'No,' Dillon said. 'No. No.' He arched back in the chair and then slammed his fist down on the desk. The other two looked at him, alarmed, but his face was alight, positively glowing.
'I think we're in with a chance for that bank loan,' Dillon said, eyes dancing. 'We got a guarantor…'
Harry sat up. 'You jokin'?'
'Thirty thousand quid.' Amazed. Incredulous. Gobsmacked. 'It's Marway.'
A movement above Dillon's head had caught Harry's eye. He said, 'Hey! Frank-!'
'No, listen – we're in business!'
The massive stag's head was ever so slowly tilting forward from the chimney-breast, its huge weight dragging the nails out of the plaster.
'But Frank -!'
'Shut up, because you know what?' Dillon exalted, dreams filling his eyes, words bubbling out of him. 'We're gonna make it the biggest, the most successful -' arms up, fists clenched,' – Taxi! Chauffeur! Security Company! – in London. Yesssss… we're gonna make it, I know it, I feel it!'
The stag's head jerked. With a quick nod to Cliff, Harry tossed his cigar butt to the floor, the two of them jumping up. Dillon bent down to pick up the discarded butt. Directly above him the stag's head came loose and toppled, grabbed by Harry and Cliff in the nick of time.
Puffing away, Dillon strolled forward, airily sweeping out the hand holding the cigar, the mogul at his ease, business tycoon of the year. He turned to find Harry and Cliff, red-faced and straining under the weight of the massive stag's head, holding an antler apiece. If it hadn't been for their quick thinking it could have crashed down on Dillon, and killed him.
Unaware of the near miss, Dillon turned. 'No, leave that up, lads,' he said, wafting a hand. 'It's lucky.
HARRY TRAVERS
CHAPTER 29
They were standing in a row, like statues. All three wore new grey suits, peaked chauffeurs' caps of the same grey material tucked under the left arm, shiny black shoes. Completing the ensemble, crisp white shirts and the Regimental maroon tie patterned with the winged parachute motif in dark blue. Behind them, in vee-formation, a gleaming silver Mercedes stretch limo with tinted windows and the metallic-gold Granada, polished to within an inch of its life, sporting a new radio antenna. And behind these, square on, the resprayed and refurbished wagon with a new set of wheels, new windscreen, and emblazoned on its side panel, STAG SECURITY COMPANY, in the Para colours of maroon and dark blue.
Across the yard, Fernie in his baggy, greasy overalls leaned against the workshop doors, arms folded, looking on. Last month, he reflected, these geezers had to cadge twenty quid off him for gas. Now they were done up like a dog's dinner, with their own transport fleet fitted out with cellular radio links. Funny old world.
Harry's neck chafed inside his size-fourteen collar. He had an itch just below the privates department where the suit material was rubbing him. His bloody feet hurt too, cramped inside the stiff new shoes. From the side of his mouth he muttered at Dillon, 'How much longer is he gonna be!'
'Shut it,' Dillon said, turning his head just as the flash went off.
The photographer looked up from the tripod camera, a pained expression on his face. 'Can you hold your positions, please!'
All three looked to the front, legs slightly apart, hands clasped in front of them, motionless as zombies. The camera flashed three time and the ordeal was over. 'Okay, that's it… thanks very much.'
Susie opened the flaps of the cardboard box, took out wine glasses four at a time and lined them up on top of the new dish-washer. Helen was at the kitchen table, unwrapping cling film from plates of sandwiches, pork pies, sausage rolls and Marks & Spencer quiches. Harry was sorting out the beer. He'd wedged the eight-gallon aluminium cask on the draining-board and was screwing in the brass tap. One of Harry's mates, Tony Taylor, humped in a crate each of Newcastle Brown and Czech Budweiser, stacked them next to the Hotpoint tumble-dryer which still had the Rumbelow's label, and the guarantee card in a clear plastic sleeve, stuck to its side. From the living-room came raucous bursts of music – a snatch of Tina Turner, rasping Little Richard, Donna Summer on heat – as Cliff got the stereo system set up. Several other anonymous bodies that Susie didn't know from Adam wandered in and out, bringing in more crates, bottles of Thunderbird, six-packs of exotic foreign beers. My God, she thought, they had enough booze to float the Titanic.
The guests had already started arriving. Every few seconds the doorbell would go, laughter and loud voices as newcomers spilled into the hallway. Somebody must have been answering the door, though Susie hadn't a clue who. She heard Cliff yelling, 'One speaker's not workin'… hang on,' and by Christ it suddenly was, as Eddie Cochran's Twenty Flight Rock nearly ruptured her eardrums. Above it Harry bellowed, 'Somebody answer the door!' as the doorbell drilled away in the background. Susie glanced across at Helen, slicing ham and mushroom quiche into quadrants, mother and daughter exchanging looks of alarm and foreboding… and the party hadn't even started!
Wearing a broad pleased smirk, Dillon was standing next to the microwave, several folded newspapers under his arm, one held open at arm's length. He was telling Wally with smug pride, 'I'm gonna have this framed – good publicity. Get the stack sent to the barracks, wait till they see this!'
Wally put his mouth close to Dillon's ear, yet still had to raise his voice above the bustle, the music, the ceaseless doorbell.
'Hey, Frank! I got some info. Important. Those two bastards your lads were after, word is -'
'Not now, Wally, eh?' Dillon held the paper up. 'You seen this, second page? Merc… looks good, very impressive, eh…?'
'I told Harry,' persisted Wally, 'it's a reliable tip-off. Those bastards are here, Frank, in London.' He looked to Harry, who was wiping his hands on the tea towel, and Harry returned a slow, conspiratorial wink. But Dillon wasn't in the mood to listen; with an edgy, abrupt movement he folded the newspaper and slid it onto a shelf with the others.
'Not tonight, Wally,' he said. 'This is a celebration.'
Harry gestured around with his thumb, 'Now's the time, Frank, with all the fads arrivin' -' And just then, to add weight to it, the doorbell went again. 'We can get a dozen -'
'Leave it out,' said Dillon shortly, and turned away to grab himself a bottle of Czech Budweiser.
'My God, we've got enough food for an army!' Helen exclaimed, surveying the laden table.
'You might just be seein' one,' Dillon grinned, his high spirits soon back, 'the lads from the caterin' corps did all this. Have you seen the paper?' He knew damn well she had but he wanted to chalk one up, gloat a little.
'Well, I hope to God they like pork pies, or we'll be eatin' them for months.' Helen was having trouble finding fault, and the best she could manage was a tart, 'You're wearin' your eyes out lookin' at that newspaper…' But all she got from Dillon was another broad grin.
Harry clapped his hands. 'Right, I done my share, I got to go an' pick up Trudie.' He went out, cuffing Wally on his bald head, who was handing bottles from the crate to Dillon, who in turn was lining them up next to the cask on the draining-board.
'Tell everyone, coats upstairs,' Dillon called after him, the doorbell competing now with Chuck Berry who had no particular place to go. Dillon frowned at Wally. 'Trudie?'
'She's the manageress from the travel agency.' Wally's eyes rolled. 'An' she's bringin' a few of her friends…'
Dillon nearly said something, but Susie was at his elbow, bottle of red, bottle of white, in either hand. 'Frank, you should answer the door!' she reprimanded him, anxious to keep up the proprieties.
Dillon kissed the tip of her nose and meekly did as he was told.
By nine-thirty the place was jumping. Susie reckoned they had half the battalion there, plus wives, girlfriends and assorted hangers-on. Some of the men she knew by sight, from the early days in married quarters when Dillon was based at Montgomery Lines, as the barracks were known. But most of the faces were young and strange, Toms who'd joined since the Falklands and come to know Dillon as their Sergeant PJI, Parachute Jumping Instructor, during their three-week Basic Para training at Brize Norton