Fortress

80

The safe-house was in the grounds of an old hospital, a modest pebbledash structure from the 1930s that had once been the home of the caretaker. Although it was superficially furnished like a normal house, the lack of detail among the uniform Ikea fittings — no postcards on the mantelpiece, no messages on the fridge, plus a lingering smell of disinfectant only just covering something organic and ominous — gave the place an institutional feel. A flat-screen monitor mounted above the kitchen counter showed a grainy image of Vestey seated at a table, his hands manacled to a bar. He had been there for four hours.

Tom was on his third coffee, wondering why he was there, when Woolf emerged, looking drained.

‘It’s hopeless. He’s saying nothing and I’m running out of ideas, not to mention time. Plus I’m getting to the point of wanting to resort to the sort of career-ending tactics we aren’t supposed to use on detainees any more.’

‘Let me have a go. You don’t get him. He’s still a soldier and that will never leave him. You spooks know nothing about people like him.’

‘Go for it, then. See what you can get out of him.’

Tom let himself into the room, and told the guard to unlock Vestey’s cuffs. The man hesitated. ‘Go on — there’ll be no drama.’

He did so, and lingered by the door.

Tom took the seat opposite. ‘You want a drink?’

Vestey made no response; his eyes were fixed on some invisible point in the middle distance. Tom filled the plastic mug that was on the table and pushed it towards him.

Vestey stayed in the same position.

‘Mick, you have to remember what they taught you. Your conduct-under-capture training? You take food and drink whenever you can because you don’t know when you’ll get more. Here.’ Tom placed the water closer.

It took a couple of seconds but Vestey broke his focus and drank the water as fast as he could — just as he’d been taught, in case it was taken away from him.

‘Look, mate, you’ve done your job not talking to the people who are avoiding the pain route. But we’re both switched on and we know how this works. You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you? We both know I have a job to do. We both know that I’m going to crack on with mine and there will be pain.’

Tom took a breath, checking that what he had been saying had sunk in. It had. ‘But I’m thinking I don’t have to do that. I’m thinking that there is another way.’

Tom leaned closer, his hands flat on the table. ‘Mate, we’re both from the same tribe. We’re soldiers — we have standards. And values, that bind people like you and me together, makes us special, better than all those pencil necks the other side of that door. You remember those values, Mick, you remember what we’re about? Courage, discipline, respect for others?’

Vestey kept his focus on the floor as Tom continued with the fundamentals, which every soldier knows and which have saved lives during a fight.

‘You remember integrity, loyalty, selfless commitment? I know you remember them. I know you once believed in them.’

Tom let Vestey stew a little. ‘I met Nurul’s mother yesterday. Did you ever meet her? She’s a nice lady, a GP. Spent her life serving the community. She’s wondering where she went wrong with her poor little boy.’

Vestey didn’t move. Neither did he tell Tom to shut the fuck up. So Tom kept talking. ‘Did you know Nurul was her only child? And now she’s got to live with the knowledge that her son is a notorious suicide bomber, the first returnee from Syria to blow himself up in the UK, and the one who’s pretty much split the country in half. Only we both know he didn’t do it, don’t we, Mick? Was it you who shot him? They’re still sifting through the wreckage. And eventually they’ll find the piece of him where the round entered.’

Tom refilled the mug. Vestey brought it up to his lips, then paused. ‘He wanted to die: it was his choice.’

Something — which was always better than nothing.

‘And you understood that, probably better than anyone. He must have trusted you, recognized a kindred spirit who, like him, loved guns but had seen too much war. Most people would have just written him off as a crazy jihadi. Probably Rolt would have, but you saw beyond that because you’d been there too — your mind full of those pictures you couldn’t stop. The dismembered kids in bomb craters, the families dead in their beds. I know those pictures. I’ve got them too: Kandahar, Kajaki, Basra, all those shit holes.’

Tom was improvising wildly yet something was working. Vestey was nodding slowly, as he rolled out the names, no doubt flash-banging images in his head. A hand came up to his face to wipe away a tear.

‘You understood that, and his need to make a difference, to make something happen, and you fixed it for him. Was it at your place he said his last prayers, on the mat in your spare room?’

Vestey registered a flicker of interest but said nothing.

‘And his girlfriend’s out there somewhere. She’s seen his name all over the media, but who can she go and grieve with? Who will hold her hand and say—’

‘She’s not grieving.’

‘How come?’

‘She sent him.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘He did it for her. That’s how strong their tribe is. Mine, I just fucked them up.’ Tears were now falling down his face, into his lap. He suddenly looked fragile, like a sad schoolboy.

‘Mate, have some more water. You want a brew, two sugars?’

Vestey kept his head low. ‘I don’t need anything.’

Then he jumped up and charged at the guard, who was still by the door.

Tom sprang after him. He knew what was happening.

‘Mick, don’t!’

But it was too late. Vestey had got both hands on the guard and was using both hands to try to get his pistol from him. Two more guards came in, weapons drawn.

Tom was now on the other side of the table. ‘No!’

But he knew it was too late and that the guards would do the right thing. As soon as they saw Vestey had physical contact, just a touch of the weapon, two loud, dull thuds filled the room.