by Ed James
‘Chantal!’ She bounced to her feet, almost rising above the fence. Christ knows where she got the energy from. She was lobster red — must’ve fallen asleep in the garden. ‘We lost you, chuck. What happened?’
Chantal smiled at her. ‘Had to get a coffee. Too much…’ She made the drinky-drinky motion with her hand. She looked around. A couple of the other girls from the bar lay on the grass, sipping vodka from the bottle. ‘Thought you were going clubbing?’
‘We fell asleep.’ Bekah rubbed a hand down her arm and winced. ‘So what’s new?’
Chantal coughed. ‘Going to get some drinks in the bar, if you fancy it?’
‘Do I ever!’ Bekah vaulted the fence and landed without a sound. She held out a hand to Hunter, like a fairy-tale princess expecting it to be kissed. ‘I’m Bekah. Take it you’re Craig?’
Hunter didn’t look like he knew what he was doing. He smiled and wrapped her hand inside his paw. ‘That’s me.’
‘Lover boy.’ Bekah leered at Chantal. ‘Heard a lot about you, chuck.’
Chucka…
Chantal grimaced.
‘Have you?’ Hunter’s eyebrows looked out of his control. ‘All good, I hope.’
‘The best!’ Bekah skipped towards reception, the throng of squaddies parting like the Red Sea, most of them checking her out.
Chantal grabbed Hunter’s hand. ‘Go to the bar. I’m using her as bait.’
Well, this isn’t going to plan.
Chantal leaned back in the chair and took another dry sip of rosé, head thumping.
The tables near them were filled with older people, enjoying the sun. Not exactly dignified as they tucked into cheap Portuguese booze. Still no sign of Tulloch’s crew, either.
The hen party sipped white wine instead of shooters. The bar staff still hadn’t cleared away the bottles of empty spirits lying on their sides.
Bekah leaned forward, her face crumpling with angst. ‘So, my boyfriend, right? All he wants is a quick shag and that’s it. It’s, like, boring?’
Still going on about her boyfriend back home being rubbish in bed. He’s a teenager, it’s how they are, love.
The way she was leaning in to Hunter…
Chantal took a proper sip of wine. Felt a bit better. ‘And have you talked to him about it?’
‘Talk? He doesn’t listen! Do you know what I mean, chuck?’
Chantal gritted her teeth. If she says that one more time… ‘I know what you mean.’ She winked at Hunter. Poor guy looked like he wanted to die.
‘Here we go, boys!’ One of the squaddies from the bus sauntered out into the sunshine, dirty Scottish accent and he didn’t care who knew it. Tray full of fizzing beer, shades on the top of his head, shorts and T-shirt, his skin salmon pink where it wasn’t tattoo black. ‘This is the game!’ He put the tray down and started chucking some tables together, pushing the chairs into place around them. Enough for about twenty or so.
Bekah hadn’t even noticed, but the lads spotted her. She leaned in close to Chantal. ‘And he won’t even go down on me.’
32
HUNTER
* * *
Hunter sipped another millimetre height of beer. Still loads left. The new squaddies were livening the place up, but he didn’t recognise any of them. Certainly no Brownlee or Tulloch.
Bekah was doing his nut in. So much banality in one skinny body. Fat Jim back at the station always went on about young girls, the dirty old bastard, but Hunter couldn’t see the appeal. Old enough to be her father and he wasn’t even thirty-five.
She said something he didn’t catch.
Chantal looked like she was struggling to keep a straight face. She leaned forward. ‘Do you, you know?’ She stuck her tongue in her cheek.
‘All the bloody time, Chantal.’ Bekah sipped at her Breezer like it was a formula bottle. ‘All the bloody time.’
Save me from tedious chat…
They were surrounded by hens slowing down and stags speeding up. Behind enemy lines. Getting rat-arsed with a hen party. Getting bloody nowhere, while Tulloch was…
What?
Back home he was abusing women who consented, at least up to a point. Paisley had agreed to have sex with him. When she withdrew that consent was another matter.
Out here, though, rabid stags would be firing into pissed teens like Bekah, consent at the back of their minds.
Hunter necked a couple of inches of beer, then swirled it round, trying to get some head to foam up. Then he sank the rest. ‘I’ll get another round in.’
Chantal clasped his hand and let it go as she tucked into her wine. ‘G&T for me.’
Bekah swayed in the sunshine, waving her bottle in the air. ‘Another Bacardi Breezer!’
‘Two ticks.’ Hunter huffed up to his feet and walked inside, dumping his empty glass on the bar.
The barman gave him a sly nod as he poured out three pints simultaneously. Looked like he’d lost the will to live, if he’d ever had it.
Bloody knee is still sore from that tussle in Galashiels. Feels like a million miles away. And it is.
Hunter checked his phone for messages. Two from Finlay. He pocketed it and rested against the bar. Still nothing from Elvis about those other bloody squaddies.
The barman pushed three beers over to the customer to Hunter’s right. ‘Ten euro fifty.’
‘Here you go.’ The lumbering hulk of muscle dumped a note and a coin on the bar. He picked up the pints in pyramid formation and gave Hunter a nod.
Gordon Brownlee.
If you opened the dictionary at squaddie, it would show a picture of Brownlee. Thick cranium, mouth hanging open, beady little eyes keeping an eye on the foaming pints. Had a bit of a twitch every so often, just when you thought it had stopped. The wonky ears were less obvious in real life, but the eyes… The eyes…
Hunter blocked him off. ‘Here, do I know you?’
Brownlee scowled at him. ‘Doubt it, mate.’ He pushed past him into the sunshine.
The barman tapped him on the shoulder, eyes wide. ‘Sir?’
‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve got that beer you ordered?’
Hunter clattered the tray down on the table. Nobody looked up except Chantal.
Gordon Brownlee was sitting next to Bekah. He’d lost two of his pints and it looked like he’d need reinforcements soon. In the time he’d been at the bar, the squaddies’ table had filled up and spilled out in their direction. ‘Aye, of course it’s a hard life.’
Bekah was purring at him. She tossed her hair back. ‘So do you miss your wife?’
‘Hardly.’ Brownlee bellowed out a laugh. ‘I’m not married yet!’
Hunter sat between Brownlee and Chantal and distributed the drinks.
Chantal pounced on Bekah, whispering in her ear. She got a giggle.
Hunter cleared his throat and frowned at Brownlee. ‘It’s Gordon, isn’t it?’
He shifted his gaze from Bekah’s bare thighs up to Hunter, squinting at the sunlight. ‘Look, I don’t know you, mate. Piss off.’
‘Craig Hunter.’ He held out a hand. ‘You were in Kandahar, right?’
‘Not for very long, mate.’ Brownlee supped at his beer. ‘I don’t recognise you.’
‘You still serving?’
Brownlee settled back. Slightly more comfortable, the ice beginning to thaw. ‘For my sins, aye.’
‘You know a Sean Tulloch?’
‘Big Sean… What a guy.’ Brownlee bellowed out more laughter. ‘You know him?’
‘Served with him in Kandahar. He with you?’
Brownlee reached over and tapped someone on the back. ‘Matty?’
Matty could’ve passed for Sean Tulloch’s brother. Same height and bulk, his twinkly eyes twisted by booze, coke and God knows what else, puffing on a cigar like he was some Hollywood big shot. He had his top off, cupping a hand around his bicep as he flexed. Bloody squaddies on R&R. ‘All right, mate?’ Throaty Leeds accent. ‘What’s up?’
‘Boy here
says he knows Sean fae Kandahar.’
‘Yeah?’ Matty looked him up and down. ‘What squad were you in?’
‘3 Scots.’ Hunter smiled at him, kept eye contact. ‘Stationed at Fort George. You?’
Matty picked up a pint and sucked down a third in one go. ‘Parachute.’
‘Still in?’
A slight nod. ‘Thinking of giving it up, though.’ Matty swivelled his chair round. ‘My year’s notice is up in May. Thinking of moving out here.’
‘Sounds ideal.’
‘It is, mate.’ Matty sank some more, his eyes still not quite buying what Hunter was selling. ‘What about you?’
‘Jacked it back in 2010. Doing private security now, for my sins.’ Hunter drank some more of his own pint, trying to spin out the lie rather than inventing too much. Matty wasn’t biting. ‘Been out in Syria for six months.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Worse than Kandahar, I swear, but I’m a step removed from the front line, you know?’
Matty punched Brownlee on the shoulder. Hard enough to make noise. ‘We met some bloke who’s been over there, didn’t we?’
‘Aye, last night.’ Brownlee clinked his fingers off the glass. ‘Not a very nice guy, either. Older punter. Cracked in the head. Being in the army that long’ll make you go that way, right?’
Chantal sashayed past them to the toilet, arm in arm with Bekah.
Matty whistled through his teeth. ‘That your bird, mate?’
Hunter nodded as he sipped more beer. ‘Love of my life.’
‘Talk about punching above your weight.’
‘You’re not the first to say that.’
Matty cackled with laugher. ‘You’re a six at best, right. I’d say she’s a nine. At least.’ He thwacked Brownlee on the arm. ‘What’d you give her, Gogs?’
He looked resigned to this shit. ‘I’d give her one.’
Matty rocked back with laughter. ‘These boys… I tell you, mate…’ He puffed on the cigar and stifled a cough. ‘You’re sound, you are. Not like that prick last night. Wouldn’t believe we were squaddies!’
‘What a wanker.’ Hunter drank some more beer. Felt like he was drowning. Maybe now was the time to close the deal. ‘So, is Sean around?’
‘Was. God knows where he is now, mate.’ Matty took another puff of the cigar. ‘We was away shark fishing, not that we saw any. A few boys jumped out of the coach back in the old town. Supposed to be meeting them later but they could get lost in a toilet, you know?’
‘Only too well.’ Hunter wrapped his fingers round his beer glass. ‘Tell you what would be a laugh. What about if I meet up with you boys later. It’ll wind Sean right up. You know he hates spiders, aye?’
Brownlee was scowling at him. ‘Spiders? Piss off.’
Hunter flicked up his eyebrows. ‘I’ll get a load of plastic ones from one of those tat shops and we can throw them at him.’
‘Tell you what’d be hilarious!’ Matty fell about laughing. ‘Sticking them up his arse!’
Brownlee rolled his eyes. ‘Always the arse play with you, Matty.’
‘Funny as fuck, though, mate. Shove a plastic spider right up his hole.’ Matty downed the last of his beer. ‘Supposed to be going for dinner down the Strip tonight. Back of eight, I think. Same place we were in last night, if they’ll let us in. The biggest steak you’ve ever seen, mate. And five euros!’
Hunter’s gut churned at the thought. ‘Sounds brilliant.’
‘First one on the left as you hit it from this end. Can’t remember the name.’
‘Cool.’ Hunter got to his feet and nodded. ‘See you later, aye?’ He offered a fist to bump.
‘Sure thing, mate.’ Matty obliged. ‘Later.’
Brownlee gave him a salute. ‘Later.’
Hunter marched off to the bar. Bekah was getting served, though Christ knows how anyone could even think about giving her more booze, the state she was in. Could barely stand up.
He gripped Chantal’s arm. ‘Come on, I’ve got something.’
Chantal nodded at him, then patted Bekah’s shoulder. ‘Think it’s time you had a little siesta, miss.’
‘You two inviting me back to your room, are you?’ Bekah tried for a saucy wink, but she couldn’t control either eye.
‘Hardly.’ Hunter flagged down a passing hen from that party and whispered in her ear, ‘Think you should get her tucked up in bed.’
33
CHANTAL
* * *
Chantal opened the apartment door and stomped across the tiles. Struggling to not just lie on the bed and fall asleep. She pulled the doors wide and sat on the chair, knees pointing inwards. ‘I don’t see how this gets us anywhere.’
‘We’ve got a likely location.’ Hunter joined her outside and dumped his phone on the table. ‘The circle’s closing around him.’
‘Still feels like a very big one.’
‘Speaking of which…’
‘Craig, drop it.’ Chantal slurped down more coffee. Could barely taste it. ‘You’re a one-track record.’
‘Right.’ He didn’t look like it was settled. Coming up next, more of Craig Hunter’s perceived penile inadequacy. ‘That Bekah girl, think she’ll be okay?’
‘I hope so. She needs to get some sleep.’ She finished the coffee, the black sludge finally hitting her tongue. ‘She’s desperate for a shag. I almost thought she wanted to—’
Hunter’s mobile blasted out the drill again. Set Chantal’s teeth on edge. Finlay Sinclair’s ugly mug gurned out of a drunken photo taken on a night out.
‘Bloody hell.’ Hunter turned it over and covered the speaker. ‘Finlay keeps pestering me. I forgot how clingy he is.’
‘So tell him to piss off.’
Hunter held up the mobile and turned the ringer down a bit. ‘Wish I’d not got in touch with him now.’ The phone stopped ringing. ‘So you think I should text him?’
‘Whatever, as long as you get rid of him.’
Hunter hammered at the screen. ‘What were you saying about that Bekah girl?’
‘Nothing.’
Hunter put his phone down again. ‘Come on, I know it’s not nothing.’
Chantal pushed out a sigh. ‘Okay, I thought she was—’
‘—YOU STUPID BITCH!’
Crash. Thump. Tinkle.
‘WHAT ARE YOU—’
Screech. ‘I HATE YOU!’
‘Oh, shite.’ Chantal jolted to her feet and dashed over to the railing. ‘What’s going on?’ She squinted hard. Over the small lane, one of the ground-floor apartment doors hung open, the curtains flapping in the breeze.
A suitcase sconed off the French doors and rolled across the patio, shirts and pants tumbling out. Ricky appeared in the doorway. ‘LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE NOW, YOU STUPID BITCH!’ He bent down and started scooping up his clothes.
Chantal pushed away from the rail. ‘We need to sort this out!’
34
HUNTER
* * *
Hunter used the plant pots to vault over the picket fence. He landed on the lane and jogged towards the apartment.
Take it slowly, man. You’re half-cut.
‘STOP CALLING ME A BITCH!’ Kerry booted Ricky on the arse and he tumbled forwards. ‘YOU FAT PRICK! CAN’T EVEN GET A HARD-ON ANY MORE, YOU PISS ARTIST!’
‘SHUT YOUR MOUTH!’
‘NO, YOU SHUT— AH!’ Kerry fell backwards, cracking her head off the door. ‘YOU BASTARD!’
‘Stop!’ Hunter walked forward, arms outstretched. ‘Stop!’
Ricky was on all fours, rubbing at a gash on his cheek. He narrowed his eyes at Hunter. ‘What’s your problem, mate?’
‘Calm down.’
Ricky pushed himself up to his feet. ‘You want to make something of this, do you?’
Hunter clambered over their fence and landed in their patio.
‘You want to stick that big Scotch beak in, though, don’t you?’ Ricky spat at him, thick gobbets splattering Hunter’s cheek. ‘You think you’re so
mething, do you?’
Kerry appeared in the doorway again. ‘I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!’
‘PISS OFF, YOU STUPID BITCH!’ Ricky sneered at her, his head butting the air. Then back at Hunter. ‘You want to take me on, mate, you’ll regret it.’
‘It’s okay.’ Hunter stood slightly back, his fists clenched and in position. ‘Calm down and it’ll all be cool.’
‘You hear what that bitch said to me? See what she did?’ Ricky picked up his suitcase and hurled it at Kerry, cracking off her head. ‘Did you?’
Chantal scrambled over the fence and stopped dead.
‘You can piss off and all, you Paki bitch!’ Ricky lunged for Chantal.
Hunter stepped forward to block him. Ricky darted left and clawed a hand at Hunter’s throat. He pushed hard, pinning him to the side wall.
‘Get off him!’ Chantal scratched at Ricky’s hands. ‘Stop it!’
‘I’ll hurt you next!’ Ricky batted at her with his free hand, just missing her.
Hunter dug his chin down into his chest, piling pressure on Ricky’s thumb. He gripped his right hand around Ricky’s wrist and jerked it down, smashing his attackers nose with his left. ‘You don’t hit women!’ He swivelled his hips to the right and thrust out with his left hand again, cracking Ricky’s chin. ‘You don’t hit women!’ He jerked up his knee and cracked Ricky’s groin, sending him tumbling to the ground. ‘You don’t hit women!’
‘Stop!’ Kerry stood in the doorway, wielding a bread knife. ‘Get away from my husband!’
‘Craig…’ Chantal tugged at his hand, pulling him away. ‘Come on.’
Hunter sucked in a deep breath. ‘You need to think about divorcing this idiot.’
‘You can piss off, you Scotch twat!’ Kerry slashed the knife through the air, nowhere near hurting anyone but herself. ‘I love my husband!’
Hunter shook his head and helped Chantal over the fence, eyes trained on Ricky as he groaned on the lawn. Could barely breathe. Felt like his throat was half the usual size.