Street Soldier (20 page)

‘You make it sound so easy,’ Rich said as Sean finished telling, for the benefit of yet another interested party, the tale of how he and Heaton had scrumped the SA80s. ‘Which is actually rather shocking, wouldn’t you agree?’

Sean shrugged. ‘Not saying it was’ – he fought down a hiccup – ‘
easy
.’ He had a reputation to keep up. Easy?
He’d like to see any of this lot try it. ‘I mean, we planned it, y’know? ‘Cos we got’ – another hiccup, and he bit back a laugh – ‘skills. We recce’d the place first, sorted a hideout . . .’

‘Using your army skills to look after number one,’ said another man, this one middle-aged and a little portly. ‘Something I approve of utterly. After all, it’s not as though this bloody useless government of ours is going to, is it?’

There was a murmur of approval from around Sean. It was the first time since they’d arrived that he had heard anything other than general cordiality.

‘We need more people like you,’ the man went on, turning to point at Sean. ‘People with the balls to stand up and take control and actually do something about what’s happening in this country.’

Sean wasn’t sure where the conversation was going. One minute he was bragging about nicking weaponry; now he was in the middle of some kind of angry political discussion.

‘It’s not all that bad,’ he said, looking for the woman with the silver tray.

‘The biggest problem we have facing us today,’ continued the fat man, ignoring Sean, ‘isn’t unemployment. It’s worse than the financial crisis, or immigration, or family breakdown or even gay marriage.’

The fuck’s gay marriage got to do with it?
Sean thought. He looked around for tray girl and stumbled because only one of his feet felt like moving.

But the line about immigration made him look around again – and notice something he hadn’t clocked earlier because it hadn’t seemed like a big deal. Everyone here was white. He had spent a year in a multi-ethnic world and suddenly it seemed weird.

‘What it is,’ the fat man barked, ‘is those
traitors
, those so-called British citizens, who grow up here, living off the state, using our hospitals and doctors and benefits and God knows what else – then have the audacity to claim the right to act as they like on our sovereign soil and kill our people! It’s outrageous!’

All the politely swish, upper-class, rah-rah bollocks seemed to have evaporated.

‘Terrorists are shits,’ Sean agreed. Tray girl appeared in the corner of his eye and he swagged another glass, even though Heaton tried to take it off him.

‘The Tidworth bomb . . .’ said a younger man with a moustache. ‘Five brave soldiers dead. You’d think that would be enough of a wake-up call, but no! The government tackles the problem by cutting back on the armed forces even further. What is it going to take for them to open their eyes?’

The fury that had never quite gone away came surging
up from inside. Sean drained his glass in one go. ‘Me and Heaton – Josh – we were there. Our mate got blown up.’ He burped out some bubbles and tried to force his muzzy brain to come up with the right word. For some reason it wasn’t as easy as usual. ‘F-wank-stards.’

‘They should be hanged,’ said the older man. ‘Summary courts – no clever lawyers to get them off to reoffend.’

‘It was a car bomb, wasn’t it?’ said the man with the moustache. ‘Inside the camp. Which means the terrorists probably had an inside man.’

Sean snapped round at this. ‘Hey, that was the mate I was talking about! It was her car!’

‘Sorry,’ said the man, raising a hand in defence, ‘but I’m just saying what I heard. You never know, do you? They’re everywhere, these people. Like a bloody rash.’

‘Clarky wasn’t a fucking terrorist, mate,’ Sean said.

The man with the moustache narrowed his eyes at him. ‘I’m not your mate,’ he said. ‘And all I’m saying is that we need to be careful. Vigilant. They could be anywhere, couldn’t they? They’ve infiltrated the Iraqi army, so why not ours?’

‘Because our soldiers aren’t terrorists,’ Sean said. ‘They’re the bravest bunch of bastards I’ve ever met!’

Moustache man laughed then, his voice like a dagger of ice. ‘Wake up!’ he said. ‘They’re everywhere! For all we
know, you’re one!’ He laughed again, clearly enjoying his joke.

But Sean wasn’t laughing. Him, a terrorist? Who did this posh twat think he was? The bastard! The utter, wanking bastard!

He gave no warning. One moment he was calmly resting his empty champagne glass back on the silver platter. The next, he’d nutted the moustachioed bastard in the face to split his nose, and now, with him floundering on the floor, was going in for more.

‘So I’m a terrorist, am I?’ he yelled. ‘Is that what you think? Fuck do you know, you twat? Nothing, that’s what! Hanging out with all your wanker pals, talking bollocks about what’s going on, when what do you actually know? Fuck all, is what. Fuck all!’

He was reaching down to drag the man back to his feet, just so he could have another go, when something like steel pincers grabbed his left arm and jammed it up into the centre of his back. He tried to stand up straight, and white-hot agony fizzed along his arm through the champagne bubbles. His arm was held at an angle which made it plain that bones would snap unless he moved exactly as directed. His eyes focused on the mirror across the room. He could see himself bent forward with the hard bastard right behind him, and the guy’s eyes were deader than ever.

Heaton ignored the sight of a comrade being attacked and made a beeline for their host. ‘Rich, I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘Look, I mean he’s a good lad – he’s just not used to—’

‘Oh, go fuck yourself,’ Sean shouted. Somewhere in the haze of champagne bubbles in his head was the vague idea that this was not good, but screw that. ‘Tash-twat reckons I’m a terrorist, and Clarky was in on it and blew herself up!’

The man with the moustache was now back on his feet, nursing his face with a napkin.

‘Harker, you’re pissed!’ Heaton shouted back.

‘Can’t be pissed,’ Sean protested indignantly. ‘It’s only champagne, for Chrissake.’ He tried to move, and pain shot through his hand and arm again. ‘And get your fucking Doberman off me!’

‘Doberman!’ laughed Rich. ‘I rather like that. What do you think, Malcolm?’

Despite the pain, Sean laughed. ‘Malcolm? You’re kidding!’

Another twist. More pain. Sean doubted his arm would go much further before giving way completely. He had to shut up.

Rich turned to Heaton. ‘What an entertaining young man he is, this partner of yours.’

‘That’s one way to look at it,’ Heaton replied, and Sean caught the sharp glance he shot at him.

‘I think I’m going to like him,’ Rich said, ‘as long as he sticks to the soft stuff.’

Heaton agreed, with another dagger glare at Sean.

The pain in Sean’s arm was penetrating the anaesthetic effect of the champagne. ‘Look,’ he said, calming a little. He tried to match Rich’s rah-rah voice. ‘Would you mind calling Malcolm off? I didn’t mean to lose it.’

‘Let him go, Malcolm.’

The pain and the pincer grip vanished immediately. Sean staggered free and stood up straight.

‘Sometimes,’ Rich said, turning to him, ‘actions speak louder than words, wouldn’t you agree?’

Sean said nothing. He focused on Rich and bit back on a vom-flavoured burp as his host continued.

‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘no matter how loudly you shout, how clearly you put across your point of view, no one takes the blindest bit of notice. It is then, as you just demonstrated, Sean, that you have to act to make someone listen. And sometimes that involves doing things you wouldn’t normally do or indeed approve of. Don’t worry about the law. Just get above it.’

Sean had no idea what Rich was on about. Didn’t care. Wanted to get back to barracks. The room was boiling hot and he was sweating freely.

In fact, he realized suddenly, getting out of this room
and into the toilet in the next thirty seconds would be a really good idea.

Rich walked up to Sean, leaned in close. Sean had given up on trying to focus. Rich was a man-shaped blur.

‘I like you,’ Rich told him. ‘I like your . . . verve? Yes, that will do I think. Verve. Now— Oh, Christ! Josh! Get him out of here!’

Sean dropped to his hands and knees as his guts heaved, and seven glasses’ worth of champagne and a lot of chewed-up lobster spewed out over Rich’s thick, expensive and very absorbent rug.

The journey back to barracks was silent.

Chapter 23

‘Fuck me, Stenders, what happened to you?’

Shitey Bright had been posted outside the briefing room to guide the platoon in. Sean came shambling down the corridor towards him, pain lancing through his head like someone had wired electrodes to his temples, his stomach still churning. He had forced a piece of toast down for breakfast, and now even that felt like it might be going the same way as the lobsters.

At zero eight thirty on a Monday morning the platoon was meant to be doing PT. When Sean clocked the notice that they were to report to the briefing room instead, he began to think there really might be a God.

‘What’s going on?’

Bright shrugged. ‘Change of orders. And, mate, if you don’t mind me saying, you look like something that fell out of my arse last night. Only worse. And that was saying something. I mean, I had this mega-hot curry, right? Cut through me like a welding torch!’

Weeks after Clark’s death, the platoon’s banter levels were approaching normal again, and Sean would usually have given as good as he got. Now his stomach twisted at the thought, but he seemed to have done most of his throwing up.

‘Met this total div at the weekend,’ he muttered. ‘Thought champagne was basically fizzy wine. Didn’t realize it’s twice as strong, and the bubbles mean the alcohol gets absorbed into the system double quick.’

‘Champagne, eh?’ Bright grinned. ‘Sounds like your mate ought to stick to his type of people. Only wankers drink champagne for pleasure.’

‘The real wank de la wank,’ Sean agreed.

Bright sniffed. ‘And then, by the smell of it, your mate slept with his mouth open and the cat used it for a litter tray. Here.’ He handed Sean a packet of extra-strong mints. ‘Eat the pack. Sergeant gets a whiff of that, you’ll be right in the shit.’

Sean took the mints, dropped four into his mouth and crunched. Then he went on through to the briefing room.

Five minutes later the door opened, and Lieutenant Franklin and Sergeant Adams bowled in. The room came to attention. Sean was pleased that he could still do that and not hurl or fall over.

‘Sit,’ Franklin ordered curtly. He stood at ease, feet
apart, hands behind his back, and surveyed the room. Adams stood behind him, silent and impassive. ‘You’ll be wondering why you’re all in here, and not out getting your arses worn into the ground by some psycho PT instructor.’

Sean squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to push some of the hangover out. It didn’t work.

‘Over the weekend, during an Army Reserve exercise up on Salisbury Plain, it was discovered that a number of SA80s had gone missing.’

Sean heard gasps. If he’d been more alert, he would probably have reacted. In his current state, it was all he could do to stop himself chucking up.

But the gasps were more amused, not dismayed. It was the first good laugh the platoon had had in a long time.

‘The daft bastards left them out there?’ said Mitra. ‘And now we have to go and find them – is that it, sir?’

‘No, that is not it.’ Adams took over, no hint of amusement in his words or tone. ‘Now, from time to time we’ve all heard about some daft twat who hasn’t quite clocked the harsh realities of life and decides to take his gun home as a souvenir. The army catches up with him and that’s the end of that. But this was not some daft twat taking his gun home.’

‘Correct,’ said Franklin. ‘This was half a dozen automatic rifles, swapped for fakes. Wherever the real ones are now, that’s a small arms cache – enough to ambush an army unit with . . . enough for a major terrorist incident.’

The smirks around the room were disappearing fast as the reality sank in. With everything that had happened in the last month, the words
major terrorist incident
had a way of hanging in the air and sucking the last shreds of humour out of the situation.

It was just a shame, Sean thought, that he wasn’t able to reassure them; that he couldn’t tell anyone,
No, lads, the point is, we’re preventing another one . . .

He wondered how Heaton was taking the news. The corporal was sitting at the back of the room so Sean couldn’t see him.

‘There’s a full and immediate investigation into what happened,’ Sergeant Adams said. ‘Every unit based on Salisbury Plain – and I mean
everyone
– is going to be interviewed. Starting now.’

‘Why, sir?’ asked West. ‘Weapons got nicked and they think it’s an inside job? That’s bollocks. No one would be that stupid. Swiping that many SA80s? That’s organized crime stuff, that.’

Franklin said, ‘The point is, West, no one knows who did it, or why, or even how. Hence the interviews.’

‘But, sir, it’s not like they can actually send out the Redcaps and interview every one of us, is it?’

The sergeant shook his head. ‘No, they can’t. Which is why it’ll be me and Mr Franklin.’

For a second or two it was clear no one believed him. Then everyone did, mainly because Adams’s face had grown even darker.

‘We will interview you all this morning,’ Franklin explained, ‘and then we will be interviewed ourselves by Special Branch to report on the results. Men, I don’t expect any of you to have any idea about what happened, but that doesn’t mean I don’t expect you to take it seriously. You will.’

‘Because if you don’t,’ Adams added, ‘it’ll be a boot up the arse followed by the shittest week you can imagine. And don’t think, based on everything that’s happened recently, that I can’t make it shittier – because I promise you, I can.’

No one doubted it.

Oh . . . shit
.

Sean closed his eyes for a moment, then forced them open again in case anyone thought he was dropping off.