Street Soldier (15 page)

A week later, Saturday afternoon, he was on his way again, working for Heaton, pushing the Matiz up the M3 and onto the M25, then hooking onto the Great North Road and into London.

The week in between had been a real ball-ache, thanks to Sergeant Adams, filled with relentless PT and checks, right down to kit inspection, all rounded off with a night attack exercise. Now Sean badly needed to spend some time sorting out all the stuff Adams had found
wrong with his kit. But that, as Heaton had pointed out on Thursday night when he made the offer, wouldn’t take all weekend. And it was an easy journey – he almost knew the way blindfold. Right next to Walthamstow.

With the Matiz in second gear – first was not just painfully slow, it made the engine squeal like a pig caught in a trap – Sean threaded his way off a main road into a small side street. It was lined with derelict warehouses, blank walls rising up high – old mills waiting in line for some developer to come along and turn them into expensive flats to be sold to celebrities.

The street came to a T-junction. Sean turned left and rolled on until he came to what Heaton had described as
a door the colour of shit
. He climbed out of the Matiz and knocked on the door with the delivery under his arm. It was slightly larger than a shoebox, heavier, but nowhere near as heavy as the box a week ago.

Footsteps, then a bolt shifting.

The door opened and Sean found himself looking – staring – up at Copper.

‘It’s the delivery lad!’ Copper’s face was one huge grin. ‘How’s it hanging, Seany?’

Sean finally found words. ‘What you doing here?’

‘Waiting for you, you twat.’ Copper glanced over Sean’s shoulder at the Matiz and smirked.

‘Don’t say a word,’ Sean warned.

‘Suits you,’ said Copper. ‘Come on.’

Sean followed him inside.

‘I’m guessing Josh Heaton didn’t tell you I was the customer, then?’ Copper said cheerfully.

‘No, he didn’t! And how the fuck do you know Heaton, anyway? And how did he know we know each other?’

Copper led him down a passage with a scuffed carpet and scabby wallpaper. ‘How do I know him? Mutual acquaintances. How does he know about us? He asked me if I knew a lad who looked like a daddy longlegs that can’t get laid. I said, sounds like Sean Harker. He said, that’s him!’

Sean seethed. ‘How long have you known him for?’

‘Mm. Dunno. A year, maybe?’

A year . . . Sean thought. That was considerably longer than he had known Heaton. Had Heaton made the connection between Sean and Copper the moment he joined the platoon?

So all that ‘you never said you were in the Why-Oh-Whys’ bollocks was . . . well, bollocks. A way of opening the conversation, that was all. Heaton must have intended to recruit him from the start. The wanker.

Sean couldn’t deny he appreciated the money. He did not appreciate being played.

They had come to a small room filled with boxes.
Another door led off on the opposite side, to the back of the building.

‘The owner lets us store a few things here,’ Copper said. ‘And in exchange we throw a few things his way, if you know what I mean.’

Another of those times Sean was deliberately not going to ask for details. He passed the package across and Copper carried it over to a bench.

‘Just need to check the goods, mate, OK?’

Sean held out his hand. ‘As long as you don’t mind me doing some checking of my own?’

Copper grinned and pulled an envelope out of his coat. He placed it in Sean’s hand with exaggerated care. ‘Go wild.’

Sean went to lean against a wall and shuffled quickly through the notes while Copper opened the box up on the other side of the room. Sean had just got to the eight hundreds when he was suddenly distracted by a sound he both recognized and couldn’t understand. The smooth metallic slick-and-click of a pistol being readied.

He looked over at Copper with wide eyes. The big lad was hunched over the box and the sound had come from him, Sean was sure of it. But he must have been mistaken. Heaton hadn’t said anything about guns. And he, Matt and Copper – they never used to have guns.

Then the sound came again, and when Copper raised
his right hand, Sean immediately recognized the silhouette of what he was holding. And he wished to God that he didn’t.

Copper was holding a Glock 17 Gen 4 pistol. And it was Sean who had put it in his hand.

Chapter 15

Sean was across the room in a beat. ‘The
fuck
are you doing?’

‘Like it?’ Copper asked, turning his hand to get a good look at the pistol. ‘Here, have a go yourself if you want.’

Sean didn’t. He’d used one just like it many times. He could strip it down in seconds.

And now Copper was holding one.

‘I asked you a question,’ he said.

‘Relax.’ Copper put the weapon back into the box, and Sean saw that it had come with a pancake holster, designed to fit on his belt and hold the gun concealed close to his kidneys. ‘Money well spent, right?’

Sean didn’t give a shit about the money. ‘I have to take it back,’ he said. ‘Must be a mistake. No way should that be there.’

But the brutal reality now facing him was creeping into the corner of Sean’s mind. Heaton had said he sold
off surplus stuff – kit the stores wouldn’t miss. But guns were not surplus – they were active or they were put beyond use, and there was no middle ground. Heaton supplied stolen weapons, and had lied to him.

Copper rested a hand on Sean’s left shoulder; it was heavy, like a large joint of ham. ‘I’m guessing,’ he said, ‘that Josh hasn’t told you the whole truth.’

Heaton wouldn’t be such an idiot, Sean thought. You couldn’t just nick weapons from the MoD. There were procedures. This shit was traceable!

‘Unlike you,’ Copper said, his voice slow and quiet, as though explaining something to a child, ‘Josh kept in touch with his old life, old contacts, mates. Smart lad, if you ask me.’

‘I’m going to kill him.’

Copper closed the box. ‘It’s not like it used to be,’ he said. ‘Life is different now. Things have changed. We have to keep up, make sure we’re safe, look after our own. You’ve seen it for yourself, right? That guy coming after your mum?’

‘That’s bollocks and you know it!’ Sean kept a lid on the volume, forcing it down from a shout. ‘That was just some lone tosser. It’s not like everyone’s getting tooled up!’

Copper nodded towards the door. ‘You’ve done your job, Seany. Take the money, forget it. Best way, right?’

He tucked the box under one arm and headed for the
exit that led out the back. ‘See you around, Seany,’ he said. ‘Pull the door to when you go.’

Sean sat in the Matiz, his whole body shaking. He was beyond anger and into a whole new kind of rage. Then he roared, hammered his fists into the dashboard.

Heaton had lied to him. Sleeping bags? Ration packs? It was all bollocks and Sean felt sick at the way he’d been taken in. He should have realized. The money should have given it away. No way was any of that other stuff worth what was being paid.

Then he remembered the day on the ranges. He’d helped clear up and Heaton had insisted on sorting out the spent and unused rounds himself. Even when Sean had offered to help, he had kept him away. Was that what he had delivered to the bloke in the Range Rover? Sean wondered. A box of full metal jacket ammunition, picked up from the range?

And the Glock in Heaton’s car . . . That couldn’t be his own property at all. It was another stolen weapon.

Nausea and anger swept through Sean, making his stomach churn, bringing a metallic taste to his mouth. But he kept a hold of himself and didn’t puke.

He slipped the keys into the ignition. He needed to have a talk with Heaton. A serious talk.

*

PLEASE NOTE WE ARE UNABLE TO SERVE YOU IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 . . .

Sean hadn’t touched his pint – which the barman had served him without question, despite that smug little notice pinned up above the till. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been age checked. Whenever he hit the pub nowadays it was with a bunch of squaddies, and he was usually the tallest, even if he was also the youngest. No one ever bothered with ID.

And the minor illegality of drinking underage was like ant’s piss in the huge great puddle of gun-running.

The pint sat in front of him on a small round table in a shadowy corner of the pub. The Monty – the Montgomery of Alamein, officially – was a popular watering hole with soldiers and it would be full of them that evening. It was early enough to be mostly empty, but he still didn’t want any mates coming in and clocking him the moment they were through the door.

He had arrived ten minutes ago. Heaton would be here any time . . .

Sean still hadn’t worked out exactly what he was going to say. He’d decided to meet Heaton in the bar because, he reasoned to himself, there was less chance of him decking the bloke in full public view. But the pub was quiet. The only person likely to complain about a scuffle, other than the chubby barman with sweat stains
spreading out from under his arms, was the small white dog at the opposite end of the room. The dog’s owner was asleep.

The door opened. Sean reached for his pint to calm his nerves and two girls walked in. He watched them scan the room, including him. They clocked his expression, which was not exactly welcoming, and pulled a face at each other, and then left, giggling. He put down his glass just as the door swung open again. Heaton strolled in and headed for the bar, bought a pint, looked around, spotted Sean. With a wave, he came over to join him.

‘Told you it would be easy—’ he started, but Sean cut him short.

‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me what you were actually selling?’

Heaton sipped his pint. Didn’t react, almost like he’d expected the question. And, of course, he had, Sean realized. Copper had been in touch. Which made him even more mad. He wanted to smack the bastard in the teeth.

‘Insurance,’ said Heaton. ‘And if I’d told you from the off, you wouldn’t have got involved, right?’

‘You said it was stuff the quartermaster wouldn’t miss,’ Sean said.

‘And he won’t,’ Heaton replied.

‘What do you mean by
insurance
?’

‘Come on, Sean, you’re not stupid! You delivered the stuff. You can’t turn me in without screwing yourself. See? Insurance.’

‘You. Bastard,’ replied Sean, the words barely audible through his clenched teeth. ‘What have you got me involved in? No, don’t answer that. Because I’m not involved. Not any more. I’m out. Here. Keep the lot.’ He pulled the envelope from an inside pocket and chucked it at Heaton, then stood up.

‘No you’re not,’ said Heaton. ‘And you know it. Now sit down.’

Sean hesitated.

‘Seriously. Just sit down.’

He sank back onto his stool.

‘First, you need to calm down,’ Heaton told him. ‘Second, you need to listen.’

Sean leaned forward, folding his arms and resting them on the table. ‘I’ll take orders from you when I have to,’ he said. ‘But here? I don’t have to, do I?’

Heaton took a long, slow gulp from his glass, his eyes on Sean. ‘The stuff I’ve supplied, it’s for protection,’ he said. ‘You’ve seen the news, right? Terrorists coming home to bring the war back here? People attacking and killing soldiers? Going after our lads with machetes?’ He leaned closer. ‘How long do you think some fundie
nutcase with a machete is going to last against a trained soldier with a Glock?’

Sean shook his head in disbelief. ‘You really are full of shit, aren’t you . . .’

‘I’m serious,’ Heaton said. ‘Next time you see Copper, speak to him. Ask him about the threats he’s had from idiots talking about IS!’

‘I don’t have to listen to this.’ Sean made to leave.

The corporal reached out and pulled him back down onto his stool. ‘Gangs aren’t fighting each other any more, Harker,’ he said. ‘They’re protecting themselves from what’s spilling out onto the streets here, just the same way as it has in Syria and Libya! There’s a war coming. We need to be ready for it.’

Sean rolled his eyes. ‘You really expect me to believe any of this? Islamic State are setting up shop over here?’ He laughed, shook his head. ‘You should hear the shit you’re spouting.’

‘And you need to wake up,’ Heaton said. ‘Next time you speak to Copper, ask him about some of the other tossers he’s been dealing with. Morons patrolling the streets to enforce bullshit religious rules. Shops firebombed because they sold the wrong kind of meat. Girls with acid in the face for fancying the wrong bloke.’

Sean stared at him. ‘Mate.’ He took a deep breath.
‘Mate. You’re missing one thing.’ He leaned closer. ‘This isn’t fucking Syria. It’s fucking England!’

Slowly, deliberately, he pushed the envelope back towards Heaton. ‘I have never grassed a mate and I’m never going to,’ he said slowly. He looked Heaton in the eye and didn’t blink. ‘So, if you think your little operation is in the tiniest bit of danger from me, then you and me can step outside right now and sort it out. But, mate, I am walking. End of.’

He saw something change in Heaton’s eyes as he stood up. Disappointment? Well, why should he care?

‘I’ll see you at work,
Corporal Heaton
,’ he said sarcastically.

Heaton made a strange movement with his head – something between a shrug of acceptance and a shake. He held up the envelope. ‘I’ll hold onto your share!’ he called as Sean walked out into the night.

Chapter 16

‘Now, there’s a pair who will soon be begging for mercy,’ Toni Clark said with a grin as she passed through. Sean looked up and grunted, and went back to polishing the boot with renewed aggression.

He was with Shitey Bright and Chewie West, in the common area outside their rooms in barracks, cleaning kit. It was good aggression therapy.

It was Tuesday, three days after his formal resignation from Heaton’s little operation. He had just about come down from his fury. Unfortunately it returned a little whenever he saw the corporal – which, as they were in the same platoon, was several times a day. Meanwhile Heaton just ignored him, like he used to, so you could say their relationship was back to what it used to be.