Jaded

by Rob Ashman

  I made friends with a guy from Bristol called Speedy. You know how some people have a trembling leg, that pumps up and down even when they are relaxed? Well Speedy’s whole body did that. I swear the only time Speedy would be at rest is two weeks after his death. And having a conversation with him was like watching a chicken peck at corn.

  I liked Speedy because, like me, he was different.

  We muddled along happily, then everything changed when we had a new guy join us – Captain Mark Wilkins. He was a bright young thing not much older than me, a product of Oxford and Sandhurst, and determined to make a name for himself – a regular go-getter. He was as keen as English mustard and expected everyone else to be the same.

  Me and Speedy had other ideas: Bollocks to that.

  Wilkins was assigned to our team and started throwing his weight around straightaway. We received fresh orders and were deployed to guard a group of prisoners of war. The Iraqis were surrendering in their droves due to them being poorly equipped and on the brink of starvation.

  It took us two and a half days to reach the makeshift camp. Two and a half days of being bounced around in the back of a truck, listening to the incessant drivel of Captain Whiz-Bang who insisted on giving us our orders over and over again, even though we had not reached our destination. This guy was getting on my tits.

  We arrived, tired and travel-sick at the compound. The site housed two hundred and twenty Iraqi soldiers. They were in bad shape, having spent months living in holes in the ground. Some were nursing infected wounds, others were sick and they were all malnourished. Our job was to look after them until the Americans built a POW camp in which to house them, but that was some way off into the future. The deployment was looking like it was going to be a walk in the park, the POWs were no trouble. They had had enough of war and at least they were being fed.

  I could see weeks of happy boredom stretching out in front of me. A time spent sorting out our kit, writing letters home and getting a tan. But Captain Whiz-Bang had other ideas. He said we had to go out on patrol – which was not only a complete waste of time but took a lot of preparation and was fucking dangerous. The place was littered with anti-personnel mines and there had been reports of rogue groups of Iraqis in the area. This was not good. I remember thinking, as I geared myself up to leave the compound for the third time in three days: The way this is going, Captain Whiz-Bang is going to get me and Speedy killed.

  Then one day, two interesting things happened: I found something sticking out of the earth while out on one of our walkabouts and learned an interesting fact about Whiz-Bang.

  I hatched a plan with Speedy, which proved to be more of a challenge than I had anticipated.

  ‘Tell me what I have to say?’ Speedy asked for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Not a lot, let me do the talking,’ I replied.

  ‘Okay. Run it past me again.’

  After pulling out most of my hair, Speedy had it sorted. We were both sitting in the shade with our backs to a wall, drinking tea. Whiz-Bang came over.

  ‘I’m telling you, Speedy, I heard it and then I saw it,’ I said.

  ‘You are fucking joking me,’ Speedy replied right on cue.

  ‘I’m telling you it was a Grey Francolin, I swear to God.’

  ‘You lucky bastard.’

  ‘I know, right? A Grey Francolin, it was as close to me as you are now. Oh, good afternoon, sir,’ I said as Whiz-Bang approached.

  ‘Hi guys, what was that you were saying about a Grey Francolin?’

  ‘I saw one when I was out on patrol,’ I said.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘At first, I heard it calling, tee… tee… tee, and I thought, No way! Then I saw it. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The boys back at the club are going to be so jealous.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ said Speedy, remembering his lines.

  ‘But the Grey Francolin is indigenous to north west India and Pakistan. Are you sure you saw one all the way down here?’

  ‘Scout’s honour.’ I gave a three-finger salute. ‘Are you a twitcher, sir?’

  ‘Man and boy. I would love to see a Grey Francolin, because…’

  He was hooked.

  An overheard conversation and a few calls back home, and I had Captain Whiz-Bang eating out of the palm of my hand. He rabbited on about the rare birds he had seen and how he had his own hide. He banged on for ages. Then he said the words I wanted to hear.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could take me out to where you spotted it, could you?’

  ‘I’d be delighted. It’s a real treat to share this with a fellow bird enthusiast. Do you fancy coming along, Speedy?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To see if we can find the Grey Francolin?’

  ‘The Grey what?’ Speedy had reached the end of his useful contribution. I stepped in quickly to avoid blowing the charade.

  ‘That would be great. When do you want to go?’ I said, leading Whiz-Bang far away from Speedy. We made arrangements to head out later that day when it was cooler.

  Captain Whiz-Bang was like a kid on Christmas morning as we kitted ourselves with binoculars and field gear and walked out of camp. He talked incessantly about his hobby; there was no need for me to contribute at all. Which was just as well because I only knew about one bird. Who would have thought it? A degree from Oxford, a family lineage in the armed forces as long as your arm and a die-hard twitcher. What were the chances?

  We walked half a mile across rough terrain, criss-crossed with shallow trenches. I sunk into a crouch position.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ I whispered.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sure I heard it.’

  ‘Trouble is the damned things are so well camouflaged.’ He crouched down beside me and we scanned the ground.

  ‘Maybe it was just wishful thinking.’ I stood up and pressed on. I could feel my companion fizzing with excitement.

  The sun was casting long shadows across the shale and sand, and the heat of the day was fading fast.

  ‘Shit!’ I hissed under my breath.

  ‘Can you see it?’

  ‘I can see movement.’

  ‘Where, where?’ He grabbed his binoculars.

  ‘Fuck, not the bird. Iraqis. I think they’ve spotted us.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Towards that ridge.’ I pointed into the middle distance. ‘We need to find cover.’

  ‘In here.’ Captain Whiz-Bang launched himself into a trench that ran to our left and scurried along the bottom. I sunk to the floor and covered my head.

  The dull thud of the pressure wave hurt my ears. Rocks and soil showered around me. The explosion sent Whiz-Bang cartwheeling in the air – his torso one way and his legs another.

  Then there was silence, apart from the ringing in my ears.

  I had spotted the exposed tops of mines while out on patrol. They had briefed us not to enter into enemy trenches because many of them were booby-trapped. I guess Captain Whiz-Bang hadn’t got the memo.

  The sound of the explosion alerted the camp and I called it in. As I waited for them to arrive it occurred to me that I’d had enough of army life and decided it was time to do something different. When they reached us, they were shocked to find that Whiz-Bang was dead.

  We got back to base and I gave a stellar performance, recounting the unfortunate events that had led up to the untimely demise of Captain Mark Wilkins. By the end of the following week I had worked out what I wanted to do when I left the army – in the end it was a relatively easy decision. My mind was made up.

  Then me and Speedy settled down and spent the rest of our time at the detention camp checking our kit, writing letters and getting a tan.

  Chapter 7

  I waved goodbye to the army and kind of fell into the police. It seemed a natural progression at the time, though in hindsight, I think that was just me lying to myself… again.

  I worked a couple of years in uniform, passed my exams and progressed into CID. I enjoyed de
tective work, it kept my mind busy – leaving me less time to obsess about whether or not I was fitting in.

  That’s when I met Blythe.

  She worked in a police staff role and we clicked straightaway. You know how sometimes you can look at a member of the opposite sex and go, ‘Hell, yes!’ Well, up to then I had never experienced that feeling. But when I clapped eyes on Blythe it went off in my head like a grenade.

  She was bright, funny, pretty and way out of my league. And that’s when my demons came back with a vengeance.

  How the hell am I ever going to be good enough for her? Being me isn’t enough.

  I began to morph into the person I thought she would find interesting, creating a new ‘Please like me and be my girlfriend’ persona. To my surprise it worked. Not only did we start dating but I enjoyed being the new me. I became bright and funny too, though I could never match her in the ‘looks’ department.

  We moved in together and got married. I was happy, she was happy. I got promoted a couple of times and after a few years ended up in the Drug Squad. A motley band of individuals, each of us sticking our finger in the dyke trying to stem the tide of heroin, cannabis and cocaine washing through our patch. It was a thankless job. Then my Superintendent came to me one day and said, ‘They’re setting up a new team, Ellwood, and I think you should go for it.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that, guv?’

  ‘Because you’re a scruffy git.’

  ‘A scruffy git?’

  ‘Yeah, I haven’t read the briefing properly but that seems to be one of the main selection criteria.’

  ‘Okay, as I’m so well qualified, why not?’ And that was it – two weeks later my transfer came through.

  Nowadays, candidates go through a rigorous selection process, which includes psychological suitability testing, security vetting, an assessment centre, along with a variety of written and role play exercises. How times have changed – I got the job because I was scruffy.

  Nevertheless, I was like a pig in shit. For the first time my talents were being put to good use and I could legitimately create a new persona and get paid for it. I was a rising star.

  I was deployed on several operations and got the reputation for being the best in the force. Then I landed the biggest job they had on their patch – the Critchley brothers. It was the big-ticket investigation and I was going all out to make it a success.

  But the Critchley job was different. Little did I know my life was about to be torn apart at the seams.

  It was the winter of 1998. A time when the fashions were different, the music was better and video games didn’t scare the shit out of you. The late nineties heralded a period in society where the gulf between the haves and have-nots grew to become a chasm, and the north–south divide kicked in with a vengeance. Needless to say, I found myself playing on the side of the have-nots.

  I was standing inside the club entrance when I saw them coming and I can remember thinking this is gonna hurt. I had been expecting a return visit but had not expected the main man to show up in person.

  His name was Winston Carlyle but he was known as Ton-Up due to his passion for racing cars around housing estates. He was exactly like the photographs I had seen, dressed in a sharp suit and cowboy boots, looking more like an extra from an eighties pop video rather than a mid-level drug dealer with his eyes on the big time. He was flanked by two burley men, both of them sporting an exaggerated gangster walk, shaven heads and sunglasses. They looked like a pair of caricature bookends.

  A gaggle of young women were making a right racket outside, waiting for more of their friends to show up. It was too early for any serious clubber to avail themselves of our entertainment. I glanced at my watch, it said 10.38pm.

  ‘Yo bro, you said no!’ Carlyle sang the words at me, emphasising the rhyme as he approached. The two gorillas rolled their heads back with laughter.

  ‘Come on, Ton-Up, we don’t want any trouble,’ Eddie Marshall said in his croaky voice, walking out to meet them with his arms outstretched. Eddie and I had worked together for six weeks. He was in his late twenties and built like a Marvel comic hero. He was an obnoxious, mouthy shit with one major flaw – his personality.

  ‘My man TJ was polite and he said please, but your “new boy” said no. That’s not nice,’ Ton-Up said as one of the bald heads nodded in agreement.

  I remembered TJ from the previous week. At the time, he told me he’d be back and I believed him.

  ‘You know the rules, no drugs in the club,’ Marshall said, blocking their path.

  ‘Are you shitting me? I could walk in there now and get whatever I want. I was paying you the courtesy of asking permission. I always believe in doing business in a courteous manner.’

  I pushed the red button behind the door and stepped out to join them. The tight knot of women had stopped cackling, choosing instead to gawp at the floorshow unfolding before them while putting a safe distance between themselves and the mounting tension.

  ‘TJ was polite when he asked permission,’ I said, ‘and I was equally polite when I declined his offer. So it seems to me we were both polite.’

  Ton-Up slid his sunglasses down his nose and glared at me. ‘I was talking to this gentleman. It’s rude to interrupt.’

  ‘No one else was speaking, so I hardly interrupted.’

  ‘I think “new boy” is being rude again,’ the big guy with the Uncle Fester head growled at me.

  ‘Not at all, I was merely pointing out that I hadn’t interrupted, in the same way as I pointed out to you last week that we had a zero drugs policy at the club. In a polite way of course.’ I stared at TJ.

  All three removed their sunglasses.

  ‘Now you’re being insolent,’ Ton-Up said, turning to face me. ‘You said no to TJ, so I’m going to ask you nicely. I want–’

  ‘The answer is still no,’ I said, not waiting for him to finish. ‘Now that… was an interruption.’

  Ton-Up shoved me and TJ grabbed my shoulder. I took half a step back and stamped my foot into TJ’s knee, sending him crumpling to the ground. He yelped, grasping at his buckled leg. Uncle Fester threw a haymaker which landed high on Marshall’s head, but he failed to see the fist arcing upwards to connect with a crack under his chin.

  Ton-Up blindsided me, punching me in the face. My nose went snap. His arms were windmilling in the air, landing blows on my back and shoulders. I can remember thinking for a big guy he hits like a girl.

  I straightened up and crunched my elbow into his jaw. A torrent of air rasped from his mouth when my knee drove deep into the pit of his stomach.

  TJ was back on his feet, staggering around on one leg. My right foot swept his good leg from under him and he once more clattered to the floor.

  The women started shrieking as their sideshow took a turn for the worse.

  Marshall had Uncle Fester in a headlock trying to wrestle him to the ground. But the big guy was too strong. He picked Marshall up and tossed him over his shoulder like a kid’s toy.

  Ton-Up was crouched down, trying to catch his breath. My knee slammed into his face and he catapulted backwards, landing in the road like he’d been laid to rest on a mortician’s slab, his glazed eyes staring up at the streetlights.

  Uncle Fester was standing over Marshall, blood running from his gaping mouth, stomping for all he was worth. Marshall was rolling on the floor trying to avoid the piston-like movement of the size thirteen boot.

  The inside of my forearm caught Fester full in the throat and he staggered backwards. The sole of my shoe smashed into his chest, sending him toppling over. I leapt on top, my fists bouncing off his skull.

  I felt a pair of hands grip my shoulders, dragging me off.

  ‘That’s enough, Billy, he’s had enough.’ The hands pulled me back to the club. I saw three other guys dressed in suits, one helping Marshall to his feet while the other two were attending to Ton-Up and TJ.

  ‘You get inside, we’ll deal with this.’ Rolo was head of security, an older guy with
a fearsome reputation. I did as I was told.

  I shot through a set of double doors; the room pulsated to the sound of synthetic drums, a handful of people were propping up the bar. The dance floor was empty. I turned right up a flight of stairs to the offices on the first floor where there was a small kitchen area. A man was sitting drinking tea. He jumped when he saw me.

  ‘Here, let me get this.’ He cleared coats from a hard-backed chair and I dumped myself onto it. He left his drink and disappeared downstairs. The door opened and Marshall entered, looking dazed. I got up and swilled a couple of tea towels under the tap, handing one over.

  ‘Hold this tight,’ I said, pointing to his bloodied eye.

  Marshall winced as the material rubbed against the open wound.

  ‘Good job your beak was already broken,’ he said, checking me out.

  I hung my head over the sink and pinched the bridge of my nose; blood ran onto the stainless steel and spiralled down the plughole.

  Rolo appeared in the doorway. ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘They were out for a fight,’ replied Marshall.

  ‘I know that, I mean what happened?’

  ‘The guy called TJ showed up last week and asked if I would allow him into the club with a pocket full of tabs if I took a cut from the proceeds. I told him the club had a zero tolerance for drugs and ordered him to leave,’ I said, trying to stem the bleeding.

  ‘What happened then?’ asked Rolo.

  ‘He got shitty and flounced off saying he’d be back. I told him he wasn’t fucking Arnold Schwarzenegger and that was it. Then he turns up today with his mates. Don’t know who they are but they didn’t like what I’d said.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to let me know?’ asked Rolo.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t think much of it at the time.’

  ‘Look, you’re new and learning the ropes. The next time anything like that happens, I want to hear about it right away, is that clear?’