by Robert White
Des had obviously heard the blast and despite his own injuries, came barrelling through the door with his Bizon at the ready. He stopped in the centre of the room and took in the scene.
He grimaced at the sight. “Oh fuck, no…JJ,” he said, kneeling next to me.
Lauren put two practiced fingers on the Turk’s throat.
“Oh my God,” she said. “He’s alive…sheets, get me sheets from the bedroom.”
We packed JJ’s shocking abdominal injuries, and did our best with the compound fracture of his right femur. We needed an air ambulance, we needed Cartwright to work his magic just as he had for Lauren and me, back in Ireland.
But this was Albania, and no one was coming.
I carried JJ down the stairs. Des reversed the Sprinter up to the front door, and we laid him in the back, Des, a far more competent medic than me, climbed in the back with Lauren.
I drove.
The nearest hospital with a trauma unit good enough to treat JJ was thirty kilometres away in Kosovo. Would there be a guarded border? Would they allow us in the country? Would they treat JJ?
We didn’t know the answers, but it was all we had.
I stamped on the gas and headed north.
Des Cogan’s Story:
Lauren cradled JJ’s head on her knee as we bounced down the rutted Albanian roads. She’d administered the last of our supply of morphine to him as we set off. I held the Turk’s hand and talked shite to him, not knowing if he could hear. Looking at the blood pooled in his ears, probably not.
He was a real mess.
“How’d this happen?” I asked Lauren.
She shook her head, fighting back tears. “He did it to save us…me and Rick. He threw himself on the grenade to save our lives.”
I had no answer to that one.
We swung a left and the road became tarmac, the ride smoother. As Rick pushed the van to its limit, I felt JJ squeeze my hand.
“Okay, son,” I shouted over the screaming engine noise. “You’re going to be okay. We’re on our way to the hospital now, get you fixed up, good as new, pal.”
His eyes flickered open. “…Des,” he managed.
“You take it easy now, son,” I said.
He squeezed my hand tighter, showing surprising strength. “Des…look out for my boy… Kaya…yes? You promise me?”
“Listen, mate, come on, I’ll not have that talk. You’ll be looking after him yourself in a few weeks.”
The Turk smiled.
“There’s no point… in bullshit, my friend...please, just promise me.”
He was right of course. “I promise,” I said.
Seconds later, JJ’s body stiffened. Lauren looked concerned and checked his vitals. “He’s arresting,” she shouted. “Come on, Des, start compressions.”
Lauren spun herself around, placed one hand behind JJ’s neck and the other on his jaw, and began mouth to mouth.
I found his breastbone with the heel of my hand and began the compressions I’d practised so often in my life.
“Come on, JJ!” she shouted between breaths. “Come on, think of Kaya now, think of Grace.”
The van suddenly lurched to one side, throwing us off our task.
I bawled through the bulkhead, “For fuck’s sake, Rick, take it easy.”
I didn’t wait for an answer, just got back to work, mentally counting the compressions in ratio to Lauren’s breaths. It was roasting in the back of the van. Sweat dripped from my nose onto JJ’s chest. My ribs were agony, I struggled for breath.
Finally, a cool hand gripped my wrist, stopping my work. It moved hold my hand tight.
I looked up into Lauren’s face as tears ran down her cheeks. She shook her head. No words needed.
I banged on the bulkhead.
“Slow down, mate,” I shouted. “Turn around…we’ve lost him, pal…he’s gone.”
Rick Fuller’s Story:
I pulled to the side of the road and opened the back doors of the van.
Lauren was inconsolable. She held JJ in her arms rocking him like a child, sobbing uncontrollably. Des gingerly stepped out into the fresh air leaving her to her grief.
He lit his pipe.
“You okay?” I asked.
The Scot nodded. It wasn’t the first time we’d lost guys on jobs, guys we would have called mates, good mates, but I got the impression that this one had hit Des harder than most. He’d stayed with JJ and his missus when Lauren and I were convalescing and I think he’d become close to the kid too.
Despite his pain, he took a long pull of smoke into his lungs. “I’ll tell Grace,” he said.
I shook my head. “That’s my job, it’s my team and…”
“I want to, mate,” he said.
What was there to add?
We finally prised Lauren from JJ and she sat in the front with me in silence. Two and a half hours later, we found a spot on the coast to park the van, and holed ourselves up until darkness fell.
We wrapped JJ in the blankets we’d used to cover the boat, and, although the moon shone bright, we took our chances and pushed off for Corfu.
The moment we made land, I sent the image of Goldsmith’s corpse via SMS to Kostas Makris, and phoned Cartwright.
Konstantinos played a blinder and organised for us to store JJ’s body in a small refrigerated room at the rear of the local medical centre in Arillas. The doctor, who was a distant relative, wrote the death certificate, showing the official cause as injuries sustained in a boating accident.
From there the Firm picked up the tab for the rest, chartering a private jet to repatriate JJ’s body.
We all flew home separately.
Des Cogan’s Story:
On the day of JJ Yakim’s funeral, the long hot spell of weather finally broke and the rain poured.
As neither JJ nor Grace had any religious leanings, the ceremony took place at Manchester Crematorium. The place has the look of a church about it to be fair, and housed two chapels, but there was nothing spiritual about this day.
The crematorium did have beautiful grounds to sit in and visit should you decide to scatter your loved one’s ashes there, but Grace had other plans that she didn’t share with me.
JJ’s service was held in the smaller ‘New Chapel’.
Grace had contacted the local British Legion, and, despite JJ never having fought under a British flag, four old WWII veterans had turned up and flanked his coffin. The front two carried flags, one with the Union Ensign the second with the 2nd Battalion Para’s Standard. All of them looked smart-as, in their regimental blazers, purple berets and their chests full of medals.
The coffin itself was draped in the Turkish flag with JJ’s own Special Forces maroon beret having pride of place atop.
Sadly, the chapel was virtually empty. Apart from Rick, Lauren, me and the four old Paras, there were a further eight people.
Grace had explained that neither her nor JJ’s family had agreed with their marriage and therefore didn’t expect them to show their faces on this day.
Race and religion can be a terrible curse on occasions, can they not? Thank goodness, the RBL don’t give a monkey’s.
I’d half expected to see Cartwright skulking about at the back of the chapel, but even he had decided to stay away.
Bad form if you ask me.
We sat in silence as Grace took to the podium, her tiny frame almost totally hidden by it.
In a clear proud voice that belied her stature, she began:
“They’ll be no prayers for JJ,” she said. “No hymns, no priest or vicar here. It’s what he wanted, so it’s what he’ll be having.
But for me, I want to speak in rhyme today, something pretty, something nice, to send him on his way wherever he may be going.”
She pulled out a single page from her bag. “I found this…me and Kaya liked it….”
Grace cleared her throat:
“Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
&n
bsp; I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the mornings hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.”
There were quiet tears in the chapel, but none from Grace or the boy.
The most senior looking of the old soldiers stepped forward, took JJ’s beret from the coffin, folded the flag and handed both to wee Kaya. The lad, dressed in a smart little suit, took the items and tucked them under his arm before finding his mother’s hand again. The coffin began to roll forward as quiet organ music played. The curtains closed, and it was over.
The rain had stopped and gaps of blue began to appear in the grey sky, as I waited outside for Grace and the boy. Finally she saw me, and walked over.
“I’m sorry, Grace,” I managed.
She waved a hand at me, fighting tears now. “Don’t be sorry, Desmond,” she said. “JJ was a scrapper, a fighter. You knew that, and I knew it. He was a scrapper when I met him, and given his time over, he’d do it again. If he hadn’t been fighting with you, he’d have been working some grotty pub door, fighting the local drunks. That was him.”
She managed a brave smile. “Don’t be sorry for me, Des, I was lucky to have loved him.”
I looked down at Kaya.
He held out a very mature hand. I knelt, to match his height, took it and shook.
“Thank you for coming, Des,” he announced in his best grown-up voice.
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, wee man,” I said.
The boy hadn’t shed a tear all morning, but I could see his lip start to tremble. “Was my daddy brave?” he asked.
I smiled at him. “The bravest, son. Your daddy was the bravest trooper of them all.”
At that he threw his skinny wee arms around my neck, buried his face in my chest and broke his heart.
I think he broke mine too.
I walked Grace and Kaya to their car. As she opened the door for the boy, I pulled an envelope from my pocket and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” she asked with a hint of suspicion.
“A house,” I said. “I mean, the deeds anyway. Anne left me a house…in Scotland…I can’t…I mean…it holds too many memories for me and…well I made a promise to JJ… I’d watch out for Kaya and…”
She waved the envelope back at me. “No, Des, I can’t accept something like this, it’s…”
“It’s not for you,” I said, as firmly as I could. “It’s in trust…for the boy…when he’s eighteen. There’s a good rental income from it. You don’t need to do anything, a company does it all for ye. Please…Grace…I want to do this.”
She wiped her eyes, stepped to me, kissed my cheek and managed a smile. “I thought you were retiring? Surely the sale of that house would make you comfortable.”
“Maybe it’s not my time just yet,” I said.
Grace held my face in her small hands. “You’re a fine man, Des Cogan,” she said. “Don’t forget us, eh?”
“You’ll be sick of the sight of me,” I said.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
We sat around our usual table in the Thirsty Scholar and had a drink for JJ Yakim.
It was how it was.
Back in the day, we would always have a drink for the ones who didn’t make it back.
Part of the healing process, they say.
I have to admit, I found it hard to accept that the two families couldn’t forego their differences on this one day, and attend JJ’s service.
A brave man deserves respect.
Des bought a bottle of Jameson’s, the Turk’s preferred tipple, and we all got steadily pissed.
We toasted everything Turkish we could think of, from the Ottoman Empire to a fucking kebab. The toasts got louder and more bizarre as the afternoon wore on. Martin the Mod, the landlord, fussed around us. I think he was secretly concerned that things might get out of hand, but he’d no need to worry.
We finished the bottle and ordered pints of beer to wash it down. Des took a big gulp. “Tell, you what, guys, I’m starving, I haven’t eaten today,” he said.
“Me either,” chirped Lauren.
“How about a Chinese then?” I asked.
Des pursed his lips. “I fancy a curry, pal, let’s get a cab down to Rusholme, eh?”
“I’ll ring one now,” I said.
I dialled…and nothing happened. I looked at Lauren. “I’ve no signal,” I said. “You’re on my network, aren’t you? Have you got anything?”
She checked her screen and shook her head. “Nope, nothing…that’s weird.”
“Dinnae look at me, pal,” said Des standing up with a distinct wobble on. “My phone is where it should be on a day like today…at home.”
Lauren stood and leaned on the Scot for support. “Well there’s a rank just across the road, I’m sure the walk won’t kill us.”
I looked at the pair. “Neither of you look like you could walk to the fuckin’ bar…you’re both pissed.”
Des pointed at me, “Oh aye, and you’re not eh? Listen to it, you’re the one who toasted fuckin’ Turkish Delight a minute ago.”
We all had a laugh at that, downed our beer as the inebriated do and made for the exit. I stepped out onto the cobbles, the old railway arch above my head, the other two shuffling out behind me like a pair of old soaks.
A black Range Rove burbled away at the kerb. The moment we stepped out, a second one screeched to a halt inches behind it. Standing next to the open rear door of the first vehicle was a smartly dressed man. He was well over six feet, all buzz cut and Ray-Bans, comms in his left ear. I looked behind me to find a further two burly men, similarly attired, jackets open, shoulder holsters on view.
“What the fuck’s this?” I said.
The man at the door spoke. He was American, from the deep south, Virginia maybe?
“Mr Fuller,” he said politely. “Mr Cogan, Ms. North… ma’am… step into the vehicle, please.”
THE END