by Ed James
That bloody Taylor Swift song blared out, muffled under a pile of clothes.
‘Chantal! Your phone’s ringing!’
SIXTEEN
Chantal
Chantal flushed the toilet and hugged on her bra. Out in the corridor, Bubble sat on the laminate chewing on some green beans she’d stolen from the pizza. Freaky cat. Freaky owner.
What am I playing at? He was right. Lying to Sharon like that. Daft cow.
What’s so wrong with being split up at work? Having someone else to shadow her, him off with another DS.
Nothing.
It’s . . . It’s admitting that I’m in a relationship with someone. Someone that I . . .
Do I love him? Really?
He’s nice. Strong, kind, funny. Smart. Sensitive.
It’s just . . . All the shit in my head. Does he deserve that?
He’s as bad. Worse. That flashback at lunchtime. Christ, what if that ever happens during an operation?
‘Chantal! Your phone’s ringing!’
Here we go . . .
She opened the bathroom door and jogged through to the bedroom. ‘Where is it?’ She rummaged around in the heap of clothes, Bubble lying on it as she ratted at the pizza box. She snatched it from under the cat and checked the display. A photo of Sharon, hoisting a bottle of blue WKD above her head, out of her skull. ‘It’s the bloody boss.’ She put her fingers to her lips and answered it on speaker as she lay on the bed. ‘Sorry, Shaz, I was—’
‘Shagging Craig?’
‘Piss off. Have they got him?’
‘Tulloch walked through passport control an hour ago.’
‘They didn’t arrest him?’
‘Said they needed evidence for an arrest. Caught a load of flak when they arrested a Romanian last year. Turned out he’d stolen two lettuces.’
Chantal collapsed back onto the bed. ‘Shaz, this is boll—’
‘I know, I know.’ Sharon sighed down the line. ‘Look, I’ve got approval for you and lover boy to investigate over there.’
‘He’s not my—’
‘You’re on the seven o’clock flight to Faro tomorrow morning. Three nights’ accommodation max. Ideally less.’
‘Thanks, Shaz.’ Chantal looked round at Hunter, an involuntary smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘Whose arm did you have to break?’
‘You don’t want to know.’ Sharon’s sigh hissed out of the speaker. ‘A local detective will meet you at the airport. Inspector João Quaresma. I think that’s how you say it.’
‘You seem to be the expert.’
‘Right, well, I’m sure you’ll be able to find Craig and tell him, aye?’
‘Funny.’ Chantal scowled at the phone. ‘I’ll call you once we’ve spoken to this Quaresma guy, okay?’
‘Look forward to it.’
‘Cheers, Shaz.’ Chantal ended the call and got to her feet. ‘Glad that wasn’t FaceTime.’
Hunter smiled at her as he chomped on a slice of pizza. ‘So, you happy now?’
‘Happier. Ball’s in our court now.’ She stepped into her pants and hoisted them up. ‘Right. Need to get someone to look after Muffin.’
Day 2
Friday, 13th May, 2016
SEVENTEEN
Hunter
Far too bloody early.
Hunter stared out of the flat window again, yawning as he sipped more tea. Rain battered the glass, as the first rays of sunlight broke through the heavy clouds overhead. Felt like the Biblical flood had hit again. Now, where did I put that Ark?
Bubble rubbed against the legs of his jeans, almost tying herself in knots. ‘Mieow?’
A dark car pulled to a halt across the street by the park, the diesel engine throbbing through the stone tenement. Chantal got out of the back, lugging a box, and held out her hand to the driver, fingers splayed. Five minutes.
Hunter crouched down and tipped a cup of biscuits into Bubble’s bowl then into another next to it. He wagged a finger at the cat, her nose twitching. ‘You’re in charge, okay, Bubble?’
‘Mieow?’
‘Don’t let Muffin eat all the food. Okay?’
‘Mieow.’
The door lock twisted and Chantal pushed through it, her keys dangling from her grasp. Sunglasses propped over her hair, pastel-yellow crop top and a flowery skirt. Not clothes for Edinburgh, not even in May. She lugged the box over and set it down by Bubble. ‘Sure this is the right thing to do?’
Bubble sniffed at the strange cat box, her legs stretched up to her full height.
‘It’s going to be fine.’ Hunter waved at the window and the giant buildings hulking across the main road. ‘Murray works at the Scottish Government just over there. He looks in on Bubble most lunchtimes. He’ll feed them and change the litter. Besides, this’ll be their third time together and they’re both neutered.’ He pointed at a beige plug in one of the sockets. ‘And just to be extra safe, I’ve put out some of that stuff that chills cats out. They’ll be stoned the entire time.’
Chantal laughed. ‘Okay.’ She unclipped the box and a monster-sized blonde cat stepped out, regally, like he owned the place. King Muffin. He sniffed the air. ‘Ma-wow!’
Bubble paced over to him and kissed him on the nose. Then bopped him with a paw. Muffin sat back and licked his front left leg. Breathing slowly. Bubble backed off, happy that she was in charge after all.
Chantal crouched down and rubbed her cat under the chin. ‘You know, Muffin was in a pair with Sharon’s cat, Fluffy. Nobody would take two huge boys so we split them up.’
Hunter stroked the top of Muffin’s head, then did the same to Bubble. ‘This can be a dry run for when they move in together.’
Chantal hauled herself to her feet. ‘The taxi’s waiting.’
* * *
Unnamed land swept past below, glimpses of France or northern Spain framed in the oval window of the budget airline. Lush green hills, sparkly blue rivers and roads with tiny cars and lorries, like a children’s play set.
Hunter shifted round in his seat, sweat trickling down the back of his jeans. My new darlings, 24 kilogram kettlebells, maybe did make my trousers rather, well, snug. Especially in this sweatbox of a toy plane. It wasn’t even that hot, but the air was drier than Iraq in the height of summer, and there was about as much space to move as in a tank. Another glance up at the air conditioning and Murray’s advice rattled around his head. That’s where the germs are. Never turn it on.
A row of golfers queued in the aisle, stepping from foot to foot like the floor was as hot as Hunter’s trousers, when really all they needed was a good, long piss after downing four breakfast pints each.
Hunter unfolded his Argus. Got that newspaper smell. The front cover was filled with the grinning face of Harry Jack, the missing kid from Alnwick. A photograph of his mother at a press conference, frail and gaunt, desperate.
HARRY’S MUM: I JUST WANT MY SON BACK
He flicked through the article. Kid disappeared on his way home from school in Alnwick. Small town near Newcastle. Shocking business.
He showed Chantal the paper. ‘You seen this?’
She didn’t look up from her Kindle. ‘Read about it last night. Horrible.’
‘That poor woman.’ Hunter tapped at the page. ‘I can’t imagine what she’s going through. To lose a child? I’m already sweating at the thought of having left Bubble behind for three days.’
‘Really? You’re going to blame the cat for your sweat attacks?’ Chantal tried to squeeze his thigh, couldn’t dent the muscle though, so she punched it and giggled. When her eyes fell on the paper, the smile died away as fast as it had appeared. She pointed at the photo of the mother, her finger landing on the figure next to her. A tired cop in a grey suit. ‘I know him. Jon Bruce.’
‘Where from?’
She went back to her Kindle without a word.
Hunter leaned back and sighed as his knees dug into the seatback in front of him. ‘Sharon could’ve got us the extra legroom seats.’
<
br /> She shot a nervous look towards the man at the end of their row, hidden behind his Daily Mail. Then she poked Hunter’s little love handle. ‘You might need to lose a few inches.’
He leaned in to whisper. ‘Thought I needed to grow another couple?’
‘Craig, get over it.’
Right. That easy.
Hunter adjusted himself in the seat and folded up his paper. ‘I’m not sure we should be flying on Friday the thirteenth.’
‘What?’ Chantal frowned at him, an impish grin on her face. ‘Tell me you’re not superstitious . . .’
‘Of course I’m not . . . It’s . . . It’s just that I don’t want to be the guy who laughs at this kind of feeblemindedness, and then his plane falls out of the sky.’
‘You have flown before, right?’
‘Of course I’ve bloody flown.’ Hunter squeezed his arse to the right. Not good. Back to the left. That’ll have to do. ‘You don’t drive to Iraq or Afghanistan.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ She locked her Kindle and stuffed it in the seat rest. ‘Look, you could’ve brought something else to read, or was annoying me your idea of in-flight entertainment?’
‘If my company isn’t appreciated, I can take it elsewhere.’ The food trolley clunked behind them, letting one of the waiting golfers past to the toilet. ‘Or maybe not. Fine, I’ll have a nap.’
‘Good idea. Sweet dreams, captain tight pants.’
‘Sweet dreams . . .’ Daily Mail man was lost in his latest threat to house prices. Hunter slid his hand on Chantal’s thigh.
‘No, we’re not joining the mile-high club.’
Hunter huffed. ‘Wasn’t going to suggest it.’
The air hostess leaned over to them. Smelled like she’d spent half her salary on perfume, even at duty-free rates. ‘Sir, can I get you anything?’
Hunter shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Madam?’
‘Coffee, please.’ Chantal gave her a five Euro note. ‘Milk, no sugar.’
‘Of course.’ She handed her two little milk cartons stuffed into a plastic cup. Serviettes and plastic spoons lurked out of the top.
Chantal wrestled her tray table down to horizontal and placed the miniature coffee shop on it. ‘Thanks.’
‘We should go on a holiday, Chantal.’
‘Okay.’ She tore off the lid and blew on the drink, then tipped in both milks. ‘When?’
‘When we tell Sharon we’re an item?’
‘Craig . . .’
‘I’m serious. We’re not going to get time off together any other way, are we?’
Chantal took a drink and grimaced.
The stewardess squeezed past a waiting golfer and sashayed down to the front of the plane.
‘We’ll talk about this later, okay?’ Chantal grabbed her Kindle and unlocked it. ‘Now, try to get some sleep, okay?’
‘Maybe.’ Hunter shut his eyes and huffed out a breath.
The plane droned around them, white noise overlaying the chatter.
Chantal slurped at her coffee.
Sharon McNeill was her friend. Her best friend. They’d been cat shopping together, splitting a pair of monster boys. Why couldn’t she even tell her as a friend? Come to some sort of arrangement?
Am I being unreasonable here?
Probably.
She’s got her reasons. Solid reasons. The sort you shouldn’t question.
You selfish twat.
From two rows down, a saccharine voice trickled into his ear. ‘Here you go, sir.’
‘Thanks.’
The smell of bacon wafted over to him.
Hunter clenched his fists and fought hard against—
EIGHTEEN
Hunter
White noise, everywhere, the RAF transport’s propellers droning in the darkness. Cold wind hit Hunter’s cheek, distracting him from his teeth rattling.
A few faces lit up in yellow around him. Friends, now. One grinned maniacally at him. ‘Lance bloody Corporal Hunter.’ Terry lifted the cap off his hip flask and handed it over, the cockney twat grinning like there was no tomorrow. ‘Have a swig of this, you big Scotch poof.’
‘You wanting to shag me doesn’t make me the poof.’ Hunter reached over, the straps cutting into his shoulders, and hefted the flask. ‘Slàinte!’
Terry scowled at him. ‘Slange? What?’
‘Slàinte. It’s Gaelic for health. Not that you’d know anything about that, you sick pederast.’ Hunter downed a measure of the whisky, burning the back of his throat. Disgusting. ‘What’s that?’
Private Dave Mowat sat opposite, smirking away. Twat from Dundee, barely tall enough to enlist. ‘Single malt. Like that Sassenach would know any different.’
‘It’s Dunpender, if you must know, pipsqueak.’ Terry took the flask back and necked a good measure. ‘Slàinte.’
Mowat almost spat at him. ‘You’re not allowed to say that, you cockney wanker.’
‘I can say what I like when I’m drinking your whisky. Just you wait what I say when I shove the flask right up your arsehole.’ Terry put the cap back on and hurled the hip flask at Mowat. It clattered off the bulkhead above and dropped to the floor behind him.
‘Watch it!’ Mowat craned his neck to look below. ‘You’ll have dented it!’
‘Hardly.’ Terry buckled with laughter. ‘Get it down you! Hunter’s drying up.’
Hunter wiped the whisky from his chin. Started repeating on him. Horrible stuff, but you’ve got to play along. ‘Last decent booze we’ll get for a while.’
Terry snarled as he caught the flask, thrown with enough venom to crack a window, if there’d been any.
Mowat’s gaze settled on the flask like a fly on shit as Terry passed it back to Hunter. ‘You boys looking forward to killing some of these pricks?’
‘That’s not what we’re there for, pipsqueak.’ Hunter sucked down more whisky. Felt half-pissed already. ‘But I’m looking forward to getting back into action, if that’s what you mean.’ He lobbed the hip flask over. ‘Here.’
Mowat caught it and drank in the spirit’s aroma. ‘You boys were in Kandahar, right?’
‘Right.’ Hunter gripped the straps tight, the fabric digging into his hands. ‘This is supposed to be a breeze compared to that. But thanks for reminding me.’
* * *
The air was rancid with the stench of burning opium poppies, bitter and dark, catching at the back of his throat. Hunter tightened his mask around his mouth, but the taste and the reek still got through. Will smell it for weeks.
The chinooks roared above them, their propellers lashing the rising sun into a night-club strobe. Lashkar Gah gleamed in the near distance, the town’s lights flickering in the desert’s cold air.
Hunter rested against the ledge and looked down into the valley immediately below them. A small stone building sat alone. Looked like a goat hut, but there was no sign of any goats. He looked left, then right. Terry and Mowat looked like he felt — nervous, cold and eager to get back to base. ‘You guys okay?’
‘Like shit, I am.’ Terry hefted his SA80 and leaned back against the wall, a pile of stones as old as war itself. ‘I’ve had enough of this bollocks.’ He yawned. ‘I want a pint of fizz and my bed.’
‘Last Afghan tour for us, mate.’ Hunter patted his arm. ‘Iraq will be a breeze after this.’
‘That’s what they promised about this so-called conflict.’ Terry peered through his rifle’s sights and swivelled it around the area. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘This is more like Operation Kitten’s Claw than Panther’s.’ Mowat slipped his goggles up onto his forehead. ‘The bloody brass must be loving SHITE!’
The wall above them puffed up, the air exploding. A rifle report echoed around them.
‘Get down!’ Mowat hauled them both to the stone floor. ‘Jesus Christ!’
More gunshots battered the wall, small fragments ricocheting all over the place.
‘Have you got sight of them?’ Hunter grabbed his binoculars and
scanned around for any sign of insurgents. ‘Anything?’
‘Not a sausage.’
The wall exploded five, six, seven times, pebbles lashing down on their legs.
Hunter got up to a crouch. ‘We need to move.’
‘Where do we go?’ Mowat perched on his elbows, twisting his head round to glower at Hunter. ‘Where the hell do we go, man?’
‘That hut.’ Hunter nodded into the valley. ‘Then down to the bottom.’ He slipped his binocs on. Yep, definitely a trail. ‘There’s a path down there. It’s got to lead to the town.’
Mowat shook his head. ‘No way, man.’
‘Private, we’re moving out and that’s an order.’ Hunter grabbed hold of Mowat’s sleeve and hauled him up to standing. Sheer terror in his eyes, his face as pale as the sand. He let Mowat go. ‘Terry, you okay to lead us down?’
‘Waiting to be asked.’ Terry bombed off along the stone pathway and stopped by the opening ten metres along. Then he swung down and scrambled down the scrubland.
Hunter followed Mowat down, his gear rattling as he jogged down towards the shelter.
WOOOSH!
BOOM!
Hunter dived and rolled, tumbling arse over tit until his shoulder thudded into a rock. He clenched his jaw and focused on the pain, trying to swallow the scream searing his throat. Pebbles rained down the slope. Back up the way, a huge hole smoked in the wall they’d been leaning against seconds ago. ‘What the hell was that?’
‘Rocket!’ Mowat stumbled towards him, sliding on the avalanche until he braced himself against a boulder. ‘They’ve got rockets!’
Downhill, Terry leaned against the stone hut’s front wall, puffing and panting. He shifted his rifle around, pointing above them. His free hand beckoned them to move on.
‘Come on.’ Hunter pulled himself up to standing and jogged down. ‘Let’s go!’
‘No!’ Mowat hugged the boulder tight. ‘I’m not going anywhere!’
