Burning Angels

13

The spring rain felt soft and chill on Jaeger’s exposed skin. A damp, grey caress, one that suited his state of mind perfectly.

He stood in some pine woods set well back from the playing field, his dark biking trousers and Belstaff jacket merging with the dripping, dank wetness of the scene.

A cry echoed across to him. ‘Back him up! Go with him, Alex! Back him up!’

It was the voice of a parent, one that Jaeger didn’t recognise. The guy must be new to the school, but as Jaeger had been absent a good three years, most of the faces seemed unfamiliar to him now.

As his face must be to them.

An awkward, distant figure half hidden amongst the trees, watching a schoolboy rugby match in which he seemingly had no interest; no child to cheer for.

A worrying stranger. Gaunt-faced. Reserved. Troubled.

It was a wonder no one had called the police on him.

Jaeger raised his eyes to the clouds. Low-lying, glowering; scudding with a swiftness that mocked the tiny but determined figures making a push for the try line, as their proud fathers yelled encouragement, scenting a hard-fought victory.

Jaeger wondered why he’d come.

He guessed he’d wanted to remember, before the next chapter of the mission opened – meeting Narov’s people, whoever they might be. He’d come here – to these rain-lashed playing fields – as it was the last place he had seen his son happy and free, before the darkness took him. Took them.

He’d come here to try to recapture some of that – some of that pure, glittering, priceless magic.

His eyes roamed around the scene, coming to rest upon the squat but imposing form of Sherborne Abbey. For well over thirteen centuries the Saxon cathedral and then Benedictine abbey had stood sentinel over this historic town, and the school where his son had been nurtured and thrived.

All that fine education and tradition crystallised here, so potently, on the rugby field.

‘KA MATE? KA MATE? KA ORA? KA ORA?’ Will I die? Will I die? Will I live? Will I live? Jaeger could hear the words even now, echoing across the pitch and reverberating through his memories. That iconic chant.

Together with Raff, Jaeger had been a stalwart in the SAS rugby team, as they’d pounded rival units half to death. Raff had always led the Haka – the traditional pre-match Maori war dance – the rest of the team flanking him, fearless and unstoppable. There were more than a few Maoris in the SAS, so it had seemed peculiarly appropriate.

Childless and not the marrying type, Raff had more or less adopted Luke as his surrogate son. He had come to be a regular visitor at the school, and an honorary coach to the rugby team. Officially, the school hadn’t permitted them to do the Haka before matches. But unofficially the other coaches had turned a blind eye – especially when it had set the boys on a winning streak.

And that was how an ancient Maori war chant had come to echo across Sherborne’s hallowed fields.

‘KA MATE! KA MATE! KA ORA! KA ORA!’

Jaeger eyed the match. The opposing team were rucking the Sherborne boys back again. No try. Jaeger doubted the Haka was still an opener to their matches, with him and Raff being absent now for three long years.

He was about to turn and leave, making for the Triumph parked discreetly beneath the trees, when he felt a presence at his side. He glanced round.

‘Jesus, William. I thought it must be you. But what…? Hell. It’s been a long time.’ The figure thrust out a hand. ‘How the devil are you?’

Jaeger would have recognised the guy anywhere. Overweight, snaggle-toothed, with somewhat bulging eyes and greying hair held back in a ponytail, Jules Holland was better known to all as the Ratcatcher. Or the Rat for short.

The two men shook hands. ‘I’ve been… Well, I’ve been… alive.’

Holland grimaced. ‘Doesn’t sound too hot.’ A pause. ‘You just kind of disappeared. There was that Christmas rugby sevens tournament: you, Luke and Ruth a big presence at the school. By the New Year – gone. Not a word.’

His tone was bordering on hurt. Jaeger could understand why. To some they were the most unlikely of friends, but over time Jaeger had warmed to the Rat’s unconventional, maverick ways, plus his complete lack of pretentiousness.

With the Rat, what you saw was what you got – always.

That Christmas had been one of the few occasions on which Jaeger had got Ruth to really buy in to the rugby thing. Prior to that, she’d been loath to watch matches, for she couldn’t bear to see Luke getting ‘so beaten up’, as she put it.

Jaeger understood, but even at eight years of age Luke had been obsessed by the game. Blessed with natural protective instincts and a fierce loyalty, he’d proven a stalwart in defence. A rock. A lion.

His tackling was fearsome, and few were the opposition players who managed to get past him. And in spite of his mother’s worries, he wore his bruises and cuts as badges of honour. He seemed to have a natural appreciation of the saying – ‘What doesn’t break you makes you stronger’.

That Christmas’s sport – Rugby Sevens; seven-a-side – tended to be more fast-flowing and less bogged down by the brutal attrition of the regular game. Jaeger had lured Ruth to that first sevens match, and once she had seen her son running like the wind and scoring a fine try, she’d been hooked.

From then on she and Jaeger had stood arm in arm on the sidelines, screaming out their support for Luke and his team. It had been one of those precious moments when Jaeger had felt the simple joy of being a family.

He had videoed one of the toughest matches, so they could play the tape to the boys and analyse how best to improve their game. Lessons learned. But now, those were some of the last images he had of his missing son.

And he had replayed those scenes over and over during the three dark years since losing him.