Civvies

CHAPTER 9

It was a dream. Taffy wasn't fooled, he knew that full well, because it was always the same dream. But he was still trapped in it, and there was no escape. Always the same crushing pressure on his chest. Smell of burning flesh, possibly his own. Screams of agony mimicking the distant wail of sirens. The taste of blood, like salty glue, in his mouth (he recognised the taste). Thick black smoke swirling up past a flickering fluorescent tube dangling from its bracket. And the dream had a musical soundtrack too, thud-thud-thudding in his head, keeping time with the pulse throbbing in his temples.

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

I've changed my mind

This world is fine -

Goodness Gracious! Great Balls of…

The song always ended right there, Jerry Lee cut off in his prime, old Frank's all-time favourite rock classic. Funny how it still went on in his head, the lyric completing itself, even when all he could actually hear were screams and moans and choking and sobbing.

Taffy pushed, straining to shift the massive beam pinning him to the floor. What didn't make it any easier, the frigging thing was alight, pretty blue and yellow flames dancing along it, scorching his eyeballs and searing the skin off his palms.

He was aware of a body close by – a girl's – the beam across her legs, a dark ugly stain seeping through the bright green of her skirt. Taffy gritted his teeth and heaved with all his might. It was moving, definitely. He'd got the bastard! Another shove and they'd be free. The girl screamed as the weight lifted off her. Taffy wanted to tell her it was okay, he'd soon have her out, but he didn't have an ounce of breath to spare… holding the bastard at arm's stretch now, gathering himself for one final push, the muscles in his shoulders nearly tearing themselves loose as he tried to fling it aside.

Something cracked, splintered up above. Taffy stared and through the smoke he saw the rest of the ceiling, sheets of flame racing across it – Holy Shit! – start to give way. Taffy shut his eyes and began to pray. He covered his ears as the crackling roar suddenly welled up, angry and deafening, and the ceiling fell in.

Instinctively, Taffy twisted away, bringing his knees up defensively, and rolled off the bed, ending up in a foetal crouch on the strip of thin carpet under the window. He opened his eyes, blinking warm sweat away, and gazed with trembling relief at the bubbled pink paintwork of the skirting-board, six inches from his nose: his arms, his shoulders, his entire back, aching from the strain of wrestling with that eternal bloody burning beam.

Daylight poured in. What time was it? Morning, afternoon, he hadn't a clue. Only eight pints of Murphy's stout last night, no reason to sleep past ten. He unwound and pushed himself up, feeling through the floorboards a steady throbbing vibration, coming from the bass beat of the stereo next door. Night and day it went on. Day and bloody night. In warm weather it blasted through the open windows, Queen, Phil Collins, Dire fucking Straits, and the lad's so-called music was even worse – a jangled thrashing of tuneless noise like a dozen panel-beaters on piece-time, polluting a quarter-mile radius of the council estate with its mindless racket.

And as if all that wasn't more than flesh and blood could stand, the seventeen-year-old son – dyed black dreadlocks, rings through his nose, ripped jeans, knee-high lace-up boots – was also a drummer in a punk band. Three, four times a week he had his mates round in the back bedroom, smashing hell out of their instruments and loosening the foundations. To Taffy, the singer sounded like he was having his back teeth pulled.

He looked up from buttoning his shirt at Mary's voice, down in the hallway, and listened, frowning. Not arguing exactly, more like pleading. Then an answering man's voice, laying down the law in a flat, nasal drone. One of the kids started crying, and this set off the toddler. What the hell was going on?

Taffy strode out onto the landing, brushing strands of greying hair from his forehead. Two men in brown coats were coming out of the front room, humping the big 16-inch television set between them, while another bloke in a suit and dingy white shirt with curling collar points was waving a sheaf of documents in Mary's face. Taffy caught something about 'Poll Tax' and 'default' and 'reclaim' and he didn't need to hear any more.

Bastard bailiffs!

In stockinged feet Taffy vaulted down the stairs in three leaps, grabbed a bunch of shiny lapel in his meaty fist, fumbling with the front door Yale lock. 'I'll give you bastards two minutes to get out of this house!' Yelling in the man's face, flecking him with saliva.

'Taffy, don't -' Mary clawed at his arm, her chin quivering, brown eyes large and moist, swallowing back the tears. She dragged him off. 'It'll do no good… just get back up the stairs. We can't stop them.'

The big Welshman stood there, panting with rage, wiry grey chest hair exposed through his half-buttoned shirt front. He jerked his thumb towards the kitchen. 'They take the fridge, what'll you do with the food?' he demanded.

Mary shook her head helplessly, biting her lip. The men in brown were edging towards the front door, hands locked under the TV set.

'Put – that – down!' Taffy pointed to the kitchen doorway where his two eldest were clinging to the door jamb, bawling their heads off, the toddler shrieking in the background. 'We've got an eighteen-month-old kid in there…'

Trying to make him listen for once, to get some sense into that bone-solid head of his, Mary gave it to him straight: 'It's either this or they'll evict us – just stop it!'

Taffy immediately stepped back, raising his hands. Fine, okay with me, go right ahead. As the men got to the front door Taffy bent down and yanked the carpet, bellowing out his defiance, taking their legs away and sending all three of them colliding into each other, the TV set doing a wobbly as they very nearly dropped it. 'I'm helping them, woman,' Taffy explained reasonably, coming forward with a strange smile on his face. 'I'm not gonna hurt anyone.' Mary cringed, hating the blank expression that gave away nothing. It was as if his face was a mask – only his eyes were alive, and very very dangerous.

The two men in brown got the door open and got out, having gently deposited the TV set at the bottom of the stairs. Taffy helped the man in the suit on his way with a shove in the back and a boot up the jacksi, and slammed the door on the whole mangy pack of them.

'You don't say a word unless you have to. I'll do the talking, just nod your head, right?'

Steve nodded and said, 'Right.' Or that's what Dillon thought he said. Sometimes he could understand Steve plain as day, other times it was a mangled croak, like a bullfrog with an attack of hiccups.

The radio had said cloudy with the possibility of showers, but there was blue sky and a faint breeze, not cold, almost a touch of spring in the air. They came down the concrete stairway from Dillon's flat, brisk and purposeful, wearing identical grey suits (bought off adjacent pegs), slim black ties, and rubber-soled black shoes. Freshly shaved, hair trimmed and groomed, the pair of them moved with a lightness of step and casual agility that only came with a regime of hard punishing exercise, coupled with the discipline to maintain the body as an efficient fighting machine, because in their profession if you weren't superbly fit, you were dead. Most civilians were slobs; ten minutes on Heartbreak Hill at The Depot in Aldershot would give them cardiac arrest.

'Frank… Frank!'

Dillon looked up to see Susie's tousled head poking over the third-floor parapet. 'What?'

'Somebody called Taffy – said it's very important.'

'What?'

'On the telephone!'

'Tell him to call tonight,' Dillon shouted, striding off with Steve across the paved courtyard, not bothering to look back.

As they came round the corner into the street, Dillon nodded towards a royal-blue Mercedes idling at the kerb, a young black guy at the wheel. Done out in a chauffeur's garb of neat dark jacket, crisp white shirt and black tie, he exuded the same hard, clean energy as the other two, giving Dillon a broad cheery grin.

'He was only on transport,' Dillon told Steve in a muttered aside as they came up, 'but he's a good lad.'

They climbed in the back, Dillon doing the introductions. 'Cliff Morgan, Steve Harris…' Cliff stuck his hand out, but Steve seemed too busy settling himself on the contoured, brushed upholstery, taking in the walnut trim, the plush fixtures and fittings.

'Appreciate this, Cliff,' said Dillon, slapping his shoulder. 'We owe you one!'

Cliff gave a quick nod, shifted into Drive, and off they shot.

Avoiding the gridlock of Oxford Street, Cliff cut across Tottenham Court Road and jinked up the backstreets to Portland Street, the Merc surging smoothly into Regent's Park Crescent, the classical, elegant facade of white and pale cream stonework bathed in gentle sunshine. To Dillon, this part of town had the alien reek of wealth and power; he felt like a non-swimmer whose feet couldn't quite touch bottom, and a knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach, making it hard to catch his breath. Embassies and trade missions – diplomats and bureaucrats – the nameless, faceless power-brokers of the globe inhabiting a rarefied stratosphere he knew nothing of and could barely imagine. Of course, blokes like him and Steve weren't meant to – that was the whole point. That was how these high-flying wankers kept their closed shop nice and cosy and exclusive.

Blokes like him and Steve were just expected to sort it all out when they'd made a balls of it. Shovel up the shit after it had hit the fan. It seemed to Dillon he'd been doing that all his life.

From the glove compartment Cliff took a glossy laminated folder, fancily embossed with the name Samson Security Company, and handed it to Dillon. Cliff seemed a bit on edge himself, Dillon thought, even though it was their picnic.

'Here – just do exactly as I've told you,' Cliff said, eyes steady and serious. 'You got all the legit stuff here, but any letters you got from HQ, show 'em.' Dillon patted his jacket to show he'd remembered to bring them. 'They particularly asked for guys with terrorist training – your Army records should clinch it.'

'Oh yeah?' drawled Steve sarcastically. 'Yours ga-get you – this – did it…'

'Shut it!' Dillon snapped from the side of his mouth.

'What did he say?' asked Cliff.

Dillon opened the door. 'Nothing, and look, thanks mate.'

'Don't foul up on me Frank, this is a good firm, a good job, I don't want to lose it.'

Dillon winked. He didn't intend to blow this one, with or without Steve's help. He shoved Steve out ahead of him and warned him to keep his mouth shut, but Steve brushed his hand aside.

'He ga – a ugh-pratt, only-Ever g-hone transport.'

Dillon straightened his tie, giving a warning look to Steve, who, for all his problems seemed incredibly relaxed. His hair was washed and combed, he had shaved and was wearing a clean shirt that Susie had pressed for him and one of his suits from when he had been in the money. He looked more like the old Steve, handsome, his green eyes clear, and standing a good three inches taller than Dillon. Steve was back. This was the first time Frank realised how far he had come in so short a time.

'G-after'gu – Mate', Steve smiled, giving a mock bow, but he did follow Dillon, nervously touching his throat, aware that the tie was irritating his skin. He hated wearing collars, they restricted him, made him fearful he would not be able to get to his tube fast enough if he had an emergency… but then he knew Dillon was there, that made him feel safe. As if in confirmation he tapped Dillon's shoulder, and winked… 'We'll G-it gub job, – no problem.'

Dillon shrugged Steve's hand away. Bloody Steve was his problem and he knew it, even doubted if getting him back on his feet was all that good a thing as he was now bound to help him even further. It was like the blind leading the blind.

The house was a fortress. After the battery of security cameras covering the portico entrance, the white-barred windows of double-paned, shatter-resistant glass, the steel-lined bombproof front door, Dillon was expecting at least an X-ray scan and body frisk. But the letter of accreditation did the trick, that and their neat, respectable appearance – amazing what you could get away with wearing a suit and tie, Dillon always thought. Stroll into Buckingham Palace, have tea with the Queen, maybe even get to sit on her bed.

They were conducted across the marble-floored hallway, large black and white squares like a giant chessboard, and along a carpeted corridor into an ante-room with dark red walls and a gleaming parquet floor, and told to sit and wait on ornate gilt chairs outside a pair of huge double doors with curved handles in the shape of scimitars. They looked to be made of solid gold, and it wouldn't have surprised Dillon to learn that they were. A crystal chandelier tinkled faintly from some non-existent breeze.

Given the choice, Dillon would have opted for a ten-mile tab in Advanced Wales with full pack rather than endure this. He was glad he'd showered that morning and put on fresh underclothes, he didn't want to sully the opulent atmosphere.

'You okay?' Dillon asked in a whisper after Steve had cleared his throat six times in as many seconds. Steve nodded glumly, staring at the polished floor, wrapped in his own thoughts. He had to wear his tie loose and shirt collar undone, a strip of gauze and adhesive tape just visible below his Adam's apple.

Dillon started as one of the double doors silently opened and a slender dark-skinned man with oiled black hair and gold-rimmed spectacles glided into view. He wore an immaculate silk suit that changed colour as he moved, hand-stitched shirt and grey silk tie, the dull gleam of gold on his wrist, fingers and from the fob chain looped into the pocket of his embroidered waistcoat.

Salah Al-Gharib crooked his finger. Dillon wet his lips and obeyed, Steve trailing a couple of feet behind.

It was like being summoned into the sultan's palace. The large room had white-panelled walls edged with gold, a Persian carpet floating on the polished floor. Over by the window overlooking a walled garden, a six-seater sofa and three deep armchairs in white leather were grouped around a low table of beaten copper and mosaic tiles. Above the marble fireplace, a mirror with scrolled edges, and in front of this a huge desk, made to seem even bigger because all it contained were four telephones, each a different colour, and a leather blotter without a mark or blemish on it.

Behind it, reclining in a winged leather chair, Raoul Al-Mohammed gazed into the remote distance with heavy-lidded eyes, dark folds of skin beneath resting on swarthy bloated cheeks. Never once did he look at Dillon and Steve, nor acknowledge they were even breathing the same air. In their grey suits they were no more substantial than vague grey blurs, so it didn't matter that they shuffled uneasily like two schoolboy miscreants summoned to the headmaster's study, awaiting the clap of doom.

Raoul Al-Mohammed twitched a finger, and Salah Al-Gharib, his principal secretary, ghosted forward and placed Dillon's folder in front of him. He flipped it open, laced his dark-haired fingers across his stomach, and with heavy, sombre eyes began to read.

Dillon sneaked a glance at Steve. But Steve was still in some faraway place, not of this world at all.

Ignoring a black cab's furiously tooting horn and its driver's mouthed obscenities, Cliff pulled out into the swirl of traffic and headed north round the Crescent towards Marylebone Road. In the back, Dillon was chortling and jumping about with almost childish glee, as if he was the birthday boy who'd just been given the present he'd always wanted; even Steve seemed a mite excited, cheeks flushed, some of the old devilry dancing in his eyes.

'He closed the folder, looked over my letters, never said a word. He just gave a nod to the other geezer and walked out of the room!'

Cliff looked at Dillon through the rearview mirror. 'He's a real bastard. Used the firm six times in the last two years.' His lip curled. 'Fired two or our guys because one of 'em was caught smoking. But take his crap and you could see two grand minimum in the hand on top of your fee…'

'How you gonna handle it,' Dillon was concerned to know, leaning over the front passenger seat, 'when they pay the company?'

'Taken care of.' Cliff flashed his confident smile. 'I'm having a fling with the secretary, she'll lift it before it gets to accounts.'

'SaiD he WanTs uS – rouNd tHe clOCk – onE dRiviNg – oNe -'

'What did he say?' Cliff interrupted, frowning.

Dillon interpreted, 'We're to be on call twenty-four hours, one driving, one baby-sitting. Two weeks definite, could be longer. Start Monday.'

Cliff gunned the car to beat the lights and spun right into Baker Street at the Planetarium, broad black hands caressing the wheel, steering with his fingertips. He laughed aloud, shaking his head. 'You lucky so-and-so's… you just got yourselves a class A earner!'

CHAPTER 10

Bugger this for a game of soldiers, Dillon was thinking. He looked down at his new pair of shoes, up to the welts in mud, and then glared round at the heaped-up wrecks, rusty engines, crazed windscreens, leaking sumps, the assembled detritus of a thousand crashes stacked under the viaduct that carried the lines south-west from Waterloo. Leave it to me, Steve had said. Famous last fucking words. Might as well leave brain surgery to Stevie Wonder.

Dillon could see Steve through the window of the lean-to shack that passed as an office – at least see as much of him as the cracked, filthy panes and cardboard covering the gaps allowed. Patience worn to a brittle point, Dillon was about to storm in when Steve emerged with a mechanic in overalls sagging with grease and engine-oil. The mechanic, sixty if he was a day, was thumbing through a dog-eared ledger, pausing now and then to wipe his nose with the back of his hand.

Dillon unfolded his arms. 'Where's the car, Steve?'

The mechanic said, 'Hopefully picking up the bride – it's not due back until four.' He looked up from the ledger, eyes bloodshot in the corners. 'How many days did you want it for, Steve?'

Dillon's nostrils were white and pinched. He burst out angrily, 'What is this…?'

'The only day it's needed is the Wednesday of the first week,' the mechanic went on, 'there's a big funeral from twelve till -'

'Forget it.' Dillon made a sweeping gesture with the flat of his hand and turned away, yanking his shoes from the mire. He took one look back at Steve. 'Stay away from me, okay?' And really meant it.

'Arms dealers, that's what they are – and the prat gets a weddin' Roller lined up!'

Dillon stood at the press-ups bench, his hands underneath but not touching the bar Jimmy was hefting, acting as safety back-up as the big lad did ten reps with forty kilos. Face contorted, lower lip between his teeth, Jimmy strained with the last one, got it full stretch, and Dillon eased it onto the dead-weight brackets.

'You know he's a liability…' Jimmy panted, taking in deep breaths. He relaxed, broad muscular chest beaded with sweat, the veins standing out over the bulge of his biceps. He not only looked good, he had all the gear to show it off: black cutaway singlet, dark-grey exercise shorts with purple stripes and high vents at the sides, Reeboks that must have set him back a hundred and forty pounds. 'Don't know why you waste your time with him.' Upside-down to Dillon, his forehead wrinkled as he looked into Dillon's eyes. 'You wanna see if I can line something up?'

'Not with that crook Newman. Why do you keep trying, Jimmy? I don't wanna know.' Dillon wasn't angry, just a bit pissed-off. He slid another two ten kilos onto the bar, snapped the locks shut. He sighed. 'If this had worked out, Cliff could have farmed out more work on the QT…'

Jimmy snorted derisively. 'I heard Sambo Morgan was still doin' transport – just switched his uniform. He's another prat!' He jerked his thumb, indicating the bar. 'I'll need a hand with these, just do three to five reps. I don't understand you, Frank. At The Depot you wouldn't give Cliff the time of day, now… Uggghhhhhh shit!' His arms tautened, muscles solid and bulging as he took the strain. 'Okay, I'm set.'

'Right now I need any break I can get,' Dillon said grimly.

'What do you come out with – uhhhh! - at the end of the day?'

'Fair whack – course, we got to hire the uniforms.' Dillon's cupped hands followed the rising and sinking bar. He said, 'Don't strain, mind your back… easy now…'

The three character traits most highly valued – and actively encouraged – by the Parachute Regiment were aggression, aggression, and aggression. Not only directed at the enemy, but internalised too, to make a man overcome his natural inclinations of fear and self-preservation when standing at the door of a Herc, hooked up to the static line, Red on, Green on – go, go, go! You didn't just fall out of the aircraft (that way the slipstream would whirl you round and you'd end up with a faceful of rivets), you had to punch yourself into the air in order to get clear. Dillon had seen a seasoned Para freeze at that moment, and it took three despatchers to heave him out, bashing his arm to make him let go of the strop. Focused, controlled aggression, that's what was required.

And that's how Jimmy went at it now, grunting and scowling each time he pushed the bar to arm's length as if he bore the sixty kilos a personal grudge. Possessing a good physique, strong bone structure, and being in peak condition did the rest.

'We'll have to shell out a few readies to Cliff for puttin' us on it,' Dillon grunted, settling the bar on the brackets.

Jimmy sat up, towelling his neck and shoulders. 'But you need a motor, right?' he said. 'I'll see what I can do.'

'No kiddin'?' Dillon's face lit up.

Jimmy put his arm round Dillon's shoulders, gave him a fat smile. 'Let's have a shower first, eh?'

Mary Davies let herself in and dumped the two plastic carrier-bags of shopping next to the hallstand, kneading her fingers to get the circulation going again. She stared with undiluted hatred at the wall at the foot of the stairs.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump -

Behind the pounding bass, the sharper stacatto rattle of a snare drum coming from next door's back bedroom. The punk drummer paused, a moment's blessed respite, and then started over again, practising the same machine-gun attack, paused, repeated it.

'Taffy?' Mary shouted up the stairs. 'Taff?!'

When there was no answer she picked up her shopping and headed for the kitchen, calling, 'Meg, did your Daddy go out? Can you hear me? I'm surprised I can hear myself with that racket! Megan…'

Mary pushed open the door with her backside and stopped dead at the sight of the contents of her fridge stacked on the kitchen table: packets of frozen foods, processed cheese, carton of eggs, fruit juice, a full and a half-empty bottle of milk. And next to the washing machine, a gaping hole where the fridge had been. Mary slowly shook her head, faced screwed tight. The bailiffs had even taken the Wylex plug.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump -

Dillon side-stepped the bikes and went through into the living-room, dropping his carrier-bag just in time to catch Kenny who came hurtling out of the kitchen, scoop him up and swing him onto his shoulders. Little Phil tugged at Dillon's trousers, wanting his turn.

Dillon yelled towards the stairs, 'Steve, you in? Steve?'

Susie was halfway down, carrying the Hoover, dragging the flex after her. She mouthed at him, 'Bedroom,' and gave Dillon a dark look. 'He's drinking,' she said in a low voice, 'came in with it.'

Dillon swung the boy down and went past Susie on the stairs. He paused and looked back at her. 'We got the job.'

'You did? That's marvellous!' Smile breaking, eyes aglow, making her look about eighteen. 'Does that mean he'll be leaving?' Susie whispered, glancing up at the ceiling.

'Soon as we're paid,' said Dillon crisply, and carried on. 'Hey, Steve!'

The phone rang. Susie plugged the Hoover into the hall socket and got up off her knees to answer it.

British Telecom's modernisation programme hadn't reached this part of south Wales. It was a wonder the old-fashioned cast-iron telephone box was even in working order, considering that most of the windows were broken. There was a soggy bag of stale chips in the corner and the distinct whiff of urine, bi-lingual obscenities scrawled in felt-tip on every flat surface. Forehead pressed against the cold glass pane, Taffy Davies stared out at the rain sweeping down from a grey Cardiff sky, words tumbling out of him, just glad there was a familiar, friendly voice at the other end.

'The bastards play music all day, all night,' he mumbled into the phone, 'I can't sleep, the kids wake up, it's driving me nuts…' His voice quaked a little. 'I'm going crazy, Frank. I had to talk to someone – I don't know what to do, man!'

In the hallway, Dillon pressed his palm flat against his ear, struggling to hear the faint, crackling voice above the Hoover, the toilet flushing upstairs, and now the damn kids, playing shunting engines at Clapham Junction.

Dillon whirled round, red in the face.

'Pair of you, out! Get out!' He pointed. 'Susie, shut that off.'

Susie didn't appreciate being barked at as if this was a parade-ground, and nearly didn't, but one look at Dillon's face changed her mind. She stamped it off with her toe and crowded the boys into the kitchen out of harm's way.

'Okay, now listen, Taff…' Dillon spoke slowly and calmly. 'They can't play music all night, it's against the law.' Clicks and buzzes. 'You there… Taffy?' Dillon had to listen hard to the faint, croaking voice, on the line from purgatory. 'And what… they've taken your fridge? Who has?'

Taffy banged his head against the cracked pane, clawing with dirt-rimmed nails at his unshaven cheek. He didn't know he looked a slob, and wouldn't have cared if he had. It had gone beyond that, it was out of control, tears of rage and frustration stinging his eyes. It was pathetic and pitiful, but he just didn't care any more.

'The cops are bloody useless,' he mumbled hoarsely. 'If I go into that house, I'll kill somebody…' He yanked a sliver of glass from the broken pane and squeezed it in his bare hand.

Steve was on the sofa, groggy-eyed, listening to Dillon who was pacing up and down, smacking his fist into his palm.

'And the same bloke – given a medal for riskin' his neck and savin' God knows how many people – is goin' nuts because some bastard won't turn his stereo down. He can't find work. His kids are yellin', and his wife doesn't understand why he can't get a job… What does he expect me to do?' Dillon spread his hands helplessly. Turning, he saw Susie in the hallway, about to continue Hoovering, and pushed the door shut in her face.

All right, stay cool, Susie thought with tremendous forbearance, let it ride, and put her foot out to start the Hoover again. Then she flung the Hoover aside and kicked the living-room door open instead, standing there hands on hips, eyes blazing.

'I am sick to death of having doors shut in my face in my own home! Maybe the reason she can't understand is the same reason I can't understand. What do you think we are, Frank? Mind-readers? How am I to know what triggers off these moods if you won't tell me!'

'What moods?' Dillon snapped at her.

'Oh come on, Frank!' Susie's boiler was stoked up and blowing sparks. 'You breeze in on top of the world because you've got work – next minute, one phone call later, you behave as if I'm your worst enemy.'

Dillon said sullenly, 'Kids were just gettin' on my nerves…'

'It's half-term – instead of taking on responsibility for every soldier that leaves the Army, you should spend more time with your kids -'

'It's not every soldier,' Dillon interrupted. Wearily he turned his back on her, infuriating Susie even more. 'Why don't you play another record, you're getting to sound like your mother.'

Steve got to his feet and weaved towards the door. As he went by her he muttered, 'oNe lAMe – DuCk's enOUgh…'

Susie watched him go and rounded on Dillon. 'What did he say?' she demanded, spots of colour burning her cheeks.

Dillon grabbed her arm and dragged her towards him until his dark, dangerous eyes were two inches from hers.

'You want to have a go at me, do it when he's not around -'

Susie yanked her arm free. 'He bloody lives here?

'You want to talk?' Dillon murmured, raising his eyebrows. 'Well, I'm all ears.' He went past her, kicking the door shut, turned about, folded his arms. 'What do you want to know?'

'Oh stop this, Frank,' Susie pleaded. 'I can't take this!'

'What do you want to know, Susie? Want to know about the job?' Susie flinched as Dillon lunged forward. He made a grab for the carrier-bag propped against the end of the sofa and ripped it open, holding up a chauffeur's uniform of dark jacket and dark grey slacks with knife-edge creases. He bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a smile.

'Okay. Exchange one uniform for another, all right? You think this is what I want? You think I came out for this?'

When she had her breathing under control, Susie said quietly, 'It's a job. At least you can pay the rent.' She swallowed, her face nearly crumpling. 'You – you did take the rent money from the drawer, didn't you? Oh Frank, you're not playin' the horses, are you, you promised me…'

Dillon carelessly let the clothing fall in a heap over the back of the sofa. He said huskily, 'I'll pay the rent, Susie, I'll pay it and anything else you want.' His eyes bored into hers. 'In answer to your question, no, I did not put a cent on a bleedin' horse… even if I did it's my business, not yours.'

He went to the door and threw it open, and Susie thought, if he yells for Steve just once more I'll scream. But he didn't, instead he almost fell over the Hoover.

Susie took a pace forward, trying one last appeal.

'You have so much time for everyone else… I need some too, Frank!' Dillon glared at her over his shoulder. 'Think about it, will you?'

Between tight lips, only just audible, Dillon muttered: 'Everyone wants a piece of me, and I need some space, okay? I need -'

What he needed was lost as Susie swept her hand out and slammed the door, this time in Dillon's face. A second later it crashed back on its hinges from Dillon's kick, and he stood in the doorway, the blood draining from his face, fists clenched.

'Don't ever do that again!' Dillon snarled, eyes glittering.

Susie held up her hands and backed away, her insides shrivelling at this proximity to a wild man with so much naked violence pouring out of him she could almost smell it. Or perhaps it was her own fear. Frank had never struck her but now she saw him fight for control, his hands rigid fists.

'I'm sorry.' Susie said quietly.

Dillon walked out, this time closing the door quietly and firmly, somehow it was worse than if he had slammed it. Susie buried her face in the cushion and burst into tears. She knew she couldn't take it much longer, she had tried, no one could say she hadn't tried, but she was beginning to wish he had never left the Paras.

CHAPTER 11

With the tip of his finger, Dillon touched the bonnet of the Mercedes-Benz 300SE three-litre and watched the little round patch of condensation evaporate from the flawless silver surface. The caged wall lights of the underground garage gave the car a ghostly, almost supernatural aura. Thunderbirds are go! Dillon thought, and felt a little tremor of excitement and apprehension.

He was conscious of Jimmy watching them both from behind the wheel, no doubt revelling in their awe and trepidation – and of course envy too – because who else but Jim'll Fixit had the clout and the contacts to graciously bestow such a favour?

'What do you think?' Dillon said, a bloody sight more nervous than he cared to admit.

Steve gulped air and rifted, 'It's up to you – you'll be driving.'

'What d'you mean? You're driving, mate. I've never driven an automatic'

'Okay but…' Steve shrugged indifferently. 'I've got no licence.'

Dillon's head came round in three distinct movements, his eyes burning holes through the air.

'Banned,' Steve burped. 'Three years, drunk driving…'

Dillon turned away, and hissed under his breath, 'Banned, you pillock!' Here they were with a job all lined up, he depending on Steve having never driven an automatic himself, and now Steve blurted or burped out he was bloody banned from driving. Dillon faced Steve, looked back to Jimmy, and in a low voice warned Steve to keep his mouth shut, not to let on to Jimmy, just drive the Merc out, he'd take over after a practice.

Jimmy beckoned to them. They leaned in, inhaling the rich mingled odours of Cuban mahogany, deep-pile carpets and whole-hide leather in Antique Burgundy. 'Telephone…' Jimmy indicated the handset in its walnut box, 'you got everythin', even clean-air spray – and if you want a tip, use it. Nothin' worse than gettin' into a car reekin' of stale farts.' With a look of dire warning he tossed the keys to Steve. 'But so much as a scratch – an' I'll have your balls.' He tapped the steering-wheel. 'Thirty grand's worth of motor.'

'Okay, it's simple,' Steve told Dillon fifteen minutes later, having driven the car to a piece of waste ground. They'd swapped seats and Dillon was frowning at the unfamiliar controls while Steve played driving instructor.

'Just remember not to use your left foot… this is Reverse, this is Park, then 'D' for Drive… that's it.'

He folded his arms and settled back as Dillon pushed the stick into Reverse and pressed the accelerator. The fat wheels skittered stones and dirt as the silver Mercedes shot back at high speed towards a brick wall, Steve unfolding his arms quick to stop his head bashing against the wooden fascia. Dillon slammed down on the foot-size brake pedal and they skidded to a halt, rocking on hydraulic suspension, inches away from the wall.

Gasping and choking from the shock, Steve wiped his forehead, weak with relief that Dillon hadn't crumpled anything at first attempt. Then he was thrust back deep into the leather seat as the car suddenly hurtled forward, heading towards a pile of rubble. Steve covered his eyes. But Dillon reckoned he was getting the hang of it, even starting to enjoy himself.

Taffy made his preparations. He placed a blanket, crosswise, on Megan's single bed, and with neat, orderly movements stacked her toys and dolls in the centre of it, added the pictures off the walls to the pile, finally the toddler's fluffy animals, plastic bricks and colouring books. He gathered the four corners together and quickly and expertly knotted them, then carried the tight bundle out and dumped it on the landing.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump -

The drumbeat in his head pounded out its unrelenting rhythm. The phantom drummer was at it too, repeating the same riff over and over and over again. But Taffy stayed calm. It was all very clear and simple. No sweat. He knew what he had to do.

Megan crouched at the top of the stairs, biting her knuckles as she watched Daddy, singlet and shorts under the dressing-gown flapping at his calves, go back into her bedroom. He'd stripped down the bed and now he was dismantling the cot. He took it apart like a Bren gun, working with military precision and economy of effort, gathered the pieces and stacked them neatly against the banister rails.

Megan cowered away but Daddy completely ignored her, went back into the empty, bare room and closed the door. As a welcome change the phantom drummer was now practising triple rolls, but the thump-thump-thump continued as before, as always, as ever.

On Radio 5, Danny Baker was slagging off a new film with undisguised glee while Susie Dillon tidied away the breakfast things. She wiped her hands on the tea-towel and hurried through the living-room, using her fingers to comb back her hair, checking on the way that Kenny and Phil were still decent and presentable. She grabbed her coat from the hook and called up the stairs, 'Frank? Frank, I'm taking the kids to school – did you hear me?'

Susie took a step back, trying to hide the glimmer of a smile as Dillon and Steve came down the stairs, done up like dogs' dinners in their brand-new chauffeurs' uniforms, crisp white shirts and black ties, complete with peaked caps.

'You look great…' Susie said, proud and impressed. She waved her hand. 'Hey, kids!'

'Don't…' Dillon's neck was red with embarrassment. He glanced at Steve, and then, finding a weak grin, raised his cap as the boys came charging through. 'How do!'

The telephone rang as Susie opened the front door and ushered the boys outside. She gave Dillon and Steve a big bright smile. 'Good luck! Know what time you'll be home?'

'Hello?' Dillon said into the phone, then covered the mouthpiece. 'We could be late.' Susie winked and shut the door, but opened it almost at once, flagging for Dillon's attention. 'It's Frank speaking, who is this?' Through a blizzard of static he caught the name 'Mary' before his attention was needed elsewhere.

'There's a gang of kids around the car,' Susie alerted him, jabbing her finger beyond the parapet.

Dillon sighed, glanced three ways at once, at Susie, at the phone, at Steve adjusting his cap in the hall mirror. Jesus, if it wasn't one thing it was ten others. 'Go and take a look, Steve… I'll call Jimmy, ask if we can leave it in the garage.' Dillon's lips tightened as Steve dawdled, now putting his tie straight. 'Steve – just go and check the car…'

Steve brushed past and went out banging the door behind him.

Dillon said, 'Hello… hello?' The beeps sounded. Impatiently Dillon checked his watch, waiting for Taffy's missus to feed in more money. Calling from south Wales and she was dropping in ten-pence pieces one at a time. Come on.

'Hello? Mary? Yeah, I'm still here, yeah…' Dillon listened to the distant voice, faint yet obviously distressed. 'Look, love, I don't know what I can suggest. I mean, I'm here, if he wants to call me again -'

beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep

'Christ!'

'Frank!' Steve thumping the door with his fist. 'Come on, we'll be late!'

Dillon plonked the receiver into the cradle, set his cap straight, and went out at the trot.

Mary went cautiously up the stairs, the toddler, drowsily sucking her thumb, clasped in her arms. Megan lagged behind, peeping round her mother to the piles of stuff Taffy had placed on the landing. She pointed and whispered, 'See… he's moved everything out!'

Mary looked down at the bundle, Megan's and the toddler's clothing piled on top, the dismantled cot, the blankets and bedding beside it in military order. Handing the child to Megan, she shuffled forward to the door and listened. Not a sound from within, and blessed silence from next door as well, which probably meant they were all watching Noel Edmonds with their tea on their laps, thank God. Mary raised her hand to tap on the door, but didn't.

She called softly, 'Taffy? Do you want something to eat? Taff?'

Frowning and shaking her head, Mary went back down, silently shooing her daughter ahead of her. From the bend in the stairs she saw the light under the door go out. She hesitated, but carried on down.

In his dressing-gown Taffy lay on the bare mattress, arms straight at his sides, watching the light fade through the net curtains. The streetlamp came on, throwing a yellow trapezium on the flowered wallpaper and the pale areas where the pictures had hung, and, as if this was the signal triggering something in his brain, Taffy got up and began the final stage.

Opening his Airborne-issue bergen rucksack, he laid out his kit on the bed. DPM Para smock, olive green denim trousers, 'Hairy' KF woollen shirt, '58 pattern webbing order, cloth puttees, DMS rubber-soled boots, green lanyard for compass, maroon belt with regimental badge in bright metal on the circular buckle, maroon beret with matt-black cap badge. All present and correct, sah!

Taffy unscrewed the lid off the black boot polish and worked up a nice smooth paste with a globule of spit. Dipped the yellow cloth into it, set to with a will, bulling up the toe-caps. In the silent, darkened room Taffy polished industriously away, a frown of rapt concentration on his face.

'What time is it?'

Dillon, dressed only in jockey shorts and socks, carrying his uniform on a hanger, halted in mid-creep halfway across the bedroom floor. Susie's eyes watched him from above the covers as he hung the uniform on the wardrobe door. Dillon arched his back and crawled into bed with a groan. 'After two… I got terrible backache.'

'What time are you on in the morning?'

'Seven-thirty.' Dillon tried to relax, let the tension flow out of him. 'We've been sittin' in that car for twelve hours solid

'Well,' Susie retorted, 'at least you're sitting down.'

'Might have known I'd get no sympathy from you,' Dillon mumbled sleepily. He stretched and made a noise somewhere between a yawn and a groan, and snuggled down, totally whacked.

Crash!

From downstairs, but loud enough to wake the dead, Steve falling in through the front door, colliding with the bikes in the hall and thudding headlong to the floor.

Floating away on the soft pink billow of deep wonderful sleep, Dillon came bolt upright in the bed, eyes sticking out like organ stops. Another thud, clang of bike frames, and Dillon, realizing what it was, flopped back, the pillow over his head.

Steve, muttering drunkenly to himself, was now attempting the impossible, death-defying ascent of the stairs. Halfway up he missed his footing and tumbled to the bottom, landing with a thud that jarred the floorboards and made the wardrobe door swing open.

From the boys' room, a shrill plaintive 'Muuuu-mmmmmm!'

With a heavy sigh, Susie whopped the bedcovers aside and prepared to get up. Dillon whopped them back again.

'Leave it – just leave it!'

'But it sounds like he's fallen downstairs…'

'Good! Hope he's broken his ruddy neck!'

CHAPTER 12

There was a red line around Dillon's forehead where his cap had been. He drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel, glancing every now and then at Steve, bent over in the passenger seat with a Little Chef road map spread across his knees, marking the motorways with a felt-tip. Bloody wonder they'd ever got here. And how long had it taken them – over two hours? Jesus wept.

Dillon kept a wary eye on the clients, just in case. Three bags full, sir, that was the drill. At the moment they were on the farside of the cobbled yard, talking to a tall thin man wearing baggy cord trousers and a polo-necked sweater under a tweed jacket, trainer or stable manager, Dillon guessed. He didn't know it for a fact, but the horses all looked like thoroughbreds, a row of glossy necks and proud heads arched over the stable doors, lively, intelligent brown eyes. He wondered how many of them Ali Baba owned.

Dillon wrinkled his nose. Was that horseshit or what?

He said, 'And for chrissakes, Steve, make sure we get the right route back to London. We go the same way we got here, we'll never get back.' He leaned nearer, suspicions confirmed. 'An' I told you, use some deodorant, you stink!'

Steve sniffed his armpits. 'It's not me!' he protested, and nearly poked a hole through the map with his pen. 'Your fault – you said Newmarket was near Ascot!'

'Give. You always were bloody useless on directions.' Dillon snatched the map off him and glared at it with weary disgust. Thirty-grand silver Merc and they were using a Little Chef free road map to ferry their clients the length and breadth of the Home Counties…

'I told you, Steve, get a decent map… we need to check how we're going for gas.' There was a low rasping sound as Steve released a fart. 'Very funny,' Dillon said. He glanced worriedly at the fuel gauge. 'We got any cash?'

'I'm skint.'

'We can't ask them.' Dillon looked across the cobbled yard to the two Arabs. The slim dapper one, Salah Al-Gharib, was beckoning, his gold ring winking in the sunlight. 'Hey, they want you.' Dillon nudged Steve. 'Go on. I'll check the route.'

Grumbling, Steve climbed out, and shambled over. Dillon swore, long and loud, discovering his squashed cap Steve had been sitting and farting on. He bashed it into shape, too busy straightening the bent peak to notice Steve was shaking his foot in the air, having trodden in a heap of fresh horse dung.

The black and chrome JVC stereo deck (nearly five hundred quid's worth) was the first item on the agenda. It smashed through the upstairs window and landed on the concrete path, disintegrating in a tangled heap of plastic and metal and solid-state circuitry.

Taffy stood at the broken window, spick and span in parade-drill order, maroon beret pulled low over the left eye in the approved Parachute Regiment manner, and let fly with a stream of tapes, CDs and records, showering down over the scrubby patch of lawn. A portable TV set followed, and a transistor radio followed that, hurled out with a methodical calm efficiency that was strangely at odds with the crazed, wide-eyed expression on Taffy's face.

The front door opened and the phantom drummer shot out, dreadlocks flying, a look of sheer terror in his eyes. He stumbled down the path, screaming abuse as a bass drum smashed an even bigger hole in the window and scored a direct hit on the garden gnome casting his rod in the flower bed. Out sailed the rest of the drum-kit, hi-hat cymbals setting up one hell of a racket as they skimmed and bounced into the road.

Mary came out of the kitchen next door and ran screaming round the side of the house, arriving to see Taffy emerging through the front door. 'Oh God Almighty – what have you done?'

Taffy strode down the garden path, kicking the mangled remains of the stereo deck out of his way. 'Got some peace and quiet,' Taffy said. 'That's what I've done.'

He turned sharp left through the gate, straightened his shoulders, and setting his beret at the correct angle, marched off.

'Where are you going?… Taff?

'For a quick drink,' Taffy said, arms swinging.

Dillon was crouched forward in the passenger seat, brow furrowed, speaking on the portable phone: 'I told her this morning! I mean, what am I supposed to do, Susie? Hello…?'

He shook the handset. 'This ruddy thing keeps cutting out… Hello?' He shook it again, and this seemed to do the trick. He listened, nodding, and in a quick muttered aside to Steve: 'It's Taffy's wife again, she's freakin' out about something.' He said into the phone, 'Susie? Can you hear me…? Okay, give her this number, if she calls again, or you get her number, but Susie -'

Snap, crackle, pop.

'Bloody hell! Hello… can you hear me?'

Steve nudged his elbow. 'Here they come.'

'I got to go,' said Dillon quickly. 'Don't call me unless it's an emergency, 'cos I'm working!'

He cradled the handset and hopped out, tugging his jacket straight and squaring up his cap.

' London, sir?' Dillon asked, opening the rear door.

Salah Al-Gharib gave a curt nod. 'White Elephant,' he said, climbing in after the big man.

Dillon pulled a face at Steve through the window, who returned Dillon's blank look with one of his own. Dog track? Indian restaurant? Mosque?

All the way down the M11 Dillon anxiously watched the red needle of the fuel gauge creeping to within a hair's breadth of Empty. Finally, scared to death they were going to run out, he ordered Steve to pull off at the service station just outside Epping. Luckily the clients were going through some papers, taking no notice; even so, Dillon blocked their view of the petrol pump meter as he carefully measured out £2.72 pence' worth to the drop, then surreptitiously palmed the handful of loose change from Steve. Now they were both skint.

It didn't take them long to find him. Taffy's glass of Murphy's stout was still half-full when the phantom drummer's redheaded older brother, a couple of his mates in tow, walked into the saloon bar. Three customers took one look and shifted rapidly out of the way, leaving Taffy alone on his bar-stool in the corner. Slowly, all the time in the world, Taffy turned his head to look at them. They were a mean-looking bunch but his expression didn't alter, kept its same level, sullen stare, unimpressed by this walking pond-life.

'Oi! You three -' The landlord was across, pushing his rolled-up shirtsleeves further up his arms, pointing at the door. 'Out! Out now!'

Taffy's red head neighbour stopped in the middle of the floor, head lowered like a bull about to charge, eyes glittering. 'Gonna have you,' he murmured softly, just loud enough for Taffy to hear. 'You want to come outside?'

'Police – call the police,' the landlord told the blonde barmaid, who scuttled to the phone. He put both hands flat on the counter and leaned forward. 'Did you hear me? I'm calling the cops. Now – all of you – out. Get out!'

Redhead and his mates stood their ground, a tight little knot of hatred, and as the landlord raised the hatch, Taffy saw a stealthy movement and there was a knife in the redhead's hand.

'No trouble, lads… come on now…'

Taffy stood up. He lifted both hands, palms open, to indicate that he didn't want any trouble either. The red-head came for him. Taffy side-stepped, got an elbow lock on the knife-arm, twisted the redhead round to the bar with his arm up his back, wrist bent double. Taking the knife off him, Taffy dragged his head back by his red hair and slit his throat.

'Put your hat on,' said Steve. 'Get the doors open!'

While Dillon rammed his cap on and fixed his tie his eyes never left the wing-mirror, which he'd been anxiously studying for the past fifteen minutes. He gripped the doorhandle and said, 'You clocked that red Sierra parked at the back of us? They've been around the block twice and come back. They seem very interested in us…'

Steve flicked the air-spray round the back of the car and switched on the engine. He waggled his thumb urgently, indicating that Dillon better attend to the clients, stepping out of the White Elephant after a dinner that probably cost as much as Susie spent on food in a month.

Dillon held the door open, and while they were settling in he glanced sideways under the peak of his cap, attempting to make out the occupants of the Sierra and how many. In the darkened interior he saw the glow of a cigarette, nothing more.

He nipped round and climbed in. 'Back to base is it, sir?' Dillon inquired, glued to the wing-mirror. Steve flashed the indicator and pulled out into Curzon Street, the Sierra's dimmed headlights springing on. It began moving off without indicating.

'Yes,' the secretary replied, polishing his gold-rimmed spectacles. 'Then that's it for today!' His boss, the big man, was dozing off, hands clasped comfortably on the swell of his paunch, recently replenished.

Steve drove up Park Lane, crossing into the right-hand stream to make the approach into Oxford Street. At this late hour, traffic was fairly light, at least by London standards, and Dillon could see the red Sierra merging into the same lane, two cars behind. He spoke quietly, hardly moving his lips, 'Keep your eye on 'em, they're right behind us.'

Steve nodded, the Mercedes surging smoothly forward, whisper-quiet under the power of its three-litre, 140 bhp engine. Dillon, after a minute's private debate with himself, inclined his head to the rear of the car. He kept his voice calm, no sign of agitation.

'Excuse me, sir… we've got someone following us. They were parked outside the Club, and they've been on our tail since we left. It's a red Sierra – take a look for yourself.'

Raoul Al-Mohammed immediately blinked open his heavy eyes and with his secretary turned to stare out of the tinted back window. They turned back, eyes locked together.

'Are you sure they are following?' the secretary asked quietly, leaning forward.

'wE cAN maKe SUre iF yOU liKe

'What did he say?'

'We can drive around a bit,' Dillon explained, 'see if they are really following… Okay?' He glanced behind and got a single, firm nod.

Steve was too expert and experienced a driver to tip off those behind that they'd been rumbled. Besides, this wasn't ideal territory to lose a tail. Better to get them into a warren of back streets they possibly weren't too familiar with – but he was. So in no great hurry he turned into Tottenham Court Road and proceeded at a stately pace towards Euston Road, eyes doing a constant slow swivel from the road to the rearview mirror. Actually, he was starting to enjoy himself. The Merc was a joy to drive, he'd never got his mitts on such a large powerful, beautiful motor before. Plus – and it was a big plus – he felt the old tingling thrill of pitting himself against an adversary. Didn't matter who: it was the enemy, the bad guys, the ones who had to be beaten at all costs. That's what he'd been trained to do, and Civvy Street had no use for his talents and specialist skills. No use for him, period.

Slowing for the traffic lights at the junction with Euston Road, Dillon turned round in his seat. It was make-your-mind-up time, so he called for a decision. 'He's still with us, what do you want us to do?' He raised his eyebrows. 'We head back into Regent's Park and we'll play follow-my-leader all the way back to the house…'

Salah Al-Gharib moistened his lips. 'What is the alternative?' he asked, and now his voice had the suggestion of a tremor in it.

Steve sucked in air, burped, 'I can lose 'em, Frank. No problem.'

'You sure?'

At Steve's nod, Dillon turned back and said tersely, 'He thinks he can lose them, sir.'

The lights changed, and being in the left-hand lane Steve had no choice but to turn left into Euston Road. There was a confab going on in the back, the secretary doing most of the talking, his boss interjecting the odd comment or question now and then. Both men seemed distinctly uneasy, rather fearful in fact, Raoul Al-Mohammed clutching his alligator-skin briefcase to his chest, resting it on his heaving stomach.

At last the secretary leaned forward. Behind the thin gold rims, the whites of his eyes gleamed against his dark complexion. 'If it is possible, lose them. Do what you have to do.'

Dillon touched Steve's arm. He took off his cap and said to the men in the back, 'You want to put your seat-belts on?'

They did so, Dillon pulling his tight. Steve operated central locking, securing all four doors, took a long searching look in the mirror, and put his foot down.

CHAPTER 13

In the illuminated green dial the needle swept smoothly past fifty. Steve kept his foot down, the acceleration pressing them back in their seats… fifty-five – sixty – sixty-five in less than seven seconds, the needle hovering at seventy as they neared Regent's Park.

Through the wing-mirror Dillon had a clear view of the red Sierra, lagging behind but gradually picking up speed to match theirs; nothing in-between them now and very little traffic, so the two cars had virtually this entire stretch of road to themselves.

Dillon hadn't a clue what Steve intended doing. He hoped to God Steve had. But what Steve did, totally unexpectedly, as they raced towards the lights at the junction with Great Portland Street, was to flick on the left indicator. Crazy, Dillon thought, lost his marbles, Steve meant to turn into a one-way system, meeting the flow of traffic head-on! They were doing seventy, and Dillon braced himself for the turn, but what Steve did next was even crazier. Twenty yards from the lights he decelerated, and spinning the wheel hand-over-hand in a continuous, co-ordinated movement, he swung the Merc sharply to the right in a sliding 180-degree turn, tyres squealing and smoking, leaving burnt rubber on the tarmac as he completed a U-turn at the traffic lights and gunned back along Euston Road.

Rocking in his seat, Dillon glimpsed the flash of red in the mirror as the Sierra skidded into the turn, nearly losing its traction, then righted itself and came after them.

Whoever they were, these guys weren't amateurs, Dillon realised. And the Sierra had more soup under its bonnet than its un-extraordinary exterior might suggest. He ought to have known that playing nursemaid to a couple of Middle-Eastern arms-dealers wouldn't turn out to be a vicarage tea-party. What had that prat Cliff gotten them into, him and his favours?

Nudging seventy-five, Steve took the centre lane down into the underpass, the yellow lights inset in the concrete walls smearing like racing stripes along the aerodynamic silver body. The 300SE barrelled through the echoing tunnel and up again onto the main road, the glass and granite splendour of the mainline Euston terminal flashing by to their left. The traffic lights were changing to red, but Steve went through them anyway, and so did the Sierra, as a glance in Dillon's wing-mirror confirmed. After that hair-raising U-turn back there he was beyond offering Steve any advice. The lad might be crazy but he could handle the Merc all right, sitting back in his seat, head up, arms at full stretch, displaying the cool nerve and aplomb of a stunt driver, a faint grin on his face.

All four of them were flung against their seat-belts as Steve suddenly slammed on the brakes and veered left off the main road, taking to the labyrinth of dimly-lit streets backing onto King's Cross. To Dillon it was a dark maze of terraced houses and small blocks of flats, shops and pubs, the whole area shut down for the night. Every street a replica of the one before. Not to Steve, apparently, who seemed to know the district like the back of his hand, jinking left and right and judging gaps between cars parked either side as if he possessed a built-in slide rule.

But the red Sierra was a tough bastard to shake. It kept right with them, never more than fifty yards behind, headlights now on full-beam flaring in the mirrors.

Without warning, Steve hauled the car down a right-hand fork, the brick archway of a rail viaduct looming up ahead. He gave himself a quick nod, as if making up his mind, and half-turning his head but keeping his eyes front and centre, rapped out: 'Tell 'em I can double back on the Ford – there's dead-ends all along here.'

Dillon craned back. 'You want us to stop their car? We can double back, come out behind them…'

A quick gabble of Arabic, and the secretary gripped Dillon's shoulder, his usual fluent English jerking out disjointedly.

'… we have no diplomatic immunity… they could be armed… we cannot risk…'

'Hang on, Steve.' Dillon reckoned it was about time to view the situation realistically. One thing, letting Steve have his fun like a big kid on the dodgems, quite another to find themselves in the middle of a shooting war that was none of their business. He said quietly, 'They seem to think these guys'll have guns. Maybe just lose them.'

Steve pointed to the fuel gauge. 'Petrol… no petrol.'

Dillon stared at the needle, hard against Empty, and closed his eyes. That was that then. Hobson's Bleeding Choice. He glanced behind. 'Get down – keep your heads down.' He shot a look at Steve. 'Can you handle it?' Steve grinned. Bastard was loving every minute. Best time he'd had in three years, since leaving the Paras.

Dillon had another disquieting thought, concerning thirty grand's worth of Mercedes-Benz 300SE. He turned to the rear, raising one eyebrow. 'What about damage to the car, sir?' The secretary was huddled in the corner, his fingers digging in the padded arm-rests.

'Sir?'

'Please… get us out of here…'

Steve adjusted his grip, hands crossed on the wheel, face lit up like a Christmas tree. 'Here we go…!'

The Merc slewed to the left, did a shimmy with its rear end, the bumper almost scraping the road, then went like the clappers as Steve jammed his foot to the floor. Two more screeching turns and they were back at the brick viaduct, which was exactly where Steve wanted to be – this time passing through the adjacent archway. A flick of the wheel, foot hard down on the brake-pedal. Hidden momentarily by the central, arch, the Merc went into a spinning half-turn just as the Sierra shot out from under the bridge and passed them, the driver's head whipping round in dismay and disbelief.

Steve whooped.

Gotcha!

Grinning from ear to ear, he applied reverse lock and the Merc's tyres steamed as he performed another spinning half-turn, gave the 140 bhp engine its head and zoomed up behind, the Sierra's arse-end in his sights.

Closing fast, he gave the Sierra a gentle nudge, pulled away and gave it a harder one. There was the tortured sound of grinding metal and then a clang as the Sierra's bumper was wrenched half-off, the dangling end scything a trail of orange sparks down the centre of the road. Getting desperate, the driver took the only evasive action he could, picking at random one of the streets to his left to get the hell out of the way. Turned out it was a desperate mistake too, because as Steve was well aware, all those streets finished in a sheer brick wall that bordered the tracks out of King's Cross.

The Sierra's driver very quickly got the message. Reacted fast too – but by then all he could do was slam on the brakes and helplessly watch, frozen at the wheel, as the car went into a skid and slid sideways, left side on, smack into the wall.

Dillon expected Steve to slow down, but unbelievably the crazy bastard didn't. He kept right on going. He was doing what he'd been trained to do, following the anti-terrorist manual to the letter: when you have the enemy pinned down and cornered, take all effective steps for total disabling action. In this case it meant ramming the Merc's beautiful gleaming bonnet into the side of the Sierra, trapping the two men inside and preventing further hostile action.

Dillon covered his face. In the back seat the two Arabs were crouched double, petrified with fear, the big man uttering a kind of sing-song dirge. Steam hissed out, and there was a fizzing and crackling as the electrics shorted, the fascia display flickering like mad.

Dropping his hands, Dillon peered through the steam rising from the crumpled bonnet. The Sierra's driver was slumped over the wheel, his head at a nasty angle. Blood was streaming from the other man's nose, and he looked groggy, but then Dillon saw his hand move – saw him reaching inside his jacket – and he didn't wait to see any more, screaming at Steve, 'Back off! Back off!'

There was a horrible jangled cacophony of tearing metal as Steve reversed, leaving the Merc's radiator grille and the remnants of all four headlights in the roadway. Dillon was out even before the car had stopped, flat to the ground, snaking forward on elbows and insteps. Behind him, Steve scuttled head down below window-level and did a neat shoulder-roll to land up against the Sierra's front wheel.

Dillon pointed to the door handle, pointed at Steve, made a twisting motion. Steve nodded and reached stealthily for the handle. Dillon rocked himself onto the balls of his feet, hands curled, ready to make the dive the instant the door was opened. The man inside the car was yelling something, difficult to know what because his voice was high-pitched with panic. Cautiously, Dillon raised his head and took a peep. Steve did the same. They bobbed back down again and stared at each other with a sagging, sickly realisation.

Not a gun the man had been reaching for at all. But a badge. He was holding up a silver badge. The man was a police officer and they'd just rammed a Flying Squad car.

Squatting on his haunches, Taffy listened to the police siren getting nearer and nearer. Further off in the distance, the clanging of an ambulance bell. The two sounds converged, competing with one another, loud and clamouring, and then suddenly died away as both vehicles reached the pub three streets from where Taffy was crouching in a vegetable patch in someone's back garden. Reflected on the chimneys and slate roofs opposite, flashing blue and red lights, like the blue and red tracer fire spewing from the machine-gun emplacement the night they took Mount Longdon. Some of the blokes thought it made a pretty display, arcing out of the darkness, until they remembered that between each blue and red streak there were five live rounds, any one of which could have your name on it.

That had been some firefight. Taffy's bowels had become liquid and he'd nearly cacked in his britches. Belly-down in a rocky crevice, cushioned by his bergen, he'd stuck the business end of his L1A1 SLR rifle over the top and pumped the trigger. Didn't matter a flying fuck what you were aiming at, the object was to overwhelm the enemy with sheer firepower. That John Wayne Hollywood crap about picking off individual targets, with your head out in plain view, was strictly for the punters. You kept your finger on the trigger until the magazine was empty, slapped in a fresh mag, did it all over again. There was always more ammo where that came from, there was only one of you.

And yet, for all the bowel-churning fear, it was bloody great. What you'd sweated through years of training for, and never dreamed, in all your wildest hopes and imaginings, to be actually engaged in a live firing attack against a real enemy who were trying to kill you. Suddenly everything made sense. You had a role, an identity, a purpose. You were doing the job you'd been made for, doing it with skill, guts, pride, and total uncompromising commitment, and you were going to show those Argie bastards what it was like to come up against a real soldier.

That's what Taffy had been then, a real soldier, still was, always would be.

A fine chill drizzle settled on his face. Time to get mustered. In FIBUA training – Fighting In Built-Up Areas – he'd had to crawl through sewer pipes as a means of infiltrating enemy lines, but bugger that for a lark. Taffy didn't fancy the Cardiff sewerage system, and besides, speed and distance were the top priorities.

Spitting on his palms, Taffy dug into the soft damp earth and plastered his face, smeared the backs of his hands. He could hear shouts now, running footsteps. He straightened up, and taking a couple of deep breaths, ran swiftly across the garden and leapt at the high brick wall, scaling it with ease, and dropped down into the deep shadow of a cobbled alleyway, light as a cat.

A few minutes after 1.30 a.m. he was standing on the hard shoulder of the ring road that connected with the M4. Probably his uniform helped, because only the third truck he thumbed – a Bristol meat packer's refrigerated artic – slowed down and pulled over.

Taffy climbed on board.

CHAPTER 14

From the holding cell Dillon, tieless, beltless, and with no laces in his shoes, was taken two floors up to the interview room. Little more than a cell itself; a bare table, one metal ashtray, two chairs, a sixty-watt bulb in a green plastic shade that threw a cone of light over the man already seated there, somewhere in his thirties with puffy, handsome features gone to seed and a flourishing head of hair streaked with grey that overlapped his collar. He was smoking a Marlboro, and he offered the packet as Dillon sat down opposite him, more out of icy politeness than as a gesture of friendship. And his voice too had an antiseptic ring to it.

'Mr Dillon. I am Alastair Sawyer-Smith.' He pushed a rather dog-eared card across the table. 'I am acting on behalf of Mr Salah Al-Gharib.'

'Thank Christ -' Dillon accepted a light, sucked in smoke. He had a headache and his eyes burned. It was long gone three and he felt strung-out. 'Look, this has all got out of hand… and I have to call my wife, she'll be worried stiff.'

But Sawyer-Smith wasn't listening, glancing instead to a man staring in through the glass panel in the door, studying Dillon hard. Dillon met his eyes and quickly turned his head away, recognising him as the detective who had followed him and Jimmy the day they delivered the diamonds. Whom Jimmy had clobbered and cracked his skull in the gutter.

'Oh shit,' Dillon muttered, closing his eyes.

'I hope you will co-operate fully, as this has been an exceedingly long night. Firstly -'

'It was all a misunderstanding,' Dillon was at pains to explain.

'My clients have been released,' continued Sawyer-Smith smoothly, 'without any formal charges being pressed. Furthermore -'

'What about me and Steve? We've been here all night – your clients got us into this!'

'No, you are mistaken,' Sawyer-Smith contradicted him gravely, his baggy-eyed stare perfectly level. 'The reason the police followed the Mercedes driven by your associate Mr Steven Harris was because the car is owned by a man currently under police investigation.'

Dillon slowly leaned forward into the light, the scar on his left cheek a thin cruel crevice. 'What…?'

But the lawyer had it signed and sealed, all stitched up.

'Clearly you were working for my clients under false pretences, fraudulently using documents which they believed were from the Samson Security Company – a company that denies all knowledge of either hiring you or the driver of the vehicle, Mr Harris.' Having his man on the floor, Sawyer-Smith put the boot in. 'Mr Harris, who by-the-by has no licence, no insurance, and was given a suspended sentence in January of last year…'

'But…' Dillon's hands came up, clutching thin air. 'I wasn't driving…'

'No doubt the security company will take this matter up personally.' Sawyer-Smith got to his feet, picking up a somewhat shabby briefcase with a broken clasp. He looked down on Dillon. 'As far as my clients are concerned, they have agreed to forget the whole embarrassing episode.'

'But what about the damage to the Merc?' Dillon was half-out of his seat, blinking rapidly. 'It's not mine – who's gonna pay for that?'

For the first time Alastair Sawyer-Smith permitted himself a fleeting chilly smile. 'I would say that is the least of your problems, Mr Dillon,' and was gone, leaving Dillon with a dazed expression and two smoking stubs in the metal ashtray.

A shave, a bath, ten hours' kip, that's what Dillon wanted, but it wasn't what he got. Immediately he entered the flat, Steve shambling behind, it was bedlam. He ignored the phone ringing in the hallway and was confronted with Susie's distraught face as she came charging through from the kitchen.

'Where in God's name have you been?' Susie jabbed at the phone. 'You'd better answer it, Frank, they've been calling all morning – half the night.'

Dillon turned haunted, red-rimmed eyes on Steve. 'Jimmy couldn't know about the Merc yet, could he?'

'Frank, answer it.' Susie gave him a shove. 'It'll be the police!'

'We just come from them, we got bail -' Dillon tried to grab her as she brushed past. 'Don't answer it… Susie!'

Somebody hammered on the front door. Susie held her arms out. 'Don't answer, don't open the door,' she warned Dillon, but it was too late, Steve already had. He took one look and slammed it shut.

'It's Jimmy!'

'Open this door, you bastards!' The door shook under the onslaught of kicks and thumps. 'Open it or I'll smash it!'

Dillon said wearily, 'Let him in…'

Susie shook her head at Dillon, her eyes large and fear-filled, as the phone finally stopped ringing. 'Frank, you should have answered that.'

The tiny hallway was suddenly filled with bodies as Jimmy swelled the crowd. He swept Steve aside contemptuously and stopped in front of Dillon, his face livid with fury. 'I've just seen that heap of metal they towed… towed into the garage. Thirty grand's worth, completely wrecked!'

Dillon swayed out of reach as Jimmy threw a swinging right, knocked his arm away. It was Dillon's turn to see red. 'We've had the friggin' Flying Squad chase us all over London, and we got arms dealers in the back, thought they were gonna be kidnapped.' He pointed at Steve and himself. 'We thought it was an ambush!'

'Flying Squad? Pull the other one,' Jimmy snorted. He kicked out at Steve, who shied away. 'It was this… this lunatic.' He landed a stinging smack across Steve's head. 'You get pissed – was that it?'

Dillon got between them, held Jimmy off with the flat of his hand, quietly simmering.

'You think if I'd known it was Newman's car we'd have used it? You should have told us!'

'I told you he was in Spain. I was doin' you a favour -'

'Bullshit!' Dillon stuck his finger under Jimmy's nose, his eyes blazing. 'Now he owes us one. You tip him off – he's under investigation.'

'Frank!' Susie said. And then screamed it. 'Frank!'

Dillon snapped, 'Get in the kitchen, get out,' not through with Jimmy by a long chalk. 'We're up for wrecking a patrol car, falsifying records, and that cop you whacked – he was there. He was clocking me. I could go down for this, but by Christ, I'll -'

He wasn't allowed to finish as Susie gripped his arm with both hands and literally dragged him through the doorway.

'Frank – if you don't come in here this minute I'll scream the place down!'

'You got a code book?' Jimmy was rooting on the hall table, scattering the two fat London directories.

'If you're calling Spain, make it collect!' Dillon yelled, vanishing as Susie pulled him into the living-room and slammed the door.

Footsteps marched along the landing and in barged Cliff, sweat covering his black brow, lips twisted in a snarl. 'Thanks lads!' he yelled, and seeing Steve, hurled his chauffeur's cap and jacket at him, hysterical with rage. 'Thanks a bundle, you bastards! You really done me in!'

Dodging round Jimmy, crouched over dialling the international operator, Cliff went for Steve, clipping him on the side of the jaw. Steve crashed against the door, just as it opened and Dillon came through it like a rat out of a trap. He parried a wild lunge from Cliff, who was lashing out in all directions, yelling, 'Eighteen months I've had that job!' taking another wild swing at Dillon for good measure.

There was a deadly calm about Dillon. An icy stillness etched into his face and menacing blue eyes. Almost in slow-motion he swivelled his body, taking the blow harmlessly on his shoulder, and hit Cliff with a short-arm jab to the solar plexus that doubled him over, clutching his stomach.

Dillon took the phone out of Jimmy's hand and Jimmy snatched it back, ready to take a sock at him. But the look on Dillon's face stopped him.

'Shut it – all of you!'

The unmistakable voice of Sergeant Frank Dillon stopped everybody.

'Put the phone down, Jimmy. Taffy Davies has gone AWOL. He's killed a bloke in Cardiff…'

The four ex-Paras looked at one another, all grudges, personal grievances and petty hatreds wiped off the slate.

Dillon said quietly, 'I think he's headin' for Aldershot.'

Taffy jumped from the slippery scaffolding pole and splashed knee-deep through the ice-flecked surface of the water-jump, clawing up the steep muddy bank on all-fours. Breath pluming the air, streaming with sweat, he gritted his teeth and slogged it up the meandering valley set with man-made obstacles and natural hazards. Designed to test heart, lungs and legs to the utmost, every recruit had to do two continuous circuits of the notorious Steeplechase in order to pass 'P' Company selection. But those behind him on the course were young men, not an old campaigner on the downward slope of forty.

Even so, they could run their goolies off and they'd never catch him! He's still beat 'em!

Punishing himself, chunnering to himself, giving himself orders, Taffy ran ahead of the field, maintaining a clear lead. He reached the crest of Heartbreak Hill, not even pausing to glance behind at the straggling figures in red singlets, blue shorts and plimsolls before plunging down the narrow track through gorse and brambles.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump -

It was a joyous sound, healthy and pure, the steady pounding rhythm of his own heartbeat.

Dillon came out of the guardhouse and stopped to have a word with one of the MPs at the main gate. He nodded his thanks and walked past the two police patrol cars parked just inside the striped-pole barrier, returning to the others sitting in the Renegade jeep next to the perimeter fence. Jimmy was standing up in the back with field glasses, doing slow sweeps of Browning Barracks and the wooded hillside beyond. He glanced down as Dillon came up, and shook his head.

Dillon leaned against the jeep's wheel cowling, gazing round and tugging distractedly at his moustache. 'Law's been here for hours, nobody seems to know anything. Army's desperate to keep the Press out of it.'

'He could be anywhere, Frank,' Jimmy said gloomily.

Dillon nodded and sighed. He stepped up onto the running board, about to climb into the bucket seat when his eye fell on the old Dakota on its swathe of grass outside the Regimental Museum. Somebody was sitting under the shadow of the wing, hunched against one of the plane's fat rubber tyres which hid him from the main gate. Somebody in a DPM Denison smock and Red Beret.

Dillon stepped down. He said quietly, 'Keep the MPs busy. I'm going over the fence. I've found him… he's by the Dakota.'

Taffy squinted up into the sunshine, hearing the clatter of blades as a Lynx helicopter whirred across the blue sky and vanished beyond the flat rooftops of the barracks. Face caked with mud, hands filthy and scratched from the run, he felt bone-weary. Not just from lack of sleep, and the gruelling punishment of the Steeplechase, but weary deep inside. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wheel, the shrill whine of the Lynx's engine and thudding blades fading away in the distance.

The sound reverberated inside Taffy's head, seemed to expand, become magnified into the thunderous roar of four mighty Hercules engines at full bore. Slipstream howled in the open doorway and swirled inside the C-130's cavernous interior, two rows of heavily-kitted men hanging onto the strops which attached the static lines to the cables running the length of the aircraft. Third man to go, Taffy's eyes were locked on the red light, waiting for the green. He experienced the familiar sensation of a nest of vipers writhing in his stomach. At the head of the line, first man to go, Dillon stood in the doorway, the wind rippling the flesh of his face in waves, eyes slitted against the blast.

'Tell off for equipment – check!' shouted the despatcher. 'Stand by for green, Number One – check! Number Two – check! Number Three – check!'

That was him. Shuffle forward. Left hand gripping the strop. Make sure the static line runs free. Other hand holding the container bag to his stomach. Ready for the despatcher's cuff on the shoulder, telling him to go. Taking a breath, preparing to scream out as you leap into space, 'One thousand… two thousand… three thousand… check canopy!'

Here we go, boys. Showtime. Shit or bust.

Tensing his entire body, Taffy got ready to jump, the roar of engines and howl of wind buffeting his eardrums.

'Taff… Taffy…'

Taffy opened his eyes to silence, sunshine, blue sky. A slight breeze rippling over the grass. 'You come for me, Frank?'

'Yeah, me and a few of the lads.' Standing next to the propellor blade, Dillon edged forward, eyes smiling but wary. 'Don't want the wankers in blue takin' you in.'

Taffy stared at the ground. 'I beat those new recruits,' he said with quiet pride. 'Not made of the same stuff today, are they? I went the whole course in me rubbers…' He indicated his heavy, rubber-soled boots, thick with mud and dried leaves.

Dillon came a little closer. A muscle moved in his cheek. His throat was tight and dry, his eyes unnaturally bright, moist.

'I couldn't make it in civvies, Frank,' Taffy said slowly, and gave a sad half-smile. 'Price of beer, that was the first thing that knocked me sideways.' His hand was gripping something, but Dillon couldn't see what. He edged nearer as Taffy said, his face stiff and tense, 'I didn't let the Regiment down, Frank.'

'You never did, Taff.' Dillon saw it was his parade baton that Taffy was holding. He squatted on his haunches next to the big Welshman, elbows on his knees. 'Maybe it let you down,' he said.

'Bloody stupid… I don't know what came over me.' Taffy choked down a sob, wiped his wet eyes with the back of his hand. 'If I'd have waited, I'd have been okay.'

Dillon's fists involuntarily clenched as Taffy delved into his pocket, and Taffy looked at him with hurt, reproachful eyes.

'It's over, Frank,' he said softly. 'I've no fight left in me.' He held up a grubby, folded envelope. 'Want to show you this, maybe you'd be interested.' He pulled out a letter for Dillon to see. 'There's work going, if you want it, cash in hand. Up in Scotland, on the salmon farms. They want blokes like us. You know, pro's to… to try and catch the poachers. You'd have to live rough, and you'd need…' his throat worked. 'Ammo, tents, night-lights -'

A spasm raked through him, and his face suddenly crumpled. Dillon took the letter and put it in his pocket. He eased down on the grass, next to Taffy.

'I just snapped, Frank. God forgive me. Is the kid dead?' Dillon put his arms around Taffy and hugged him hard. 'Will you take care of Mary? See she's taken care of? Poor Mary, all the time I was in Ireland, she waited for the knock on the door.'

Dillon nodded. 'I'll see her.' The two men stood up, and Dillon looked him in the eyes. 'You were the best backup bloke I ever had, and that's what me and the lads are here for now.' He touched his shoulder. 'You know the score?' and then, 'Wait, just a minute,' adjusting Taffy's Red Beret the regulation two inches above the left eye. 'You all set?'

Straightening his shoulders, baton tucked under his arm, Taffy took a deep breath. 'All set!'

The cluster of uniformed police and three MPs at the gate turned as a body as Taffy marched towards them, arms swinging, back ramrod-straight. Chin up, his voice rang out in the best drill-square manner, 'Colour Sergeant Major David Davies reporting!'

Jimmy, Steve and Cliff were lined up by the perimeter fence when Dillon joined them, as if presenting themselves for military inspection. Then all four watched as the open jeep came through the main gate, Taffy seated in the back between two MPs. And all four ex-members of the Parachute Regiment saluted as it went by, Taffy half-turning to give them a brief, farewell smile before snapping round, shoulders squared, eyes front.

As the jeep went down the road they could hear him singing, his big Welsh voice roaring out:

'Ten green bottles

Hanging on the wall,

And if one green bottle

Should accidentally fall,

There'd be nine green bottles

Hanging on the wall…'