by Dc Alden
Mac gulped his beer, smacked his lips. ‘I get it, your dad’s gone, and it hurts like fuck, but you’ve got to let all this hate and anger go, son. It’s not doing you any good…’ Another swig. ‘In fact, you’re becoming a liability.’
Digger glared across the table. ‘You’ve got some nerve. I’ve got us out of more jams than the rest of you put together. I’ve saved all your arses.’
‘And how many times have you gone MIA?’ Eddie shot back. ‘How many times have we risked our necks to go find you? Bally Cross was a perfect example. All because you wanted to watch those guys getting slotted. For what?’
‘Mind your business, Novak.’
‘You need help, mate. You should speak to the shrinks—’
Digger shot to his feet. Empties toppled and rolled across the table. Eddie stood too. Mac dragged him back down.
‘Sit, the pair of ya.’
‘Fuck this.’ Digger stepped over the bench and stormed away.
Steve called after him, ‘Come on, son, don’t be stupid!’ But Digger was already threading his way through the packed tables.
Eddie shook his head. ‘He’s gonna get us killed.’
‘Aye. One of us, at least.’
‘Kid’s got a death wish,’ Steve chipped in.
‘Truth? He scares me,’ Eddie told them.
Mac chewed his bottom lip. ‘He’s got a point, though. Remember that APC that chopped us up outside Kilkenny? He took it out, saved a lot of lives.’
‘He shot the prisoners too,’ Steve reminded him.
Mac took another long draw on his beer and cuffed his lips dry. ‘Boo-fucking-hoo.’
Eddie cracked open another bottle. ‘I’m not saying he hasn’t got us off the hook, but there’s something else going on with Digger.’
‘Aye, the nipper’s got something loose in his skull,’ Mac agreed, ‘but now we’ve had time to catch our breath, let’s cut him some slack for a few days. Might do him the world of good.’
‘And pigs might fly.’ Steve grimaced. ‘If you ask—’
‘Get on your feet!’
The voice boomed around the hall. The battalion scrambled upright, tables and benches screeching in protest. Bottles toppled and tumbled, and some shattered on the floor. An enormous cheer went up, and Eddie and the boys cheered too. It was good to see so many smiling faces. Eddie saw the RSM standing by the main doors.
‘Quiet down!’
The laughter died away as the blackout curtains were swept back and the Battalion CO strode in, accompanied by the 2IC and a gaggle of battalion HQ officers.
‘A full house,’ Mac muttered. ‘Something’s coming.’
‘Sit down, please,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Butler told them, stepping up onto the stage at the back of the hall. Of the 600 men of the Second Massachusetts Battalion, Fourteenth Infantry Brigade Combat Team, Kings Continental Army Division, only 487 men remained. It had been a tough war so far, and they all knew it. Even Butler had lost an eye, during a furious Haji counter-attack in the first week of the campaign. He’d stayed at his post though, issuing orders even as the medics worked on him. That’s why Butler wore an eye patch, and why the battalion had nick-named him Colonel Cyclops. The man was already a legend, and the hall waited in silent anticipation for his next words.
‘How’s the beer?’ he opened, smiling.
‘Fucking awesome,’ a voice yelled from the back of the hall. There was laughter, but it was subdued, more of a ha-ha-just-get-to-the-point type deal. Eddie took a nervous swig of his beer as Butler continued, his eloquent baritone filling the room.
‘Well, you’ve earned it, all of you. This has been a hard-fought campaign against a highly motivated and determined enemy. It hasn’t been easy, for any of us.’ Butler paused, his good eye sweeping the expectant faces around the hall. ‘Some of our friends and comrades will never leave Ireland, and their families will soon receive the King’s letter, thanking them for their sacrifice. Unless Baghdad reconsiders and pulls its troops out of Great Britain, many more letters will be written, because this war won’t end here, in this fair country. It will be waged elsewhere, and it will continue, until we are victorious. And believe me, gentleman, we will be victorious.’
There was a rumble of agreement around the hall. Mac muttered something dark under his breath. Butler continued.
‘A few short miles across the Irish Sea, word of our victory will spread, and that news will bring joy to the hearts of our fellow countrymen who have suffered for too long under the yoke of tyranny…’
Something was coming, Eddie could feel it, could feel the electricity crackling around the hall.
‘Reinforcements are pouring into the country,’ Butler continued, ‘which means we will be rested and resupplied. That means downtime, gentlemen, an opportunity to let off a little steam, to decompress, to speak to the support teams should you feel the need. And we’ll use this opportunity to come together, to mourn our losses, to welcome their replacements into our family, and to celebrate our friendships.’
Butler took a moment to study the faces around the room, the soldiers who were hanging on his every word…
‘And then we will put recent events behind us and get back to work. We will prepare ourselves, get our heads where they need to be, and look to the future, to the mission ahead.’ Butler took a breath and said, ‘Gentlemen, the Second Mass is going to Scotland—’
The hall erupted in a deafening roar of defiance, of desperate joy and fevered anticipation. Mac was already on the table, his arms raised, fists clenched, as others scrambled up to join him. Bottles tumbled to the ground and boots stamped the floor in a thunderous wave of celebration.
‘Silence!’ The RSM roared from the stage, although he struggled to suppress the grin on his own face. The cheering soldiers fell silent, and trestle tables creaked with the weight of the men standing on them.
‘Tonight you will enjoy yourselves,’ Butler told them, ‘that is an order, but don’t forget that we are guests in this country, one that has suffered greatly. Remember that, all of you. Am I understood?’
‘Sir!’ boomed nearly 300 voices in unison.
‘Thank you, gentlemen. Have a pleasant evening.’
Butler stepped down off the stage, and the officers fell in behind him. As soon as they’d left the hall, trollies full of teetering six-packs were wheeled in through the doors.
‘Look at that.’ Eddie grinned. ‘I’m gonna get proper slaughtered.’ He felt almost delirious, and not because they’d just been given a much-needed break. No, it was because they would set foot on British soil once more. They were going home.
Up on the table, Mac was hugging and shaking hands with a couple of the other Scottish lads. He caught Eddie’s eye and jumped down.
‘Glorious news, eh lad?’
‘Brilliant.’ Eddie beamed.
Then they saw Steve, sat on the bench, tears rolling down his face as he tipped back his beer. Mac sat next to him and gave him a hug.
‘We’re going home,’ Mac told him, ‘and that means Sarah and Maddie will know that you’re not far away. That you’re coming for them.’
Steve couldn’t speak, could only nod his head as the tears rolled. Eddie felt the emotion too and sat by his side, snaking his own arm around Steve’s shoulders. Then Mac was moving, swaying from side to side, bringing Steve and Eddie with him as he started to sing…
‘Here we go, here we go, here we go…’
Others around them joined in, and then it spread like wildfire around the hall, every voice bellowing out the chant, accompanied by the pounding of boots on the floor and fists on the table, threatening to lift the roof off its rafters.
The Second Mass were on their feet now, even Steve, his arms raised, a beer clenched in his fist, singing with the rest of them, their voices filled with an unfamiliar joy and a lungful of sheer defiance. Eddie sang too, with all his heart, and in his imagination, their voices lifted into the night sky and were carried on the wind, across the sea to the
shores of Britain, where oppressed and terrorised ears would hear them.
And fill them with hope.
8
Lewd behaviour
Bertie waited patiently in the main hallway. He was dressed in a black coat, trousers, and shoes, and the keys to the Toyota were in his pocket. He was ready.
The venerable grandfather clock chimed on the half-hour. Outside, night had fallen and the squally weather would keep the streets clear of traffic and pedestrians. Conditions were almost perfect, Bertie observed. A stair creaked, and he saw The Witch stepping down towards him, a bony claw squeaking on the bannister. She stood in front of him like a small bird, frail in the soft light of the hallway. Bertie could reach out and snap her neck with one hand if he wanted to.
‘I’ve just spoken to him,’ she said. ‘He’s having a quiet night in alone. Use the tradesmen’s door at the back of the property. Apparently it’s always open, and you’ll avoid the concierge.’
‘What about CCTV?’
‘Hasn’t worked for some time, he tells me. You’re clear on the story?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I’m worried about your mental health, which has deteriorated of late. I’m there to ask Mr Gates for advice.’
‘Yes, very good. Timmy can’t resist a good gossip. You have what you need?’
Bertie pulled a clear plastic freezer bag out of his pocket and held it up. It contained a small brown pill bottle. ‘Powdered barbiturates. Enough to kill an elephant, apparently.’
The Witch’s nose wrinkled as she handed over an envelope. ‘The suicide note. Leave it somewhere obvious.’
Bertie dropped it in the bag, wrapped it all up and pocketed it. He slipped on a dark flat cap. ‘I’d best be off then.’ He walked back down the hallway towards the basement stairs.
‘Bertie?’
‘Madam?’
‘I don’t want him to suffer.’
Bertie nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘We’re doing this for all our sakes. You have a good life here. Remember that.’
‘Y-y-yes, Lady Edith.’
The Witch opened her mouth to say something else then decided against it. She crossed the hall without another word and closed the reception room door behind her.
Bertie made his way through the basement. As he exited the house, the wind almost snatched his hat away. He clamped it on his head and strode across the manicured gardens to the high wall that bordered the rear of the property. He unbolted the heavy gate and stepped out onto the pavement on the other side. The road was lined with trees and set deep in shadow. Above his head, skeletal branches creaked and swayed in the wind, smothering the sound of the van door swinging open. Bertie climbed inside the waiting vehicle. George dropped it into gear and pulled away.
‘Everything set?’
‘We’re good to go.’
George kept the speed and the chatter down, skirting west around Hampstead Heath which was now a militarised zone. The woods up there bristled with anti-aircraft batteries, and Bertie had heard the whoosh and thunder of launching rockets many times, especially in the early days. It had been quiet for months, however, and that frustrated a lot of people. Like the Alliance had given up or something. Still, at least the resistance was active.
Soon they were rolling through the empty streets of Golders Green. George’s van was electric and had ladders secured to the roof. There was so much work going on in and around the capital that builders’ vans were two-a-penny these days. George’s wouldn’t attract any attention.
‘There.’ Bertie pointed. Up ahead, set back from the road in well-kept gardens, was an art déco mansion block. Lights glowed in most of the windows of the eight-storey building. ‘Drive past. There should be an access road that leads around to some garages at the back.’
George saw it, took it, and parked in the shadows. The back door was unlocked as promised, and they stepped into the gloom beyond. They took the stairs, and less than a minute later, Bertie and George were standing in the residents’ hallway on the second floor, where the carpet was plush and the air was tinged with something sweet. Wood-panelled doors with brass numbers stretched along the silent hallway. As George stepped out of sight, Bertie tapped gently on the door of flat number 16. A moment later it opened. Timothy Gates was wearing a striped chef’s apron over a pale pink shirt. The expectant smile melted.
‘Bertie? What are you doing here?’
‘Sorry to disturb, Mr Gates. I’m here about Lady Edith. Urgent business, sir.’
‘Well, you’d better come in,’ he said, holding the door open. Bertie stepped inside and George pushed in behind him. Before Gates could protest, George closed the door and held a finger to his lips.
‘Be quiet, Timmy, there’s a good boy.’ He towered over the petrified art historian. ‘Are you alone?’ Gates nodded, wide-eyed. ‘Good. Let’s have a chat, shall we?’
Bertie followed them into a large and exquisitely decorated sitting room. Artworks lined the walls, and there were sculptures and figurines arranged on antique sideboards, tables, and cabinets, most of them male and nude. If the cops saw all this, they’d have a field day, Bertie reckoned.
George ordered Gates onto the couch and sat opposite. Bertie remained standing. Gates looked at him, his expression torn between outrage and anxiety.
‘Bertie, what the hell’s going on? I’ve got guests arriving any minute. Important guests.’
Bertie glanced into the adjoining dining room. The table was set for two, and candles flickered seductively. The penny dropped. ‘It’s Faisal, isn’t it?’
Gates swallowed. ‘Who?’
George wore a broad smile. ‘That’s a stroke of luck, eh? What time are you expecting him?’
‘Right about now,’ a voice from the hallway said.
Bertie spun around. The man who pointed a small-calibre pistol at them was in his early 40s, with wavy black hair, light brown skin, and a six o’clock shadow. He was dressed in a dark blue hoodie, jeans, and running shoes, and he spoke in perfect, accented English. He waved the pistol at Bertie. ‘On the couch.’
Bertie obeyed and sat next to George. Al-Kaabi stepped into the room as Gates scuttled behind him. ‘Timmy, who are these people?’
‘The one in the cap is Edie’s man, Bertie. I don’t know the other one.’
‘My name’s George. And we come in peace. In fact, we’re here to help you.’
Al-Kaabi’s pistol waved between them. ‘Help with what?’
‘Perhaps Bertie should explain.’
Gates and Al-Kaabi waited. Bertie eased the plastic bag out of his coat pocket and dropped it on the coffee table. ‘Judge Spencer isn’t your biggest fan right now, Mr Gates. The truth is, she sent me here to kill you. Because of your affair.’
Gates’ jaw dropped open. ‘What?’
‘She believes you’ve put her in danger, so she wants you got rid of. She wanted it to look like a suicide. I agreed to do it, but I had no intention of seeing it through.’
That was a lie, of course. Gates was as bad as the rest of them. He’d turned a blind eye to the persecution, condoned the barbaric judgements of Spencer and her kind, and often mocked the victims. He was weak, shallow, and self-centred. If it was a simple choice between the hangman’s noose or killing Gates, the man would already be dead. Except now, things weren’t so simple.
‘You’d better start talking,’ Al-Kaabi ordered, rattling the gun at him.
So Bertie talked. The education of Timothy Gates and Faisal Al-Kaabi took less than 15 minutes, and by the time he’d finished, Gates was a broken and terrified man. Al-Kaabi dropped the suicide note back on the coffee table.
‘They’re telling the truth, Timmy.’
‘How could she?’ Gates said. ‘She’s my friend, for God’s sake!’ He dropped onto the couch, his head in his hands.
Al-Kaabi still had the gun pointed at Bertie. ‘She plays a dangerous game, your mistress.’
‘Mr Gates is compromised and you’re a threat. That’s how she sees
it.’
‘You know what they do to gays,’ George said. ‘Why take the risk?’
Al-Kaabi shrugged. ‘You can’t help who you fall in love with.’
George’s nose wrinkled. ‘I suppose not.’
Al-Kaabi finally lowered the pistol. He sat next to Gates and gave his hand a squeeze. ‘So, I assume you haven’t come here out of compassion for your fellow man.’
‘Not entirely,’ George conceded, ‘but I think we can help each other.’
‘How?’
‘Because you’re done, finished. Now that you’re on Spencer’s shit list, your days are numbered. You and Timmy.’
‘I could have Spencer arrested, charged with attempted murder.’
George nodded. ‘That’s an option, but it’s one that’ll blow up in your face because we both know that your lifestyle choice is a far bigger crime than an attempted honour killing. You and Timmy will both go to the gallows, and given your rank and job title, I’m guessing the Islamic Congress would sweep the whole thing under the carpet.’
Gates looked horrified. ‘Are you saying she’d get away with it?’
‘He’s right,’ Al-Kaabi said. He got to his feet and crossed to the drinks cabinet. He poured four brandies into heavy crystal tumblers and passed them around. No one refused. Gates smiled, teary-eyed, and offered Al-Kaabi a silent, dejected toast. The intelligence officer sat down again, teasing the dark liquid around his glass.
‘There’s a place called Yabreen, an old mining town in the desert south of Riyadh. It’s a prison now, and at its centre lies a huge, deep shaft. It is said that the caliphate’s worst transgressors are lowered into that shaft and left to die. A hundred metres deep, no food, no water, no room to breathe. They say it’s like looking into the depths of hell.’ He lifted his eyes. ‘That’s where they’ll send me. Where they’ve sent others like me.’
‘No!’ Gates gasped, clinging to him like a drowning man. ‘Don’t leave me, Faisal, please!’
George frowned. ‘Let’s dial down the drama, can we Timmy?’
Gates detangled himself, dabbing his tears with a corner of his apron. ‘I’m sorry. This is all so stressful.’