The three character traits most highly valued – and actively encouraged – by the Parachute Regiment were aggression, aggression, and aggression. Not only directed at the enemy, but internalised too, to make a man overcome his natural inclinations of fear and self-preservation when standing at the door of a Herc, hooked up to the static line, Red on, Green on – go, go, go! You didn't just fall out of the aircraft (that way the slipstream would whirl you round and you'd end up with a faceful of rivets), you had to punch yourself into the air in order to get clear. Dillon had seen a seasoned Para freeze at that moment, and it took three despatchers to heave him out, bashing his arm to make him let go of the strop. Focused, controlled aggression, that's what was required.
And that's how Jimmy went at it now, grunting and scowling each time he pushed the bar to arm's length as if he bore the sixty kilos a personal grudge. Possessing a good physique, strong bone structure, and being in peak condition did the rest.
'We'll have to shell out a few readies to Cliff for puttin' us on it,' Dillon grunted, settling the bar on the brackets.
Jimmy sat up, towelling his neck and shoulders. 'But you need a motor, right?' he said. 'I'll see what I can do.'
'No kiddin'?' Dillon's face lit up.
Jimmy put his arm round Dillon's shoulders, gave him a fat smile. 'Let's have a shower first, eh?'
Mary Davies let herself in and dumped the two plastic carrier-bags of shopping next to the hallstand, kneading her fingers to get the circulation going again. She stared with undiluted hatred at the wall at the foot of the stairs.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump -
Behind the pounding bass, the sharper stacatto rattle of a snare drum coming from next door's back bedroom. The punk drummer paused, a moment's blessed respite, and then started over again, practising the same machine-gun attack, paused, repeated it.
'Taffy?' Mary shouted up the stairs. 'Taff?!'
When there was no answer she picked up her shopping and headed for the kitchen, calling, 'Meg, did your Daddy go out? Can you hear me? I'm surprised I can hear myself with that racket! Megan…'
Mary pushed open the door with her backside and stopped dead at the sight of the contents of her fridge stacked on the kitchen table: packets of frozen foods, processed cheese, carton of eggs, fruit juice, a full and a half-empty bottle of milk. And next to the washing machine, a gaping hole where the fridge had been. Mary slowly shook her head, faced screwed tight. The bailiffs had even taken the Wylex plug.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump -
Dillon side-stepped the bikes and went through into the living-room, dropping his carrier-bag just in time to catch Kenny who came hurtling out of the kitchen, scoop him up and swing him onto his shoulders. Little Phil tugged at Dillon's trousers, wanting his turn.
Dillon yelled towards the stairs, 'Steve, you in? Steve?'
Susie was halfway down, carrying the Hoover, dragging the flex after her. She mouthed at him, 'Bedroom,' and gave Dillon a dark look. 'He's drinking,' she said in a low voice, 'came in with it.'
Dillon swung the boy down and went past Susie on the stairs. He paused and looked back at her. 'We got the job.'
'You did? That's marvellous!' Smile breaking, eyes aglow, making her look about eighteen. 'Does that mean he'll be leaving?' Susie whispered, glancing up at the ceiling.
'Soon as we're paid,' said Dillon crisply, and carried on. 'Hey, Steve!'
The phone rang. Susie plugged the Hoover into the hall socket and got up off her knees to answer it.
British Telecom's modernisation programme hadn't reached this part of south Wales. It was a wonder the old-fashioned cast-iron telephone box was even in working order, considering that most of the windows were broken. There was a soggy bag of stale chips in the corner and the distinct whiff of urine, bi-lingual obscenities scrawled in felt-tip on every flat surface. Forehead pressed against the cold glass pane, Taffy Davies stared out at the rain sweeping down from a grey Cardiff sky, words tumbling out of him, just glad there was a familiar, friendly voice at the other end.
'The bastards play music all day, all night,' he mumbled into the phone, 'I can't sleep, the kids wake up, it's driving me nuts…' His voice quaked a little. 'I'm going crazy, Frank. I had to talk to someone – I don't know what to do, man!'
In the hallway, Dillon pressed his palm flat against his ear, struggling to hear the faint, crackling voice above the Hoover, the toilet flushing upstairs, and now the damn kids, playing shunting engines at Clapham Junction.
Dillon whirled round, red in the face.
'Pair of you, out! Get out!' He pointed. 'Susie, shut that off.'
Susie didn't appreciate being barked at as if this was a parade-ground, and nearly didn't, but one look at Dillon's face changed her mind. She stamped it off with her toe and crowded the boys into the kitchen out of harm's way.
'Okay, now listen, Taff…' Dillon spoke slowly and calmly. 'They can't play music all night, it's against the law.' Clicks and buzzes. 'You there… Taffy?' Dillon had to listen hard to the faint, croaking voice, on the line from purgatory. 'And what… they've taken your fridge? Who has?'
Taffy banged his head against the cracked pane, clawing with dirt-rimmed nails at his unshaven cheek. He didn't know he looked a slob, and wouldn't have cared if he had. It had gone beyond that, it was out of control, tears of rage and frustration stinging his eyes. It was pathetic and pitiful, but he just didn't care any more.
'The cops are bloody useless,' he mumbled hoarsely. 'If I go into that house, I'll kill somebody…' He yanked a sliver of glass from the broken pane and squeezed it in his bare hand.
Steve was on the sofa, groggy-eyed, listening to Dillon who was pacing up and down, smacking his fist into his palm.
'And the same bloke – given a medal for riskin' his neck and savin' God knows how many people – is goin' nuts because some bastard won't turn his stereo down. He can't find work. His kids are yellin', and his wife doesn't understand why he can't get a job… What does he expect me to do?' Dillon spread his hands helplessly. Turning, he saw Susie in the hallway, about to continue Hoovering, and pushed the door shut in her face.
All right, stay cool, Susie thought with tremendous forbearance, let it ride, and put her foot out to start the Hoover again. Then she flung the Hoover aside and kicked the living-room door open instead, standing there hands on hips, eyes blazing.
'I am sick to death of having doors shut in my face in my own home! Maybe the reason she can't understand is the same reason Ican't understand. What do you think we are, Frank? Mind-readers? How am I to know what triggers off these moods if you won't tell me!'
'What moods?' Dillon snapped at her.
'Oh come on, Frank!' Susie's boiler was stoked up and blowing sparks. 'You breeze in on top of the world because you've got work – next minute, one phone call later, you behave as if I'm your worst enemy.'
Dillon said sullenly, 'Kids were just gettin' on my nerves…'
'It's half-term – instead of taking on responsibility for every soldier that leaves the Army, you should spend more time with your kids -'
'It's not every soldier,' Dillon interrupted. Wearily he turned his back on her, infuriating Susie even more. 'Why don't you play another record, you're getting to sound like your mother.'
Steve got to his feet and weaved towards the door. As he went by her he muttered, 'oNe lAMe – DuCk's enOUgh…'
Susie watched him go and rounded on Dillon. 'What did he say?' she demanded, spots of colour burning her cheeks.