by Andy McNab
OK . . .
The balcony was worn and chipped, with graffiti on the bare concrete. He walked along to the third door and raised his hand to knock. And hesitated, millimetres from the scuffed paint of the door.
Come on. Just knock. Get it done.
He gave the number a last check – like there was any doubt about it being the right one – and knocked a quick rhythm against the wood. Then he stood back and waited.
On the other side, he heard a door open, then footsteps shuffling closer. Sean checked to make sure he looked smart, presentable. He wanted his mum to see that her son was doing OK.
The door opened.
‘Hello, love . . .’
She seemed to say it to his shoulder. She couldn’t lift her head any higher. He stared down at her. He still towered over her, of course. Janice Harker was thirty-three years old, sixteen years older than him, but looked fifty, and the dye didn’t hide the grey. She’d done her hair and put on her best clothes for him – a fading blue dress over an appallingly thin figure. Eh? He had always thought of her as a soppy fat cow. Now she was anything but fat.
And she had clearly spent some time on her make-up, but he didn’t know if that was to impress him, or to hide the bruises on her face. They weren’t visible, but the swelling was.
Sean didn’t wait to be invited in. He stepped into the flat and gently pulled her along with him, shutting the door behind them. He dropped his bag on the floor. ‘Shit, what happened, Mum? Was it PJ?’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that.’ She waved her hands vaguely in front of her face. ‘Just a little accident, that’s all. PJ never laid a finger on me. Not that way, anyway. Now, a cup of tea? And I bought your favourite – that syrup cake you love!’
Sean wasn’t listening. ‘An accident? Don’t play me, Mum. Who did it?’
She eased out of his grip and slipped into the tiny kitchen that led off the hallway. He followed her, past the doorway to the lounge. Then he did a double take and shot a look into the other room. Two chairs and a TV, sitting on the floor.
‘Mum . . .’ He ducked into the kitchen and took it in with one glance. The counters were bare. The cooker was scabby with old food but obviously hadn’t been used for a long time.
‘Do you still have one sugar or have you given that up? I mean, you’re all healthy now, aren’t you? All that running and army fun. Oh, Sean, look at you!’ Her eyes actually lingered in his direction, though they still couldn’t quite get as high as his face. ‘You got so big and handsome! You got a girlfriend? I’d love to meet her.’
‘You need to tell me what happened, Mum.’ Sean dropped down to a crouch and opened the fridge. Empty shelves stared back. Without a word, he stood up, checked a few cupboards. A couple of tins of sardines, a stale loaf of bread, and some own-brand tea bags. That was it.
She flicked the kettle on and dropped a tea bag into a mug as it began to warm up. ‘There won’t be any milk, I’m afraid—’
‘No milk?’ said Sean. ‘Mum, there’s no food anywhere!’
‘That’s because I’m waiting for my delivery, love. It’s due later today, I promise.’
‘Delivery?’ Sean said in disbelief. ‘You mean you have food delivered?’
His mum nodded.
‘So you ordered it, right? Through a website?’
She nodded again, smiled.
‘Even though you haven’t got a computer or a smartphone?’
Her face flickered as she sought for an explanation. ‘I used their computer next door,’ she said. ‘You remember Lisa and John? Yes, that’s what I did.’
Sean shook his head, fighting his temper. He should have known it would come to this. Spend a year away from her, and he worried about her. Thirty seconds back in her company and she was pissing him off again.
‘Mum, just tell me—’
‘Let’s talk in the lounge,’ she said. ‘It’s more comfy in there.’
Sean stood his ground. ‘Mum. You need to talk to me. I can see you’re not spending it on food or booze or smokes or drugs, so where—?’
The flat shook to the sound of a knock on the front door, angry and demanding. Something like a stab of pain shot across his mum’s face.
‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s no one. Please, love, go to the lounge and I’ll send him away.’
‘Him? Who’s him?’
Maybe there was another man in her life, PJ’s replacement – but that hadn’t sounded like a guy coming to meet his girlfriend. Oh shit, she wasn’t getting beaten up again, was she?
She pushed past him, holding her hands to her chest like she didn’t even want to touch him. But it wasn’t that. He could see that her fingers were wrapped around something, trying to hide it from view. He reached out and blocked the door with one arm, stopping her from getting any further. Then, gently, he took her hand in his and opened it, ignoring her weak struggle. Staring back at him was a roll of £10 notes.
‘Mum . . .’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I just need to—’
Sean took the money as another knock shook the door. ‘Stay here.’ He eased his mum gently back into the kitchen. ‘Let me sort this.’ She started to cry. ‘No. Stay,’ he repeated.
Sean closed the kitchen door and took the three steps to the front of the flat.
The door shook again, even more violently.
‘Oh no, Sean, don’t, please . . .’ His mum’s voice rose in a wail of sheer terror.
He pulled the door open.
Chapter 11
Sean found himself staring at a white guy a few years older than him, maybe Heaton’s age, fist clenched and raised to deliver another hammer blow. The guy caught himself just in time, and let his hand down slowly. His skinny frame was bulked out by a massive white shell suit. A gold chain and a baseball cap completed the look.
‘Yes?’ Sean said, staring coldly at the guy.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I was going to ask the same question. I mean, I can see you’re some pranny with his dick where his face ought to be, but that doesn’t tell me who you are.’
The guy’s eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly. ‘Tell Janice Ricky’s here. Collecting her monthlies.’
‘And what exactly are they?’
‘Look, just send her out, will you, bro? I’ve got other people to see, know what I’m saying?’
Sean stepped out through the front door, closing it behind him. ‘No, I don’t know what Pricky’s saying. So why doesn’t Pricky explain?’
Ricky looked at him appraisingly for a moment. Then he slipped a packet of cigarettes from a pocket and offered Sean one. Sean just stared at him, so he popped it into his own mouth and lit up.
‘New kid on the block? OK, quick update for future reference. Janice makes a monthly payment that guarantees safety—’
‘Thought it was the Littern Guyz who took care of all that.’
Ricky smiled around the end of the cigarette. ‘We got arrangements with the Guyz.’
You say? Sean thought. Cool fury began to smoulder deep inside him. ‘How did she get the bruises?’
Ricky took a deep draw on the cigarette. ‘The what?’
‘The bruises on her face. Where did she get them?’
A shrug. Another deep draw. ‘Fell over. You know how it is.’
‘So in fact you’re pretty shit at guaranteeing safety.’
‘Like I say, if she don’t pay dues . . . What can you do? Shit happens.’
‘Yeah, it does. In fact . . .’ Sean snatched the cigarette from Ricky’s mouth and flicked it onto the floor. He crushed it beneath his foot. ‘I squeezed one out this morning looked just like you.’
Ricky stared down at the butt. Then his face twisted into a snarl as he looked up at Sean, and his mouth opened. Sean cupped his hand and slapped the guy hard across the right ear, faster than Ricky could react. Ricky’s scream echoed along the landing. He staggered back and dropped to the floor like his legs had snapped.
Sean crouched down. ‘That’s a ruptured eardrum,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll heal in – oh, three months, max. And you’ve got another one.’ He cupped his hand again and made as if to hit the other ear. Ricky recoiled. ‘But I want you to hear me clear so I won’t do that one too, unless you ask real nice.’
Ricky attempted to get up onto his knees, but Sean pushed him back onto his arse.
‘I’m Janice’s son,’ he said. ‘Didn’t she mention me? Aw, now I’m all hurt as well as angry. Doesn’t matter really. What does is that you will never visit her again. Understand?’
‘Piece of shit,’ Ricky hissed through the pain.
Sean smiled. What he wanted to do was beat the slimy wanker into a pulp. He had no doubt that Ricky was the one responsible for his mum’s bruises. But he was almost as angry with himself as he was with the shit stain lying in front of him. If he’d stayed at home, not joined up, this wouldn’t have happened. He could have protected his mum, looked after her. He remembered what Copper had said, back when he first decided to join up. The bastard had been right.
And so Sean kept smiling, and heaved Ricky to his feet.
‘Seems to me my mum’s entitled to a refund. So I’ll take it now.’ He held out his hand. Ricky glared hate at him, but reached into his pocket. And suddenly Sean found himself staring down the barrel of a revolver. It was pointing directly at his face, and it was loaded. Sean could see the ends of the rounds sitting in their chambers.
Ricky’s hand was shaking. Whether it was from the slap, or because he wasn’t used to the weight of a pistol, Sean couldn’t be sure. It didn’t make him feel any easier about what was going down.
‘Right, then, you shit,’ Ricky said. ‘Back off and get your bitch of a mother out here now!’
Sean raised his hands – not right in the air, just either side of his face. ‘Hey, you don’t need that, bro.’ He had to work to keep his voice calm, low. ‘We can discuss this.’
‘Shut up!’ Ricky screamed. ‘What? You think you can come back here and tell me what to do? You think?’
Sean focused on the weapon, taking in how Ricky was holding it – sideways, like an American gangster, trying hard to be cool. All that meant was that he was twice as likely to miss. When he fired, the gun would recoil, and the way Ricky was holding it, the shot could go anywhere. And even if he’d been using it properly, it was one-handed, the end of the barrel waving around all over the place. He didn’t know squat about handling a weapon.
If he had been only a few metres away, Sean would have felt pretty confident, because what with the shaking hand and the recoil, Ricky would almost certainly miss him. But this close, even for a novice, missing him would be a lot harder.
‘Now, get your mum out here! Ricky’s waiting!’
‘Pricky can go fuck his own.’
Ricky raised the gun a bit higher – and Sean moved.
He hadn’t officially done the unarmed combat course, but he had practised with mates who had. Speed, aggression, surprise – that’s what you needed.
Ricky was holding the gun in his right hand. Sean darted to his left, Ricky’s right: his mates had said it was harder for a guy holding a gun in one hand to move it quickly in that direction. He wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the barrel and brought the heel of his left hand up under the hammer, and in one swift movement he had levered the gun out of Ricky’s grip. It was a textbook move. Ricky’s finger was still inside the trigger guard and it nearly came with it. He howled as Sean heard the snap.
With the same movement, Sean chucked the gun away down the passage and threw his whole body forward into the guy, piling in with his right fist, smashing it hard and fast into Ricky’s face. Ricky’s nose gave way under a barrage of blows, blood bursting out across his cheeks. Sean drove on, pushing into him, punching, punching, punching, right arm pistoning into the guy’s head. Ricky collapsed in a shrieking, weeping, quivering heap. Sean stepped back and picked up the gun. Then, slowly, deliberately, he levelled it at his assailant. For the first time in his life, after all that training, he was holding a live weapon aimed at another human being. It was a strange feeling. And he held it properly, two hands on the grip, feet apart, arms straight, staring straight down the barrel at his target. Ricky stared at his finger, which hung down uselessly. Then he screamed again.
‘We were discussing a refund for my mum,’ Sean said. The skin on his knuckles had split and his hand throbbed, but he held the gun steady.
Ricky opened his mouth, and Sean thumbed the hammer back with a loud click. He had no intention of pulling the trigger, but Ricky wasn’t to know that. He fumbled inside his top and pulled out a thick wallet, which he threw down on the floor by Sean’s feet. Weapon still trained on him, Sean knelt on one knee to pick it up. He opened it with one hand and looked down at a thick wad of tens and twenties. Taking hold of the wad with thumb and forefinger, he lifted it out so that the wallet fell away. Then he kicked the wallet back to its owner and stuffed the money into his own pocket.
‘Your refund is accepted. Now do us both a favour and fuck off already.’
Ricky was clutching his hand with tears in his eyes. His face was a volatile mix of rage, agony and confusion as he clambered to his feet. ‘You’re fucking dead. Your bitch of a mum owes me. Now you do too.’
Sean walked backwards to the flat and pushed the door open with his shoulders and arse, without bringing the gun down.
‘You can’t protect her all the time, soldier boy.’ Ricky spat blood, hunched over to protect his hand, while tears of pain ran down his spattered face. ‘I’ll be back. Those bruises I give her the first time? They won’t be nothing on what’s coming if she don’t pay up, and this time I don’t care how many extra shags I get out of her.’
Sean paused, halfway into the flat. Then he crossed the threshold again and approached Ricky with steady, measured steps, tapping the gun against his thigh. ‘Oh, Pricky,’ he said softly.
He had cut off Ricky’s escape, which Ricky suddenly realized – about the same time as he realized he should maybe have kept his mouth shut about the extra shags.
‘No . . . no, wait . . . please . . .’
He cowered back into a corner.
Sean feinted, pretending to drive his knee into Ricky’s groin. Ricky shrieked and bent double to protect his balls, which meant that Sean could grab the back of his neck and drive his knee in hard, for real. Sean let go and Ricky dropped to the floor. He retched a couple of times, then spewed vomit and blood over the passage.
Sean crouched down nearby, just out of range of the pool of vom. ‘You’ve got arrangements with the Guyz? I’m one of the Guyz and let’s just say your arrangement is over.’ He went back into the flat and shut the door.
He didn’t look at his mum as he worked out how to break the gun open. He dropped the bullets into his hand, then stuffed rounds and weapon into different pockets.
On the other side of the door, Sean heard Ricky call him a ‘dead man’ and a ‘fucking bastard’ as he retreated, stumbling down the landing towards the stairs. Then silence.
He stared hard at his mum. She looked back at him the way he had looked at her the one and only time she had caught him in bed with a girl.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, you dozy cow?’ he asked softly.
Her face seemed to crumple. ‘Because if I did, I knew you’d come and sort it out.’
‘And that’s a bad thing?’
‘Yes! You went through so much to get away from this place . . . I’d die if you got nicked again. I’d die.’ Her eyes were like a rabbit’s caught in the headlights, just before the Land Rover splatted over it.
Sean thought for a moment, then pulled her into a gentle hug. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and then rested his chin on the top of her head. ‘What happened?’
Finally she started to cry. ‘When PJ went . . . he took everything. Said he’d paid for it so it was his. And . . . and he cleared out the account because most of it was his
money . . . and I didn’t feel safe without him and without you, so—’
‘So you started paying Pricky. Fucking hell.’ Sean closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘From now on you tell me everything, right? Everything.’
He gently pushed her away and clapped his hands together like nothing had happened. ‘So!’ He winced. Shit, his hand hurt. He flexed his fingers slowly to keep the blood flowing and stop them swelling up. ‘Cup of tea, you were saying?’
He would give it a couple of minutes before letting her know that he had to go out again. Unexpected business to attend to.
Chapter 12
Sean leaned against the concrete wall outside the flat and gazed into the night, at the lights from curtained windows. He stared at one particular set of curtains while he finished off his can of lager. Then he set it on the edge of the balcony, pulled out his phone and punched in the number. It was a new phone since he got nicked, new number, but he had copied over the contacts.
The sound of distant ringing went on too long. He was about to hang up when someone picked up at the other end.
‘Yeah?’
‘Matt?’
‘Nah, you’ve reached Justin Bieber’s private line. Course it’s Matt! Who’s this?’
Sean laughed. ‘Sean, mate. It’s Sean.’
Silence. Then, ‘Get out of here! Sean? Mate, where you been? How long’s it been since you joined up? You come to your senses finally?’
‘You around?’ Sean asked.
‘Why, you want to link up? That’d be sweet. Where are you now?’
‘I’m outside my mum’s.’
There was a pause, and then the curtains Sean was looking at were pulled aside. He gave a single wave with one hand; the figure in the window lifted a hesitant hand in return.
‘Sure, mate. Come on over.’
‘On my way,’ said Sean. ‘You decent?’
Matt laughed. ‘Yeah, I’ll make sure me and – uh – the wifey are dressed.’
