Highbridge (6 page)

‘It's the way he looks at you.'

‘You mean, never stops looking at you,' added Carol.

Becky turned to Tanya. ‘Like you never get that everywhere you go?'

‘He's different, Becks. The others try sly looks, but he's, he's …'

‘Blatant?' offered Carol.

‘Even more than that. Like, you know, he's just constantly sizing us up.'

‘What? Don't treat me like a sex object!' Becky shot back defiantly.

‘I can't quite explain it, but he's like the dog when we're eating.'

‘Yeah,' Carol agreed. ‘And that's what makes him creepy.'

‘How, how can you say that? You've never spoken to him.'

‘We don't need to. We don't like him, OK?' Carol shot back at Becky, patience finally strained.

Becky turned and headed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. Carol turned to Tanya, anxious, but Tanya carried on switching pizzas in the microwave. ‘She's left her fake Chloé.'

Carol looked across to where Becky had indeed dumped her bag, and relaxed.

‘Don't kill yourself, Cags,' Tanya said, as she dug out the pizza cutter and designated Carol as slicer. ‘She needs to hear it.'

‘I know, but I think we made the same mistake my dad always does.'

‘Unsuitable boyfriend syndrome?'

‘Yes, Mum. Any ketchup?'

‘Yes, darling. In the fridge. Get it yourself.'

As Carol opened the fridge, Tanya opened Becky's bag and removed the Samsung. She killed it and frisbeed it into the mound of old blankets that covered the dog's bed. With a bit of luck he'd eat it.

*

‘You may be right,' Matt conceded.

‘I am.' Luke was his usual dogmatic self. ‘No matter which way you go at it, it always comes back to the one answer. Unemployment. They never really focus on that in films. Do you remember
Rambo
?'

‘Brilliant film. In my top ten. The first one.'

‘Yeah, but if they'd only given John Rambo a decent job when he came home …'

‘They wouldn't have had a movie?' Matt interjected.

‘There is that. But it's like the 2011 smash and grab riots. Whenever you see something on the telly about the bad guys terrorising people on council estates …'

‘Projects, they called them in things like
The Wire
.'

‘Thanks. But are you still trying to defuse any potential build-up of psychotic stress-related blame tendencies?

‘Is it working?'

‘No,' Luke replied. ‘I'm not blaming anyone. Except those clowns on TV who are quick to blame the cops. And the politicians. They haven't got a clue. Never have had, especially as most of them didn't come from the estates.'

Matt just nodded. He knew where Luke would go next. He'd heard it all before. There was no point debating, because he agreed with it. It was the reason he was lying on a freezing hill beside his mate. A reason the politicos would never understand. Because they were definitely a world apart.

They blamed their predecessors and drugs and failing education and, well, almost anything and everything they could crap on about, except the one thing they could do nothing about. Jobs. What happens to 30,000 people when their main source of income, their employment, just ups sticks and walks away?

Luke was definitely on a similar track, as he panned the Barrett to look down over what was laughingly called Meadow View. It used to be called Butler Fields after some long-forgotten councillor but became known locally as Butcher's Field when things started to fall apart in the 1980s. Luke adjusted the focus on the scope to take in the empty concrete slabs where the industrial park used to be.

‘What've you seen?' Matt asked, suddenly alert.

‘Nothing. Just history.' Luke panned back on target. Noting again the array of domes clustered on the corner by the alley. All-round view. Way over the top for the average chippy. His mind went back to the consequences of the global tides of change that send manufacturing overseas. The local factories are closed, dismantled and shipped overseas too. More shipwreck than train wreck, but they still should have seen it coming. The companies sail away leaving their workforce behind. Marooned. Marooned on concrete islands once built as so-called new towns of opportunities and amenities. Sometimes referred to as overspill estates as they socially cleansed the inner cities to get rid of the Victorian slums or Second World War bomb damage. When the Council did more damage than Hitler, as his mum and dad often said.

‘Do you think politics is war by other means?' he asked Matt.

‘You what?'

‘Never mind.' He went back inside his head. How many times had he heard that one about the Council doing more damage than anyone while he was growing and fighting for his life on the walkways and underpasses of Butcher's Fields? He saw it coming. At thirteen. When he opted out and left school. Voluntarily excluded himself. They didn't like that. But back then they didn't really give a toss. Well, no one carved themselves a nice little earner and gold-plated pension pot by caring or siding with the people.

It was also another reason why he joined the army. They liked that. Get him off their statistics on to someone else's. Hopefully one of the casualties. But something the politicos always forget. People. Punters. Voters. They don't just read the papers. They live, breathe and create the stories that go in them. Politicians read about life. Real people live it. They also do another very dangerous thing. Well, some of them do. They read books. No wonder the first thing any puffed-up dictator does when they try to grab power is stop people reading. These days it's cutting off the Internet, but it's the same trick. Stop people getting ideas.

‘You think too much, Luke. Always been your trouble, mate,' Matt said, puncturing the thought bubble Luke, as Matt had often pointed out, always retreated into. ‘There's nothing you can do about the shifts in global capitalism mate, so why bother yourself?'

‘What? Get pissed or get something from the likes of that fat bastard down there?'

‘No. But you could spend a bit more time trying to fill that bloody black hole left behind by losing Janey.'

Luke turned ready to have another go, but saw Matt was waiting for an outburst. It had been a deliberate shot. Bang on target. You see. People. They get ideas. Uncomfortable ideas. Right ideas.

‘You should have stayed at that seminary, Father O'Connor. Priesthood lost out when you decided to join our band of homicidal maniacs.'

‘Better than ending up a kiddy fiddler.'

‘Welcome, Mr Joe. And Mrs Nolan. You well tonight?'

‘All the better for seeing you, Lin.'

‘Yes. Those Chinese people in London. Not real thing. Usual?'

‘Yep. You know me. No imagination.'

‘You just have excellent taste. Be right back.'

Joey flopped into the seat. The adrenalin from the station now subsiding.

‘You didn't answer my question,' Natasha said as she picked up the menu.

He didn't need a reminder about which question. He knew when he changed the subject in the car, just as he knew she wouldn't let it pass. But at least it had given him a bit more time to think. ‘They're doing private security work.'

‘What? Group 4 or something?'

‘Don't think they're nursemaidin' prisoners back and forth to court, or sitting as cocky watchmen outside some factory somewhere.'

‘They're mercenaries?'

‘Close Quarter Operatives, they call it.'

‘Where?' she asked, but Joey just stared back at her. Don't ask.

‘What? You'd have to, or they'd have to shoot me if you tell me?'

‘I don't know. All I know is that they left the army, well, got their P45s in the last round of cuts. Apparently Matt was one of the ones who had to finish his medical rehab before they binned him. Bit like those old movies isn't it, where they patch people up and get them fit so they can hang them.'

It was Natasha's turn to just sit and stare. And wait. She wasn't going to let him drift off this time. ‘So what do you do when all you know how to do is kill people?' Joey asked. Eventually.

‘Oh for God's sake, Joe. Don't be so dramatic.'

‘I'm not. That's what Luke said to me. They had a look around at life outside the services and decided it wasn't for them. So went back out and signed up with one of the security firms offering close quarter protection. Four times their army pay.'

Natasha nodded now. She seemed to get it. ‘And I suppose with what happened to Janey …'

‘Exactly. What has he got to come back for? Not sure why Matt's in it, though.'

‘You're joking, aren't you? He's (a), a lazy sod so where and how's he going to get a decent job. And (b), he's a basket case.'

Joey had to concede with a slight nod. Typical. She had always had them all sussed, which is why he'd been constantly walking on eggshells since agreeing to bankroll Luke. It was true that he had come back to see his mum. But he had carefully never said why they had stayed.

‘So, they would shoot people if necessary?'

‘What?'

‘Your mates. As, what did you call them, Close Quarter Operatives?'

‘Er, yeah, they provide close quarter protection as Private Security Operatives.'

‘Mercenary bodyguards, in other words.'

‘If you like.'

‘And they'd shoot people.'

‘If necessary.'

‘And who decides when it's necessary?'

‘Er, whoever pays them, I suppose.' Which was suddenly a very uncomfortable thought. He hadn't reasoned it through before, but if he was bankrolling Luke, that probably meant it would be his call as to whether they killed the fat fella in the chip shop. Shit.

JOEY WAS AT
the kitchen window with his thumb hovering over the send icon, watching the dog tripping the passive detectors on the garden lights as he went on his morning bladder patrol. Every week he meant to turn down the sensitivity, but every week something else took precedence. It was usually something like replacing the wattle fence panels, now just visible in the spill from the path lights, not whether he would be asked to pass a death sentence on some fat bloke in the chippy. The microwave pinged. He turned and as he did his thumb stroked send and the progress bar started to fill.
U R NOT ACTUALLY DOING HIM R U
? was on its way. Unstoppable. Damn.

He walked across, took out his World's Best Dad mug with the warmed milk and put it under the built-in coffee maker. Part of the Saturday morning routine. He'd get an hour or two to himself before taking the boys to swimming and football practice, while Natasha got those few hours in bed after a week of school runs. He was always still too wired and tired to lie in. Especially today. Especially now. He looked at the green text bubble on the screen. It was the one thing he hated about the iPhone. The send icon being too close to the keyboard layout for work-thickened thumbs like his.

He'd had a fitful night pondering that text message. Even the sight of Natasha unclasping her stockings had done little to lift his sense of anxiety which, thankfully, she put down to Tanya's counselling session with Becky getting in the way of their usual Friday night routine. He took his pre-brewed, pre-frothed coffee back to the window. He used to spend these quiet hours catching up on the local newspapers, until the kids bought him an iPad for his birthday, just like their Uncle Sean's. It had been Lucy's idea, mainly because she wanted to play Angry Birds but then became one herself when she realised he would take it to London every Monday. That's how he now kept up to date with the local news and saved a fortune on newspapers. Sean was always going on about how daft the newspapers were for giving away their stuff online. Like him offering free compost to everyone, and then chuckling when he said, as he always did, not much difference really. Then again, Sean had said those wattle panels would last about ten years when he and Joey had put them up. Had they had the house ten years already? Must have, he thought. Lucy's nearly eleven and Nat was pregnant when we moved in.

As the dog came back with a much more relaxed swagger, Joey opened the door and felt the sharp edge of the cold. He wondered if Luke was up on the hill now. I should have thought it through. What else would Luke and Matt do? He kept telling me. That's what they were trained for. Was Fatchops already a dead man walking?

‘Hey up. Side alley.' Matt was refocusing the spotter scope.

Luke directed the Barrett's scope on to the alley. Two young girls were being let out of the reinforced side door at the back. It was difficult to make out who was helping them in the gloomy morning light. Could be male or female. ‘What do you reckon?' he asked Matt.

‘Someone up to something they shouldn't be.'

‘That your professional opinion, Sherlock?'

‘Yep, but someone else's mission.' Luke responded and eased the Barrett back on to the chippy. Which was still in darkness. ‘No target.'

‘I'm only here, you know.'

‘Old habits.'

Matt nodded. As he kept the spotting scope on the young girls. Just in case. He could already feel his heart rate increasing along with the pulse below his scar, indicating that his anxiety level was rising. Slow it down. Just another reminder. Stay on mission. Push it back, he told himself as he watched the girls until they reached the end of the alley, took a cautious look out and then scurried off away from the chippy. Away from the target. Old habits, indeed. But the anxiety diminished. The old memory dealt with. Controlled. As he put the scope back on the chippy, he grinned. ‘I'd never have hacked it as a priest.'

‘What?'

‘Old habits. Monks. Priests. You rabbitin' on before.'

‘Have you thought of donating your brain to science?'

‘Nope. Nor could I have dedicated my life to celibacy.'