by Shaun Clarke
She was not wearing shoes. He tugged her denims down over her feet. When she spread her legs, groaning, whispering, ‘Fuck me!’ he rolled over on top of her. ‘Yes!’ she whispered. ‘Fuck, do it!’ He dropped between her legs and did it. He was harder than he had been for a long time and the feeling was good. Inside her, he became her, almost sensing her thoughts, and he knew that she had somehow taken him over and made him believe in her.
She saw corruption everywhere. He had started seeing that as well. As they made love, as their bodies became one, he sensed the madness in both of them.
‘Fuck me!’ she gasped. ‘Fuck me senseless! Damn you, fuckme! Just do it!’
He came on those words, obliterating her, finding oblivion, and remained there, when his spasms had subsided, for what seemed a long time, breathing harshly, despairingly.
He was not the young man he had been and felt destroyed by the knowledge. He felt used up and abused and betrayed and that filled him with rage. He would take the rage and use it to give him strength and the hope of renewal. He would right what was wrong.
It was the SAS way.
Chapter Eleven
‘Those bastards!’ Tommy ‘TT’ Taylor said, switching off the TV set, flicking his dark hair away from his brown eyes and looking in a stunned way at the others. ‘Those IRA cunts!’
Earlier that morning, the 79-year old Earl Mountbatten, former supreme Allied Commander in South-East Asia and Viceroy of India, had driven with members of his family from their Irish home, Classiebawn Castle, to the harbour of Mullaghmore in County Sligo, and set out for a day’s fishing in his thirty-foot boat, Shadow V. The boat had scarcely left the harbour when an explosion blew it high in the air, smashing it to smithereens, killing Earl Mountbatten, his grandson Nicholas, aged fourteen, and a seventeenyearold boatman. Earl Mountbatten’s daughter, Lady Brabourne, her son Timothy and her mother-in-law, the Dowager Lady Brabourne, were all in critical condition in an intensive care ward. Already, the IRA had claimed responsibility for the ‘execution’ of Lord Mountbatten and said that the boat had been blown up by a remotecontrolled bomb containing twenty-three kilograms of explosive.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Marty heard himself saying. ‘I just don’t believe it. Him, of all people. That man was respected and loved by everyone, even the Irish. How the fuck could they do that?’
‘Probably that’s whythey did it,’ Taff said quietly, stroking his nose and staring at Marty with his steady, unnerving gaze. ‘Because he was loved and respected by so many. They wanted to cause maximum outrage, so they picked someone popular– yes, someone even popular with the Irish. What they’re saying is, no one is safe. It’s a clear message, right?’
‘Right,’ Alan Pearson said, sharing the table with them because his work in Northern Ireland had earned him his sergeant’s stripes. ‘He was popular and important. Cousin of the Queen, wasn’t he? Prince Phillip’s uncle. Even acted as a mentor to the Prince of Wales. You can’t get closer to royalty than that. I’d say that’s why they picked him.’
‘I agree,’ Taff said quietly, showing none of the anger Marty was feeling. ‘Good tactics, that.’
After all these years of knowing the mild-mannered blond Welshman, Marty still couldn’t get used to his almost inhuman distance from everything that normally moved people. On the one hand, he had never known Taff to behave indecently or with cruelty; on the other, he had never known anyone who could face danger or kill the enemy in such a calm, detached manner. You could neither love nor loathe Taff – he was someone out of reach – but for a second, looking into his fathomless gaze, Marty wanted to strangle him.
‘That’s your only reaction to what’s happened?’ he asked. ‘To call it good tactics?’
‘Taff’s right,’ TT said. ‘We may think that what they did is disgusting, but it wasn’t without point. Those bastards knew exactly what they were doing when they choose that particular victim. That was a real showcase killing.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Marty exclaimed. But of course they were right, appalling though that truth was. ‘So who’s next?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘Prince Phillip? The Queen? And meanwhile, the animals who did this will get off scot free. There’ll be a lot of public condemnation from politicians and that’s as far as those arseholes will go. It’s all politics and bullshit in the end. It’s all fucking diplomacy. We should go back to Northern Ireland and have a range war and not stop until all those rats are flushed out of their holes. We should, but we won’t.’
‘Politics,’ Pearson said. ‘You used the right word there. They play politics while the IRA keeps killing and we get egg on our faces.’
‘The IRA and others,’ Marty said. ‘What about Mogadishu Airport? If we hadn’t advised the Germans otherwise, that bloody Baader-Meinhof gang would probably have won their gamble. The bleeding-heart liberals would have refused to let GSG-9 risk the passengers’ lives and another bunch of terrorists would have got exactly what they demanded.’
‘But they didn’t,’ Taff reminded him.
‘No, they didn’t,’ Marty retorted, not to be appeased. ‘Because we sent a couple of our best men to Germany to give the Krauts some sound advice. They listened and did what they had to do and that put an end to it.’
‘That Mountbatten killing,’ TT said. ‘I mean, I think that’s really bad. If nothing else, they should send a couple of us in there undercover to find out just who did it and put paid to the bastards. Not Long Kesh and not a fucking soapbox trial – just a clean double tap. I know that’s what I’d do.’
‘Damned right,’ Pearson said.
Agitated, Marty went to the bar to buy another round. Returning to the table with the four glasses, expertly balanced, he was surprised to see that his hands were shaking a little – a sign of his anger.
‘It’s not just the IRA,’ he said, taking his place at the table and distributing the pint glasses. ‘It’s all these other terrorist groups, like that Baader-Meinhof gang– a bunch of middleclass kids, for Christ’s sake – and others springing up all over the place. The Western governments can’t seem to do a thing about it – but you’re right, TT, we could. We could find out just who those bastards are and do it all on our own. If not the terrorists, then the bastards who supply the weapons.’
‘At least we all know who theyare,’ TT said, now growing almost as excited as Marty. ‘I mean, they’re legal, right? Those cunts get knighthoods. They’re either going to fancy dinners at Ten Downing Street or being photographed surrounded by blonde bints in nightclubs in Marbella. They’re grandstanders, most of them – they like the publicity. They make money for the country, so they’re fêted instead of condemned, and they drive around in big fancy cars while the weapons and bombs they sell to the terrorists are turned against their own citizens. A right shower of wankers, they are, and they should all have their lights put out.’
‘I agree,’ Marty said. ‘They’re even worse than the terrorists. Without them, the terrorists couldn’t exist, but they’re the ones who get off scot free. As TT says, they’re actually given fucking knighthoods or the equivalent in their own bloody countries. I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if the explosives that killed Lord Mountbatten were sold to the IRA by some fat cat who moves in the best of circles and gets his dick sucked by the aristocracy. And as TT also pointed out– you’re being bright today, TT – at least we know, or can find out, who those bastards are. We should do something about them.’
‘Then why don’t we?’ Taff asked, speaking in his customary quiet, deadly serious manner. ‘Why not use the Association to track them down and then neutralize them? That’s something we could certainly do and it’s something worthdoing.’
Everyone went silent and stared nervously at Taff, as if he had touched upon something that all of them had been thinking about. Certainly, when he glanced at Taff’s steady, gelid gaze, at his still youthful, unreadable face, Marty realized that he had been thinking about it ever since the Association had been formed and, in particular, b
een fronted by Vigilance International.
In the past couple of years, working out of offices in Paddy’s company, the Association had spread its wings and done many good things, most importantly in the obtaining of jobs for former SAS men: as military advisors, security officers and personal bodyguards to commercial companies and highly placed individuals in foreign countries. It had also kept an eye on what was happening to the regiment and corrected what it was felt was going wrong. Paddy had organized most of the former through his strong business connections in the City, where security requirements were almost daily, and through his video company, which had introduced him to many influential friends overseas. While he had been thus engaged, Marty had headed the Association and monitored its activities in his spare time, organizing the monthly meetings, acting as chairman, and otherwise doing all he could to assist, given the limitations on his time imposed by his normal duties for the regiment. Naturally, this particular part of his life was known only to other members of the Association, not to anyone else in the regiment. The administration of the Association itself was carried out by former SAS members who were formally working for Paddy’s Vigilance International.
The three men gathered around this table, Taff, Tommy ‘TT’ Taylor and Alan Pearson, were active increasing production members of the Association and had been highly efficient at correcting what was wrong as decided by the ‘Chinese parliaments’ of the monthly meetings. They and other members of the Association had persuaded NCOs to resist certain changes in direction suggested by unloved Ruperts, recommended RTUs for undisciplined troopers, brought pressure to bear on NCOs who were deemed to be behaving in a manner detrimental to the founding principles of the regiment, and passed on to Marty any information they received about policy proposals or orders that could he harmful to the regiment in the long term. Where such proposals could not be blocked or amended by pressure from Marty and his fellow NCOs, the information was passed on to Paddy, who would leak it to the media as a means of embarrassing those responsible. In this way, the Association had, among other successes, been able to prevent the regiment from being used for undesirable purposes, such as acting as strike-breakers or thinly disguised policemen. What the Association had not been able to do, however, was exert a positive influence on decisions regarding the neutralizing of enemies of the state, such as the IRA and other terrorist groups – and that, Marty realized, was exactly what they were talking about now.
‘Track them down?’ Alan Pearson asked softly to break the long silence. ‘Neutralize them?’
‘Why not?’ Taff calmly replied. ‘That’s what we’ve been trained to do. We can do it, but we rarely get the chance because everyone’s playing at politics and nothing gets done. Let’s do it ourselves, I say. We now have the means at hand. We have the Association, so let’s use it to do something worth doing– something more than just getting jobs for old mates and correcting wrongs in the regiment.’
‘I’m not sure,’ TT said. ‘I mean, that’s taking things a bit far. I think – ’
‘Take this Lord Mountbatten business,’ Taff interjected with calm conviction. ‘We all revered the man and we’re all mad about what’s happened, but we know we can’t do a thing about it, which makes us feel even worse. And what about the regiment? It’s rarely used anymore. We get the odd terrorist outrage, one or two of us get called in,but mostly we’re just sitting on the shelf with nothing to do. We’re the best-trained soldiers in the whole damned country and we’re just sitting here, rotting. Even worse, we’re burning up with frustration because while we’re forced to sit here, twiddling our thumbs, every political activist and terrorist in the country’s having a field day. So let’s initiate a few things ourselves and get some selfsatisfaction.’
He had been speaking to TT, but now he turned his head to stare straight at Marty, smiling in a way that Marty sensed was almost a challenge. A little shaken by what he had heard, yet knowing that Taff was deadly serious, he was pleased to note that the Welshman was only articulating what he had often considered doing himself. In principle he agreed – he was frustrated enough, God knows – but the proposal would definitely be the first decisive step down what Paddy had called a ‘slippery slope’. Though Marty’s anger had often made him contemplate what Taff was now suggesting, he wasn’t quite ready for it yet. Indeed, the fact that he had even considered it was frightening enough.
‘Would you actually be prepared to do that?’ he asked.
Taff shrugged casually. ‘Sure. Why not?’
Marty glanced at the other two. TT looked embarrassed, then shook his head from side to side, expressing his doubts. ‘I don’t think… Maybe… under extreme circumstances… But I’d have to be convinced.’
‘It would have to be official,’ Alan Pearson said. ‘I don’t think I’d do it for the Association. Well, maybe, if…’
‘What?’ Taff asked, gazing levelly at him.
Confused, Pearson glanced around the bar, as if to distract himself.
‘If what?’ Taff asked, not letting him off the hook.
‘Maybe if…’ Pearson shrugged, expressing his confusion, just as TT had done. ‘If someone else started it. Someone senior to me. You, Marty– or maybe even Paddy Kearney… Someone I trust. Maybe after the first one.’
Taff smiled and turned back to Marty. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘You just have to give the pebble a little kick and let it roll down the hill. All the others will follow in its wake. It’s a natural thing, my friend.’
Defeated by Taff’s steady, unemotional gaze, disturbed by the knowledge that in essence he agreed with him, Marty finished off his beer, then pushed his chair back and stood up.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, though he didn’t sound too convincing, not even to himself. ‘I can understand the sentiments behind it, but I agree with TT that it’s probably going too far. I think we’re doing all we can do right now and I’m happy with that. I’ll see you all on Monday.’
He walked out of the pub, sensing Taff’s steady gaze boring through his back, feeling relieved to get out. When he reached the car park and was putting his key in the lock of his vehicle, he saw that his hands were still shaking.
He certainly wasn’t himself these days.
Neither was Diane. He was reminded of this when, later that afternoon, he met her in the French pub in Soho, grateful to be stepping in from the pouring rain, though not particularly keen on this particular rendezvous. Famous as a watering hole for hard-drinking literary types such as Dylan Thomas, it was often packed, though these days with journalists and those from other fields in the media. Marty never felt quite comfortable in the place and now, as he hurried in from the rain and saw the usual sea of flushed faces in clouds of cigaretteand-cigar smoke, most talking animatedly, drunkenly, he felt self-conscious and out of place again.
Those not standing were seated on tall stools along the bar, by the windows overlooking Dean Street, and at tables in the room to the side of the bar. The walls were adorned with photos of all the celebrities who had drank here previously and, in some cases, still did. Marty was glad to see that Diane was on one of the stools, drinking a large glass of white wine and having a heated conversation with someone on the stool beside her. The man’s thick silvery hair appeared to be electrified and his black gaberdine was draped like a cape over the shoulders of a shabby dark grey suit. He was sporting a polka-dot bow-tie and his ageing face was flushed with drink. Unfortunately, Diane, who was deadly pale when sober, was just as flushed as the man she was talking to, which was not a good sign.
As he pushed his way through those standing between the doorway and the bar, Marty was glad that he had followed his lunchtime pints in the Sports and Social with a couple of large whiskies on the train coming in to London. More fortified than he normally was when entering this particular watering hole, he came up behind Diane and planted a kiss on her head, cutting her off in mid-sentence. Glancing sideways, she stared at him with bloodshot eyes, then smiled and said, ‘Ah! Here
’s my man! You actually made it.’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘I thought a few drinks in the Sports and Social might lead to a few more and make you forget me.’
‘That’s never happened.’ He glanced at her nearly empty glass. ‘Can I get you another?’
‘Yes. Make it a double.’
‘And the same for me, old chap,’ the man with the electrified silvery hairsaid. ‘We’re both drinking the same, dear.’
Diane giggled drunkenly, then introduced the man beside her. ‘This is Angus. Don’t ask me his other name. We just met today.’
Angus stuck his hand out. ‘Angus Lazenby. And you are…?’
‘Marty Butler.’ He shook the man’s hand, which was as frail as a sparrow’s body. ‘Was it whisky?’
‘Both whiskies,’ Diane said. ‘I decided to make a day of it. Couldn’t bloody well work.’
Diane had been working less and less lately, complaining that she couldn’t get as many commissions as before because she was being slandered by her unknown enemies. In Marty’s view, this was due to the fact that she was falling into a state of paranoia not helped by her heavy drinking. He therefore ignored the remark and ordered three large whiskies. While he was waiting for the drinks to come, Diane and Angus continued their conversation, which seemed to be a heated debate about the increasing restraints being placed upon investigative journalists. The debate ended only when the barman brought their drinks. Angus hastily finished the one he already had and picked up the fresh one.
‘Cheers!’ He had a sip of his fresh drink, then asked of Marty: ‘So what do you do?’
‘What?’
‘Clearly you’re not a journalist or a writer, so what do you do? Are you in sports, or what? I heard your charming lady here make mention of the Sports and Social – sounds absolutely ghastly– and you do look rather fit for your age. Naturally I therefore assumed – ’
‘No, I’m not in sports. I’m in the – ’
