CHAPTER 8

Dillon nearly lost all his shirt-buttons getting the money-belt off. 'Here, take it – I never want to see that bastard Newman again!' He thrust it into Jimmy's lap, sitting alongside him in the back of the taxi parked on the hard shoulder of the Shepherd's Bush flyover. Two close calls in one afternoon, and he was sick of it. First Red Anorak, then evading the cops literally by seconds, ducking into a cab at King's Cross as squad cars came zooming in from all directions.

Dillon wiped his damp palms on his trouser knees. 'I lost half-a-stone sweatin' what would have happened if we got rapped over the head an' lost it.'

He jerked round, staring out into the gathering darkness as a police car, lights flashing, siren wailing, appeared over the flyover behind them and shot past towards the main roundabout. They watched it vanish towards White City. Dillon flopped back, limp as a wrung-out dish-rag.

'Come on, it's okay. So we had a bit of aggro,' Jimmy admitted, pulling the money-belt free and folding it with the other. His old cocky bravado was back, as if being chased by the police was all in a day's work, which probably wasn't far from the truth, Dillon was starting to realise.

The cab driver was looking over his shoulder and Jimmy rattled his knuckles on the sliding window. 'Oi! Keep your face to the front. What you think we are, couple of woofters? We're waitin' for a pick-up.'

A mite pissed off himself, the driver slid the panel open, beaked nose and bristly chin outlined in the green dashboard lights.

'I don't give a shit what you do, but parkin' here is illegal. Pay the fare – you wanna wait, that's your business! I can get fired for parkin' here.'

Dillon nodded curtly at the money-belts Jimmy was holding. 'Pay him, Jimmy. Sure as hell got enough dough!'

Jimmy peered out, banging the window with his fist. 'Where the hell is he?'

'How long does he expect us to wait?' asked Dillon, getting jittery all over again. 'You think we aren't drawing attention to us now, parked here?' He grabbed the door handle. 'Next thing a bloody cop car'll stop… I'm out of here!'

'Wait!' Jimmy pulled Dillon back, face pale and twitching. The last time Dillon had seen him so hyped up was standing in the open doorway of a Hercules C-130, line rigged up, cheeks rippling like a rubber mask in the slipstream, ready to jump. 'That guy I whacked,' Jimmy said. 'He was a police officer.'

Dillon slowly blinked at him, unable to take it in. Assaulting a copper and he'd been accessory to it. They were talking prison here.

The cabbie's patience finally worn though, he stuck his head in, telling them straight, 'You think I'm stupid? I've given you the warnin', now I'm gonna call the law!'

Without a second's hesitation Jimmy viciously slammed the panel shut against the cabbie's face, and in a fury started stuffing fivers in the gasping mouth. 'Here's your soddin' money… I know your cab number,' he was shouting, 'I know your name!'

The driver dragged his face free, groping for the security lock button. Jimmy reached through, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and yanked his head back hard against the glass panel. 'Try anythin', Jimmy snarled, 'and I swear before God you're fuckin' dead.' Again he yanked the driver's head back – clunk - against the panel, and once more to make sure the idea had sunk in.

Scooping up the money-belts Jimmy slammed the door shut and shouted after Dillon, walking head forward along the hard shoulder with the look of a man who's had it up to here.

'Frank, where you going?' Jimmy broke into a trot. He looked up to see the Jaguar coasting down to the roundabout, signalling to make a left. 'Frank! He's here!'

Dillon swung an angry face towards him, aiming along his pointing finger. 'I've had enough for one night, Jimmy, an' don't try an' tell me this is all legit! It reeks, it stinks. It's got nothin' to do with insurance an' you know it! I just got into civvies, an' I don't intend going to jail for you – or that bastard Newman!' He marched on, yelling over his shoulder, 'I got a wife, I got kids… I don't need it!'

'Frank, listen to me -'

'I'll make it, Jimmy,' Dillon shouted, marching on, his voice becoming fainter, echoing under the sodium-yellow streetlights. 'You do whatever you want, just stay clear of me!'

Jimmy tried to shout, but nothing came out, his throat choked tight. The last thing he wanted was to alienate Frank Dillon, his best mate in all the world. Frank knew Jimmy, possibly better than anyone else. There was no one else. He saw Dillon moving away over the frozen tundra, pale Antarctic sunlight slanting down, his figure silhouetted against the blue wash of sky. That day they'd tabbed fourteen miles with thirty-eight kilograms of kit – L1A1 weapon, thirty-round magazine, fighting order, bergen stuffed with ammo and emergency rations – sneaking up the enemy's backside after a march the Argies thought humanly impossible. Dillon had set the example, and Dillon wasn't a man you let down, not if you wanted his respect. Worth more than rubies, and he was throwing it away for two money-belts of soiled notes. 'Frank… Frank, I'm sorry,' Jimmy whispered.

'Sorry about the wait, but the filth were crawling round my place, Newman said, placing the money-belts inside his pigskin briefcase and snapping it shut. He inclined his head towards Jimmy, sitting subdued in a corner of the back seat. 'Frank all right, is he?'

'Yeah. Just needed some fresh air.' Staring without seeing anything, blur of lights, smeared faces.

Newman held out two thick bundles secured with rubber bands.

'This is your cut, and you both get a bonus. Three grand!' Newman permitted himself a faint smug smile. 'Glad Frank worked out, but then I knew he'd come round. Everyone's got a price.'

'You can't buy Frank Dillon,' Jimmy said quietly, his chest so full he hardly had the breath. Then softer yet: 'I'm the type you can buy, Mr Newman…'

The Jaguar sped on, Jimmy stared bleakly out.

He was in luck. Dillon was mooching across the paved courtyard, hands in his pockets, just as the taxi turned the corner. Jimmy hopped out, told the driver to wait, and intercepted Dillon at the bottom of the stairs. 'Here's your cut!' The grin was back, but not quite sure of itself. 'An' we got a bonus!' Jimmy handed over the thick wad, keeping his back to the cab driver.

'How much?'

'Three grand – not bad for one night's work, eh?'

Dillon's surly expression faded as he gazed wonderingly at the money in his hand. 'What – each? You kiddin' me?'

'Naaahh!' Jimmy slapped Dillon on the arm. 'Look, I gotta go, Frank, be in touch soon, yeah?'

Dillon looked him in the eyes. 'You sure, Jimmy… no strings?'

'No strings, Frank.' Jimmy ducked his head, turned away. 'Night.'

'G'night you thievin' bastard!' said Dillon, cuffing him. 'I'm sorry I sounded off on you… don't get in too deep, Jimmy.'

Jimmy looked back. 'Steve Harris still dossin' down at your place?' he asked quietly.

'He's got no place else to go.'

'He'll bleed you dry, Frank.' Bitterness there, even a tinge of envy maybe. 'His kind always do.'

'He doesn't lie to me, Jimmy.' Dillon's voice had icicles on it. 'I trust old Steve, an' I'll get him back on his feet.' He went up the stairs, footsteps ringing out on the concrete.

Jimmy nodded to himself, listening as the footsteps faded, knowing Dillon meant every word. He said to the empty stairwell, 'What about me, Frank? What about me?'

Susie was mending the kids' shirts when Dillon walked in, snipping frayed cuffs, binding them with strips of cotton she'd bought down the market. There was soccer on the telly, but the sound was off, vividly coloured doll-like figures darting about on smooth emerald-green baize, chasing four shadows at once. She said, 'Where've you been?'

'Ran into a pal of Jimmy's, did a bit of collectin'.'

Dillon looked at the screen, at the carpet, at the ceiling fixture, and turned to go.

'Buy you the suit, did he?' Susie carried on sewing.

'What?' Dillon fingered the lapel as if seeing the suit for the first time. 'Oh… yeah.' He turned again.

'What's the matter, Frank?'

Dillon slowly faced her, tugging at his moustache, eyes on the screen. He said quietly, 'It's not going to work.'

'What isn't?' The words like twin pistol shots.

'Civvies.' Dillon cleared his throat. 'I'm signing on for mercenary duty…'

'You can't do that to me – the kids.' She'd started to flush up, eyes bright and stony. 'The whole point of you leaving the Army was so you could be with us.'

'But if I can't get a job…'

'You telling me with eighteen years' experience training men they can't help you?' Susie said, incredulity straining her voice.

'Who's they? Eh? Go on, tell me!' As if she had touched a raw nerve in him, the bottled-up resentment and bitterness spilling out. 'I was in the Army, now I'm out of it. That's it. And if you want the truth – I didn't leave for you or the kids.'

'What?' Susie mouthed, stunned.

'We used to pride ourselves we were the toughest, the best fighting men, but they want to change it all, change our image. It was my life, my lads… but I got as far as I could go, as far as they'd let someone like me go.' Dillon stood there in the cheap, wrinkled suit and battered Puma trainers, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, the thin line of the scar a whiter shade of pale on his cheek.

'Yes-men, that's what they want. Yes-men. They don't want soldiers, they want blokes with good education.' He gazed off somewhere, suddenly very still, far away. 'The Falklands was the best time in my life. Everything I'd been trained for came together. It was the same for all of us – everything I was made sense.'

'And it doesn't now?' Susie asked quietly, getting up. Emotions that frightened her were chasing themselves across his face. She reached out to hold him, comfort him, and Dillon backed away, the cords in his neck standing out.

'Frank, please, I'm trying to understand – don't get angry. Talk to me, help me… the Falklands was a long time ago, I know you wanted to go to the Gulf -'

Dillon pushed past her, slamming open the sideboard cupboard to get a bottle of Famous Grouse and a glass, poured out a large measure. 'For your information, there's still a war going on in Ireland,' he said, scathing, as if talking to a cretin, his face ugly and twisted. He took a huge gulp and yelled, 'Steve… Steve! Get down here!'

Susie walked out – very nearly. At the door she turned back, gave it another try. He was her husband, she loved him, he deserved that much at least. 'I knew it wouldn't be easy, Frank, but…' she hesitated, 'the bills have to be paid, and I've been thinking – with the kids at school now – I could get work.'

Dillon's knuckles showed white on the hand holding the glass, the scotch jumping and splashing his fingers. He barked hoarsely, 'I can provide for my wife and kids!' Black rage seeping out of his pores, making his eyes hot.

'I don't want to be provided for with a dead man's pension,' Susie told him calmly.

Dillon swung round, his face so tortured and strange she feared for her safety. As if, without a single qualm, he could have smashed the bottle and gouged her eyes out with the jagged edges.

'Steve!… STEVE!'

Steve burst in. He only needed one look at Dillon. He gripped Susie and bundled her roughly out of the room and before she could open her mouth slammed the door in her face. Susie furiously gripped the handle, ready to storm back in, freezing as she heard the splintering crash of the bottle and glass being flung to the floor. Another crash, more glass breaking, and then came a high-pitched whinnying laugh that chilled the blood in her veins. She stood, unmoving, staring at the door, listening.

'I'm going crazy, I'm going crazy… For chrissakes I'm dying… Don't let them bury me here… ' That awful weird, whinnying laugh again. 'All night he screamed "Help me, I'm dying, I'm wet, my chest is bleeding"…'

'No – he said his – heart – was bleeding.'

Tears streamed down Susie's face. Turning, she slowly began to mount the stairs, then paused on the third step at the sound of her husband's sobbing. Wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, Susie went back down and opened the door. Shards of glass littered the carpet. Over in the corner the toppled lamp standard lay broken, it's flowered shade bent and torn, and in the dim glow of the vari-flame gas-fire she saw Dillon and Steve crouched together on the sofa, arms around each other's shoulders.

Suddenly aware of her, Dillon seemed to cringe away, hiding his wet face.

Very softly, Susie murmured, 'Turn the fire off when you come to bed, Frank… Goodnight Steve.'

Steve looked at Susie, and gave her a kind of tentative half smile. Then a small wink. It was then, in that moment, that she knew – for the first time realised the truth. That it wasn't Steve who needed Frank. She'd got it totally, completely wrong. It was Frank who needed Steve. Needed this boy with the shattered throat to help him heal his own wounds. Frank's were different from Steve's, his were inside, raw and open, he needed Steve to heal them, and Susie would simply have to wait, he hadn't really come back to Civvies, yet.

Susie silently closed the door and went to bed. She lay curled up, waiting for him, hearing laughter from below, hearing the muffled sounds making it impossible for her to sleep. She tossed and turned, and hours later heard the thud-thud of them both coming up the stairs, heard through the thin wall Frank making sure Steve's filter was cleared, the strange, garbled interaction that she still found difficult to understand, yet Frank was able to carry on long conversations with Steve, as if he were so in tune with his gasping burped sentences there appeared nothing unusual, and the truth was, she had witnessed with her own eyes Steve's transformation. His confidence was growing stronger every day, whereas Frank seemed more and more unsure of himself.

At last Susie heard the click-click of lights being turned out, of toilet flushing and still she waited, waited for her husband to come to bed. Eventually, she got up and crept from her bedroom. Standing on the landing she caught sight of Dillon in their kids' bedroom, standing staring at the old Habitat felt board with all his photographs pinned up. She hesitated, and then inched open the bedroom door.

'It's very late Frank', she whispered.

He nodded his head, and then turned slowly towards her, he seemed so vulnerable, so at a loss. She reached out and took his hand, and he allowed himself to be drawn from his sons' bedroom into his own. She helped him undress and then folded away his clothes as he slipped into their bed, wearing just his jockey shorts. He lay back on the pillows, and she got in beside him and snuggled close, not too close, she was content with just being near him, feeling his body heat. Everything inside her wanted him to reach out, hook his arm around her and draw her even closer, but he remained distant, staring up at the ceiling.

'Steve is gonna be okay,' he whispered.

'Yes, yes I think he is…' Susie didn't say what was in her mind or ask all the questions she wanted to ask, she knew intuitively that he meant that he was going to be all right. She could wait, she had got used to it over the years, and she loved her husband deeply. It was Susie's understanding that had kept their marriage steady, when many of their friends' had fallen apart, and, as if he knew it, Dillon drew her to him, easing his arm around her, pressing his hand in the small of her back until she was cradled beside him. He was maybe unaware of the impact this simple gesture meant to Susie, he had always done it and she had never been able to describe to anyone what it meant to her. She could never, or would never, make the first approach to him, it was not in her nature, but when he reached out and drew her close to him, it was, to Susie, like a great warrior claiming his woman. She liked that, liked his domination of her, and trusted him totally, not only to take care of her, but of their sons.

'I am so proud of you,' she whispered.

He looked down at her, the scar etched in his face, white and translucent in the darkness, and then he smiled… and he was no great warrior, no sergeant, he was the man she had fallen in love with, and when he gave her that sweet gentle smile, seen so rarely, but a smile that altered his entire face, she felt for the first time he had come home.

Rifles held aloft, grinning through blackened faces. A pair of boots, steaming gently, inscription: 'Wally's Boots!' An Argie with half his face missing, the other eye hanging on his cheek. Steve clowning around, draped in a Union Jack. A gang of them in the NAAFI canteen at Port Stanley, toasting the camera with fifteen Budweisers. The enemy dead, stacked three deep. Dillon, Harry Travers and Jimmy Hammond on their haunches, raw-eyed, bone-weary, a soiled dressing above Dillon's right eye. Four or five of them grouped round a subaltern (an anonymous hand sticking up behind giving the vee-sign). Three shivering Argie prisoners, smiling scared at the camera, waving. Drunken Taffy pissing in the snow, writing his name.

Steve tapped this last one, shoulders shaking, the jerky wheezing breath that passed for his laugh puttering out of his gaping mouth. He wiped his eyes. Dillon, grinning, turned a page, and this set Steve off again. He'd had it, helpless, wiped out. He pointed at the photograph in Dillon's album, tears dripping off his chin.

Dillon straightened up, stuck his nose in the air, and did a perfect officer's accent, braying, 'What -? What did you say, Harris?'

Dillon put his hands to his ears, miming headphones, and did Steve's part. 'Tank. It's a tank, sir! Tank.'

Officer: 'Where's the bloody tank, man?' Neck straining forward, peering through binoculars. 'Tent you blitherin' idiot! TENT. That's a ruddy tent on the beach, not a tank!'

Dillon broke off, chest heaving, and the laughter swept through him sweetly, and once he'd started he couldn't stop. He fell back into the sofa, legs splayed and quivering, head flung back, shouting out his laughter.

Steve, growing quieter now, sat and watched him, eyes shining with tears of utter devotion and love.