by Phil Redmond
‘And this is more of you trying to manage my PTSD and steer me away from my particular problem, and grief, is it? Engage me in the more general scenario relating to the global drugs trade?’
‘Yep. But it’s not just drugs, is it? It’s like all crime. Or conflict. Or corruption. Like when we went over to Basra. Round ’em up. Explain that there’s a better way to make a buck than turning over the neighbours. And if, or when, they didn’t embrace democracy, hand out a good smacking. If we do it over there, why don’t we do it here?’
‘Which, I think, is why we are here,’ Luke said. ‘How far do you reckon that is?’
Matt brought the spotting scope up to his eye. ‘Twelve hundred. Downhill. No wind. Back soon.’ He pulled off his waterproofs and slid out of the hide.
The Barrett is generally considered an anti-material weapon with an effective range of 1800 metres but a maximum range of around 6800 metres, although at that distance it was more for harassment than accuracy. At 1800 metres its job was to stop vehicles by punching a hole in an engine block. But that took a bit of time as the fluids leaked and the engine seized. Unless you got lucky and took out a steering rod or ball joint. Every sniper knew that the best way to stop a vehicle was to kill the driver. For that Luke would have preferred an Accuracy International L115A3, but at 1200 metres a No. 1 Sniper, like Luke, could use the Barrett to kill the fat lump he now had centred in his scope. It did not have to be a precise head shot and he could also do it with much less remorse than he had when shooting at the Taliban. At least, he thought, they were fighting for something they believed in, no matter what you made of it, but as far as Luke was concerned, the guy running the chippy was nothing. A parasite feeding on the community. A canker or cancer to be taken out. Maybe not tonight. As tonight was about the explosive force the Barrett could deliver. The shock and awe of blowing things apart. One night, though. Soon. Perhaps tomorrow.
‘His face, though.’ Carol was scanning the pizza across the self-service till. ‘He probably thought it was Buffy Croft, the Hoodie Slayer or something.’
Becky laughed, then reverted to default anxiety. ‘But, what if he’d been like that loser with the knife the other week, Tan?’
‘As if. That ’tard was Barry Lupton’s little brother. He probably hasn’t even got hairs between his legs yet.’
‘Probably about all he’s got down there,’ said Carol. ‘We can’t have this one.’ She was reading the ingredients on the pizza box. ‘The chicken’s reconstituted.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Becky, taking the box from her.
‘It says “made from” not “made with”. If it’s “from” that means it’s mushed up bits pressed into a shape. If it’s “with” it means whole pieces.’ She headed off into the shelving maze.
Becky waited for her to disappear between Meals and Soups before she turned back to Tanya. ‘What do you really think? About Huz?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘I’m asking.’
‘I know, but do you really want to know the answer? Or do you just want reassurance that Carol’s got one of her things going about him? Did you put this Cookie Dough in?’
‘You sound just like my mum.’
‘Did you?’
‘Er, yeah. Sorry. It’s just that …’
‘What, missing your Pharaoh and need some comfort food?’
‘I’ll put it back.’
‘No way. It means I can keep my Cookies ’n’ Cream.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘You didn’t answer mine.’
‘You sure you really want to know?’
‘Well, yeah.’
‘OK. He’s creepy.’
Tanya was right. It wasn’t exactly the response Becky was hoping for.
‘Is she in all night then?’ Joey finally asked, as the Q7 came across the old Victorian swing bridge into Highbridge. He had been sitting brooding, trying to figure out how to salvage something of his planned evening. He’d been thinking it through since Wednesday when she told him both the boys were going to be going on sleepovers. With Lucy out at ballet, for the first time in God only knew when they would have the house to themselves for most of the evening. They usually only had an hour by the time they got back from the station, before he had to start his regular Friday night taxi collection service. Stay by the corner. Don’t speak. Just drive. He knew the drill.
‘Don’t know. She just said that she and Carol were trying to keep Becky occupied and away from some bloke.’ Natasha leaned over and squeezed his thigh. ‘But thanks for the flowers.’
‘Why, though?’
‘Because yellow roses are my favourite. And because I love the way you love me.’
Joey looked across and she had that wicked grin again. ‘And I love the way you love me too, but why is Tanya keeping Becky under house arrest?’
‘She’ll tell me tomorrow.’
Joey gave an exaggerated exhale of breath. Fed up. ‘My daughter’s sabotaging my homecoming and you haven’t even got the inside track to gossip about. Should have agreed to go out with the lads over to—’ But he was interrupted by a sharp blow to his right biceps as Natasha’s left arm lashed out, just as he spotted something, or someone, on the side of the road. ‘Pull over. Just for a sec.’
‘What for?’
As soon as she stopped he was out of the car and moving towards the Costa. Natasha turned to see Joey hand-clutching and shoulder-hugging Matt who was now carrying a couple of to-go’s and a panini bag.
‘How’s it going?’ Joey asked.
Matt glanced across at the car and waved to Natasha as he spoke.
‘Does she, er, know anything?’
Joe just looked at him. Get real.
Matt nodded. ‘Friggin’ freezing up there in the wind, but we’ve got the fatty’s POLO down to the minute. We know more about him than Tesco do on his Club Card.’
‘Er, what’s his POLO?’ Joey asked, once again bewildered by jargon.
‘Pattern of Life Operations. Another yankism,’ Matt explained.
‘You positive it’s happening?’ Joey asked.
‘Positive,’ Matt confirmed. ‘He slips the gear in with the fish and chips. Just have to know the right combo to ask for.’
‘What? Fish and chips with salt, vinegar and throw in a bit of crack?’
‘It’s slightly more subtle than that. But, basically, yeah. Cod is coke. Has a “C”. Haddock has a “H”. For smack.’ Then in answer to Joey’s puzzled look, ‘Yeah. Smack. Heroin.’
‘What would I get if I asked for jellied eels?’
‘Funny looks. You been down sarf too long,’ Matt replied.
‘Tell me about it,’ Joey replied with a giveaway glance at the Q7. An obvious raw nerve. ‘But how’s it work?’
‘Like all scams.’ Matt grinned. ‘Dead simple when you figure it out. They have their own currency.’
‘What?’
‘Druggie meets the banker round the corner. Druggie hands over cash. Banker hands back note. Any note. Fiver, tenner, whatever, right? Druggie then gets back same note with a C or H or whatever on it.’ He held out his arms. Simple. Then chuckled again. ‘But not J. And they couldn’t do cockles either. ’Cos that’d have to be C too.’
‘Could be an E, though,’ Joe offered. ‘For eels.’
Matt nodded, taking the point. ‘Or E for Ecstasy, I suppose. Anyhow, druggie then takes marked note in to Fatty, say, one with a C. “Cod and chips” he asks for, but Fatso waits until he sees the C note. Recognises a real customer and gives him a special.’
‘Neat. But how does he pass over the goods without others seeing him?’ Joey asked.
‘We haven’t got that next link in the chain. But we will,’ he added with a grin as he directed Joey’s eyes to the Q7. ‘Haven’t you got things to do?’
Joey glanced back at the waiting car. Like Natasha earlier, he could see a familiar look and read familiar body language. Even at 20 yards. ‘Er, yeah. I’
ll catch you tomorrow.’
Sean was looking for his cufflinks. He wore them so infrequently he never remembered where he put them. And he couldn’t ask Sandra because she would remind him of the fact. Sod it, he thought, and as usual folded back the cuffs. He spent a fortune on Sandra’s jewellery but never bothered much himself. He liked watches, though. She had bought him a gold Longines out of their first year’s dividend from the garden centre, but he got so fed up taking it off every time he had to roll his sleeves up properly that it stayed in the drawer for five years. Then one Christmas she surprised him with a Jaeger-Lecoultre Polo. It was, he had discovered, originally designed in 1931 for actually playing polo. As such, the watch could slide and be swivelled in its case to show only the steel back and protect it from stray mallet attacks. It now very rarely left his wrist, and the back plate displayed both the scars of history and the practicality of the design.
It was something Sean had come to appreciate more as his wealth grew. That the things often seen as the symbols of wealth usually started life with a very practical purpose. True, there was very little demand for playing polo in Highbridge, but the watch survived the rigours of potting conifers, even if the straps didn’t.
‘I need a new strap for my watch,’ he called out to Sandra.
‘Right now?’
‘Next time you’re in having your jewellery serviced.’ Then his mind changed tack. How ridiculous was all this? How ridiculous is life. From peeling icy curtains from frosted windows to living in a six-bedroomed house with constant hot water, and wanting a new strap for a watch that was worth more than a few months’ pay for most of his staff, simply because he was too sentimental to take it off.
Sandra emerged from the dressing room looking, as she always did, as though she’d stepped off a fashion shoot but immediately picked up his now pensive mood. ‘C’mon. You know why you got into all this anti-drugs stuff. Although I don’t know why you bother. Dressing up for dinner isn’t going to change much. But if we are, do you have to wear that suit?’
Sean turned to look at himself in the mirror. Automatically sucking in his stomach. ‘What? This is my favourite suit.’
‘Which is why it’s worn out. Too small and …’ – she playfully prodded him in the stomach – ‘ten years old. Wear the blue Gieves and Hawkes.’
Sean let out a resigned sigh. He knew she was right, so turned back towards his wardrobe. ‘OK. I give in. On the suit. But as for tonight, everything starts with someone thinking they can do it better.’
‘And that’s you, is it?’ she asked, smoothing down the lines of the Anglomania Taxa dress. She’d also put on a few pounds since she bought it.
‘Someone has to try,’ Sean replied but wanted to move on. It was a recurring conversation. ‘Er … But if I’m changing, what happened to the red dress you showed me earlier?’
‘Too low.’
‘That’s why I like it.’
‘But not for a bunch of do-goody druggie-huggers. Or having Rupert Bronks from the Golf Club’s nose in my cleavage all night. I’ll feel better in this.’
‘Then why ask my opinion?’
‘See if you can make the right choice. And if you still fancy me.’
‘You’re still here, aren’t you?’
‘And God only knows why. Do this up for me then.’
He crossed to help her fasten her bracelet but held her hand for a moment. ‘The cost of that could fund this whole drug rehabilitation programme for three years, you know.’
‘And we didn’t work for twenty years to give it away. Now come on, we’re late.’
‘What’s with the we …?’
‘And don’t go on about your mountaineering skills being honed by deprivation, again. Hard times are affecting everyone at the moment.’
‘Says the woman in the megabucks bracelet.’
‘And the guy with the Lecoultre watch? A lecture on poverty would sound rich, coming from you.’
Sean laughed at the barbed pun. ‘Good one, that. But we worked for it.’
‘Exactly. We didn’t get here by shoving stuff up our noses, sponging, or mugging other people. We worked bloody hard. And God knows, some days I feel like part of a persecuted minority. Doomed to solve all political issues by paying more and more taxes. Don’t we do enough, spending it to keep the economy going? Mind you, I know that’s not going to get any sympathy votes, is it? Just as I know you’ll want to recount your adventures from the most deprived council estate in the world. But stick to what happened to Jane. And what we need to do to stop it. Cut the liberal tolerance crap and get them into jobs. OK. Let’s go.’
There. She’d done it again. Found the nutshell. It was what attracted him to her in the first place. Just after her breasts. And her legs. And her sense of independence. He had met Sandra while auditing an engineering factory. While he was employed by an independent firm of accountants and was there on a four-week assignment, she worked through an agency and was on a six-month maternity cover. To Sean, out of the two of them, she seemed to have the better idea. She basically worked for herself and could come and go and dress as she liked, which often hardened opinions and various other male body parts. Although he also moved from company to company he still had to conform to the sombre suit and sensible shoes dress code of his almost Dickensian accountancy practice.
Everything about her used to fascinate him. He was captivated by everything from the works of art she would often dangle from a swinging crossed leg to the speed she pounded away at what was probably one of the last old-fashioned electric typewriters. Then there were the looks on his colleagues’ faces when he told them how much she earned for preferring not to have a proper job and the fact that, as a temp, he could chat her up without risking a sanction for fraternising with the clients. However, it was only when it was time to wrap up and move on that he realised he wanted more than the office banter. That coincided with a small retirement party for one of the older secretaries and that led from one thing to another and one room to another until he and Sandra found themselves well and truly caught beyond fraternising.
While Sean moved to another job, Sandra simply never went back, continuing to see him until the inevitable consequence. He fell in love with her and out of love with being an auditor. It was not long before they had moved in together, into a dingy flat above a dingy shop, and despite Sandra’s ability to see things coming and his ability to add up, it wasn’t long before one and one made three and what would become known as Noah was on his way.
That wouldn’t have been so bad if it had not been for the night when Sean was so depressed and tired with all the travelling and sleepless nights that he found himself almost hitting Sandra when she insisted he got up and looked after their increasingly noisy second child, Megan. It was the lowest point in their relationship but the starting point of their future strength as Sandra took him once again to find the nutshell: life should be better than this. They should stop living as everyone expected them to live; stop trying to meet or feel guilty about not meeting the so-called standards that everyone else set. Sandra, with her own previous nomadic lifestyle, gave Sean both the confidence and support to decide to live his life for himself not for what his father, mother, teachers or employers expected of him.
They agreed it was daft paying dead money in rent, or even accepting the life sentence of a mortgage as, after working out how much it cost them both simply to go to work, they figured out they could live on less, bought a motorhome and decided to travel the world. They could live, work and eat wherever and whenever they wanted. So they did.
Yes, that was why she was still here. He’d be lost without her. He followed her out, grinning.
So how does he pass the gear over? Luke was wondering as he watched Fatchops go back and forth preparing for the night’s business. Same routine. Fresh white warehouse coat: fryers on; warmers on; check the wrappings; stock up drinks cabinets; float in till; shouts at the part-timers to get the food on the go, and then the bit that Luke alwa
ys found curious. Fatchops would meticulously wipe down all the surfaces. Here was a bin bag of balloons, dealing drugs in a chippy, but with an obsession with cleanliness.
They’d been watching him for about two weeks now and he never varied. The first thing he did when opening up and the last thing he did when closing. Wipe down every surface. He never left it to anyone else. It was his job. His pride and joy.
Luke’s train of thought was interrupted by the vibration of his phone. He looked. Matt was on the path on his way to the hide. A moment or two later he slid in and handed a latte and panini to Luke. Luke nodded thanks and then nodded towards the Barrett. ‘Do you think Fatso’s ambition, when he was growing up tending chickens or goats or sheep or whatever his family did back in the Albanian mountains, was always to run a chippy in a crappy northern British town?’
‘Probably lay on a hill not unlike this one and longed for it,’ Matt replied, as he rolled over to reposition the spotting scope.
‘Yeah, like I always wanted to run a hamburger stall in Rhyl.’
Matt had now refocused the scope. ‘He does take a pride in his work though, doesn’t he?’
‘Yeah, but he didn’t get that scar down the side of his face because he missed a grease spot somewhere. Saw a few of those in Kosovo, which is just across the border from where Mr Sheen there was daydreaming about having his own chippy.’
‘So what was that about. Back there.’
‘Oh, just asking what Luke was up to over the weekend.’ Joey replied, then quickly added, ‘He wants me to look at the electrics up at the cottage.’
‘How long’s he staying then?’ Natasha asked.
‘How’d you mean?’ Joey tensed, having known this moment would come.
‘Luke never usually hangs around this long. Comes back for the anniversary then goes.’
‘Yeah. Don’t know. It’s been three years now. Perhaps he’s getting over it?’ Joey offered, hoping it would satisfy her curiosity.
‘Have you? She was your sister,’ she asked.
Joey didn’t answer. He knew he didn’t have to. It was more of a statement. But also a question he had continually avoided. Who felt the loss more? The brother or the husband? When the husband is the best friend of the brother.