‘Yeah,’ the voice went on. ‘You’re that bloke from the Regiment. The one who was at Parliament Square. You were the big hero of the day.’
The voice swigged his whisky. Ice clinked against the glass.
‘You look like a bag of bollocks, mate,’ said the voice. ‘What the fuck happened?’
Gardner took a sip of his pint. Said nothing.
‘No, wait. I can guess what happened. I mean, fucking look at you. You’re a joke. You’re a right fucking cunt.’
Gardner stood his beer on the bar. Kate was nowhere to be seen. Then he slowly turned to face his new best friend.
‘That’s right. A complete and utter cunt.’
He looked as ugly as he sounded. Red cheeks hung like sandbags beneath a pair of drill-hole eyes set in a head topped off with a buzzcut. He was a couple of hundred pounds or thereabouts, half of it muscle and the rest fat that had been muscle in a previous life. The glass in front of him was half-full of whisky and ice. The glazed expression in his eyes told Gardner the drink had not been the guy’s first of the night, or even his tenth.
‘I’m not looking for trouble,’ Gardner said quietly.
‘But you found it anyway. You know, there’s nothing more tragic than a washed-up old Blade.’ The man pulled a face at the prismatic bottom of the tumbler. ‘Know what? Someone should just put you out of your fucking misery now.’
Gardner attempted to focus on the guy and saw two of him. Sixteen pints of Pride and a few shots off the top shelf will do that to a man. Rain lightly drum-tapped on the pub windows. The guy leaned in close to Gardner and whispered into his left ear.
‘Me, I’m from 3 Para. Real fucking soldier. Real fucking man.’ He winked at the barmaid. ‘Ain’t that right, Kate?’ She smiled back flirtatiously. Then the guy turned back to Gardner. ‘Now do me a favour and fuck off.’
A shit-eating grin was his parting gift.
Gardner swiftly drank up. Made for the door.
Outside in the deserted car park the rain was lashing down in slanted ice sheets. Gardner zipped up his nylon windcheater to insulate himself against the cold and wet. The Rose in June pub was set on the outskirts of Hereford and the low rent was probably the only reason it hadn’t shut down. Gardner made his way down the backstreets, snaking towards the Regiment’s headquarters. He navigated round the housing estate that used to be the site of the old Regiment camp on Stirling Lane. Now it was all council-owned. The rain picked up, spattering the empty street that edged the estate. Gardner couldn’t see more than two or three metres in front of him. A ruthless wind whipped through the street and pricked his skin. Gardner closed his eyes. He heard voices, subdued beneath the bass line of the rain.
When he opened his eyes a fist was colliding with his face.
THREE
The fist struck Gardner hard and sudden, like a jet engine backfiring. He fell backwards, banging his head against the kerb. A sharp pain speared the base of his skull and it took a moment to wrench himself together. You’re lying on your back. Your cheek is on fire from a fucking punch. And Para is towering over you.
Para’s hands were at his side and curled into kettlebells. He hocked up phlegm and spat at Gardner. The gob arced through the rain like a discus and landed with a plop on his neck.
‘Get up, prick.’ Para’s voice was barely audible above the hammering rain.
Gardner wiped away the spittle with the back of his hand.
‘I said, get the fuck up.’
Gardner noticed two guys with Para, one at either shoulder. The guy on the left was shaven-headed with dull black eyes and the kind of hulking frame that you only get from injecting dodgy Bulgarian ’roids. He wore a grey hoodie and dark combats. Gardner noticed he was clutching a battery-operated planer. The guy on Para’s right stood six-five. A reflective yellow jacket hung like a tent from his scrawny frame. He smiled and revealed a line of coffee-brown teeth. He was holding a sledgehammer. Raindrops were cascading off the tip of its black head.
‘Call yourself a Blade,’ Para said. ‘You’re just a washed-up cunt.’
Hoodie and Black Teeth laughed like Para was Ricky Gervais back when he was funny.
Gardner began scraping himself off the pavement. The rain hissed. The guys were crowding around him now. He swayed uneasily on his feet.
Black Teeth was gripping the sledgehammer with both hands. He stood with his feet apart in a golf-swing posture and raised the hammer above his right shoulder. Gardner knew he should be ducking out of the way but the booze had made him woozy. Dumbly he watched as the hammer swung down at him.
Straight into his solar plexus. Thud!
A million different pains fired in the wall of his chest. He heard something snap in there. Heard it, then felt it. His ribcage screamed. He dropped to his knees and sucked in air. The valley of his chest exploded. He looked up and saw Black Teeth standing triumphantly over him.
‘What a joke,’ he said.
Black Teeth went to swipe again but Hoodie came between them, wanted a piece of the action for himself. He’d fired up the planer and was aiming it at Gardner’s temple. Gardner managed to climb to his knees. He didn’t have the energy to stand on two feet, but he wasn’t going to lie down and leave himself defenceless. First rule of combat, he reminded himself: always try to stay on your toes. The planer buzzed angrily. Gardner was alert now, his body flooded with endorphins and adrenalin. In a blur he quickly sidestepped to the left and out of the path of the planer. Momentum carried Hoodie forwards, his forearm brushing Gardner’s face, the planer chopping the air.
Then Gardner unclenched his left hand and thrust the open palm into Hoodie’s chest. Winded the cunt. Hoodie yelped as he dropped to the ground. The planer flew out of his hands and Gardner reached for it, but Black Teeth was on top of him and bringing the sledgehammer in a downward arc again. Gardner feinted, dropping his shoulder and leaving Black Teeth swiping at nothing. Out of the corner of his eye Gardner spied Para fishing something out of his jacket. Gardner folded his fingers in tightly and jabbed his knuckles at Black Teeth’s throat. He could feel the bone denting the soft cartilage rings of the guy’s trachea. The sledgehammer rang as it hit the deck.
Para had a knife in his hands now. Gardner recognized the distinctive fine tip of a Gerber Compact.
‘Fuck it, you cunt,’ said Para. ‘Come on then.’
Para lunged at Gardner, angling the Gerber at his neck. Gardner shunted his right hand across and jerked his head in the same direction, pushing the blade away. Then he launched an uppercut at Para’s face. His face was a stew of blood and bone.
Gardner moved in for the kill. He grabbed the planer and lamped it against the side of Para’s face. Para groaned as he fumbled blindly for the Gerber.
Too late.
Gardner yanked Para’s right arm. He pinned his right knee against the guy’s elbow, trapping his forearm in place. Then he depressed the button to start the planer. The tool whirred above the incessant rain as he slid it along the surface of Para’s forearm. The blade tore off strips of flesh. A pinkish-red slush spewed out of the side of the device. Gardner drove the planer further up Para’s arm. His scream turned into something animal. The skin below was totally shredded, a gooey mess of veins coiled around whitish bone. It didn’t look like an arm any longer. More like something a pack of Staffies had feasted on.
Pleased with his work, Gardner eased off the button and ditched the planer. It clattered to the ground, sputtered, whined and died.
The rain was now a murmur.
‘My arm,’ Para said. ‘My fucking arm!’
‘I see you again, next time it’s your face.’ Gardner’s voice was as sharp as cut glass. ‘Are we fucking
