by Andy McNab
That had been eighteen months ago and they’d been going out together ever since, though she was sometimes uncertain if she knew him any better now than she had on that first date.
After they’d been seeing each other for about four months, Tom had called her at work. ‘I have to go to my parents’ house at the weekend. It’s their wedding anniversary. You can come too, if you like.’
‘You don’t sound very keen on either the idea of the anniversary or of me coming with you,’ she’d said.
‘No, I really want you to. If I sound uncertain, I guess it’s just because I’m not sure how much you’ll enjoy it.’
‘Well,’ she had said, with a smile in her voice, ‘it will satisfy my curiosity at least.’
18
‘WELL, NOW YOU’VE met my parents, do you want to call the whole thing off?’ Tom had joked, as they shared a pot of coffee in Delphine’s flat the morning after they’d got back. It was almost the first chance they’d had to talk. A motorbike ride is never a good time to have a conversation, and by the time they’d reached Hereford it was two in the morning.
‘They weren’t so bad,’ she said. ‘Like all parents, I’m sure they just want the best for you.’
‘Perhaps, but aren’t I the best judge of what that is?’
‘They do have a bit of a point. If you could have your pick of careers or live the life of a country gent, why be a soldier – even an SAS one?’
‘How many times do I have to say this? I like it.’
She nodded over her mug and held out a hand. ‘And if it costs you your life one day?’
‘It’ll still have been worth it. You know the old saying, “Better to live a day on your feet than a lifetime on your knees”?’
She inclined her head, realizing that she had a mistress to compete with. ‘I’ve never heard you speak with such intensity about anything before.’
He gave a rueful smile. ‘Maybe it’s because you’ve never asked before.’
‘Oh, I’ve asked,’ she said. ‘It’s just that you’ve never heard me.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he said. ‘I’m not planning to be Lawrence of Arabia for ever. I’ve seen too many grizzled old sweats droning on about how things were different – and better – back in the day, and how the youth of today doesn’t know what soldiering is. The moment I stop enjoying it and start enduring it, I’ll quit. There are plenty of other things I want to do with my life, but for now there’s no place I’d rather be, and no job I’d rather be doing.’
‘And if the price of that is that you wind up in a wheelchair, like some of your friends?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t treat that risk lightly. But I know it can’t be eliminated altogether. Shit happens, and I know that there’s a chance it may happen to me. It’s the price of admission, if you like, to what we do. But it’s not going to stop me. I volunteered. No one forced me to do this job.’
‘And what about the normal, everyday things in life – buying a home, raising a family, cooking the dinner, cutting the grass – where do they fit in?’
‘At the moment they don’t. But that will change one day,’ he added hastily, as he saw her lips tighten and a bleak look in her eye. ‘I want children, one day, lots of them – but I want to be around for them. I’ve seen too many mates get married, have kids, then find themselves divorced a few years later because their wives got sick of trying to run a family on their own. I’ve even heard a few women say they prefer it when their men are away on ops because they’re just a nuisance when they’re at home, disrupting everyone’s routine. Well, that’s not going to happen to me.’ He paused. ‘Or my wife.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I can accept that you’re a soldier and you love your work, and that your mates are as close to you as your family, or maybe even closer, but does everything have to be quite so macho? This is the twenty-first century, not the Stone Age. Does any display of affection or tenderness, any interest in life outside the SAS really have to be taken as a sign of weakness? And would the world end if just once you said, “Sorry, I can’t make it,” when your friends or your precious Regiment asked you to do something?’
‘You and the Regiment are the two most important things in my life, Delphine,’ Tom said. ‘You know I love you, really I do, and I hope that we’ll have a life together long after I’ve left Hereford, but please don’t ask me right now to choose between you and the work I do.’
‘Because I wouldn’t like the choice you’d make?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘No,’ Delphine said. ‘You didn’t have to.’
They sat in silence for a while. ‘Anyway,’ he said brightly, putting down his mug on the nearest pile of hotel trade mags, ‘the trial by ordeal with my parents is over, and we don’t have to go back there any time soon.’
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’d go if you wanted to.’
‘Well,’ he gave a sly smile, ‘perhaps we will in a few months, if we’re still together by then.’
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I could probably be doing a lot better for myself.’
He gave her a quizzical look, then broke into a broad grin.
At the end of her six-month posting at the Green Dragon, Delphine had applied for an extension, and done so again six months later, even though it was against the wishes and advice of her boss. He couldn’t understand why she didn’t want to move on, after all her hard work.
In the end he’d extracted a promise that this would be her last six months, which was now almost up. But tonight, when Tom arrived, there was a more pressing situation she was desperate to discuss. Her future with Tom or, rather, the lack of it. The mistress had won. So much so that, for the last few weeks, every time she had tried to do so, something had cropped up at the Lines: Tom had been called in for a briefing, for training, a deployment, an operation, but often, she suspected, just to go out yet again with the lads.
But that was all history. She’d seen the news on TV. The speculation that the SAS had been involved in the mysterious explosions in Hampstead earlier in the day was probably right. Tom was heading back to Hereford and should be with her soon – maybe. She’d booked a table for dinner at the pub in Fownhope. She’d asked for the same table as they’d had on the night of their first date, even asked for a bottle of the same wine to be on the table waiting for him.
19
TOM AND GAVIN had just turned off the M4 at Swindon. It would be another hour and a half before they got back to Hereford.
Gavin sighed, fidgeted some more, then took his feet down from the dash. ‘Mate, do me a fucking favour. Let me bung some proper music on for a change. That racket’s doin’ me head in.’ He reached across to switch the radio to a rock station.
‘Racket?’ Tom shook his head in mock disbelief. ‘That’s Lang Lang playing Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. I thought it was your favourite.’
‘Never heard of them. Any relation to the Ting Tings?’ Gavin gave a sly smile. ‘I’m guessing they’re French. You have romantic evenings by the fire listening to them, yeah?’
Tom grinned. ‘Where do I begin? You’re about a third to a half right, which is probably about as good as it ever gets with you, isn’t it? Stravinsky was a Russian, though he did live in France for a long time, and Lang Lang is Chinese.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yah, yah, yada fucking yada. Whoever they fucking are, and wherever they fucking come from, it all sounds the fucking same to me.’
‘Gav, you’d give Philistines a bad name, you would. I even bought you the CD last year, remember?’
‘Yeah, I know, and thank you. It makes a great beer mat. Barry White’s all you need to knock the birds bandy.’
Tom reached across and switched the radio back to Stravinsky. ‘Get used to it, mate. My roof, my rules. You’re living with me now. And if you ever manage to find someone stupid enough to marry you again, I intend to make sure they’ll be getting a cultured man.’ He shot him a sideways glance. ‘Trust me, she’ll love you f
or it. Now relax, listen and learn.’
Tom leaned back in his seat, tapping out the rhythm on the steering-wheel. After another loud sigh, Gavin reclined his seat as far as it would go, closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep.
They eventually rolled into the Lines, just outside Hereford, and the Blue team’s hangar. The new Lines, an old RAF camp, had been officially opened in 2000 after the Regiment had moved from Stirling Lines on the edge of the city. The old Lines had looked more like a 1980s red-brick university and hadn’t had the room needed for an ever-growing Special Forces contingent, or been able to accommodate larger aircraft like Chinooks. When the RAF had abandoned the base, it was a no-brainer.
‘Why the Lines?’ Delphine had asked him.
The term had been used in the British Army for hundreds of years, Tom had explained, and referred to the tent lines that solders inhabited in the field. ‘The rows of tents had to be in perfect alignment – even the guy ropes and pegs had to be just so.’
Now Gavin sat up, yawned and stretched, then jumped out. ‘We’d better motor,’ he said. ‘It’s five o’clock already and we’ve got a big night ahead of us.’
‘Always the optimist, aren’t you?’ Tom pulled his ready-bag out of the back of the wagon. ‘I’m the one with the big night ahead. The most you’ve got to look forward to is a couple of pints with the lads, then falling asleep on the sofa watching Hollyoaks on catch-up.’
‘Mate, you’re wrong there.’ Gavin shouldered his own ready-bag and headed for the door. ‘In fact, I intend to have a very big night with all the money I’ll be collecting later.’
20
THE REST OF Blue team arrived over the next forty minutes and spent a couple of hours cleaning their weapons and sorting out their kit. There was a quick debrief in the crew room with Major Ashton, though not the full post-mortem, which wouldn’t take place until the next day.
Tom headed for the washroom. He’d towelled himself dry and was dressed before most of the rest were out of the showers. His Omega Planet Ocean told him it was fast approaching 20.00 hours. He weighed it for a moment in his hand. Lots of guys in the Regiment had one, but it never failed to give him a kick. The offer of a special-edition watch had been made by the company a couple of years earlier, the sort of deal usually reserved for Formula One teams and Premiership clubs. It was a good marketing ploy, and the Regiment guys got a great watch at a discount.
The Regiment version looked like a regular Planet Ocean, until you turned it over. The engraved case-back had a winged dagger in the centre, ‘22 Special Air Service’ around the circle, and the first two letters of the wearer’s surname, followed by two digits indicating the year he’d passed Selection, then the last four digits of his army number. On the case side, between the shoulders, he could still read, ‘ALWAYS A LITTLE FURTHER’, taken from the SAS pilgrim poem.
He snapped it onto his wrist, grabbed his motorcycle helmet from his locker and was heading across the car park to his BMW when he heard a shout from behind him. He looked back and saw Ashton come out of the team office and hurry across the car park.
‘You want me, Boss?’ Tom started to put his helmet on. He was on a mission.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I promised to meet Delphine and –’ he glanced at his watch again ‘– I’m already running late.’
‘You’ve not forgotten it’s Fight Night, have you?’
‘Oh, shit.’ The helmet started to lift away from his head. ‘Yeah, I had, I’m afraid.’
‘I haven’t,’ Ashton said. ‘Not after what happened last year.’
Tom nodded. ‘So you’ll be looking for a bit of payback . . .’
‘I’d hate to be the cause of a domestic. But I think you owe me that much.’ Ashton adopted just the right note of sarcasm.
Tom bristled. ‘The thing is, I haven’t seen Delphine in weeks, what with that team job in Yemen and a few other things, and I had to stand her up again last night because of Hampstead.’
Ashton shrugged. ‘But you’re on the list, Tom. You can’t back down now, can you? Besides, I’ve been training.’
Tom stared at him for a moment, weighing up his options. He came to the conclusion he had very few. ‘You’d better go and get ready, then, hadn’t you, Boss?’
Ashton gave a triumphant smile, then turned on his heel and headed back towards the office. He called over his shoulder, ‘Stand by to be on your arse within a minute.’
Tom fumbled in his pocket for his phone.
It rang twice before she answered. ‘Tom?’
‘Yeah . . . I’m . . . er . . . back.’
‘Perfect timing. I’ve just finished work and I’ve booked a—’
Tom had to cut in to minimize the disappointment. ‘I’m going to be a while longer, I’m afraid. I’ve just been reminded it’s Fight Night.’
‘What? Again? I’ve booked a table and . . .’ Her voice tailed away. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or tears were welling.
‘It’s only once a year. I forgot about it . . . but I can’t get out of it. I’m on the list. I said I’d fight. I’m really, really sorry, but I can’t let the team down. It doesn’t mean—’
‘The mistress always wins,’ she snapped. Her voice rose an octave as she tried to control herself. ‘Tom, this is important to me . . . to us. I need to talk to you, tonight.’
‘You will – I will be there. It’s just that I have to do this first. I was looking forward to seeing you so much I forgot I’d committed to this. I’m so sorry . . .’
Delphine’s tone stayed calm. ‘There is no need to be sorry. I blame myself for being stupid enough to think that this time you actually would turn up when you said you would.’
‘No, it’s my fault, Delphine, and I will make it up to you later, I promise. But I really do have to go. It won’t take long. I won’t stay – I’ll come straight over. I can get this done and dusted in less than an hour.’
‘And just how will you manage to do that?’
‘I’ll throw the fight,’ he said. ‘I’ll never hear the end of it from the lads, but I could be on my way out of the door again within an hour at the very most.’
Delphine’s voice showed her surprise, despite herself. ‘You would really do that for me?’
‘Absolutely. Why don’t you cancel the table, head home and chill out with a glass of wine and I’ll come straight round to the flat?’
‘You promise?’ she said.
‘I promise.’
Delphine thought about it for a moment. ‘All right, then. I’ll be waiting. But not for too long. Don’t let me down again, Tom, please.’
21
TOM PRESSED THE red button and headed for the sergeants’ mess. The bar was packed. He pushed his way through and bought himself and Gavin a beer, then walked through to the next room. A giant pink and blue inflatable bouncy castle was set up in the middle of the floor, the kind normally used for kids’ parties. A crowd of men had already gathered around it, claiming the best vantage-points, and there were cheers and a few jeers as Tom came in.
The draw for who fought whom had been made four days ago. There were two general teams: the officers’ mess versus the sergeants’ mess. Anyone could put their name down, and if there weren’t enough takers the CO and the RSM would nominate volunteers. They had the right to choose because they also had to fight, along with each of the four Sabre Squadron commanders. Their job was to lead from the front.
Fight Nights were more than a social event: they were an important part of producing good soldiers. Of course the men had to be aggressive, and all of them were or they wouldn’t have passed Selection. But there was more to it than that. They were bonding exercises between the two management groups of the Regiment.
The officers would normally serve a three-year tour before returning to their parent unit and might go back for one more tour. The continuity of the Regiment lay with the sergeants and warrant officers. As with any infantry battalion, they held the experience of the u
nit.
Many things happened in an army that civilians like Delphine could not understand. On the face of it, Fight Nights looked dangerous or stupid and immature, but they had evolved over many years and always had a rationale. They built respect through shared physical pain and endurance. Maybe that was why Tom always put himself up for it, or maybe he just liked to fight. Maybe it was both. He could never work it out, but that didn’t matter. The only thing that did was that he was stepping up to the plate, not letting anyone down, including himself. Even if, tonight, he was going into the ring to lose.
Almost every man had a stack of cans of beer near at hand, and the air was already heavy with alcohol fumes. A warrant officer was sitting at the table on the far side of the room, in front of a whiteboard with a marker dangling from it on a piece of string. Tom and Ashton, his squadron commander, were up first.
‘Wouldn’t have it any other way, Lenny,’ Tom said, slapping his money on the table.
Bryce was right behind him. 'I won’t be going home empty-handed.’ He pulled his T-shirt over his head, flexed his pecs and pointed to the names of his six kids tattooed on his chest. ‘My babies need new shoes.’
‘You’d be better off spending your winnings on getting the snip, mate, and doing humanity a favour.’ Keenan wasn’t fighting. He never did, not wanting to lose his beach-bum good looks. ‘And just think of the money you’d save on nappies.’
‘And tattoos,’ Jockey said, as he strolled over to join them.
Bryce was still shuddering at the thought of a vasectomy and had covered his groin with his hands. ‘I’ll never have the snip,’ he said. ‘Even if we have sixty kids. Every sperm is sacred to me – and the missus. And I don’t mind admitting that there’s one thing that scares me shitless. I tell you now, I’d rather play Russian roulette with a revolver with no empty chambers than let someone loose on my balls with a scalpel.’
