Civvies (27 page)

In the tiny back room he rented above a Bengali food store just off Lower Clapton Road, Harry was preparing his evening meal. This entailed the removal from the Tesco bag of the dinner on a tray for one — chicken and mushroom pie, sweetcorn, mashed potatoes, gravy — and the insertion of same into the microwave which stood on the small varnished table. Set the timer for eight minutes, and hey presto. While he waited, Harry busied himself. From his bergen he took out nine separate components wrapped in dark green dusters and laid them in a row next to the microwave. The 40-watt bulb in the bedside lamp gave him barely sufficient light to work by, not that it actually mattered. He could assemble an M16 Armalite AR-15 blindfold, and had, too many times to count. He loved the feel of the lightly-oiled precision-engineered sections, slotting smoothly and easily into place with a satisfying metallic click. Call the Yanks all you want to, but they knew how to make a bloody good weapon. Gas operated, rotary locking mechanism, the M16’s small calibre 5.56 mm cartridge didn’t suit all tastes, but it could stop a body stone cold dead in the market at anything up to 400 metres. And Harry intended being a damn sight closer than that. Like, say, ten feet. He hefted the assembled rifle, just over three kilos unloaded, and balanced it on his broad palm. Lovely piece of machinery. The bell pinged. Harry took out his steaming dinner, savouring the smell of hot gravy. ‘Bloody marvellous,’ he murmured, rubbing his hands together, reaching into his bergen for knife, fork, spoon.

The break was to the left forearm, the X-ray revealed, which considering that two inches lower it would have been the more complicated wrist alignment, was good news, so the doctor said. The facial injuries looked bad, but they were superficial, he assured Dillon. Her arm in plaster, supported in a stockinette sling, Dillon pushed Susie in a wheelchair to the car, Kenny and Phil tightly gripping either side, Mum’s personal bodyguard. Back home he took Susie up first, made sure she was comfortable, and then got the boys bedded down. They were both dead on their feet, and Phil was off the instant his head touched the pillow. Dillon tucked the duvet round Kenny in the top bunk and switched off the lamp. Standing in the wedge of light from the landing, Dillon’s gaze moved slowly over the wall of photographs. All his lads were there, singly and in groups. All the faces in all the places. Belize, Ulster, Cyprus, Oman, Falklands, Pen-y-Fan. Jimmy Hammond, No. 2 Dress, lounging outside the
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at The Depot. Dillon touched the photo, remembering the day, almost the minute, it had been taken. Two weeks prior to the Ulster Tour ‘87. The old sweet-talking bastard… ‘Is he fighting again, Dad?’ inquired Kenny through a yawn. ‘Uncle Jimmy?’ Dillon unpinned the photograph. ‘Yes, he is, he’s joined up with mercenaries,’ Dillon said. He unpinned several more, collecting a sheaf of them. ‘They’re freelance — still soldiers, they just get paid better!’ Lastly he took down one of Steve Harris, added it to the pile. Kenny had pulled the duvet over his head, Phil was fast asleep. Dillon went out and softly closed the door. From within, he could hear the sound of Kenny’s crying, muffled under the duvet. Dillon turned away, the sheaf of memories in his hand, and moved silently along the landing to where Susie was sleeping.

She was lying on her back, breathing rhythmically, the pale blur of the plaster cast resting on top of the bedclothes. After watching her for several moments, Dillon backed out, easing the door to. ‘I’m awake, Frank.’ Dillon came in and closed the door. He groped towards the bed, the room in darkness except for a faint spray of light on the ceiling from the streetlamps below. He sat on the opposite side to her, slightly hunched, the photographs crumpled in his hand. ‘Susie…?’ He hesitated and then went on, very subdued. ‘I’m sorry for everything. The way I am, way I’ve been. Just that, I’ve had a lot on my mind… but, well, I made a decision, I’m going to put the past behind me because…’ His voice sank to a husky whisper. ‘You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and — and if I was to lose you —’ He bowed his head, face screwed up tight, tears squeezing out from under his eyelids. ‘I don’t want you to leave me,’ Dillon said, weeping openly now, unashamedly. ‘I love you, Susie.’ With her right hand she reached across, found his hand, held onto it. Dillon wiped his face with his sleeve. ‘Everything you say is right, I know it, and I guess I just, well, I won’t listen because —’ A small rueful smile into the darkness. ‘Takin’ orders from a woman, you know, it’s tough for a bloke like me. I never had nothin’, I think I joined up because I was nothin’ — never passed an exam at school.’ ‘I know.’ ‘I’ve acted like a kid, stupid.’ ‘You deserved the break, Frank.’ Dillon looked at her. ‘It doesn’t mean anything without you. You want me to sleep downstairs?’ ‘No.’ Dillon held her hand tight. He said softly, ‘I’ll just turn all the lights off.’ Susie nodded and smiled, hearing him creeping down the stairs, light switches clicking off, and waiting for his soft footfall to return to the bedroom. He eased the door closed, and from half-lidded eyes she watched him take off his clothes. She didn’t say a word, he always folded everything up neatly, and was meticulous about clean socks and underwear, he stuffed his dirty clothes into a basket by the dressing table. He stood naked in front of the mirror, his taut muscular body with the shades of the many tattoos over his back, his legs, his arms, even his hands, and there was a heart with her name, and their two boys’ names entwined with his own. Dillon eased back the duvet and slipped in beside her, leaving just a few inches between them, but it was a while before she felt his body heat closer, closer. ‘Are you awake?’ ‘Yes,’ she whispered, and he leaned up on his elbow, gently lifting a stray strand of her thick brown hair away from the bruise on her face. ‘I love you, you do know that don’t you?’ She met his dark eyes, and nodded, she could see him straining to find the right words to say. ‘I… we lose each other a bit sometimes don’t we?’ Again Susie nodded and he rested his head against her breast. ‘I’m not hurting you am I?’ He could feel her heart beating, and he wanted her to hold him, but knew with her bad arm she couldn’t. ‘I can fix the nightdress, Frank, it’ll look okay.’ He lifted his head, and gave the smile, the smile she so adored, childlike, innocent. ‘Bugger the nightdress … all that matters is you and me, and we’re okay aren’t we?’ ‘Yes, yes we are…’ Susie had no knowledge of how long he lay close to her, or for how long he studied her face as the painkillers made her drift into a deep dreamless sleep. He scrutinised every pore, every contour of her lovely face, her lips slightly parted, her dark eyelashes, the same as Kenny’s, thick, dark eyelashes, and her high sweeping cheeks, just like Phil’s. His wife, their mother, his beloved. He knew it had to be over, he would start fresh in the morning, have a serious talk to Harry. It was not their business any more, and may God forgive him, he would bury the pact he had promised the dead boys, it was the living, his family, that mattered most in all the world to him, and he was not going to jeopardise their safety. He had almost lost Susie’s love, he knew that, and to have used physical force on her was shameful, he would never do that again. He could feel that dark cloud lifting, perhaps it was just sleep slowly enveloping him, but he felt good, felt peaceful for the first time in many years.

Start afresh, don’t look back, what’s past is past. The bright new philosophy according to Frank Dillon. The past had fucked up, so dump it in the trash bin and given the future a fighting chance. And Dillon meant it, more determined than anything he’d ever done or attempted in his life before to make it work. Which meant (Susie was right, he knew it in his bones) that Stag Security had to be run by the book. Get the business up on its feet and they were off to a flying start. Anyway, the signs looked good, because the office had never looked better, Harry with the Hoover on the go, Cliff mopping down the basement steps when Dillon showed up. He got an earful soon as he walked in. ‘Oi! Wipe your feet, I just Hoovered there —’ Harry jabbed a finger at Cliff, trailing in with a mop and bucket. ‘An’ you, take that bucket out into the yard.’ ‘Need new bog rolls,’ Cliff put in. ‘Stamps, coffee, tea and sugar, milk, an’ we should keep a first-aid kit handy too. Aspirins, liver salts, stuff like that.’ Dillon was at the desk with a clean sheet of paper, pencil in hand. ‘With Susie out of action I’ve got a bit of schleppin’ to do with the kids, so I’m workin’ out a rota.’ ‘I don’t mind doin’ nights,’ Harry offered. ‘Just a sec’ Dillon wanted to start another clean sheet. ‘I reckon I’ve been throwin’ me weight around, an’ we’re all in this together, okay? So if I say somethin’ you don’t agree with… well…’ He gestured vaguely. ‘You’ll give us a sock in the gob!’ Harry grinned. Cliff laughed and clanked outside with his bucket. Harry looped the cable to the Hoover, watching him go. He said confidentially, ‘Hey, Frank, about that other matter. I’m handling it.’ Dillon was writing. Without looking up he gave a small, tight nod. Start afresh, don’t look back, what’s past is past. The pencil dug into the paper. He looked up sharply. ‘Harry…!’ At the door, Harry turned, Hoover in hand. Dillon stared at him. He shook his head. ‘Nothin’.’ He went back to his writing.

He’d been heading up a blind alley but now he could see light ahead. Dillon’s feeling that things were changing — for the better — grew stronger each day. Work was coming in, they were even building up a small core of regular clients. He had the sense that a watershed had been passed, and that with hard graft and a bit of luck they were going to make it. The first encouraging proof came just over a week later, and he couldn’t get home quick enough to tell Susie about it. She was in the kitchen, putting food away in the fridge. Getting rid of the stockinette sling gave her some freedom of movement, but the cast was still an encumbrance. Dillon waltzed in, waving a folder. ‘We’re in profit — it’s paying the cars, the rent and wages —!’ He swung her round, hugged her. ‘You mean you can start paying me a wage?’ Susie asked him with an impish grin. Dillon gave her a look. ‘You not workin’ for Marway?’ ‘Just Stag Security-Taxi-Chauffeur,’ she said firmly. She gently punched him under the chin with the plaster cast. This’ll be off soon.’ Dillon laughed and gave her a smacker. On his way to answer the doorbell he sang out, ‘Give you my word, you won’t regret it!’ His terrific good mood lasted until he opened the door and saw Harry’s face. More exactly, its set, closed expression, eyes fixed on his, unblinking. ‘I wanna show you somethin’.’ As Dillon’s mouth tightened, Harry held up his hand. ‘Hey, take it easy. Can I come in?’ And when Dillon made no move, just stood there blocking the door, delved inside his jacket and produced two photostat images and held them up. ‘These are the suspects. Take a look for yourself.’ Full face, left and right profiles, two men, early twenties, one with sideburns. Dillon barely glanced at them before shoving Harry onto the landing, well out of earshot. Harry caught his drift and had sense enough to keep his voice low. ‘Guy on the second page, it’s one of them, Frank. Wally’s tip-off was legit.’ ‘Harry — I got to think about this.’ Dillon rubbed his face, and then his head shot round as he heard Susie’s voice calling, ‘Is it Mum, Frank?’ He stuck his head in the door. ‘No, love… just Harry,’ and carefully pulled it shut. Harry waited a couple of moments, studying Dillon’s face. ‘You don’t have to get involved,’ he said, slow, deliberate, the meaning made stronger because of it. ‘But you started this, Frank, not me, you.’ ‘I dunno.’ Dillon looked at the door. ‘I don’t know, I need time…’ ‘I don’t have it, they could move on any day.’ Harry had said his piece, Dillon knew the score, and he turned to go. Dillon grabbed his arm, pulled him round. His whisper was harsh. ‘You know where he is?’ Harry looked into Dillon’s eyes. He nodded. ‘I just needed to be sure.’ He thrust the photostats into Dillon’s hand. ‘Keep ‘em, tell me tomorrow,’ he said, and went down the stairway. Dillon leaned against the wall. He rested his eyes for a minute, aware of his heart beating rapidly. Slowly he opened them and stared down at the two faces. Early twenties. Long dark hair. Sideburns: Leather jacket. Dillon leaned over the railings, waiting to see Harry across the courtyard below. He whistled and Harry looked upwards. No words passed between them, Dillon simply gave him the signal to wait.

The closing credits of a cops and robbers series were rolling up as Dillon popped his head into the living-room. He said brightly, ‘I won’t be too late. Kids are asleep!’ ‘What is it?’ Susie asked, feet propped up on the couch. ‘Security work?’ ‘Yeah!’ ‘Is it cash or…’ Dillon cleared his throat. ‘Cash,’ he said decisively. ‘Night, sweetheart.’ He went out, closing the front door so it didn’t slam. Susie flicked the remote control. The chimes of Big Ben boomed out, News at Ten just starting. Harry had cased the house that afternoon. Couldn’t be more perfect, he assured Dillon. Run-down neighbourhood, poor street lightning, gasworks wall at one end so there was no through traffic. Derelict place directly opposite, ideal for cover. They took up positions, peering across the darkened street through a window-frame with a few shards of glass in it. Both were kitted out for night ops: black sweaters, old combat jackets, black woollen ski hats, the faithful Pumas that had seen action on Heartbreak Hill. And Harry had the Armalite, which had seen action with the Gurkhas in Brunei and the Far East. Dillon got the stomach cramps just watching him checking it over, as gentle and loving with it as a mother with her new-born babe. ‘If there’s anybody in there, they’re crawlin’ around in the dark,’ Dillon decided, straining his eyes to see. He craned forward. ‘No they bloody ain’t — you see it, front room, right-hand side? Somethin’ flickered.’ Harry was already on the move, rifle inside his combat jacket, held by the butt, pointing to the ground. ‘Let’s take a closer look,’ he growled. A child of six could have picked the back door lock with his Meccano plastic screwdriver. Dillon sidled in, ski mask down over his face, two ragged slits for the eyes. The kitchen was filthy and stank to high heaven. He had to watch where he stepped, there was all sorts of junk littered about the place. More a doss house than a safe house. Harry followed, treading with an incredible feline lightness and agility for such a big man. In total silence they moved from the kitchen into the short passage leading to the front room. Blue light flickered under the door, and they could hear the muted burble of the television. Dillon touched his chest and pointed upstairs. Harry nodded. He flattened himself against the wall adjacent to the door, the rifle held slantwise across his body. Dillon went up, testing each tread before committing his weight to it. He trod even more carefully on the bare dusty floorboards of the front bedroom, aware that a single creak would alert whoever was directly beneath him. There wasn’t a stick of furniture. He knelt, and using hands as well as eyes, made sure he had it right. Three sleeping bags. A plastic holdall with a broken strap contained tee-shirts, underpants, socks, shaving cream, razor. The bathroom was a haven for dirty towels. Two on the floor, two more stuffed over a rail, three or four in the bottom of the stained old tub. Lying in the greasy soap residue on the splash rim of the washbasin were three toothbrushes and one tube of toothpaste squeezed to within an inch of its life. He turned away and then paused, aware of a heavy subterranean thudding. It was his heart. His scalp was prickly with sweat. He hissed in a breath and crept out. Harry hadn’t moved a muscle. He stood flattened to the wall, watching Dillon slowly and silently descend. Then nodded as Dillon held up three fingers. With twenty rounds in the mag he could take out three Irish bastards and still have enough to spare for their slags and brats. Wipe out the Irish nation, that was Harry’s final solution. He went suddenly tense, and Dillon froze on the stairs. The man in the room hacked out a cough and did a couple of ferocious encores. Dillon counted to five and took another step down, letting go a breath, when the door opened and the man came out. In the poor light coming from the TV, Dillon registered only that he was young, with long hair, wearing a scruffy jacket over an open-necked shirt. He saw Dillon first, and started to backtrack into the room, grabbing the edge of the door to slam it shut. Harry sprang round from the wall, smashed the butt of the rifle into the door, knocking it back on its hinges. He swung the rifle round, levelling it. Dillon jumped the rest of the stairs. He landed in the hallway, arms up ready to dive forward and grapple with the man, when the rifle blasted. The man uttered no sound. There was a crash, a thump, and then, save for the TV burbling to itself, silence. He was lying half on his side, face down to the carpet. One hand still clutched a grimy handkerchief. In falling he’d upset a little two-bar electric fire, a flex leading from it to the light bulb socket, which was why the room was in semi-darkness. ‘He grabbed the bloody thing, Frank,’ Harry complained. He ejected the empty shell, picked it up and put it in his pocket. ‘Is it him?’ Dillon checked the pulse in the man’s neck, but there was really no need to. His arm was flung out, away from the body, and there was a hole in the left armpit, right next to the heart. That’s why he hadn’t uttered a squeak. ‘You’ve killed him.’ Dillon pushed the body over onto its back. Slowly he straightened up. ‘Oh my God,’ he said, ‘this isn’t him. It’s not him!’ Harry leaned over to see for himself. He squatted down on his haunches, supporting himself with the rifle. He glanced up. ‘Where the hell you goin’?’ Dillon was at the door. He said, ‘There were three sleepin’ bags, they could be back.’ He jerked his thumb savagely. ‘Leave him, just leave him!’ and was gone. Harry laid the Armalite down. The dead man had nothing on him except a cheap wallet with a few quid in it. Harry put it in his pocket. He tucked the rifle under his arm and stood up, about to follow Dillon. He looked at the electric fire on its side. A thin wisp of smoke rose up where the bars had already singed the strip of carpet. With his foot, Harry pushed the fire closer to the dead man, and with a nudge, closer still, until it was touching. He reached down and picked up a bottle of Powers on the floor next to the armchair, about quarter full. He took a big mouthful, glancing towards the door, and spurted out a spray of whisky straight onto the bars. There was a whoosh of flame. The dead man’s jacket sleeve ignited. Harry tossed the bottle on top of the funeral pyre and scarpered.