Hybrid

by Shaun Hutson

  Parker took a deep breath.

  It's about what happened in Belfast,' Parker said quietly.

  'Which is where I should be now, not here discussing it,' snapped Doyle.

  'I know how good you are at your job, Doyle. That's why I've overlooked certain aspects of your behaviour over the years. You're the best we've got and I don't mind saying it.'

  Doyle waved a hand in front of him. 'Did you pull me off a fucking case to give me a testimonial?' he said, 'Because if you did, thanks a lot but put it in writing and let me get back to work.'

  'What you did in Belfast was unacceptable.'

  Doyle turned slightly in his seat. The words had come from Pressman who was flicking through the file before him.

  'What I did in Belfast was unavoidable,' the counter terrorist said sharply.

  'Have you any idea the damage you caused? The cost of your actions?' Pressman continued.

  Doyle smiled humourlessiy and shook his head. 'I couldn't give a fuck about the cost,' he said.'l was trying to neutralise two known terrorists, in case you hadn't

  noticed, they've already killed ten people in the past three months.'

  '"Neutralise",' Pressman mused.'What a quaint term. The problem is, Mr Doyle, that your actions caused more than a million pounds' worth of damage to property and endangered countless innocent lives, not including those of the men you were attempting to "neutralise". One of whom, I hasten to add, is now dead. Killed by you.'

  'They both would have been if I'd had my way,' hissed Doyle.

  'The peace process between Great Britain and Ireland is continuing as we would wish. Action such as yours will only jeopardise an already unstable situation.'

  Doyle got to his feet. This is bullshit,' he said dismis-sively. 'What am I supposed to do? Slap them on the wrists and tell them not to be such naughty boys?'

  'Sit down, Doyle,' Parker told him.

  The counter terrorist hesitated a moment then slumped back into the chair.

  'It isn't as if this is an isolated incident, is it, Mr Doyle?' Pressman said. 'Your record with this organisation is littered with insubordination, disobedience and a complete disregard for the nature of your position.'

  The nature of my fucking position is that I get paid for tracking down and removing terrorists,' Doyle rasped. 'People who are a threat to this country.'

  'Do you see yourself as a patriot, Mr Doyle?'

  'I've never thought about it. I'm just doing a job.'

  'How many people have you killed during the course of your duties?'

  'What the fuck has that got to do with anything?'

  'Your record,' Pressman held up the file. 'Includes your psychiatric report. I'm not an expert, Mr Doyle, but from what I've read, some of your behaviour has bordered on the psychotic'

  'You're right. You're not a fucking expert. You know nothing about me or the way I work.'

  'Sean Doyle,' Pressman read. 'Only son of Irish parents. Both dead. You live alone. Never married. Borderline alcoholic. Sociopathic tendencies. You have a problem with authority. You've been injured on numerous occasions, two of them almost fatal. After both you were offered retirement but refused. May I ask why?'

  'Is it important?'

  'I'm curious. I can't understand why a man would want to continue in a line of work that guarantees his being put at risk on a regular basis. Is there so little in your life, Mr Doyle, that you're prepared to jeopardise it so easily?'

  'Someone once said to me that a man with nothing to live for has no fear of death,' Doyle observed.

  'Very profound. Where is that man now?'

  'I shot him.'

  A silence descended, finally broken by Pressman. It says in your file that you were involved in the death of a fellow counter terrorist agent some years ago,' the Home Secretary noted. 'Georgina Willis.'

  Doyle glared at the politician. 'We were working together when she was killed,' he said.

  'In the Republic of Ireland.'

  'Spot on.'

  Another long silence.

  'You may or may not be aware, Mr Doyle, that my government is presently engaged in talks with Sinn Fein with a view to ending the violence in Northern Ireland once and for all,' said Pressman.'Incidents such as those precipitated by you in Belfast recently are hardly conducive to the fulfilment of such a peace.'

  'You're not negotiating with the IRA,' Doyle said disdainfully.'You're surrendering to them.What have they contributed to this so-called peace? Nothing. What about decommissioning?'

  That will come,' Pressman interjected.

  'Bollocks,' snapped Doyle. 'How many of the fuckers have you released from prison?'

  'That is a necessary step agreed to by both sides.'

  'Five more of them are released at the end of the week, aren't they?'

  That is the plan.'

  This fight isn't with the guys you're talking to. The men I was after in Belfast are a new breed. They couldn't give a fuck about your talks and your promises. They couldn't even give a fuck about Sinn Fein.'

  'I assume you mean the so-called Real IRA?'

  That's exactly who I mean.'

  'Real IRA. Continuity IRA.They're a very small fringe operation.'

  Doyle shook his head.'In three years they've already been responsible for twenty-eight bombs in Ireland and five over here. If decommissioning does ever happen, there'll be plenty more of the Provos wanting to join them. This problem isn't going to go away.'

  'Well,' said Pressman, closing the file. 'Whatever

  happens, it won't concern you any longer, Mr Doyle.'

  The counter terrorist shot Parker a look.

  'If it's any consolation, Doyle, I'm against this,' said the older man.

  'Against what?' Doyle snapped.

  The Home Secretary pressed his fingertips together and regarded Doyle evenly.

  'You're being removed from the Counter Terrorist Unit,' he said.

  Removed!' Doyle rasped. 'Your methods are unsuitable,' Pressman continued. 'And, quite frankly, so are you. Your behaviour in Belfast proved that beyond question.'

  'I was doing a fucking job. For this country.'

  'A job you are now considered unfit for,' Pressman observed.

  Doyle looked at Parker.

  'I had nothing to do with this, Doyle,' said the older man.

  'Mr Parker fought for your position,' said the Home Secretary. 'He doesn't want you removed. However, government policy dictates that we cannot tolerate a repetition of what happened in Belfast and your record seems to suggest that there's a strong possibility of that.'

  'You gutless bastard,' hissed Doyle, glaring at the politician.'You're giving in to them, aren't you? The IRA. This is another concession you're making.'

  There are certain criteria—'

  Doyle cut him short.'Fuck your criteria,' he snapped. 'You've got your head so far up Sinn Fein's arse you'll be cleaning shit out of your ears for months.Why don't

  you just wave your white flag now and get it over with.'

  'The matter is closed,' Pressman stated.'Your career with the Counter Terrorist Unit is over, Doyle.'

  'And you're going to sit still for this?' Doyle asked Parker.

  'Mr Parker has little choice, I'm afraid,' Pressman said, a slight smile on his face. The CTU receives more than ten million pounds a year in government subsidies. The organisation couldn't operate without that money.'

  'You sold me out to a bunch of fucking politicians,' Doyle said angrily.

  'I haven't sold you out to anybody, Doyle,' Parker replied.'An example had to be made. Sinn Fein wanted proof of our good faith.'

  'More proof? What are you going to give them next? The names of every agent working undercover in Ireland? You fucking prick.'

  'People are tired of this conflict, Doyle,' said Pressman. 'They want an end to it, one way or the other.'

  'What the fuck do you know about people, you're a politician,' snapped the counter terrorist.

  'I need your ID and your guns, Do
yle,' Parker said quietly.

  Doyle hesitated for a moment then got to his feet. He dug in his pocket for the small leather wallet that contained his ID. For long seconds he held it in the air then threw it down on Parker's desk.

  'And your guns,' the commander said.

  'Forget it,' Doyle told him. 'Those are mine.'

  'In case you'd forgotten,' Pressman cut in, 'it is now a criminal offence to own a handgun of any calibre larger than .22.'

  'You want the guns then you come and take them,' Doyle snarled.

  He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled the Beretta from its holster. He worked the slide, chambered a round, then levelled it at the Home Secretary.

  'Come on,' he said quietly. Take it.'

  Pressman paled, his eyes fixed on the barrel of the automatic. He looked as if all the blood had suddenly been drained from his body.

  'I have bodyguards outside,' he said breathlessly, his eyes widening.

  'Big deal. I'll empty this magazine into you before they can get that fucking door open.'

  'Doyle, put it down,' Parker said wearily.

  Pressman sat motionless. 'It's all you know, isn't it? Violence.Threats,' he said, his voice cracking.The country will be better off without men like you, Doyle.'

  Doyle took a step towards the politician.

  'You make men like me,' he growled.

  Pressman dropped the file he'd been holding and tried to push himself further back into the chair.

  Doyle finally eased the hammer of the automatic down and holstered the weapon.

  'As of now you are officially dismissed from the Counter Terrorist Unit,' Parker told him.

  Doyle looked at him briefly.

  'Stick it,' he snarled. 'Stick the whole fucking lot up your arse.'

  He moved towards the door then turned and looked at Pressman.

  Tell your friends in Sinn Fein you did what they wanted,' he said. 'I hope they appreciate it.'

  Doyle slammed the door behind him.

  'The man's psychotic,' said Pressman, his hands shaking as he reached for his glass of water. 'I'd go as far as to say he's insane.'

  'Well, that doesn't matter any more does it?' Parker said, looking at Doyle's discarded ID wallet.

  Pressman thought about getting to his feet but his legs were still shaking too much.

  'Fighting the Provos, the Real IRA, Continuity IRA, whatever they call themselves,' Parker continued. 'We needed men like Doyle. He was dangerous. That's what made him the best.'

  That time has passed. His time has passed.'

  Parker looked down at the ID once again.

  'I hope to Christ you're right,' he said quietly.

  THE PHONE CALL

  Ward usually unplugged the phone while he was working so that it wouldn't disturb him. Wouldn't break his train of thought. It took very little to break his concentration and this meant one less distraction.

  However, as very few people rang him these days, he had taken to leaving the contraption alone. So it was a shock when the strident ringing cut through the stillness of the office.

  He finished the sentence he was typing then reached for the receiver.

  'Hello,' he said.

  'Chris, it's me.'

  He recognised the voice immediately. Martin Connelly had been his agent for the past five years. A born-and-bred Londoner, Martin was sometimes abrupt, sometimes brusque. There were those who called him rude but he had always done his best for Ward and the two men had a good working relationship.

  'How are you?' asked Connelly.

  T feel like shit. What the hell do you expect?'

  There was a moment's silence.

  'Look, Chris, I won't beat about the bush. It's not good news.'

  Ward kept his eyes on the screen. On the words he'd just written.

  'They don't want to know,' Connelly continued. 'I've tried five publishers and none of them are interested. But that's not to say that someone—'

  'Fuck them,' Ward interrupted. 'Fuck them all.'

  'I can speak to a couple of other people and—'

  'Forget it, Martin,' Ward said, cutting him short again. 'It's over. I know that. I'm going to put the house on the market.'

  'You don't have to do that.'

  'Don't I? Then tell me what the fuck I am supposed to do? I'm a writer who no one wants to publish. I write books that no one wants to read. This is all I know. It's all I've ever done. I can't just say, "Oh, okay then, I'll pack up writing full time and go back to the day job." There isn't a fucking day job. This is it. This is all there is. And now you're telling me it's gone.'

  'There are other things . . .'

  'No there aren't. There's nothing else you can do. Just admit it, Martin. We're both fucked. The only difference is you've got other clients. You can still collect your twenty per cent from half a dozen other people. I've got nothing else.'

  Again there was a silence.

  'What did they say?' Ward finally wanted to know.

  'That sales on the last few books haven't been good,' Connelly told him. 'That their production costs are too high. That they can't afford to pay you what you want.'

  'Bastards. If they'd given me some fucking support they might have got their money back. Where was the advertising? Where was the fucking publicity?'

  'They say they did all they could.'

  'Well, they're fucking liars,' roared Ward furiously.

  'Listen, I know this must be a blow. I'll call you back in a day or two and we'll talk about what we can do—'

  'Don't bother, Martin,' Ward said coldly. 'Don't call me back. There's nothing more to say' He hung up.

  Ward stood up and walked out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  DESOLATION

  The drive to the local shops took less than five minutes.

  Ward found the off-licence and bought two bottles of Jack Daniel's, a bottle of Smirnoff and a bottle of Glenfiddich. Then he drove home.

  He carried the bottles into the sitting room, sat down in one of his armchairs and set about the first bottle of Jack Daniel's. Less than thirty minutes later, it was empty. Another hour and Ward was unconscious.

  REALITY

  Clinical depression sometimes causes the sufferer to sleep for abnormally long periods of time. The desire to escape from the cause of that depression is overwhelming and the best way to escape is in the oblivion of sleep. Combined with alcohol or some other form of drug, this state of mind can be dangerous. Christopher Ward was in danger. He woke briefly at around 11.30 p.m. but immediately fell back into a deep, almost comatose sleep.

  THE END

  Ward sat in front of the blank screen. His head was throbbing, his mouth was sour. He hawked and spat on the carpet beside him.

  If he had been in a position to appreciate it, the irony of the situation might have amused him.

  The character he was writing about had lost his job. Ward himself had lost his job.

  He rested his fingers on the keys.

  Ha, ha. Very funny.

  Ha ha.

  He began to hit the two letters with increasing force.

  hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha hahahahahahahahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhhh

  He slumped forward on to the keyboard.

  THE BEGINNING

  It was dark inside the office. Ward lifted his head slowly from the desk and blinked in an effort to clear his blurred vision. The only light was the silvery-grey glow coming from the computer screen.

  Ward looked at the clock on his desk. 3.11 a.m.

  He groaned, his gaze drawn to the screen. The print icon was showing: Print 1 to 30.

  Ward pressed the return key and the printer whirred into life.

  Pages began to spew from the machine.

  Doyle watched as the steam rose
slowly from his coffee.

  The cafe in Dorset Street was barely large enough to accommodate ten people but, at present, only the former counter terrorist and two members of staff were inside.

  Doyle looked down at the scratched surface of the table where he sat. Obviously no one from the Environmental Health Department had put this place on the list for a visit lately.

  A heavily built woman emerged from the kitchen carrying a bucket of soapy water and proceeded to wash the tiled floor with a mop.

  The cafe now smelt of soap suds and frying bacon.

  The former counter terrorist looked around for any No Smoking signs, saw none and lit up.

  So that's itYou're finished.

  He drew heavily on the cigarette.

  Out of work. Discarded. Unwanted. Sacked.

  It didn't matter which description you used, it amounted to the same thing.

  Game over.

  He glanced at his watch, wishing the pubs were

  open. Wishing he could walk into one, sit himself at a bar and drink until the world disappeared in a haze.

  Why not just drive home? There's booze there.

  The initial feeling of fury he'd felt upon leaving CTU headquarters had subsided into something he'd experienced only once or twice before in his life. A feeling of utter helplessness.

  He knew that no matter what he did or said, there was nothing he could do to change his fate. It was over. Everything he had ever known. Everything he'd trained, suffered and sweated for had been taken away from him at the whim of some fucking politician.

  Had all the pain and loss over the years been for this? To be told he could no longer do the job he loved. The job he was made for?

  The only job he could do?

  He took another drag on his cigarette, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing angrily.

  The woman mopping the floor moved to his table. She reached for the small disposable ashtray but Doyle shook his head and she moved away.

  No one had ever beaten him in his life. Every man or woman he'd ever set out to hunt down, he'd caught. All those who'd tried to kill him he'd killed first.

  He'd survived bomb blasts, bullet wounds, knife cuts and God alone knew what else. But what weapons could not achieve, a few words had.They had destroyed him more completely than a bullet in the head.

  Where do you go from here?

  He looked at the woman with the mop.