Battle Lines

by Andy McNab

  She nodded, but he could see that not even the prospect of a Saturday morning of retail therapy would allay her concern.

  Angus McCall strolled around the retail park in a scarf and thick hoody trying to look like a respectable shopper who was bundled up against the weather. He went to Homeware House and strolled through Accessories and Wall Art. Then into a big carpet shop. He did his best to avoid any assistants bounding up and wagging their tails: ‘Can I help you, sir?’ He didn’t want anyone remembering his face.

  He went upstairs towards the Berber Loop Pile area. There were a few windows here. He pretended to examine the carpets while peering out. Yes. World in Your Lounge had parking all around and was at an angle to the carpet shop and the motorway. The windows gave him a good side view; he could even see part of the back of the shop.

  He went down the stairs and crossed the car park to the front entrance of World in Your Lounge.

  No one who worked here seemed to care much about how the goods were displayed. Angus walked through about two kilometres of armchairs and another kilometre of coffee tables and everything was higgledy-piggledy.

  Each time he passed a member of staff, Angus looked at their name badge. Because there weren’t many assistants, it was easy to pick out Aamir. He worked in sofas. Since he would be unable to identify Angus when he was dead, Angus had decided that it was safe to talk to him.

  ‘’Scuse me, mate, can you give me a hand?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Aamir. He looked like a little shit, a weasel of a bloke with sticking-out ears, and, thought Angus, a coward who would cheek you and then run away rather than face the consequences.

  Aamir listened to him as he asked: ‘I’ve got this girlfriend who’s really allergic. I only want a sofa with, like, natural fibres.’

  He had read this problem in the homes section of a free magazine and it had sounded like a good one.

  Aamir nodded as if he’d heard it before. He had very deep brown eyes and a surprisingly deep voice. He said: ‘Well, you can check on that by looking at the labels. They’re usually under the seating. Some of them say one hundred per cent natural. Depends how allergic she is. If it’s just the covering you’re worried about, you can have anything covered in a natural fabric.’

  He stooped down to show Angus where the labels were and Angus silently hated the back of his head. He smelled of cigarettes, though, which was good, because it meant there was only one place for him to go during a break.

  ‘OK, mate, thanks a lot.’ He spent the next half-hour examining sofa labels, half watching Aamir as he wandered through the three-seaters for one customer and then the two-seaters for another. It was obvious when Aamir was taking his break because another staff member tapped his watch and Aamir nodded and disappeared.

  Angus was quick. He went straight to the car park, crossed it and back to the carpet shop. Upstairs and over to Berber Loop Pile.

  Through the windows he saw Aamir was having a smoke with two mates by the side door, huddled up because of the cold. Shit, if Angus had a rifle with him now and the window had been open …

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Angus jumped. But he was ready. He had nicked a small piece of fabric earlier from Homeware House and he produced it now. ‘What colour carpet goes with this?’

  The man examined it. ‘Well, sir, it’s a question of choosing what kind of carpet you want and after that we can match the colour.’

  Angus knew it was essential to be such a boring, ordinary customer that the man would not remember him. He tried to escape but the man led him to the back of the store to see some cheaper carpets and here was another window. This gave Angus some useful information. About five hundred metres, maybe more, down the motorway, was a footbridge which might allow a clear sight of the World in Your Lounge side door.

  As soon as he escaped from the assistant, his pockets stuffed with leaflets and brochures, he walked smartly to the motorway bridge. It was cold as charity in Wythenshawe and the wind whistled down the motorway breaking the speed limit. The footbridge certainly gave him a great view and a clear shot at Aamir during his smoking break. But it was too exposed. In the time it took him to take aim and fire, about fifty cars would see him. However, from here something else was visible. A small building at the back of Homeware House. Now if he could get behind that, he would be invisible.

  He walked to the building, which was evidently an ancient warehouse. He was now trying to look like a man who desperately needed to pee. He slipped behind the building and did not stop for more than fifteen seconds because in that time he could see everything he needed to. A clear sight on the side door of World in Your Lounge. And there were no security cameras here. Perfect.

  Leanne pulled her large face into a tragic shape, mouth, eyes and maybe even ears drooping downwards.

  She handed the assistant back a mountain of clothes and hangers. ‘You look fantastic in anything and I look fucking awful in everything.’

  ‘This dress costs so much it would look fantastic on anyone.’ Jenny passed it firmly to the assistant.

  ‘No good?’

  ‘Bloody good!’ insisted Leanne. ‘Go on, buy it, Jenn.’

  ‘I can’t, Leanne. I just can’t spend that much.’

  The assistant grinned sharkishly. ‘It’s a classic style that will last and last. Classics are a great investment.’

  ‘I don’t need it to last. I’m a sergeant’s wife and I happen to be going to a gig at the Dorchester. But guess what, I mostly spend my time up to my elbows in nappies and I’m probably not going to the Dorchester again, ever.’

  Leanne put her hand on her hip and gave the assistant a conspiratorial look.

  ‘C’mon, Jenn. Dave told you to do some serious spending today. That money he gets for being in theatre was earned by you, too. You earned it worrying about him and coping alone and having a baby by caesarean all by yourself.’

  The assistant looked scandalized.

  ‘All by yourself? You had a baby all by yourself!’

  ‘No,’ said Jenny. ‘There were doctors everywhere, a million nurses, a whole roomful of paediatricians … What my friend means is that my husband couldn’t be there.’

  ‘Well, in my opinion, then,’ said the assistant, ‘he owes you this.’

  Jenny paused, looking at the green dress which hung from the assistant’s arm. It was almost sleeveless and tiny green beads were sewn into its fabric. When she had slipped it over her head it had come to life, falling immediately into place, somehow draping itself across her body in a subtle, sexy way. She knew Dave would love it.

  ‘I can’t. Not when I think of all the other things we should do with the money.’

  Leanne grimaced. ‘You’re not still going on about that nursery!’

  Jenny blushed.

  ‘OK,’ Leanne told the assistant. ‘Put it by. And I’ll work on her.’

  ‘Will an hour be enough?’ asked the woman. ‘It’s a gorgeous dress and there are a lot of people shopping today.’

  ‘Hold it back until one o’clock,’ Leanne instructed, sweeping out of the shop.

  ‘I can’t afford it, so don’t bother,’ said Jenny quietly to the assistant as she went, with a quick, sad glance at the dress.

  ‘I’ll hold it until one,’ the woman said firmly. ‘If your husband’s told you to treat yourself, you should go ahead and do it.’

  Jenny found Leanne standing outside, phone against her ear, shouting into the shopping mall. The crowds parted around her like water.

  ‘Yes, I did. Oh wow! That’s fantastic! What time did you say? I’ll write it down. No I won’t, I haven’t got a pen.’ Her face was reddening. ‘Er, I’ll remember it. Ten o’clock. And what day did you say? Tuesday, OK! Thank you, thank you very much!’

  Jenny waited.

  ‘Go into the caff, Jenn,’ Leanne said. ‘I have to ring Steve. I’ll explain in a minute.’

  Jenny went into the café with glass walls that ran along the street edge so you could watch peop
le. She ordered them coffees. She knew Leanne liked frothy cappuccinos with chocolate on top served in immense cups which were as wide as her face. She watched Leanne through the window: chatting, her face animated. Then she watched as Leanne made another call. From the exasperated look on Leanne’s face as she gave her news, Jenny guessed she was speaking to her mother. Then she felt her own phone buzz in her pocket.

  ‘Hello, this is Raj Lerner from the Market Street Bakery. You applied for a job as an assistant here?’

  Jenny felt her heart miss a beat.

  ‘Oh yes! Yes, I did!’

  ‘Well, Mrs Henley, we’d like to interview you for the job. We had seventy-two applications and we’ve drawn up a shortlist of just three people to interview, and you’re one of them!’

  Jenny was so surprised that she could hardly speak.

  ‘Would you be available next week?’

  ‘Certainly!’

  ‘We’d like to invite you on Tuesday. You’ll have a chance to meet us and ask any questions. We’ll be choosing the person who we think will fit into our team best.’

  ‘Right. That sounds good. What time?’

  ‘Eleven, please.’

  ‘Tuesday at eleven. I’ll be there.’

  While he gave her directions to the bakery’s office she was thinking: Tuesday at eleven … Hadn’t she just heard Leanne sound similarly delighted and then similarly grateful when someone phoned to give her an appointment at ten on Tuesday? She felt her excitement drain away as if the tide was going out. She glanced up and saw that Leanne was entering the café now.

  Flustered, she thanked Raj Lerner as Leanne advanced towards her, squeezing her large body between nearby tables.

  ‘OK, we’ll see you Tuesday,’ he said just as Leanne plonked herself down and the coffees arrived.

  ‘Oh God, do I deserve this!’ Leanne smiled at her cappuccino. ‘I am so bloody clever!’

  Jenny forced a smile. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I’ve only got myself into the final bloody three for a job interview, that’s all!’ Leanne raised her enormous cup high as if toasting Jenny with it.

  This was the moment to say it. This was the moment to add, in a quiet, modest voice: ‘Actually, so have I!’ Instead Jenny heard her voice exclaim, with insincere surprise: ‘That’s fantastic! And you’re down to the final three! That’s amazing, Lee!’

  ‘It’s amazing because they had seventy-two applications!’ chortled Leanne.

  ‘Knock ’em dead, Lee. When is it?’

  ‘Tuesday at ten! What will they ask me?’

  ‘Well, it depends what the job is?’ Jenny’s voice was a question. As if she didn’t know what the job was.

  ‘Part-time assistant in that amazing bakery in Market Street which smells really nice all the way down the street. Never bought anything there, though. It’s full of fancy breads which cost a fortune and they do these cakes … mmmmmm.’

  ‘Oh yes. I know the one.’ Jenny had walked past it at least five times since she had applied, staring through the windows, wondering how they made such spectacular cakes, sniffing the sweet, yeasty air which leaped out every time anyone opened the door.

  ‘It’s only about fifteen hours a week but you have to get on with people and make the customers like you. And get the change right. Shit like that. I hope I can do it, Jenn.’

  ‘Of course you can. You’ll make the customers love you.’

  Leanne looked doubtful for a moment. Her face shrank a little. ‘What will they ask me at the interview?’

  ‘Just make sure you tell them how much you enjoy helping people and how you’d like to establish the kind of relationships which encourage customer loyalty …’

  ‘Shit, you’re good! Will you write that down for me? And what do I say if they ask why I want to work in a bakery?’

  Jenny knew the answer but she paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘How about telling them you’re looking for a chance to share your passion for good food?’

  ‘Jenny! You are a genius! How do you think of this stuff?’

  Jenny tried to look modest.

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ Leanne took an enormous gulp of coffee. ‘I’ve got to do well at the interview. I was so nervous at the garden centre interview that I screwed up completely. But, I mean, if I can just get this job it’ll make a big difference. I’ll have some money and a life of my own …’

  ‘What about the boys now Steve’s going away?’

  Leanne grinned. ‘Sorted. Adi’s going to take them. I’ll have to pay her, of course. But not too much …’ Leanne looked at Jenny closely. ‘I thought of asking you. But you’ve got enough on your hands.’

  ‘Yeah, Adi would be better, especially since I’m thinking of getting a job myself.’

  ‘Good! What sort of thing are you after?’

  ‘I don’t know, I haven’t started looking yet,’ lied Jenny.

  ‘Listen, I’m going to need something smart for the interview … you’re never going to buy that green dress, are you?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Jenny firmly.

  ‘So will you come with me to the outsize shop?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘St Mark’s Street.’

  ‘Oh Lee, that’s miles.’

  ‘Yeah, but they have clothes which look OK on me. And they might have a dress for the party too.’

  Jenny smiled. ‘All right.’

  While Leanne was in the outsize shop fitting room trying on an endless succession of clothes, she would phone back Raj Lerner from the Market Street Bakery and tell him she was withdrawing her application for the job. She still had not told Dave about her row at the camp nursery. She had been pinning her hopes on the bakery. But there was no way she wanted to compete with Leanne.

  They finished their coffee and made their way across town to St Mark’s Street. She did not glance back at the shop where the assistant was unnecessarily holding the green dress for her.

  Chapter Nine

  A LOT OF the lads complained when they were sent to Brecon on training since the following week they were leaving for Afghanistan. Finally it was announced that the training had been cut from seven days down to three.

  ‘We’ll just have to fit a lot in,’ said Kila grimly. ‘Or we won’t be back in time for the party in London on Saturday.’

  It seemed to Mal and Binman that Angus must have forgotten all about his plans to go to Wythenshawe. There had been no TA activity on the Plain, so he had not been able to steal a weapon. And he had been home last weekend and returned relaxed without mentioning Aamir.

  ‘The thing about Angry is he just won’t fucking listen,’ muttered Mal as they lined up for a final kit inspection in the cold, grudging light of a February morning. ‘But he’s the sort of bloke who’d do anything for a mate.’

  ‘The thing about Angry is he’s mad,’ said Binman. ‘He’s been slotting Taliban fighters called Aamir for so long that he gets back to Britain and he thinks it’s all right to carry on slotting people called Aamir.’

  ‘Well, he can start banjoing Terry Taliban next week,’ said Mal. ‘So that should keep him happy.’

  Dave had finished with 3 Section and was approaching the 1 Section line-up. And so was Steve Buckle. He was here from Stores as usual, on the pretext that he was delivering something to someone. He stood tall, the structure of his metal leg on display. Kila and Dave had agreed to tolerate his continued and unnecessary presence because Major Willingham said it helped his rehabilitation. Dave just hoped Steve wouldn’t hang around at kit inspection when they got to Bastion.

  ‘Something missing, mate, something very important missing,’ Steve informed Slindon. Seeing someone was speaking to him, Slindon tugged at his earphones.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Round your neck.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What should you be wearing around your neck?’

  By now Sol was bridling.

  ‘Thanks, Steve,’ he said. ‘I’m section comman
der, so I’ll deal with Blue Balls Slindon.’

  But Steve, a towering, metallic presence, did not move. ‘You should have your dog tag on, mate, Dave’ll go spare if he catches you without your ID.’

  ‘Thanks, Steve,’ said Sol through gritted teeth as Slindon dived for his day sack, glancing around anxiously for Dave.

  ‘We’ll miss you like hell, Steve, when we get to Bastion and you’re in some little office on the other side of the runway where you can’t tell us what to do,’ said Billy Finn sarcastically.

  ‘We’ll see, pal, if they manage to keep me in my little office!’ Steve replied.

  ‘He used to be our mate,’ murmured Angus as Dave approached and Steve strolled off to annoy 2 Section. ‘How did he turn into such a pain in the arse?’

  ‘He changed after he got blown up,’ said Finn.

  ‘He was always a bit that way. Bossy and bigging himself up.’

  ‘Yeah, but he could laugh at himself too.’

  ‘They shouldn’t let him go to Bastion,’ Angry said.

  ‘He’ll be all right in Stores. But he’s kidding himself if he thinks they’ll let him fight.’

  They fell silent as Dave’s eagle eye ran over their kit and stopped when it reached Slindon, who had just finished putting his dog tag on.

  ‘SLINDON! Where’s your water?’

  ‘It’s raining in Brecon, Sarge,’ explained Slindon. ‘I saw it on the weather forecast.’

  ‘Yeah. So what?’

  ‘Well, if I get thirsty I could just open my mouth.’

  The men burst out laughing. Dave held his head in disbelief.

  Slindon sounded less sure of himself now: ‘See, water weighs a lot, Sarge …’

  Dave took a deep breath. ‘There’s an enemy ambush, you’re under heavy fire, and you’re standing there with your head tipped back and your mouth open because you’re thirsty …’ He illustrated the stance to loud laughter.

  Sol said: ‘Blue Balls, it rains on the Brecon Beacons but it doesn’t rain a lot in Afghanistan.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Slindon, ‘but today we’re heading for Brecon.’