'What you do in the privacy of your own time Hammond, is your business, but, I don't know about it, I don't want to know about it, and no one else is gonna know – well not from me!'
Jimmy had stood with head bowed, his thick thatch of blonde hair as always immaculate, he stood as if expecting Dillon to say more, but when nothing else was said he slowly raised his head, looking directly at Dillon. There was no shame in his eyes, almost an arrogance. 'I am what I am, Frank.'
'I know, but don't let the blokes get so much as a whiff or your career's out the fuckin' window.'
'Yeah, I know.'
Jimmy, the bloke with no fear, the first man to volunteer to defuse a bomb, the bigger, the more dangerous the better, as if he liked the adrenalin, needed it. Jimmy, the soldier all the blokes reckoned was gonna roar through the ranks, Jimmy Hammond earmarked for officer material, if it leaked he was a queer, he would be out, and Dillon was the only man who had sussed him. It hadn't been so much as sussed, he'd had a complaint from a recruit who never even made it through the training. Lucky for Jimmy, but it had been Dillon's job to call it… At first Jimmy had denied it, called the young bloke a wanker, but then when told if he didn't shut the fuck up and listen, it would go further, he had stood head bowed.
'The kid's useless Jimmy, he's out of here, that's why I am giving you this opportunity to come clean with me, to admit, admit whatever your kink is – and to keep it out of the barracks. Out… understand?'
Jimmy had given his odd smile, as if he still felt it was all a load of bull, but Dillon wasn't going to let him bullshit him as he was able to do everyone else. 'He was telling the truth Jimmy, he wanted to go over to medics, you beat the shit out of him, so don't fuck around with me…'
Jimmy crossed to the window, again showing not a sign of what he was feeling, no body language gave him away, he was seemingly relaxed and almost joking. 'Yeah, yeah, I'm an iron… what you want me to do, go to the CO, tell him, get chucked out?'
'You're not hearing me right Jimmy, I reckon you're one of the best men I've ever worked alongside, I don't want to lose you, this is just a warning, one between you and me, won't go any further. I'm just telling you to keep your private life private… that's all, nothing else.'
Jimmy remained standing with his back to Dillon. 'Na! I'll quit, I'm not having that bunch start screaming woofter at me!'
Dillon wanted to hit him. 'I'm not gonna spill the beans, like I said this is just between you and me, understand you great thick-headed bastard?'
Jimmy turned to Dillon then, there was a strange expression on his face, as if he was surprised, almost stunned. 'You'd do that for me?'
'You're one of the best, Jimmy, I'd go out on a limb for you, that's what I'm saying.'
'Well thanks, Frank
Dillon nodded, and was about to leave, when Jimmy laughed. 'I suppose a fuck's out of the question.'
Dillon turned, couldn't help but laugh, he gave Jimmy a light punch, then clasped him in his arms. 'Watch yourself eh?… This is just between you and me?'
They shook hands, and in all the years the subject had never been brought up again between them. Nobody ever did suss that Jimmy 'Fearless' Hammond, was an iron, nobody would have believed it and Jimmy took Dillon's confab to heart, he never at any time referred to or discussed his private life. It remained his secret, and after he returned from any leave, he was the one with all the stories about how many women he had laid, only occasionally would he cast a hooded look at Dillon, but even that was a little furtive, as if he knew not to take it any further.
Dillon had nicked Jimmy's CV from headquarters, read that he had been brought up in a children's home, but that was about all the background anyone ever really knew about Jimmy Hammond. What the file did contain was his recommendations, his qualities as a soldier always written up in glowing terms. Hammond was very much earmarked for officer material, although he was aggressive and was often in brawls with his superiors, but his ability in combat, especially in the Falklands, had been noted. There was even a special recommendation from Frank Dillon.
Dillon tossed the cigarette down and ground it out, walking slowly up to his flat, up the stone steps, past the graffiti, and on to his own flat's corridor. He leaned on the railings, staring into the darkness. He would probably never understand the Jimmys of this world, or their sexual predilections, they were an alien species. Dillon could never even contemplate the fact that Jimmy Hammond was obsessed with him, loved him deeply, and wanted him to himself. All Dillon knew was that he had hurt Jimmy, said something he knew would hurt, and that he was sorry for that, but it had to be said. Jimmy was dragging them into Newman's world, and it was a world Dillon knew would be destructive. He went back into the flat, more at ease with himself, sure he had done the right thing, but deep down he sort of suspected Jimmy might not come back. He had in the end overstepped their rules, even though they were now in Civvy Street. Jimmy's pitiful attempt at an embrace had broken the agreement; in a way it was a relief, a sad one, but nevertheless Dillon was relieved and, unlike Steve, Jimmy was a winner, he wouldn't do anything crazy like top himself, he was too cool for that. Jimmy'd land somewhere, someplace on his feet, probably with a machine-gun in his hands, needing the rush of adrenalin, loving the edge of danger that cloaked in fury the small, abused, loveless child, who constantly searched for the father figure he never had. Not the mother, because it was his mother who had abused and beaten him, his mother who left him starving in a squalid bedsit for two weeks. Jimmy had been in care since the age of four in eight different institutions. His army records simply stated that he had been brought up in children's homes.
CHAPTER 28
The meeting the next morning with the NatWest bank manager wasn't exactly 'an interview without coffee' – Para slang for a telling-off by the C.O. – but it didn't bode well, not in Dillon's estimation. Along with Harry and Cliff, freshly shaven, all three tarted up in their best suits, he did his level best to present an image of sober respectability allied to a keen business brain. The only thing he lacked was the Masons' secret handshake. Whether the bank manager was taken in by the act was doubtful, but at least they were given coffee and biscuits.
Coming out into the street, though, Harry was cautiously optimistic, a bit puzzled by Dillon's obvious dejection.
'Well, he said he'd put the wheels in motion. I mean, that's something, isn't it, Frank?'
Dillon wrenched his tie loose, striding along with the buff document file jammed under his arm. He snapped irritably, 'Harry, without a guarantor we don't stand a chance in hell!'
'Should have had Jimmy with us!' said Cliff vehemently, and it was all Dillon could manage not to blow up at him too. 'I mean,' Cliff went on, 'who do we know that's got that much clout?' He stopped suddenly, smacked his forehead with his hand. 'Christ! … I forgot!'
Dillon's eyebrows shot up. 'You know someone?'
'The bloody weddin'!' Cliff broke into a trot. He flagged his arm frantically. 'Come on, follow me… I'm in the NCP car park!'
Dillon and Harry exchanged a look that would have bored holes in galvanised steel and set off after him.
Five minutes later, standing by the Granada, Dillon impatiently checked his watch, reckoning they might just make it by the skin of their teeth if Cliff didn't take all day getting the white Rolls-Royce. Harry sat behind the wheel, keeping the Granada's engine ticking over, ready for the off.
They both looked up at the sound of squealing tyres. But neither one could believe their eyes. Dillon actually thought he was suffering from a bad case of the DTs. Down the concrete ramp came Cliff, driving a long, black Daimler hearse tricked out with silver horseshoes and plastic wedding bells, pink and white ribbons fluttering from the radio aerial. As the Daimler bounced into the street, Dillon clasped his face in both hands, eyes bulging.
'You pillock! What the hell are you drivin'? White Roller… white?
Cliff scowled out pugnaciously. 'I know the difference between black an' white, mate! This was
all I could get.' With a horrible clashing of cogs, he rammed into first. 'Now follow me, we're late!'
Dillon leaned weakly against the Granada's bonnet. Harry stuck his head out, blinking as he watched the disappearing Daimler. 'Hey, Frank,' he said, scratching his chin. 'That's a hearse…!'
Dillon slowly turned his head to look at him. Why, with his crown of thorns, was he surrounded by pricks?
The bride, her three bridesmaids, her mother, sister-in-law, her father, and the best man, who had returned from the church in a panic as the bride was over half an hour late, were standing in hysterics looking up and down the street.
The bride burst into floods of tears, as the chief bridesmaid went inside the house to call for a taxi. The bride's father was ready to kill, fists clenched he threatened and shouted, as rows of neighbours stood looking up and down the road. The cheer went up as, the car horn blasting, Dillon and Harry hurtled into view in the Granada the white ribbons already trailing the floor. Harry had been in such a hurry to stick them up, now they had blown loose.
The bride almost fainted with relief, the best man was shouting for the chief bridesmaid to stop calling the taxi when round the bend, at the top of the road, and hot on the heels of the Granada, with silver bells, bows, streamers of white ribbon, horseshoes and large strips of Christmas decorations the shop had thrown in for free, came Cliff, hat rammed on, car horn blasting. It's tough to actually disguise a hearse, even covered in decorations and two seats rammed in the back! As Cliff stepped out, trying to appear nonchalant, the father of the bride, already in a state of hysteria, lunged at Cliff.
'That's a fuckin' hearse!'
Cliff sat in the office, his head bent back, holding a bloody tissue to his nose. The bloody nose was a present from the bride's father. Occasionally he closed his eyes and uttered a low moan.
'Don't be a wimp, it's not broken,' Harry growled, leaning over for a look. He flopped down and sucked fresh life into the fat cigar he was holding – a present from the best man. 'It was just that you were drivin' the hearse,' he said by way of comfort.
'We got her to the church on time!' exclaimed Cliff furiously. 'Wasn't as if she had to lie down…'
'He apologised, didn't he?' Harry said. He gave Dillon a look. 'But if Jimmy was here he'd have a fleet of Rollers -' snap of the fingers ' – like that!'
Dillon flicked confetti off his shoulder. 'Jimmy's got us into enough crap. We're better off without him.'
'You think he really signed on then?' Harry blew smoke and watched it billowing up past the stag's head. 'I've often thought of doin' a mercenary stint meself, but some of 'em are crazy bastards. He should watch out -'
'He'll be okay,' Dillon interrupted sharply. He stared off somewhere. 'You know Jimmy…'
'Nobody ever knows Jimmy.' Harry ploughed on regardless. 'He's one of those weird guys – he was demoted more than any other bloke. He was officer material, could have gone right to the top, but… you know what he is?' His blue eyes sought Dillon's.
'I don't want to talk about Jimmy,' said Dillon, tight-lipped.
'Just gonna say he was a -'
'Shut it, Harry!'
'Kleptomaniac,' Harry said, puffing on his cigar.
Dillon cackled a sour, hollow laugh. The phone went, and with a tremendous, grudging effort he reached over to answer it. Newman had delivered on that much, at any rate, had BT reconnect the line. 'Stag Security,' he mumbled into the receiver.
Cliff sat up and threw the bloody tissues into the waste basket. 'That weddin' cost us the last of the kitty… maybe if I'm broke, unemployed, it'll get me out of me own weddin'.'
'Well it was good while it lasted!' Harry said, the wise, ancient philosopher. He gave out a long sigh, suddenly dejected, and slumped down in his chair. 'I'm goin' to miss old Jimmy.'
Dillon had finished the call. He sat with his head in his hands, staring unseeingly at the desk-top. He said to no one in particular, 'I don't believe it…'
'It's not Jimmy, is it?' Harry asked quickly.
'No,' Dillon said. 'No. No.' He arched back in the chair and then slammed his fist down on the desk. The other two looked at him, alarmed, but his face was alight, positively glowing.
'I think we're in with a chance for that bank loan,' Dillon said, eyes dancing. 'We got a guarantor…'
Harry sat up. 'You jokin'?'
'Thirty thousand quid.' Amazed. Incredulous. Gobsmacked. 'It's Marway.'
A movement above Dillon's head had caught Harry's eye. He said, 'Hey! Frank-!'
'No, listen – we're in business!'
The massive stag's head was ever so slowly tilting forward from the chimney-breast, its huge weight dragging the nails out of the plaster.
'But Frank -!'
'Shut up, because you know what?' Dillon exalted, dreams filling his eyes, words bubbling out of him. 'We're gonna make it the biggest, the most successful -' arms up, fists clenched,' – Taxi! Chauffeur! Security Company! – in London. Yesssss… we're gonna make it, I know it, I feel it!'
The stag's head jerked. With a quick nod to Cliff, Harry tossed his cigar butt to the floor, the two of them jumping up. Dillon bent down to pick up the discarded butt. Directly above him the stag's head came loose and toppled, grabbed by Harry and Cliff in the nick of time.
Puffing away, Dillon strolled forward, airily sweeping out the hand holding the cigar, the mogul at his ease, business tycoon of the year. He turned to find Harry and Cliff, red-faced and straining under the weight of the massive stag's head, holding an antler apiece. If it hadn't been for their quick thinking it could have crashed down on Dillon, and killed him.
Unaware of the near miss, Dillon turned. 'No, leave that up, lads,' he said, wafting a hand. 'It's lucky.
HARRY TRAVERS
CHAPTER 29
They were standing in a row, like statues. All three wore new grey suits, peaked chauffeurs' caps of the same grey material tucked under the left arm, shiny black shoes. Completing the ensemble, crisp white shirts and the Regimental maroon tie patterned with the winged parachute motif in dark blue. Behind them, in vee-formation, a gleaming silver Mercedes stretch limo with tinted windows and the metallic-gold Granada, polished to within an inch of its life, sporting a new radio antenna. And behind these, square on, the resprayed and refurbished wagon with a new set of wheels, new windscreen, and emblazoned on its side panel, STAG SECURITY COMPANY, in the Para colours of maroon and dark blue.
Across the yard, Fernie in his baggy, greasy overalls leaned against the workshop doors, arms folded, looking on. Last month, he reflected, these geezers had to cadge twenty quid off him for gas. Now they were done up like a dog's dinner, with their own transport fleet fitted out with cellular radio links. Funny old world.
Harry's neck chafed inside his size-fourteen collar. He had an itch just below the privates department where the suit material was rubbing him. His bloody feet hurt too, cramped inside the stiff new shoes. From the side of his mouth he muttered at Dillon, 'How much longer is he gonna be!'
'Shut it,' Dillon said, turning his head just as the flash went off.
The photographer looked up from the tripod camera, a pained expression on his face. 'Can you hold your positions, please!'
All three looked to the front, legs slightly apart, hands clasped in front of them, motionless as zombies. The camera flashed three time and the ordeal was over. 'Okay, that's it… thanks very much.'
Susie opened the flaps of the cardboard box, took out wine glasses four at a time and lined them up on top of the new dish-washer. Helen was at the kitchen table, unwrapping cling film from plates of sandwiches, pork pies, sausage rolls and Marks & Spencer quiches. Harry was sorting out the beer. He'd wedged the eight-gallon aluminium cask on the draining-board and was screwing in the brass tap. One of Harry's mates, Tony Taylor, humped in a crate each of Newcastle Brown and Czech Budweiser, stacked them next to the Hotpoint tumble-dryer which still had the Rumbelow's label, and the guarantee card in a clear plastic sleeve, stuck to its side. Fro
m the living-room came raucous bursts of music – a snatch of Tina Turner, rasping Little Richard, Donna Summer on heat – as Cliff got the stereo system set up. Several other anonymous bodies that Susie didn't know from Adam wandered in and out, bringing in more crates, bottles of Thunderbird, six-packs of exotic foreign beers. My God, she thought, they had enough booze to float the Titanic.
The guests had already started arriving. Every few seconds the doorbell would go, laughter and loud voices as newcomers spilled into the hallway. Somebody must have been answering the door, though Susie hadn't a clue who. She heard Cliff yelling, 'One speaker's not workin'… hang on,' and by Christ it suddenly was, as Eddie Cochran's Twenty Flight Rock nearly ruptured her eardrums. Above it Harry bellowed, 'Somebody answer the door!' as the doorbell drilled away in the background. Susie glanced across at Helen, slicing ham and mushroom quiche into quadrants, mother and daughter exchanging looks of alarm and foreboding… and the party hadn't even started!
Wearing a broad pleased smirk, Dillon was standing next to the microwave, several folded newspapers under his arm, one held open at arm's length. He was telling Wally with smug pride, 'I'm gonna have this framed – good publicity. Get the stack sent to the barracks, wait till they see this!'
Wally put his mouth close to Dillon's ear, yet still had to raise his voice above the bustle, the music, the ceaseless doorbell.
'Hey, Frank! I got some info. Important. Those two bastards your lads were after, word is -'
'Not now, Wally, eh?' Dillon held the paper up. 'You seen this, second page? Merc… looks good, very impressive, eh…?'
'I told Harry,' persisted Wally, 'it's a reliable tip-off. Those bastards are here, Frank, in London.' He looked to Harry, who was wiping his hands on the tea towel, and Harry returned a slow, conspiratorial wink. But Dillon wasn't in the mood to listen; with an edgy, abrupt movement he folded the newspaper and slid it onto a shelf with the others.
Civvies Page 21
