Battle Sight Zero

by Gerald Seymour

  They had come to the hotel, had checked in, and she had been handed two room keys, and she had looked at him, straight into his eyes, and there had been a boldness to her gaze. Andy had reckoned there would not have been a boy either in Savile Town or at the university who had seen those eyes, and the challenge in them. They had gone up the stairs and dumped their bags. The bed in her room was big enough for two, a tight fit, but he had eased away from her as she dropped her bag on the floor, and said something about the length of the drive, and a headache building, and had shrugged as if his control over tiredness and pain was not great. They had gone out of the hotel, a little place on a side-street off the Rue de la République, 55 euro a single room, or 65 euro for a double. He assumed the booking had been made before she had felt the isolation, and fear, of being far from home, alone, only a pretend boyfriend for company, and two singles would have seemed appropriate then . . . not now, why he had needed to pretend that he slept, affected a slight snore in a gentle rhythm, and had told lies about exhaustion and the ache behind his eyes and the need for a good rest after the drive.

  Across the table, picking at a croissant, she looked confused, at a loss. Two other couples had come into the breakfast room. One pair spoke in accents of the south of England and the other ones, from the flags sewn on to their windcheater sleeves, came from New South Wales. Both wives would have thought the boy at the corner table looked decent enough, and both husbands would have run their eyes over her and thought her attractive: all four would have sensed the tension between them, and he was mostly looking at the cornice work on the ceiling edge and she was locked on her plate. They had exchanged a meaningless greeting, and something about the forecast being good for a dry day, and a bit of sunshine, and was it not a shame that the wind had a chill in it. Andy had made a smile of sorts, she had responded with a stare, the old one of the rabbit in the headlights, and neither had replied.

  An evening meal in a bistro off the main street. He would damn near have killed for a beer but had declined: alcohol and work mixed a sour cocktail. The place was expensive but she had insisted on paying and she’d bought a half-bottle of wine for herself – like she was steeling her courage for later. They had eaten and he’d noted her growing impatience with the slow service, and they had walked back, collected the keys from the desk and gone up the stairs together. It was pretty much as laid down in the bible of SC&O10. He doubted he had made a good enough job of the tiredness from the drive and the headache racking his brain. Bald excuses given . . . she had turned on her heel on the landing, had had difficulty slotting her key in the lock, had finally managed and had – sharp temper – kicked open her door. It had slammed behind her. He had felt lousy, inadequate . . . had seen the anger flash in her eyes and had believed then that he had demeaned himself, sold her short, believed also that she was a picture of prettiness when fury blazed across her face.

  He finished his juice, could not manage more coffee. She pushed away her plate, left the croissant unfinished, and scraped her chair back. He looked across at her, then reached out and let his fingers rest on her wrist. She stood. Andy watched.

  Zeinab – no backward glance – strode out of the breakfast room, went into the lobby area. She had a small notebook in her hand, and was rummaging in a pocket for her mobile. She made a call. He could not hear what she said. Rang off, dialled another number, was briefer. Then came back and stood beside his chair. Her expression had changed, as if business had been done and matters settled. In a clear voice she told the English and the Australians that they would now be heading off to do the tourist bit, see that bridge that was short of a span, and the Papal Palace, and . . . she tapped his shoulder, flicked her head. Time for them to move . . . like a shower had passed, like the sun now shone . . . In the night he had heard her footsteps in the corridor, had reckoned she paused at his door, would have listened. He had done the snore, loud enough for her to hear. She might have been outside his room for half a minute, then she had retreated, and her door had clicked shut, and he stopped the snoring.

  ‘You have a great day,’ the English wife said.

  They were in the lobby, and she paid the bill for their two rooms.

  The Australian husband called after her, ‘Have a brilliant time – don’t do anything we geriatrics wouldn’t do – or couldn’t.’

  Laughter played behind her. She might have blushed.

  They went upstairs, each to their own room. The silky new nightdress was neatly folded on top of her clothes but she ferreted deep in the bag and pulled out the bulging money belt. Zeinab hooked open the waist of her jeans, lifted her blouse and fastened the strap around her waist. She heard the knock on the door, and it was pushed open. She pulled down her blouse, covered the belt, and zipped up her jeans. He carried his rucksack.

  She looped her arms round his neck, straightened his head, made him look into her face, then kissed him . . . It had been so cold in the corridor in the night and she had shivered outside his door, only the nightdress covering her, and she had heard the noise from inside, the same as her father made when he slept in the room at home next to hers . . . They talked about it in the Hall of Residence. The girls on her landing gathered in huddles and part of the talk was whispered and part was covered with laughter, and they swapped stories of good times, funny times and horror times. All except her. She was on the periphery, had nothing to contribute. They exchanged detail on size, and how long it lasted, whether he knew what to do or had to be shown, and who put the condom on and who was prescribed the pill, and whether – afterwards – it felt good or was just a sweaty experience and not as satisfactory as a run round a few pavements. Zeinab did not know the answers, and did not join in . . . kissed him, was content that her phone calls were made, her belt in place, the bill paid. She felt him soften, tension dripping away from his muscles, and his eyes lost their stress.

  She took his hand and they came down the stairs and his rucksack was hitched on his shoulder and he carried her bag, and the money belt was tight on her skin and cold. She led him towards the outside door and they passed the breakfast room.

  The Australian wife called out, ‘A really great day, that’s what you need.’

  The husband said, raucous in his own humour, ‘That’s the way, guys, best foot forward and no mischief.’

  The sunlight caught her face, and she pushed some strands of loose hair back from her forehead. The first call had been good, and she had made her request and heard a little snigger in response, and the second call had been answered. The sunlight was powerful but the wind gusted down the side road and lifted spent, dried leaves against her body . . . Briefly, in the depths of the night, she had believed she had lost control – now had regained it. She held his hand. They walked along the street as the boutiques were opening, and shutters were noisily lifted. Either, or both, of those couples might have been in front of her in a shopping mall in Manchester’s Arndale, or a mall anywhere, and she’d not have cared, would have dropped them, had taken back control. She gripped his hand and they went down the street, towards the Palace and the bridge.

  What had happened in the night? Nothing had happened . . . It would happen, at the end of the day, tonight, it would happen then.

  The freighter, with a schedule to keep, and poor stabilisers, ploughed into the swell, broke through the white crests of the waves, rocked and shook, and seemed at times to hit a wall of water, then staggered and pushed on. The wind that whipped the storm was the mistral, and it could rise in intensity to gale force. The captain, rarely off the bridge, was experienced in travelling the routes of the Mediterranean and understood the area south of the French coastline, taking in the islands of Corsica and Sardinia, and crossing as far south as the shores of Libya and Tunisia, some of the most treacherous on any of the world’s oceans. The motion was merciless, and no crew member without a specific job was on deck. He talked constantly to the engineer of the need for speed, but also to safeguard the health of the elderly turbines. Radio silence was n
ot broken. There was a connection he could make on the ship-to-shore system, but he was to be paid healthily for keeping to a timetable, and the promise was on the table of further runs and further increments in cash. The cargo that mattered, the one for which the Margarethe tossed in the storm, was small, wrapped in greaseproof and tougher protection, and in his cabin. The captain felt he was on trial. If his work prospered then bigger cargoes were promised, and money was talked of that would smooth and speed his progress to retirement . . . maybe a villa on the Italian coast north of Genoa . . . but the cargo had a deadline for delivery. The freighter pitched and sank and was tossed upwards. Away in a haze to the north was the indistinct line of the shore, but offering no shelter. It was a bad wind, the mistral had no lovers among the seamen working those waters . . . bad for him and his crew but worse, far worse, for those who’d meet the planned rendezvous at sea. In spite of conditions, the Margarethe made good time.

  ‘Are they going to be able to do it?’ Crab asked.

  ‘Why not? It’s what I pay them for,’ Tooth answered.

  The wind’s pitch had freshened. Even with rugs and thick coats, the force of it was too severe for them to lie out on the recliners kept on the patio. The sea view, impeccable, was diminished behind the plate glass windows. They drank coffee . . . Crab had no sea legs, distrusted the water, might have admitted to having a greater fear of an ocean’s depths, in bad weather, than anything else that had confronted him. A pot, with a geranium in it, was caught by a gust and flipped on its side, then careered over the width of the patio. What they could make out of the sea’s surface, through the glass that was encrusted with the sand brought across from Africa by the mistral, was a mess of white caps. They talked nostalgia, what they were best at. Since neither could verify the stories of the other, it was possible that the anecdotes were either true or a fantastic fiction of fake news. Unimportant, they were old friends, and amused each other.

  ‘We did this job, centre of Manchester, the smart end of the city, cracked a jewellers, and we’d lifted a souped-up BMW saloon for the getaway. Trouble was, coming out with balaclavas still on and carrying pickaxe handles, and all the loot, an off-duty cop was passing – got a description of our wheels. We were tuned into the radio. Nothing followed us, we were clear . . . What happened? Believe it. The retired Head of Finance, pillar of the city bosses, the council, had the same model, same colour. He picked up half a dozen cop cars. Was rammed off the road, and when they’d finished apologising we were long gone . . . Trust me, one of the better ones.’

  ‘My favourite, here in Marseille, when the Ministry targeted me – personally named me in briefings – the premier smack importer of the city. A team was formed to investigate me, a conviction demanded by Paris. In that team, I promise you, each officer was on my payroll. Each one, eight of them. I was then the Sun King of the third arrondissement. All of them now live in good properties by the Botanical Gardens and an easy walk to the Prado beaches. It was a comfortable time.’

  They competed.

  ‘Not, of course, what it used to be.’

  ‘Used to be respect.’

  ‘We were decent people.’

  ‘My word was my bond.’

  ‘No honesty among the young today.’

  ‘And the way they wave these AKs around, like it’s just a toy.’

  ‘We had the best days, Tooth.’

  ‘Lucky to have lived when we did, Crab.’

  And another pot was cracked, and Crab told the story about his hacker boys getting through the cyber defences of the city’s main supermarket chain, and lodging an order for boxes of food for free delivery, no charge, to a food-bank warehouse. Kept it up for two weeks and then signed off with sincere thanks from ‘Robin Hood, Sherwood Mansions, Near Nottingham’ . . . It had been eight years ago but he still told it and Tooth would never let him know he had heard it before, word for word, like a fucking gramophone record with a scratch.

  Tooth said that he had the best relations with the cops than any of the big men that had gone before him in the city. Their wives knew him and would near curtsey if there were a party and he was introduced, and their teenage kids greeted him with averted eyes, no lip, called him ‘Sir’, and bankers queued to manage his investments, and the presents that were courier-delivered at Christmas filled a spare bedroom.

  ‘Great days.’

  ‘The best, we were privileged.’

  ‘And you know what I am thankful for, Tooth?’

  ‘What’s that, Crab?’

  ‘That I’m not on that fucking water tonight.’

  ‘Like I said, they get paid. They don’t like it, then they should have stayed pimping.’

  Karym watched his brother go.

  Astride the Ducati Monster, the wind making river trails in his hair, Hamid powered away, rode out of the project, swerved between the big rocks across the entrance to La Castellane.

  He thought his elder brother gripped by a foul, sullen mood. He did not know the reason, knew only that Hamid was at work on behalf of the old man – clapped out, past it, from yesterday – who had once been called Tooth: now, likely, had none. Too old, fucked up, teeth rotten or fallen out. He did not know why his brother danced to a tune called by this man who should years before have gone to the knacker’s yard.

  Himself, Karym felt good – better than good. Hard to remember when he had last experienced that degree of elation.

  The Ducati was gone. He had been told where he should be the next day, at what hour. That seemed secondary. His brother had snapped the instructions at him, his mouth quivering and his lips narrowed, and his fists on the bike handles had trembled, and the wind had ripped at his leather coat: cost him close to a thousand euros, but his brother still refused to pay for better transport for Karym, nothing as good as the Piaggio MP3 Yourban . . . The cause of his excitement? It was a declaration of war. War was about firearms. Rifles would be issued.

  It had been the most intense sensation in his short life, Karym had claimed to his brother. The moment that the kid beside him, holding the weapon at his throat, had been taken down by the marksman. Blood on him, and the kid’s piss, and perhaps some brain tissue. An incredible shot, might only have had a quarter of the head to aim at. The shot of a genius – Samson. They said Samson was a killer, an executioner in history . . . a brilliant marksman and he would have liked more than anything, to meet the man, be face to face with him. Not to thank him, but to admire him . . . and it had been the start of the war that would now follow. War was important.

  War brought shape and purpose to life in the housing blocks. The kids would be armed, would go to a state of alert . . . For himself there was the prospect that Hamid would give him a Kalashnikov, one for him to have, hold, look after, one for him to own . . . Karym had in his room on that high floor of the building he shared with his sister, every book available in the French language on the history and working of the Kalashnikov. He could recite the dates of manufacture for each phase of the weapon’s development. He knew which of the liberation movements had been sold the AK – the Klash, the Chopper. He could explain how the version sold to the People’s Army of North Vietnam had proved superior to the rifles of the American marines: knew it all. War would be his best chance, for all that his arm was withered, of handling one, having it under his bed and with a magazine loaded, and with the sites set down at the extremity for Battle Sight Zero, close range. Might . . . His brother ignored him if he talked of the AK. His sister would switch on the TV, turn the sound to its loudest, if he spoke of it. None of the kids who existed off Hamid’s cash cared about the theory, the culture, of the most amazing weapon ever built. He had no one with whom to share his enthusiasm.

  But that was detail. More important was war. He presumed it, war, fascinating and unpredictable, brilliant. He walked across the project towards the van that came each midday to La Castellane and cooked burgers . . . What he should do, Hamid’s instruction, and the hour for it, confused him, and where he should be after
wards. But he had not argued, queried – might have been kicked if he had.

  Andy led, followed the Avignon tourist signs.

  Held her hand and thought her more relaxed than he’d have expected. He could not say how she had lifted the stress off her shoulders. She talked, he listened. It would be a first time . . . Andy had not been with any of the women on the animal rights group, nor with the girls who hung around on the edge of the cannabis courier gang. Two or three times, on the pavement, pedestrians had come either side of them, and they’d been pushed together, and their bodies had touched. They went down to the river, where the coaches ejected their passengers, saw the bridge, then climbed steep steps in a tower, and she’d laughed at the thought of her needing help, but it was windy at the top, and she had a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

  ‘You good?’

  ‘Fine – very good.’

  ‘You deserved the break.’

  ‘Did I, how did I?’

  ‘Getting your essay done, didn’t you say you had . . .?’

  She flustered. ‘I did . . .’

  ‘Go well?’

  ‘Went good, a decent mark, and . . .’

  He knew she lied. But then if her mind was on couriering Kalashnikovs, imagining them blasting in a concert arena or at a bus station, then an essay on whatever turgid aspect of her study discipline a lecturer had chosen was unlikely to be top of the heap. But a lie was a lie, and she’d looked away quickly.

  And she wondered . . .

  . . . wondered about his future.

  Should not have done. Not her concern. Just a lorry driver. Pliable and easy to manipulate. Devoted and simple, and without intelligence – and a possibility that he could provide what she might most want.