Battle Sight Zero

by Gerald Seymour

  She rang the bell, and the lie Zeinab lived was total. She was brought inside and was hugged and saw the affection in the eyes of her mother and father, and their innocence, and she gave them no sympathy for her deceit. The eyes of the dead boy, wide but dulled, had been the worst of it. It was right that it should have happened to an informer.

  A makeshift incinerator reeked of the last fumes of burned plastic. Crab stood at the door, sniffed, waved the beam of his torch. His driver and minder, Gary, held another torch and was a pace behind Crab.

  He had been born Oswald Frith . . . He thought, what he could see in the torchlight, that the kids had done a decent enough job with the sanitising of the area. All of the plastic had been taken down, and all of the string lengths that had attached it to the frame untied and removed, and everything off the concrete flooring and that area swilled with bleach . . . Born Oswald Frith, aged twenty, and living in the shadow of the Old Trafford football stadium, and setting up his own minor protection business, just a few shops and a couple of pubs, starting to make a name for himself. He had fallen foul of a bigger man who reckoned to have that area tightly sewn, and had come with an iron angle bar to sort out the intruder on his patch. He’d done six month in hospital while surgeons had put together the bones in his right leg, had eventually been discharged, had limped away from the Wythenshawe wards and had gone to visit the man who had belted him with the bar. With his crab-like walk he had walked into the guy’s house . . . The man did not walk again, crab-like or otherwise, and was buried a week later. Oswald Frith, because of his impediment, was from that day known as Crab. No evidence left behind, and the widow had been sensible and not testified, and the business had been seamlessly transferred. Crab liked to joke that, although reared near to Manchester United’s stadium, the only season ticket he’d had was to Her Majesty’s Prison, Strangeways, and most tended to laugh at his joke. He moved awkwardly and, in the winter, felt bad pain in the injured limb, but never winced and never complained. He was satisfied with what he saw. He liked to work with professional people, could not abide laziness or carelessness. The place, his building, seemed to have been well cleaned. The loaning of it had been facilitated through an old contact between one of his sons and these Asians, and they were friends after a year on the same landing in gaol. First there was an approach, the usual circuitous routes and an offer, and he had not turned his back on it but had dug into his own wad of associates, and had rather liked the taste of what was on offer . . . Then the request, only 48 hours previously, that a bit of floor space was needed. He did not know these new people, the Asians, but the little that had been run by him had seemed effective and planned with thoroughness. He had no complaint. The torch beams flickered over the flooring and up the walls and came down to rest on an old chair, heavy wood – could have been a half century since a joiner had put it together – and there were no stains, no signs of damage. And he liked the way it had been put to him, that these people – the Asians – had a powerful way of dealing with a tout, someone who snitched. He liked it to be robust because that way a message was passed and there’d be fewer volunteers for going up the same road. In the morning they’d have a second check to be certain that any traces were obliterated. The oil drum used as an incinerator still smouldered. Crab hobbled out, and Gary was close to his shoulder . . .

  There had been a time in Manchester when the newspapers had referred to him – not by name – as a ‘Mister Big’ of the criminal underworld, and there had been cheap headlines at the expense of the mystery man, but no longer. He was choosy what he involved himself in, and with whom. Had not been inside prison for seventeen years, had no wish to renew the experience, but a deal had been offered him, and might lead beyond the boundaries of his comfort area. An attractive deal, and a chance to do business with an old friend, one of the best. He had never been into this sort of trade – could do rackets and girls and Class A stuff – never this. But the deal intrigued him. Crab could never resist an attractive deal, and never had been able to . . . and all in place, and all starting to run and the pace of it quickening. Was a sucker for it, a decent deal.

  She had seemed withdrawn that evening, not at ease.

  Until he had met her, Andy had never been in the company of an Asian girl, and especially one from a conservative Muslim upbringing. What he had learned of Zeinab was that she usually held herself in the shelter of reserve and seldom voiced any opinion remotely provocative, but could also muster up a degree of flirtatiousness. She could raise her eyebrows, pout a little, blink at him, even run a tongue over her lips, and do little quips of joshing with him, as if they understood each other well, and were close. Not often, but sometimes, and the relationship was now in its fourth month, and moved forward at a steady unremarkable pace, and intimacies were becoming more advanced. Neither seemed prepared to go on to a charge, though Andy had begun to think that the time approached when she would make a move, decisive, towards pushing them closer.

  Not that evening. Was not going to happen as they shared a pizza in a place round the corner from her Hall of Residence. She was distracted. Not for Andy to pry. If she needed to cry, confess, unveil, he was available. They ate, and sipped cokes because she did not drink alcohol and he could do without, and would be driving in the morning. He thought she realised she was poor company . . . she had been late, the trains were fouled up and the timetable a car crash, and her mother and father unwilling to let her go and having neighbours call round to quiz her on life away as a student. Andy Knight had a good eye for reading people and reckoned her mood reflected more than a late train schedule and parents dragging out a brief visit. They had hardly spoken; he had given a short résumé on his day, trips from the depot to the materials yard, and then to the site where the houses were going up and the roof spars being hoisted off by crane, pretty boring, and where he was headed in the morning, and how many pallets of concrete blocks he’d be shifting. She had the chance, in his long pauses, to contribute, but hadn’t. Sometimes they went to the cinema and there had been a couple of dates at small concerts, rhythm and blues, and they did pizzas and anything pasta based, and sometimes they just walked and window-shopped in the city centre. They had a bond, what had brought them together, but each treated it as something in the past. Usually she told him about her classes and what essay she was working on, and it was understood that she was on a university course and he was only a lorry driver. Andy allowed it, didn’t set her right. Probably the best times between them were when they tramped the pavements, and sometimes she would nestle her head against his shoulder, and sometimes his arm was close round her waist and holding her there. Once she had been talking about the essay for next week and she had alluded to a problem in the construction of her response, and the solution had seemed clear enough to him but he had stayed quiet, not intruding into that part of her world. Andy Knight merely drove a lorry. Well mannered, yes, polite and correct. Her intellectual equal, no . . . Opposite him, toying with the pizza pieces, she had her head ducked, and seemed irritated when her hair – deep brown, almost black – slipped across her face, and her eyes stayed low. She had no make-up on. How should he respond? Question her or let it slide? Be concerned or be indifferent? He reached out, touched her hand. Normally she’d respond. Take his, squeeze it, then grimace, then lighten. She was burdened, and he recognised it. There would not be an argument. He would not challenge her, not burn boats.

  Andy murmured to her, ‘Tomorrow, Zed, whatever it is will be better. Always better on another day.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow is always better.’

  She tried a ghost smile, made a poor job of it, then reached forward and took his hand, and pushed the fork out of it. Held his hand, fingers entwined. The look on her face was to indicate that she could not share, that he would not understand. A shrug, a tightening of the fingers, a couple of blinks like a mood needed changing. The life was back in her voice.

  ‘What do you do for holidays, Andy?’<
br />
  He grinned. ‘Don’t get a chance to think about that, not too much.’

  ‘You have statutory holidays, of course you do.’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘Doing what you do, it builds stress?’

  ‘Just getting a lorry back and forward across town. Plenty have it worse.’

  ‘We all need a holiday.’

  ‘What, Zed, you needing a holiday? Term’s another month, isn’t it?’

  The grip was firmer. He leaned forward, and allowed a finger to run across her lips and the movement dislodged a crumb, or a smear of cheese. A little gesture to loosen her. What she wanted to say was important to her, but he gave no sign of recognising that.

  ‘They’d give you a holiday?’

  Andy played dumb. ‘Don’t know, haven’t put in for one.’

  ‘If I asked you.’

  ‘Asked me what?’

  ‘Whether you could take a holiday?’

  ‘I suppose, suppose I could try – but you can’t. Term-time, not holidays.’

  ‘I just wanted to know.’

  ‘Whether I can take a holiday? I can find out.’

  ‘Do that.’

  ‘Would depend on what cover they need, for how long, what sort of time-frame.’

  ‘You’d like that? A holiday, us?’

  ‘I would, you and me, I’d like that . . . Should we take your mother along as well?’

  She kicked him under the table, and was laughing. First time that evening. He thought that typified his value to her. He doubted anyone else would have made her face crack with an open grin. Then the giggle was in her throat, and she reached into her bag for her purse. Sometimes he paid, sometimes she did. It might have been her turn, might not. She took the bank note out and left it on the table, and stood. A kid came hurrying over, and the gesture was for him to keep the change. She asked it of him again, and he said he would. They stood and heaved on their coats and there was slush on the pavements where the wet snow had failed to get a grip. He always walked her back to the door of the Hall. She held his hand and twice she twisted her head and kissed him on the lips, which was good, encouraging. He thought she had had a bad day but that he’d made it better, softened it. At the door they kissed again. Most of the girls in the Hall, he assumed, did not regard it as a big deal if they led their guy inside and shoved him towards the lift. Andy would not push Zeinab, was happy enough to leave it at a gentle and long kiss in the shadows away to the side of the door, and he sensed she went further than was usual, and that her day had been difficult and had taken her to the edge.

  They parted. She said something about her essay and hurried inside. He thought it had been a good evening, useful. At the lift door she turned and would have seen him still standing there, and gave him a little wave, which was the flirty bit. Andy blew a kiss back. The doors closed on her. Perhaps better than a useful evening.

  Chapter 2

  A dull old life was a lorry driver’s. Andy Knight had done two delivery runs of pallets loaded with concrete blocks, and he had refilled with fuel. He shared his time now between a mug of sugared coffee and a cloth with which he cleaned his mirrors. His phone pinged.

  The company he worked for took pride in its appearance. It had a good name locally, and seemed to attract worthwhile contracts. The winter grit and dirt from the roads was hosed off the vehicles each dawn before the fleet went to work. There were no flaws on the paintwork. It was a tradition in the yard that its people were as well turned out as the cabs in which they spent their days. Andy wore laundered overalls and an anorak with the company logo on his chest, and was supposed to have a reasonable haircut, and to be cheerful and helpful towards customers . . . not hard for him. To drive for this company was to have work that, putting it with a tinge of exaggeration, a ‘guy would kill for’. If they had advertised his position then likely they’d have been deluged with applications. The vacancy had not gone on general release. Word had reached Andy, not his problem to consider the detail of it, that a job was going begging, might be worth applying for, like yesterday and not tomorrow, and he had slapped in his paperwork. At the interview he had not asked how his name might have reached them, and they had seemed uninterested in where he had worked before, but his clean licence was looked at closely, and the chief executive and the fleet manager had taken time to explain how the business ticked, what was expected. It was as if his pedigree was already established, or a guarantee given, and the important bit was when he was taken down from the office and given up to a hard-eyed little runt of a guy with a shaven head, and he had climbed up into a cab. It was the bit that might have mattered most . . . He had driven big lorries before, had always used his driving skill as an employment incentive when he had needed new work. There had been no banter or conversation. A satnav had been switched on for him, and a route marked out, and they were off, dragging a loaded trailer, for two and a half hours. They had gone beyond Ramsbottom, almost into Rawtenstall, and Andy had reckoned he had driven faultlessly, but he’d not been praised. The delivery had been made, prefabricated wall sections for community housing, and they’d taken tea and a sandwich on the site, then the satnav was switched off and he’d had to navigate his own route back. He had pulled into the yard and his escort had jumped out, not a backward glance, and had gone into the office. Must have been a clean bill of health because he’d kicked his heels for fifteen minutes, then been called inside. A secretary had brought in the contract and he had not read it but signed with a flourish . . . Always a difficult moment, and a fraction of a hesitation, long enough to consider who he was that day and month and year. He’d started the next week. Again, his phone chimed.

  The remaining drivers, seven or eight of them, pretty much left Andy alone. Not quite suspicious, but wary. Could have been that they had picked up the signs, well telegraphed, that the newcomer was fast tracked in, without explanation. Not hostility, but caution. Most of them went together, with Veronica who ran the office, down to the Black Lion along the road on a Friday evening after the shifts finished and had a drink, not more than two, before heading home. Andy did not. A warm pub, a drink, the end of a week, and chat flowing was when histories were expected, anecdotes, experiences shared. Always an excuse made and he’d go home alone.

  He checked his phone. Hi, Did you run it at them, a break? Hope so. The Hall tonite, usual time xxx. The slow smile slipped on to his face. That was Zed, the undergraduate studying Social Sciences, and with a string of good exam grades to her name, and not bothering to suggest that he might have something else on his mind that evening, and would pass her up. Taken for granted, but he was only a lorry driver: a sweet boy, fun to be with, and she in debt to him and big time, but not her equal. And the slow smile went wry, and he could remember her kissing the night before, and her enthusiasm. He went on polishing the mirrors until the view in them was without blemish, and he saw them. Saw them quite clearly, both IC4 on the ethnic register, and they made a poor fist of looking casual.

  They were joined by the Somali lad who worked in the company canteen where they did the big breakfasts and the lunches, and kept up the supply of tea and coffee. The Somali boy was friendly enough, and seemed to wear a grin most times, and could not have been more helpful in tidying tables. Others said that his history – where he had been, what had happened to him, how he had escaped a civil war – was a terrifying story. The drivers liked him. There were two guys opposite the gate, on the far side of the road. The Somali boy greeted them, and there were hugs, and then conversations, and the boy was shown a phone screen. Might have been a photograph, reasonable assumption. Andy was finishing his mirrors and needn’t have gone on but did so because it gave him the chance to stay where he was, face their way and have a purpose for it. The boy made a little gesture, not as anyone else would have noticed. Andy thought he was identified, a rule was run over him. Two guys there, at the gate, and looking to check out a friend – IC1 Caucasian male – of Zeinab, who was categorised as Identity Code IC4 Asian fe
male. A meeting of cultures, young people stepping over a line, and their associates would want to know who he was and do an eyeball on him. He saw the Somali boy almost flinch as if he realised that he had gone too far, like a favour had been called in and pressure applied. The guys stayed watching him as he finished with the mirror. Predictable . . . could have been her cousins, or her neighbours, and there would be anxiety about any relationship that a girl from Dewsbury had formed with a lorry driver in the Manchester suburbs, or could have been other friends of hers, other associates. He thought they might have taken more pictures with their phones, and both stared across the width of the road and through the gate and past the security shed and into the yard . . . and were gone.

  She’d kissed well the night before, not with much experience, but fresh, fruity. He replied to the text, said he’d be there when she wanted him. Why? He smiled his private smile, then, satisfied his vehicle was as well maintained as any of them, went to get his next delivery docket from the office.

  It was wrapped carefully.

  Two men did it. They did not concern themselves with dismantling it, had only detached the magazine. The overall length was a little short of a metre, and the weight of the package would be under five kilogrammes. There would be three magazines, each filled with 25 rounds, near to capacity. Although the two men, working in a warehouse on the southern outskirts of the port of Misrata, on the coast of Libya, had examined the weapon, had noted its age and the poor state of the woodwork, and the discoloration where paint had long since weathered off the metal, they fulfilled their instructions. It was only one weapon, and it came from a store that reached high inside the building’s walls. Crates of the AK range, in every state of maintenance, awaiting sale.