Red Notice

19

Tom and Gavin had just turned off the M4 at Swindon. It would be another hour and a half before they got back to Hereford.

Gavin sighed, fidgeted some more, then took his feet down from the dash. ‘Mate, do me a fucking favour. Let me bung some proper music on for a change. That racket’s doin’ me head in.’ He reached across to switch the radio to a rock station.

‘Racket?’ Tom shook his head in mock disbelief. ‘That’s Lang Lang playing Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. I thought it was your favourite.’

‘Never heard of them. Any relation to the Ting Tings?’ Gavin gave a sly smile. ‘I’m guessing they’re French. You have romantic evenings by the fire listening to them, yeah?’

Tom grinned. ‘Where do I begin? You’re about a third to a half right, which is probably about as good as it ever gets with you, isn’t it? Stravinsky was a Russian, though he did live in France for a long time, and Lang Lang is Chinese.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yah, yah, yada fucking yada. Whoever they fucking are, and wherever they fucking come from, it all sounds the fucking same to me.’

‘Gav, you’d give Philistines a bad name, you would. I even bought you the CD last year, remember?’

‘Yeah, I know, and thank you. It makes a great beer mat. Barry White’s all you need to knock the birds bandy.’

Tom reached across and switched the radio back to Stravinsky. ‘Get used to it, mate. My roof, my rules. You’re living with me now. And if you ever manage to find someone stupid enough to marry you again, I intend to make sure they’ll be getting a cultured man.’ He shot him a sideways glance. ‘Trust me, she’ll love you for it. Now relax, listen and learn.’

Tom leaned back in his seat, tapping out the rhythm on the steering-wheel. After another loud sigh, Gavin reclined his seat as far as it would go, closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep.

They eventually rolled into the Lines, just outside Hereford, and the Blue team’s hangar. The new Lines, an old RAF camp, had been officially opened in 2000 after the Regiment had moved from Stirling Lines on the edge of the city. The old Lines had looked more like a 1980s red-brick university and hadn’t had the room needed for an ever-growing Special Forces contingent, or been able to accommodate larger aircraft like Chinooks. When the RAF had abandoned the base, it was a no-brainer.

‘Why the Lines?’ Delphine had asked him.

The term had been used in the British Army for hundreds of years, Tom had explained, and referred to the tent lines that solders inhabited in the field. ‘The rows of tents had to be in perfect alignment — even the guy ropes and pegs had to be just so.’

Now Gavin sat up, yawned and stretched, then jumped out. ‘We’d better motor,’ he said. ‘It’s five o’clock already and we’ve got a big night ahead of us.’

‘Always the optimist, aren’t you?’ Tom pulled his ready-bag out of the back of the wagon. ‘I’m the one with the big night ahead. The most you’ve got to look forward to is a couple of pints with the lads, then falling asleep on the sofa watching Hollyoaks on catch-up.’

‘Mate, you’re wrong there.’ Gavin shouldered his own ready-bag and headed for the door. ‘In fact, I intend to have a very big night with all the money I’ll be collecting later.’