The Glory Boys

by Gerald Seymour

  As his eyes played on the short horizon of chimney tops and television aerials it took him little effort to realize that he had no knowledge of his whereabouts. They had driven a long way since crossing the bridge, he had known that as he jolted in the seat with the motion of the car. Then he remembered the A to Z street guide he had bought, that had stayed in the grip, and he looked for a street name that would help him to identify his location. It would be at the far end of the line of houses, where the junction was. But there were too many people out on the pavements readying themselves for work and school and shopping.

  Later they would be gone, and that would be the time to walk the whole length of the street to find its name.

  By the time he turned on his heel and drifted slowly back toward the car his mind was made up. There was no possibility that he could follow the path of abject defeat taken by the Irishman. When the men of the General Command went across the enemy's border there was no retreat if they were cut off and surrounded short of their target. They stood and fought and died where they were trapped. Few returned to receive the adulation of their comrades after a successful mission, none returned to admit failure. Failure and surrender were the cancer growths in a movement such as his; despair would be close behind, and hopelessness, and then the victory for the enemy. If we lose our courage, he thought, we can lay down our rifles, fold away the denim fatigues and go back to ploughing the fields of Lebanon and Jordan; we will never see the hills of Nablus and the groves of Haifa.

  There was a poem he had read in Beirut, written after the degradation of the Six Day War. One verse alone remained in his mind, clear and without complication.

  People may be divided into two classes, those who grin Vacant and lopsidedly,

  Who've given in,

  And the rest of us who grin

  To prove he isn't there,

  The worm within.

  It would be a sentence of death to go on. A conscious and measured decision. But it had been so for his brothers at Beisan, or on the sea front of Tel Aviv, or at Nahariya.

  They had stayed to die, had accepted its inevitability. He felt a great calmness after his mind was concentrated. The tears ceased to roll on his face, and deep in his belly the tightness had gone. There would be no insinuating, creeping rottenness, no worm.

  Mackowicz did not inform David Sokarev that a visitor had arrived at the hotel expecting to take breakfast with the scientist. He was left in his room playing with the toast and the little packets of butter and the plastic marmalade jars, unaware of the heated dispute being fought out in the lobby. When the tall, white-haired, upright figure of Sir Humphrey Talbot, Fellow of the Royal Society, glasses half-moon and far down the bridge of his nose, had come to the reception desk and asked for the Israeli's room number a Special Branch man had folded the newspaper he had been reading and walked to Sir Humphrey's shoulder, indicating to the girl behind the desk the information should not be given.

  'Can I help you, sir?' His voice was pitched low, inaudible to the other guests who milled about the counter handing in keys, seeking directions, writing travellers'

  cheques.

  'I don't think so.' He turned back toward the girl.

  'Young lady, I was asking you the room number where Professor Sokarev is staying.'

  'He's not taking visitors, sir,' said the detective.

  'And who might you be?' snapped the other man, already in poor humour at the frustration of the delay, coupled with the early hour he had risen in order to travel from his home in Cambridge to keep the appointment.

  'Detective Sergeant Harvey, Special Branch, Scotland Yard. I'm afraid the Professor is not able to see anyone this morning. It's a very clear instruction we've had, sir. I hope you haven't been inconvenienced.'

  'Of course I've been inconvenienced. I've come up from the country to see the man. I have a letter from him inviting me.' Sir Humphrey reached into his faded leather briefcase, riffled through the papers, and with a look of triumph on his face produced a single-page letter. 'There, read that. Very simple, I would have thought. Clearly typed and with his signature at the bottom, on headed paper from Dimona.'

  The detective read it through, motioned for the visitor to wait, and picked up a house phone. He spoke quickly and out of Sir Humphrey's earshot, put the receiver down and came back to Sir Humphrey's side.

  'One of the Professor's colleagues will be down to see you directly, sir. To explain the position.'

  'But he's travelling on his own. It says so in the letter . . .'

  'I think you will find that things have changed some-what, sir, in the last few hours. Have you seen a newspaper this morning?'

  'Of course I haven't. Not read one anyway - just glanced. Been travelling, haven't I?'

  if you had, perhaps it would be clearer to you, sir.'

  The lift door opened and Mackowicz emerged. His jacket had been hurriedly put on, tangling with his shirt collar. At least he's hiding his shoulder holster, bloody cowboy, thought the detective. Might have shaved by this time in the morning. Mackowicz read the Jetter, and handed it back.

  'I regret that your journey has been unnecessary. Professor Sokarev is receiving no visitors before his speech this evening. I am sorry.'

  Sir Humphrey's voice rose in anger. 'But this is absol-

  utely ridiculous, damned ridiculous. I've travelled half-way across southern England to get here at the Professor's invitation, and you, without even the courtesy of introducing yourself, tell me I shouldn't have come. What sort of nonsense is this?'

  'My name is Mackowicz, I am with the Professor's party. I can only repeat my apologies that you were not forewarned by our embassy that it would be impossible for Professor Sokarev to keep his appointment with you.'

  'I demand to speak to him on the telephone. He's an old friend.'

  'That, too, I am afraid, will not be possible. He is taking no calls. I am sorry, sir.'

  Sir Humphrey was not used to being spoken to in such a way. He was accustomed to deference, a smoothing of his way. He was uncertain how to react toward the young man with his open shirt, casual leather jacket and a day's growth on his chin, who met his gaze so unswervingly.

  'Well, when in heaven's name will I be able to see him?'

  'Are you going to the Professor's speech this evening?'

  'Of course I'm going. I'm chairing the damned thing.'

  'There will be an opportunity then,' said Mackowicz. 'I see from the Professor's letter that he was expecting you to drive him to his speech this evening. That, too, I am afraid, has been changed. But at the university you will have an opportunity to meet with him and talk.'

  'And perhaps you would be so kind as to inform me the reason for this lunatic carry-on?'

  The detective sergeant handed him a morning paper.

  'You seem not to have taken in the news, sir. Perhaps that will help you to understand our problems. . .'

  'Of course I've seen the headlines, but you're not for a moment considering that I pose a threat to . . .?'

  Mackowicz cut him off. 'Because of the situation it has been decided that the Professor will receive no visitors.

  There are no exceptions.' He went back to the lift and disappeared. Flushed with embarrassment, Sir Humphrey walked to the door and the Special Branch officer settled again in his chair, moulding into the background, incon-spicuous and unnoticed.

  Four floors above, Sokarev had finished with his breakfast, and paced dejectedly about the room. Elkin was now asleep and Mackowicz made poor company. More than an hour to go before the typist came from the embassy to take the dictation of his speech, but that at least would distract him from the company of the young men and their sub-machine-guns and radios and who shuffled about with their fixed, humourless stares. The speech would take the morning to prepare, and after that perhaps he could sleep.

  There would be many distinguished men of learning to hear him in the evening, and he wished to be at his best and most incisive. An afternoon rest would help.


  Jimmy slept late, deep in a meaningless dream that involved images of the countryside, hedgerows, overgrown fields and the animals who made their homes there. He fought to retain it against the increasing competition of the daylight that surged through the window, curtains not drawn. Silly bitch, he thought, when he woke up, always leaves them open, probably undresses there as well, right in front of the glass, handing out orgasms to half Holborn.

  He hadn't noticed it when he'd come back to the flat.

  Stayed up too long. Too much talking with Jones before going to the hotel and to Richmond. Bloody man didn't seem to want him to go. Wants to be loved, Jimmy could see that, lonely boss-man with all the chaos piling up on his desk and having to rely on someone else to steer him through it. Jones under strain, talking more than he usually did, fidgeting with his pipe and pulling at the skin at the graft points below his mouth, reddening and irritating the lines. And he'd wished him luck when Jimmy went on his way. Never done that before. It had been a bit ridiculous, a sort of paternal send-off, and Jimmy not three years younger and as much in his twilight as the other man.

  The girl was still sleeping. One of them always was - it seemed the most consistent fact about their life together.

  They laughed about it to each other, and cursed privately.

  She looked good, always did when she was asleep, and too vulnerable to be woken. She'd be late already for the dingy room where she spent her days sandwiched between Jones's office and the corridor. He wouldn't wake her yet

  - Jones could wait. It wouldn't do any harm, slave labour he had from the girl. Jimmy told her that often enough, and she ignored him. Jones could get impatient for one morning, wouldn't take her so much for granted.

  He reached across her prone form, careful not to disturb her and deny to the girl the deep relaxation of sleep that showed in the way her mouth had drifted open, awkward but at peace, too many teeth showing. Not at your best, sweetheart. There were lines beside her lips, alongside her eyes, under her chin, that in a few hours would be camouflaged by the cosmetics. Jimmy wasn't concerned with that; the rivulets of age that were forming on her features caused him no dismay.

  From the bedside table he lifted the telephone receiver and dialled the number of the hotel where Sokarev was staying. When it was connected to the top-floor rooms where the Israelis were encamped Jimmy recognized Elkin's voice, softer and more conciliatory than the other bastard's. He sounded cheerful, said they'd had an uneventful night, that their charge had woken, taken his breakfast and was now working on his speech for the evening.

  'And no visitors, under any circumstances, right?' Jimmy said.

  'That is the instruction. A guy came and wanted to see him, a scientist. Mack dealt with it. He was a bit bothered, but left.'

  Jimmy shuddered at the prospect. He could imagine the tact that Mackowicz would have employed to make his point.

  He said, 'I'll be down quite soon. A few things to sort out, but it'll be before lunch, and for God's sake no room service or anything sent up from the kitchens direct to the room. If he wants something he'll either have to do without or you get it yourselves.'

  'There's enough of your police outside the door to serve a banquet, cook it, and wash the dishes afterwards.'

  'Don't worry about them. They're there to make up the numbers, make the circus look good. Do it yourself. I'll be there round about twelve.'

  Jimmy crawled out of his bed and made for the bath-room out through the door and across the corridor. There wasn't much else of the flat, just a kitchen. Bachelor Towers, and he wanted it that way. He needed someone like Helen to visit, once or twice a week, and clean the place up while she was waiting for him. But not to live there, they'd be on top of each other, arguing, pulling hair out, claustrophobic. It was not a bad arrangement. Gave each sufficient companionship, and the minimum of commitment. Those in the department who knew them both and who knew of the limitations of the arrangement put the bond down to a mutual passed-over loneliness. Jimmy would have denied that, perhaps violently. Helen would have smiled and changed the conversation. It was generally agreed among their friends that neither allowed the relationship to impair their individual effectiveness at the department.

  After he'd shaved and scrubbed with his toothbrush to eradicate the taste of last night's cigarettes, he dressed. He did it slowly and with thought, as if getting himself prepared for an important engagement, an interview for a new job, an evening out with a girl-friend. But it was the clothes themselves that let him down. His trousers were heavily creased, not just at the seams down his legs but all over, a legacy of the night-time hours that they had lain crumpled on the carpet after he had kicked them off. The shirt that he chose was clean, not worn yesterday, but it had been on his back for many other days before that and the collar showed the frayed outline where the cotton had rubbed worn against the unshaven bristles on his neck. A button was missing, but would be hidden by his tie. The socks too were clean, unholed, perfect, and he could smile quietly and secretly to himself as he pulled them on. Three pairs he'd bought, one of his few concessions to the semi-domestication Helen had tried to enforce on him. Beside the bed were his shoes, brown and lace-ups. The toes were scuffed and need the attention of polish and a duster. He pulled the handkerchief from his trouser pocket, checked to see that Helen was still asleep, and then rubbed the white cloth square hard across the leatherwork. She'd seen him do that once and screamed a protest. His habits hadn't changed; only now he employed discretion.

  From the drawer of the table on which the telephone stood he took the pistol he had drawn from Leconfield House, and the shoulder holster apparatus that was his own. The holster, of strengthened black plastic, fitted across his upper back and chest like a carthorse harness. It had been made to fit, and until he placed the gun itself in the pouch provided he was hardly aware of the straps that looped round his arms and across his back. But the gun gave the holster a weight and presence. His jacket hung across the chair he had draped it over, and when that was worn the PPK and its props were decisively hidden. Same tie as yesterday - RAF Escapers Club. Nothing dramatic for the motif, just a pelican bird, and not many who would pass Jimmy on the street would know its meaning.

  He shook her shoulder, gently and with a kindness that few who knew him casually would have guessed he possessed.

  'Wake up, girl, time to be on our way.'

  'What time is it?' She said it sleepily, resisting the intrusion, eyes squinting into the sudden light.

  'Bit after nine.'

  'You pig!' she shouted, scrambling from the warm security of the bedclothes.

  it's a beautiful sight to start the day with.' Jimmy was laughing as she struggled to cover her thighs and breasts with the scraps of lace and nylon that she scooped from the chair near her side of the bed.

  'You're a pig, Jimmy. A mean, miserable pig. All bloody dressed yourself, and not calling me. Jones'll be off his rocker when I drift in at this time.' She wriggled her long legs into the trousers she had used the day before. Jimmy didn't like her keeping spare clothes at the flat, so what she arrived in the previous night she went out with the next morning.

  'Won't do him any harm. Let him sweat a bit,' Jimmy said.

  She said nothing else, fiercely concentrating on her dressing and then the attack on her face in front of the mirror. Hunched over it, eyes intent on the reflection as she worked the pencils and brushes around her eyes. The lipstick she put on with a bravado that ensured disaster.

  There was a low oath, in a pitch she seldom used, as she tidied the indulgence with a flick of the Kleenex tissue that had remained overnight on the dressing table.

  'Are you coming down to the speech tonight?' Jimmy asked as they stood on the pavement beside her Maxi car.

  'Only if I'm needed. I don't want to be there just to rubberneck. I don't know whether Jones is going.'

  'I'd like you to come, might want the car there. If I've one from the department I'm saddled with the damned thing. If yo
u come, slot in behind the convoy and when we've dumped the little bugger back in his bed we can shove off somewhere. I can call you later on.'

  'There can't be much chance of Jones going. He may want to be at the Yard, or by his phone, but it's not like him just to be there if there's no purpose to it. There's enough of the thickies, you included, lined up for the evening without him shoving in and getting in the way.'

  'Whether he comes or not I'd like you to be there with the car.'

  She unlocked the driving door and sat far back into the seat. As she fastened the safety belt across her chest she said quietly and with a suspicion of mockery, 'Want me to see the hero boy in action? Roy of the Rovers defies Amazing Odds. Triumph of Virtue. Good wins through.

  That it?'

  When it came to needling Jimmy she was the great expert.

  'Bugger off to your boring office,' he shouted. 'I'll call you, and I want you there. If you want a bloody meal on the house, that is.'

  The car was away and lost in the traffic, leaving Jimmy searching the street for a black cab. They were not easy to find in the final throes of the capital's rush-hour, and he paced impatiently for a full fifteen minutes before he could hail one and then sprint a weaving path between the oncoming cars to the other side of the road where the driver waited for him.

  When they were on the move Jimmy sagged deep into the seat, half-aware of the scurrying masses going about their business beyond the Perspex. This was the ideal guerrilla country, the perfect territory on which to wage the sharp and cruel form of warfare that the enemy had perfected. Thousands of faces were swept past his vision from the window, their preoccupation with their own affairs total, their knowledge of the threat minuscule. The perfect, unnoticing hiding ground, where anonymity remains a virtue. In this huge, ant-like society what hope could there ever be of selecting out just two who were different from the rest by the virtue of the fact that they had declared hostilities? Where to find them - where to start to look?