Civvies

Susie found the note and stuffed it on the dressing table as she gathered the clothes for the weekly wash. Since Taffy's arrest Dillon had been sullen, uncommunicative, staying in bed until eleven or later. She was surprised when she heard him on the phone, not that she could hear what he was saying as the tumble-dryer sounded like an express train shuddering through the kitchen.

Susie could still hear the phone pinging even when the washing was out of the dryer, and stacked up in the basket for ironing. She was filling the steam iron with water when he breezed in, and dangled the scrap of paper.

'Got a job! Cash in the hand, wallop! Nice little earner, me and the lads'll be gone a couple of weeks.'

'Gone? Gone where?' Susie asked, as she plugged in the iron.

' Scotland, they got problems with poachers.'

He was out yelling up the stairs for Steve to get his gear packed. Susie came to the kitchen door and looked up as Dillon charged up the stairs. 'You're not poaching, are you?'

He leaned over, too far over, as he beamed, 'No sweetheart, we're catchin' 'em, they need army blokes – got to camp out!'

'How long will you be gone for?'

'For as long as it takes… OI! Come on you lazy bugger let's be havin' you!'

Susie thudded the iron over the folded sheet on the ironing-board, as footsteps banged and crashed around upstairs. She heard Dillon laughing. They were acting like kids, and she took out her fury on the ironing. He hadn't even asked if she minded, not even bothered to talk it over with her, no sooner home than he was off again.

The doorbell started ringing, and she heard Jimmy arrive, then Cliff, more yells and bangs, and then Dillon walked in with his arms full of dirty washing.

'Some of Steve's gear, can you run it through the washer? The lads have arrived, we'll be off any minute.'

The dirty linen and T-shirts and a couple of pairs of filthy jeans were dumped on the kitchen floor.

'Frank!… FRANK! Just shut the door a minute!'

He kicked the door closed, 'What?'

'How long will you be gone?'

'I dunno, but we'll bring you back some salmon.'

'I see, so how much they paying you?'

'Fair whack.'

'Will this mean Steve can find a place of his own? This isn't a ruddy hotel! And it would have been nice if you'd talked it over with me first!'

'Oh, sorry, didn't know I had to ask permission to get a job!'

'Oh, stop it, I just meant that you should have discussed it with me, I don't know how long you'll be gone, you've only just got home!'

He reached out and slipped his arms around her waist. 'It's a job; we make enough dough we maybe can open our own business.'

'Pay that good is it?'

His arms tightened. 'It's good enough, now give us a kiss.'

She put the iron on its end and was about to turn in his arms when Jimmy barged in.

'Come on, we should get cracking, it's a hell of a drive – Hi, Susie – and Frank, can I have a word?'

'What?'

Jimmy inched the door -shut. 'You're sure we should take Steve? He's a bloody liability you know!'

Dillon wafted his hand. 'He's coming! You just get the gear loaded, I'll be right out.'

Jimmy hesitated and then winked at Susie. 'Bring you a fresh salmon…'

Susie shook her head. 'You sure you lot are catching the poachers not joining them?'

Jimmy laughed, and then looked back to the hallway. 'Let's get on the road then!'

Dillon gave Susie a quick kiss, eager to be gone, and followed Jimmy out. Susie looked at the stack of dirty laundry and began to stuff it into the washing machine, as Steve edged in.

He said something, but she wasn't sure what it was, then he gave a soft pathetic smile. In his crumpled clothes, the scarf he always wore knotted round his throat, his knees showing through his ripped jeans, there was still the ghost of 'The puller' about Steve, the nickname he had because the women always fell for him. Maybe it was the sweet smile, but Susie went over and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. 'You take care of Frank, okay?'

He nodded mutely, then delved into his pockets, and brought out two crumpled ten pound notes. His Donald Duck voice burped out 'Get something for the kids, and some flowers for you.'

Susie watched them pile into Jimmy's jeep. They waved and yelled up to her from the courtyard as she leaned over the railings. Steve was sitting up in the back with Cliff who was already drinking a can of lager. They were like kids on some kind of school outing, singing at the tops of their voices, happy they were playing at soldiers again. But Susie knew they weren't really playing, Frank wasn't back in civvies, not yet… Maybe the time in Scotland would get it out of his system.

The Clyde Hotel was a solid, sturdy building of dark red sandstone that at one time might have been the residence of the local laird. Built on the crest of a small hill, it had magnificent views to the north of Loch Tummel and the Forest of Atholl, and further to the west of the Grampians, grey peaks lightly dusted with snow.

Cliff drove the old Renegade jeep up the curving driveway and halted on the gravel forecourt next to the main entrance. Too early for the hunting-shooting-fishing season, the hotel had a slumbering look about it, an impression reinforced by an ancient sit-up-and-beg bicycle with a straw pannier at the front, propped against the steps.

Climbing out, Dillon has a quick look at the tripometer which they'd set that morning on leaving London. 451. Bloody well felt like it too; his arse was as numb as a witch's frozen tit. Groaning and stretching, Jimmy and Steve jumped down from the back seat they'd had to share with the bags, personal effects and other assorted paraphernalia that Dillon reckoned they needed for the job. More gear than they'd had disembarking at Port San Carlos, Jimmy thought sourly. What were they going to do, invade Perthshire?

'What time do you call this?' Harry Travers clattered down the steps in DPM camouflage pants and army boots, big beefy grin on his chops. He'd put on a few pounds since last Dillon had seen him, but on top of a barrel-chested eighteen stone it hardly mattered, and he looked in fighting trim.

Harry stuck out his hand. 'How ya doin', Jimmy? Frank. This is Don Walker from One Para…'

A younger bloke, late twenties, with longish dark hair kept in place by a bandanna, nodded to them from the top of the steps. Harry's grin changed to a scowl as he noticed Steve Harris in the background.

'Hey, what's with Harris? You never said you were bringin' him.' Still grumbling, Harry led Dillon and Jimmy up the steps, Steve trailing after, head down. 'I got a bone to pick with him – he borrowed me mate's Honda Prelude and that was the last we saw of it. He's a prat!'

Left behind with a bag in each hand, Cliff contemplated the loaded jeep and shouted after them as they all disappeared inside, 'Oh thanks lads, thanks a bundle!'

Hamish MacFarland, the hotel's owner, was already well into double figures with the Glenlivet, by Dillon's estimation, as they came into the bar. He was balanced precariously on a bar-stool, glass in one hand, his other arm draped around a stag's head that for some mysterious reason was plonked on the counter next to the beer pumps. Harry did the introductions, and MacFarland invited them all to have a drink with him, 'a wee dram' before dinner. He had another wee dram himself to keep them company.

The mention of dinner got Dillon's gastric juices flowing: motorway coffee and sandwiches had sustained them on the trip, but he realised he was starving. But he forgot about his stomach for a minute when MacFarland's daughter came through to take their orders. And a hush fell amongst the others too, the banter dying away to silence.