by Mark Dawson
He looked around at the others. They were all ex-SAS. An observer would perhaps have said it was obvious that they had been involved with the military at some point in their lives—they all had the same firm posture and shared the same banter—but there was nothing about their appearances that would have marked them as special forces men. Joseph Gillan was the largest of them, but even he could have made his way down the high street in Hereford without drawing attention to himself. The others were much as he was: they were of solid build, they wore their hair close to the scalp, they were clean shaven. There was nothing to suggest that they were killers; nothing to suggest that they had just returned from an expedition to murder five men; nothing to suggest that they had more blood on their hands than the blood they had spilled tonight.
The general allowed them to finish their drinks before he told them to be quiet and listen. The others all deferred to him. He had a closely cropped white beard, a lined face and pouches beneath his eyes. He had the coldest and most penetrating stare that Hicks had ever seen. It was as if, when he looked at you, he could see through the deceit and mistruths and divine the pure, unvarnished truth. It was those eyes that made conversation with him so unnerving.
“Well done,” Higgins said. “That was good. Quick and efficient. Did any of you have any concerns?”
They all shook their heads. Higgins nodded, seemingly satisfied. He was an exacting commanding officer, rarely praising his men, and just the suggestion of his satisfaction was valuable. “It was a good haul. Alistair?”
Woodward picked up his bag and deposited it on one of the tables. He unzipped it and pulled out thick bundles of bank notes. Hicks counted forty bundles and guessed that each bundle must have contained five hundred notes. There would be tens and twenties and fifties in each bundle. Even on a conservative estimate, there must have been a quarter of a million on the table.
“We’ll count it up and divide it tomorrow. I don’t need to tell you to be careful. Nothing extravagant. Put it wherever you put it to keep it safe. Not the bank. All clear?”
Hicks nodded with the others until he noticed that Higgins was looking at him. He flushed; the new boy was getting special attention again. “Don’t worry, sir,” he said. “I’m not an idiot.”
“I know you’re not. But a big payday like this needs to be handled with caution. The temptation is to go out and spray the money around. Isn’t that right, Shepherd?”
The men looked at Shepherd, their laughter intensifying with his discomfort. Hicks didn’t know any of them well enough to know what the general was talking about, but, from Shepherd’s expression, it was obvious that whatever it was, it wasn’t something that he liked to have brought back up. “Very funny,” he said.
Well, Hicks thought, a joke that wasn’t at his expense. He felt like he was making progress.
Gillan leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “What’s next, sir?”
The general nodded his head to the bags of equipment. “Get the gear put away safely.”
“Yes, sir. And then?”
“There is another thing.” He turned his attention to Hicks. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
He had arranged to take his kids to the cinema, but he knew he couldn’t say that. “Nothing, sir.”
“I need you to drive me.”
“Where to?”
“Back down to London. There’s someone I need to speak to.”
#
HICKS STAYED for an hour before making his excuses and leaving. It was raining with a fine drizzle as he stepped outside, and he blipped the locks of his Range Rover and hurried across to shelter inside the cabin. He sat there for a moment, composing himself. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. All that adrenaline, all that juice; now that it was gone, he was left with just the nerves that had been torturing him ever since he had agreed to take part.
He had done it now. He was involved.
He had spent the last two days searching for a way to extricate himself from taking part. But he had known that wasn’t possible. He had been involved in the planning, he knew all of the men now, and the suggestion that he wanted out would have met with a hostile response. The events of the last few hours just underlined his involvement; he had committed himself as soon as he had met Higgins and Woodward and taken their offer. He had resorted to the consolation that he had taken part because he was desperate for the money and had no other choice. He wasn’t driven by greed, like the others. It was fear that pushed him on. He tried to believe that that was true, and sometimes he did. But other times, he found it difficult to ignore the ache in his gut that told him that he had made a mistake, that he had bound his fate and the fate of his family to some of the most dangerous men that he had ever known.
And on those occasions, like now, there was no comfort at all.
Chapter Three
“MY NAME IS JOHN AND I AM AN ALCOHOLIC.”
The meeting was held at St Leonard’s, a church on the outskirts of the city of London. The building was located next to the major junction with Shoreditch High Street and Hackney Road. Milton had learned during the first meeting that he attended there that it was the church with the “bells of Shoreditch” that was mentioned in the nursery rhyme “Oranges and Lemons”. It was built in grand Palladian style, with a steeple that soared high above the street and a four-columned, pedimented Tuscan portico, but the interior was shabby and in need of repair, something that seemed endemic to the venues that the fellowship used throughout the city. There were twenty other men and women in the large room, and they welcomed him with the usual, “Hello, John.”
Milton took a moment. He rarely spoke at meetings, much preferring to sit quietly at the back and just soak it all up. They were the most peaceful, meditative gatherings that he had ever found, and he got more than enough by just being here, listening to the stories of the other alcoholics who turned up every Tuesday, week after week. But he did want to speak today. One of the most important things about the meetings was that you should share your experience, and Milton was determined to overcome his natural reticence and speak.
“I feel like it’s been a good week,” he said. “I didn’t say anything last time, but I’ve been struggling more than usual the last month or so. I don’t know why. Just one of those times, I know we all have them, when it all seems to get on top of us. Drink, you know. So I did what I always do and read the Big Book and came to my usual meetings. I listened, and then I went home and made myself busy. And I think I’m coming out the other side.”
The woman next to Milton, a lawyer he knew as Marcy, turned her head and smiled. He had plenty in common with her and the others who were present, and those shared experiences made it easier to be frank. There were things he would never be able to speak freely about, of course. He would never be able to tell them why he felt so guilty, the burden of the more than hundred and fifty lives he had taken and the retinue of ghosts who stalked his dreams when he was at his weakest, tempting him with the sure knowledge that the easiest way to drown out their cries was to be found in the bottom of a glass. It meant that he sometimes felt like a fraud in the face of the searing honesty of the others who shared, but that was something that he had come to terms with in the years since he had started coming to the rooms. It was obvious that he was holding back. Everyone could see it. People urged him to be completely honest every now and again, but, by and large, there was understanding. No one pressed. No one judged.
“I was in Australia until a month ago, working, working so hard that I was able to forget the voices telling me to take a drink,” he went on. “It was good for a while, but then it stopped working. I was working on a sheep station. You can probably imagine what that was like. There’s a lot of drink around, blokes going out and drinking every night, and I started to feel tempted. You know how it is: just one drink, that’s all. I can handle it. What’s the harm? I know enough about myself now to know that’s the disease talking, so I left. There was a girl,
too…” He paused, unwilling to go too much further down that line; he still thought of Matilda, and what he might have had with her if he had trusted himself enough to try. “I haven’t been back to London for any extended period of time for months. It’s where my problems started. I’ve been running from them. I thought about it, but I decided I was strong enough now. With the Book, with meetings, with other drunks to help me… I thought I could do it.”
He had a cup of coffee held between his hands and he took a sip. He didn’t want to speak for too long—he was conscious of others who wanted to share, and he didn’t like the idea that his problems were any more serious than theirs—but he wasn’t quite ready to stop.
“So I came back. I found a flat. Just somewhere cheap to rent. I don’t have much money, hardly any at all, really, but I found a tiny place that will do very well for me. I found a job. It’s nothing special, either, but I like it. Night shifts. Keeps me away from temptation. And I found the meetings I need to help me keep everything together. I feel okay about it all. I feel like I can handle it. I feel like I’m getting myself back together again.”
There was a murmuring of support. Milton sipped the coffee again. He decided to tell them everything.
“I don’t normally speak,” he said. “The reason I am now is because this is an anniversary for me. It’s three years since I took a drink. One thousand and ninety-five days. And I’m grateful. Coming to these rooms saved my life. If anyone here is new and wondering whether or not this can work, I’m here to say that it can. It’s like we always say: it works if you work it—”
“—and work it ’cause you’re worth it,” the others finished.
Milton smiled. “That’s all I wanted to say, really. Thanks for listening.”
The usual chorus followed, others thanking him for his share, but Milton had said what he had needed to say, and now he felt himself drawing back into himself again.
There was a moment of silence, a pause while the others decided whether they would speak, too. Milton had been to this meeting several times, and he had already started to associate the regulars with typical AA types. There were those, much like him, who preferred to sit and listen. There were others, newer to the program, who, once they started to unburden themselves, couldn’t stop. There were still others who shared every week because they liked to hear themselves speaking. Some of those were a little smug, dispensing advice that had not been requested and opining upon the shares of others. Milton tuned out whenever they spoke.
“My name is Edward and I’m an alcoholic.”
The man was on the end of the same row as Milton and had been sitting quietly. Milton had seen him before and had noticed that he was friendly with the other regulars. The others welcomed his share; Milton stared down into his mug at the swirl of cheap brown coffee.
Edward looked down the row at Milton. “First of all, well done, John. Three years. That’s amazing.”
Milton looked back at him and gave a nod of acknowledgement.
“I feel like I might be getting to a similar place. The last month has been difficult. I’ve been white-knuckling it, if I’m honest. There have been days when I didn’t think I could keep going, but coming to the rooms has given me the strength to stay away from booze, and I’ll always be grateful for that. And things might be getting better. I’ve never shared the reasons why I feel the way I do, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do that properly, but I can say that I feel like I’m making real progress now.”
He paused and, when Milton looked over at him, his expression made it evident that he was considering how much he could say, just as Milton had done. He looked as if he was going to go on, but, as he started to open his mouth, he lost his nerve, shook his head and managed a rueful smile.
“I know we should be totally honest, no secrets, but I’m not ready to do that yet. There are things I might be able to say, one day, but for now I just wanted to say that I am grateful for the friendship I’ve found here. Like John says: it works if you work it. Thanks for listening.”
Others thanked him for his share. He smiled shyly and, like Milton, returned to quiet contemplation for the rest of the meeting.
#
SOME OF THE REGULARS went out and got coffee together after the meeting had come to an end. It was eight o’clock, and Milton didn’t have to be at the shelter for work until ten. He had fallen into the habit of taking a long stroll to clear his head. The quickest route to Russell Square was to follow Holborn and then turn north. It was two miles and Milton would have been able to cover the ground in just over half an hour if he moved quickly. He preferred to take the scenic route, heading south until he went by Cannon Street station and then following the river as it meandered to the west. He found it very beautiful at this time of day, with the lights glittering darkly on that wide span of water, barges and commuter craft sliding across the slow-moving tide. He would turn to the north as he reached Temple and follow Kingsway until he reached the Square. If he ambled and stopped occasionally to gaze out over the water, he could eke out two hours of peace and solitude, a useful supplementary buttress to the peace he had earned at the meeting. The walk always reminded him that there was more to London than the sordid, grubby business that was transacted from the anonymous building close to the MI5 building in Millbank from where his career had been directed. It reminded him, as he watched the city going about its business, never sleeping, that the world was larger than that, and that, perhaps, if he guarded his sobriety, he might be able to find his place in it.
He was getting ready to set off when the man who had spoken after him detached himself from the group and came over to him.
“You coming?”
“Sorry?”
“Coffee?”
“No,” Milton said. “I can’t. I have to get to work.”
“You don’t have half an hour to spare? Come on.”
Milton looked at his watch. It was a superfluous gesture; he knew what the time was. He was about to decline the invitation when something told him to stop being so foolish. He could take that walk whenever he liked. He remembered one of the most frequently repeated pieces of advice that was relayed during the meetings: you have to get involved. Sitting at the back was the taking of half measures, and, as the idiom went, “Half measures availed us nothing.” He had already spoken tonight, and that was unusual. He felt better for it. Perhaps he would feel even better still if he took up the offer. He made a decision. Being sociable couldn’t hurt, and maybe it would help.
“Where is it?”
“Just near Bank.”
That wasn’t out of his way. He had no excuse.
“Sure,” Milton said. “I suppose I can.”
Chapter Four
THERE WAS a commonly repeated saying in the rooms. It was that a newly sober drunk had both good and bad news. The good news was that they never had to drink again. The bad news was that the other men and women at the meetings were their new friends. Milton thought about that as he looked around the room. They were in a branch of Leon on Watling Street, near to Bank station. There were six of them and, as they filed inside, the manager acknowledged one of the women and indicated a table that had been reserved for them. Milton could see that this was a routine that had been in place for some time. They sat down and the manager took their orders. Some of them ordered cakes with their coffees. Milton declined, ordering a cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. Caffeine and nicotine were his only vices now. He wondered afresh whether this was a good idea for someone like him. The meetings provided him with a space where he could meditate and listen to the testimonies of people with the same compulsions as he had, if not the same motivations. He took what he needed, occasionally shared something in exchange, and then returned to the comfortable cloak of his solitude. He had overheard the couple ahead of him as they had walked from the church. There was a tendency for some of his fellows to be overly enthusiastic about their recoveries, to proselytise about the program and offer critical com
ments about the slightest deviation from what the Big Book suggested was the best way to behave. One of the pair, a middle-aged woman, was hectoring her younger companion about the things that she was doing wrong. The second woman tried to retort, but Milton had noticed from her previous sharing that she was meek, and she quickly allowed herself to be spoken over.
The man who had invited Milton had stopped at the bathroom as soon as they had arrived. Maybe it had been a mistake to come after all. Milton decided he would stay for ten minutes. He would get the Central Line and walk from Oxford Circus.
The meek woman took the seat to Milton’s right. He introduced himself and offered her his hand; she took it, her grip loose and her skin cool, and said that her name was Emma. She looked uncomfortable at the prospect of a conversation with him, and after a few awkward words, they were both rescued by the arrival of the coffees. She turned and started to talk to the other women at her end of the table. They obviously knew each other and made no effort to include Milton in their conversation. Milton made no effort to include himself, either, so he looked at his watch, preparing to make his excuses.