Bloody Reckoning

by Rafe McGregor

  BLOODY RECKONING

  Rafe McGregor

  @ Rafe McGregor 2017

  Rafe McGregor has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  For more information about Endeavour Press, the UK's leading independent digital publisher, please visit www.endeavourpress.com

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  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  LASHKAR GAR, APRIL 2013

  “Stop the Snatch.”

  I slowed the Land Rover down and looked at where Captain Shabir Mohammed was pointing. An Afghan policeman was walking along the dusty road, fifteen metres away, his back to us. He was striding purposefully, and pushed past two women heading our way. It was unusual to see a police officer on his own, and without an assault rifle to boot.

  “That’s Qadir’s cousin.”

  We were en route to Patrol Base Hazrat to continue our search for First Corporal Jangi Qadir, who’d opened fire on his mentors from the Royal Regiment of Scotland last month, killing one and wounding two. “You sure?” I asked.

  “Yeah, man, but he’s posted in the South. Let’s find out what he’s doing here.”

  I drove forward slowly and halted a couple of metres behind the policeman. Although Shabs was wearing a traditional lungee and Afghan National Army camouflage, he was armed the same as me, with an SA80 rifle and a nine millimetre sidearm. It’s important to share the same ammo when the shooting starts. He opened his door and set his rifle on the seat.

  I removed mine from the rack, switched the cross-bolt from ‘S’ for safety to ‘R’ for repetition, and debussed. I wasn’t particularly suspicious, but it was best if one of us had a weapon in hand.

  The policeman had eased his pace.

  Shabs called his name.

  Qadir turned around.

  Shabs said, “As-salamu –”

  Qadir raised his right fist and fired a single shot from his pistol at Shabs. The distance was about five metres, practically point-blank.

  I raised my SA80 and fired twice.

  The first round hit Qadir in the chest, the second in the head. The back of his skull exploded and blood and bone spattered on the wall behind him. He was dead before his body flopped into the dirt.

  I turned to Shabs.

  He was standing with his legs apart, looking at the space between them, mouth agape. A couple of seconds passed. He turned to me, his pale skin a shade or two lighter. Then he grinned: “He missed. Straight through my legs!”

  He’d missed, but I hadn’t. Shabs and I rarely did. Qadir was the twentieth rogue Afghan policeman we had killed between us in forty-two months. He was also wanted by the US Army for being part of an organised green on blue with eight casualties, four of them fatal. Shabs received a handshake from an American major general and a twenty-five thousand dollar bounty. I was sent back to England to my former unit. The brigadier in charge of Task Force Helmand said I’d been in-country too long. My officer commanding at York told me to take three months off. I bargained her down to two. She was worried I’d started to enjoy the killing.

  I was worried she was right.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Synchronicity is the apparently meaningful coincidence of events. It’s those middle two words that differentiate synchronicity from serendipity, which is an accidental coincidence. If my ex-girlfriend hadn’t turned up out the blue, I wouldn’t have been involved in the most sensational case of my career as a military policeman. That’s serendipity. Synchronicity implies something more: she was meant to find me, because it set in motion a chain of events that changed both of us forever. I don’t believe it, of course, but sometimes it’s difficult to avoid reading too much into the patterns of one’s life.

  Not that I had such highbrow thoughts at the time, late on the afternoon of the first Sunday in May 2013. Far from it. I was chewing the fat with Maikel, as we sat on the balcony of my flat, smoking Tampa Perfecto sweet cigars.

  He was voicing his opinion on the recent bad behaviour of a couple of Army officers when he stopped, cocked his head to one side, and said: “Is your phone.”

  I listened, but I couldn’t hear anything above the background noise of the River Ouse below, and central York all around. “It doesn’t matter. Where did this feller find the time?”

  Maikel, AKA Sergeant Malo Maikelekelevesi, continued his commentary as I savoured the aroma of my cigar. He was one of the thousands of Fijian soldiers in the British Army, a wiry six foot two, with an infectious smile and a wry sense of humour. A paratrooper, he was serving with the Special Forces Support Group, and had been shot in the arm on an operation somewhere in Afghanistan last month – I knew better than to ask for details. He’d been discharged from the hospital at Camp Bastion and sent back to England for a month’s rest and recuperation. The prognosis for his right bicep was no permanent damage, but he was still on medication, so we’d both stuck to soft drinks with our roasts at the Royal Oak.

  “Is your phone again,” he said.

  This time I heard it. “Do you mind?” He shook his head. I placed my cigar in the ashtray on the table, and went inside. I couldn’t remember where I’d left the phone, so I followed the ringtone. I found it next to my bed. The caller recognition indicated the office, which was strange, seeing as I was on mandatory leave. I’d be resuming my position as second-in-command of 33 Section – the York and Catterick Special Investigation Branch of the Royal Military Police – in six weeks, but I was under strict orders to stay away until then. I answered as I returned to the balcony. “Hutt here.”

  “Hello, are you at the flat?”

  It was Mac, my only friend – as opposed to colleague – at 33 Section. “Yeah, why?”

  “A Welsh bird called Siân Matthews showed up here asking for you. I don’t remember you mentioning the name, but she said you were mates, so I gave her your address. Is that alright?”

  “Siân Matthews?”

  “Aye, do you know her?”

  “Yeah, we went out just after I joined 33 Section.” I paused, expecting Mac to comment. He was something of a ladies’ man and Siân was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen, let alone met. When he didn’t reply, I continued. “That’s fine, has she just left?”

  “No, it was about ten minutes ago. I phoned you three times. There’s something else–” I heard a knock at the door. “She’s in a right state.”

  “I think she’s here now. Thanks for the heads-up, I’ll call you later.”

  “I didn’t know you were expecting someone,” said Maikel.

  “I’m not.” I dropped the mobile on the couch and answered the door.
>
  Mac’s warning had done nothing to prepare me for what I saw.

  Siân was still three inches shorter than me at five-seven; she still had dark blue eyes and blonde hair; everything else had changed. If it hadn’t been for Mac’s call, I wouldn’t have recognised the woman I’d last seen four years ago. Her once lustrous, long hair was bedraggled and knotted; her face was cadaverous, the flesh stretched tight across cheekbones and jaw. I’d never seen such large dark circles under anyone’s eyes without a complementary crooked nose, and they made her look like a ghoul rather than a panda. When she opened her mouth, the flash of teeth between her cracked lips made me think of a grinning skull.

  She said nothing.

  I fought to keep the shock from registering on my face. “Hello, Siân.” She opened her mouth again, her lips quivering. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I followed my instinct, stepping towards her and opening my arms.

  She fell into them, knocking over her suitcase. “Garth.” She sagged against me, and I could feel how skinny and bony her once-curvaceous figure had become. I held her gently, afraid to put any pressure on her fragile frame, which made my own two hundred pounds seem more like three. “I’m so glad I found you!”

  I had no idea what Siân was talking about. I hadn’t heard from her since she’d left me, a month before I was posted to Afghanistan. I gave her a soft squeeze and said, “Come in, come in. I’ll take your bag.” I eased her away, but only let go of her matchstick arms when I was sure she was steady on her feet. I ushered her inside and picked up her suitcase. Following her to the lounge, I saw the full extent of her weight loss, which was accentuated by a black shirt and striped linen trousers.

  Maikel looked as confused as I felt.

  “Siân, this is Maikel; he’s just back from Afghanistan. Maikel, this is an old friend of mine.”

  Maikel beamed, as charming as ever, though he knew something was wrong. “Hello, nice to meet you.”

  “Hello,” Siân replied, before collapsing onto one of the couches. She shrugged off her handbag and started rubbing her upper arms.

  “I close this door.” Maikel shut the sliding door to the balcony. “I feel the cold too, even after twelve years.” He was being gracious: it was a warm, sunny spring day.

  “What can I get you?” I asked Siân.

  “Um, nothing – no, maybe a glass of water?”

  “How about something to warm you up; a cup of tea?” I don’t normally keep hot drinks at home, but I’d bought some tea for Maikel.

  “No, just water, thanks.” She sniffed and scratched her nose.

  Even her voice seemed more of a croak than the sexy Welsh trill I remembered. The kitchen, dining area, and lounge were all open-plan, and I kept my eye on Siân as I poured water into a tall glass. Maikel was still standing in front of the sliding door, and there was an awkward silence, broken only by the sound of the tap running.

  When I put the glass on the coffee table, he said, “I’m gonna go for that run I was talking about. I come back later.”

  “It’s all right, stay,” I replied. “Sit down.”

  We both sat opposite Siân. She scraped at her left cheek with her forefinger and I noticed all her fingernails were gnawed to the quick – literally, there was only about a third of each nail plate left beyond the cuticle. I guessed drugs over anorexia. “It’s great to see you again –”

  “I’m in trouble.” She leant forward, then back, then shuffled what was left of her rump on the leather. “I’m in big, big trouble and I need your help.”

  “What’s up?”

  Siân laughed and shuddered, a shaking skeleton in a dirty yellow wig. She grabbed her left shoulder with her right hand. “That’s typical of you, such a lovely man. You’re too polite to ask me about the way I look, and too sweet for your own good. That’s why I’m here, because I know what you’re like.” She addressed Maikel. “If you think I’m cuckoo, then you don’t know your friend.”

  “If I’m on a tight situation, I come here. I know he’d back me up.”

  Siân grimaced, took two gulps of water, and scratched her face again. “Where do you want me to begin? Four years ago, or last week?”

  “Whatever’s easier,” I said.

  “I suppose it’s easier to go backwards. I know you’re looking at me and thinking drugs, and you’re right – but I’m clean. I spent last week in a hotel in a shithole called Redcar. I went seven whole days without any coke, waited one more to be sure, then came here to find you. I know how you feel about drugs and I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t finished with them.”

  Siân had temporarily given up her recreational use of drugs at my insistence after we’d been together for a few weeks. I like to think I would have helped her anyway, but I didn’t say anything.

  “Before I stopped, an eight ball was lasting me less than two weeks and I was taking a line every waking hour – almost. And there were a lot of waking hours, as it goes. When I decided I’d had enough, I packed a suitcase, walked to the station, and took the first train north. I went north because Mick would expect me to go south. I changed trains three times and ended up in Middlesbrough. Even then I was worried, so I took a taxi to Redcar. Never heard of it before, and I used cash for everything, so I thought I was safe. But he’ll find me sooner or later. That’s why I came here.”

  The funny thing was, I was in exactly the same place – career-wise, geographically, and in pretty much every other way – as I’d been when she’d last seen me. Not really funny, more like sad. Siân shuffled in her seat again, failed to find a comfortable position, and bent forward at the waist, keeping hold of her shoulder. She took a ragged breath, sniffed loudly, and continued.

  “Mick was my boyfriend. He’s – no, I’m not making any sense. Let me go back. About two years after you left, I moved to Leeds with a bloke called Craig. The least I can do is tell you the truth, so, yeah, I knew he was a coke dealer when I met him in Oxford. But he wasn’t a scrote; he only supplied professional people. Lawyers, bankers, psychologists, even a couple of movie stars. Sometimes he’d have snoot with his clients, and sometimes with me, so it wasn’t like he was peddling death or misery or anything. I didn’t let it bother me.”

  Siân paused to rearrange herself again. I glanced at Maikel. He was staring at her, his brow creased. I wondered why she’d said that I’d left her, but perhaps the coke had affected her memory as well as her health.

  “At the beginning of last year, Craig took me to a football match and introduced me to Mick. Afterwards he told me Mick was his boss in Leeds, and that it had been their first meeting. I think he was trying to impress Mick, and it back-fired because Mick called and asked me out a week later. I said no, because of Craig and because I knew he was married, but he kept on calling. He invited Craig and me to more football matches in his executive box. He wasn’t anything like the plastic gangsters I’d met in London. He was lovely. He made me feel I was the most important person in the whole world. No one’s ever done that to me. It sounds crazy now, but that’s how it was.

  “He chased me for five months without any encouragement before I gave in and started seeing him. In July he bought me a penthouse flat in a new block on the canal, and I moved in. He promised me he was going to leave his wife and…I won’t bore you with the rest; I don’t want your friend knowing what a fool I am. When nothing happened a month later, I told him I was on the off. He made more promises. In September, I gave him an ultimatum – my God, I still can’t believe I’m responsible – and he had a couple of his boys find Calum. They beat him up and broke his arm. Poor, harmless Calum, who wouldn’t hurt a fly…” Tears were long overdue, and they came now, the floodgates opening.

  I went to the bedroom to find a hanky, taking the opportunity to hide my own distress. I was deeply saddened by Siân’s story, but what disturbed me the most was that I wasn’t surprised. I remembered her as a wealthy wild child who did what she wanted when she wanted and rarely considered the consequences. She must have grown up i
n a hurry, because I knew Calum meant the world to her. Her younger brother was as camp as they come, and one of the nicest fellers I’d ever met. He’d lived in Cardiff when Siân and I had been together, and Mick’s long reach explained her roundabout route to my door. I gave her the hanky and resumed my seat.

  “Thank you.” She held it to her nose, put her right hand across her chest, and sniffed twice. “I can’t blow. If I do, I’ll start bleeding. Sorry. I’ll get on with it and finish this pathetic story before you’re both bored to tears yourselves. You can see what came next. I was too scared to leave Mick and Craig gave me all the coke I wanted. He never seemed bothered that Mick took me away from him. I reckon he never really gave a fuck about me, or maybe he was too scared of Mick. It doesn’t matter. I got hooked on the coke. I decided to run away in December...and thought about you, but I had to kick my habit first. It’s taken me four months of trying, now…here I am.” She bent forward and started crying again, pressing the hanky to her nose.

  I wanted her – and Maikel – to know that she hadn’t needed to cure her addiction before knocking on my door, but it wasn’t the right time. I moved over next to her, and put my arm around her frail shoulders. “It’s okay, Siân. I’ll look after you. Don’t worry. You’ve done the hard part on your own; I’ll sort the rest out with Mick. You can stay here until it’s over.”

  “I’ll sleep here, just like that,” said Maikel, referring to the couch. His arms were folded and his lips pursed.

  “No, you stay where you are. You’re the wounded hero; Siân can use my bed.”

  He nodded as he watched Siân. She sobbed for a couple of minutes, during which I could feel the physical damage she’d done to herself on my skin. I didn’t want to think about the mental and emotional accompaniment. Siân had once told me that men always search for a solution to problems, selecting action over reflection, and I was typical. Even though I didn’t know as much about drug addiction as I should have, I was already deciding on the best way to deal with the situation.