Nurse Becky Gets Shot

by Gary Baker

  The door opening cut through Roger's thoughts. It was Meadhill.

  'How about some … fun?' said Meadhill showing Roger his gold tooth.

  'Fun?'

  'Yes, fun. For the rest of today you're going to get some weapons training to familiarise yourself with some of the tools of our trade. Nothing too … detailed, you understand. Just so you have a basic understanding.'

  'Great,' said Roger with genuine enthusiasm. 'Let's go.'

  *

  Roger was taken to meet some of the team. Muscular men, with broad shoulders, solid jaws and numbing handshakes. He guessed they were ex-army instructors, assigned to look after him at intervals of around an hour. Their care, attention to detail and obvious concern for safety issues, and their professionalism, were seemingly at odds with the reasons for being there.

  There was a shooting range underneath the warehouse. Roger became familiar with a number of assault weapons with cold, inhuman names. The SA80A2, the L85IW. To Roger, they were all machine guns. Single shot or rattle them out at 700 rounds per minute. Whatever their names, they chewed up ply-board figures into splinters in milliseconds. What they would do to flesh and blood didn't bear thinking about.

  It all came to an end far too quickly for Roger. When he pleaded for more time he was assured that the next day, before going to the airstrip, they would break out some pistols and revolvers and, if he was really lucky, they'd break out the grenades too.

  Roger's ears rang, despite the ear-defenders. He was hungry, thirsty, ready for a shower and looking forward to seeing his new comrades for some socialising later that evening.

  It was a game and he was a key player. The Expert. Respected. But what really was the game?

  When he'd been employed by the MoD to install the PDMX's he'd promised to maintain complete confidentiality. He'd made a promise to the Queen and to God. With his hand on a Bible he thought of as fairy stories, they had made him swear to God and the Queen.

  Well, God didn't exist and the Queen didn't know him from Adam so what the hell. And besides: Heather, the stocking-top girl, might be at dinner.

  Chapter 7

  Roger and Jennifer stood facing each other.

  'So soon?' Jennifer asked. 'For such a long time, nothing. Then twice in … how long has it been? I loose track of time in here.'

  'I just wanted to say … I just wanted to make sure … '

  'Don't worry. I will help.'

  'It's not that,' Roger said, 'it's the job. I'm worried about the job. And what it's doing to me.'

  'I don't do advice,' Jennifer said, turning away. 'You must make your own mind up.'

  Roger walked round to face Jennifer.

  'Look,' he said, 'you saw the plans. What do you think?'

  'I think you need my help or these lunatics will cut off your balls.'

  'What do you think of the plan? I trust your … '

  'Trust? Trust?' Jennifer moved closer to Roger. 'What happened with Julia? What happened to Harry? What happened to you?'

  'I'll fix all that,' Roger said.

  Jennifer clicked her tongue in disbelief. 'You have to go back,' she said.

  'I will. Just as soon as this job is over. Okay?'

  'Oh, Roger.' Jennifer shook her head.

  There was a long silence.

  'You're right,' Roger said at last. 'I will go back. I'll make it work. Somehow.' He gripped Jennifer's shoulders. 'After the job.'

  Jennifer shrank back from his touch. Roger lowered his arms, paused for a second then headed for the door.

  Alone again, Jennifer sat on the bed and thumbed through the manual. Numbers and symbols, and pictures and sounds danced in front of her. A thing of aching beauty. A beauty that brought tears to her eyes.

  'No one to share it with,' she said out loud.

  'You can share it with me, pretty one.' Loki's voice shattered her vision. Jennifer jumped further on to the bed. Loki smiled a mouth-only smile. 'Just remember what I told you.'

  Jennifer stifled a sob. Loki left as stealthily as he had arrived; closing the door very slowly, very quietly, very carefully behind him.

  Chapter 8

  Heather, the stocking-top girl was alone in the dining room. Waiting for him. God, she was beautiful.

  She beamed at Roger, filling the whole of his field of view with her radiance. She took both his hands in hers, pulled Roger down and towards her as she went up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

  Roger nearly collapsed at the smell of her. She was wonderful.

  'Aw'right, darlin'?' she screeched in a voice that could take the plaque off your teeth at a hundred yards.

  Roger woke with a start. A dream. He had dozed off on the bed. He laughed at the absurd dream. He could still feel her cool hands in his.

  It was time. Roger splashed cold water onto his sleepy eyelids, dried his face and went down to dinner.

  Heather, the stocking-top girl was there. God, she really was beautiful.

  Meadhill had taken the seat at the top of the table. The Captain, apparently, would not be dining with them that night. Roger recognised some of the men and women from the classroom in the warehouse. And Heather, the stocking-top girl.

  Heather beamed at Roger filling the whole of his field of view with her radiance. She took both his hands in hers, pulled Roger down and towards her as she went up on her toes to kiss his cheek. Big time déjà vu.

  The scent of her galloped straight to his gonads.

  'I missed you?' she purred in a surprisingly deep voice.

  Roger snorted. 'Missed me?' Oh, God had he just snorted something out of his nose? 'You hardly know me.'

  She let go of one hand and led him to their places at the table. Roger took the opportunity for a little sleeve on nose action. It didn't matter who saw as long as Heather didn't.

  The chat around the table was mainly about football. Apparently there was an important match on that evening. Roger didn't even try to contribute. His knowledge of the game was limited to the rules. Heather gently pressed her fingernails against his inner thigh. He would have loved to place his hand on Heather's inner thigh too but he couldn't muster up the courage. Roger's testicles tingled their approval as Heather moved her hand closer.

  Roger yearned for and dreaded the end of the meal. Heather made things very easy for him. The time for people to start saying their goodbyes arrived at last and she led him by the hand from the dining room. At the stairs she let go of his hand and walked slowly ahead of him. Being behind Heather going upstairs; the slow side to side motion of her hips and bottom, the short skirt playing peek-a-boo with her stocking-tops, those legs, oh, those legs. Roger had to swallow his excess saliva twice on the way to his room. Roger B commented that if his sperm count rose any higher it would reach his eyes and he would lose consciousness. He'd suffer a white out. Roger B and Roger C executed a mental high five.

  In the bedroom, Heather was completely in charge. She undressed them both. Her body was perfection. Her large dark nipples and the merest hint of roundness to her belly making Roger giddy with desire. He dare not look at her secret place for fear of passing out. When Roger tried to pleasure her with lips and fingers she gently stopped him, encouraging him to relax and enjoy himself.

  So Roger did. He let go. For the first time, ever. He completely let go. Usually there was a part of Roger which stood by, thought of the woman, observed, listened for interruptions. But not this time. Roger gave himself completely over to the sensations. Gave himself to this wonderful stocking-top girl.

  *

  The pistol range was set up for two shooters. Paper targets hung from a wires which could be moved to varying ranges depending on the expertise of the marksman and the weapon. Roger was given some basic instruction centring around only pointing the weapon downrange and not turning round if it jams for Christ's sake. Sorry.

  First up was a pair of ear defenders and something called a Beretta PX4 .40 – a black, short barrelled automatic which Roger imagined someone stylishly evil would car
ry.

  'I could see Two-Face carrying one of these,' said Roger. The instructor looked at him blankly. 'The um, crime boss in Batman?' Nothing. 'Played by Tommy Lee Jones in the film? No?'

  Roger kept further gun associations to himself.

  The PX4 sounded like a whip being cracked, even through the ear defenders.

  The Beretta 90 boomed big and mean.

  The Bobcat, small enough to shove in your sock, felt toy-like and insincere after the 90.

  Next, the brown handled Colt 80 automatic. 'That's one big fuck-off gun,' said Roger. 'Sorry.' I didn't just apologise for swearing did I? To these guys?

  But Roger's favourites were the little Glock 39 automatic; very compact, looked good; and the Colt .357 revolver with quick loader; comfortable, powerful, very cool.

  Afterwards, Roger joked, 'I now feel confident enough to blow my own foot off without endangering anyone around me.'

  'Praise indeed,' said the instructor whose name escaped Roger. The man froze, listening to something in his ear piece. 'It's time,' he said.

  The group of twelve plus Roger gathered close to the roller shutter entrance to the warehouse. Roger looked at the group. Everyone casually dressed and, except for Roger, carrying a bag over their shoulder.

  Meadhill approached holding out a grey rucksack. 'Here, you'll need this,' he said giving the bag to Roger. 'And this,' he said handing Roger an ear-piece and small transmitter. He helped Roger fit the ear-piece, pushing the transmitter down under his collar and clipping it onto his belt, tucking the wire behind his ear.

  'What's in it?' asked Roger, holding up the rucksack. But Meadhill didn't have time to reply. The roller shutter doors started to rattle upwards. The noise triggered the sickness of anticipation in Roger's stomach.

  A dark blue mini-bus waited for them outside. The group boarded the bus in an ordered fashion. The first person in moved to the back, the next person sat beside him and so on. Roger was the next to last to board and found himself wedged between a prematurely grey haired man, one of his instructors of the previous day, and a young lady he had noticed taking notes in the class room. Roger moved to put his rucksack on the floor between his feet.

  'Keep it on your knee,' said the man to Roger's left. 'Do what we do.'

  'Right. Thank you,' said Roger feeling like the new boy on the school bus.

  The young lady to his right nodded and smiled. 'Piece of cake,' she said in a pleasant Scottish accent. Aberdeen, probably.

  The drive to Paull's Airfield took them past rows of semi-detached, three bedroom, bay-windowed houses. Could be anywhere in Britain, thought Roger. But this time things seemed different. The scene outside was more like a film projected onto a huge canvas backdrop. The outlines of the house roofs against the white sky looked flat; as if a gust of wind would blow them over and reveal them to be nothing more than cardboard cut-outs. A cheap film set.

  The motion of the mini-bus was real though. No one spoke. The engine, wind and road noise seemed to be a recording. Played through a speaker system somewhere.

  There were people out there. They had no idea what was happening in here. Roger wasn't sure what was happening either. He was part of something that rolled unstoppably on. Roger was important and was doing something and hardly had to think at all. All he had to do was follow. Yes, this way was much easier than before.

  Wasn't it?

  What was he doing just before those double doors at the Salvation Army? What is this closed memory-door blocking the way? Memories came through only when they wanted to. Invite them and they'd back off into the murk.

  There was pain, said Roger C. Julia and Harry. Don't think about Harry.

  *

  They bumped over a dirt track road, through a gate and into the tree bordered space that was Paull's Airfield. Roger saw one of the few planes he could recognise waiting ahead of them. Rear doors down, four propellers blurred in rotation, distinctive hunched stance, the Hercules transport plane painted in dark army green razored a slash of excitement through Roger.

  The mini-bus stopped, the door slid open. A torrent of noise flooded in.

  A hand on Roger's rucksack. The man to Roger's left signalled to him. A voice came in his ear, shouting over the noise, 'Stick with me.' And with that the man left the mini-bus heading towards the open rear of the Hercules. Roger followed, ducking down instinctively against the blast from the four propellers. Up the ramp and onto a narrow bench running the length of the plane. Stow the rucksack under the seat in netting and attach the safety harness.

  No parachute, thought Roger. But no one else had one either. The noise was not so bad and the inside was not as big as Roger had imagined. All very Ridley Scot; monochrome grey, utilitarian, industrial, plenty of flashing lights.

  For the first time Roger noticed a man in, what he imagined to be, full flight kit and oversized helmet. He was fastened to the floor by a long loose cable and directing the team into their positions. Finally, the flight crew member made hand signals to someone outside. The ramp lifted, clumping shut with a sucking wheeze as the man took his seat and strapped himself in.

  The aircraft taxied, surged forward and rose steeply into the air. Ears popped. No windows, thought Roger. Missing the view.

  Roger could see the team were relaxing. Preparing for an hour or so of introspection or snoozing. The noise made conversation impossible so Roger turned his thoughts to Heather, the stocking-top girl. When they had finished making love; or, more precisely, when Roger had finished being made love to; he tried talking to Heather …

  'So, what do you do?' Roger had asked, awkwardly trying to strike up a conversation. How do you talk to someone you've known only for an hour or two and then had the best sex of your life with?

  'Do?' Heather sat on the edge of the bed lifting and coiling her hair in preparation for a shower. The curve of her back was exquisite. Twin dimples at the base of her spine.

  'You know. Work. Are you a model or an actress?'

  Heather turned and smiled at Roger. 'You're not kidding are you?'

  Roger could not help himself. 'God, you're so beautiful.' He placed his hand on hers.

  'You're sweet.' She took her hand from under his and patting his arm. 'I must shower.' She stood then went into the bathroom.

  She said I wasn't kidding. Perhaps implying she worked for a living was an insult. Probably loaded. Never worked in her life.

  Roger laid his head back against the bulkhead of the plane, feeling the aircraft's powerful vibrations, and thought of Heather's fantastic arse bobbling away into the bathroom. No other word would do. Bum, bottom, behind. The American, ass. No good. No other way to describe it, it was a fantastic arse.

  The tone of the aircraft changed. They were slowing, banking. Roger looked at his watch. Forty five minutes. Flown by, he thought.

  The plane bounced once, decelerated quickly, turned and stopped. The crew member stood and the rear door descended quickly. The team was moving fast. Roger hurried to undo the harness, grabbed his rucksack and followed the rest out onto the runway.

  Roger recognised RAF Northolt from the numerous times he had driven past it on his way to and from … Roger couldn't remember. It was a long time ago. He used to live in Northolt. Didn't he?

  He was guided to a white saloon and sat on the back seat between the same two he'd been with on the mini-bus. Mr Grey Hair and Miss Scotland. Another member of the team sat in the passenger seat. Roger dubbed him Mr Auxiliary.

  A silent drive along the Western Avenue into London. The old Hoover building. Nice example of an Art 'deco building but the back was really ugly. How did he know that?

  Into London. Boxy buildings, acres of glass. Traffic jams and people. Trafalgar Square at last. The group of three plus Roger disembarked. The sedan, a Peugeot Generic, disappeared into the evening traffic. They sat on the steps below a huge, black lion.

  'Hungry?' asked Miss Scotland. Roger wondered if he should ask her name but decided against it. Miss Scotland would do nicely.
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  'Yes, now you come to mention it,' said Roger.

  She pointed to Roger's rucksack. He opened it. On top, wrapped in cellophane, were salmon and cucumber sandwiches and a flask of tea. They were having a picnic in Trafalgar square!

  Roger could see that Mr Grey Hair had cheese salad, Mr Auxiliary had prawns and Miss Scotland had an apple. Who decided who got what? Salmon and cucumber was perfect.

  People scurried and pigeons meandered comically. Roger squinted up and fancied he saw a hawk circling Nelson.

  Mr Grey Hair looked at his watch. 'Time,' he said. 'There's an ID badge in your bag,' he continued. 'Put it on.'

  The four crossed Trafalgar Square heading for the right side of Admiralty Arch. They pulled out photo-id badges which they hung round their necks as they walked. The North Entrance was a simple, smoked-glass doorway marked 'Strategy Unit'. In the lobby they were stopped by a security officer who checked each of their badges finally letting them through to the lifts and stairs.

  They took the stairs down two levels to a locked metal door. Roger stood back as Mr Grey Hair and Miss Scotland took something out of their bags and knelt before the door. Mr Auxiliary stood halfway on the last flight down listening. There was a whirring sound and the door popped open an inch. Miss Scotland poked her head through then signalled for them to follow. The door opened into a small concrete lined lobby with three more identical metal doors facing them. Mr Auxiliary closed the door quietly behind him.

  'Can you confirm it's the door on the left?' said Mr Grey Hair. The three looked at Roger.

  Jennifer's voice seemed to come through his ear-piece, 'The door on the left,' she said. Roger repeated the instruction out loud. Thanks Jennifer. Right on cue.

  Mr Grey Hair and Miss Scotland did their trick on the door again. This time with a lot more care and only the faintest whirring sound. Mr Grey Hair had little drops of sweat dangling from his sideburns.

  The door popped open an inch. A half second later it was opened from the other side. A young soldier in combat fatigues stared for a moment open mouthed. His assault rifle pointed at the floor.