Civvies (9 page)

Dillon side-stepped the bikes and went through into the living-room, dropping his carrier-bag just in time to catch Kenny who came hurtling out of the kitchen, scoop him up and swing him onto his shoulders. Little Phil tugged at Dillon’s trousers, wanting his turn. Dillon yelled towards the stairs, ‘Steve, you in? Steve?’ Susie was halfway down, carrying the Hoover, dragging the flex after her. She mouthed at him, ‘Bedroom,’ and gave Dillon a dark look. ‘He’s drinking,’ she said in a low voice, ‘came in with it.’ Dillon swung the boy down and went past Susie on the stairs. He paused and looked back at her. ‘We got the job.’ ‘You did? That’s marvellous!’ Smile breaking, eyes aglow, making her look about eighteen. ‘Does that mean he’ll be leaving?’ Susie whispered, glancing up at the ceiling. ‘Soon as we’re paid,’ said Dillon crisply, and carried on. ‘Hey, Steve!’ The phone rang. Susie plugged the Hoover into the hall socket and got up off her knees to answer it. British Telecom’s modernisation programme hadn’t reached this part of south Wales. It was a wonder the old-fashioned cast-iron telephone box was even in working order, considering that most of the windows were broken. There was a soggy bag of stale chips in the corner and the distinct whiff of urine, bi-lingual obscenities scrawled in felt-tip on every flat surface. Forehead pressed against the cold glass pane, Taffy Davies stared out at the rain sweeping down from a grey Cardiff sky, words tumbling out of him, just glad there was a familiar, friendly voice at the other end. ‘The bastards play music all day, all night,’ he mumbled into the phone, ‘I can’t sleep, the kids wake up, it’s driving me nuts…’ His voice quaked a little. ‘I’m going crazy, Frank. I had to talk to someone — I don’t know what to do, man!’ In the hallway, Dillon pressed his palm flat against his ear, struggling to hear the faint, crackling voice above the Hoover, the toilet flushing upstairs, and now the damn kids, playing shunting engines at Clapham Junction. Dillon whirled round, red in the face. ‘Pair of you, out! Get out!’ He pointed. ‘Susie, shut that off.’ Susie didn’t appreciate being barked at as if this was a parade-ground, and nearly didn’t, but one look at Dillon’s face changed her mind. She stamped it off with her toe and crowded the boys into the kitchen out of harm’s way. ‘Okay, now listen, Taff…’ Dillon spoke slowly and calmly. ‘They can’t play music all night, it’s against the law.’ Clicks and buzzes. ‘You there… Taffy?’ Dillon had to listen hard to the faint, croaking voice, on the line from purgatory. ‘And what… they’ve taken your fridge? Who has?’ Taffy banged his head against the cracked pane, clawing with dirt-rimmed nails at his unshaven cheek. He didn’t know he looked a slob, and wouldn’t have cared if he had. It had gone beyond that, it was out of control, tears of rage and frustration stinging his eyes. It was pathetic and pitiful, but he just didn’t care any more. ‘The cops are bloody useless,’ he mumbled hoarsely. ‘If I go into that house, I’ll kill somebody…’ He yanked a sliver of glass from the broken pane and squeezed it in his bare hand.

Steve was on the sofa, groggy-eyed, listening to Dillon who was pacing up and down, smacking his fist into his palm. ‘And the same bloke — given a medal for riskin’ his neck and savin’ God knows how many people — is goin’ nuts because some bastard won’t turn his stereo down. He can’t find work. His kids are yellin’, and his wife doesn’t understand why he can’t get a job… What does he expect me to do?’ Dillon spread his hands helplessly. Turning, he saw Susie in the hallway, about to continue Hoovering, and pushed the door shut in her face. All right, stay cool, Susie thought with tremendous forbearance, let it ride, and put her foot out to start the Hoover again. Then she flung the Hoover aside and kicked the living-room door open instead, standing there hands on hips, eyes blazing. ‘I am sick to death of having doors shut in my face in my own home! Maybe the reason she can’t understand is the same reason I can’t understand. What do you think we are, Frank? Mind-readers? How am I to know what triggers off these moods if you won’t tell me!’ ‘What moods?’ Dillon snapped at her. ‘Oh come on, Frank!’ Susie’s boiler was stoked up and blowing sparks. ‘You breeze in on top of the world because you’ve got work — next minute, one phone call later, you behave as if I’m your worst enemy.’ Dillon said sullenly, ‘Kids were just gettin’ on my nerves…’ ‘It’s half-term — instead of taking on responsibility for every soldier that leaves the Army, you should spend more time with your kids —’ ‘It’s not every soldier,’ Dillon interrupted. Wearily he turned his back on her, infuriating Susie even more. ‘Why don’t you play another record, you’re getting to sound like your mother.’ Steve got to his feet and weaved towards the door. As he went by her he muttered, ‘oNe lAMe — DuCk’s enOUgh…’ Susie watched him go and rounded on Dillon. ‘What did he say?’ she demanded, spots of colour burning her cheeks. Dillon grabbed her arm and dragged her towards him until his dark, dangerous eyes were two inches from hers. ‘You want to have a go at me, do it when he’s not around —’ Susie yanked her arm free. ‘He bloody lives here? ‘You want to talk?’ Dillon murmured, raising his eyebrows. ‘Well, I’m all ears.’ He went past her, kicking the door shut, turned about, folded his arms. ‘What do you want to know?’ ‘Oh stop this, Frank,’ Susie pleaded. ‘I can’t take this!’ ‘What do you want to know, Susie? Want to know about the job?’ Susie flinched as Dillon lunged forward. He made a grab for the carrier-bag propped against the end of the sofa and ripped it open, holding up a chauffeur’s uniform of dark jacket and dark grey slacks with knife-edge creases. He bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a smile. ‘Okay. Exchange one uniform for another, all right? You think this is what I want? You think I came out for this?’ When she had her breathing under control, Susie said quietly, ‘It’s a job. At least you can pay the rent.’ She swallowed, her face nearly crumpling. ‘You — you did take the rent money from the drawer, didn’t you? Oh Frank, you’re not playin’ the horses, are you, you promised me…’ Dillon carelessly let the clothing fall in a heap over the back of the sofa. He said huskily, ‘I’ll pay the rent, Susie, I’ll pay it and anything else you want.’ His eyes bored into hers. ‘In answer to your question, no, I did not put a cent on a bleedin’ horse… even if I did it’s my business, not yours.’ He went to the door and threw it open, and Susie thought, if he yells for Steve just once more I’ll scream. But he didn’t, instead he almost fell over the Hoover. Susie took a pace forward, trying one last appeal. ‘You have so much time for everyone else … I need some too, Frank!’ Dillon glared at her over his shoulder. ‘Think about it, will you?’ Between tight lips, only just audible, Dillon muttered: ‘Everyone wants a piece of me, and I need some space, okay? I need —’ What he needed was lost as Susie swept her hand out and slammed the door, this time in Dillon’s face. A second later it crashed back on its hinges from Dillon’s kick, and he stood in the doorway, the blood draining from his face, fists clenched. ‘Don’t ever do that again!’ Dillon snarled, eyes glittering. Susie held up her hands and backed away, her insides shrivelling at this proximity to a wild man with so much naked violence pouring out of him she could almost smell it. Or perhaps it was her own fear. Frank had never struck her but now she saw him fight for control, his hands rigid fists. ‘I’m sorry.’ Susie said quietly. Dillon walked out, this time closing the door quietly and firmly, somehow it was worse than if he had slammed it. Susie buried her face in the cushion and burst into tears. She knew she couldn’t take it much longer, she had tried, no one could say she hadn’t tried, but she was beginning to wish he had never left the Paras.

With the tip of his finger, Dillon touched the bonnet of the Mercedes-Benz 300SE three-litre and watched the little round patch of condensation evaporate from the flawless silver surface. The caged wall lights of the underground garage gave the car a ghostly, almost supernatural aura. Thunderbirds are go! Dillon thought, and felt a little tremor of excitement and apprehension. He was conscious of Jimmy watching them both from behind the wheel, no doubt revelling in their awe and trepidation — and of course envy too — because who else but Jim’ll Fixit had the clout and the contacts to graciously bestow such a favour? ‘What do you think?’ Dillon said, a bloody sight more nervous than he cared to admit. Steve gulped air and rifted, ‘It’s up to you — you’ll be driving.’ ‘What d’you mean? You’re driving, mate. I’ve never driven an automatic’ ‘Okay but…’ Steve shrugged indifferently. ‘I’ve got no licence.’ Dillon’s head came round in three distinct movements, his eyes burning holes through the air. ‘Banned,’ Steve burped. ‘Three years, drunk driving…’ Dillon turned away, and hissed under his breath, ‘Banned, you pillock!’ Here they were with a job all lined up, he depending on Steve having never driven an automatic himself, and now Steve blurted or burped out he was bloody banned from driving. Dillon faced Steve, looked back to Jimmy, and in a low voice warned Steve to keep his mouth shut, not to let on to Jimmy, just drive the Merc out, he’d take over after a practice. Jimmy beckoned to them. They leaned in, inhaling the rich mingled odours of Cuban mahogany, deep-pile carpets and whole-hide leather in Antique Burgundy. ‘Telephone…’ Jimmy indicated the handset in its walnut box, ‘you got everythin’, even clean-air spray — and if you want a tip, use it. Nothin’ worse than gettin’ into a car reekin’ of stale farts.’ With a look of dire warning he tossed the keys to Steve. ‘But so much as a scratch — an’ I’ll have your balls.’ He tapped the steering-wheel. ‘Thirty grand’s worth of motor.’ ‘Okay, it’s simple,’ Steve told Dillon fifteen minutes later, having driven the car to a piece of waste ground. They’d swapped seats and Dillon was frowning at the unfamiliar controls while Steve played driving instructor. ‘Just remember not to use your left foot… this is Reverse, this is Park, then ‘D’ for Drive… that’s it.’ He folded his arms and settled back as Dillon pushed the stick into Reverse and pressed the accelerator. The fat wheels skittered stones and dirt as the silver Mercedes shot back at high speed towards a brick wall, Steve unfolding his arms quick to stop his head bashing against the wooden fascia. Dillon slammed down on the foot-size brake pedal and they skidded to a halt, rocking on hydraulic suspension, inches away from the wall. Gasping and choking from the shock, Steve wiped his forehead, weak with relief that Dillon hadn’t crumpled anything at first attempt. Then he was thrust back deep into the leather seat as the car suddenly hurtled forward, heading towards a pile of rubble. Steve covered his eyes. But Dillon reckoned he was getting the hang of it, even starting to enjoy himself.

Taffy made his preparations. He placed a blanket, crosswise, on Megan’s single bed, and with neat, orderly movements stacked her toys and dolls in the centre of it, added the pictures off the walls to the pile, finally the toddler’s fluffy animals, plastic bricks and colouring books. He gathered the four corners together and quickly and expertly knotted them, then carried the tight bundle out and dumped it on the landing. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump — The drumbeat in his head pounded out its unrelenting rhythm. The phantom drummer was at it too, repeating the same riff over and over and over again. But Taffy stayed calm. It was all very clear and simple. No sweat. He knew what he had to do. Megan crouched at the top of the stairs, biting her knuckles as she watched Daddy, singlet and shorts under the dressing-gown flapping at his calves, go back into her bedroom. He’d stripped down the bed and now he was dismantling the cot. He took it apart like a Bren gun, working with military precision and economy of effort, gathered the pieces and stacked them neatly against the banister rails. Megan cowered away but Daddy completely ignored her, went back into the empty, bare room and closed the door. As a welcome change the phantom drummer was now practising triple rolls, but the thump-thump-thump continued as before, as always, as ever. On Radio 5, Danny Baker was slagging off a new film with undisguised glee while Susie Dillon tidied away the breakfast things. She wiped her hands on the tea-towel and hurried through the living-room, using her fingers to comb back her hair, checking on the way that Kenny and Phil were still decent and presentable. She grabbed her coat from the hook and called up the stairs, ‘Frank? Frank, I’m taking the kids to school — did you hear me?’ Susie took a step back, trying to hide the glimmer of a smile as Dillon and Steve came down the stairs, done up like dogs’ dinners in their brand-new chauffeurs’ uniforms, crisp white shirts and black ties, complete with peaked caps. ‘You look great…’ Susie said, proud and impressed. She waved her hand. ‘Hey, kids!’ ‘Don’t…’ Dillon’s neck was red with embarrassment. He glanced at Steve, and then, finding a weak grin, raised his cap as the boys came charging through. ‘How do!’ The telephone rang as Susie opened the front door and ushered the boys outside. She gave Dillon and Steve a big bright smile. ‘Good luck! Know what time you’ll be home?’ ‘Hello?’ Dillon said into the phone, then covered the mouthpiece. ‘We could be late.’ Susie winked and shut the door, but opened it almost at once, flagging for Dillon’s attention. ‘It’s Frank speaking, who is this?’ Through a blizzard of static he caught the name ‘Mary’ before his attention was needed elsewhere. ‘There’s a gang of kids around the car,’ Susie alerted him, jabbing her finger beyond the parapet. Dillon sighed, glanced three ways at once, at Susie, at the phone, at Steve adjusting his cap in the hall mirror. Jesus, if it wasn’t one thing it was ten others. ‘Go and take a look, Steve… I’ll call Jimmy, ask if we can leave it in the garage.’ Dillon’s lips tightened as Steve dawdled, now putting his tie straight. ‘Steve — just go and check the car…’ Steve brushed past and went out banging the door behind him. Dillon said, ‘Hello… hello?’ The beeps sounded. Impatiently Dillon checked his watch, waiting for Taffy’s missus to feed in more money. Calling from south Wales and she was dropping in ten-pence pieces one at a time. Come on. ‘Hello? Mary? Yeah, I’m still here, yeah…’ Dillon listened to the distant voice, faint yet obviously distressed. ‘Look, love, I don’t know what I can suggest. I mean, I’m here, if he wants to call me again —’ beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep ‘Christ!’ ‘Frank!’ Steve thumping the door with his fist. ‘Come on, we’ll be late!’ Dillon plonked the receiver into the cradle, set his cap straight, and went out at the trot.