by Robert White
When the time came, I was confident we would all do our job in our own way.
Finally, for the patient and the intolerant alike amongst us, the night turned into a grey morning and it was time to leave our hiding place for the last time.
Rick ushered us all together. He’d dressed in a new crisp white shirt and smart trousers and looked as good as I’d seen him look in years. Lauren stood at his side, her now toned legs unusually on show in a short black skirt. With her new red hair tied back in a ponytail, her subtle make-up completed her stunning look. There was an air of self-belief in that chilly lock-up. An atmosphere of confidence brought about by the knowledge that any of us was prepared to give the ultimate sacrifice for the other.
Comrades in arms, brought together by a series of incidents no one could have anticipated.
“We all ready?” he said.
“Aye, big man.”
Lauren looked at us both in turn. “Well let’s fuck off then.”
We all burst out laughing.
Rick Fuller's Story:
The 737-800 banked hard left on its final approach into Malaga and I felt like I’d been in a cattle truck for two hours. Screaming kids, buffoons in replica football shirts and stewardesses from the John Prescott school of charm and service, all made the in-flight experience one for me to forget.
I was considerably irritated by my lack of legroom, which in turn badly creased my new Duck and Cover Chinos. The three of us chose not to be seated together, so, on one side I was forced to listen to the inane twittering of someone called Olive, who had just bought a caravan in nearby Fuengirola where she was about to retire as soon as she could arrange the transportation of her two cats. On the other, a clinically obese bloke called Colin, who ate his way through the entire Subway menu which he’d packed for the route, explaining that ‘you can’t get food on these cheap flights’. Had the guy considered not pushing four thousand calories down his neck in just under an hour and a half, he might not be such a fat bastard. Add to that he spilled mayo on my Giorgio Armani shirt.
It was a good job they didn’t allow firearms on aircraft.
Just because an airline advertises itself as ‘budget’ doesn’t forgive this level of condensed offensiveness.
I will never fly in an orange plane again.
We landed with a jolt. A few of the more nervous flyers applauded the fact that we were on the ground. I managed a quick glance out over the wing to see bright sunshine, and my spirits were momentarily raised. The overall feeling of being transformed into some kind of bovine creature continued as we were herded into a ‘bendy’ bus and then shuffled through passport control.
All three of our new biometric documents passed their tests as the duty Guardia gave me a cursory glance and added, “Welcome to Malaga, Mr. Frasier.” Ms Forsyth and Mr. McGreevy were similarly greeted.
The baggage reclaim area was awash with holidaymakers and the odd person of doubtful origin as belied the close proximity of ‘Gangsters Paradise’, but for all that I felt relaxed. I popped into the gents’ and changed my stained Armani shirt for a short-sleeved powder blue number by Teddy Smith and by the time I met Des and Lauren at the Avis desk, I felt much better.
We hired a Jeep Grand Cherokee which had lots of space and good air-con but was a disappointing drive. In just over ninety minutes we were pulling up outside The Hotel Park Plaza Suites in Puerto Banus.
It is an excellent hotel with only forty-five double rooms and five business suites, all of which overlook the stunning harbour. Staying at the Park Plaza also gains you access to the elite beach club and keeps you firmly away from the rest of the cattle I had the unfortunate experience of flying with.
Lauren and Des were in a room together which kept down our costs but didn’t seem to please Lauren much. I, of course, had a business suite which had a living room suitable for any briefings we might have.
Once I’d unpacked I found my PAYG mobile and sent the text Spiros needed to start the weapon drop. I wiped it from the phone memory, took a shower and changed into more suitable clothes for a trip to the beach bar.
Lauren North's Story:
Well at least the room had twin beds.
Sometimes I got the impression I was more ‘one of the lads’ than I would care to be.
Des was mildly amused, but unfazed by the outcome. I knew he had other, more pressing matters on his mind, like finding a boat to hire that he could sail to Gibraltar. He didn’t even unpack, simply rooted out his PAYG phone and his pipe and tobacco, before pointing in the general direction of the beach and saying, “I’m off to the marina, and I’ll catch y’later.”
As for me, I was keen to check out the hotel gymnasium and Jacuzzi. Also, as The Plaza Suites had one of the most exclusive beach clubs in the Med, I figured I could start a tan.
Well, there had to be some positives to risking your neck.
I found Rick sitting in the pool bar nursing a fresh orange juice and scanning the menu. He had changed yet again and I marvelled at his collection of designer clothes. He had kept his legs covered with a pair of very lightweight linen trousers, obviously self-conscious of his scarring, and complemented them with a beautiful deep blue Ralph Lauren Polo shirt. I presumed his Ray-Bans were real, unlike my own Gucci copies.
I wore a bikini and matching kaftan from Marks and Sparks and a pair of gold sandals from Primark. To add to my lack of chic wardrobe, every woman around the pool made Elle McPherson look fat and ungainly. My old lack of self-confidence was making a spectacular comeback.
Rick looked up from the extensive à la carte lunchtime offerings and removed his sunglasses to take in what he saw.
He paused at my sandals. Finally he looked into my face and smiled, his eyes like two glittering pools a woman could fall into.
“You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“You look beautiful.”
I nearly fell over, until he added, “When we’ve eaten, I’m taking you shopping.”
Des Cogan's Story:
One of the things I like about Spain is they have the common sense to allow bars to be either ‘smoking’ or ‘non-smoking’, unlike Scotland where, as usual, we had to endure Blair’s cigarette police in every bloody establishment in the country; and for a year longer than the English. To me it was the bloody Poll Tax all over again.
I found a small British (for that read English) pub that allowed us lepers left in the community to indulge in our pleasure away from the burning heat of the Mediterranean sun; the kind of heat that turned the average blue-tinged Scottish skin blood-red within seconds. `
It was built like a typical English pub too. It boasted a small games room, in which a quality pool table and dartboard jostled for space. I instantly realised that there just wasn’t room for the two sports to be played simultaneously. Then I saw a pretty ancient poster. Darts held court on Mondays Wednesdays and Fridays. Today was obviously pool day and two very burly guys wearing more gold than Ratners, lumbered around the table being very Cockney.
The main bar was laid out as a restaurant and food was obviously the king. Attractive waitresses in traditional black and white outfits buzzed around the neat tables. The place did well and you could see why.
Despite leaning towards the new ‘gastro inn’ style of pub, the Midge Hall Tavern sold an excellently pint of Guinness at just under a fiver, not bad for this part of the town, believe me. The front terrace of the pub looked directly onto the marina and therefore directly onto about a billion pounds’ worth of boats. The only thing that separated the pub’s small patio from the water was a narrow strip of road; this was invariably blocked by equally expensive motors. By the time I was on my second pint, served by a very amiable ex-Lancashire copper-turned-landlord, and ordered the Chicken Caesar Salad (twenty-two pounds), I’d seen more Ferraris and Lamborghinis that you could shake the proverbial stick at.
I was considering how I was going to go about hiring a decent cruiser. Money wasn’t an issue, neither was my qua
lification to sail her myself as I’d got all my credentials years ago. It was just a question of finding the right craft and someone who wasn’t going to ask too many questions.
You know what people say but. Every time they go away on a break, they tell the same tale. ‘It’s a small world by the way, I was on ma holidays in bloody Spain and I ran into this fella I hadnae seen since I was wee’.
Well that was just the feeling I had when I heard the unmistakable voice.
“What the fuck you doin’ here, doin’ here, Des?”
I hadn’t seen Jimmy ‘Two Times’ since that night over the water when we dropped ‘that’ package in the DLB.
I’d never really known him well and I didn’t have cause to work with the guy afterward, not many did. When I’d asked some of the lads about him, long after I’d lost track of Rick, they said Jimmy had left the Regiment. Apparently his speech problems worsened and he couldn’t continue. No one was that close to him, he was a loner because of his talking, like. He had a bit of a stutter and when he did speak, he said everything twice. It was like working with a fuckin’ echo.
He was a good bloke though, and Rick liked to use him on ops. That was always good enough for me.
I took his hand and it was as rough and as strong as I’d remembered. He held me with a genuine smile.
“Nice to see you, man.”
I waited for the repeat, but it never came.
“And great to see you, Jimmy. Fuck me! It must be ten years, mate.”
“February sixth, 1996, Des.”
“Wow, I wouldn’t have known the exact date but, yeah, ten fuckin’ years. Listen, you’re looking fit y’ bastard.”
“I get some in, pal.”
I suddenly realised that this was the longest conversation I’d ever had with Jimmy, when not talking into a radio.
“And the erm…” I pointed at my mouth like a full on idgit.
He looked extraordinarily pleased with himself.
“I went to a speech therapist in Doncaster, ’n she sorted me out like, I only do it now ’n again, now ’n again.”
I felt a twinge of guilt. I always accepted Rick’s decision to bring Jimmy in on an operation, he always did a pro job when I was involved, but I thought he was just muscle and not much more. Now, he stood in front of me, all smiles, suntan and perfect teeth.
You could tell he worked outside. Deep lines ran like a motorway network along his forehead and he obviously still liked to fight. New scar tissue sliced thin pink trace lines around his left eye.
Jimmy had given up on what hair he had and now shaved his head. The whole of his cranium sported a spectacular tattoo that snaked down the left of his neck, and disappeared down into a black vest that was struggling to contain his considerable pecs. He would never have been allowed such a noticeable tattoo in the Regiment. Any obvious mark or trait was frowned upon by the grey men.
He was still hired muscle, no question of that, but he had a brain. His eyes flicked around the patio, taking in everything and everyone in it. Back in the day, I suppose we all thought that because he couldn’t join in the craic with the team and that, he was thick or antisocial or something.
We were wrong, by the way.
He pulled a stool over and sat. It felt really good to see him. I suppose I was feeling a bit edgy, and someone from the old days was a relief.
The landlord was over in a second. He obviously knew Jimmy, he was all smiles. “Pint of Bomber, Jim?”
“Please, Keith.”
Keith looked at me with a new vigour. It would seem that any acquaintance of Jimmy’s was a very good friend of his. He saw I was halfway down my pint.
“Another, sir?”
“Aye, why no?”
Keith retired to pull the beer and Jimmy was straight to it.
“Did you ever see Rick?”
I nearly spat my Guinness out.
“Rick who?”
Jimmy double checked his surroundings.
“You know just who I mean, Des, Rick Fuller.”
I held Jimmy’s eyes with mine.
Searching his gaze.
Asking the question.
The only important question.
Can I fucking trust you, pal?
He didn’t wait for me to solve the puzzle.
“I resigned my post because of what they did to Rick Fuller, Des. I was at that drop, the DLB that night, back in ’96. I dropped Rick off, me and Butch. Remember? You did the obs for us.”
I nodded. What else could I do?
“We dropped Rick back at the DLB. He insisted that it was kept secret, and it was. Butch took it to his grave. Killed in Iraq he was. Did you hear?”
I shook my head. “No, Jimmy, I didn’t.”
He shrugged in matter-of-fact sort of way. “He went down in a sandstorm in a Chinook. Him and Kelly Sergeant. You remember him, Des?”
I again shook my head. I’d heard his name mentioned but that was all.
Jimmy was on a roll.
“I heard Rick was dead, killed late last year, so we’re the only ones left. We never knew what he found out that night. Then his wife got the good news the day after. The Paddies claimed responsibility within hours. C’mon, Des, you must‘ve thought somethin’ was wrong?”
He leaned in close, he smelled of coconuts.
“I knew there was somethin’ wrong with that job. People in power talked in front of me because they thought I was thick, or dumb. You know what I’m saying?”
I didn’t react; I was waiting for the punch line.
“There’s no way the PIRA had recce’d Rick’s place. Fuck me; I didn’t know where he lived and he liked me. They were tipped by someone inside, Des. Rick was hung out to dry by the Regiment.”
Our beer came and we lapsed into silence until Keith was out of earshot.
“I knew where he lived, Jimmy. He called me straightaway. I went there just after he found Cathy. It was fucking atrocious, mate. The man went to pieces.”
“Bastards.”
“Yeah, I’m with you on that one.”
Jimmy was like a dog with a bone. “So you never kept in touch?”
I figured the truth was easiest. Jimmy had this weird thing about reading your actions. Some thought it was creepy.
“I kept in touch for a while. The guy lost the plot, you know? Hit the bottle big time. Then, one day I went round to his bedsit and he was gone. No forwarding address, nothing.”
Jimmy scratched his head but his dark eyes searched my face. “And you never saw him again?”
He looked me in the eye and did that weird thing he did. He must have recognised something. A glimmer of emotion or something, I don’t know what. But he grabbed me by the wrist and almost spat out his words.
“He’s fuckin’ here, isn’t he? You’re here with him and you’ve come for them, haven’t you?”
“Come for who, Jimmy? What the fuck are you on about?”
Jimmy looked around him once more and leaned in again. This time there was a hint of fear in his eyes, and he was not a man to scare easily.
“You’re here for Charlie, Champagne Charlie Williamson.”
Rick Fuller's Story:
Lauren had chosen grilled shrimps with rocket and parmesan. It arrived together with warm fresh bread and a pot of herb butter. I had sea bass in lemon and parsley, no potatoes, but a side of Greek salad.
I ordered an ice cold bottle of J-M Brocard Chablis Premier Cru 2005, to complement our food. It had a flinty almost mineral taste to it, whilst being fresh, fruity and light. The perfectly turned out waiter delivered it with a flurry. He offered me a small taste, waited, and I nodded that the wine was agreeable. He positively sloshed the freezing liquid into large fishbowl-shaped glasses rabbiting on about how good a choice I had made before retiring to leave us in peace.
I was starting to enjoy myself.
Lauren did indeed look beautiful. I saw at least five or six guys risk admiring glances in her direction whilst we waited for food. Had it not b
een for her appalling taste in sandals, she would have had many more. I was sure of it.
We ate slowly and in almost total silence, both of us absorbing the atmosphere and the warm sunshine. It seemed a million miles from dead teenagers and poky hotels in Manchester.
I suggested Lauren change for our expedition and, although she looked a little embarrassed, I think she was looking forward to our shopping trip. She drained the last of her Chablis and disappeared to her room. I signed the bill and strolled to the cool lobby to wait for her.
All the big designer names had outlets in Puerto Banus, plus the El Corte Ingles was a good department store, so we were not short of places to shop.
The lift doors opened and Lauren stepped out. She’d opted for her FCUK T-shirt which I’d seen before and a short denim skirt. White Adidas tennis shoes completed the picture.
She raised a questioning brow.
“Better,” I said, “much better.”
The doorman hailed a taxi and before we knew it we were pulling up outside Emporio Armani.
I opened the glass door and ushered Lauren into the cool air-conditioned store. I waved away the stick-thin tangerine-coloured assistant who had a cold or a coke problem and set about my task. I’d always been a Giorgio fan and went to town finding Lauren a pair of lemon beach sandals and a lovely pair of white kitten-heeled shoes for evening wear.
The assistant was a little shocked when I paid the six hundred Euros in cash. I gathered not many people ventured far away from plastic in a place like Banus.
We exited into the fierce heat of the afternoon and headed for the harbour on foot. Lauren carried her designer shopping bag and wore a massive grin. She pleaded with me not to spend any more money, so, as I knew a nice pub with a terrace on the waterfront called the Midge Hall and I fancied a cold drink whilst watching the world go by, that was the plan.
Lauren North’s Story
I had to say, I was impressed. Rick made shopping so easy. Well it is very easy when you can spend four hundred and twenty pounds on two pairs of shoes and not even blink, isn’t it?