For Valour (11 page)

I gestured for him to step back and got to my feet, keeping eyes and weapon on him throughout, in case he suddenly felt he had to do something stupid.

He didn’t need further encouragement. He looked like a power-lifter who’d forgotten his weights.

‘You can put ’em down now, but keep your distance.’

He lowered his arms. His fingers were like prize marrows. For a moment, he seemed not to know what to do with them. Then he hooked his thumbs in his thick leather belt.

‘You a mate of Sam and Ella?’

He nodded so hard I was worried he might do something bad to his neck. ‘I’m Gerry … from the top farm. I was just … I look after the grass … you know, the garden … I keep an eye—’

‘All good.’ I didn’t need his full CV. ‘Look, mate, I’m a friend of theirs. Not here to nick the family silver.’ I put the safety back on and shoved the weapon into the waistband of my jeans. ‘I’m—’

‘Military?’ He’d managed to get his head back on an even keel.

My turn to nod. ‘Yup.’ I tapped the weapon. ‘Sorry about that. You got me worried.’

He was so relieved I thought he might try to reach out and hug me. ‘You got me worried too. You’re not the first person I’ve seen snooping around here since they left. Some were your mates in uniform, obviously. I can always tell them a mile off. But the others weren’t.’

‘Others? When? Did you ID them? Maybe see a vehicle? Do the police know?’

He went quiet for a while. Maybe five questions at once were a bit much for him.

‘A couple of nights ago. I didn’t see ’em close up, but there were two of them. And no sign of a car. I don’t bloody bother with the law any more. We’ve had a load of machinery nicked these last few months, and they’re never around when you need them …’

I let him drone on about diggers and cutters and balers going missing. Then he started harking back to a golden era when everybody around here left their doors unlocked and there were more bobbies on the beat, and I decided enough was enough.

‘Look, mate, I’ve got to go now. Report back. But when Sam and Ella reappear can you let them know Tony called in? Tell them hello from me?’

He said he would.

‘But carry on keeping an eye out, eh?’

Gerry nodded again, slowly this time, as Middle England’s deep-seated trust of authority kicked in and began to make his world a nicer place.

He shifted slightly awkwardly from one foot to the other and I thought for a moment that he was going to tug his forelock. Instead he turned and trudged back the way he must have come.

I only stayed long enough to replace the hatch cover beneath the hut.

1
Salisbury, Wiltshire

Friday, 27 January

Ken Marabula had been my first sergeant in Malaysia. His favourite gag was to warn us young troopers not to turn our backs on him at mealtimes. He told us that in Fiji in his grandfather’s day they’d often marinate a guest or two in coconut milk and add them to the menu. ‘Nothing personal, man. They just loved the taste of Long Pig.’ He’d lick his lips like Hannibal Lecter and give us the kind of leering grin that made us sleep with one eye open.

In his quieter moments he used to admit that cannibalism is not actually as popular, these days, as it once was, particularly in the UK. I found that quite reassuring, especially when we got pissed together on a big night out, but I still kept my distance from the earth oven. They’d dig a big hole in the back garden, then cook chicken and fish and stuff on a bed of charcoal embers covered with leaves.

Ken and his fellow islanders followed in the footsteps of local legends, like Laba and Tak, the boys who’d held off at least two hundred and fifty Communist insurgents at Mirbat in ’seventy-two with a twenty-five pounder, an assault rifle and – because Tak had been shot in the shoulder – only three arms between them.

Laba had taken a round in the jaw early on, then one in the throat after fuck knows how many hours, which left Tak holding the fort. Neither of them got VCs because the Head Shed didn’t want to go public on the Regiment being there, but Laba was still the only member of the Special Air Service to have had a statue dedicated to his memory.

Ken had enlisted in Nandi with a few of his mates and got the first plane to Heathrow. He’d kicked off his basic comms training near Salisbury, fallen for a local girl and still called it home forty-odd years later.

He had been to some places and done some things in the meantime, first with the Regiment and then on the Circuit. The Iranian Embassy balcony in 1980 was the most crowded piece of real-estate on earth, if you believed even half the people who claimed to have been on the team. Ken really had gone in through the front window, though he would never boast about it. He never boasted about anything else either, which was one of the reasons his and Jill’s place was my next port of call. Another was that his and his nephew’s names were on the list me and Trev had agreed by the dam.

I’d overnighted at the Hunter’s Lodge on the outskirts of Wincanton, in return for a handful of Sniper One’s notes. They’d given me a warm welcome in the bar, and apologized that the kitchen was closed. That wasn’t a problem for me. I’d already stopped for a burger and Coke outside Chippenham and only needed a shit, shower and shave, followed by a good night’s sleep.

The cathedral spire was better than satnav when you needed to find your way to Salisbury. At 123 metres it was the tallest in Britain, and had been for more than seven hundred and fifty years. I’d first seen it when I’d spent a few weeks at Larkhill Camp, up by Stonehenge, during my early days with the Green Army.

I followed the ring road and took the turning to the Culver Street multi-storey car park. I didn’t want to leave the 911 anywhere near Ken and Jill’s. I didn’t think I’d been followed from Gloucestershire, but Salisbury was the next best thing to a garrison city, and if Trev was right about the CQB shit going all the way to the top, I didn’t want to tempt Fate.

I swapped my Gore-Tex for my bomber jacket, made sure I was out of sight of the CCTV cameras, then slid the Browning into my belt and the spare mag into my left pocket. Another old habit: the weight of the mag made it easier to flick back that side of the jacket if you had to draw down – not that it would make much difference with a case of beer and a bouquet of flowers under my arm.

Ken claimed that Fiji wasn’t as close to Paradise as the fantasy travel ads would have you think, but every time I’d been to their neat terraced house on the south-eastern edge of the city I couldn’t help wondering whether the old boy really didn’t hanker for the white beaches and clear blue water of his birthplace. Whatever, as soon as you walked through Ken and Jill’s front porch you knew this was home.

I’d called from the Hunter’s Lodge so they were expecting me. I’d told Ken to fire up the earth oven and stand by for fresh supplies of beer – but to go easy on the
kava
. They came over a bit sensitive when you refused to get their ceremonial drink down your neck, but I’d explained that something was up, and I couldn’t afford to shift onto Fiji time. I didn’t add that I’d always hated the stuff, that it made my cheeks go numb and tasted like washing-up water.

Ken hadn’t changed a bit. He still had a face like a bag of walnuts. He gave me the world’s biggest man-hug before I’d even stepped into their hall. It reminded me that rugby football was as much their national sport as cannibalism, and that you sometimes couldn’t tell between them.

Jill stood behind him, as trim and blonde as she’d always been. When I’d got my breath back I held out the Cobra to him and the flowers – tulips that were so deep a purple they were almost black – I’d brought with me from Wincanton to her. I presented them with an exaggerated bow. ‘Your favourites, Mrs M. The same colour as your husband.’

That earned me a smile and a pantomime curtsy from Jill, and a thump on the back from Ken that rearranged most of my internal organs. We moved through to the garden room, from where I could see that the man of the house had already got busy with a fork and spade.

I turned to him as we took our seats. ‘I was joking about the earth oven.’

‘Good. I was doing the border.’ His weather-beaten face creased into a grin. ‘I’m not going out there after dark in this weather, man. We’d freeze our coconuts off, eh? But we’ll treat you to some quality Fijian MRE this evening, that’s for sure. It’s been a while …’

2

I spent the afternoon swapping war stories and banter with Ken, over biscuits and a brew, followed by another brew. And another.

We also touched on the news from the camp – or, rather, the fact that there wasn’t any. Rumour control was rife with speculation, but there still seemed to be a lockdown on any reliable detail. DSF was having a serious sense-of-humour failure.

I didn’t bring up the subject. He did.

When I made a stab at looking blank he rolled his eyes and grabbed my arm with his paw. ‘Get real, man. I wasn’t born yesterday, eh? You’ve been off the grid for God knows how long – in Moscow, the last I heard – and suddenly you’re on our doorstep, minutes after some serious shit has happened behind the wire in H, involving Harry’s boy …’

He let his words hang in the air between us.

‘Also, we know you’re not here for the
kava
, and you’ve got a pistol in your waistband …’

It was my turn to look embarrassed. ‘Sorry, Ken. I didn’t mean to treat you like an idiot. I’m just not sure who I can quiz about this.’

‘No apology necessary, man.’ He sat back and smiled his Zen smile. It reminded me why I’d always liked him, and why I was there. ‘I’m flattered that you want to talk to me, eh? It means you still trust me, and trust is a big thing for people like us, especially at a time like this. It’s a pity this new DSF doesn’t seem to understand that.’

He took a long swig of his brew before continuing.

‘But I also know it means you can’t risk contacting any of your old mates on the inside, especially not the Head Shed, or your not-so-friendly friends at the Firm, because they stopped sending you Christmas cards way back. So that leaves us black fellas, eh?’

It wasn’t really a question, but I answered it anyway. ‘The white fellas are taking the piss big-time right now. This won’t be the official version, but one of them took off Trev’s head with a Dragunov in the Black Mountains two days ago, then tried to do the same to me.’

‘Did he succeed?’

‘Funny.’ I knew Ken was as keen not to think about what had happened to Trev’s head as I was. ‘He got close. But he won’t be sending any more Christmas cards either.’

His eyes narrowed and he nodded slowly. ‘Like I said, man, none of us believes in coincidences.’ He paused. ‘And what I’m going to tell you isn’t one either. Fred’s in town. We’ve asked him to join us, eh?’

Ken may have looked like a giant teddy bear, but he was still switched on. Fred was his nephew, currently at Credenhill, and a key member of what the lads now called
Fiji.com
. He was also high on the list of people I needed to speak to.

3

Fred Marabula arrived in time for the first beer of the evening. He was a smoother, more aerodynamic version of his uncle, with a finely tuned engine and go-faster stripes. His hair was slicked back and shiny, and his jawline was sharply chiselled, but there was also something charmingly old-fashioned about him. He even called me ‘sir’ a few times, though I told him not to.

Fred was content to swap small-talk for as long as we were in the mood, while one Fijian delicacy after another arrived at the table for dinner. I’d never met him before, but his reputation travelled before him, and not only because Ken was his number-one fan.

From the moment he’d arrived in the UK, Fred seemed destined for great things. Before we could blink, he’d got himself a degree in politics, philosophy and economics and played fly-half for the Scots Guards. He passed Selection the same year as Sam. They’d both spent six months in Afghan with B Squadron last year.

I asked him how well they knew each other.

He didn’t answer immediately. ‘As you don’t need me to tell you, sir, we depend on each other completely in the battle space. But the truth is we’re not that close. Sam spent most of his time with Scott Braxton and the boss, Guy Chastain, especially after Kajaki. We used to call them the Three Amigos.’

At first glance, Fred seemed to have been less affected by the Afghan experience than Harry’s boy. As the evening drew on, though, I began to realize that was only skin deep. He didn’t turn into a rug-chewing maniac, but once we’d dispensed with the usual Camp Bastion banter and I asked him what had rattled Sam so badly, a haunted look came into his eyes.

‘Kajaki?’

He nodded. ‘You know how important that installation is. The livelihood of the surrounding area depends on it.’

‘What happened?’

‘It started as a pretty routine night op. The engineering crew were due in before first light to complete maintenance work on one of the dam turbines.

‘The Taliban were well aware that it had to be fixed at some point, and we’d heard they were aiming to take the repair team on once it was in place. Two Rifles were tasked to secure the high ground before the boiler suits arrived with a platoon-strength escort to get to grips with the hardware.

‘Then Intelligence got wind of a couple of big Taliban players planning to be there to coordinate the attack. It was a golden opportunity for us to cut off two of the serpent’s heads with one blow, so we were tasked to be at the dam six hours ahead of the infantry. The plan was to be there in plenty of time before the players appeared, then ID and lift them.’

‘How many of you?’

‘One eight-man patrol. Guy was in charge.’

‘Sam and Scott were on the team?’

‘Sure.’ His expression clouded. ‘And Chris Matlock.’

Chris, who had died doing what he loved
…

I was suddenly aware that Ken and Fred were both looking at me slightly strangely. I must have spoken aloud. ‘What went wrong?’

There was a long silence.