by Phil Redmond
‘Never happen though, would it?’ Matt grinned as he reached across for a granary bar.
‘Something tells me not,’ Luke replied.
‘We’ll just have to go back and work for the Yanks. Be the ones that the locals whinge about. They come over here. Take our sniper jobs. Kill our enemies. Kill our friends. Should be local killing by local people. That’s what they’ll mutter into their beards. And exactly what everyone’s muttering here, isn’t it?’
Luke looked across at Matt, now rummaging in the ration box for another granary bar. Sometimes he was never quite sure. The line between genius and madness.
‘What you looking so glum about?’ Benno suddenly asked as he wriggled out from a service duct dragging the 110 V cable behind him. No one else was small enough to fit.
‘Oh, usual. Why life has to be so complicated.’
Benno just cackled. ‘Keep telling you, Joey, lad. It ain’t. Do unto others and all that. If everyone’s OK, it’s fine. But if they’re not, then you have the right to slap back.’ He held up one end of the cable. ‘You figured this out yet?’
‘Nearly. Get the return to behind that worktop.’
Benno nodded and started to pull the cable from its reel, as Joey mulled over Benno’s words. It seemed like such a simple code. Much simpler than the turning the other cheek line. It was that simple but markedly different interpretation of the Christian ethic that had got him into so much trouble during his life. Especially the bit about not taking matters into his own hands but letting others like the school or the law do it for him. Problem was, they never did, really.
‘It’s probably the reason that mate you were telling me about can’t settle after leaving the forces,’ Benno offered. ‘A lot of them can’t. If someone sticks a gun in your hand and the authority to use it, must be a bit hard having to deal with the jobsworths you meet back home.’
Joey had been telling Benno a bit about Luke. You got to know someone very well when you slept in a sleeping bag side by side. Luke may have been on some mountainside with Matt, but Joey had spent many a cold draughty night with Benno, kipping down on site to save spending money on digs.
Joey had also told Benno that life seemed to be falling into place for Luke when he met and married Janey. He had only a year left on his term before they would buy one of the small cottages on Top Road that, as its name suggested, looked down over Highbridge, and then start a family. How Luke then went to Afghanistan and while scraping the remnants of his colleague from the remains of a Snatch Land Rover he got the call to say Janey was dead. A relay of transport legs got him back for the funeral but 48 hours later he was back hunting the Taliban with a renewed vigour his commanders were concerned about but couldn’t fault.
But, Joey explained to Benno, they had offered him all the usual psychobabble counselling, as he referred to it, but fell back on his own self-diagnosis. He had had only two things in his life and one of them was now dead, killed for no purpose other than becoming another statistic. It was not long before the disillusionment mounted alongside the body bags.
While the cause was worthy, Luke had repeatedly told Joey, the resources and political will were, as usual, lacking. Politicians always seemed to want to fight a civilised war. But, Luke kept asking, what the hell was that? The locals never appeared to mind blowing up their own, whether kids, women or passers-by. So why not let our lads get down in the gutter with them and rip ’em up?
They all knew it was about politics and opinion polls. And risk aversion. Just the system. But Joey also knew that, like Luke, Benno understood the real cause of disillusionment. Being screwed by that system. Just as Benno had become a victim of Health and Safety, so Luke became a victim of austerity cuts. Having decided to re-enlist he discovered that, despite his past service, he was, like so many others, no longer required. So he joined one of the American companies that provided what was euphemistically called ‘additional security’. Luke knew he was following one of the oldest traditions of warfare, from the Roman legions through the Crusades and into Afghanistan. History’s hired guns. Of course he was never allowed to use the term ‘mercenary’, but as Natasha had said, that was exactly what he was. And whatever he did, he made sure he was paid. Handsomely.
‘So why’d he come home?’ Benno had asked, going straight to the point.
‘Dunno, Benno. Just dunno,’ Joey had responded after deciding that despite how close they were, he wasn’t going to say it was because after a late-night chat at the cottage, the obvious conclusion they had reached was to use the skills Luke had been given. And shoot the sort of people who had caused the death of Janey.
It was all this and the sense of camaraderie Joey shared with Benno that was going through his mind when Benno asked him why he looked so glum. To help one friend he would have to let down another.
Sean had been speaking for about ten minutes on the theme of how most people have strong opinions on what needs to be done but feel powerless to influence anything. A feeling that no one in authority listens or is in touch with them. Looking round the room he noticed how this just bounced off the seemingly impervious skin of officialdom. A sign that he was right? Or simply that they’d heard it all before?
He decided to ramp it up a bit.
‘But, well,’ Sean continued. ‘We lost another of our young people at the weekend. Another senseless death. We probably all have our own individual opinions on what we should and shouldn’t do. But that is always tempered, perhaps restrained, and constrained, by what we can do. I mean, what we are allowed to do.’
He turned and looked deliberately at the County and Council Chairmen and then towards Hilary, the major power brokers in the room. The Chairs remained impassive. Did they really have an opinion, Sean wondered, or was this just something they had to do as part of the role? But from Hilary there was a slight nod, although that, Sean knew, could simply illustrate either an understanding that people will take things into their own hands if frustrated enough, or her own desire to be let off the leash. To hang ’em and flog ’em. It did, however, give Sean his next line.
‘But does that mean more draconian action? Zero tolerance? Round ’em up?’ He looked at Hilary, then to Arthur Young who was now taking advantage of Glynnis heading off to the kitchen to work his way through a plate of mini chocolate éclairs. ‘Hang ’em and flog ’em? Or, as we’ve tried that for years, decades, perhaps centuries, do we look for a new strategy?’
‘And when that fails, yet again, is it any wonder that people are looking to fringe politics? If they think those in the traditional parties – those in power – don’t listen or seem powerless to act, is it any surprise they start to look for answers elsewhere?’
He hesitated for a moment. Wondering how far he should push his own ideas today. Or should he just play the polite host? He noticed Arthur was now being joined by a few other grazers who had spotted the cakes. Sod it, Sean thought, I am paying for this. Taking a deeper breath, he raised his voice above the growing gabble.
‘But do you know what I really think? We should stop messing about with all this.’ He waved his hand in the direction of the CAD pop-up displays. ‘All this partnership stuff is great, but what is the point?’ He saw Gill’s teeth immediately retract behind stiffening lips. A smile of apprehension. This could be bad.
‘I don’t mean the partnership bit. That’s fine.’ The lips remained tight. ‘But what are we really working towards? Teaching people what cannabis plants look like? For what? So they can spy on their neighbours? Or worse, as someone has already pointed out to me, they turn informant on the local drug gangs and then get kneecapped, or worse, for doing it?’
Gill was slowly moving towards the County Chairman. He might need some support, but Sean noticed he had a smile on his face. Did that mean he agreed? Or that he enjoyed someone making an idiot of himself? But the smile didn’t match the one that now spread across Hilary’s face, although Sean noticed her eyes were not on him but on an almost panicky Gill heading towards her
main funder. Even the newshound was grinning as he put down his plate and reached for his iPhone.
‘I don’t mean to be controversial,’ Sean continued, ‘but surely the answer is in education.’ He looked over to find the Head of the Comp, who had frozen, chocolate éclair almost in her mouth. He saw the expression on her face. Oh God, she was thinking. What’s he going to blame me for now?
‘Not in school,’ Sean quickly added. ‘As the kids probably know as much, if not more than any of us about the “drugs bad” philosophy, but real education about what drugs – any drugs – do to you.’
The éclair disappeared into a relieved and grateful mouth.
‘We spend time teaching our children the dangers of things like bleach under the sink, don’t we? We practically educate them on how to handle two other major killers: alcohol and nicotine. But on other things we remain silent. We don’t even try to find out, if we are honest, because we feel it isn’t, well, it doesn’t feel right. Is that simply because we think that if something is illegal we shouldn’t? Somehow we feel we are not allowed to learn more about it.’ He emphasised it again. ‘Or, is it because we are not encouraged, perhaps allowed, to discuss these things openly?’
Despite the now almost tolerant smiles from the Chairman and Hilary and the look of glee from the newshound, Sean could almost feel the temperature in the room drop. Vicar Dilby’s lips were pursed. Almost as tight as Gill’s. This isn’t what they came for. It should have been a nice pleasant lunch. Not a seminar. Or a debate.
‘I know that’s not what I was supposed to say.’ Sean was now almost apologetic. ‘But, well, you are eating my sandwiches and what do they say: there’s no such thing as a free lunch?’
It got a few weak smiles. But a lot more nervous glances towards Hilary and the Chairman, both having regained their impassive public personas.
‘You calling for legalisation, then, Sean?’ It was Arthur the newshound, now sensing if not a possible front page, then a definite spark for the letters page.
Sean glanced across at Gill. Eyes wide, head shaking slowly, lips forming the word noo-o-o. There was no grant funding in legalisation. His eyes flicked to Hilary. Her face rigid but her eyes smiling. Go on, you dug the hole. The Head was trying not to catch anyone’s eye, while Winnie Garstang was beaming. Another man making an idiot of himself?
‘No, Arthur,’ Sean replied. ‘But what about regulation? We do it with cigarettes and alcohol. Why not other drugs, like cannabis?’
‘So you’re saying cannabis is no worse than booze and fags?’
‘Nice try,’ Sean countered. ‘But that’s one for the medical professionals to answer, actually. There’s a debate going on about whether terminally ill people should be prescribed cannabis as part of the end of life palliative care.’
‘All cancer patients should be encouraged to smoke, then?’
‘Now I know you are being provocative.’
‘It’s what I get paid for.’
‘OK. One last thing, then I’ll let everyone get on with the cakes, tea and learning how to spot the pot.’
There were a few relieved faces as Sean paused to try and put things simply and quickly. ‘As a society, we have learned how to control alcohol and tobacco. No one really thinks of injecting pure alcohol or nicotine, as they would die. We have learned how to use those drugs by diluting them: 3–4 per cent alcohol. Dangers of tobacco. And so on. We teach our children these things. Why shouldn’t we do it with other things? And, Mr Chairman, we have also learned to tax the use of those drugs. Taxes that pay for a lot of the services your authority delivers.’ He turned to Hilary. ‘I know we still have crime attached to their use, but at least the money that taxes raise helps provide the resources to fight it.’
As both the Chairman and Hilary gave a nod of concession Sean decided to quit while he was, if not ahead, then at least climbing out of the hole he had dug. ‘OK. That’s it for me. Except to remind you of the first public consultation up at Treetops tonight at … er … 7.30?’ He looked across to Gill, who had a smile ready. Confirmatory. Supportive.
‘So, sorry if I went off on one, but please support CAD whenever and wherever you can … And … have a browse round while you are here and spend a bit to help me pay for the sandwiches … And … everyone can have a 10 per cent discount for being so polite. Thank you.’
The last bit at least got the applause going and Sean headed off to get a cup of tea trying not to look at either Glynnis or Byron, who was now clearly in Glynnis’s camp. Ten per cent discount?
Luke was alone in the hide. Matt had gone on the Costa run, leaving Luke mulling over the point that local people should kill local people. Another bit of perverse logic. But one that avoids the bit everyone forgets. Not the people doing the killing, but the ones who see the horror. He had no qualms or doubt that Fatchops deserved what was coming. Like his suppliers. If a half-inch piece of steel blew your head apart you wouldn’t know it, but everyone standing around you would never forget it. Did they deserve that? Did everyone else deserve what happened to Janey?
He looked at his watch. 17.55. Then panned the Barrett along the street. The guy with the silver Transit would be arriving any minute. Silver was the new white van around Highbridge, Luke had noticed. Then the old boy from No. 78, who always struggled to get his wheelie bin out through the front of the house, would hobble along and wave to Silver Van Man. Then the kid on his mountain bike. The woman in the hi-viz jacket on her way home from the Community Centre. And all the other regulars would come and go. Habit. Routine. POLO.
Eventually the scope came back on to its intended target, now finishing off his nightly cleaning routine and, yes, putting out his box of special forks, just below the counter, below the one already open on the countertop. No one was going to help themselves to the specials. Another hour and the banker would arrive to stand in the alley with the stack of marked notes and the users would start arriving to convert their hard-earned or easily stolen cash. Luke put Fatchops’s head in the cross hairs. It would blow apart like a ripe melon. If the bullet hit him. The problem was that it was going to have to be a cold snatch shot. No chance to readjust. When they had those five seconds they needed to make sure he was stationary and no one else would walk into the shot. He moved the scope down to Fatchops’s torso, then grinned. That’s too big to miss. Just as he did, the hi-viz jacket of the woman from the Community Centre appeared in the scope. Exactly what they wanted to avoid.
If he had squeezed the trigger then, the woman in the hi-viz jacket would have arrived just in time to see Fatchops’s head blow apart. She might even have ended up with some of his brains mixed in with her nightly cod and chips. And be traumatised for the rest of her life. Luke had long since been desensitised. He’d actually been trained, perhaps indoctrinated, to accept it as simply a natural outcome. They all had. And in the age of the Internet he couldn’t understand how some still arrived in the so-called theatre of war and were shocked at what they saw. It was all over the web. If YouTube didn’t let you see it there were plenty of other ex-military, soldiers of fortune or wannabe sites that had all the graphic detail, including, because of smartphones, the soundtracks.
That was the real difference, Luke remembered. The sound. They had all gone through the live fire drills with instructors yelling their lungs out, but unfortunately the targets and their families had not been on the induction courses. A dickhead pretending to be a bad guy was nothing like the wailing grief and eyes of pure hatred that came at you when things got really hot. Like the first time you get whacked in the school playground. It isn’t play fighting. It hurts. And it’s a big shock. And the bigger the whacking, the bigger the trauma. No, Luke thought, while Fatty deserved everything he had coming, that woman in the hi-viz vest didn’t. And neither did her family, who would be left having to cope with her, perhaps for the rest of her life.
A low whistle brought his attention back to the hide entrance. It was Matt warning him he was on the way in.
‘W
hoa, you look like you’ve been brooding,’ Matt said without any greeting but handing Luke his latte and panini.
‘Yeah, I was just … You know …’
Matt was expecting another round of counselling about Janey, but was surprised to hear Luke say, ‘I’m not sure we should slot Fatty.’
‘You want to cut and run?’ Matt asked. ‘I’ll do it if you don’t feel—’
But Luke cut across him. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s just … Do you think Joey could handle it?’
‘Ah. I thought you’d been there and got past it.’
‘So did I, but … They don’t really know, do they? Ulster was the worst for me. Young, keen, thinking I was going there to help. And they were just like us, weren’t they? Until you were told to kick in their doors and drag their men away. And raised on folklore that romanticised the struggle, they then came into direct contact with a size ten boot or rubber bullet. I hated that. I never believed in what we were doing.’
‘Never our job, Luke. It was a civilian issue that they should have sorted politically before putting us on the streets. Last resort, we are, remember. Like now, probably. Why don’t the cops just go and take this fat bastard out?’
‘Why indeed?’
‘So, do you want to scrub it?’
Luke hesitated for a moment. Matt already knew the answer and waited for the shake of the head. ‘Just change the scenario.’
‘Nice one, Sean,’ Arthur Young said as he shook Sean’s hand on the way out. ‘Great when someone stirs it up a bit.’
‘Sells papers, does it?’ Sean replied, with a laugh.
‘Yeah. And you won’t mind if we splash you over the front page? Local Boss Blasts Bureaucrats?’ But he grinned as he saw Sean become anxious. ‘No worries, Sean. You’re one of the good guys. Who else would give this lot a free scoff?’
‘That include you?’
‘Of course. And much appreciated. Nah, you won’t be on the front page. Not up to me anyway. The editor sent me here to get something on the dynamic duo there, wasting our money.’ He nodded across to where the Chairs of County and Town had colonised a table and took out his phone to take a shot, just as the Town Chair was stuffing another custard slice into his mouth. ‘Let them eat cake, eh? Yeah, it’ll be those two. Something about fat cats and cream. Put money on it. It’s that and good local celeb stories that sell the paper, Sean. So who’ve you got opening your grotto?’