The Drop

‘Downloaded?’ he asked me doubtfully. He clearly didn’t realise you had to do that.

I laughed, ‘You’ve not taken it out of the box have you?’

He looked hurt. ‘Aye, I have and like I said it looks great. I just haven’t had the chance to do the downloading thing yet. Jimmy will help us like. He knaas everything there is to knaa about computers.’

‘Jimmy? I’m sure he does. He probably has a Dragon 32.’ He didn’t have a clue what I meant and I knew he’d never get round to using that iPod.

He didn’t have much of anything if the truth be told, except a couple of photos from his days in the Paras; one with him in uniform, with a blacked up face from the camouflage paint, holding an SLR, standing next to three other mates he had lost touch with over the years. He was smiling like he might have been fairly happy back then but I doubted it because I knew when it was taken, some years after he got the Campaign medal that he kept in his drawer. It was the South Atlantic medal and it proved my brother did a minimum of thirty days of continuous or accumulated service, between seven degrees and sixty degrees south latitude, between the 2^nd April and the 14^th June 1982. In other words he fought in the Falklands War. I refuse to call it the Falklands Conflict, people got killed, his friends got killed, so it was a war.

I’d seen my brother’s medal many times, held it reverently in my hand when I was a tiny wee lad. Even today, I can still recall the chest-bursting pride I felt, knowing my brother was an elite member of the 2^nd battalion of The Parachute Regiment that took Goose Green. It was undoubtedly his finest hour. Trouble is, the rest of his life has been an absolutely unrelenting torrent of shit. He’s had every bit of trouble going; a shite marriage and a worse divorce, runins with the police, fights, drinking, drugs for a while but, thank Christ, we got him out of that world before it took a hold. When he left the Paras he worked a bit, casual stuff, labouring mostly but even that seemed to just tail away after a while. He went from being one of the most reliable men in the whole British army to a fellah you couldn’t trust to turn up at a building site two days running. He doesn’t talk about his war but something bloody awful must have happened to him there because he has never been the same since. I don’t ask him about it. I just try and keep him out of trouble.

I was a bit pissed-off with Danny because he had gone wandering into one of Bobby’s places and groped a lass when he should have known a lot better than that, even when he was completely off his face. And his timing was impeccable. I needed that kind of hassle on top of my troubles with Bobby, Geordie Cartwright and the Drop like I needed a frontal lobotomy. But he’s my brother and he is, and always will be, a fucking hero. Nothing can change that.

It had been a long night. I contemplated phoning Laura but to be honest, right then, I didn’t need the grief I’d get from her. She’d have fallen asleep in front of the television by now, blissfully unaware of the fact that her boyfriend was already a dead man walking.

FIVE

…

When he woke up in the morning, Danny wandered in and found me still lying on his couch and said, ‘eeh young’un,’ like it was all suddenly coming back to him, ‘I’m sorry. I was off me tits.’ Then he scratched his crotch, offered me a cup of tea, which I declined because he still hadn’t got any milk, or teabags for that matter, and then he thought for a while and said, ‘do you think I should send that lass some flowers? To say sorry like?’

‘No Danny,’ I told him firmly, ‘I don’t.’

Laura went a bit nuts when I finally called her in the morning and I got a lengthy version of the time-honoured where-the-fuck-have-you-been speech that lasses have been delivering to their men folk since Moses first went out on the lash.

I felt a bit bad, particularly after I’d called her a stupid bitch for forgetting to put my name on the booking. She had clearly not grasped the seriousness of the situation she’d put me in but then how could she?

‘Look I’m sorry, I am, but it got so late there didn’t seem any point in phoning or texting you. I’d have woken you up.’

‘Woken me up? Do you think I sleep when you’re not here? I was worried sick David.’

I had to bite my tongue so as not to say ‘well, why the fuck didn’t you call me then?’, because I realised this would just escalate things. Laura was spoiling for a fight and it was a bit sad how we had got right back into our old, bickering habits again just 24 hours after such a wonderful holiday. It was, however, the least of my worries right now.

‘Look it’s complicated alright? It’s not as if I was out having a few drinks with the boys. I’ve got a problem.’

‘What kind of problem?’ this is the type of stupid question I wouldn’t have expected from Laura and I didn’t say anything, just exhaled wearily down the phone at her. ‘Alright, okay, I know you can’t tell me,’ she moaned.

‘You don’t want me to tell you, believe me. It’s not about shutting you out, not letting you in, not trusting you or any of that utter bollocks, it’s just that I cannot tell you.’

‘Okay, okay,’ she said making the two words sound like the absolute opposite of their meaning, ‘it’s fine,’ another lie. The word ‘fine’ never means fine to a woman. ‘I’ll see you back at the flat,’ and she hung up on me before I could say anything else.

‘Bitch,’ I hissed into the phone even though, or perhaps because, I knew she couldn’t hear me. Christ, where was the girl’s imagination? She knew the circles I moved in. The very fact that I even bothered to tell her there was a problem should have alerted those highly-educated brain cells of hers that I was in deep, deep shit. Women come home every night and go through their entire day, telling their men every trivial bloody problem they’ve encountered, so they can get some weird kind of catharsis from reliving the whole damned thing. Men aren’t like that. We like to switch off and forget our troubles, so me saying ‘Laura, I’ve got a problem’ is like watching a drowning man frantically waving with both hands. It’s a sign I thought she might have picked up on.

I bought my bro a fry-up in a greasy spoon near the station. Then I gave him a few quid and left him to it, knowing he’d mooch round the pubs for a few hours and hoping he’d keep out of trouble. Then I phoned Sharp.

He picked me up outside the Royal Station Hotel and I quickly climbed into his old VW. I’d hung back a bit, playing it safe, in case anyone spotted us.

Sharp was just north of thirty but he looked older, mainly because he was the only man I knew who still thought a moustache was a sensible choice. We drove out of the city for a while, not saying much until he pulled up in a tiny industrial estate, which was totally empty as it was Saturday morning.

‘So,’ he said, ‘must be pretty serious for me to risk picking you up in broad daylight in the city on a match day.’ He seemed a bit narked but I wasn’t going to allow that.

‘You get paid enough to justify a bit of weekend work.’

He spread his palms, ‘I’m not complaining. What can I do for you boss?’

‘I have a problem,’ I said, ‘a missing person,’ and I told him about Cartwright going AWOL, though I left out the bit about the Drop going missing with him. The fewer people that knew about that the better.

‘You want me to find him for you?’

‘It’s what you’re good at it isn’t it?’

He nodded, ‘that and other things,’ he thought for a moment, ‘and when I find him? Call you or deal with it?’

‘Call me. I need to talk to him before any decision is made on the man’s future.’

‘Okay.’

I spent the next fifteen minutes telling him everything I knew about Cartwright that might help him to track the man down. ‘I’ll be looking for him as well, so if you hear about someone asking after Cartwright it’s probably me.’ That bit was true but that morning I’d also phoned Palmer and set him on the task as well and I didn’t want Sharp and him getting in each other’s way.

‘You’re out on the streets for this one?’ he seemed genuinely surprised, ‘what’s he done?’ I didn’t say anything. ‘Hey, it’s none of my business but you must want him bad, that’s all.’

‘We do.’

‘And you sure you don’t want me to just… ’