Waging War To Shake The Cold

by Wild Wolf Publishing

  Yet how can a man who has seen an entire family of civilians vaporised by a 1000lb bomb dropped by a war-plane from five miles away, a war plane called in by a jumpy US GI who punched the air and whooped when it hit; a man who has seen a blazing taxi full of screaming old men, fired upon because none of them understood the simple English command “Stop!” and the driver panicked when he saw rifles levelled at them; a man who has seen his sergeant shot dead by a twelve year old with an AK47 who had sent his little brother to ask for sweets and so get the patrol to stop in a kill zone; how can such a man accept without question and with joy in his heart the world of credit cards, shopping malls, fast food and satellite TV?

  Kats, like most who returned without physical scars, didn’t believe he needed rehabilitation. He didn’t want pity and nor did he crave any special treatment. What he wanted was respect. Respect for what he and his mates had done for civilians and government alike. The sort of respect that translated into a decent job, a decent home and a decent standard of living. The sort of respect that meant he wasn’t made to feel blame for what he’d done and seen done over there. In fact, he had come to believe that he had earned that respect. There was no doubt about it in his mind, he was owed.

  He’d signed up for five years and when his time was done he’d been glad to leave. There was only so much killing and destruction and adrenaline that you could take before you started to question the point of it all.

  His disillusionment with the army hadn’t come from the constant patrolling, the constant danger, or even from having to deal with the universally upper class command and control structure; but rather from what he believed to be the futility of the whole operation in Iraq. His wasn’t a universal view among the serving men, but neither was it unique. Like any cross-section of society, the soldiers were as polarised by the objectives of the mission as everyone else.

  They had gone in there so full of hope and energy, motivated to do the right thing, to prevent Saddam from firing his nukes, to liberate his people from his tyranny, to have a war with honour. Instead, as far as Kats could see, it had all degenerated into bloody chaos with good men being blown to bits by $30 worth of cheap electronics and semtex in the simple lottery of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  The politicians neither understood nor were able to act on the intelligence they received. As far as he was concerned they were all talk, and most of that was bullshit. When he did listen to them, what it all added up to was that there was no solution simply because there was no solution.

  When he was demobbed he’d gone home to Shettleston, simply because home is where you go when no-one else will take you in, and he had been happy to be back for, oh, about five minutes. He’d forgotten how the smallness of the community combined with the smallness of their minds depressed him. Isa was the only reason he’d stayed.

  When he’d arrived at her door as soon as he’d gotten back, she had answered it in her goonie, even though it was midday. She looked older, frailer than he remembered, but then he had been gone a while.

  “Och Kevin it’s yersel’ son, come away in. Let me put the tea on. I wish ye’d telt me ye were comin’ son, am a right mess.”

  He had told her he was coming. He’d called her from Brize when he landed and the fact she had forgotten already had alarm bells ringing right away.

  He followed into her small ground floor flat, wrinkling his nose at the mix of smells: her unwashed body, the sour sweetness of food going off, the permanent overlay of cooking fat. He could hear her laboured breathing as she shuffled ahead of him.

  “Are things okay gran?” He had always had a habit of flipping between Isa and gran.

  She had told him when he was a wee boy that she was far too young and glamorous to be a granny so he should call her Isa, but he had told her that if he had to have a gran then she was the only one that he wanted so they agreed he could use both terms, and the habit stuck. He looked around the disarray of her living room and his eyes fell on the pile of letters, most of them looking like bills, some of them with red tops.

  “Whit are these Isa?”

  “Och it’s just some letters and stuff Kevin. Am a wee bit behind because of this bronchitis that a have, it’s no’ a problem. Noo, let me get ye that tea.”

  “It’s fine Isa, am no’ thirsty. Has Linda no’ been round tae help ye?”

  “Och she’s busy herself Kevin. Jim has come round a couple of times, he’s an awfy nice man that Jim, and his new wife is lovely. She’s a foreigner, ah cannae mind where she’s from now Kevin, but she’s lovely. He’s done awfy well for himself so he has to find her.”

  Jim was Kats’ cousin. They hadn’t met for about a decade because Jim had been backpacking round the world whilst Kats was in the forces. He’d heard that Jim had come back from Mexico with an exotic new wife but they hadn’t had time to catch up. Kats knew he was a good man though, kept himself to himself and stayed well out of trouble, so at least if he was around then Isa would have someone to look after her at a pinch.

  “Whit about yer pals, Isa? How often do you see them?”

  “Pals! That’s a laff. They’re nearly all deid noo! Look son, am okay. Ye neednae worry about me. It’s just great tae have ye back. Noo, whit about that cup of tea?”

  “Okay gran, a wee cup a tea would be great. Here, let me help ye.”

  So they’d had tea and Isa had chatted away like a budgie and then he’d promised himself that he would look out for her no matter what from now on.

  When he left, he went round to see Linda, his sister, because she had offered him a bed. At first she had seemed pleased to see him but it hadn’t taken long before the old tensions between them arose.

  They’d had this knack from childhood of always taking the opposite viewpoint to one another, even, perversely, when they actually agreed on the fundamentals. If one was black, the other would have to be white. Linda had supported the war in Iraq until she came to wave Kats off and then they had had a stand up row about the legality of it all.

  The underlying friction between them was exacerbated by Linda’s new man, Frank, a local wide-boy that Kats knew from old and so had his number. Eventually it had come to the bit and Kats had to either move out or belt Frank one in his smart mouth, so he moved into a short-term rented flat in an old damp tenement in Wellshot Road, the irony of the street name not being lost on an ex-soldier.

  At first he’d thought he’d have no problem getting a job with all his experience and skills, but he’d soon had that idea knocked out of him. Unemployment in the area was running at over thirty-five percent, if you counted those in receipt of what was rather endearingly called ‘Incapacity Benefit’, and there was a lack of any sizeable employers in the immediate area.

  He didn’t mind driving or travelling to work of course, but he soon found that guys from Shettleston weren’t exactly high on the ‘must-see’ list of candidates from prospective employers.

  Shettleston boasted the lowest life expectancy for an adult male in Europe. It was even lower than that of Gaza and probably not far off the Iraq that Kats had just left. Random violence at the weekends was a way of life and included unprovoked stabbings and drink fuelled beatings; so many that they weren’t even reported in the press anymore.

  Even though he knew they were probably too busy worrying about their own problems, he was still appalled when he went into the local pubs and chatted to folk he’d known to find they didn’t seem to know or care about what had happened, was happening, in Iraq. The only stories about the conflict he heard in the media were from the anti-war lot who, as ever, took it out on the soldiers rather than the people who made the decisions.

  The media had barely covered the siege at Al Amarah: the longest single action ever undertaken by British Forces in over fifty years; a six month conflict that made epic historical sieges like Rourke’s Drift look like a picnic on a safari where the servants had tried to steal the pate.

  There was more media coverage of Amy Winehouse getting
wasted and non-events like Strictly Come Dancing on TV than there was about places where hell could open up in the streets without warning and men stood in the front line, shoulder to shoulder and back to back with bayonets fixed. Bayonets – even in the 21st century with all the high-tech war machinery, it still ultimately came down to what one man was prepared to do to another at close quarters. Young men, in their prime, fighting for… fighting for each other ultimately.

  For the first few days after he’d gotten home he had wandered around Glasgow city centre, getting his bearings and feeling his way back into civvy street by going into shops filled with people; moaning, whining people who bitched and swore if they didn’t get their choco-frappe-latte-whatever-the-fuck-that-was just the way they wanted it; spending money on things they neither needed nor really wanted. Spending money just because they had it.

  Kats had never owned a house so he was completely baffled when a non-services pal of his had told him that in the previous year he’d ‘made’ £35,000 on his house.

  “How the fuck does that work then?” Kats had asked him.

  “No problem Kats. I bought it for a hundred-and-twenty grand about six years ago and the bank guy tells me that it was worth a hundred-and-seventy grand last year so they gave us a bigger mortgage and a big fat cheque for thirty-five grand! I couldnae buleev it man. Ma monthly payments even stayed the same!”

  “I cannae understand how you can make money by getting into more debt. That seems plain daft man! You’ll have tae pay it back sometime.”

  “Ach everybody is doin’ it Kats man, it’s nae bother ta get money these days.”

  “Whit did ye do with the cash then?” Kats asked, still mystified.

  “Well, we decorated the house and that, and then we went on a cruise, and we’ve just been havin’ a right good time tae wursels ever since!”

  “Ye mean you’ve bevvied most of it.”

  His pal had grinned at his shrewd analysis of the situation.

  “Ach well, it’s only money,” he’d said. “And when you only usually earn twenty-grand a year between you it made some change to be rollin’ in it for once. We felt like millionaires, man.”

  Kats had lost it with him then.

  “You’re fuckin’ mental ye know that? Guys are laying down their lives over there so that idiots like you can make money out of fresh air and waste it on nothing. The average squaddie’s wages are only £16,000 a year and then they add £13 a day for overseas duty, which has in the job description ‘you might need to spread your guts all over a Basra street.’ What the hell is goin’ on in yer heid man? Where are people’s priorities these days?”

  “Och lighten up Kats. Yer no’ fightin’ anybody now ye know, I thought we were mates? Guys like you give me the boak ye know that? You signed up for it didn’t ye? Ye knew fine ye’d have tae fight when ye got there, so don’t come back here and fuckin’ lecture me about whit I can and cannae do with my own money. If ye don’t like it then fuck off back tae yer precious army mates.” And with that he’d stalked off muttering, leaving Kats to bite his tongue and seethe in silence.

  That was the day he called Boots.

  Chapter 13

  The doorbell chimed, echoing through the unpainted hallway.

  “That’s him,” said Pete. “Now look mate, I know you don’t like any of this shit but I need it okay, so just chill out and stay out of the way till I do the business o’rite?”

  “Hmmph,” said Kats.

  He’d watched Pete smoke industrial quantities of dope since he’d got there and had become used to the ever present spicy aroma. Half the time he thought he was buzzing himself, but since Carole was partial to a few tokes he had no allies to tell Pete to tone it down a bit.

  “I’ll put the kettle on then,” he said, finally acknowledging defeat.

  Pete rolled his eyes and headed for the door. A rangy streak of misery followed him back into the house. The pusher was a caricature of his kind: a lean and hunted look with bad skin and raggedy-arsed stubble. Kats knew there were some dealers who wore smart designer gear and drove new Mercs, but they tended to look after their more prestigious and famous clients.

  Guys like Pete got the scum to deal with and Kats did little to hide his disgust as the guy passed in the hallway, glancing briefly at him with a curt nod as he followed Pete into the sitting room. He sighed and went off to the small kitchen to make a brew.

  He’d been there for a week already and although Carole was no longer looking at him as if he was a fur-ball she’d just spat out, she wasn’t exactly playing happy families either. He could hardly blame her though, from what he’d seen so far Pete was pretty high maintenance and if it weren’t for her working all the hours at the supermarket then he wasn’t sure how they’d be getting by.

  He’d told them both from the off that he’d pay his way, he still had a few bob stashed away and that was covering his dig money, but it wouldn’t last forever. Any ideas he’d had of calling the Big Man to get it all sorted out were crushed when he’d picked up a message on his mobile. It was Boots and he’d described in fairly graphic detail what was in store for him when they caught up with him. Kats didn’t think some of the rearrangements they had planned for his anatomy would in fact be possible even under laboratory conditions, but it wasn’t best to speculate.

  It was Isa he was more worried about. If Linda hadn’t been bothering her arse to look after her before, she was hardly going to have an epiphany now and become Florence Nightingale overnight. He fished out his mobile and punched her number.

  “Linda, it’s me.”

  “Where are you? D’ye know whit they done?”

  “Whit who done?”

  “They bastards. That Boots and the others, that’s who.”

  “Linda, whit are ye on about?” But as soon as she’d mentioned Boots’ name he knew what was coming.

  “They were here lookin’ for ye. They gave Frank a right kickin’ so they did. It’s all your fault ya bastard. Whit did Frank do tae deserve that? Nuthin’. You’re nothin’ but trouble you.” He could hear the tears in her voice.

  “Okay Linda, am sorry, awrite? I didnae think they’d do anythin’ tae you. Is he hurt bad?”

  “He’s got a split lip and a black eye, but that Boots, he’s a mean bastard Kats. He pulled a knife on us and threatened tae cut me in front of him if we didnae tell him where you were. Where the fuck are ye anyway and whit is goin’ on?”

  “After whit you’ve just told me d’ye no’ think that tellin’ ye where I am would be a wee bit stupid never mind bad for your health?”

  She was quiet.

  “Ach am sorry Linda. I’m tryin’ tae get this sorted. Whit about Isa?”

  “Whit about her?”

  “Have ye been round? Tae see her? Like I asked ye?”

  “Aw for Christ’s sakes Kats, I’ve got a million things tae do than run after her. Every time I go round she’s in her goonie and tellin’ me that everythin’s fine and do I want a cup of tea. You need tae accept it: it’s time for her tae go in a home.”

  “Naw. I’ve told ye before, she’s no’ goin’ in a home.”

  “Then ye’d better get yer sorry arse back up here and look after her then ‘cos I’ve no’ got the time.” The line went dead.

  Linda’s speciality was hanging up on her terms so he couldn’t get the last word in. It used to have even more impact on the old land lines when he’d hear an audible thwack as the receiver was slammed back into the cradle. Now, the mobile’s silent buttons had robbed the moment of some of its drama, but the effect was the same. There is no witty or logical riposte that could be made to work on a dead line.

  The kettle boiled and he dropped a teabag into the cup and added the boiling water. He needed to get a plan sorted. Isa was the problem: without her in the picture he would just bugger off, but he simply couldn’t go while things were like this. He owed her.

  When his parents had turned into fuck-up junkies it was Isa that had took him and Linda in an
d brought them up. Kats had been her favourite, probably the reason why Linda was being such an arsehole about looking after her now, and he had doted on her. He remembered being wrapped up in his duffel coat, scarf tucked into the corners of the hood and a couple of sweeties slipped into his pocket as he was sent out to school in the frosty winter mornings…

  He heard Pete’s voice raised and wandered through to the sitting room to see what the fuss was.

  The pusher was stuffing his various bags into his pocket and Pete was sitting there, obviously fuming.

  “Whit’s the problem?” he said.

  “Worra fook has it gorra do with you den?” said the pusher before Pete could answer.

  “Well up until you opened yer mouth it had fuck all tae do with me, but now I’m makin’ it ma business,” said Kats coolly.

  “Oh aye, another of yer fookin’ loser army mates then is it?” the pusher said to Pete as he rose and took a step towards Kats, reaching into his back pocket to retrieve the blade he kept there just for these sorts of situations.

  Kats saw the movement and recognised its significance. He leapt forward with blinding speed and with one hand pinned the pusher’s arm against his side while he rammed his elbow into his nose, feeling with some satisfaction the septum crunch with the force.

  The pusher fell to the floor, nose gouting scarlet, and just for good measure Kats kicked him full force in the nuts. The man’s breath came out in a huge whoosh, spraying blood over Carole’s carpet, and then he lay there, beaten and struggling for breath. Kats rolled him over and pulled the blade from his back pocket.