by Andy McNab
‘Haven’t you heard, Bryce?’ Keenan opened his arms wide and slapped his hands together. ‘They do it with two bricks these days.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Bryce had heard it all before. ‘I know. Does it hurt? Only if you get your thumbs trapped. Jesus, Keenan, I know Cornwall’s fucking backward, but you’d think there’d be a few jokes going around there that were less than a hundred years old.’ He glanced over to the doorway and broke into a broad smile. ‘Look out, it’s show time. Here come the Ruperts.’
Led by Ashton, a group of officers walked in as the soundtrack from Rocky burst out of the wall speakers. The guests were greeted by a rousing chorus of boos. The NCOs pelted them with empty beer cans, but Ashton and the others ducked and dodged them as they headed for the bouncy castle. Last year Fight Night had been held in the officers’ mess and their guests had had a similar reception. No one knew why it happened; it just always did.
The RSM jumped onto a chair. ‘Gentlemen!’
The Rocky fanfare died and everyone shut up, as you did when the RSM wanted you to, no matter who you were.
‘Before anything else, I want to give you a sit-rep on Davy. He’s stable. He’s lost some muscle mass on his left thigh, but he should be back with B Squadron by the end of the tour.’
There was a load roar of approval and applause. The RSM let it run for a few seconds more. ‘OK, listen in! We welcome the officers’ mess for the evening and we welcome the chance once more to kick their arse!’
There were cheers and boos from the two groups before the RSM quietened them again. ‘Remember, five minutes of hard, aggressive fighting but nothing between the legs or in the eyes. And no biting. Apart from that, the first man down and can’t get up loses – or the first man to go down three times. Winners can elect to continue fighting the next fight if they wish. It means double points for their team. Who’s first?’ He turned to check the board. ‘OK, Buckingham and Mr Ashton.’
Rocky kicked out from the speakers once more as Ashton headed for the castle, punching his gloves together like a pro. They were boxing-bag gloves, compact and hard. Until a few years ago they’d used martial arts gloves, but exposed fingers meant the fighters could grab each other. This wasn’t as much fun to watch as punching, and the fights were over much quicker.
Ashton bounced into the castle arms to the roar of the officers’ team.
Tom grinned. ‘You won’t catch me napping this time.’
Gavin slapped Tom on the back as he stepped towards the fight. ‘Mate, get in there and get among it, but keep a bit back for a few more scraps later on. I’ve just bet Jockey a thousand quid you’ll last at least five fights.’
Tom stopped in his tracks, drawing instant jeers from the officers. ‘Giving up already?’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you, Gav?’
‘No, mate, deadly serious. Why not? Last year you saw off four before getting dropped. It’s the easiest money I’ll ever make.’
Jockey looked him over like a farmer at an auction mart assessing a steer. ‘Hope you’re not going to let yourself down, Posh Lad,’ he said. ‘You’re not looking in such good shape. I’d say you’ve put on a few pounds.’
‘Trouble is, Jockey,’ Tom said, ‘every time I shag your girlfriend, she gives me a biscuit.’
‘Very funny, Posh Lad.’ Jockey liked that one and looked forward to using it on someone else. ‘Let’s just see if you’re still laughing after I’ve punched your lights out later on.’ He started a headbanger’s version of ‘The Eton Boating Song’ as Tom strode towards the bouncy castle to the cheers of the sergeants’ mess. Jockey’s shouts joined the barrage of support and advice.
‘Sort out the fucking Rupert, Tom.’
‘Deck the dickhead.’
'Make sure the only way he’ll be able to clean his teeth is by sticking a toothbrush up his arse.’
Tom stepped onto the bouncy castle and faced Ashton, all business.
Ashton put on his most confident smile for his supporters, then turned back to face Tom and gave him his best stab at a thousand-yard stare. ‘This year is going to be my year!’ The officers roared their support.
Tom was barely aware that Ashton had spoken at all. Every ounce of him was focused on what he was about to do. He saw a bead of sweat trickle down Ashton’s nose and a vein pulsing at his temple. By contrast, Tom’s pulse was barely above normal and his breathing slow. His mind was clear of all distracting thoughts. All he felt was a cold, calculated, almost clinical desire to get on with the job. Ashton did not exist for him as an individual, merely as an opponent to be destroyed as quickly and ruthlessly as possible. Afterwards they would have a beer and talk about any rubbish that came into their heads.
The camp’s Grenadian physical training instructor was the ref. He was suffering from advanced alopecia, and the clumps of tight curly hair he had left looked like the island group he came from. That was what he said, anyway. The PTI got them to touch gloves. Then they were fighting. Within the blink of an eye, while Ashton was still going into his fighting stance, Tom had leaped in, landed a heavy punch on the Boss’s face, and followed it with three more, his fists beating a quick-fire tattoo.
People like Tom had the ability to keep totally in control and still think clearly when the adrenalin was pumping. It had nothing to do with bravery. It had to do with being in control of his heartbeat when it would be natural to flap big-time, and that only came from long hours of training.
Stress actually improved Tom’s performance. It always had. Even at Eton, Tom had stood out on the rugby pitch when the pressure was on. Most people’s heart rate rose with their adrenalin level – all good stuff when you needed flight-or-fight to get you out of trouble. However, there was an optimal state of arousal – when a heart rate was between 115 and 145 beats per minute. Anything above that and the body stopped being able to control what it was doing because the brain started to shut down.
Most people then became as enraged as an angry dog – which was why some wet and soiled themselves in a firefight. Their heartbeat was so fast – 175 or above – that the brain told itself that control of the bowels and bladder was no longer an essential activity: it had bigger problems. It needed to protect the body it was in so had to keep focused on the challenge. It made all its muscles go as hard as armour to limit bleeding if its body was zapped. But all that effort, which took less than a second to cut in, made it even more clumsy, stupid and helpless in a fight.
That was why people found it hard to call 999 with their heart rate at warp speed and their co-ordination in decline. The brain forgot the number, or the eyes couldn’t see the digits on the phone, or the finger didn’t connect before its owner was screaming into the mouthpiece and flapping even more when no one answered.
With barely a pause, he followed the action with two hooks to Ashton’s body, then a savage uppercut.
There was a roar from the crowd as Ashton caught air, toppled backwards, bounced off the wall of the bouncy castle and rebounded once more onto the castle’s rubber floor.
Tom ignored the noise from around the ring, still all business, his eyes fixed on his opponent as he stumbled to his feet. Ashton might have gone down once, but he had to go down twice more or be knocked out before his fight was over. Tom used Ashton’s momentum against him, bluffing to throw a punch, then swaying to one side, like a matador, as Ashton rushed him, and swivelling to land four quick punches into his kidneys.
As Ashton swung round to face him again, Tom let go one final, brutal punch, delivered with all the force he could put behind it. It smashed into Ashton’s nose, crunching bone and gristle, and sending a spray of blood and sweat arcing upwards. Tom turned his back and headed for the castle sides to rest, knowing that Ashton would not be getting up any time soon.
A roar from the crowd exploded in his ears. He was back in the real world.
Gavin shouted Tom’s name and rubbed his thumb and fingers together in the ‘money’ gesture.
It took him no more than t
wenty seconds and a swift flurry of punches, to dispose of the next officer, a young captain, who had only been in the Regiment for a few weeks and was so fresh-faced he looked like he still had down on his cheeks – but Tom knew the competition would be much tougher as the evening wore on and he began to come up against the LEs. They liked to fight as much as Tom did.
22
DELPHINE PUT ON the same green tunic dress she’d worn for their first date. She’d made supper, but an hour had passed, then two, and there was still no sign of him. She spooned out some food and reheated it in the microwave, but after pushing it around the plate for ten minutes she left most of it untouched and threw the rest into the bin. And then she went and changed into jeans.
She checked her watch yet again and, even though she knew she was being ridiculous, lifted the phone to make sure it was working. As soon as she heard the dialling tone, she put it back on the hook, afraid she might miss his call. When she heard the door rattle a few moments later she ran to answer it, then tried to conceal her disappointment when she saw it was Moira coming in from work.
‘I finished early,’ Moira said. ‘I left the new guy to do the last couple of hours. The place is as dead as a doornail, only half a dozen guests and the boys are all somewhere else – apparently it’s Fight Night.’ She saw Delphine’s expression. ‘Ah, you know that already . . .’
Delphine nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Moira opened a bottle of chardonnay and poured her a big glass. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘You look like you need this even more than I do.’
‘Not for me,’ Delphine said. ‘But don’t let me stop you.’
Moira pulled the glass towards her. ‘Wish I had your willpower.’ She swallowed a mouthful of wine, then studied Delphine over the rim of the glass. ‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘What I should have done six months ago, and what I planned to do tomorrow.’ Delphine stood up, full of intent. ‘I’m going home. Tonight. I will not wait any more.’ She felt a tear trickle down her cheek as she said it, and angrily brushed it away.
Moira put her glass down and hugged Delphine to her. ‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ she said. ‘He won’t change. I told you that way back. None of them ever do. He’ll say he will, of course, and he’ll promise you the earth to get you to stay, but the next time the Regiment – or one of his mates – so much as whistles, he’ll be straight off again.’ She broke off, embarrassed, and looked at her watch. ‘There’s still time to catch the last London train. You could be in Paris before the morning. Come on, I’ll book a cab and help you pack.’
Delphine pointed to the bag standing beside the bedroom door. ‘No need.’
Ten minutes later a horn sounded and a taxi pulled up outside. Delphine hesitated on the doorstep, looking up and down the street.
‘Don’t fool yourself. He’s not coming.’
Delphine knew that Moira’s anger was finally getting the better of her, but she found in it an echo of her own.
‘He had his chance, Delphine, and he blew it. It’ll be hard, I know, but you deserve better than this. A lot better.’ She gave her a hug. ‘I’ll miss you, but I’ll come and see you once you get settled.’
The cab driver sounded his horn again.
Looking back through the rear window as they drove off, Delphine could see Moira, a hand still raised in farewell, standing alone in the deserted street.
Delphine caught the train to Newport, where she could change for the London Paddington express – the last of the day – with five minutes to spare. She put her bag in the rack, then stood in the doorway of the carriage, looking back along the platform, half hoping that, even at this late stage, Tom might appear. But a few moments later the door slid shut and the train pulled away into the darkness.
23
TOM HAD WON four fights so far. He downed a jug of water, most of it spilling over his chest and onto the bouncy-castle floor. The next bout would be the hardest.
‘Satnav’ – but not to his face – was an LE (late entry) officer. He’d risen to the rank of WO2 and had been G Squadron’s sergeant major before being offered a commission. There were three types of LE: angry, chilled and careerist. Satnav was in the first category. He’d been angry since the army had confiscated a necklace he’d made for his sister while sailing back with the Task Force from the Falklands. He hadn’t understood why it wasn’t right for a young guardsman to cut off the ears of dead Argentinians to make a necklace, no matter who it was for.
He’d got his nickname after getting geographically embarrassed while driving one of the team’s Range Rovers from Hereford to a meeting with the Greater Manchester Police. He’d taken a wrong turn around Birmingham and landed up in Sheffield. No one would have known about it had the Range Rover not been pulled in by the very force he was supposed to be visiting while he was doing 120 mph down the motorway to try to rectify his mistake. They’d let him off as soon as they saw his ID, but by then the damage was done.
The officers always kept Satnav as the trump card in their pack. They’d been holding him back tonight until Tom was exhausted, and now he was. But there was one more fight to go for Gavin to win his money. And if he did, maybe he’d start buying his own clothes.
For reasons that nobody except Gavin and Mrs Gavin fully understood, she’d piled up all his possessions in the garden one evening and set fire to them. Gavin had been left with the clothes he’d stood up in, and was too tight to go down town and buy some more. His solution was simple. He was Tom’s size. What was the problem?
The problem was: that had been five months ago. And he still hadn’t opened his wallet. He hadn’t bought any food for the house either. Tom had let it go. Gavin still had to pay for a mortgage, two cars, and the three-thousand-pound vet bill that had arrived after Mrs G’s two dogs had fallen off a mountain ledge in the Brecon Beacons. Gavin had taken them on a weekend tab. His story was that they were so excited to be out and about they hadn’t been looking where they were going. Mrs G hadn’t bought that story for a minute, and had started building the pyre.
Gavin had got home just in time to watch his life go up in smoke. His only possession to survive was his Stravinsky CD. And that was only because he’d taken it down to the ranges to rip it a new spin hole.
Satnav could still bench-press his own weight, and for a man of his size that was no small achievement. Tom knew that if the fight got to close quarters Satnav would crush the life out of him. His only chance was to use his speed of thought, foot and hand. If that didn’t work, he’d just try to keep off the floor.
Gavin seemed to read his thoughts. He shot an anxious glance through the castle window as Tom poured more water down his neck. ‘Mate, old Satnav, he’s a strong fucker, but I reckon he’s hitting the weights too much and not doing enough on the speed bag.’ He took another swig of his beer. ‘Mate, we’ve got a lot riding on this one. The sooner I get some cash together, the sooner I’ll be buying my own gear and the sooner I’ll be out of your house. What more can I tell you?’
‘He might be hitting the weights, but he’s still a street fighter, like me. I’ll have to keep on my toes for this one.’
Gavin spluttered into his beer. ‘Excuse me? You? A street fighter? What part of the Malvern ’hood did you work, bro?’
A chorus of cheers and groans greeted Satnav’s progress towards the castle.
‘Fuck me . . .’ Gavin breathed, as he saw the size of him. ‘I’ve got a grand riding on this . . .’
‘No pressure, then.’ Tom handed him the empty jug.
‘Mate, Satnav thinks he’s hard, but he’s a big pussycat really.’
Satnav was now close enough to listen in. He bared his teeth in something like a smile. ‘You just keep mouthing off, Gavvers. Soon as I’ve finished with His Lordship here I’ll be loading up and putting another round into that leg of yours.’
For the first time that night, Tom didn’t have a height and weight advantage over his opponent – and Satnav was as quick to the
punch. As soon as they’d touched gloves he landed a brain-rattler on the side of Tom’s head, then switched downstairs with a hook that thudded into his ribs. He blocked Tom’s counter with his biceps, then moved in, grappling with him and narrowly missing with a head butt as Tom tried to wrestle his arms free. They fell together and lay for a moment, still trading punches. The PTI signalled them up.
Through his adrenalin ear-muffs, Tom heard Gavin shouting, ‘Come on, Posh Lad . . .’ For the first time all night, there was a note of anxiety in his voice.
As the two fighters clambered to their feet and the PTI wiped down the floor with bar mats, Jockey gave Tom two thumbs up. ‘Keep going as you are, big man!’
As the two fighters touched gloves again, Tom dummied a left hook, and as Satnav shifted his weight, swaying away from the expected punch, Tom hit him with a round-arm right. Satnav saw it coming at the last moment and began to duck. The shot took him high on the temple but he still staggered at the impact and Tom was on him at once, raining in punches until another big right hand put his opponent down.
Satnav wasn’t finished. He launched himself forward in a rugby tackle from his hands and knees, but Tom saw him coming. Stooping low, he threw a right hand that had every ounce of his strength behind it. It smashed into the corner of Satnav’s eye and the combined force of the punch and his own momentum jerked the other man’s head around as if he’d been hit by a brick.
Tom half turned away, heading for the side of the castle. But Satnav still wasn’t done. His eye already swollen and closing, he had enough presence of mind to grab Tom’s ankle and jerk his feet from under him. Even as he fell, Tom managed to land another short arm right to Satnav’s face, then dropped on him with his knees, driving the air from his lungs.
Satnav struggled to recover, but it wasn’t happening. Tom rose to his feet and the PTI closed down the fight. Tom’s supporters bayed their approval, and those with losing bets booed and jeered as Tom held both hands down for Satnav to grip and pull himself up.