High up on the facing southern slope, Steve lay cushioned in the coarse grass, hidden by the waving fronds of heather. The wooden stock of Jimmy's L42A1 sniper rifle, fitted with a cheek rest, nestled against his shoulder. 7.62mm calibre shell, muzzle velocity 838 metres per second. Effective range 1,000 metres plus.
Steve squinted through the sighting telescope.
Beside him lay his empty holdall, his kit neatly spread out on the grass. Next to his wallet, a single photograph of Steve in his parade uniform. Face shining, smiling into the sunshine. Silver badge of winged parachute, crown and lion on his Red Beret. The Red Beret he was wearing now, with his jeans and denim shirt and the neckerchief swathing his throat.
Clearly outlined on the ridge, the stag slowly turned its head. Poised, muscles tensed, nostrils twitching, it looked in Steve's direction, seemed to stare directly into Steve's eyes.
The crack of the rifle shot scattered the peace of the valley. Screeching birds scattered, wheeled into the sky. Before the first echo had died away the stag was leaping down, crashing through the bracken, seeking the safety of the wooden glen.
On the grass, Steve's kit lay undisturbed, the photograph spotted with three splashes of blood, the largest one obscuring the smiling face. The impact had thrown the body backwards, arms flung wide. The rifle rested between his legs. Some distance away, the Red Beret lay on the grass, unmarked, pristine, cap badge shining bright.
JIMMY HAMMOND
CHAPTER 22
Dillon stood in his boys' bedroom, looking over their board with all the photographs. There was one in the centre of Steve, his arms wrapped around Dillon laughing, there was another with his trousers dropped mooning to the camera. Dillon removed the picture of the two of them, touched Steve's smiling face. He whispered softly, 'Goodnight Steve, sleep quiet…'
Jimmy barged in carrying a black plastic rubbish bag containing all of poor Steve's possessions. He seemed completely unaware of what Steve's suicide meant to Dillon.
'We best get a move on. What you want me to do with his gear?'
Dillon shrugged, said there was no one to collect it, give it away, anything but he couldn't deal with it.
'What about his mother?'
Dillon shook his head, didn't want her to see Steve's few pitiful belongings, knew it would hurt her. She had his medals, she had those to remember Steve, that was better than sweat-stained T-shirts, old sneakers and a baggy coat.
'Okay, but we should get going, got a busy day.' Jimmy said impatiently.
Dillon nodded, wanting Jimmy out, needing him to go and leave him for just another second, but then he turned and followed him down the stairs and out into the courtyard. Jimmy tossed the black plastic bag into the bins. Dillon said nothing, he couldn't, he just touched the pocket where he had slipped. Steve's photograph, touched it, as if to say, it's okay, I cared, I care Steve.
'I want to go to the crematorium.'
'Shit, we already been there!'
'I want to go again, ALL RIGHT? THAT ALL RIGHT WITH YOU?'
Jimmy slammed the door shut. 'Fine, that's where you wanna go, that's where we go…'
They drove in silence.
It was a simple plaque, set in a small square plinth of smooth grey stone. Wreaths of clustered dark green leaves and flowers wrapped in clear cellophane, each with a message of condolence, were placed beneath it in a bed of red stone chippings. The biggest wreath had the Regimental crest as it centrepiece, with the motto Utrinque Paratus woven below in tiny white flowers.
Clad in his worn black tracksuit and his wrinkled Pumas, Dillon crouched on his heels, surveying the display of grief. He looked at the motto, and his lips silently mimed the words, 'Ready for Anything.' Anything but civvies, Dillon reflected bitterly. First Taffy, now Steve. A roll-call of battle honours, in reverse. Which one of them next? Jimmy? Dillon gave a small sour grin. Definitely not Jimmy, Mr Jim'll Fixit – not if Jimmy had anything to do with it. More likely himself. Much more likely…
He stood up as a middle-aged woman in a straight fawn coat with large round purple buttons approached along the path. For a long moment she gazed at the plaque with sad brown eyes, then rested her gloved hand on Dillon's arm.
'I never had the chance at the service to thank you. I'm just going to keep…' Mrs Harris made a vague gesture towards the condolence cards. 'My poor boy, he – he lost his way. I couldn't help him, but I know you tried.'
'Frank – hey, Frank!' Jimmy hailed him from the gated archway to the crematorium, beckoning urgently. No respect for the dead; not much for the living either, come to that.
Ignoring him, Dillon said, 'Me and a few of the lads are starting up our own company, security work.'
'That's good, good.' Mrs Harris nodded emphatically, large brown eyes fixed on him. 'You stick together.'
Dillon gave her a quick, tight hug and hurried away. Jimmy was sitting in the jeep at the kerbside. As Dillon got in, he said, 'It was on the cards, Frank.' There was contempt in his voice. 'If he hadn't topped himself some bugger would have done it for him. He was a waster!'
Dillon didn't respond. He wasn't sure who he was most angry with – Jimmy, Steve, or himself. In the early spring sunshine they drove through Bethnal Green and up into Hackney. Somewhere near the London Fields mainline station Jimmy took a left off Mare Street, and in a few minutes drew up outside a row of rather shabby-looking shops and basement offices. There was a betting shop, greasy spoon cafe, and a travel agent's – super shine travel agency – with flyblown posters in its grimy windows. Dillon wasn't impressed, and even Jimmy's breezy enthusiasm failed to dispel his doubts.
'It's not the greatest, I know, but it's a start. Lick o' paint here an' there…' he swept out his hand as if unveiling the find of the century, '… we're in business!'
Jimmy skipped past a couple of overflowing dustbins and a small mountain of black plastic bags spilling rubbish onto the pavement and went down a short flight of stone steps bordered by rusting iron railings. 'Come on, follow me, sunshine…'
Inside, the dark passageway smelled of vintage cat piss. It was littered with bricks and half-empty cement bags gone hard, and everywhere thick with dust. 'All this'll be cleared,' Jimmy assured Dillon, bustling ahead. 'Harry's gettin' a skip, right…' He produced a key and unlocked a door that a puff of wind would have blown off its hinges. 'Here we go!'
Dillon nodded dubiously to the floor above. 'That Super Travel place looks like a knockin' shop,' he said, following Jimmy into a small dingy room with a plain wooden desk and few hardback chairs. The filthy window gave a grand view of the iron railings, rubbish tip, the legs and ankles of pedestrians. Above the bricked-up cast-iron fireplace, Jimmy had nailed the stag's head to the bare plaster.
'We got it for one hundred a week, plus there's a bog outside, washbasins, and -' Jimmy threw open the doors of a cupboard with a flourish. 'Ta-rrraaaaaaa!'
'Christ!' Dillon exclaimed, goggling at the two shelves of office equipment – telephones, answering machine, Xerox, fax, computer and laser printer, all brand-new, still in their boxes. 'Where did all this come from?'
'All legit, it's bankrupt stock,' said Jimmy smoothly, and before Dillon could even draw breath, he was onto the next item on the agenda, fingers clicking, busy-busy-busy. 'What you think? White walls, get some pictures up, carpet down – be a palace!'
Harry Travers blundered in carrying two four-litre drums of paint, two smaller cans under his arms, paintbrushes and rollers stuffed in his pockets. Jimmy did a double-take on the labels, glared at Harry.
'Pink? Pink?'
Harry shrugged. 'The white was double, an' we got one gallon free. Whack it over that corridor… it's not a bright pink,' he reassured them earnestly, 'it's soft shell…'