by Andy McNab
I passed under the scaffold that covered the pavement on the corner of Inverness Street and got a nod from the Bosnian refugee who sold smuggled cigarettes out of a sports bag. He was holding out a couple of cartons to passers-by and in his leather-look PVC bomber jacket and tracksuit bottoms he looked just like I felt, tired of life. We knew each other by sight and I nodded back before turning left into the market. My stomach was so empty it ached, adding to the pain from the kicking. I was really looking forward to breakfast.
The caff was full of construction workers taking a break from building the new Gap and Starbucks. Their dirty yellow hardhats were lined up against the wall like helmets at a fire station, whilst they filled their faces with the three quid all-day breakfast. The room was a noisy haze of fried food and cigarette smoke, probably courtesy of the Bosnian. I put in my order and listened to the radio behind the counter while I picked up my mug of instant coffee. The news on Capital gave only bullet-point headlines about yesterday's terrorist incident.
It was already taking second place to Posh Spice's new hairdo.
I settled down at a four-seater wrought-iron-and-marble-effect garden table, moved the overflowing ashtray out of the way, and stared at the sugar bowl. The pins and needles had returned and I found that my elbows were on the table and my face was stuck in my hands. For some reason I was remembering being seven years old, tears running down my face, trying to explain to my stepfather that I was scared of the dark. Instead of a comforting cuddle and the bedroom light left on, I got a slapped face and told not to be such a wimp or the night monster would come out from under the bed and eat me. He used to make me flap big-time, and I'd spend the whole night curled up under the blanket, petrified, thinking that as long as I didn't look out the night monster wouldn't get me.
The same feeling of terror and helplessness was with me again after all these years.
I was jolted from my trance.
"Set breakfast, extra egg?"
That7 s me!"
I sat back down and threw bacon, sausage and egg down my neck and started to think about my shopping list. At least I wouldn't need much clothing for my Central American trip. There now, maybe things weren't that bad: at least I was going somewhere warm.
I'd never been to Panama, but had operated on its border with Colombia against PARC (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia) while in the Regiment. We were part of the UK's first-strike policy in the eighties, an American-funded operation to hit drug manufacture at source, which meant getting into the jungle for weeks on end, finding the DMPs (drug-manufacturing plants) and destroying them to slow the trafficking to the UK and US. We might as well not have bothered. Over 70 per cent of the cocaine entering the States still originated from Colombia, and up to 75 per cent of the heroin seized on the east coast of the US was Colombian.
PARC had their fingers in a substantial amount of that pie, and those kinds of numbers were also heading this way, to the UK.
Having operated in the region for over a year, I still took an interest especially as most of the Colombians I'd cared anything about had been killed in the war. To keep the peace with PARC, the Colombian government had given them control of an area the size of Switzerland, and they ran all their operations from there. It was hoped that things would change now that Plan Colombia was getting into full swing. Clinton had given the Colombian government a $1.3 billion military aid package to combat drug trafficking, including over sixty of the Yes Man's precious Huey and Black Hawk helicopters, along with other military assistance. But I wasn't holding my breath. It was going to be a long and dirty war.
I also knew that, for most of the twentieth century, the USA had paid for, run and protected the Panama Canal and stationed SOUTH COM (the US Army's Southern Command) in-country. It was SOUTH COM that had directed all military and intelligence operations from Mexico's southern border to Cape Horn during my time in Colombia. Thousands of US troops and aircraft stationed in Panama had been responsible for all the anti-drug operations in Central and South America, but that had stopped at midnight on 31 December 1999 when the US handed back control of the canal to the locals, and SOUTH COM and all American presence was withdrawn. It was now fragmented, spread around bases all over Central America and the Caribbean, and nowhere near as effective at fighting any kind of war as it once had been.
From what I'd read, the hand-over of the canal had sort of sneaked up on the American public. And when they discovered that a Chinese company, not American, had been awarded the contract to operate the ports at each end of the canal and take over some of the old US military facilities, the right wing went ape shit I couldn't see the problem myself:
Chinese-owned companies ran ports all around the world, including Dover and others in this country. I hadn't thought of it at the time, but maybe that was why the Chinaman had been in the delegation, as part of the new order in Central America.
I felt a little better after some death-by-cholesterol, and left the caff wiping egg yolk off my fingers and on to my jeans, where a fair amount of it had dribbled anyway.
A fifteen-minute shopping frenzy in the market bought me a new pair of rip-off Levi's for sixteen quid, a blue sweatshirt for seven, a pair of boxers and a pack of three pairs of socks for another five.
I carried on walking past fruit and veg stalls until I came to Arlington Road, and turned right by the Good Mixer pub, a 1960s monstrosity in need of a lick of paint. The usual suspects were sitting against the pub wall, three old men, unshaven and unwashed, throwing cans of Strongbow Super down their necks obviously this week's special offer at Oddbins. All three held out their grime ingrained palms for money without even looking up at the people they were begging from.
I was just a few minutes away from a hot shower. Maybe a hundred metres ahead, outside my impressive Victorian redbrick residence, I could see someone being troll eyed into the back of an | ambulance. This was nothing unusual around here, and no one r passing gave it a second look.
( Walking past the graffiti-filled walls of the decaying, pollution-stained buildings, I approached the front entrance as the ambulance moved off. There was a white Transit behind it.
Gathered around its open rear doors were a group of Eastern Europeans, all carrying sports bags or day sacks Of course it was Monday: the boys from Manchester were dishing out smuggled cigarettes and rolling tobacco for them to sell in the market and pubs.
Two worn stone steps took me to a set of large, glazed wooden doors which I pushed my way through. I buzzed to be let through the second lot of security doors, and pressed my head against the glass so whoever was on duty could check me out.
The door buzzed and I pushed through. I got a smile off Maureen at reception, a huge, fifty-year-old woman who had a liking for tent-sized flowery dresses, and a face like a bulldog with constipation. She took no nonsense from anybody. She looked me up and down with an arched eyebrow.
"Hello, darling, what you doing here?"
I put on my happy face.
"I missed you."
She rolled her eyes and gave her usual loud bass laugh.
"Yeah, right."
"Is there any chance of using a shower? It's just that the plumbing in my new place has gone on the blink." I held up my bag of washing kit for her to see.
She rolled her eyes at my story and sucked her teeth, not believing a word of it.
"Ten minutes, don't tell."
"Maureen, you're the best."
Tell me something I don't know, darling. Remember, ten minutes, that's your lot."
I'd only said about a dozen words to her all the time I'd lived here. This was the closest we'd been to a conversation for months.
I walked up the steps to the second floor, where the decor was easy-clean, thick-gloss walls and a light grey industrial-lino staircase, then walked along the narrow corridor, heading for the showers at the end. To my left were rows of doors to bedrooms, and I could hear their occupants mumbling to themselves, coughing, snoring. The corridor smelt of beer and ci
garettes, with stale bread slices and dog-ends trodden into the threadbare carpet.
There was a bit of a racket on the floor above as some old guy gob bed off, having an argument with himself, and profanities bounced off the walls. It was sometimes difficult to work out if it was alcohol, drugs or a mental condition with these guys. Either way, Care in the Community seemed to mean leaving them to look after themselves.
The showers were three stained cubicles and I got into the centre one, slowly peeling off my clothes as men wandered around the corridor and noises echoed.
Once undressed, I turned on the water. I was in a daze again, just wanting my day to end, i;?, forcing myself to check the bruising on my legs and chest, even though I didn't care if it hurt. I Somebody in the corridor called out my name, and I re cog- lr nized the voice. I didn't know his name, just that he was always s drunk. As with the rest of them, it was the only way that he could escape his miserable life. In a slurred northern accent he shouted the same old thing, over and over again, about how God had fucked him over. He used to have a wife, kids, a house, a job. It had all gone wrong, he'd lost everything, and it was all God's fault.
I got under the water, trying my hardest to block out the noise as the others started to join in, telling him to shut the fuck up.
The council-run 'hostel' was what we used to call a doss-house when we were kids. Nowadays it was filled not only with home less men of every age with uniformly sad lives, but also Bosnian, Serbian and Kosovan refugees, who seemed to have brought their ' war to London as they fought amongst themselves in the corridors and washrooms.
The noises outside the shower started to merge and magnify side my head. My heartbeat went into overdrive and my legs felt numb with pins and needles again. I slumped down in the shower tray and covered my ears with my hands.
I just sat there covering my ears, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to block out the noise, plagued by the same childlike terror that had overwhelmed me in the cafe.
The image that the Yes Man had planted in my head, of Kelly in bed asleep, in the dark, was still with me. She'd be there now, this minute, in Maryland. She would be in her bunk bed, below Josh's eldest daughter. I knew exactly how she would look. I had woken up and tucked her back in so many times when it was cold, or when a memory of her murdered family had returned to haunt her. She would be half in, half out of her duvet, stretched out on her back, arms and legs out like a starfish, sucking her bottom lip, her eyes flickering under their lids as she dreamed.
Then I thought of her dead. No sucking of the lip, no REM, just a stiff, dead starfish. I tried to imagine how I would feel if that happened, knowing that I had the responsibility to make sure that it didn't. It didn't bear thinking about. I wasn't sure if it was in my head, or I was yelling it out loud, but I heard my own voice shout, "How the fuck did you end up like this?"
EIGHT
I was turning into one of those nutters out there in the corridor. I'd never had much difficulty understanding why they turned to drink and drugs to escape the shit of the real world.
I sat there for a few minutes longer, just feeling sorry for myself, looking at the only things I had to show for my progress through the real world: a pink dent in my stomach from a 9mm round, and the neat row of puncture holes on my right forearm from a North Carolina police dog.
I lifted my head out of my hands and gave myself a strict talking-to.
"Sort yourself out, dickhead! Get a grip. Get yourself out of this ..."
I had to cut away, just like I'd learnt to do as a kid. No one was coming to help me deal with the night monster; I had to get on with it on my own.
I cleared my nostrils of mucus, and it was only then that I realized I must have been crying.
Hauling myself to my feet I pulled out the washing and shaving kit and got to work. After I'd cleaned myself up I stayed in the cubicle for another ten minutes, using my old clothes to dry myself. I threw on my new jeans and sweatshirt; the only old things I put back on were my Timberlands, bomber jacket and belt.
I left everything else in the shower they could have that as my leaving present and walked back along the corridor. Through his open door whatever-his-name-was had finished gob bing off about God and collapsed face down on his urine-stained bed. A bit further on, I passed the closed door to my old cell-like room. I'd only left the previous Saturday but it already had a new occupant; I could hear a radio being tuned in. He, too, probably had his carton of milk out on the sill of the narrow window. We all did well, the ones who had a kettle.
I made my way down the stairs, brushing my hair back with my fingers and regaining some composure.
Down in the reception area, I picked up the wall-mounted phone, shoved in six and a half quid's worth of coins, and started dialling Josh, trying desperately to think of an excuse for calling him so early. The east coast of the US was five hours behind.
The distinctive tone rang just twice before I heard a sleepy American grunt.
"Yeah?"
"Josh, it's me, Nick." I hoped he wouldn't notice the tremor in my voice.
"What do you want, Nick? It's just after six."
I covered the other ear to cut out some young guy who needed help up the stairs from an old drunk as he staggered about with glazed and drugged-out eyes. I'd seen them both before: the old guy was his father, who also lived in.
"I know, I'm sorry, mate. It's just that I can't make it until next Tuesday and
I-'
There was a loud sigh. He'd heard my I-can't-make-it routine so many times before. He knew nothing of my situation, he knew nothing of what had been going on this last few months. All he'd seen of me was the money I sent.
"Look, I know, mate, I'm sorry, I really can't make it."
The earpiece barked: "Why can't you get your life in good order? We arranged this Tuesday that's tomorrow, man. She's got her heart set on it. She loves you so much, man, so much -don't you get it? You can't just breeze in and-' I knew what he was going to say and cut in, almost begging, "I know, I know. I'm sorry .. ." I knew where the conversation was going and also knew that he was right in taking it there.
"Please, Josh can I talk with her?"
If He lost his cool for once and went ballistic.
"No!"
"I-.."
It was too late; he'd hung up.
I slumped down on a plastic stack able chair, staring at one of the notice boards telling people what and what not to do, and how to do it.
"You OK, darling?"
I looked across at Maureen, the other side of the reception. She waved me over, sounding like an older sister, I supposed.
"You look fed up. Come and have a chat, come on, darling."
My mind was elsewhere as I approached the hole in the wall that gave access of a kind to her desk. It was at head height. Anything bigger and lower and she wouldn't have had any protection from the drunks and the drugged-up who had a problem with the house rules.
"Been a bad call to that little girl of yours?"
"What?"
"You keep yourself to yourself, but I see things from this little cubbyhole, you know. I've heard you on the phone, coming off more depressed than when you went on. I don't just buzz the door open, you know!" She gave a loud roar as I smiled and acknowledged her attempt to cheer me up.
"Was it a bad one, darling? You
OK?"
It was all right."
"That's good, I'm glad. You know, I've watched you come in and out of here, looking so sad. I reckoned it was a divorce1 can normally tell. It must be hard not seeing your little 'un. I was just worried about you, that's all, darling."
"No need, Maureen, things are OK, really."
She tutted in agreement.
"Good ... good, but, you know, things normally-' Her attention was drawn momentarily to the staircase. Kosovans or whoever had started shouting angrily at each other on one of the upper landings. She shrugged at me and grinned.
"Well, let's just say things have a way of sorti
ng themselves out. I've seen that look of yours in here before. And I tell them all the same, and I'm always right. Things can only get better, you'll see."
At that moment a fight erupted above us somewhere and a
Nike sports bag tumbled down the stairs, soon followed by its tobacco-selling owner in a brown V-neck jumper and white socks. Maureen reached for her two-way radio as a couple of guys jumped down after him and started giving the boy a good kicking. Maureen talked into her radio with a calm assurance that only comes from years of experience.
I leant against the wall as a couple more tobacco-sellers appeared and tried to stop the fight.
Within minutes, sirens were wailing in the distance, and getting louder. Maureen hit the door buzzer and tobacco-sellers bomb-burst back into the hostel, bags in hand, thinking they were getting raided, running to their rooms to hide their stashes and leaving the boys from Manchester outside to fend for themselves.
Close behind them, four police officers pushed their way in to sort out the fracas.
I checked Baby-G, a new black one with purple illumination. Over three hours to go before pick-up, and there was nothing I wanted to do. I didn't want to eat, didn't want to drink, didn't even want to just sit around, and I certainly didn't want Maureen gazing into my soul, no matter how helpful she was trying to be. She knew too much already. So I started heading out towards the street, nodding my thanks. Even in a time of crisis she gave me a second of her time.
"You need to stop worrying, Nick. Worrying too much affects this, you know." She tapped the side of her forehead with her index finger.
"I've seen enough of that in here to know, darling."
One of the phones rang behind her as the scuffle continued at the bottom of the stairs.
"Got to go, luv. I hope things work out for you they normally do, you know. Good luck, darling."
Once outside, the noise of the construction site drowned out the shouting. I slouched on the steps, staring at the paving slabs as the fighters were dragged away, their angry voices lost amongst the roar of pneumatic drills.
