Two Toms lead the woman through the gate, still wearing bedroom slippers and quilted housecoat, her head bowed, both hands pressed to her swollen belly. Always one for a ready quip, Jimmy calls out, 'Sorry about this, tart, we were lookin' for a dead hunger striker!'
This gets a general laugh, slackening the tension, and Dillon says through a grin, 'Just hold her for an hour or so, get a photograph an' let her go.'
The woman is bundled into the back of a Land Rover fitted with Macralon armour and toughened anti-shatter windows. She leans out, her face distorted, so that it's hardly recognisably the same woman, with an intense, implacable hatred.
'You're animals, all of you!'
Walking by, Dillon ducks his head. 'Tarra! See you again some dark night! And Kathleen -' he wags his finger ' – watch out for your kids eh!'
The Land Rover moves off, the woman turning to look at Dillon through the back window. She will never forget his lean, hard face with its vertical scar below the left eye, and Dillon will never forget hers, with its look of dumb, hopeless, helpless defeat.
A priest hurries across the street and pushes through the knot of soldiers waiting to board the APC. He pauses with his hand on the garden gate, grey-haired, slightly stooped, taking in the upturned paving stones, the wrecked front door. He turns to look at the soldiers, and then at Dillon, the streetlight glinting off his metal-rimmed spectacles. Stepping through the front door, he sees the shambles of the living-room, and looks up the stairs. On the landing, the younger children, three boys and two girls, in pyjamas and nightdresses, sit huddled together, crying, shivering with fright. The older boy stands behind them, an eyebrow split open, blood running from his nose, holding his baby sister in his arms. The little girl has stopped crying and is examining with curiosity the blood dripping onto her fingers from her brother's nose.
The priest has to close his eyes.
'Why? Dear Mother of God, why?'
'Frank!'
Wearily, Dillon opened his eyes. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know what time of day it was. Yes he did, it was dark, which meant it must be night. But he wasn't in bed, so where the hell was he? Susie's voice – shrill, hysterical – pierced through the tender tissue that was his throbbing brain.
'Frank, for God's sake will you get them out of the house, they're going into the kids' room, Frank! They're gettin' out of hand, throwing bottles over the railings, the neighbours have called the police… Frank!'
Dillon pushed himself up, crawling hand over hand up the concrete wall of the stairwell. Once upright, he shook his head blearily, and staggered past her up the steps. 'I'll get them out.'
'They're bargin' into the kids' room, terrifying them…'
Dillon halted on the landing. His head came slowly round to look at her over his shoulder. Susie had never before seen such a dark welter of twisted demonic hatred on his face, much less turned upon her. As if he loathed her with all his being. Loathed her.
'Frank…?'
Dillon turned back, a strange distant glaze in his eyes, and went on, head down like a charging bull, leaving Susie frozen to the spot.
Dillon kissed the boys, tucked in their duvets. 'Nothin' to be scared of, they're just havin' a good time!' Trying to make it sound hearty and jovial. 'You weren't scared, were you? Eh? Not big lads like you two? Nothing to be frightened of…'
Phil peeped out. 'They're drunk, one of 'em's been sick in the toilet.'
'I'll clear it up,' Dillon said. 'Now, go to sleep – tell you what, I'll sit here, keep guard, eh? So nobody comes in, how's that?'
He patted their shoulders and pulled up the small chair from Kenny's desk, sat down facing the door. Opposite him, the picture gallery of posters, postcards and photographs, the relics and mementoes tacked to the wall. High up in one corner, soundlessly circling on invisible strings, a camouflage-pattern C-130 with RAF roundels. Hunched forward, Dillon stared at the wall of memories, listening to the noise of revelry still going on downstairs. Music was still playing, and through it he heard Harry bellowing, 'Everybody out, come on now, lads, party's over. Come on… out now!'
The racket gradually diminished as people started leaving. Voices on the landing outside the window, laughter, the clatter of footsteps. The Beatles finished Norwegian Wood, followed by a silence that seemed to signal the end of it all, and then a pounding piano and Great Balls of Fire burst out once again. Dillon rested his forehead in his hands. Abruptly the music stopped. The front door banged.
From the window Dillon watched the lads climbing into their cars. Drunken singing and shouting sailed up from the courtyard. Some of the cars drove round three or four times, headlights flaring, horns blasting. Dillon saw headlights shining through smoke, hoses trailing across a cindery patch of earth bordered by whitewashed stumps. Groups of people with blackened faces, shrouded in blankets and coats, gazing with shell-shocked eyes at the smouldering ruins of Hennessey's Bar. Harry, chin jutting out, saying Come on, let's get back in there. I'm game! Harry was game all right. Too fucking game. Because he'd nothing to lose. No wife, no kids. The Paras had been his entire life – wife, kids, family all rolled up into one, stamped in silver with a winged parachute, crown and lion. If coming out into civvies had been a shock to Dillon, it must have been traumatic for Harry, like being severed from the umbilical cord all over again. Suddenly finding yourself floating, rootless, in an alien world that didn't give a toss who you were or what you'd done. Just another useless fat knacker who hadn't had the sense to stop a sniper's bullet in the Falklands or in Ulster like some of his mates had. Isn't that why you joined the Army, mate, to get your fucking brains blown out?
The door was pushed open and Harry crept in. 'Cops arrived, but it's all under control. Just a few stragglers left.'
He went to the window and looked down, his broad, beery-red face relaxing into a fond grin. 'But they're on their way home now… okay bunch of blokes.' He patted Dillon's shoulder and turned to leave. 'I'll check out Wally's info – that what you want?'
'Harry, wait…'
Harry stopped, his hand on the doorknob. His face wasn't relaxed any more, the fond grin had gone. Now he looked tense.
'Like you said, mate,' he reminded Dillon, his voice low and angry, 'we made a pact! Jimmy's gone, Steve's dead, not a lot Taffy can do from inside, so it's down to you and me Frank… I'll check out Wally's info and get back to you.'
Harry shut the door quietly, not waiting for Dillon to reply. They had made the pact and there was no backing out of that, but without the others, without the backup – or was it without the army?… Dillon sighed, he was so screwed up inside that twisted emotions strangled each other – guilt, anger, grief. He had no fury left, he could not feel the hatred or the anger he knew he needed. What if Wally's information was sound, that these were the two dark-haired boys who were sitting at that table that fucking awful night, the two smiling boys who had downed their beers and offered Dillon's crowd their seats, those two, who had strolled out of the bar that night, knowing within seconds the place would be blown apart. They had to have known. Wasn't that why they had smiled?
There had been many weeks of checking and questioning everyone in or near the pub that night. A barman remembered the boys. He had never seen them before, they were not regulars, but he remembered them because one of them was carrying what looked like a carrier bag with booze brought in from outside. The disco attracted a lot of kids who'd slip in their own liquor to save a few bob, but then the two had ordered beers and sat at the table, the same table Dillon's lads took over.
No one had ever been arrested for the bomb attack. Months, even years after, the description of those two killers' faces was imprinted on, and in, each of the minds of those who survived. They would always mark the anniversary with one hell of a binge, and they had always sworn no matter how long it took, that they would each make it their responsibility to keep the hunt going, it was personal, not Army. The last anniversary, they had actually combined with a new recruit's birthday ba
sh, but it didn't mean their pact was over. Yet thinking back, Dillon knew that in some way the fever was dying, life went on, other mates had been killed.
Dillon thought about Barry Newman and wondered whether maybe that was why he remembered so often now. It wasn't because of the music, the same song that was being played that night, that bloody Great Balls of Fire. It was Newman's son Billy. That was the connection or the memory and it was there like a dark cloud. Dillon stared at the wall of photographs. He closed his eyes to blank them out. 'Oh Christ,' he whispered, as he felt the dark insidious cloud creeping over him, felt the tremors of guilt, of anger, of grief and then the burning sensation, the fury. It was coming back, and he was afraid. Why was it that every time he felt as if he was breathing clean air, something, someone drew him back down? It was as if he was suffocating inside himself, but he had instigated that pact, and if there was only Harry and himself left then he would have to see it through.
CHAPTER 33
Dillon came into the office to find Susie halfway through the invoices, a neat stack of typed envelopes, already stamped, ready for posting on the desk.
He said, 'Cliff not here?'
'No, he's gone home, felt sick, said it was the pork pie.' She rolled another blank invoice into the machine, gave him a look from under her eyebrows. 'He was just hung-over!'
Dillon went to the board, hunting round for a piece of chalk. 'Good news is, we got the Embassy job – two weeks' work, bodyguard, driver for an official. The armoured Merc blew him away.'
Susie totted up figures on the calculator and started typing. 'Still not covering costs. What's the Embassy paying, and I'll log it.'
'Four hundred a day!' Dillon said, and when she didn't leap up and hug him, tell him well done, he said testily, 'Harry on a job, is he?'
'Mmm, could do with a few more like that…' Susie frowned, concentrating on working out the seventeen-and-a-half per cent VAT. Bloody stupid figure. She said after a moment, 'I don't think that car will pay for itself, you know. The Granada will, even the security wagon…' She glanced up. 'What did you say?'
Dillon tapped the board with the chalk. 'Who's crossed these fares out?'
'Do you know what your outgoing costs are?' Susie asked, resuming her typing. 'The hire purchase, insurance, the rent?'
Dillon waved her off. He couldn't be bothered with mere details. The phone rang. As Susie picked it up, Harry walked in. He gave Dillon a straight look. 'We got to talk…'
'Stag Security, Taxi, Chauffeur Drive.' Susie put her hand over the receiver. 'Are you free, Harry?'
'Yeah, yeah…' He plucked at Dillon's sleeve. 'Wanna word.'
Dillon didn't want to have a word with him. He knew where Harry had been, and it wasn't out on a job. He'd been cruising round in the Granada, checking out a certain address. Harry had his sights fixed, total tunnel vision, determined to see it through to the bitter end.
'Sorry to keep you waiting… yes… Aldershot? And the address?'
Harry reached out. 'That's for me!'
'What?' Dillon said sharply. Somebody calling from The Depot? What the hell was going down here?
'Wants to speak to you, Harry,' said Susie, handing the receiver to him. He sat on the edge of the desk, his back to them. 'Yeah, it's me, speakin'. Oh yeah, yeah… he told you what I'm interested in, did he? Okay, I'm on my way. Thanks.'
Harry put the phone down. 'I'm not free,' he said to Susie, and to Dillon, looking him in the eyes, 'I need the Granada.' He jerked his head towards the passage. 'Frank…!'
Sighing, Dillon moved to follow him. Susie threw down her pencil, arms folded tightly across her chest.
'Can we just sort a few things out first? One, you're going to have to stop using the limo for straight taxi fares, it costs us. Eats petrol. What do you want the Granada for, Harry?' Susie nodded fiercely at the telephone. 'Was that a job?'
Sitting there, Miss Business Efficiency got right on Dillon's tits. He burst out, 'Nothin' I do is right accordin' to you! An' don't start handin' out orders like you run the show -'
Susie interrupted. 'You keep the portable when you don't need it, or you do for phoning in your bets!'
'I don't call them in, I just go over the road!' Dillon told her with a nasty, leering smile. 'An' if you want me, that's where I'll be.'
'Then get somebody else to do this!' Susie was up out of her chair. 'I'll go back and work for Mr Marway.'
'You think I don't appreciate it?'
'Er, Frank… Frank?' said Harry uneasily, sniffing a storm force ten row brewing.
'Just a minute!' Dillon glowered at his wife. 'I'm sick of you shovin' that Marway down my throat.'
Susie snatched up her bag, really fuming now. Harry sidled to the door, the expression on her face convincing him that this was as good a moment as any to take a leak. He slipped out as Susie said very softly, the calm before the storm, 'I don't believe you said that. If it wasn't for him you wouldn't have a business.'
'I hear you – okay – I hear you,' Dillon snarled at her.
'If you go down, Frank, if you and your precious lads don't get this company working, then you will all fall flat on your faces.'
'You'd love that!'
'How can you say that? Don't you understand that if you don't show decent returns to the bank, they can review the loan – it is a loan, Frank, it's not a gift!' She added quietly, reasonably, 'You have to pay it back.'
'I know that,' Dillon muttered.
'An' if you blow it, Frank, then Mr Marway's liable for that loan.'
Here we go again, he thought. All roads lead back to Saint fucking Marway. He said bitterly, 'You want me to grovel to him? Thank him for lettin' my wife off early so she can give me a few hours…'
Susie yelled, 'He doesn't give you them, I do!'
Dillon nearly tore the handle off opening the desk-drawer. He slammed the petty cash box down, grabbed a fistful of notes and coins and flung them at her. Susie looked quickly away, blinking back tears. She snapped her handbag shut and picked up her coat.
'I'll collect the boys, no need for you to bother yourself.'
She walked past him to the door. Without turning, Dillon said, 'I suppose he'll be givin' you one of his cars to drive around in next.'
'Oh – you knew I was taking my driving test, did you?' There was something in her voice, odd, strained, that made him turn to look at her. 'Well, I failed it, Frank – happy? I failed.'
Dillon put out his hand, some small gesture of regret, apology even, but Susie wasn't there to see it. Smacking his fist into his palm, he went into the passage, hearing the click of her high heels on the basement steps. He could have run after her and caught her easily, but he was damned if he would. At his own pace, in his own good time, he went outside and up the steps.
The lavatory flushed. The phone was ringing as Harry came along the passage. Cautiously he poked his head in and looked round the empty office. 'Frank…?'
Cliff felt like death. He wished he was dead, actually dead, and then the awful sickly throbbing would cease. He was lying on the sheet-draped sofa, eyes closed, when Shirley arrived back at the flat. She dumped more fabric and wallpaper sample tomes on the table and hung up her coat.
'I've been sick again,' Cliff greeted her piteously. 'I've had aspirin, Disprin, Andrews… I've never had a headache like it.'
'I'm about to give you another,' Shirley said, taking off her silk headscarf.
'Have you been sick?'
'Yes, for the past five mornings.'
'Well, that couldn't be the pork pie,' Cliff said. 'Terrible pain right across my back, just here!'
Shirley stood in front of him and folded her arms.
'You know, sometimes I don't think the lift goes to the top floor with you. Didn't you hear what I just said, don't you know what it means? I'm pregnant, Cliff!'
Cliff closed his eyes again. 'Oh no!' he levered himself up. 'Oh shit!' The door banged behind her as Shirley went into the bedroom. Moaning, Cliff flopped back, something real
ly to moan about now.
Trudie hung out of the upstairs window as Harry bounced down the steps of the Super Shine Travel Agency, to whop Cliff on the back.
'I just refreshed parts no beer can do justice to!'
Harry leaned on the railings staring down the street to the betting shop.
'I'm gonna be busy for an hour or so, you know Frank's takin' up residence in that shop, I'll catch him there.'
Cliff stood at the top of the basement steps. 'Shirley's pregnant!'
'Nothin' to do with me mate!'
'Ha ha, very funny, but I'm right in it!'
'Wrong son, I'd say she is!'
As Harry sauntered off to the betting shop, he paused by the strips of plastic curtains, watching Dillon looking at a newspaper, jotting down his runners, then flicking looks to a row of TV screens, clicking his fingers with nervous excitement. There was a nicotine smog that would have felled a carthorse.
'Skived off, did you?' With a grunt of self-satisfaction, Harry plonked himself down on the next stool. 'Cliff's back, Shirley's up the spout, not a happy man!' More than satisfied.
'We all got problems.'
'Yeah – marital! A situation I am glad to say I have successfully escaped from. In fact I'm becoming an endangered species – handsome, heterosexual, no strings, an' after the performances I've just administered, no problems with the old rod!' His smirk faded as he leaned closer. 'I'm just gonna meet up with a pal at Aldershot, you listenin'? I've checked out Wally's tip-off place, looks like it could be a safe house. Frank?'
Dillon nodded, eyes on the screen. 'I'm on a treble, this one comes in I'll be a rich man.'
'Wally's contact works in the Records Section. I mean, it might be out of the window, but on the other hand if those blokes are in London we'll need some ammo…'
'Go baby… come on, come on! Dillon was nodding, clicking his fingers. 'Yes, yes, look at that mother, yes… yes!'
Harry slid off the stool. He glanced briefly at Dillon's flushed face, body tensed, fists clenched, willing his horse on. With three furlongs to go, apparently the clear winner, the nag ran out of steam and didn't even merit a place.
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