Red Notice

21

Tom pressed the red button and headed for the sergeants’ mess. The bar was packed. He pushed his way through and bought himself and Gavin a beer, then walked through to the next room. A giant pink and blue inflatable bouncy castle was set up in the middle of the floor, the kind normally used for kids’ parties. A crowd of men had already gathered around it, claiming the best vantage-points, and there were cheers and a few jeers as Tom came in.

The draw for who fought whom had been made four days ago. There were two general teams: the officers’ mess versus the sergeants’ mess. Anyone could put their name down, and if there weren’t enough takers the CO and the RSM would nominate volunteers. They had the right to choose because they also had to fight, along with each of the four Sabre Squadron commanders. Their job was to lead from the front.

Fight Nights were more than a social event: they were an important part of producing good soldiers. Of course the men had to be aggressive, and all of them were or they wouldn’t have passed Selection. But there was more to it than that. They were bonding exercises between the two management groups of the Regiment.

The officers would normally serve a three-year tour before returning to their parent unit and might go back for one more tour. The continuity of the Regiment lay with the sergeants and warrant officers. As with any infantry battalion, they held the experience of the unit.

Many things happened in an army that civilians like Delphine could not understand. On the face of it, Fight Nights looked dangerous or stupid and immature, but they had evolved over many years and always had a rationale. They built respect through shared physical pain and endurance. Maybe that was why Tom always put himself up for it, or maybe he just liked to fight. Maybe it was both. He could never work it out, but that didn’t matter. The only thing that did was that he was stepping up to the plate, not letting anyone down, including himself. Even if, tonight, he was going into the ring to lose.

Almost every man had a stack of cans of beer near at hand, and the air was already heavy with alcohol fumes. A warrant officer was sitting at the table on the far side of the room, in front of a whiteboard with a marker dangling from it on a piece of string. Tom and Ashton, his squadron commander, were up first.

‘Wouldn’t have it any other way, Lenny,’ Tom said, slapping his money on the table.

Bryce was right behind him. 'I won’t be going home empty-handed.’ He pulled his T-shirt over his head, flexed his pecs and pointed to the names of his six kids tattooed on his chest. ‘My babies need new shoes.’

‘You’d be better off spending your winnings on getting the snip, mate, and doing humanity a favour.’ Keenan wasn’t fighting. He never did, not wanting to lose his beach-bum good looks. ‘And just think of the money you’d save on nappies.’

‘And tattoos,’ Jockey said, as he strolled over to join them.

Bryce was still shuddering at the thought of a vasectomy and had covered his groin with his hands. ‘I’ll never have the snip,’ he said. ‘Even if we have sixty kids. Every sperm is sacred to me — and the missus. And I don’t mind admitting that there’s one thing that scares me shitless. I tell you now, I’d rather play Russian roulette with a revolver with no empty chambers than let someone loose on my balls with a scalpel.’

‘Haven’t you heard, Bryce?’ Keenan opened his arms wide and slapped his hands together. ‘They do it with two bricks these days.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Bryce had heard it all before. ‘I know. Does it hurt? Only if you get your thumbs trapped. Jesus, Keenan, I know Cornwall’s fucking backward, but you’d think there’d be a few jokes going around there that were less than a hundred years old.’ He glanced over to the doorway and broke into a broad smile. ‘Look out, it’s show time. Here come the Ruperts.’

Led by Ashton, a group of officers walked in as the soundtrack from Rocky burst out of the wall speakers. The guests were greeted by a rousing chorus of boos. The NCOs pelted them with empty beer cans, but Ashton and the others ducked and dodged them as they headed for the bouncy castle. Last year Fight Night had been held in the officers’ mess and their guests had had a similar reception. No one knew why it happened; it just always did.

The RSM jumped onto a chair. ‘Gentlemen!’

The Rocky fanfare died and everyone shut up, as you did when the RSM wanted you to, no matter who you were.

‘Before anything else, I want to give you a sit-rep on Davy. He’s stable. He’s lost some muscle mass on his left thigh, but he should be back with B Squadron by the end of the tour.’

There was a load roar of approval and applause. The RSM let it run for a few seconds more. ‘OK, listen in! We welcome the officers’ mess for the evening and we welcome the chance once more to kick their arse!’

There were cheers and boos from the two groups before the RSM quietened them again. ‘Remember, five minutes of hard, aggressive fighting but nothing between the legs or in the eyes. And no biting. Apart from that, the first man down and can’t get up loses — or the first man to go down three times. Winners can elect to continue fighting the next fight if they wish. It means double points for their team. Who’s first?’ He turned to check the board. ‘OK, Buckingham and Mr Ashton.’

Rocky kicked out from the speakers once more as Ashton headed for the castle, punching his gloves together like a pro. They were boxing-bag gloves, compact and hard. Until a few years ago they’d used martial arts gloves, but exposed fingers meant the fighters could grab each other. This wasn’t as much fun to watch as punching, and the fights were over much quicker.

Ashton bounced into the castle arms to the roar of the officers’ team.

Tom grinned. ‘You won’t catch me napping this time.’

Gavin slapped Tom on the back as he stepped towards the fight. ‘Mate, get in there and get among it, but keep a bit back for a few more scraps later on. I’ve just bet Jockey a thousand quid you’ll last at least five fights.’

Tom stopped in his tracks, drawing instant jeers from the officers. ‘Giving up already?’

‘You’re joking, aren’t you, Gav?’

‘No, mate, deadly serious. Why not? Last year you saw off four before getting dropped. It’s the easiest money I’ll ever make.’

Jockey looked him over like a farmer at an auction mart assessing a steer. ‘Hope you’re not going to let yourself down, Posh Lad,’ he said. ‘You’re not looking in such good shape. I’d say you’ve put on a few pounds.’

‘Trouble is, Jockey,’ Tom said, ‘every time I shag your girlfriend, she gives me a biscuit.’

‘Very funny, Posh Lad.’ Jockey liked that one and looked forward to using it on someone else. ‘Let’s just see if you’re still laughing after I’ve punched your lights out later on.’ He started a headbanger’s version of ‘The Eton Boating Song’ as Tom strode towards the bouncy castle to the cheers of the sergeants’ mess. Jockey’s shouts joined the barrage of support and advice.

‘Sort out the fucking Rupert, Tom.’

‘Deck the dickhead.’

'Make sure the only way he’ll be able to clean his teeth is by sticking a toothbrush up his arse.’

Tom stepped onto the bouncy castle and faced Ashton, all business.

Ashton put on his most confident smile for his supporters, then turned back to face Tom and gave him his best stab at a thousand-yard stare. ‘This year is going to be my year!’ The officers roared their support.

Tom was barely aware that Ashton had spoken at all. Every ounce of him was focused on what he was about to do. He saw a bead of sweat trickle down Ashton’s nose and a vein pulsing at his temple. By contrast, Tom’s pulse was barely above normal and his breathing slow. His mind was clear of all distracting thoughts. All he felt was a cold, calculated, almost clinical desire to get on with the job. Ashton did not exist for him as an individual, merely as an opponent to be destroyed as quickly and ruthlessly as possible. Afterwards they would have a beer and talk about any rubbish that came into their heads.

The camp’s Grenadian physical training instructor was the ref. He was suffering from advanced alopecia, and the clumps of tight curly hair he had left looked like the island group he came from. That was what he said, anyway. The PTI got them to touch gloves. Then they were fighting. Within the blink of an eye, while Ashton was still going into his fighting stance, Tom had leaped in, landed a heavy punch on the Boss’s face, and followed it with three more, his fists beating a quick-fire tattoo.

People like Tom had the ability to keep totally in control and still think clearly when the adrenalin was pumping. It had nothing to do with bravery. It had to do with being in control of his heartbeat when it would be natural to flap big-time, and that only came from long hours of training.

Stress actually improved Tom’s performance. It always had. Even at Eton, Tom had stood out on the rugby pitch when the pressure was on. Most people’s heart rate rose with their adrenalin level — all good stuff when you needed flight-or-fight to get you out of trouble. However, there was an optimal state of arousal — when a heart rate was between 115 and 145 beats per minute. Anything above that and the body stopped being able to control what it was doing because the brain started to shut down.

Most people then became as enraged as an angry dog — which was why some wet and soiled themselves in a firefight. Their heartbeat was so fast — 175 or above — that the brain told itself that control of the bowels and bladder was no longer an essential activity: it had bigger problems. It needed to protect the body it was in so had to keep focused on the challenge. It made all its muscles go as hard as armour to limit bleeding if its body was zapped. But all that effort, which took less than a second to cut in, made it even more clumsy, stupid and helpless in a fight.

That was why people found it hard to call 999 with their heart rate at warp speed and their co-ordination in decline. The brain forgot the number, or the eyes couldn’t see the digits on the phone, or the finger didn’t connect before its owner was screaming into the mouthpiece and flapping even more when no one answered.

With barely a pause, he followed the action with two hooks to Ashton’s body, then a savage uppercut.

There was a roar from the crowd as Ashton caught air, toppled backwards, bounced off the wall of the bouncy castle and rebounded once more onto the castle’s rubber floor.

Tom ignored the noise from around the ring, still all business, his eyes fixed on his opponent as he stumbled to his feet. Ashton might have gone down once, but he had to go down twice more or be knocked out before his fight was over. Tom used Ashton’s momentum against him, bluffing to throw a punch, then swaying to one side, like a matador, as Ashton rushed him, and swivelling to land four quick punches into his kidneys.

As Ashton swung round to face him again, Tom let go one final, brutal punch, delivered with all the force he could put behind it. It smashed into Ashton’s nose, crunching bone and gristle, and sending a spray of blood and sweat arcing upwards. Tom turned his back and headed for the castle sides to rest, knowing that Ashton would not be getting up any time soon.

A roar from the crowd exploded in his ears. He was back in the real world.

Gavin shouted Tom’s name and rubbed his thumb and fingers together in the ‘money’ gesture.

It took him no more than twenty seconds and a swift flurry of punches, to dispose of the next officer, a young captain, who had only been in the Regiment for a few weeks and was so fresh-faced he looked like he still had down on his cheeks — but Tom knew the competition would be much tougher as the evening wore on and he began to come up against the LEs. They liked to fight as much as Tom did.