Regan had one single visitor following surgery. He appeared to be a priest. Regan had no recollection of the visit or what the priest looked like or said. When he recovered consciousness, the nurse in attendance handed him a light brown envelope. She simply said, “A priest left this for you.” Regan opened it and found a mass card inside. He thought it was from his mother. But inside the envelope, tucked inside the card, was a typed note:
Bill will kill the barrister Caroline Sewell soon. Keys are for the white Bonnie on the main car park. Good luck!
Regan’s mind raced - Soon? Caroline Sewell is in London. I must get out of this place.
The pain seared through his side as he pulled himself up in bed. A lacerated gunshot wound is no fun. Regan had been three days in hospital since he was shot. He only became aware of his situation during the previous twenty-four hours because before then he had been recovering from the general anaesthetic and the strong painkillers. Regan pulled open his hospital gown and saw the dressing on far left of his midriff. As the wound was on the edge of his torso the dressing was affixed to the front side and back of his waist. He raised both arms. Good, they work, Regan thought and repeated the action with success by moving his legs, one at a time.
Need to get out of here, was Regan’s main thought. He looked at the hospital bedside cabinet. On top was a plastic jug of water and a plastic cup. Regan had placed the mass card next to the jug. Underneath the cabinet top Regan saw the open doors and the contents inside. They were his clothes and shoes minus the shirt and denim jacket he had been wearing when shot. Regan got a move on and dressed. He tucked the hospital gown inside his jeans, stuffed his wallet in his back pocket then grabbed the medications on the table top. He thrust them down into his side pockets along with the mass card envelope with the motorcycle keys inside it. I have no idea if I’m fit enough to ride a Triumph Bonneville, was a thought he soon abandoned. I must ... somehow.
Regan walked out of the ward and into the corridor unchallenged. He saw the lift and pushed the call button. Once inside he pressed the button for Ground Floor and Exit. The lift deposited Regan about fifty yards from the glass exit doors. There was a sign pointing in its direction. Regan turned right towards the exit, attracting some curious glances on the way. He saw an open office door on his right but spotted something else of interest. He saw a leather pilot’s flying jacket hung over the back of a chair near to the door and a navy blue woollen sweater strewn over the jacket. Regan scooped up both and carried them across his arm to the car park.
Regan blinked in the autumn sunlight, shielding his eyes to scan the car park for the motorcycle. He loved Triumphs and the Bonneville in particular. Regan had always wanted one as a teenager but had to make do with borrowing a friend’s for a ride out. There it is! Regan exclaimed in silence. He was taken with its beauty just like he had been years ago. It was a T140 model and Regan knew it was only about one year old as it had the gear lever on the left, a move made to comply with new regulations. It also had the newer 750 cc engine mounted in the oil filled frame with another new additional feature – a front disc brake. Wounded or not, Regan was determined to enjoy his new ride. He knew the marque’s history right back to the days this machine’s predecessors had competed in world speed record attempts at Bonneville Salt Flats, Utah.
Now for the practicalities, Regan thought. A helmet was slung over one of the handlebars by the accommodating owner whoever he may have been. Regan didn’t much care at that moment who had left it there for him. He pulled on the woollen sweater over the pastel green hospital gown then put on the leather jacket. Both were a fit, a little loose, but that was no bad thing as it kept pressure off his wounded side. Regan zipped up the jacket high and placed the helmet on his head, fiddling with the buckle until the strap was firmly in place under his chin. He noticed a pair of sunglasses in the top pocket of the leather flying jacket. Wow! Aviators, Regan thought as he placed them under the helmet until they rested in comfort on his nose and ears. He could not resist the glance of admiration in the mirror fixed to the right hand handlebar. Fuel tap on, ignition on ... this is going to hurt, he thought as he kicked the kickstart. The Bonnie roared into life. The throaty roar made Regan forget all his troubles and pain.
Regan set off from the hospital car park and knew he had to head to London. That’s where I’ll find Caroline Sewell and Bill, he surmised as he recollected all Bill had told him before the shooting. Regan was soon on the motorway heading out of Wales towards England and London. He glanced at the speedo and saw the ton fast approach. Ninety, ninety-five, ninety-nine then the magic hundred miles per hour mark. The trouble was the wind in his face and torso was too strong at that speed. It felt as if his arms were being ripped off the handle bars but worse, far worse, was the pressure on his wound. He slowed down to a cruising speed of eighty m.p.h. It was fast enough. It also gave him valuable thinking time. By Regan’s reckoning he would reach London in a little over an hour once he crossed the Severn Bridge and back into England.
Chapter Nineteen
REGAN KNEW HE NEEDED help. Red was out of the game and Regan himself wasn’t fully functional. His mind wandered as the Bonnie chewed up the miles on the straight but boring motorway. A machine like this is meant for bends, he idly thought, disdainful of the largely straight and featureless motorway stretching out in front of him. He shouted, “Think Regan! Think!” The noise evaporated into the head wind buffeting the top of his helmet. He was annoyed at himself for not concentrating on Bill and how to get help.
Regan’s mind drifted to past times and people he had met and felt at ease with. One person came to his mind. “John!” he yelled into the wind. He could help.
John Barnard was forty-three years old. He was as fit as the proverbial fiddle. Regan met him when they were neighbours some eight years ago. They had struck up an affinity and an easy friendship. A friendship reinforced by their joint weekly training runs. John had played a big part in Regan becoming fit. He owed John a lot for that. It was this fitness of body that helped Regan despite the booze and drugs consumed as part of his undercover activities. John also taught Regan about mental toughness and how to cope with pain. John was an expert in these things. He was a former member of 22 Special Air Service Regiment, the SAS. At first Regan doubted he was the real McCoy. So many people bragged about belonging to the most famous regiment in the British Army and never once were they a member. Perhaps they did belong to one of the Parachute Regiments, 1, 2 or 3 Para. Perhaps they applied for the infamous SAS selection course only to fail like the majority. But John was for real. He only started to open up to Regan after they had known each other for two years.
John invited Regan for a week away in Savernake Forest, a remote area outside Marlborough in Wiltshire. It was there John taught Regan many new skills including rudimentary survival skills, how to use weapons and mental toughness. They bonded even more during the week. John was impressed by how easily Regan adapted and soaked up the newly taught knowledge. Part of the survival skills was learning all about camouflage. Camouflage was part of the stock-in-trade of an SAS trooper like John. There were just the two of them for one week so John had to improvise as these skills were usually honed as a member of a four man SAS patrol. John was as keen to impart this knowledge as much as the student was keen to learn. So John took Regan through all the skills of movement, camouflage, setting ambushes, anti-ambush drills, contact drills and emergency rendezvous skills.
John also had a stash of weapons secreted within the depths of the forest. It included two Browning HP’s and a MAC-10 sub-machine gun once used by John in Northern Ireland. With these, John taught Regan the fine arts of providing fire power protection. He demonstrated how each member of a patrol is assigned an arc of fire to cover, thus providing all-round protection for the patrol as a whole. The last man, or 'tail end charlie', was typically armed with a belt-fed machine gun such as a mini as he must be able to put down a lot of covering fire if the patrol was bumped from the rear. Once more John a
dapted the training for only two people, him and Regan.
The two of them lived in a subterranean world for most of the week in tunnels John had built over a two year period. They emerged at night in part to escape prying eyes or stumbling on dog walkers or lovers looking for their own secret place. It also instilled an ability to work in the dark, manoeuvre in the dark and use weapons without the help of daylight. They drank water from a river or caught fresh rain water. They caught and ate animals like small rabbits or mice. They ate them raw. There were no fires. Nothing could give away their location. Regan loved it except for one thing. He was prohibited from smoking. He felt it was a price worth paying to spend a week in the company of a man he admired and from whom he learned a lot.
It was the thought of the Browning High Power that made Regan enthusiastic. It was used in service in the Regiment for over 40 years, and the Browning HP was found to be a reliable and accurate 9mm handgun. John knew it better as the L9A1, its UK military designation. The Browning has a magazine capacity of 13 rounds. It is a single action pistol which means it must be cocked, the hammer pulled back, before firing the first round. For this reason, the SAS would carry the Browning cocked, with the safety catch on, to allow for a quicker draw and fire. John taught Regan all of this until he had mastered its use.
By the time Regan made his mind up to ask John for the use of one of the Brownings, he had reached Membury Series on the M4. Regan’s mind flooded back to memories of the meeting there with Bill. Regan called John from a telephone box in the services area. John agreed to meet within the half hour. He heard the anxiety in Regan’s voice so had no need to ask questions. In any event, Regan would not have answered over the phone. There was a telepathic understanding between the two men.
John arrived in his beat-up Ford Cortina Mark 2. He parked next to the Triumph Bonneville just as Regan had suggested. John closed the driver’s door then opened the rear passenger door. He reached inside and took out a backpack.
“Second thoughts. Before I go anywhere tell me what’s going on.”
Regan replied, “Look, mate, I really need your help. I’ve been shot. I need one of those Brownings because I need to fix things.”
John spoke in his quiet, unassuming way, giving the lie to his inner toughness, “Think you had better ride with me. I can hear better than on a bloody motor bike.” John glided rather than walked but not like a dancer. It was more like a hunter. He was five feet five inches tall and Regan towered over him. John was the more muscular of the two men. He had broad shoulders, muscled arms and legs and a slim waist. In his middle age, he was a testament to a life in the Regiment and staying fit thereafter. John threw the backpack on to the rear seat of the Cortina and both men got in through the front doors.
“Now, tell me the full story,” demanded John as he drove off the service area onto the M4 heading for Savernake Forest.
Chapter Twenty
“OKAY. YOU ARE RIGHT. You do need help.” John Barnard was a master of understatement.
“All I need is a gun. I can’t show up at my flat to get mine in case... well... you know why.”
“Right,” said John, “one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going with you.”
“No way!”
“Look, Steve. No arguments. You can’t move properly with that gunshot wound. Don’t be a friggin’ hero. They end up dead.”
Regan did not need much time to reflect on the wisdom of John’s words, truth was he was pleased his old pal was going to chaperone him.
“Okay, John. It’s a deal. You are now my deputy,” Regan smiled.
“Right you are, sheriff.”
They laughed and sang the verse of Who Shot The Sheriff.
John backed the Cortina off the main road next to Savernake Forest. It was about five yards from the edge of the road. John, as ever a man of few words, said, “Wait here. I’ll be back in ten.” He was in full military mode now so Regan knew better than to interrupt him or disobey orders.
On leaving the car, John pulled at some tree branches, extracted a knife from his belt and cut several leafy branches. He slung them in front and on top of the car so the old Cortina was invisible from the main road. Regan twisted the rear-view mirror to see John’s backpack vanishing into the thick undergrowth with John in front of the pack.
In exactly nine minutes, John re-appeared, opening the driver’s door. He placed the backpack carefully on the back seat.
“We have all we need in there,” said John.
“Do you mind telling me?” Regan asked.
“Two Brownings, three thunder flash grenades and some medical supplies and ammo.”
“Look, it’s best if we use the bike,” said Regan.
“Why?”
“Better in London traffic than this old jalopy.”
“Probably right, but I’ll tell you what. Follow me on the bike to Heston Services. That way I have some comfort instead of sitting behind your fat arse all the way.”
Regan nodded approval as John engaged first gear to drive back to where they had left the Triumph Bonneville. John wound down the Cortina window on leaving Membury Services in order to wave a cheerio and Regan said, “Be careful, John. Don’t want you to get arrested for possession of firearms, do we?”
John laughed.
Heston Services is the nearest motorway service area to London. It was built close to Heathrow Airport. Steve Regan arrived at Heston Services a few moments before John. They conferred, sitting inside the warmth of John’s car. Regan insisted John open up the backpack and issue him with one of the Brownings. John agreed. Regan checked it then pushed it into one of the inside pockets of the flying jacket. He now felt safer with Messrs Barnard and Browning as his new sidekicks.
Regan spoke first, “Just thought of something important.”
John inquired, “What?”
“I don’t know where Bill is. For that matter, I have no idea how to find Caroline other than she’s a barrister in this fucking big city.”
“That’s not good.” John, as always, the master of understatement.
Regan thought a few seconds before he spoke, “But I do know what Bill’s boss looks like. He came to visit my boss one day so I will recognise him. I also know where he works. We can grab him outside his office and make him tell us where Bill is.”
“Look, Steve, isn’t it just easier to go to the police now and tell them all that you know?”
“Fuck no! You have no idea. It will be hours, even days of interviews. Asking awkward questions. I’m still undercover, remember. We don’t have time for all that police bureaucracy procedural bullshit.”
“Okay, you have a point. In for a penny in for a pound.”
“One other thing,” said Regan, “we need a helmet for you. Wait here a mo.”
Regan was away for a few minutes before John saw him holding a black crash helmet. “Where the fuck did you get it from?”
“Gave a motorbike courier a few quid for it and he said ‘yes’ when he saw the gun.” Both men grinned.
John said, “Good man. Let’s go.” The Triumph roared into life again. Regan eased his way into the London-bound traffic using the acceleration slip road then zipped into the overtaking lane. He zig-zagged his way through the traffic on the motorway as far as the Chiswick flyover. It was now 7:30 am and Regan knew Dennis Marks was in the habit of getting to the office about 8:15 every morning.
He knew this from his conversations with Rick. He had learned to remember seemingly unimportant details because he knew they may become important at some future moment. Regan knew time was of the essence. He swerved around, overtook on the inside and outside everything that got in his way - big, red London buses, delivery vans, cars, other motorcycles, pedestrians, cyclists and of course the arch enemy of London motorcyclists - the ubiquitous black taxi cab. It was drizzling. The kind of rain that produces a potentially deadly slick of oil for motorcyclists. The wet road surface also turned the iron manhol
e covers into miniature skating rinks for the rider on two wheels.
This ride was fuelled by pure adrenaline. Regan was in the zone. He recalled reading an article describing what a racing driver experienced - a complete absorption in the task and a loss of space and time. It was like that. He occupied a space inhabited by no other being until a black taxi cab swerved without warning into the zone previously occupied by Regan alone. The Triumph was alongside the rear offside door of the cab when Regan became aware of the imminent danger. Regan threw his body weight to the right and forced the bars right and down to avoid a collision. John hung on tight.
The cab driver wound down his window shouting, “You fucking idiot!” The irate taxi driver pumped the accelerator pedal to catch up with the Triumph which was held up behind a London double decker bus. The cabbie made the mistake of swearing again at Regan as he pulled up beside him. Regan said nothing. He reached out to the black cab with his left hand, steering the motorcycle one-handed, then grabbed the side mirror mounted on the front wing of the cab. The mounting cracked leaving Regan holding the mirror. He threw it to the side pavement and he could sense the smile creeping to his ears. Around the bus he steered, twisting the throttle to accelerate away. He was now back in the zone.
Regan stopped the motorcycle on the busy Albert Embankment and decided to wait. Both removed their crash helmets and dismounted. Regan needed a smoke so pulled out his pack and lit up.
Who the F*ck Am I? Page 9