Civvies

CHAPTER 15

Dillon had not really paid any attention to the scrap of paper Taffy Davies had thrust into his hands, he didn't even recollect stuffing it into his pocket. The moment Taffy was arrested, seeing him from the back of the wagon as they took him away, turning, that one last time, as Dillon and the boys saluted him, was a moment Dillon would never forget. There was still that flash of pride on the Welshman's face, still that kind of 'take any bugger on, man!', his shoulders straight, his fists tensed, his chin out. But in his eyes hung the shadow of pain, the silent cry for help. There was no one who could give it to him, no one who could get him off a murder charge, or manslaughter with diminished responsibility tagged on the end of it. Taffy knew what he had done and would take his punishment. That was the shadow of pain, he knew, and asked for no pity, just forgiveness.

Susie found the note and stuffed it on the dressing table as she gathered the clothes for the weekly wash. Since Taffy's arrest Dillon had been sullen, uncommunicative, staying in bed until eleven or later. She was surprised when she heard him on the phone, not that she could hear what he was saying as the tumble-dryer sounded like an express train shuddering through the kitchen.

Susie could still hear the phone pinging even when the washing was out of the dryer, and stacked up in the basket for ironing. She was filling the steam iron with water when he breezed in, and dangled the scrap of paper.

'Got a job! Cash in the hand, wallop! Nice little earner, me and the lads'll be gone a couple of weeks.'

'Gone? Gone where?' Susie asked, as she plugged in the iron.

' Scotland, they got problems with poachers.'

He was out yelling up the stairs for Steve to get his gear packed. Susie came to the kitchen door and looked up as Dillon charged up the stairs. 'You're not poaching, are you?'

He leaned over, too far over, as he beamed, 'No sweetheart, we're catchin' 'em, they need army blokes – got to camp out!'

'How long will you be gone for?'

'For as long as it takes… OI! Come on you lazy bugger let's be havin' you!'

Susie thudded the iron over the folded sheet on the ironing-board, as footsteps banged and crashed around upstairs. She heard Dillon laughing. They were acting like kids, and she took out her fury on the ironing. He hadn't even asked if she minded, not even bothered to talk it over with her, no sooner home than he was off again.

The doorbell started ringing, and she heard Jimmy arrive, then Cliff, more yells and bangs, and then Dillon walked in with his arms full of dirty washing.

'Some of Steve's gear, can you run it through the washer? The lads have arrived, we'll be off any minute.'

The dirty linen and T-shirts and a couple of pairs of filthy jeans were dumped on the kitchen floor.

'Frank!… FRANK! Just shut the door a minute!'

He kicked the door closed, 'What?'

'How long will you be gone?'

'I dunno, but we'll bring you back some salmon.'

'I see, so how much they paying you?'

'Fair whack.'

'Will this mean Steve can find a place of his own? This isn't a ruddy hotel! And it would have been nice if you'd talked it over with me first!'

'Oh, sorry, didn't know I had to ask permission to get a job!'

'Oh, stop it, I just meant that you should have discussed it with me, I don't know how long you'll be gone, you've only just got home!'

He reached out and slipped his arms around her waist. 'It's a job; we make enough dough we maybe can open our own business.'

'Pay that good is it?'

His arms tightened. 'It's good enough, now give us a kiss.'

She put the iron on its end and was about to turn in his arms when Jimmy barged in.

'Come on, we should get cracking, it's a hell of a drive – Hi, Susie – and Frank, can I have a word?'

'What?'

Jimmy inched the door -shut. 'You're sure we should take Steve? He's a bloody liability you know!'

Dillon wafted his hand. 'He's coming! You just get the gear loaded, I'll be right out.'

Jimmy hesitated and then winked at Susie. 'Bring you a fresh salmon…'

Susie shook her head. 'You sure you lot are catching the poachers not joining them?'

Jimmy laughed, and then looked back to the hallway. 'Let's get on the road then!'

Dillon gave Susie a quick kiss, eager to be gone, and followed Jimmy out. Susie looked at the stack of dirty laundry and began to stuff it into the washing machine, as Steve edged in.

He said something, but she wasn't sure what it was, then he gave a soft pathetic smile. In his crumpled clothes, the scarf he always wore knotted round his throat, his knees showing through his ripped jeans, there was still the ghost of 'The puller' about Steve, the nickname he had because the women always fell for him. Maybe it was the sweet smile, but Susie went over and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. 'You take care of Frank, okay?'

He nodded mutely, then delved into his pockets, and brought out two crumpled ten pound notes. His Donald Duck voice burped out 'Get something for the kids, and some flowers for you.'

Susie watched them pile into Jimmy's jeep. They waved and yelled up to her from the courtyard as she leaned over the railings. Steve was sitting up in the back with Cliff who was already drinking a can of lager. They were like kids on some kind of school outing, singing at the tops of their voices, happy they were playing at soldiers again. But Susie knew they weren't really playing, Frank wasn't back in civvies, not yet… Maybe the time in Scotland would get it out of his system.

The Clyde Hotel was a solid, sturdy building of dark red sandstone that at one time might have been the residence of the local laird. Built on the crest of a small hill, it had magnificent views to the north of Loch Tummel and the Forest of Atholl, and further to the west of the Grampians, grey peaks lightly dusted with snow.

Cliff drove the old Renegade jeep up the curving driveway and halted on the gravel forecourt next to the main entrance. Too early for the hunting-shooting-fishing season, the hotel had a slumbering look about it, an impression reinforced by an ancient sit-up-and-beg bicycle with a straw pannier at the front, propped against the steps.

Climbing out, Dillon has a quick look at the tripometer which they'd set that morning on leaving London. 451. Bloody well felt like it too; his arse was as numb as a witch's frozen tit. Groaning and stretching, Jimmy and Steve jumped down from the back seat they'd had to share with the bags, personal effects and other assorted paraphernalia that Dillon reckoned they needed for the job. More gear than they'd had disembarking at Port San Carlos, Jimmy thought sourly. What were they going to do, invade Perthshire?

'What time do you call this?' Harry Travers clattered down the steps in DPM camouflage pants and army boots, big beefy grin on his chops. He'd put on a few pounds since last Dillon had seen him, but on top of a barrel-chested eighteen stone it hardly mattered, and he looked in fighting trim.

Harry stuck out his hand. 'How ya doin', Jimmy? Frank. This is Don Walker from One Para…'

A younger bloke, late twenties, with longish dark hair kept in place by a bandanna, nodded to them from the top of the steps. Harry's grin changed to a scowl as he noticed Steve Harris in the background.

'Hey, what's with Harris? You never said you were bringin' him.' Still grumbling, Harry led Dillon and Jimmy up the steps, Steve trailing after, head down. 'I got a bone to pick with him – he borrowed me mate's Honda Prelude and that was the last we saw of it. He's a prat!'

Left behind with a bag in each hand, Cliff contemplated the loaded jeep and shouted after them as they all disappeared inside, 'Oh thanks lads, thanks a bundle!'

Hamish MacFarland, the hotel's owner, was already well into double figures with the Glenlivet, by Dillon's estimation, as they came into the bar. He was balanced precariously on a bar-stool, glass in one hand, his other arm draped around a stag's head that for some mysterious reason was plonked on the counter next to the beer pumps. Harry did the introductions, and MacFarland invited them all to have a drink with him, 'a wee dram' before dinner. He had another wee dram himself to keep them company.

The mention of dinner got Dillon's gastric juices flowing: motorway coffee and sandwiches had sustained them on the trip, but he realised he was starving. But he forgot about his stomach for a minute when MacFarland's daughter came through to take their orders. And a hush fell amongst the others too, the banter dying away to silence.

Dark hair, shoulder length and naturally curled, a wide mouth that smiled easily, Sissy MacFarland had a creamy complexion that didn't need make-up, lightly sprinkled with freckles, and a figure that most women could only dream of having and every man couldn't help drooling over. She treated their admiring looks and silent whistles with good-natured amusement, not offended, not affected or preening either.

'Can I take orders for dinner?' she asked, looking around, licking the tip of her chewed pencil, using an old notepad to take their orders. She was flushed from cooking, her simple cotton dress had sweat marks under the arm pits and her apron ribbons were undone. She was a mother figure whose curves and heavy breasts encouraged a man to trust her and to want her to cradle him in her lovely strong arms. And when they felt her softness, the desire for those breasts to break free, to be cupped and kissed, made Sissy, sweet Sissy the object of every man's desire. 'Salmon, Jugged hare, roast venison?' She could have said, 'I am free, I am obtainable, I am here for each one of you, I am the woman you dream of!'

The menu received a spontaneous round of applause that set every man laughing, as if knowing each other's minds. 'I'll have that!' Jimmy laughed louder than the others, giving Sissy a wink. 'Eh! Is the rest of him on the menu Gov?' Jimmy pointed to the massive stag's head, still being embraced by MacFarland. 'If it is, I'll have the jugged hare!'

MacFarland didn't seem to get the joke, or the fact that the entire menu was obviously poached. He was getting into a drunken state over his prized stag.

'I brought him down with one shot,' he slurred, misty-eyed with nostalgia bordering on the maudlin. 'They got a big 'un up at the Estate, three grand on his head for anyone lucky enough to get him… BUT, he's not a patch on my boy. I had him mounted in Edinburgh, nineteen fifty-five

Sissy came round taking their orders, getting a lot of smiles and compliments, then she crossed to Steve sitting on the fringe of the group. Steve hadn't taken his eyes off her since the moment she had entered.

'What would you like?' Sissy asked pleasantly and all the lads gave a cheer, knowing full well what Steve would like.

Steve gulped air, trying to speak, but nothing came out. The lads were already encouraging Macfarland for another round of his special malt, only Dillon watched Steve. He saw Sissy repeat her question, saw the deep flush come over Steve's face. Sissy thought Steve was just drunk, she said, 'You want the jugged hare?' and he nodded. Sissy went out, back to the kitchens. Busy in her roles as cook, waitress and receptionist she never gave Steve a second thought, but Dillon had seen his helplessness, his deep humiliation at being unable to reply to a simple query. In the old days there could have been competition, Steve would have been in like Flynn. Then he had it down to a fine art, the shy look from his wide beautiful eyes accompanied by a slow, sexy smile, and the toss of his thick black hair, had the women within seconds. The female species couldn't resist him. Now, dirty lank hair hanging over his flushed crimson face, and drunk, befuddled eyes gave no indication of what he had once been capable of as 'The Puller'; all he could do now was stare helplessly into his whisky glass. It was empty. Dillon placed a fresh glass in front of Steve, rubbed his head, and returned to the lads at the bar. He turned back. Steve was looking at him and it was to Dillon that he gave one of his smiles, as he mouthed, 'Thanks Mate.'

Wearing her best outfit, fresh lipstick and Boots' pale peach eyeshadow, Susie Dillon stood at the waist-high counter of Marway MiniCabs, nervously clutching a Sainsbury's carrier-bag of groceries. She hadn't realised till now (Marway hadn't struck her as a foreign name, when she'd noticed the ad in the evening paper) that Mr Marway was Indian, or Sikh, or something – anyway he wore a turban, and had a small pointed beard. Not that it mattered. A job was a job.

Sitting at the control panel, looking a bit out of place in a well-cut dark suit and immaculate collar and tie, Marway spoke into the microphone on its silver stalk. He flicked a couple of switches, checked off the fares on a clipboard, and then gave his attention back to Susie and her somewhat strained smile.

'Day shift is from nine until three, night shift from four until three, and you'll be driven home.' Marway's voice was a dead fit with his appearance, anyway: tasteful, evenly modulated, an educated man, no question.

'I have two boys at school, so that would be fine,' Susie said, anxious to reassure him. 'My husband is working in Scotland… I'd need someone to show me how the – er -' She made a little nervous gesture towards the control panel.

'Of course.'

Marway got up, smiling, lifted the flap in the counter and extended the palm of his hand, bidding her enter. 'What about right now?'

'You mean start straight away?' Susie said, taken aback.

'If it's convenient, and the pay is acceptable.'

Susie's eyes lit up. 'Oh yes! Yes!' She smiled delightedly, absolutely thrilled. 'I've got the job then? Oh, that's marvellous,' she said, taking his hand and shaking it. 'Thank you!'

It was that simple. Literally walking off the street and into a job. She could hardly believe it. Wait till she told Frank! But that thought didn't exactly fill her with unbounded joy, knowing his old-fashioned views on women going out to work when they had a couple of young kids to look after. Anyway, Susie thought defiantly, that's why she was doing this, for the kids, for the family. They needed money, so why not go out and earn it?

Simpler getting a job than actually doing it, Susie soon discovered. Marway wrote out a sheet of instructions, gave her an A-Z, and left her to get on with it. In-between taking calls and relaying instructions to the drivers, she managed to sneak in a call to her mother, asking her to pick up the boys from school. Bit of a white lie, that, telling Marway the job fitted round the school routine. Helen moaned at first, but then agreed, as Susie knew she would.

Less than an hour later, Helen rang back. Didn't want to panic unduly, but Kenny was complaining of a sore throat and his temperature was up. The panel started buzzing and flashing, calls piling up. In a rush, Susie told her to put him to bed, take up his favourite meal if he could face it, fish fingers and beans, chocolate-chip ice cream. She'd be home soon. 'Has Frank called?' she asked before ringing off, and instantly regretted the question even before Helen's reply came through the headphones, tart as vinegar. 'No, he's not called. But then you know him!'

Susie cut her off and went back to work.

'Marway MiniCabs… is it cash or account?… Be about half an hour, okay… Right, your name…?'

Susie was getting the hang of it now, it hadn't taken too long, and as soon as she had got over her initial fear of fouling up the switchboard, she grew less and less flustered. She was actually beginning to enjoy working and the newfound confidence it gave her. If Frank hadn't called, it was nothing new, she'd spent half their married life waiting for him to call or write – at least in Scotland there was no fear of the call or the telegram to say he was dead.

CHAPTER 16

Apart from the Tower of London, Dillon couldn't recall ever seeing a real castle, complete with turrets and ramparts, before he laid eyes on McGregor Castle, the centrepiece of the vast McGregor Estate. Riding up in the jeep with Jimmy and Cliff, the castle suddenly presented itself at the head of the glen, grey, jutting, uncompromising, outlined against a clear blue sky with faint wisps of cirrus high above. At the wheel, Jimmy gave a low whistle of awe and admiration, and from the back seat Cliff muttered grudgingly, 'Some have it all, don't they? Bet it freezes the bollocks off 'em in winter.'

The jeep juddered over a cattle grid, and the countryside became more cultivated, with sweeping lawns, groves of trees, and carefully tended flowerbeds. Harry Travers waved them down as they came up the drive and hopped on the running-board, directing them to take a side road leading to the stables and outhouses.

'You know who's in charge, do you, Frank?' Harry looked down, broad florid face and ginger moustache, wide-set piercing blue eyes fixed on Dillon. 'Old friend of yours. Malone.'

Malone. Dillon shot a venomous look at Harry, suspecting that the big man was winding him up. But Harry wasn't smiling.

'He's been in civvies for four years now.'

It was five since Dillon had seen him last. The night Hennessey's Bar went up, and the yellow bastard had run off, left the injured and dying behind, including his own comrades, in that hellish inferno.

Jimmy stopped the jeep outside the stable block. Don Walker, bandanna around his head, was in the paddock, feeding an apple to a beautiful chestnut mare. Don nuzzled the horse's soft nose, whispered to it and at the same time he clocked the lads' arrival, but he made no effort to cross over or even welcome them. He found it difficult to interact with anyone, even his own kind, his shyness and his inability to form personal relationships made him a loner. It was only with the animals that he felt at peace, felt the anger inside fade. Dillon was about to stroll over when a tall black-haired figure, dressed in an old Denison smock, emerged from one of the outhouses into the sunlight. Malone started towards the jeep, and then halted mid-stride, took a pace back as he saw Dillon. The two men locked eyes, the mutual hatred passing between them like a electrical charge.

'Well, well,' Malone said, getting a sneer into his voice, 'finding it tough in Civvy Street, are we, Frank?' Face stiff, black eyes sweeping coldly from Dillon to take in the others. 'Any aggro from any of you and you're on your way, understand?'

'Malone? Can I have a word?'

The estate manager, John Griffiths, appeared at the office door and beckoned him over. A tall, slender, fair-haired man with a beaked nose and receding chin, he had public school written all over him, and sounded it too, a drawling, negligent tone as if all the world was at his beck and call, which of course it was. Jodhpurs tucked into green Wellington boots, thick polo-neck sweater, heavily darned, with leather patches on the sleeves, he was fashionably scruffy in the approved upper-class manner, and played the part to perfection.

'You think they'll be enough? Sure they can handle it?' asked Griffiths, nodding to the group clustered round the jeep.

'The dark-haired guy's an ex-sergeant, explosives expert,' Malone said, indicating Dillon. 'We were in the same Regiment. The other four are good, steady soldiers.'

'Yes, well, this isn't exactly a war, Malone,' Griffiths retorted, a trifle testily.

Malone grinned at him insolently, not bothering to hide his distaste. He turned his head to look at Dillon, muttering under his breath, 'Wanna bet?'

Griffiths took Dillon and the others on a tour of the estate, pointing out the lie of the land, and where he felt they were most vulnerable to the poaching gangs. The scenery was breathtaking, but after seeing Malone Dillon wasn't in the mood to have his breath taken. Had he known the score, he wouldn't have accepted the job in the first place. He sat beside Griffiths in an open-topped Land Rover, the rest following on in the jeep, and tried to show polite interest, though his heart wasn't in it.

'Malone tells me you were in the same Regiment.'

'Yes, sir.' Dillon stared straight ahead. 'Then he quit, went over to the RMPs.'

'Explosives expert I believe,' Griffiths said, getting a nod and nothing more. 'How long have you been out of the Army?'

'Couple of months, sir. Eighteen years' service, sir.'

Griffiths pulled over suddenly and produced his field glasses, aiming them towards a rocky crag about five hundred yards away. 'There he is, see him?'

Dillon took the field glasses and found himself gazing at the proud, uplifted head of a magnificent stag with a huge spread of antlers. The animal surveyed the glens and lochs below, his world, his kingdom.

'He's the one with the price on his head, sir?' Dillon said, handing the glasses back.

Griffiths pursed his lips. 'Word certainly travels fast… some bloody taxidermist in Edinburgh,' he muttered darkly. 'He's very rare, and with antlers that size, a fair trophy. But he's worth a lot more than five thousand for stud.'

They drove on, Dillon glancing back. Five grand standing up there on the hill. He stroked his moustache, frowning thoughtfully.

Next stop on the itinerary was the main event, and it was clear from the boyish enthusiasm in Griffiths ' voice that the salmon tanks were his pride and joy. Enclosed in a compound of chain-link fencing topped with razor-wire, the three huge steel tanks, lined with polythene sheeting, were teeming with full-grown salmon, silver bodies flashing and tumbling in their thousands. To Dillon and the others the sight was mesmerising, almost hypnotic. They stood on a wooden gangway while Griffiths gave them the low-down.

'These are the big 'uns, the ones the poachers go for. We lost the entire stock last year, more than fifty thousand pounds' worth.' Griffiths shook his head. 'Can't afford to lose out this year.'

'How did they do it?' Dillon was curious to know.

'Very simply – Hoover them up! They move fast, and with that machine it doesn't take long…'

Cliff's jaw dropped. 'Did he say Hoover ?'

'You have any guard dogs?' Dillon asked, looking around.

'They were shot with a.22 rifle in '89. Bastards used Cymas that year; they also took the stock from the other tanks, so we were wiped out… fish and financially,' he added gloomily.

Dillon jumped down and Griffiths followed him over to the edge of the compound, the two of them looking out at the banks of heather stretching away to the stony ridge. Casting his military eye over it, Dillon was less than happy. 'You're wide open,' he said, rubbing his chin.

Griffiths spread his hands. 'To electrify the fences would be astronomical…'

Don Walker strolled up and offered an opinion. 'The one plus – if you can call it a plus – is that these men are professionals and dealing in bulk, so they need big trucks, not only to take the fish away, but to freeze it.'

'I think Malone's right,' Griffiths said. 'Best protection has to be manpower. That's why I got you chaps up here.'

Spoken like an officer, Dillon thought, which was what Griffiths was, in effect, certainly of the officer class.

The estate manager went off somewhere. Don had his field glasses out, checking the terrain. The other lads were messing about, joking and laughing, and Don waved them over, obviously excited about something.

'There he is, see him?' Don handed the glasses to Jimmy, pointing, chuffed as a schoolboy. 'Just on that ridge!'

'Oh yesssss…' The word hissed through Jimmy's grinning mouth. 'A fair set of coat hangers.'

Dillon said, 'Where's the nearest Para base to here, Jimmy?'

Jimmy turned to Dillon with a sly wink.

'This taxidermist on the level, is he? We heard last night he's got three grand on his head.'

Don grabbed the glasses off him. 'You touch him and I'll mount your fucking' head,' he promised, and stumped off.

'Nature boy's a bit touchy about the hatstand, isn't he?' Jimmy shrugged, raising an eyebrow.

Dillon said, 'Let's get the security sorted first.' He gave Jimmy a deadpan stare. 'And it's not three, it's five grand.'

'Five?' Jimmy looked towards the ridge and quickly back at Dillon. 'Thousand? Five?'

They both turned to contemplate the ridge for a moment, and then each other. A low growl of laughter came up from Jimmy's chest and he punched Dillon on the shoulder.

Steve Harris was having one of his filter problems. Leaning against the jeep, face puce, coughing and spluttering, thumping himself. Dillon went over as he was getting his breath back.

'All right, mate?' Steve nodded, sweat glistening on his brow. Dillon fished out a list and gave it to him. 'Okay, I want you to go into the village, get some stores.'

Dillon had intended to hand over the list to Griffiths, but seeing Steve in trouble he decided he would get him out of the way. 'Get yourself rested up, check your filter, okay mate?… Steve?'

Steve nodded. At that moment Jimmy walked past, he gave Steve an icy stare. 'Ruddy liability, I told you not to bring him!'

Dillon glared at Jimmy, then patted Steve's shoulder. 'Pay no attention.'

Steve stuffed the list into his top pocket, and climbed back into the jeep. His breath rattled, a hoarse sound in his chest and he couldn't look at Dillon, knowing he was already making excuses for him. He hated it. He started the engine, released the handbrake.

'Take your time, get back when you're done…'

Steve nodded, the errand boy, the waster, the liability. He looked back at Dillon, but he was already walking away, so Steve headed into the village. The simple errand of getting the stores, the packs of beer, the food for the camp was an effort. He had to write everything down and pass the note to the shop owners, and, already feeling depressed, he became worse. He needed a drink, needed something, anything, to give him the confidence to face them.

Hearing the jeep crunching over the gravel, Sissy MacFarland nipped out from behind the reception desk and skipped through the doors and down the steps.

'Mr Harris, can I talk to you for a minute?'

Steve nodded, giving her a shy smile. He gulped down some air and brought up a burp: 'Yeah! Sure!'

Sissy looked startled. He was polite all right, and very good-looking too, but she hoped he wasn't drunk at this early hour.

Steve pointed to his throat, swathed in the loose silken scarf, and said in a slow croak so that she understood, 'I just had – my tonsils – out.'

'Oh! I'm sorry.' Sissy smiled, dimples in her cheeks. 'I was wondering when your friends would be back. I really need to talk to them…' She bit her lip, and went on anxiously, 'There's two local boys going to get themselves hurt – this Malone could even kill them. They're going for him tonight.'

Steve's mouth opened, worked soundlessly. The poor boy's throat must hurt terribly, she thought, because he then scribbled something down on the back of the list and handed it to her. Sissy read it and quickly shook her head, dark curls bounding against her pale neck -'Och no! It's not Malone they're after… It's the stag.'

Steve felt better, he'd put a few pints down, and now he had something to do. It was important, he had to warn the lads about the poachers. He took a heavy swig from a bottle of scotch, and then turned the jeep round to head back to the camp.

Dillon tensed up, listening again for what had sounded like somebody or something disturbing the bracken a few yards away from the hide. Wearing his one-piece DPM combat suit with hood, lying full-length on a bed of straw, he peered through the six-inch gap, trying to discern a distinct shape in the darkness. Not a bloody sausage. Then a low whistle, and Dillon relaxed as Jimmy slithered in, teeth white against his blacked-up face. He crawled between Dillon and Harry, cradling what looked like a brand-new weapon. Dillon stared more closely. An L42 sniper rifle fitted with an IWS night sight.

'I dunno how you do it!' Dillon marvelled, envy in his voice.

'It's all down to contacts,' Jimmy bragged, chuckling.

'That prat Steve come back with the nosh?' Harry grumbled. 'I'm starvin'!'

Dillon reached for the headset as the radio emitted a couple of snaps and crackles. He twisted a dial, boosted the power with the slide control, listening intently for Cliff.

'You know what we should do?' Jimmy ruminated, lovingly running a lightly-oiled rag over the L42. 'Entice him down onto low ground… they like apples. We get him as near to the truck as possible – give ourselves a hernia if we try and lift his carcass, and -' he squinted through the night sight, crooked his finger alongside the trigger. 'Pow!'

'Word of advice, mate – keep stum about nobblin' that stag,' Harry advised him. 'Don's passionate about it!'

Dillon held up his hand for quiet, pressing the tiny button microphone nearer his mouth. 'Zero contact,' he confirmed.

Blur of static and Cliff's voice, clear as a bell.

'Alpha One to Zero. Two kids moving out of grid range south-east. Suspects armed. Looks like a crossbow. Over.'

'Zero to Alpha One. Maintain position and surveillance. Out.' Dillon flicked off, frowning. 'Going the wrong way for the salmon,' he said, and turned to Jimmy, eyes narrowed. 'Sounds like they're after the stag…'

'Shit! He's ours.' Jimmy wriggled backwards. 'Okay, I'm on my way.' He hesitated for a second, waiting for the nod from Dillon, and crawled out.

Harry folded his arms and stared morosely into the darkness. 'I wouldn't mind nickin' a salmon,' he said with feeling. 'I'm bloody starvin'.'

Pacing himself, Steve jogged for a quarter-of-a-mile, alternated it with a 'double' – double-quick-time march – over the same distance. To his right, behind the chain-link fence, the compound and the salmon tanks, to his left open countryside. Judging roughly where the hide was, he came off the lane and onto the grass verge, intending to cut across below the ridge. In the pitch-darkness he had some difficulty locating the trip-wire the lads had laid, eventually found it, and carefully stepped over. He set off at an easy run, not because he was knackered, but because the little hummocks of tough, wiry grass were treacherous as hell, and he didn't want to finish up with a sprained ankle or, worse, a broken leg.

Steve had remembered the trip-wire. He'd forgotten about the pressure pads, set at fifty-metre intervals, until he stepped on one, triggering the battery of sulphur flares which zoomed up into the dark sky, blinding white bursts of light that blanked out his vision, turning night into day.

Stumbling, almost falling, blinking furiously, all that Steve could see was a mass of whirling red dots imprinted on his retina. High above, the fizzing flares drifted slowly downwards. Steve covered his face, mouth flapping open and shut, realising too late that he was caught out in the open, exposed to enemy fire. Where was the rest of his section? Why the hell hadn't he taken cover, the first rule when encountering SF, Sustained Fire? Tracer was coming at him. Masses of red streaking dots filling the sky. He heard the rattle of machine-gun fire, opened his mouth to scream, to howl, to cry for help, and nothing came. A mortar shell landed right in front of him, and in the gritty explosion a voice yelling, Corporal Harris, take cover: Harris, get down! Harris, take cover, get back, Harris, this is an order!

The voice echoed through Steve's head, but he could see Big Blackie Jeller crunched up, howling with pain, could see him, and no way could he turn back and run for cover. Big Blackie was his mate, and he hesitated just a fraction before he disobeyed the order and went back for him. As he gripped Blackie's hand, he felt the burning red-hot sensation rip through his neck, the blood filled his eyes, his mouth, everything was red, everything was over. Then came the darkness, weeks of darkness, of terror. He didn't remember being stretchered back, airlifted to the hospital, he remembered nothing but that moment of terrible scorching pain, and now it was back, squeezing the life out of him. Rooted to the spot, Steve shook all over, his arms in uncontrollable spasms, fingers twitching, and his mouth, gaping, filled with his own blood, unable to cry out.

Don found him, curled up like a child, hands over his head. For a second Don thought someone had been caught in one of the traps. He slithered and eased his way closer, and then he realised it was Steve. Steve huddled in wretched mute hysteria, his eyes wide, staring into oblivion. Don gently eased him to sit up, but Steve seemed afraid of him, and not until he had wrapped him in his arms repeating that it was all right, that he was safe, did Don feel the rigid tension released. But Steve's hands were still like a vice, holding on to Don, and Don sat with him, rocking him, talking to him. Don, who was too shy to talk to anyone, understood, had no need for words, because he had been in that darkness, he had been in that mute land of fear.

Steve tried, once, twice, and then burped out, 'Poachers – two kids.' Don gave a pat to Steve. 'Good lad, I'll go tip off the lads… they're up in the hide, can you make it there?'

Steve nodded, watching Don move like the clappers, bent low, zig-zagging out of the way of the flares, heading back to the camp. Steve was alone again, listening to his own heartbeat slowly returning to normal, unlike the rest of him, that would never come back.

CHAPTER 17

Kids, that's all they were, one of them barely fifteen, caught out there on open moorland which a moment ago had been inky black, now lit up to the horizon with the brightness of a film set.

Even while the shock of it was still registering, their young faces frozen with panic, Harry and Cliff broke from cover, running swiftly and silently down the slope, and were upon them from behind. It was nasty, quick, brutally efficient. Grabbed by their collars, kneed in the back of the legs, stamped into a prone position, faces pushed into the ground, arms twisted behind their backs. Handcuffs slapped on, sacks rammed over their heads, muffling their terrified screams.

Worse was to come, and it came in the shape of Malone, crashing through the bracken, red-faced, veins bulging in his neck. Pumped up like a mad bull, he charged forward and took a vicious, swinging kick at one of the hooded shapes, swung round and booted the other with all his sixteen-and-a-half stone behind it.

'Hey! That's enough, Malone. Back off!'

Dillon ran up as the two boys rolled and squirmed in agony, shrieking and slobbering in pain. 'Cliff, get the bag off the kid's head,' Dillon ordered. And stepped in front of Malone as he was about to land another brutal kick, shoving him in the chest.

Glowering at Dillon, Malone snarled. 'You don't like it? You got somethin' to say about it…?' He extended his hand, fingers curled, gently beckoning. 'Come on then, come on, Dillon, let's have you!'

Dillon didn't move, didn't speak.

Slowly, deliberately, Malone unzipped his quilted jacket and tossed it down, flexing huge shoulders, hairy tattooed arms and hard biceps straining the sleeves of a black T-shirt. He beckoned again, smiling.

'Don't, Frank!' Cliff spoke quietly in Dillon's ear. 'He's a madman, he'll kill you… back off him.'

'Don't tell me,' Dillon said in a tone like cold steel, 'what to do.' Turning away, he cupped his hand under the blood-smeared frightened face of one of the boys. 'You okay, son?'

Dillon ruffled the boy's hair, then stooped to pick up Malone's jacket, was about to throw it to him when Malone flicked out a left jab, catching Dillon off-balance. Clutching the jacket in two bunched fists, Dillon took a threatening pace forward.

'Frank – don't,' Harry said, shaking his head.

Cliff stepped in, snatched the jacket from Dillon and handed it to Malone. For perhaps five seconds nobody moved. Everybody waiting to see if Dillon, seething with rage, was going to take Malone on. Nobody else wanted to, but was Dillon the man to do it? Did he have the bottle? The fifteen-year-old kid was whimpering, and as Dillon went to him, wiping blood from the boy's nose, Malone laughed. A loud, derisive laugh from the belly. And, shrugging into his quilted jacket, started to make soft little clucking chicken noises, black eyes glinting with triumphant bravado.

Turning his back on Malone, as if he hadn't heard, Dillon said stonily, 'We got a job to do, all right? Now, let's get on with it!'

But he had heard right enough, and everybody knew it.

Little Phil's hacking cough had awakened her, and as Susie hurried through in her bare feet, Kenny was at it too. She didn't turn on the light, didn't want to wake them. A chink in the curtains let in an orange glow from the corner streetlamp, giving a sepia tint to the glossy photographs pinned to the walls. Dillon and the lads, kitted up in jumping gear, boarding a Hercules, thumbs-up to the camera. A couple of the less gory shots from the Falklands. Two photos of the platoon in smart No. 2 dress-parade uniforms, collars and ties – sunlight flaring off their cap badges, taken on the square at The Depot. A large blowup in full colour of a sky filled with blossoming white and yellow parachutes – NATO manoeuvres in Germany. And postcards and mementoes from all over the world, every continent Dad had served in, plus bits and pieces of Para equipment: webbing, HALO goggles, tropical-issue water bottle, Parachute Regiment shoulder flash, the quick-release box off a PX1 harness, camouflage pattern forage cap, empty magazine clip. To the boys a hallowed shrine, material proof that Dad had been one of the famous 'Red Devils' – the meanest, toughest, fittest bunch going.

In the lower bunk, duvet kicked off, Phil was burning up, twisting and coughing in his sleep. Susie felt his forehead and the backs of her fingers came away sticky. Anxious now, she checked on Kenny in the top berth, pyjamas soaked with sweat, breath rasping. Both boys were really sick, no doubt about it.

The door was pushed open and Susie's mother peered in, hairnet over bulging curlers like an alien's headgear.

'It's mumps!' Susie whispered, distraught. 'Look at their throats…'

Don Walker found the tell-tale signs at first light, and shouted Dillon over to have a look. The two village kids had been taken into police custody, and now it was back to the more serious business – the business they were being paid for – protecting the salmon tanks. It was at the northern end of the compound, sixty yards or so from the fence, where the lane branched off into a rough moorland track. Thick hedgerows of thorn and thistles stretched away, clumps of juniper bushes dotted about.

Squatting on his haunches, Don pointed out the tracks to Dillon and Cliff. 'They've been here all right – look, tyre treads, five fag ends. There was two of 'em, and it wasn't the kids, they came in a van.' He prodded the soft churned earth with his finger and looked meaningfully at Dillon. 'These are scrambler bike tracks.'

Dillon walked a little way up the lane, surveying the general area, and came back. 'Cliff, you and Don start cutting this hedge back, it's too good a hiding place…'

'What about Steve?' Cliff interrupted, dark face a bit haggard from lack of sleep. 'He's always pissed, Frank, we want him off our backs.' He jabbed his thumb into his chest. 'We're doin' all the work!'

Dillon nodded wearily. 'I'll talk to him.'

'Hey! Frank!'

'Kick the waster out – why should we split our dough!' Cliff grumbled.

Dillon made an impatient swipe to shut him up as Jimmy drove up in the jeep, slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop. Christ, Dillon thought, somebody else with a grouse. Jimmy leapt out, eyes blazing.

'I just caught that bastard Malone red-handed! All that gear I got, the sod's been paid more'n five hundred quid. And two hundred for the radio!' Jimmy leaned nearer, fist up, voice getting throaty. 'I tell you, Frank – you don't take him, when the lads hear about this, you'll have to fight 'em off.'

Dillon closed his eyes, just for a second, to keep his sanity. Knowing Malone for the devious bastard he was, he sussed out what must have happened. Malone had been giving Griffiths some bullshit about how he'd organised the operation, got the radio and the latest sophisticated weapons, smooth-talked him that he was masterminding the whole show. The estate manager had swallowed the story, and forked out seven hundred to defray Malone's out-of-pocket expenses. Only Malone hadn't paid a red cent for the gear – Jimmy had, or Jimmy had made deals – didn't matter how they had come by the gear, the point was they had done it without Malone.

Somehow Jimmy had caught Malone bragging that he had pulled it all in, dogs, flares, radios, weapons, and the piece of shit was collecting a rake-off on the sly, as usual crapping on his mates from a great height. Dillon couldn't even pretend he was surprised: par for the course.

He said, 'You catch him at it up at the office then?'

'Yeah!' Jimmy was totally fired up. Reaching into the back of the jeep, he grabbed a pair of shears, snapped them under Dillon's nose. 'I'll cut his balls off!'

Half-an-hour later, when they returned to the compound, Malone hailed them. Dillon sniffed more trouble. A police car was parked outside the wooden office building, and over by the tanks Griffiths was talking with two uniformed officers and doing a lot of gesticulating.

'What's going down?' asked Dillon as Malone strode up, looking thunderous.

'That bloody wimp Griffiths, he's shittin' in his pants -' Malone's black brows met in the middle as he glared towards the tanks. 'He wants all the weapons in his office… the kids reported us to the cops.'

Still boiling about the money, Jimmy snapped at him, 'That was down to you, Malone!'

'I'm doin' my job,' Malone rasped through his teeth, and Dillon half-expected him to stick one on Jimmy. 'You don't like the action, you know what -'

Jimmy cut his short. 'Gettin' well-paid for it, are you!' – his voice like a whipcrack, and Dillon had to act fast. He had the jeep in first, spun the wheel and shot off even before Malone could bunch a fist.

Griffiths was standing by the desk, talking on the phone, when Dillon walked in. Dillon hesitated, but Griffiths gestured him in, a casual twitch of the wrist, nodding and saying, 'Thanks… fine, and I'll see you first thing in the morning. 'Bye.'

He put the phone down and blew out a satisfied gust of air, smacking his palms lightly together. 'That's a relief! They've bought the entire stock…'

His pleased expression wilted into one of consternation, even alarm. Dillon had dumped a large canvas holdall on the desk and was taking out a small armoury of handguns, rifles, night sights, ammo, CN canisters, commando knives in leather sheaths.

'Good God! Any of you hold licences for these?' He held up his hand. 'Second thoughts – don't answer.'

'You mind if I give you some advice?' asked Dillon, watching as Griffiths stacked the weapons in a cupboard with a heavy padlock. 'Get shot of Malone. You've got a good man in young Don, he knows the land and he's got military training for security. Give him Malone's job and hire a few of the locals on a permanent basis. Pay them enough so they won't have to poach. Lot of unemployment up here.'

Griffiths shut the cupboard and secured the padlock. Straightening up, he glanced guardedly at Dillon through his fair eyelashes. 'Not as easy as you think.' He hesitated, then went on in his educated drawl, 'Most keepers, you know, supplement their wages. So I give the butcher a few rabbits and he gives me a steak, eggs and so on…'

Dillon waited, knowing there was more to come as Griffiths went over to the window and looked out at the wooded hillside, pulling at the lobe of his ear.

'Sometimes during the pheasant shooting season a couple of the protected birds get clobbered. I mount them and sell them off in Edinburgh. Malone brought me a couple of falcons, said he'd found them after the shoot, and we split the profits. It's illegal, and I obviously knew to start with he wasn't simply finding them…' He gave a slight shrug, cleared his throat. 'Now? Well, I'm in a Catch-22 situation. If he goes to the landowner, that's me out of a job and a cottage, so I doubt I could get him to leave without a hell of a fight.'

Dillon nodded, getting the picture, and smoothed his fingertips along the line of his scar. 'There's one on the cards, sir,' he said almost inaudibly.

Griffiths looked over his shoulder, and he got the picture too, seeing the dark, threatening shadow in Dillon's eyes. Maybe there was a way they could each do the other some good.

He turned then, and said softly, 'You get Malone out of here and I'll see it to it you get a bonus on top of your wages, and Don will take over… Deal?'

They shook hands.

CHAPTER 18

Dillon couldn't make head nor tail of it. First off, it wasn't Susie who had answered the phone, it was her mother; then Helen was going on about the boys, something about being feverish, poorly. Leaning against the reception desk, one hand pressed flat against his ear, he tried to make sense of what the cold, clipped voice was telling him – as it always was, of course, that same austere, snide tone, whenever she had occasion to speak to her son-in-law. Dillon tried again.

'Well, where is she? What? She's what?' Even more mystified now. Why was Helen rabbiting on about minicabs? Had Susie gone off somewhere in one? 'What did you say? Mumps? Hang on!' He fished in his pocket as the beeps sounded, pushed a fifty-pence piece into the metal slot.

'Hello? Look, I'm gonna gave to go… what? No, I dunno when I'll be back. Just tell Sue I called.' Dillon glanced up, aware of a presence, Sissy MacFarland standing in the entrance to the bar, one hand holding the edge of the doorway. She hung back a little, waiting for him to finish his call.

Dillon said, 'Well, maybe it's a good job, it's catching, isn't it? Look, just tell her I called, okay, and… hello?'

Hung up on him. Bloody typical. Dillon banged the receiver down and pushed his hand through his hair. He could never get a straight story out of that woman. All the time she had that icy, accusing tone to her voice, as if she was blaming him for something. As if he'd made a hash of things, couldn't provide for his own wife and kids.

'Could you give me a hand?' Sissy asked diffidently. She pointed behind her. 'Only I want to close the bar…'

Dillon followed her through. Head down on the table amongst a collection of pint glasses and whisky tumblers, hair hanging over like rats' tails, Steve was gently snoring, the breath rustling and gurgling from his open mouth. One hand trailed on the floor. Dillon's lips tightened, and he shot a glance of apology at the girl, who returned a tiny shrug.

'Has he been drinking all morning?'

'I'm not sure… Dad was doing the bar, I've been in the kitchen.'

She didn't sound annoyed, more concerned than anything, Dillon thought, standing there with a small anxious frown. She looked as fresh as an advert, like a dairy maid, wearing an old print dress with coloured buttons down the front, and the hem half hanging down at the back. There was a small hole by the waist, maybe it had once held a belt, but it wouldn't have mattered, it was not the dress he was interested in.

'I tried to haul him up myself, but he's too heavy, if you knew how many times I've half carried the old man up to bed, but…' Sissy laughed. She was so free and easy and he noticed she wore no stockings, just small slip-on sandals, her legs still tanned from the summer.

Together they hauled Steve upright in his chair, both got an arm around him and hoisted him up. He was well out of it, eyes swivelling, legs like rubber and it took the two of them to get him to the stairs. He swayed, hands up to say he could make it, but then Dillon caught him as he was about to fall flat on his face.

Steve had an arm slung round Dillon and the other round Sissy as all three made it up the stairs, along the corridor to his room, and he was sagging between them as they heaved him onto the bed. It was then that Dillon noticed as he looked up and across to Sissy, that in the struggle one of her buttons had popped revealing a milky white, heavy breast. It gave him an erection at just the first look. He didn't even have to think. She wore no bra, and was still unaware of the fact she was on display, still trying to get Steve out of his jacket but as she turned him over she looked up, not into Dillon's eyes because, she realised, they were focused on her tits.

Sissy laughed, a marvellous throaty giggle, as she pulled her dress closer. 'I must have lost a button… sorry, can I leave it to you to get him undressed?'

Dillon nodded, thinking what he would give to rip that floral print right off her – he was almost as flushed as Steve. Sissy went out, leaving the door open as Dillon dragged off Steve's jacket, then eased off his shoes. His feet stank! Dillon pulled the duvet round him and as he bent forward, Steve's eyes opened. 'I thi-gulp-she fan-gulp cies… me!'

The beer fumes disgusted Dillon, and he let the duvet flap over Steve's head. He heard a drunken guffaw as he let himself out. Sissy was on her hands and knees, skirt up, searching around the corridor for her lost button and her arse was as much a turn on as her beautiful heavy breasts. Dillon moved towards her, trying to think of something, anything, to say but he was as dumb-struck as Steve.

'I found one! The other may be on the stairs!'

Sissy held up the button, and turned as if to walk down the stairs. Then she paused, 'Is he okay, maybe he needs some coffee?'

'He's okay.' His voice sounded hoarse, he wanted to hold her, draw her to him, but he couldn't, he just stood there, and then she cocked her head to one side and smiled.

'You hungry?'

Oh God! Was he hungry? He wanted to eat her, suck those big beautiful tits, wanted to hold her, he pushed at his pants, the pecker was talking for him. He knew if she came within arm's length he wouldn't be able to resist, he'd have to drag the rest of the little floral number off her, but it was just a fantasy…

'Ah! Well, isn't that lucky, I've found another button.' She held it out in the palm of her hand. He smiled and leaned against the wall.

Sissy slipped the two buttons into her pocket. She looked at Frank Dillon with his head slightly bowed, his cheeks flushed. He had the most piercing eyes she had ever seen on anyone, but he wouldn't lift them, he seemed afraid or embarrassed to look at her.

That room's empty…' Sissy looked at him and slowly he raised his head. He gave a low soft moan, and she crossed to him, lifting his right hand and slipping it inside her dress. The softness of her made him gasp.

Dillon still could not really believe he'd scored, but when she drew him towards room 22, opened the door, and walked in, turning back just for a second to look at him, he knew he had, as Sissy read in his ice-blue eyes what she had hoped, wanted from the first moment she had seen him.

A few minutes or several hours, he had no notion of how long he slept – or rather dozed – because whenever he drifted off a sour bubbling nausea rose up in his chest, and the bed, the ceiling, the universe went into a corkscrew spin that made him clutch the sides of the mattress, anxious to stay on the planet.

On one of these endlessly whirling voyages, ill with dizziness, Steve decided he could stand it no more. He gathered up a few shreds of willpower, groped his way off the bed and lurched to the door.

Bathroom. Which way? He could feel the prickle of cold sweat erupting on his forehead, each individual bubble breaking out, trying desperately to quell the gobbet of sickness rising in him and keep it down until he found a friendly lavatory bowl. Stumbling along the corridor, hand out to steady himself, he heard a low moan, quite unmistakable. The moan was heavy with sex, heavy with pleasure, heavy… someone being fucked, well and truly fucked. Steve went very still, listening, then moved closer to the door of room 22, just two rooms down from his, and pressed his ear to the wooden panel. The rhythmic creak of bedsprings, the woman gasping, the man grunting as he thrust into her. Swaying back on his heels, Steve realised there was a fractional gap, the door not fully on the catch. He pressed his hand against the panel, inching it open, and craning forward, slid his head round the edge of the door.

In the dim light filtering through the drawn curtains he registered two naked forms, the pale blur of a face turning towards him -

'Sod off!'

The bedsprings twanged, hard thudding footfalls across the bedroom floor, and next thing Dillon's hoarse bark of anger, 'Go on – get out!' as the door was slammed shut in his face.

In the bathroom Steve fell to his knees on the tiled floor, bent over, retching, speaking on the big white telephone in fluent Swahili.

Sissy waved to Dillon from the window, and gave him a warm, affectionate smile. He climbed into the jeep, switched on, and as he was reversing, tooted the horn and blew her a kiss. Sissy giggled, waved again, and watched him head down the drive, disappearing through the trees.

She spun round then, letting the curtain fall back, at the sound of a handle turning, her eyes widening as Steve came in and kicked the door shut with his heel. He leaned his head back against it, watery eyes in an ashen face, breath rasping harshly as if he'd run a mile. With a trembling finger he pointed to his throat.

'It's not my tonsils…'

Gathered the neckerchief in his hand and pulled it down.

'See… you want to see?'

Sissy shook her head, drawing the bedcover tighter, white rounded shoulders and the upper slopes of her breasts lightly dappled with freckles. 'I think you'd better leave…'

The tremor in Steve's fingers had taken over his entire body. She could see the pent-up emotions physically raking through him, and as he tried to speak, and failed, in his rage and frustration he thudded his side with his fist, trying to release the log-jam inside. But what frightened Sissy most of all was the glazed look of rabid desire in his eyes; not seeing her as a person, as a woman, merely an object of lust with which to satisfy his own cravings.

'Just leave, please…' Sissy could feel her cheeks quivering in a nervous half-smile she couldn't control, moving away from the white rectangle of the bed as he pushed himself off the door and shambled towards her.

'I want you…'

Grunted, garbled, the words were incomprehensible to her but their meaning and intention were plain. Sissy backed away, knuckles white where they gripped the bedcover, real palpable fear making her eyes bright and bringing a fluttering, breathy laugh of nervous release.

Steve's mouth twisted, turned into a snarl. The bitch was laughing at him. Mocking his pain and humiliation. And in blind black rage he lashed out, his open palm cracking Sissy across the mouth, sending her stumbling into the closet door, blood spurting from her split lip.

'No! Sorry…' Steve reached out, tears springing into his eyes. 'No, I didn't mean-'

Sissy went rigid, screamed as his fingers dug into her bare shoulders. Terrified, she screamed again, and Steve clamped his hand over her mouth, stifling her, and with the girl struggling frantically in his arms he lost all control and struck her hard against the side of the head, knocking her to the floor. Grabbing a fistful of dark curly hair, he flung her onto the bed. Sissy squirmed away from him, uttering little tremulous cries of panic, and as she tried to escape Steve dragged the bedcover off her and flung it aside.

Her nakedness sent a shock-wave through him. Not sexual desire. A deeper, murkier, more unspecified emotion. Something like shame, mingled with the loss of what he had once been, and the unbearable reality of what he had become. A life, his life, once bright with promise, girls at his beck and call, wiped out and wasted by a sniper's bullet. Empty, futile, pathetic. Now there was nothing, and all he could do was stand and stare, trembling all over, the breath wheezing in the plastic tube, feeling the hot tears on his face as he broke down into helpless, uncontrollable weeping.

When Sissy slithered to the floor and wrapped the bedcover around her, his attempt to stop her was feeble and half-hearted, and he didn't even raise his bowed head when she ran to the door.

There was blood on his fingers, from Sissy's burst lip.

Steve blinked at it, swaying slightly, and he fell forward onto the bed, face buried in the rumpled sheets, his whole body heaving. In torment he rolled onto his back and stared up at the blurred ceiling. 'Steve … oh Steve,' a hoarse, agonised whisper, as if calling to himself.

It wasn't a woman he wanted, not a woman, there had been too many, no one special. He was never with one long enough to give them any serious thought, or care if he saw them again, he was too young, had been too young to think about settling down, having a wife, kids, raising a family, he didn't ache for that. He cried out for the Steve that was always the centre of attention. The Steve that nudged and winked and said, 'I'll have the blonde' – or the redhead – the one every bloke was trying to get their hands on, he didn't cry for that or call out his name for the loss of pulling a chick. He cried out to the Steve standing up on the table in the bars and clubs, the Steve who jumped up on the stage and took off Tom Jones, the Steve who could sing himself hoarse, to the cheers and catcalls of his mates. He ached for the Steve everyone liked, the joker, the guy everyone made sure was along for the piss-ups and the curries, because if Steve was around, you'd have a good time, and if Steve was pissed, he'd get up and sing. He'd always fancied himself fronting a band, and with a beer bottle as a microphone he looked the business, was the business, but that Steve Harris was someone he had known a long time ago, in another lifetime, now he ached for the loss of himself, the Steve Harris who was never coming back.

CHAPTER 19

The light was ebbing away, a few faint early stars sprinkling the darker sky to the east, and a pallid segment of moon creeping up behind the brow of the hill, directly ahead. Steve wasn't drunk yet – so far just three or four pulls from the bottle of Teacher's – but that was his aim, pure and simple. Blind stinking into sweet oblivion. It wasn't the answer, he knew that, but it was the only answer he had.

Bordered by thick hedgerows, the lane wound upwards, curved back on itself before rising above the treeline and most of the surrounding countryside, then dipping down into the next glen. Steve unscrewed the cap, treated himself to a good belt, felt the ball of heat expand from the pit of his stomach and radiate outwards. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he went suddenly still, his meandering eye caught by a flurry of activity further down the hill. The light wasn't good, but Steve had 20/20 vision. Two caravans were parked under the trees, half-a-dozen men moving about, and at first he thought it might be a gypsy encampment until he spotted the scrambler bikes being wheeled from the back of a van. That didn't seem right.

From the top of the bank he had a better view, and it definitely wasn't right. A large panel-sided truck with a fretwork of aluminium refrigeration tubes above the cab was being backed out onto the road, chugging blue diesel smoke. One of the men appeared round the side of the caravan and went up to the passenger side window and handed something up. At this distance and in this murky light Steve couldn't be sure – not absolutely – but it looked to him like a double-barrelled shotgun.

'Take it easy, come on, breathe slowly,' Dillon said, holding Steve by the shoulders to steady him. The lad was done in, sweat pouring off him, the neckerchief soaked through. He tried to speak, but all Dillon could get were gasping croaks and gurgles. The other lads, sprawled on the grass outside the hide, eating out of mess tins, couldn't have given a toss. The useless pillock in one of his usual drunken flaps, so what else was new?

'Easy now… slow… what's up, Steve?'

Dillon listened close as Steve finally got a word out. Poachers. And then in a burping, gulping rush, he got the rest of it. Dillon patted Steve on the back, well done, and turned to the others.

'Six men, two scrambling bikes – and they'll be armed.' He leaned nearer, nodding, as Steve burbled on. 'Yeah, yeah, okay…'

'Good double act you two've got going,' said Jimmy sardonically, glancing round the circle.

Dillon was stung. 'We're going to have to have a good act, because if they're armed to the teeth I'm not prepared to endanger any one of you,' he told them all straight.

Harry wiped a residue of cold baked beans from his moustache. 'What about Malone?' he asked, belching softly.

'Malone is going to be right in there -' Dillon jabbed his finger at the turf-covered hide ' – out of our way!'

That was Plan A. Plan B Dillon was keeping under his hat, at least for the time being. Within the half-hour he had his lads deployed: sending Jimmy, Don and Steve down to the salmon tanks while Cliff and Harry kept watch through night binoculars. Illuminated by two large battery arc lamps, the compound seemed peaceful enough, the large steel tanks clearly visible under their wire-mesh netting. The police had turned up, and through the binns Cliff could clearly see Jimmy gabbing away to two young uniformed officers, who seemed to need a bit of persuading.

'Come on, cut the gas, Jimmy,' Cliff muttered, sharpening up the focus. Then he grinned and reported, 'They're trotting back to the Panda, radioing in… we just scored out.' Glancing round at Harry, already on the move, two flak jackets under his arm, he called out: 'We need their caps as well, and get the car hidden.'

Harry gave the thumbs-up and went off through the heather.

Malone was squatting by the radio, headset on, when Dillon poked his head inside the hide. Spread across his knees a 1:50,000 Ordnance Survey map squared up with red lines, which he was marking with pencil crosses. 'Who've I got on the south ridge, Alpha Three? Ahh, yeah, got it.' He made a cross, spoke into the mike, 'So we've covered the entire area, okay, okay… I'm all set.'

Malone couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery, Dillon thought, but if he had delusions of grandeur that he was running the show, then let him. As long as the bastard stayed put and didn't get in their way.

Dillon gave him a level-eyed stare. 'An' we're depending on you – these guys could be armed and we've got nothin' but a few pickaxe handles. So we keep in radio contact at all times.'

Malone nodded, sure, no sweat, and watched with hooded eyes, waiting until Dillon had scrambled out before easing over and flipping back the corner of the blanket. Grinning, he touched the polished stock of the large-bore shotgun and ran his fingers along the blue-black barrel. Sure, Dillon, old buddy, no sweat.

Dillon had all the angles covered. At least he hoped to God he had. With the type of refrigerated rig Steve had described, it was obvious that these guys were tough, committed professionals. They'd invested thousands, knew where to lay their hands on the right equipment, had done their homework, and were playing to win. Well, so was he: Plan A the shop-window dressing, Plan B the sucker punch; come the dawn he'd know if his pass with distinction in tactical battlecraft at Pen-y-Fan in the Brecon Beacons was all it was cracked up to be, not just a scrap of paper with his name in fancy scroll letters.

3.29 a.m. Silent as the grave, the pale sliver of moon now riding high behind thin trailers of cloud scudding in from the west.

3.30 a.m. The peace suddenly shattered by the roar of engines – the white truck careering along the narrow lane, headlights blazing, picking up speed on the slight downhill slope leading to the main gate, the two scrambler bikes close behind like flanking outriders.

Reinforced with steel bars to take the impact, the truck smashed through the gate, immediately tripping the wires and setting off the sulphur flares which zoomed up and burst with dazzling brightness over the compound. The raiders had planned it to the split-second. Even before the truck had slewed to a stop alongside the first tank, the rear doors had been flung open. Two men in balaclava masks leapt out, shotguns in their hands. Up front, the driver jumped down and ran round to assist his companion, the gang's leader. He was already up on the wooden walkway, hauling back the covering mesh. Two men working the tanks, the other four forming a shield around them. It was that simple.

Don ran forward, holding the dogs on a long leash. The Alsatians were going crazy, snapping and snarling. About to release them, Don hesitated. He cared for the animals, and he'd seen the shotguns the raiders were carrying. Even if the dogs got one man, two at the most, they'd still get blasted. Halfway across the compound, he met the first masked raider head on. Only his eyes could be seen through the ragged slit, bulging, bloodshot in the corners. Shotgun at the hip, finger on the trigger, the raiders snarled. 'Get the dogs in, leash 'em before they get their heads blown off!' He jerked the weapon. 'Come on! Come on, you wanna die?'

At Don's word of command, the dogs immediately quietened, heads down between their paws. The raider swung up the shotgun, indicating a wooden post next to the office. 'Tie ' em up. Move it!'

Shortening the leashes, Don obeyed, then put his hands on his head. He hoped the gesture might be conciliatory, but it wasn't. For his trouble he got the butt of the shotgun in his ribs, a gentle warning not to try anything as the raider frisked him for weapons.

The low whine of an auxiliary power unit started up, increased to a high-pitched howl. Swinging the plastic suction hose into position, the leader dipped it into the first tank. The driver reached inside the cab and threw a switch. The water churned. Under the powerful force, the thousands of swarming salmon were sucked into the large nozzle. Their flashing silvery bodies shot down the transparent tube and into a square plastic container supported by a metal framework, on the ground next to the rear doors. Layer by layer, the fish piled up inside, packed solid.

The two young police officers, now wearing flak jackets over their blue shirts, were being herded out of the bushes. One had foolishly tried to use his personal transceiver, attached to his collar. It had been torn off and stamped into pieces, and now he found himself staring into the business end of a shotgun.

'Move… come on, and get face down!'

'We are police officers,' the other one bravely tried. 'Put down your -'

'Yeah, an' I'm Sylvester Stallone, pricks.' The raider prodded them forward with savage jabs in the back. 'Down… get down on your faces!'

The two policemen lay down, hands stretched out in front of them. The other raider came up, pushing Don ahead of him, his hands clasped behind his neck. One of the officers tried to get up. The raider smashed a boot into his back and stuck the shotgun barrel into the nape of his neck. Don, forced down on his knees, his hands being roughly tied behind his back, yelled at the two young coppers. 'Just do what they want, do what they tell you!'

The raider swung the butt, gave Don a crack across the head that sent him sprawling, semi-concussed.

'Thanks,' the raider grinned. ' – You heard him, keep it shut, all of you.'

From his station on the rough ground overlooking the tanks, Steve dodged from bush to bush, hoping to sneak in on their blind side. But it was too late, he'd been spotted. One of the scrambler bikes came bucking up the hillside towards him. Steve broke from cover, wielding a crowbar. The rider charged straight for him, and Steve swung the crowbar over his shoulder, ready to swipe him from the saddle. Almost on top of Steve, the rider slammed on his brakes, flipped over the shotgun strapped to his back, cocked it and aimed it. He knew how to handle it, and he was in no mood for funny business.

'Start heading to the tanks,' the rider barked, 'move!' And as Steve took a few steps forward, growled out, 'Chuck the spanner, sunshine. Hands on your head – get down to the tanks!'

Steve tossed the crowbar down. Hands on his head, he moved down the hillside, the rider revving a few yards behind. He'd done his best, feeble as it was; now it was up to Dillon and the lads – and Plan B.

Malone had an ace up his sleeve – or so he thought. Having crept out of the hide and circled round, he suddenly leapt out, shotgun blasting, doing his Clint Eastwood act. Reacting too late, he heard the stuttering roar of an engine behind him. Before he knew what was happening, the second bike rider rammed him in the legs. Malone went tumbling, arse over tip, the shotgun spinning from his hands. He scrambled up, wild-eyed with panic, sense of direction gone. The rider skidded over the steep rough ground, trying to make a turn. The bike went out of control, lost traction, and bike and rider went slithering downhill, sideways on.

Sweating with fear, Malone legged it up the hillside. The perimeter fence lay ahead, but he knew of a gap, and once through it he'd have the sheltering woods to hide in. Malone didn't intend getting a bullet in the gut for a few stinking fish. Nor for the benefit of that upper-class twit Griffiths, no way. The idea that he was also leaving his mates behind didn't even enter his head.

Herded forward by the bike rider, Steve stumbled towards Don and the two policemen, lying face down, hands and legs tied. One of the men guarding them kicked Steve's legs from under him, the other dragging his arms behind his back and tightly knotting his wrists together. The second bike rider came bouncing down the slope, steering with one hand, the other clutching the knee he'd injured in falling.

'Hey, come on, over here – we need help!'

The leader waved his men over. Two of the three plastic containers were packed to the brim, ready to be lifted into the back of the truck. The third was half full, the driver up on the walkway suctioning out the last tank.

Leaving one man to watch over Steve and the others, the two bikers gunned their machines across the compound, the second raider following at the run. Together with the leader they heaved two of the containers inside the truck. With the third not yet full, the leader ordered them to pack up. Unhooking the suction tube, the driver jumped down, and while the others manhandled the third container into the truck, he stowed away the equipment. As the bikes were handed up, the driver was already in the cab, revving up, ready for off.

The raider standing guard hung on until the very last moment, waiting for the truck to reverse. But he was getting jittery, and finally as he raced across, burst out yelling, 'Come on, come on, move it, move it!'

He leapt up and was dragged inside by three pairs of hands. Engine bellowing, the white truck sped towards the gates, rear doors swinging and banging, and roared off in a cloud of blue diesel smoke.

CHAPTER 20

'What did I tell you?' Ripping off his mask, the leader tossed it onto the windscreen ledge. He lit up, sucked in a deep lungful, the flare of the match lighting up his grinning features. 'Like taking candy… Yeerrsss, beautiful, even more than I thought. Bloody beautiful…'

The driver nodded, concentrating on the narrow lane in the splay of headlights, anxious to keep clear of the deep ditches on either side. He slowed for a bend, and as they came round it, the leader sat up sharply, staring through the windscreen. 'Shit, what the hell is this?'

A police Panda was tilted over, one wheel in the ditch, headlight beams shining into the undergrowth. The officer behind the wheel was obviously trying, without success, to back it out. Another uniformed policeman in a flat cap stepped into the centre of the lane and flagged them down with his torch.

A scared voice from the back of the truck hissed through the grille, 'For Christ's sake, drive on, keep moving!'

The leader snatched his mask from the ledge and stuffed it under the seat. 'Get your masks off,' he ordered curtly, 'guns out of sight.'

He wound the window down as the policeman approached, flashing his torch. Leaning out, all smiles, the leader said, 'Trouble, officer? You want us to give you a hand?'

The officer came right up to the open window. The face underneath the checked cap was lean and hard, with a dark moustache, a thin vertical scar on the left cheek.

'Had a blow-out, deer ran straight into us,' Dillon said. 'Might need you to haul us out of this ditch.'

Inside the truck, crammed between the plastic containers packed with salmon and the two scrambling bikes, the four raiders stood in darkness, waiting tensely. One of them raised his shotgun, cocked the hammer. A hand gripped his wrist, warning him to stay quiet.

At the open window, Dillon casually looked back at Cliff sitting behind the wheel of the Panda. He gave the signal with his torch. Cliff put the car in reverse, and the Panda, far from stuck, shot back into the lane, blocking it.

'Must be your lucky night,' the leader said, still faking his sunny smile.

Dillon said, 'But it's not yours, mate,' and rammed the torch in his face. The leader jerked back, shocked by the light in his eyes and the blow in his teeth. Dillon chucked the torch away, and reaching right in, he got a lock on the man's throat, crushing his windpipe. Cliff was at the door opposite. He yanked it open and dragged the driver onto the road.

Behind the truck, Harry came out of hiding, and signalled along the lane. With Jimmy driving, Steve and Don in the back, the jeep screeched up and stopped a couple of yards away, completing the ambush. The men jumped down and formed a semi-circle round the rear doors, pickaxe handles at the ready.

Still holding the man by the throat, Dillon yelled back, 'Nobody goes in… wait, wait!'

Dillon jerked the leader forward until their faces were practically touching. 'You got three seconds to get them to lay down their guns. I want them out, hands on heads.'

His fingers dug harder into the windpipe, throttling the man.

'One… two…'

The leader flailed his arms, banging the back of the cab with his fist. A voice from inside yelled, 'Okay, okay… we're coming out!'

Malone was laying into Griffiths, as if holding him personally to blame. Standing outside the estate office in the grey light of dawn, they were toe-to-toe, Malone stabbing his finger in Griffiths ' chest, then jabbing it towards the tanks.

'They cleaned 'em all out… no weapons you said, you got no friggin' fish now!'

Griffiths cupped his forehead in his palm. 'Oh Christ…' he murmured wearily, totally beaten.

The blast of a horn made them both whip round. Malone's jaw dropped. Griffiths just stared, blinking incomprehendingly.

With Don at the wheel, Dillon beside him, the white truck drove into the compound and pulled up with a gasp of compressed air. The jeep was right behind it, horn tooting, the rest of the lads aboard, standing up and yelling their heads off.

'Morning, sir,' Dillon greeted Griffiths cheerfully, jumping down. He gestured with his thumb. 'Salmon's ready for collection, save the buyers getting their hands wet. We've got them all on ice, ready for the weigh-in.'

Malone pointed at Dillon, neck pumping. 'That bastard set this up with the gippos -'

Dillon jerked his head at Steve, who reached into the jeep and took out a shotgun. He tossed it to Dillon. 'What's this, Malone?' Dillon hefted the shotgun, his eyes flat and cold, his voice scathing. 'Only one of us was armed, and you still turned tail and ran…'

Griffiths was still having trouble taking all this in. He went to the back of the truck, where Don opened the doors and proudly showed him the containers of salmon inside. Malone knew something was in the wind. Something stank, and it wasn't rotten fish. It was starting to look bad for him, and he wasn't going to stand for it. That bastard Dillon was behind this, he felt it in his water. He strode after the estate manager, anxious not to have his nose pushed out. And sure enough, Griffiths was smiling, clapping Don on the back. Malone was about to lay into him when Dillon strolled up. White to the lips, Malone turned on him instead, almost incoherent in his fury.

'Guys like you, Dillon, are bein' churned out into civvies every day of the week… an all of them thievin' bastards.' He pointed at the back of the truck. 'You set this up!'

Dillon squared up to him. He'd had as much as, and more than, he was ever going to take from Malone. But his tone was quiet and calm, and he was in total control.

'Okay, Malone,' he said evenly, 'in front of witnesses. We want that five hundred quid you nicked from us. If you want to make it double or quits, now's the time.'

Malone got his meaning loud and clear. It wasn't just the money Dillon was on about. Something more important had to be settled, once and for all. It almost amounted to a blood feud between the two of them. Like a festering boil of bitter black hatred, it had to be lanced. The wound had to be torn open, the gangrene exposed and gouged out.

Griffiths, as well as any of them, knew what was about to take place; he sensed that it was inevitable, and no matter what he said or did it was bound to happen. But he wasn't prepared for its raw brutality, for its sheer animal ferocity.

But then, he'd never witnessed a one-to-one brawl between two ex-Paras before.

Malone didn't wait for the off. He charged straight in, head-butting Dillon, opening up the old sniper abrasion above his right eye. Blood spurted out, running freely down Dillon's face, soaking into his shirt collar.

Leering, Malone raised both hands, waving him on. 'Come on then, Dillon, you been beggin' for it, come on…'

Still dazed, Dillon shook his head to clear it. He looked at the blood on his fingers, and then stripped off his camouflage smock.

Although both men were expert in the techniques of unarmed combat, they'd had their share of dirty street fighting too, and that's what this turned into. It was ugly to watch. Clawing, biting, scratching, kicking, each sought to disable his opponent by any means possible. Malone, bigger and heavier, could have beaten Dillon in a test of pure physical strength, but Dillon wasn't going to give him that chance. He kept in close, fingers clawing at Malone's eyes, trying to rip off his ears. Malone bit into Dillon's forearm and it took a knife-edged open palm across the bridge of the nose to make him let go. Then a savage kick swept Dillon's legs from under him. Down he went, dragging Malone with him, the two of them rolling in the dirt, using fists, elbows, knees to inflict maximum damage.

Appalled, Griffiths watched as the two men grappled with each other, tumbling and rolling across the compound towards the stables and the fodder barn. The lads kept pace with the action, crouching, fists clenched, cheering Dillon on. It was a fight to the finish, to the bitter end; no truces, no split decisions; one victor, one vanquished.

Scrambling up, Malone grabbed a rake, swinging it viciously at Dillon's head. Ducking low, Dillon dived for a pitchfork leaning against the barn door. The two weapons clashed together, striking sparks. Dillon twisted the pitchfork, snapping the rake in two, then jabbed at Malone's stomach, forcing him inside the barn. The lads crowded in the doorway, yelling Dillon on. Half-blinded with blood, his face and neck covered in cuts and bruises, Dillon was eking out his last few precious ounces of strength. Malone sensed it. He waited, arms spread wide, for Dillon to jab again, then wrenched the pitchfork out of his grasp and turned it back on him. Dillon tripped, went sprawling backwards onto the straw-covered floor. With a snarl, Malone thrust downwards at Dillon's head, the four sharp tines burying themselves in the earthen floor as Dillon squirmed out of the way. He made a grab at Malone's leg, bringing the big man down – splat! – in a heap of horse manure.

'Good one, Frank!' Harry's usual florid complexion was shining beetroot-red. He pumped his fists like pistons. 'Go for it, finish him off, Frank!'

Smeared with horseshit, Malone pulled a fire bucket off its hook and hurled sand in Dillon's eyes. As Dillon backed away, temporarily blinded, he followed up with a kick to the groin that made every man there's eyes water. Dillon went down clutching himself, doubled over in agony.

'For God's sake,' Griffiths cried out, ashen-faced, 'someone had better stop this…'

Cliff raised an eyebrow. 'You want to get between them sir?' he inquired.

Malone spun a tap above a metal drinking trough and sluiced his head, shaking water out of his eyes. He pushed his hand through his glistening black hair, alert once again, ready for the final round.

'Look, Dillon, call it off,' Griffiths begged, wringing his hands. 'I'll make up the five hundred he owes you, this has gone far enough.'

Dillon spat out a mouthful of sand. He was back on his feet, but none too steady, and even after Harry tipped a bucket of water over him, he seemed dazed, blinking at Malone as if unable to focus. Chest heaving, water dripping off him, Dillon looked exhausted, all but done in.

'You quittin', Dillon?' Malone taunted him, teeth bared in a sneering grin. 'Want to quit, Dillon…?'

Dillon wiped his hand down his face. When it came away, his eyes were staring. He was seeing Malone all right. The big square face, the black bar of his eyebrows. But Malone wasn't grinning. His face had a sickly grey pallor. His eyes were rolling, the whites showing, his mouth slack and quivering, as he burst from the toilet cubicle in the side passage of Hennessey's Bar…

'Come on Malone, get back in there!'

After swearing the pub was clear, the bastard was trying to do a runner. Didn't have the guts to stay and help. Only interested in saving his own yellow skin. Throwing Dillon off, barging his way into the crush of people jammed in the narrow passage, pushing bodies aside in a frantic effort to get out.

Still staring, Dillon said, 'Like the way you ran out on my lads?' He shook his head, his breathing hoarse. 'I'm not quitting!'

Malone lunged forward. Dillon hit him. Once. A sweet right hand, smack in the teeth. Malone went cross-eyed. His legs buckled and he sank, very slowly, to his knees and toppled over.

'You had that coming for a long time, Malone,' Dillon panted, and with a smile at the lads fell down flat on his face.

'Just keep still… you're gonna have a beaut, split open like a tomato, mate.' Harry dabbed with a red-speckled towel, then stuck a plaster across Dillon's right eyebrow. Cliff stood nearby with a bloody sponge and a bucket of rose-tinted water. 'How's your ribs?' Harry asked.

Dillon eased himself into a sitting position in the back of the jeep. If his eyebrow was like a split tomato, the rest of his face resembled a blue and purple pumpkin. He pushed Harry's hand away. 'Gerroff me… you're makin' it worse!' Groaning, Dillon gingerly touched his cheekbone. 'I feel terrible…'

Jimmy bounded up, grinning fit to bust. 'How's about this to make you feel on top of the world, mate!' He waved a thick bundle of notes in the air, licked his thumb and peeled through the twenties. 'Two weeks' wages, plus – you won't believe this, but his Lordship thought you took a beatin' from the poachers – bonus – one grand!'

Cheers and shouts from the lads clustered round the jeep. 'No, wait,' Jimmy held up his arms, 'plus, plus – Malone is out, and…' He wrapped his arm around Don's shoulder, who gave him a shy, quizzical smile. 'Don-boy here is now head keeper!'

Don went beetroot-red, stuttered, thank you, thanks, nodding his head up and down. Afraid to show how much it meant to him, he did a runner, running like the deer he loved, and they watched him running, watched him take a flying leap into the air, then they heard him whooping at the top of his voice, arms above his head, fists clenched.

Jimmy laughed. 'Well, he seems happy enough! Guy's a real fruit!' Then he leaned closer to Dillon, whispering. 'Eh, what you say Frank, we can make it a nice round figure…' He flicked the wad of notes and slipped his arm around Dillon's shoulder. 'We could take him tonight, drive the carcass to Edinburgh, with nature boy owin' us, he can turn a blind eye, what you say Frank?'

'Forget it!' Dillon shrugged him off. He called out, 'Come on, let's get home.'

'Why? Who's to know it was us?'

Dillon didn't think it needed explaining, but obviously it did.

'Because he's free, Jimmy, don't let some bastard nail him to a wall.'

'Dillon!' Malone shouted.

As he came towards them, Jimmy whispered nastily, 'Okay, we'll nail this bastard instead…'

'Just stay put!' Dillon said.

Malone stopped a yard away, looking anywhere but into Dillon's face. He hesitated, then in a mumble, 'Rumour has it you and your lads are startin' up your own security firm.'

'Yeah, we're thinking about it.'

Malone took a thick buff envelope from his inside pocket and held it out. 'You won this, take it, it was double or quits, right?' He cleared his throat. 'It's a grand, Frank. Cash.'

Dillon took the money, handed it to Jimmy. He didn't say anything, just watched Malone's lowered head, the Adam's apple jerking in his throat. Dillon thought he was going to turn away, but then Malone said in a rasping voice that was full of torment, 'I checked out that pub, Frank, I swear before God…' His choking voice faded away to a whisper. 'Those lads that died… it wasn't my fault.'

Not his fault. That was all right then. Big fucking consolation.

Dillon said, 'Thanks for the dough.'

The jeep drove out. Malone stood watching until it was gone from sight. As if to himself, he repeated. 'I checked out that pub, Frank, I swear before God…' but no one heard, he was alone with his guilt, as he had always been, feeling it eating into him, seeing the bodies lined up outside the charred remains of the pub, seeing those six young lads Dillon had strode in with, seeing their faces hideously disfigured, their bodies twisted. He had never forgiven himself, would never forget their six pitiful bodies, the bodies of the women and young blokes. They stayed locked inside his big barrel chest, locked inside his bullish head, and when the memories squeezed out in his nightmares, when he woke up sweating, he always saw Frank Dillon's face, his blue eyes more brilliant, like ice shafts in his smoke blackened face, that accusing vicious face haunted him like the dead. Malone knew why Dillon hated him, knew it, took it, and no matter how far he tried to hide himself, even to a bloody salmon farm in Scotland, Dillon caught up with him.

'I checked out that pub, Frank, I swear before God… it wasn't my fault.'

CHAPTER 21

Dillon went up the steps of the Clyde Hotel, calling back to the lads in the jeep. 'I'll be five minutes!'

The lads exchanged knowing grins, and a chorus of whistles and cat-calls followed Dillon inside. From reception he glimpsed Sissy at the top of the stairs. She saw him and quickly turned away.

'Sissy… Sissy wait. I wanted to say goodbye, me and the lads are on our way home.' As Dillon mounted the stairs, Jimmy came in behind him and nipped through to the bar. Dillon went up, attempting to explain, 'I don't want them boozed up for the drive… Sissy?'

She was in her room, sitting on the bed, her face to the window.

Dillon knew at once. Even though Sissy wouldn't say anything, or even look at him, Dillon knew the instant he saw the angry bruising on her cheekbone, the puffy lip where it had been split. He knelt on the carpet, his stomach trembling, and gently took her face in his hands. 'Steve did this to you?'

'I didn't call the police, or anything, he -' Sissy swallowed, her eyes downcast. 'I even feel sorry for him, he's sick…'

'Yeah, everyone always feels sorry for Steve,' Dillon said, his eyes hard as stones. 'Makes excuses for him. But this is different.'

A sob came up and Sissy squeezed her face with both hands, shoulders hunched and shaking. Dillon fished for a handkerchief. Sissy pointed to a box of tissues on the dressing-table. Dillon took one and knelt before her, wiping her wet cheeks.

Sissy blinked tears away. 'You look terrible,' she told Dillon.

'Had a bump into a tree.' He smiled and traced the outer corner of her lip with his finger. 'It won't scar…'

He cupped her face and brought it closer, and gently kissed her, away from the swelling. A discordant chorus of Why are we waiting… oh why-eye are we waiting…? sailed up from the forecourt below.

Dillon stood up and went to the window. He stared out at the curve of moorland beyond the trees. There was a deep angry stillness about this man, Sissy thought, that she recognised but did not understand. As if he was waging a continual battle to keep a welter of seething emotions under iron control. A dark, brooding mystery to him that both baffled and attracted her, sensing that Dillon had lived several lifetimes already, and she hadn't yet lived one.

Sissy got up and went to him, pressing her body to his back, her head resting on his shoulder. The singing beneath the window faltered, died away.

In a small, faraway voice, Dillon said, 'You know the stag? When we found out how much he was worth we thought about knocking it off. Five grand's a lot of cash. But…' He gave a tight shake of the head.

'But?'

'He makes you think about freedom,' Dillon said, deep within himself. 'None of us has had too much of that, it's not the way the Army trains you. Everything is ordered, you live by rules and regulations.' Leaning against him, Sissy could feel the muscles in his arms tautening, then going slack, then going taut again.

'You don't know it's happening to you,' Dillon went on in the same quiet, charged voice. 'When you're on leave it's short-lived, you need booze and more booze to loosen you up, like you can't handle not having anyone watching your every move…'

He turned and laid his hand gently to her cheek. 'I did five years in Belfast, I hated the city… the kids spitting in your face, old ladies looking at you with hatred. Hate. You can feel it, but you act as if nothing is happening -' A tremor passed across his bruised face. He seemed to physically shake it off, but the effort left his eyes unnaturally bright, moist in the corners. Sissy could hardly bear to look at him.

'You call low-life "sir"…' The words stumbled out. 'the players – we call the IRA suspects players…' The dam on the point of cracking, breaking, bursting open. Dillon shut his eyelids tight, wetness squeezing out. 'But in the end, the game's been on us…'

Sissy let the moment prolong itself. The pain ebb away. She said, then, 'Do you have kids?'

Dillon opened his eyes and looked into Sissy's. He nodded. Raucous shouts rang out from below, 'Frank!… Come on, Frank…'

'It's time I went home,' he said. And then, for only the second time she could remember, Dillon smiled. 'God bless, love.'

There was a cheer as Dillon came out. A long drive ahead of them, and the lads were eager to be off. Dillon walked to the jeep, hefted Steve's holdall from the back, dropped it on the gravel. He jerked his thumb. Out.

Steve slowly climbed out. Dillon took a fistful of money from his pocket and offered it. Steve backed away, fear in his eyes. Dillon gripped his lapel, pulled him close, and without even bothering to look at Steve, stuffed the money in his top pocket.

'Take it! You're on your own, Steve.'

Steve's face was white. The fear in his eyes was now mingled with the abject, cringing look of a whipped dog. He hesitated, then reached out a trembling hand, tried to catch Dillon's arm. Dillon jerked his arm free. He climbed into the passenger seat next to Jimmy, looking straight ahead.

The jeep backed away from the front of the hotel, wheels churning gravel, and shot off down the driveway. Lashed to the radiator was a stag's head – old MacFarland's stag's head – that Jimmy had swiped from the bar. Steve saw the spread of its antlers above the hedgerows as the jeep sped along the lane, heard the bellow of a song floating back on the breeze, gradually fading, fading, fading away.

'Ten green bottles

Hanging on a wall,

And if one green bottle

Should accidentally fall…'

The stag's head went up, antlers raised high, scenting danger. It stood poised on the crag, all senses alert, its massive tawny flanks quivering slightly.

High up on the facing southern slope, Steve lay cushioned in the coarse grass, hidden by the waving fronds of heather. The wooden stock of Jimmy's L42A1 sniper rifle, fitted with a cheek rest, nestled against his shoulder. 7.62mm calibre shell, muzzle velocity 838 metres per second. Effective range 1,000 metres plus.

Steve squinted through the sighting telescope.

Beside him lay his empty holdall, his kit neatly spread out on the grass. Next to his wallet, a single photograph of Steve in his parade uniform. Face shining, smiling into the sunshine. Silver badge of winged parachute, crown and lion on his Red Beret. The Red Beret he was wearing now, with his jeans and denim shirt and the neckerchief swathing his throat.

Clearly outlined on the ridge, the stag slowly turned its head. Poised, muscles tensed, nostrils twitching, it looked in Steve's direction, seemed to stare directly into Steve's eyes.

The crack of the rifle shot scattered the peace of the valley. Screeching birds scattered, wheeled into the sky. Before the first echo had died away the stag was leaping down, crashing through the bracken, seeking the safety of the wooden glen.

On the grass, Steve's kit lay undisturbed, the photograph spotted with three splashes of blood, the largest one obscuring the smiling face. The impact had thrown the body backwards, arms flung wide. The rifle rested between his legs. Some distance away, the Red Beret lay on the grass, unmarked, pristine, cap badge shining bright.