bit of TV, then clock-watched until breakfast. Phillipe had had no such problems, and had eaten and gone straight to bed. At 06:00 I went in and gave him a shake. I was still really hyped up and I talked to him about leave and what we’d both got up to. I guess I was trying to distract myself because I now felt the apprehension that I had felt when I went up to the north the first time. It was slightly unnerving. We went down and enjoyed a good breakfast. We finished eating and were ready to go through the rigmarole of getting back into northern Iraq, which was never easy. We collected our body armour and helmets and drove to the airport, going through the now familiar routines.

We cleared customs and boarded the Hercules wearing, once again, only our body armour and helmets. It was noticeably cooler. After another flight we were then touching down in Mosul. As soon as the tail was down we were out of its arse. Once everyone had got off, the tail went up and the plane turned around and took straight off again – not wanting to risk getting mortared or shot at.

Shortly afterwards, all the lads turned up to take us back to our base. Everyone was now wearing their winter gear and they complained that they’d had rotten weather. I could see for myself that the weather was shit. It was pissing down with freezing rain and I was beginning to think that maybe I should go back to Baghdad, where it was a lot warmer. And this was only November!