The Fire (5 page)

Lauren North's Story:

I travelled to Munich the next morning on the 0230hrs Etihad flight out of Abu Dhabi, then caught the Finnair connection to Helsinki which dropped me in on time, but jaded.

I was met at the airport by Dr Victor Allen PhD who was running the Instructor's Close Protection and Surveillance Course.

He was a slightly built man, some would have said graceful, and spoke perfect English with an American accent.

On the way to my hotel he gave me the documentation I would need to start the course the next morning. I signed all the usual insurance waivers and handed over the eight thousand dollar fee.

As the car pulled up outside The Hotel Haven, just off Helsinki harbour and close to the Esplanadi Centre, I was more than a little apprehensive.

I needn't have been. Over the next ten days I was expertly tutored in everything from risk assessment, route planning, vehicle drills and counter surveillance, to unarmed combat and search techniques.

The good doctor told me I had excelled.

By the time my flight landed in Manchester twelve days later, Rick's idea for the location of our enterprise was taking shape. I'd never felt so confident in my abilities and was looking forward to taking charge of training operations for our fledgling business.

Rick and Des had been working hard on our premises. They had rented a modern unit located on the corner of Newton Street and Dale Street, immediately off Piccadilly, in the City's Northern Quarter. The area had become the hub for creative, media and marketing companies in Manchester. It was now home to RDL Close Protection Services.

To my surprise, Rick had avoided employing builders and fitters, and the boys had gutted the place themselves. Des was teetering on a ladder, paint roller in hand as I stepped inside.

"You've missed a bit," I shouted over the radio that blasted out the current number one
America
by Razorlight.

Des dropped down the ladder with ease.

"Hey, look who it is; how was Finland?"

"Great, thanks. Anything I can do?"

Rick appeared from behind a newly erected stud wall, nail gun in hand. "Coffee would be great."

Des switched off the radio. "A beer would be better. Why don't we nip out for a swift one; catch up on Lauren's course, eh?"

Rick smiled. I don't think I'd ever seen him as relaxed and happy.

"Okay, why not, we're about done for the day anyway."

There were numerous independent bars, restaurants and shops close by.

I wanted to go to Dry Bar.

Factory Records and New Order opened the historic venue in 1989. It was one of Manchester's prominent bars and live music establishments. Both Shaun Ryder and Liam Gallagher were infamously once banned from there and I had visited it several times with my old friend Jane and the girls from Leeds General, when we took trips to the city for nights out.

Unsurprisingly, Des wasn't keen, so we opted for Odd Bar on Thomas Street; an unpretentious yet bohemian decorated place with a fantastic selection of beers, whiskies and music.

Des was straight at the old vinyl jukebox pushing the ageing buttons.

"Hey, Lauren, they've got Deacon Blue on here!"

The Scot's easy manner made me feel right back at home, and for the next three hours we drank, ate and laughed.

I'd drunk a little too much wine, Des, far too much Guinness and we were just about done. The Scot pulled his phone from his pocket to call cabs, when I noticed him staring at the screen.

"Everything alright, Des?"

The colour had drained from his face and he couldn't hide his obvious distress.

"Aye, hen, I'm fine, just a blast from the past is all."

Rick had been unusually chilled all evening. He'd finished three beers before settling for his Evian.

"You don't look okay, pal."

Des let out a deep sigh. It was if all his emotions had been locked inside his tough exterior, yet in that one moment, they had escaped for us all to witness.

We waited in silence for him to speak.

"It's Anne," he said quietly.

"Anne... you mean ex-wife Anne?" I asked.

He nodded slowly. "Aye...she's...she's no' well...cancer they say...she wants to see me like." 

I put my arm around his shoulders.

"Are you going? I mean, it's been a while and..."

He shrugged me off, a mixture of irritation and hurt in his voice. "Of course I'm going, hen. She's my wife, isn't she?"

Rick grabbed his oldest and only friend by the arm.

"Hey... Lauren didn't mean anything there. You do what you have to do, mate. Nothing is wasting here; we can manage." He looked me in the eye and sent me an obvious message. "Can't we, Lauren?"

I nodded too vigorously. "Sure, of course we can, Des, you take as much time as you like, mate."

He stood, instant sobriety being bad tidings' bedfellow.

"I'm away," he said. "I'll call you when I know a wee bit more like...erm....sorry."

And he was gone.

Rick and I sat in stunned silence. Minutes passed before he pushed his bottle of water away. To my surprise he said, "Let's have a proper drink."

I was still a little numb when Rick returned from the bar with two glasses of single malt whisky. I'd never seen him drink to excess; the odd beer maybe. This was a new one on me.

I sipped the amber liquid and felt it trickle down my throat. The natural flush of warmth from the Dalwhinnie relaxed me. It was obvious Rick had something to get off his chest. I sat back in my seat and waited.

Unusually for him, he'd stepped out into town without changing his clothes. We'd come straight from our newfound offices, and he sat in a plain white T with blue gloss paint splattered on the front. His Levi's were faded and torn and his boots had seen better days.

The low level lighting in the bar seemed to accentuate the star-shaped scar on his cheek; the wound I had treated along with his scalded legs when we'd first met. There were traces of plaster dust in his hair that added to his already salt and pepper locks.

I couldn't recall ever seeing him look so handsome.

He spun his tumbler around on the table between thumb and forefinger; examining it closely as if looking into a crystal ball to see the future. As it turned out, tonight it was a look deep into the past.

"Anne Margaret Mahoney," he said to the glass. "Childhood sweethearts they were, her and Des; a good Catholic girl from a good Catholic family. It was on the cards they would marry, long before the little bugger joined the army."

Rick looked up and into my eyes. I thought I may drown.

"They were engaged at sixteen, and had been together a couple of years then; but when Des announced he was joining up, it caused a big rift in the Cogan and Mahoney families."

"Why?" I asked.

Rick gave me a look that told me I was stupid at best.

"How many Catholics do you think fight for the British Army against the PIRA? See... the part of Glasgow Des is from, ain't too far removed from Belfast. Most Glasgow Catholics can trace their families back to Ireland. And, I can tell you this, the sectarianism is no different from what you'd find over the water either."

"Ah, I see what you mean."

Rick knocked back his whisky and waved the empty glass at the barman, who nodded his acceptance of the order.

"Anyway, as I said, it caused all kinds of shit but they still married at a tender age and everything seemed fine between them, even if Anne's parents were not too keen.

It was bad enough she was marrying a soldier, but to see her move to England was a bitter blow for them."

Rick pushed his finger across the table.

"And England was only the first step. The military move you around like chess pieces on a board. Army wives get a raw deal, but Anne Margaret seemed to settle into wherever Des was posted. She did her best to make a home no matter what kind of shithole they were sent to..."

Two more malts arrived.

"...But it was after Des joined the Regiment that things started to go wrong. He...we...were away more than at home. Contact was often difficult if not impossible and Anne was desperate for a baby. One thing though...money was not an issue, Des was much better off. Anne no longer had to live in army housing and seemed happy in their Hereford home with her friends around her. That said, Des was keen to buy the cottage by Loch Lomond and, of course, they also bought Hillside Cottage as a rental property for holidaymakers, the place we went to when I was convalescing, you know?"

I finished my glass and took hold of the refill. My head was swimming a little and I was unsure if it was the drink or the company.

"Yes, how could I forget? It was such a beautiful place."

"Well, as it happened, Anne was a dab hand with the DIY. She discovered she had a great eye for detail and spent more and more time at Hillside, finding the seclusion of the Loch cottage difficult."

I nodded, taking everything in. "The place was stunning, but being away from your husband isn't healthy."

Rick took another large gulp of his drink.

"You said it...Turned out she also had an eye for the gardener, a guy by the name of Donald. She...she began an affair."

The drink was definitely getting to me and I tried my best Scottish accent. "Ah...as in 'Donald where's yer troosers'."

I swear Rick smiled too.

"Not funny, but yes. Des was heartbroken. Anne filed for divorce."

"And?"

"Des buried his head in the sand, and gave it the big 'Catholics don't get divorced' thing."

"And?"

"And Anne took him to the cleaners."

"You mean he let her."

"This is Des we're talking about here, of course he let her. This guy is one of the toughest, meanest sons of a bitch you would ever meet...but when it came to Anne Margaret...he was a pussycat. Six weeks after the divorce was final, she married Donald."

I was definitely drunk and close to making a fool of myself....again. I was determined not to make another failed pass at Mr. Fuller. Somewhere I found some resolve.

"I'm going to walk to Piccadilly and get a cab," I slurred.

Rick hesitated for a moment. Stupidly, I waited for him to offer to take me home. I didn't have to wait long.

"Okay, come on then, I'll walk you, we've had enough bad news for one night. I don't want you getting turned over for your briefcase on the way."

Strolling along Thomas Street and feeling quite tipsy, we talked about anything but Des and divorce. As we approached the junction with Oldham Street and Dale Street, my hackles began to rise.

I put my arm around Rick and looked into his face; to anyone watching we were two lovers walking home. "That motorcycle that just passed us; that's his second time around the block."

Picking up our pace slightly, we continued along Dale Street and headed for Piccadilly station. We passed Lever Street; and I clocked a battered Golf GTI parked on the left three cars down, half hidden behind an old Bedford van; two up, lights off.

Rick saw it too.

"It's a team, either cops or E4."

"E4?"

"Government surveillance crew; they look at anyone and everyone from terrorists to people that may be of interest to the Firm."

I was doing my best to clear my head.

"Why us? The Firm know where we are, we haven't been hiding out in the middle of nowhere."

A black cab was approaching, its yellow light illuminated on the roof. Rick stuck out an arm.

"The cops were looking at me months ago, before the Gibraltar job, I was about to do one abroad, keep my head down for a while. Maybe they found me again...Whoever it is...Let's test their resolve, shall we?"

Rick barrelled onto the back of the cab, dragging me by the hand.

The instant we were inside, the Golf pulled out from Lever Street and settled in behind.

Rick produced two twenties from his wallet and stuck them through the glass divide.

"Hey, pal, forty quid here if you can lose this dickhead behind us."

The cab driver looked worried.

"I'm not into anything dodgy, mate. I gotta think about me licence."

Rick pulled another couple of twenties from his pocket and waved them at the cabbie. "Look," he said sharply. "The car behind is a private dick, paid for by my missus, she's spying on us; know what I'm sayin'? The bitch wants my balls for breakfast... just do your best, eh?"

The driver looked at the notes, snatched them from Rick's hand and hit the gas.

We lurched forward and even though our cab was slower than the Golf behind, the cabbie was sharp and clever with his manoeuvres.

The surveillance team would have at least three vehicles plus the motorbike; they would complement their mobile capability with at least a couple of guys on foot. We were probably pinged by one of the foot-patrols when we left Odd Bar. They would have directed the Golf where to park. The motorcycle would relay our progress and all the various patrols could swap and change in order to remain covert. I knew exactly how it worked; I'd just spent eight grand on the course.