Civvies

by Lynda La Plante

  'I don't mind doin' nights,' Harry offered.

  'Just a sec' Dillon wanted to start another clean sheet. 'I reckon I've been throwin' me weight around, an' we're all in this together, okay? So if I say somethin' you don't agree with… well…' He gestured vaguely.

  'You'll give us a sock in the gob!' Harry grinned.

  Cliff laughed and clanked outside with his bucket. Harry looped the cable to the Hoover, watching him go. He said confidentially, 'Hey, Frank, about that other matter. I'm handling it.'

  Dillon was writing. Without looking up he gave a small, tight nod. Start afresh, don't look back, what's past is past. The pencil dug into the paper. He looked up sharply.

  'Harry…!'

  At the door, Harry turned, Hoover in hand.

  Dillon stared at him. He shook his head. 'Nothin'.' He went back to his writing.

  He'd been heading up a blind alley but now he could see light ahead. Dillon's feeling that things were changing – for the better – grew stronger each day. Work was coming in, they were even building up a small core of regular clients. He had the sense that a watershed had been passed, and that with hard graft and a bit of luck they were going to make it.

  The first encouraging proof came just over a week later, and he couldn't get home quick enough to tell Susie about it. She was in the kitchen, putting food away in the fridge. Getting rid of the stockinette sling gave her some freedom of movement, but the cast was still an encumbrance. Dillon waltzed in, waving a folder.

  'We're in profit – it's paying the cars, the rent and wages -!'

  He swung her round, hugged her.

  'You mean you can start paying me a wage?' Susie asked him with an impish grin.

  Dillon gave her a look. 'You not workin' for Marway?'

  'Just Stag Security-Taxi-Chauffeur,' she said firmly. She gently punched him under the chin with the plaster cast. This'll be off soon.'

  Dillon laughed and gave her a smacker. On his way to answer the doorbell he sang out, 'Give you my word, you won't regret it!'

  His terrific good mood lasted until he opened the door and saw Harry's face. More exactly, its set, closed expression, eyes fixed on his, unblinking. 'I wanna show you somethin'.' As Dillon's mouth tightened, Harry held up his hand. 'Hey, take it easy. Can I come in?' And when Dillon made no move, just stood there blocking the door, delved inside his jacket and produced two photostat images and held them up.

  'These are the suspects. Take a look for yourself.'

  Full face, left and right profiles, two men, early twenties, one with sideburns. Dillon barely glanced at them before shoving Harry onto the landing, well out of earshot. Harry caught his drift and had sense enough to keep his voice low.

  'Guy on the second page, it's one of them, Frank. Wally's tip-off was legit.'

  'Harry – I got to think about this.' Dillon rubbed his face, and then his head shot round as he heard Susie's voice calling, 'Is it Mum, Frank?'

  He stuck his head in the door. 'No, love… just Harry,' and carefully pulled it shut.

  Harry waited a couple of moments, studying Dillon's face. 'You don't have to get involved,' he said, slow, deliberate, the meaning made stronger because of it. 'But you started this, Frank, not me, you.'

  'I dunno.' Dillon looked at the door. 'I don't know, I need time…'

  'I don't have it, they could move on any day.' Harry had said his piece, Dillon knew the score, and he turned to go. Dillon grabbed his arm, pulled him round. His whisper was harsh.

  'You know where he is?'

  Harry looked into Dillon's eyes. He nodded. 'I just needed to be sure.' He thrust the photostats into Dillon's hand. 'Keep 'em, tell me tomorrow,' he said, and went down the stairway.

  Dillon leaned against the wall. He rested his eyes for a minute, aware of his heart beating rapidly. Slowly he opened them and stared down at the two faces. Early twenties. Long dark hair. Sideburns: Leather jacket. Dillon leaned over the railings, waiting to see Harry across the courtyard below. He whistled and Harry looked upwards. No words passed between them, Dillon simply gave him the signal to wait.

  The closing credits of a cops and robbers series were rolling up as Dillon popped his head into the living-room. He said brightly, 'I won't be too late. Kids are asleep!'

  'What is it?' Susie asked, feet propped up on the couch. 'Security work?'

  'Yeah!'

  'Is it cash or…'

  Dillon cleared his throat. 'Cash,' he said decisively. 'Night, sweetheart.' He went out, closing the front door so it didn't slam. Susie flicked the remote control. The chimes of Big Ben boomed out, News at Ten just starting.

  Harry had cased the house that afternoon. Couldn't be more perfect, he assured Dillon. Run-down neighbourhood, poor street lightning, gasworks wall at one end so there was no through traffic. Derelict place directly opposite, ideal for cover. They took up positions, peering across the darkened street through a window-frame with a few shards of glass in it. Both were kitted out for night ops: black sweaters, old combat jackets, black woollen ski hats, the faithful Pumas that had seen action on Heartbreak Hill. And Harry had the Armalite, which had seen action with the Gurkhas in Brunei and the Far East. Dillon got the stomach cramps just watching him checking it over, as gentle and loving with it as a mother with her new-born babe.

  'If there's anybody in there, they're crawlin' around in the dark,' Dillon decided, straining his eyes to see. He craned forward. 'No they bloody ain't – you see it, front room, right-hand side? Somethin' flickered.'

  Harry was already on the move, rifle inside his combat jacket, held by the butt, pointing to the ground. 'Let's take a closer look,' he growled.

  A child of six could have picked the back door lock with his Meccano plastic screwdriver. Dillon sidled in, ski mask down over his face, two ragged slits for the eyes. The kitchen was filthy and stank to high heaven. He had to watch where he stepped, there was all sorts of junk littered about the place. More a doss house than a safe house. Harry followed, treading with an incredible feline lightness and agility for such a big man.

  In total silence they moved from the kitchen into the short passage leading to the front room. Blue light flickered under the door, and they could hear the muted burble of the television. Dillon touched his chest and pointed upstairs. Harry nodded. He flattened himself against the wall adjacent to the door, the rifle held slantwise across his body. Dillon went up, testing each tread before committing his weight to it.

  He trod even more carefully on the bare dusty floorboards of the front bedroom, aware that a single creak would alert whoever was directly beneath him. There wasn't a stick of furniture. He knelt, and using hands as well as eyes, made sure he had it right. Three sleeping bags. A plastic holdall with a broken strap contained tee-shirts, underpants, socks, shaving cream, razor.

  The bathroom was a haven for dirty towels. Two on the floor, two more stuffed over a rail, three or four in the bottom of the stained old tub. Lying in the greasy soap residue on the splash rim of the washbasin were three toothbrushes and one tube of toothpaste squeezed to within an inch of its life. He turned away and then paused, aware of a heavy subterranean thudding. It was his heart. His scalp was prickly with sweat. He hissed in a breath and crept out.

  Harry hadn't moved a muscle. He stood flattened to the wall, watching Dillon slowly and silently descend. Then nodded as Dillon held up three fingers. With twenty rounds in the mag he could take out three Irish bastards and still have enough to spare for their slags and brats. Wipe out the Irish nation, that was Harry's final solution.

  He went suddenly tense, and Dillon froze on the stairs. The man in the room hacked out a cough and did a couple of ferocious encores. Dillon counted to five and took another step down, letting go a breath, when the door opened and the man came out. In the poor light coming from the TV, Dillon registered only that he was young, with long hair, wearing a scruffy jacket over an open-necked shirt. He saw Dillon first, and started to backtrack into the room, grabbing the edge of the door
to slam it shut. Harry sprang round from the wall, smashed the butt of the rifle into the door, knocking it back on its hinges. He swung the rifle round, levelling it. Dillon jumped the rest of the stairs. He landed in the hallway, arms up ready to dive forward and grapple with the man, when the rifle blasted. The man uttered no sound. There was a crash, a thump, and then, save for the TV burbling to itself, silence.

  He was lying half on his side, face down to the carpet. One hand still clutched a grimy handkerchief. In falling he'd upset a little two-bar electric fire, a flex leading from it to the light bulb socket, which was why the room was in semi-darkness.

  'He grabbed the bloody thing, Frank,' Harry complained. He ejected the empty shell, picked it up and put it in his pocket. 'Is it him?'

  Dillon checked the pulse in the man's neck, but there was really no need to. His arm was flung out, away from the body, and there was a hole in the left armpit, right next to the heart. That's why he hadn't uttered a squeak.

  'You've killed him.' Dillon pushed the body over onto its back. Slowly he straightened up. 'Oh my God,' he said, 'this isn't him. It's not him!'

  Harry leaned over to see for himself. He squatted down on his haunches, supporting himself with the rifle. He glanced up. 'Where the hell you goin'?'

  Dillon was at the door. He said, 'There were three sleepin' bags, they could be back.' He jerked his thumb savagely. 'Leave him, just leave him!' and was gone.

  Harry laid the Armalite down. The dead man had nothing on him except a cheap wallet with a few quid in it. Harry put it in his pocket. He tucked the rifle under his arm and stood up, about to follow Dillon. He looked at the electric fire on its side. A thin wisp of smoke rose up where the bars had already singed the strip of carpet. With his foot, Harry pushed the fire closer to the dead man, and with a nudge, closer still, until it was touching. He reached down and picked up a bottle of Powers on the floor next to the armchair, about quarter full. He took a big mouthful, glancing towards the door, and spurted out a spray of whisky straight onto the bars. There was a whoosh of flame. The dead man's jacket sleeve ignited. Harry tossed the bottle on top of the funeral pyre and scarpered.

  Dillon leaned over the washbasin, splashing cold water into his face. He blinked the water from his eyes and stared at his hands, shaking uncontrollably. His face in the mirror was ashen. He reached for the towel. From the office along the passage he could hear Harry's voice: 'Sorry to ring so late, Wally, but we're on an all-night job. Na! Bit of security work, they can't afford a dog.'

  When Dillon came in, drying his hands, Harry was standing at the desk, laughing into the phone. On the blotter in front of him lay the photostats, the two images, full face, left-right profiles, stark under the lamplight. 'Just wanted to make sure you're on for some work tomorrow… yeah, G'night.' He hung up.

  'You get shot of that friggin' rifle, take it back where it came from, just get the thing out,' Dillon said. He tossed the towel down and indicated the photostats with a curt nod, his eyes very dark in his pale face. 'No more. I mean it, Harry, and I'm warnin' you… Burn it, do it.'

  'What's the matter, Frank, lost your bottle?'

  'Yeah, maybe I have.' Dillon looked away, scowling. 'We just killed a bloke. I dunno how it makes you feel -'

  'I feel fine,' Harry interrupted. He looked fine too, blue eyes bright, high colour in his cheeks, adrenalin surging through him. 'An' I sorted Wally, he thinks we're on an all-nighter.'

  'Well I don't feel fine, I feel like shit. You want to keep going, then you get out of the firm. I got too much to lose, an' I'm not losin' it for you, for…' hardly hesitating '… my lads. It's over, Harry.'

  'Over for you, over for them,' Harry said, a harsh edge to his voice. 'They were just kids – one of 'em, Phil, he'd only enlisted six months.'

  Dillon went up, grabbed a fistful of Harry's combat jacket, his eyes blazing. 'You're using them, Harry, don't do this to me! We're in civvies, we got no right to take the law into our own hands.'

  'This is Army business -'

  'Bullshit. And we're not in the Army, we're in civvies.'

  'They don't wear a uniform neither,' Harry said stolidly, the immovable object, the implacable force.

  'But it's their war, it's not ours, not any more. It's over, and if you want to lose all this -' Dillon gestured round ' – then we'll buy you out. I won't let you – or that scum – drag me down.'

  Dillon stared into the blue eyes. Harry stared back. A moment's silence passed, which lasted several ages, until Dillon said:

  'So I'm asking you, let it go.'

  He couldn't or wouldn't. Or would he?

  'I can't do it, Harry, I'm out, man.' The towel lay over the back of the chair, where Dillon had tossed it. Now he was throwing it in again, and he didn't care that Harry knew it, or that Harry might call him traitor, coward, betrayer. The lads were dead, let that be an end to it. What's past is past.

  It took a long time, each word had to be dragged from his heels upwards, landing like lead in his chest, words that strangled him, he was so charged with emotion. Not weeping, they were not those kind of tears that trickled down Dillon's cheeks and glistened in the line of his scar, to Harry it was not even Dillon speaking, the depth of sorrow was like the aftermath of a hard punch in the gut.

  'I want out Harry, let me go. I have too much to lose, I'm finished with this, God forgive me… I want out!'

  Harry straightened his shoulders. He thought he knew all there was to know about Dillon, but he'd learned something more. Another depth to the man he'd never suspected, through all their years together. Another Sergeant Dillon entirely. He didn't know whether it was an added strength, or a hidden weakness, but none of that seemed to matter, and he clasped Dillon tightly in an embrace that said he didn't care, that it was over, done with, finished.

  'You're the Guv'nor,' Harry said.

  CIVVIES

  CHAPTER 36

  Harry drove into the Roche Laundry Services' car park and parked the security wagon on the diagonal yellow stripes outside the main office. He put on his visored helmet and tightened the chinstrap, hoping, praying, that it might muffle or even, praise be, cut out Cliff's endless yakking completely. No such luck. Getting out and walking round to join Harry, Cliff kept it up.

  '… I tell you, if I'd known what it was gonna be like, I'd never have agreed, she's goin' nuts. I'm workin', right, and I get back to bleat-bleat, you think she was the first woman to get pregnant. She keeps havin' fittings for the weddin' gown, rehearsals for the weddin' – terrified her Dad'll find out.'

  'Well, they'll all know six months after yer weddin', she'll be in the maternity ward,' Harry said, for something to say. 'Why not just tell 'em?'

  They went through reception to the Wages office, where the canvas sacks, fastened and sealed with dated lead slugs, were piled on a trolley awaiting them. They showed their IDs.

  'Huh!' Cliff retorted. 'You think I want that bugger round – he hates me!' He shook his head, gave a long-suffering sigh. 'You got the right idea, Harry – stay single!'

  One pulling, the other pushing, they wheeled the trolley out and started loading up. The sacks were heavy, and it was hard work, but at least it kept Cliff quiet for a while. Harry was grateful for small mercies.

  Across the main road from Roche Laundry Services, on the second floor of what had been, pre-recession, the Streatham branch of a company supplying contract carpets to city offices, a man in a black boiler suit watched the loading operation through binoculars, speaking into a short-wave transceiver fastened with parcel tape to his right shoulder.

  'Right on schedule… stacking the dough… I count twelve sacks, no, thirteen, unlucky for some… okay, they're closing the doors… '

  'I've had more rehearsals than they have at an amateur dramatics,' Cliff grumbled, slamming his door shut and operating the dead-lock bolt. 'The bridesmaids are now up to seven, there's kids, pageboys, it'll look like a pantomime.' Harry pulled the wagon round in a tight turn, blue smoke bellowing. '… It's
gonna be a real embarrassment. Frank's gonna be best man, she wants everyone in top hats

  Harry halted at the gate, checked both ways, pulled out. He pushed the visor up with his thumb but kept the helmet on.

  'They're on their way, turning right, that means they'll be using the A23 route. Over and out.'

  At the next roundabout the wagon took the right-hand fork and slid into the flow on the A23 southbound. Harry filtered through into the fast lane and put his foot down flat to the floor.

  '… I said to her, wouldn't it be a better idea if we took a honeymoon at a later date, like she's sick most mornings.'

  Harry nodded, both hands gripping the wheel. Something Cliff had said ten minutes ago distantly registered, tickled him. 'You won't get Frank in a penguin suit – an' you'll look a right prat. They don't have toppers your size!'

  Harry glanced over and laughed, more at Cliff's glum face than at his own weak joke. Serve him right, getting hitched. Dickhead.

  At Thornton Heath he switched back down the lanes, ready for the Croydon turn-off. A convenient gap in front of a large removals van doing under fifty let him into the slow lane. As they were leaving the A23 a lorry loaded up with logs came down a slip road to their left and instead of stopping, kept on going, causing Harry to brake. He thumped the horn, gave a long blast.

  'Stupid git… you see that? Cut right in front of us!'

  'Hey!' Cliff was staring into the nearside wing-mirror. 'You got a big vehicle right on your tail, Harry – overtake!'

  Harry flicked his indicator on, clocking the removals van in his wing-mirror. It was closing in. Then it flashed its lights, as if warning him not to overtake. The lorry in front had slowed down, the security wagon boxed between the two. About to swing out, Harry realised that the removals van was coming up alongside. It drew level. The open passenger side window was only a couple of feet away, a man with a ski mask covering his face leaning out, a sub-machine-gun cradled in the crook of his elbow.