Wilco: Lone Wolf - book 1: Book 1 in the series (Part of an ongoing series)

by Geoff Wolak

  Back on his feet, he could not put any weight on an ankle.

  ‘On my back, on the webbing,’ I told him.

  ‘Go on, run,’ he told me.

  ‘Bollocks, just a race.’

  With him on my back I walked, a mile or so, to the road and a waiting car from the organisers, and I dropped him down, soon running as fast as I could back down.

  Back at the start, crowds cheering, they noted my time, but I had not broken any record. I collected Smurf and Holly, and with map in hand – now muddy and wet, I directed them towards Snowdon, and towards our bed and breakfast, which was located a good twenty miles from the race start point.

  We found it after dark and booked in, a good meal enjoyed in a low-ceiling old bar, a dog at our feet, a real fire raging, much talk about anything other than running.

  We were up at 5am, no breakfast just biscuits and chocolate, and off we set for the final stage. Snowdon was the highest peak of the three, the highest peak in Wales but not the UK, and after a crowded start and lots of shoving I reached the peak alone in a cold stiff breeze, wet from a rain shower.

  Heading back down, I found myself alone on a ridge as the sun burst out from behind the clouds. I stopped, suddenly in awe, a glance down at the wondrous vista, the wind coming from behind me. Not sure why, I threw my log away down the cliff, wiped the sweat and slowly ambled back down enjoying the view, other runners passing me.

  One pulled alongside me, limping, just about to give up. ‘Why you walking?’ he asked, puffing hard, his ankle hurting.

  I took a moment. ‘Not sure. I got to the peak first, and ... it kind of was ... nice you know ... great view ... then ... then I’m not sure if I want to compete any more. Few other things on my mind.’

  We walked down together, and I left him with a support car, back down to the lads at a steady pace, and I did not even bother to register my end to the race, Smurf and Holly asking if I was hurt.

  ‘No twisted ankles,’ I assured them. ‘Just ... not sure I want to compete any more, had enough running for a while.’

  They understood, and we drove off south, looking for somewhere to find lunch, back at the Centre after dark.

  At 5pm the next day the colonel informed me that the MOD had seen enough, and did not need me here anymore. I was crestfallen, but not about the running; I wondered about Kate.

  She gave me her various phone numbers without anyone seeing, and I explained that calling the base number at Brize Norton was a bad idea. We agreed to buy mobile phones, not least because I was now quite rich for an enlisted man with what I had earned.

  I drove back to my parents that night and picked up my kit, staying the night, and in the morning I headed back to Brize.

  ‘Wilco, you’re back, thought you’d died,’ came from a lad on the gate.

  ‘I was in a medical programme, running on a treadmill,’ I shouted through the window.

  ‘Er ... yuk.’

  ‘Sixteen grand better off!’

  ‘What?’ he protested as I drove in.

  Parked up in my usual spot, I dragged my kit to my room, finding dried shit smeared onto the door. I sighed. Inside I found my cold Spartan room as I had left it, nothing to steal apart from my metal locker, and that was too heavy to move and too strong to break into.

  Kit bag opened, I started to fill up drawers and shelves, and an hour later I was just about set. Stopping to stare out the window at a familiar bland scene of trees and grass, I could only think of Kate in a hotel room. This would be hard, being back here, and I wondered if now was the right time to buy myself out. Again.

  Heading to the canteen at 5pm I found Bongo and his mates. ‘Look who’s back!’

  ‘You missed me?’ I asked.

  ‘Had an armourer on loan after Mickey broke his arm, right wanker, glad you’re back,’ Bongo told me.

  ‘How long you back for?’ one of the lads asked me.

  ‘As long as it takes for me to get pissed off and buy myself out. I made sixteen grand these past four months.’

  ‘Fuck...’

  ‘You can’t buy yourself out,’ Bongo implored. ‘We need you.’

  ‘That’s nice, but I’m not a fucking armourer, am I!’

  ‘How about the medics?’ a lad put in.

  I shrugged and made a face. ‘Maybe. Maybe Paras or Marines or something like that.’

  On the Monday morning I went for a run, the MPs pulling alongside and jeering, ‘Trouble is back.’ Entering the detachment, the corporals jeered as well, noticed by a new guy, a sergeant, foot in plaster, crutches to hand.

  I made a tea, suddenly not wanting to be here.

  ‘Ah, you’re back,’ Fl Lt Peters noted as he came out for orders. ‘Well you can start with Sergeant Foster here, drive him around and show him the base, he just arrived, a bit out of action for a while.’

  I glanced at the new sergeant, Foster, the man not looking happy. About what ... was yet to be seen.

  After orders I fetched a jeep, getting a loud cheer in Transport, and picked up Sergeant Foster outside the detachment.

  ‘So you’re Wilco,’ he began as I set off, and I pulled up after a hundred yards, facing the Parachute School’s large hangar. ‘You did the London Marathon.’

  ‘That was years ago. So how come they sent you here with a broken ankle?’

  He looked ahead, angered. ‘I was in the SAS, passed selection, did six months, did well, then some jealous cunt stamped on my ankle. It may mend, but something like Pen-y-fan with a Bergen is out.’ He sighed. ‘Maybe it will heal, but I’d not go back. Wankers.’

  ‘I know exactly ... how you feel.’

  He turned to stare at me. And waited.

  ‘When I nearly won the London Marathon people threw bricks through my window. Second time, after I was shot, they were even worse.’

  He faced the Para School hangar again. ‘Always some cunt wants to cut you down to size. But how come you never went to 2 Squadron?’

  ‘I got put here to be away from a squadron, to keep me out of trouble.’

  ‘You like trouble?’

  ‘Trouble likes me, it finds me easily enough, always someone wanting to have a go at me.’

  ‘And the boxing?’

  ‘I ... killed a few men in the ring, and I didn’t want to kill any more. I saw a newspaper clipping of the family of one man I killed, turned my stomach.’

  He nodded. ‘We’ll create our own team, Misfit and Company.’

  I laughed. ‘That’s the spirit, fuck ‘em all. You want a tour, or lunch in the pub?’

  ‘The pub, definitely.’

  It was early, but we got a few beers anyhow.

  ‘I know Colonel Richards at the SAS, he was my next door neighbour for a long time. But ... tell me about the SAS?’ I requested.

  He made a face. ‘Based in Hereford, southwest of the town centre, small base, good budget, but a shit attitude. Four squadrons, four troops per squadron. Still going is A,B,D, and G squadron, G for Guards, tall fellas.

  ‘In each squadron are four troops, Mobility, Boat, Air, Mountain, about twelve men plus support staff. Each squadron has a major, Squadron Sergeant Major, stores guy, troops have troop captains and a sergeant – the 2ic.

  ‘But there’s also loads of support staff, Signals and Intel, and a four man SAS team doing something will have thirty men in support a lot of the time.

  ‘Each troop is specialised, but that’s bollocks, because they’re all supposed to be able to do everything. Every three months the squadrons rotate, never more than one or two at the base, and then men are on courses. They do three months in Kenya, three months CT, counter-terrorism – men based in London, then standby.

  ‘If there’s no war it’s just lots of training after training, but they say that a man is not properly trained in everything till after two years. They go to Northern Ireland a lot, always a team, team in London sat around waiting for a hostage siege that never comes, some men on close protection, or there were till they pissed of Maggi
e Thatcher, now the SBS do a lot of that stuff.

  ‘Falklands saw everyone deploy just about, Gulf War saw them all deploy, but when there’s no war they just train. Men get bored and go off to get bodyguard work.’ He shrugged.

  ‘And the attitude..?’ I pressed.

  ‘They have a set way of doing things, and if someone has been in longer he’s said to be “senior” without rank, and if you kill someone you get the credibility, and if you take part in live patrols you get the credibility.

  ‘There are a lot of wankers who did a year and were kicked out or left, and they all talk shite all day, never a shot fired in anger. The SAS lads, like the Army and RAF, use a lot of buzzwords and abbreviations - as if that makes them special. The CT DS; the counter terrorism directing staff. If you know the words and use them they somehow think that makes them great.

  ‘This one guy, teaching us on a course, spoke like he had killed hundreds of men, so I asked about him, and he had wounded one man in Northern Ireland, but had gone out on about ten live patrols, therefore he was a fucking hero in his own mind.

  ‘And that’s the problem, the mentality. It’s all about competing and being sneaky, and showing off. Half of them are there to show off, and half of them couldn’t run a mile without a fag break. They pass selection, they do a few years, then they take it easy. They sit down the pub and chat about past battles as if they had been there, and they hadn’t.

  ‘There are some good lads, fit marathon runners like me, and some get on with the job without the bullshit and competing. Guy who stamped on my ankle, I beat him on the range and then in the foot race, and that enraged him. Typical fucking SAS idiot.’

  He faced me. ‘How come you never applied, you’d beat them at everything?’

  ‘For the reasons you just outlined: wankers wanting to trip me up. I get that here, so what would be different. I’d like to do the courses, see some action maybe, but I’d be there a week before I hit someone ... then out. I have thought about the medics, and I could get a job as a medic in some jungle or desert, good money.’

  ‘And these rumours about you in Riyadh? Even the SAS gossip about you.’

  Over lunch I gave him the stories from Riyadh, and he was laughing himself through an early lunch. After lunch we drove back and I gave him a quick tour, but he knew much of the base anyhow – from parachute courses here, so I took him to the armoury for a cuppa, and we sat cleaning rifles as we chatted to Bongo.

  That week I helped out in the armoury, telling Peters I was needed, not that he cared, a day on the range helping out. The station commander sent for me on the Friday.

  ‘Wilco, you’ve been back a week and you don’t come and say hello!’

  ‘I was waiting to get charged with something, sir, so give it another week.’

  ‘Try and behave, eh. How’s your CO?’

  I shrugged. ‘Same as ever, I’ve been helping out in the armoury.’

  ‘Air Commodore asked for you, for next week, a few days driving and bodyguard work; he doesn’t trust anyone else.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ll call him at home this weekend, sir.’

  Sat in my room, 7pm Friday night, I unlocked my metal cabinet and pulled out my new mobile phone, the damn expensive thing the size of a walkie-talkie and heavy with it. I turned it on and waited for the test message, then entered Kate’s mobile number.

  ‘Hey stranger,’ she answered.

  ‘How’d you know it was me?’

  ‘No one else has this number, and I only turn it on outside work.’

  ‘Been at the wine yet?’

  ‘Not yet, got a show to go to with relatives, but I’m free tomorrow night.’

  ‘Where’d you want to meet?’

  ‘Come to the cottage.’

  ‘Your home? Wow, big step, getting serious this.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to take the piss out of anything, and you’ll have to duck a lot, low ceilings and doors.’

  I wrote down the address. ‘See you at 8pm, have a wine first.’

  ‘I will, or two.’

  Phone away, I heard a noise, then music, and I sighed. Top off, I locked my door and walked to the stairs and across to the transit barracks ready for a scrap. Young enlisted men stopped to stare.

  I pointed at the radio, and it was switched off. ‘I’m Wilco, former heavyweight boxing champion of the Army, and I live here. So, if you make a lot of noise you each get a free boxing lesson. Anyone ... want a lesson?’

  They shook heads nervously.

  ‘Excellent. Play your music, but not loud, no noise on the stairs, keep the bogs clean.’

  ‘My dad knows you from the boxing,’ a young lad said, striding forwards with a camera. To his mates, he said, ‘Line up, get in front of him.’

  I smiled at the cheek of it, and he took several snaps before I left.

  Later, and now in civvies, they grabbed me as I was heading out for the pub.

  ‘This is our sergeant.’

  I shook hands with a big bull of a man, a corporal with him. ‘Down for the parachute course?’ I asked.

  ‘If the fucking weather holds next week. This is our third attempt.’

  ‘Most make five attempts at it, so stick in there. If you need anything, my door has the scratch marks on it, I’ll be around in the morning.’

  ‘There a local pub?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘You have civvies?’

  ‘Yeah, and a car.’

  ‘Go change then, I’ll wait.’

  Half an hour later I led the two NCOs into the Masons Arms, Foster sat with Bongo and a few of the lads. I did the introductions, and got some beers in, not least because I was loaded. After I detailed the Programme they were jealous, but wary of the drugs – and the side effects.

  Saturday night, and I was cursing Kate, getting lost in small lines with high hedges, finally finding her cottage after some really crap directions. “A bit further on” was half a mile, “close to” was six hundred yards.

  I ducked under a low stone entrance into a cottage with two real fires and a dated log stove. On her kitchen table were posh magazines, plus The Times newspaper, her wine rack well-stocked, no beer to be had, but she did have a great range of cheeses – and a cat.

  ‘You have a cat? Who looks after it when you’re with me?’

  ‘This is Mister Grumpy,’ she said, stroking the cat.

  ‘Who me?’ I puzzled.

  ‘No, the cat. He does his own thing and comes and goes when he pleases. Sometimes I don’t see him for a week and then he brings a dead bird to me, or a baby rat.’ She addressed the cat. ‘Don’t you, you little shit. He either loves me to bits or ignores me.’

  Wine in hand, cheese placed on the coffee table, TV on, we sat. The cat jumped up on me and settled as I stroked it.

  ‘Well, he sees in you a kindred spirit maybe,’ Kate noted. I fed the cat some cheese. ‘How’s life back at Brize Norton?’

  ‘Same old crap, but they don’t pressure me. Next week I’m driving the Air Commodore.’

  ‘AC Loughton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m distantly related to him, know his wife well. We’ll have to be discreet.’

  ‘I saved his life, he owes me, so don’t worry.’

  ‘Saved his life?’

  I gave her the detail over an hour, the wine and cheese going down nicely, and with Mister Grumpy heading out to kill small animals I checked doors – Kate not bothering to lock them usually, and we headed up to an en-suite bedroom that was larger than I would have figured.

  ‘Large room.’

  ‘This back of the cottage was destroyed before I bought it, and I bought it as a shell, so this was easy to make into a large room – no roof to worry about.’

  Bedclothes pulled back, she stripped off quickly and lay down, and I was rushing to keep up with her.

  ‘I missed you this week,’ she said as we kissed.

  A hell of a noise came from outside and I lifted up.

  ‘It’s OK, that’
s Boris the duck. He attacks Mr Grumpy when they meet.’

  I smiled widely. ‘And why exactly is the duck called Boris?’

  ‘My uncle, when I was a child, was a doctor, who my babysitter called The Quack, hence Boris the duck.’

  I shook my head, and got down to a nipple, a moan the result of that action.

  In the morning she apologised about breakfast. ‘I have bread, a bit stale, good for toast, cheese from last night and ... wine.’

  ‘You’re a doctor, supposedly organised,’ I teased.

  ‘I am. In work. This place is always a mess.’

  I made toast, and melted the cheese on top, which was not too bad, but I resisted the wine. Dressed, we drove to a local pub for an early lunch come breakfast.

  ‘Not afraid to be seen in here with me, your local?’ I teased.

  ‘Only the second time I’ve ever been in here, so no. I’m not a pub person normally.’

  Paying, I noticed that the landlord was a former boxer. ‘You’re either a boxer, or born ugly.’

  He stared at me, but then laughed. ‘Boxer I was, Army.’

  ‘Me too, but I kept my looks.’

  ‘You boxed?’

  ‘Last year I stopped. Was ranked No.1 in the Armed Forces.’

  He adopted a deep frown. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Wilco.’

  ‘By ... god!’ he exploded. ‘You come back and chat sometime. And next time it’s a drink on me, my laddy.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What was that?’ Kate asked outside.

  ‘He was a boxer in the Army.’

  ‘Ah, another kindred spirit, not just Mr Grumpy.’

  ‘I don’t think I have any similarities to that cat,’ I pointed out as we got into my car and headed back. ‘Other than large balls.’

  There was gardening to do, and my dad had taught me a few things, and after an hour Kate said, ‘Oh, so there’s a path and a bird bath.’

  I stared at her, and then shook my head. More than three years she had lived here, never a foot stepped onto her own lawn.

  After a week of driving the Air Commodore around, a pleasant week, lunch and dinner with him and his lady wife, I was back at the cottage.