landed on his head -was on the case, and everything was going to be just fine. But I had the sneaking suspicion I was only going to Panama instead of Beachy Head because I was the only one on the books soft enough in the head to try to pull it off.
As we joined the A40 out of London and headed for Brize, I tried to focus on the job. I needed to fill my head with work instead of woe. At least that was the theory. But it was easier said than done. I was penniless. I'd sold the Ducati, the house in Norfolk, even the furniture, everything apart from what I could shove into a sports bag, to pay for Kelly's treatment. Twenty-four-hour private care in leafy Hampstead and regular trips to the Moorings had cleaned me out.
Walking away from the Norfolk house for the last time, I'd felt the same trepidation I had as a sixteen-year- old walking away from the housing estate to join the Army. Back then, I hadn't had a sports bag, but a pair of holed socks, a still-wrapped bar of Wright's Coal Tar soap, and one very old toothbrush in a Co-op plastic carrier. I planned to buy the toothpaste on my first pay day, not knowing when exactly that was, or how much I was going to get. I hadn't really cared, because however bad the Army might be, it was getting me out of a life of correction centres and a stepfather who had graduated from slaps to punches.
Since March, the start of Kelly's therapy, I hadn't been able to work. And with no national insurance number, no record of employment not so much as a postcard to prove my existence after leaving the Regiment I couldn't even claim the dole or income support. The Firm wasn't going to help: I was deniable.
And no one at Vauxhall Cross wants to know you if you aren't able to work, or if there isn't any to give you.
For the first month or so of her sessions I'd done the bed sit shuffle around London if I was lucky, being able to do a runner whenever the landlord was stupid enough not to ask for money up front. Then, with the help of Nick Somerhurst's national insurance number bought in the Good Mixer, I was able to get a place in the hostel, lining up at mealtimes by the Hari Krishna van, just outside the Mecca bingo hall. It had also got me the Somerhurst passport and supporting documents. I didn't want to have the Yes Man tracking me with docs from the Firm.
I couldn't help smiling as I remembered one of the Krishna gang, Peter, a young guy who always had a grin on his face. He had a shaved head and skin so pale he looked as if he should have been dead, but I soon discovered he was very much alive. Dressed in his rusty red robes, hand knitted blue cardigan, and a multicoloured woolly hat, he used to run about inside the rusty white Mercedes van, pouring tea, dishing out great curries and bread, doing the Krishna rap.
'Yo, Nick! Krishnaaa, Krishnaaaa, Krishnaaaa. Yo!
Hari rammaaaaa.' I never felt quite up to joining in, though some of the others did, especially the drunks. As he danced about inside the van the tea would spill and the odd slice of bread would fall off the paper plate, but it was still much appreciated.
I went on staring out of the window, cocooned in my own little rusty world while the other one passed me by on the street.
The A40 opened up into motorway and Sundance decided it was time for a bit of a performance.
'You know what?' He looked over at Trainers, making sure I could hear.
Trainers swung into the outside lane at the same time as passing his tobacco to Sundance.
'What's that, then?'
'I wouldn't mind a trip to Maryland ... We could go to Washington and do the sights first...'
I knew what they were trying to do to me and I continued to stare at the hard shoulder.
Trainers was sounding enthusiastic.
'It'd be good craze, I'm telling yer.'
Sundance finished licking the Rizla before answering.
'Aye, it would. I hear Laurel...' He turned to face me.
'That's where she lives now, isn't it?'
I didn't answer. He knew very well it was. Sundance turned back to face the road.
'Well, I hear it's very picturesque there -you know, trees and grass and all that shite. Anyway, after we finished up there in Laurel, you could take me to see that half-sister of yours in New York .. .'
'No fucking way you're getting near her!'
I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach and had to breathe out quickly as I thought about what might happen if I didn't get the job done. But I was fucked if I was going to play their game. Besides, I was just too tired to react.
Just over an hour later the Merc pulled up outside the air movement centre at Brize, and Trainers got out to organize the next stage of my life.
Nothing was said in the car as I listened to the roar of R.A.F transport jets taking off and watched soldiers from the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders wander past in DPM camouflage, berg ens on their backs and Walkmans clamped to their ears. It was like going back in time. I felt I'd spent half my military life at this airfield, because as well as loading up for flights on a regular basis, just like the Highlanders, I had learnt to parachute here. I'd loved it:
after being stationed in a garrison town with only three pubs one of which was out of bounds to low-life like me and a chip shop, this place had been Butlins. They even had a bowling alley.
I watched as a captain herded the trogs through the doors, ticking them off on a clipboard as they passed into the large 1960s glass building.
Trainers came back with a nervous-looking Crab Air (R.A.F) movements corporal. He probably didn't have a clue what was going on, just that he had to escort some pissed-off looking civilian on to one of his nice aircraft. He was told to wait short of the car as Trainers came and opened the rear kerb side door. I could only see him from the chest down as his hand beckoned me out.
As I shuffled my arse across the seat, Sundance called out, 'Oil'
I waited, looking at the foot well
'Don't fuck up, boy.'
I nodded: after our little talk on the way here, and the Yes Man's lecture earlier, I'd got the message. I climbed out and nodded a greeting to the Crab corporal.
We'd only gone a few paces when Sundance called to me yet again. I went back and poked my head through the rear door, which Trainers had kept open. The roar of a transport jet made him shout and me move back into the car, my knees on the seat. 'I forgot to ask, how is that wain of yours? I hear you two were going to the fruit farm before she left. Little soft in the head as well, is she?'
I couldn't hold it any longer: my body started to tremble.
He grinned, having got from me at last what he'd been gunning for all trip.
'Maybe if you fuck up it'd be a good thing for the wee one you know, we'd be doing her a favour.'
He was enjoying every moment of this. I tried to remain calm, but it wasn't working. He could see me boiling underneath.
'Hurts, eh?'
I did my best not to react.
'So, boy, just fuck off out of my face, and get it right this time.'
Fuck it.
I launched myself forward off my knees and gripped his head with both hands. In one movement I put my head down and pulled his face hard towards the top of my crown. I made contact and it hurt, making me dizzy.
Once outside I threw both my arms up in surrender.
'It's OK, it's OK...'
I opened my eyes fully and looked in at Sundance. He was sunk into the seat, hands covering his nose, blood running between his fingers. I started towards the Crab, feeling a lot better as another bunch of Highlanders walked past, trying not to take too much notice of what was going on.
Trainers looked as if he was trying to decide whether to drop me or not. He still hadn't made up his mind as I virtually pushed the frightened Crab into the building with me.
Fuck 'em, what did I have to lose?
NINE
Tuesday 5 September I ease the pistol into my waistband, my wet palms sliding over the pistol grip.
