The big blades were spinning pretty circles and the two came, dark and fast, with the profile of killer dogs over the last of the bund lines. There were no pylons here and no phone wires slung from poles. The Black Hawks could have been twenty feet above the ground, could not have been more than forty. She had no more strength and her knees buckled. She could see, when the Black Hawks were above them, the faces of the cockpit crew, then the hatch gunners. They slowed and banked a little, then hovered and she saw that one had taken a position towards the anvil and the other faced the lump hammer. In addition to the firepower from the hatches there were rockets on pods slung forward below the stubbed wings. The rock had stopped and the hard place stayed static.
Abigail Jones was trembling and could barely stand upright under the down-draughts. She cupped her hands and screamed his name.
Futile.
The Boys took a cue from her. They all screamed, five feeble voices against the thunder of the engines. She had no link to the pilot but she could see him clearly through the shield of the cockpit. He pointed to his wristwatch and tapped it hard, like this was no fairground joyride and time was precious. The rotors kicked up dust.
The dirt and sand swirled round them and it was in her mouth and nose, flattening her loose clothing against her torso and legs. The Boys were spewing, coughing, and there was a curtain round them of sand, dirt, debris, stones that scoured their faces. The curtain was dense enough for her not to see, any longer, the lump hammer or the anvil. She lost her view of the rock and the hard place. She was choking and her screams had died.
He came through the curtain.
She didn’t know where from. He was low, bent, and shuffled. The down-blast of the blades rocked him. It was Shagger who reached him first – ten paces from her and now clear of the curtain – then Harding, who dragged off the headpiece. He was huge in the gillie suit and seemed to understand little. His eyes were glazed and without recognition. First, Abigail Jones saw the bare white feet trailing from the bottom of the suit, then the head that lolled on Badger’s chest. Corky had her, no ceremony, and one Black Hawk came down. The skids bounced once, and the other flew cover above. Corky had hold of her collar and his other hand was between her legs and she felt herself airborne, thrown high and forward. The gunner’s gloved hand yanked her into the interior. Badger came next, and it was a struggle for the crew to get him up. He neither helped nor resisted them. Hamfist followed, then the rest . . . and they climbed, steeply. Her guts dropped lower than her knees. Before they pulled away – flew for safety – the two gunners had a moment of fun: they shot up the Pajeros until the flames started and black smoke spiralled. They went out fast.
Shagger shouted in her ear, competed with the engine power, ‘He won’t let go of him. He has Foxy.’
Harding yelled in her other ear, ‘Cold, dead, been gone for hours, but he’s not loosing him.’
She said, with a wonderment, ‘All that time, through all that, carrying him, already dead, with what was chasing him – it’s incredible . . . a miracle.’
A gunner – had the name ‘Dwayne Schultz’ stamped on his jacket – passed her a headset and she heard the pilot. They were to overfly Basra and go direct to Kuwait City. She shrugged, not her decision. She twisted in the seat and could see back up the fuselage and past the gunner’s squatting body. Badger wore the suit and his hands were wrapped across his chest. Through the open flap she could see Foxy’s head and arms, a little of his shoulders; she could see also some of the wounds on his body. The responsibility weighed on her, and the cost.
‘Good to have you back with us, Badger. To have both of you . . .’
Chapter 20
He was early, and confused. It was pretty much like being a national serviceman, new to his corps, not daring to be late on parade and standing by his made bed with the folded blankets on it, waiting for the sergeant to pitch them onto the drill yard. Doug Bentley was early because he hadn’t known how long it would take him to get to the town at that time of night. He was confused because no one he’d met or spoken to had seemed to know the form. Just ‘Best bib and tucker, Doug, and all the gear.’
It was past eleven and, other than on a British Legion night, that was way past Doug Bentley’s bedtime. Most of the pubs had closed, the Chinese was only doing slack trade, and the last bus had gone through. He stood outside the Cross Keys and it was cold, properly cold, with no moon to speak of, a clear sky and a hard frost forecast. He’d taken the precaution of wearing a wool pullover under his white shirt, which made his blazer tight, but better a little discomfort than being seen to shiver.
There had been a phone call, taken by Beryl and passed to him, from their local organiser around the time they were having their tea. That was all the warning he’d had. ‘And, of course, Doug, completely up to you as to whether you turn out but others will be there. Don’t ask me any more because I don’t know anything.’ The big decision was made to go, even if it meant a taxi fare to get home.
Others came, looked as lost as himself, men from Bath, Melksham, Frome and Chippenham, two from Swindon, and the Hungerford fellow who’d been cavalry. They all wore their polished shoes, the usual slacks and blazers, and had their white gloves and their standards in the leatherette cases. Well, obvious that a hearse was coming through, but no one knew the name on the box, or where he’d bought it.
He was glad of the company, and them being there made it real. They formed a casual line, as they always did, a little down the street from the big pub and opposite the war memorial. He didn’t like to show off his ignorance so didn’t quiz his colleagues, but he realised they were all in the same boat when questions were put to him. Answers were in short supply. So be it. He followed the actions of others and put his pole together, letting the standard hang free. He checked that the black bow at the top wasn’t creased, and started to hear voices. If he tilted his head a little and looked back to the arched entrance of the Cross Keys, he could see people emerging.
A man in a striped suit, with an open camel overcoat and a trilby low on his forehead, said, ‘Bit of a dump, don’t you think, Bob? Probably all right on a spring morning, certainly not a November evening. I suppose if that’s what was wanted it was right to do it. It’ll bring closure. It was a good result and achieved at a rather low cost . . . Can’t ask more than that.’ The thick-set man with him might have been, Doug Bentley thought, a bodyguard. He nodded his head, on which the hair was almost shorn, and might have murmured, ‘Yes, Director.’
They crossed the road, had to wait for an old saloon, speakers thumping. A young woman, with fine golden hair hanging loose and bright under a street-lamp, parked up the High Street and came at a jog towards the Cross Keys. She met a man – another suit, but creased and with shapeless trousers. ‘It’s Len, isn’t it?’
‘And you’re Abigail? Good to meet. Funny old place this, but a funny old occasion. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against it, only that it’s a bit left-side, irregular, sort of off the beaten track. What is it – a week since you were back?’
‘A long week.’
‘And the colleague?’
‘Bizarre. Out on his feet when he went into the chopper, and wouldn’t let go of Foxy – you remember they were Badger and Foxy? – and was talking to him, soft and quiet, all the way to Kuwait, a lengthy flight even in a Black Hawk. When we landed Badger had to be separated from the body – it was stark bollock naked. Weird. It took two of my escort to get him to free it. The corpse went into the care of the ambassador, formalities to be gone through. We had to quit sharpish, and did. We were out on the first London flight, straight after he’d had a medical. What did I expect? That he might sit with me, put his business seat flat and sleep? He went into Economy and I never saw him until Heathrow. Frankly, Len, I might have enjoyed a drink with him at the airport and we might have shared a ride to . . . God, we went through tough times in a tough place, and in a sense were together – don’t quote me or I’ll throttle you – but he walked past me i
n the concourse and said not a word – like I didn’t exist. The last I saw of Badger he was at a bus stop, waiting for the shuttle – creepy.’
‘It all went well. I had time for a quick shop on the way out for some marzipan, useful as a present for home and my office. Then it was a cloud of dust and gone. I assume he knows how it all turned out.’
‘I don’t know who told him, if anyone did. We sent a message to the opposition.’
‘Sent it in clear and loud.’
‘Will it be listened to?’
‘What matters is that we sent it, and it’ll hurt them and bloody their nose. I value that as justification.’
‘Good. Where should we be standing? Is this right, or should we be on the other side?’
‘Where he is, I suppose. But . . . Can you believe it? That big bastard cut me dead in the bar, didn’t know me. We stand near to the director but on pain of death we don’t speak to him. We don’t show the world we know him. Did I get a glass of sherry? Did I hell. Did I get a nod and recognition? Not yet. I think it was something to be proud of.’
‘I’ll catch you.’
The one she’d called Len crossed the road, now empty, and took a place a dozen steps from the director. Doug Bentley’s eyes darted. She had a pretty face, with frankness in the eyes and a jut at her chin. Her cheeks were red and the freckles alive. She wore old jeans and a quilted anorak, and every few seconds she swept the hair off her face. He realised she needed a moment of privacy from view – and lit up a cigarette.
He looked the other way, up the High Street, not down it, and saw the woman. He recognised. Gagged for a moment. Saw her and wondered about her blouse, the buttons on the front. Another woman was hurrying down the High Street with two girls, skinny teenagers, in tow. So much for Doug Bentley to absorb – and a guy was hovering behind Ellie . . . Ellie wore black, and her blouse was white but not buttoned high. He could see the ornament she wore and wanted to stare, had to force himself not to. He was uncertain whether the buttons were out of order.
The other woman caught up. ‘You’re Ellie?’
‘That’s right, and you are . . . ?’
‘Liz – and these are my daughters. It wasn’t a pretty divorce, but I was told this afternoon what was happening – wasn’t told much else. Wasn’t really told anything, except that I might want to be here. I took the girls straight out of college and we hit the road. I’ve moved on but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember the good times with him, and I respect him. You have my deep sympathy.’
‘Thank you, Liz, that’s really kind. I don’t have any answers and I don’t even know where to go to get them. I’m utterly devastated. He was such a wonderful man, so caring and kind. All I feel is emptiness. This is Piers, from the office where I work, Defence, and he’s being very supportive. Foxy was such a generous man and so much loved. What’s happening here tells me he died a hero, and this is the least he can be given, what he deserved.’
So much to tell Beryl, might keep her up half the night. Smug little sod, Piers. He was standing too close to Ellie. The bell sounded. Doug’s line shuffled, straightened, and the bottom piece of the pole went into the leather slot above his privates. His hands, immaculate in the gloves, took the strain of the standard. A policeman had walked out into the High Street and was waving brusquely at a car to go through and leave the road clear, like they always did. He could see, across the High Street, the women, the top man and his minder. Bikers had joined them and they cupped cigarettes, which glowed in the near darkness. Lights were coming on in the upper rooms above Doug Bentley’s line of colleagues and the war memorial. Further up the pavement a man was in a heavy tartan dressing-gown, with his pyjama trousers and bedroom slippers; a woman on the other side of the street had put on a quilted dressing-gown but a nightdress hem peeped free. The bell tolled from the tower of St Bartholomew and All Saints, and more came out. The town seemed to wake. The pavement was well lined opposite him, could have been two deep, and plenty more on his side, but no reporters, no cameras and none of the satellite trucks the television brought.
The blue lights came up the hill, flashing garishly. It would have passed the Pheonix Bar and the Methodist church, the entrance to the Rope Yard and the front of the dental clinic. It would now be level with the Wagon and Horses. The lights were on a police motorcycle. They had the standards high. Doug Bentley was next to a Canal Zoner, and beyond him was a para from their association. A man slipped into place beside him. He gave him a glance, fast. Scruffily dressed, what Doug Bentley would have called out of place, in old cord trousers that had smooth bits above the knees, a T-shirt, a windcheater, and a casual acrylic beanie hat. He hadn’t shaved. The police motorcycle came level with the standards and crawled. He looked again to the side. It was wrong that a man should stand close to their line and be turned out like a vagrant. The blue lights went slowly and lit the face. He blanched and the standard rocked. The face was burned, might have had a blowtorch at it. There were big circles where the flesh was raw and the skin was broken, and they were coated in a cream that glistened. He thought the man had been under attack by mosquitoes or flies. The face was gaunt. The hearse came.
A funeral director walked ahead of it. He had a good stride and swung his stick with practised ease. Doug Bentley recognised him from some of the daylight repatriations. The escort was not what he was used to, no police car, no military Range Rover, no back-up hearse, but in essence it was the same, and the Legion people gave it reality, with the gathering opposite, the crowds who’d abandoned their beds or the late-night stuff on television and the bars. They dipped the standards. He should have hung his head and looked at the pavement, but he could tilt a little and it would not be noticed. He knew who it was – would have been an idiot not to have known. The face was ravaged, as if the man had starved, and the pocked cheeks were sunken. He wondered where it came from, the name ‘Badger’. His neck had the scrawniness of an old man’s, and the coat hung loose. The man, Badger, had his hands in his pockets and kept them there while on both sides of the street men stiffened and stood erect. Doug Bentley did not feel the hands in the pockets showed disrespect. Likely they had been so close that respect was proven.
He could see into the hearse, but only a little of the box was visible. Normal times there was a tight-pinned Union flag on it. It was shapeless and camouflaged. There seemed to be a thousand tags of green and black, soft brown and sand-coloured tabs of material woven into it. The dirt was obvious and the mud stains and . . . The woman, Liz – first wife – held her daughters close to her, all weeping, and Ellie had stepped off the pavement into the road and put the palm of her hand on the glass. Abigail had her face turned away as if she couldn’t halt the tears and didn’t want it known. Len stood tall and the director was at attention, stiff. His man had slipped on an old military beret and saluted. Doug Bentley’s arm was dragged down and his standard shook. He realised he had the weight of Badger to support, and did it. He thought the man so wrecked that he should have been in a hospital bed, not cold on the street of Wootton Bassett.
The stick was swung, the feet pivoted, the top hat went again onto the funeral director’s head, and he walked. The hearse followed him.
There were little shouts, could have been from the bikers: ‘Well done . . . Well done, mate . . . Well done, my boy . . . Well done.’
A few clapped.
The voice beside him was soft, little more than a murmur: ‘Not in your name, Foxy, and not in mine.’
The standards were raised and the order was given for them to fall out. He could take the pole from the slot without toppling the man, but the weight slackened. He separated the pole into its sections, furled the standard and stowed it. He heard little bursts of talk. The blue lights were down the street and moving away, and while he watched them they seemed to speed. The pavements were clearing fast, and there was the roar of Harleys, BMWs and Triumphs as the bikers went. The women were arm in arm, coming back to the Cross Keys and the bar and . . . He’d lost t
he others, Abigail and Len, the director, and the bodyguard that an important man warranted, and the policeman who had done the traffic control.
The one he had supported, Badger, threaded his way through the thinning crowds and walked badly, as if he had big blisters. He seemed to sway and the light lessened on his back.
Doug Bentley watched him as far as he could, then headed for the car park behind the big supermarket and the library, where his taxi would be waiting. He felt he had been there, wherever it was, and that he had lived through it, whatever had happened there, and was humbled to have been a part of it. He imagined sand and dirt and burning heat.
The clock on the tower struck midnight. A new day had started.
The man was gone, like it was a job done, and the High Street was empty. The night closed on him.
A Deniable Death Page 47
