'There's always a beer waiting for you at the Last Trumpet.'
The next hour drifted past in a series of drink-fuelled recollections. Old fights, old officers, accidents with girls, engagements with the enemy — anecdotes it was good to share with men who had lived through the same traumas. Matt bought a pint for Danny Sparsen and Rhys Davids — two men he had fought with in a nasty search-and-rescue mission in Chechnya, getting out some British businessmen who had been selling arms there, and who seemed to have enough pull for a Regiment squad to be sent over to rescue them. He owed his life to Rhys, and Danny owed his life to Matt. More bonds, none of which could be untied by the passage of a few years. Rhys was working for his brother's building company in Newport: Danny had been guarding some oilfields out in Kuwait. They were getting on with their lives.
Will Darton wandered by to say hello. He was a Rupert, but one of the better ones. Matt had fought with him in Sierra Leone, and found him straight and honest and willing to listen to his men. A cut above the usual Sandhurst crap. Maybe that was why he hadn't made it above Major, and was now out in civilian life along with the rest of them. Will was retraining as a surveyor near Chippenham, and had just had his first kid: after the second beer, he confessed that he was bored. The grey, narrow repetitiveness of office life got to him.
After ten years in the SAS, everyone found it hard to find something else to do with their lives, something that held the same promise of danger, purpose and excitement. They were all searching, but only a few of them would find it.
Matt had been getting worried that Cooksley and Reid might not show up. By the time they arrived at 11.30 they'd already had a few beers in town. Matt got in a fresh round of drinks. Both men had changed little since the last time he had seen them: a few more hairs missing, and a few more lines etched into the skin. Cooksley was a slim, wiry man. At first sight you might think he was nervous: he stumbled over his words, and could seldom find the phrase he was looking for. But Matt knew he was only socially shy. In any other setting he had the heart of a lion. Reid was shorter, around five foot eight, with black hair and stocky shoulders. His eyes were almost black, his skin was drawn tight over the bone of his face, and his muscles were taut and lean. Cooksley was working in marketing for a company that made mobile phone accessories, and Reid said he was doing some bodyguarding for a rich American. Both men said they were doing fine. Glad to be free and finally making some money, said Reid flippantly, but behind the bar-room bravado Matt knew the truth was very different. They would not have been on Alison's list otherwise. Neither man would admit to it, but as the evening wore on Matt could tell it was there somewhere. Behind the broad smiles, the old war stories, the rounds of beer and the dirty jokes, there was a shadow: he could hear it in the tone of their voices. Some hidden trouble was eating away at each of them.
I can see it in them — and they can probably see it in me.
'To fallen comrades,' said Wattsie, raising his pint high.
Matt raised his glass and poured beer down his neck. There were days when you couldn't help wondering if the fallen were the lucky ones. 'To the survivors,' he said. They knew what he was talking about. Life in the Regiment was tough, but at least you had your comrades around you. On the outside, you walk alone.
'To the survivors,' echoed a dozen voices around the room.
SIX
The house was a 1950s semi, its white paint starting to fade. An Astra van was parked on the short gravel driveway. It stood on the outskirts of Pembridge, a village of five hundred people about ten miles north of Hereford, close to Shobdon private airfield. From the seat of his Porsche, Matt could see the kids' clothes on the washing line, fluttering in the wind blowing down from the Welsh hillsides. Judging by the size of the two romper suits, he'd guess they were about four and two.
Suburban family life, thought Matt. It suits some men, but not me. After I collect the two million, Gill and I are going to live somewhere hot and glamorous.
He stepped out of the Boxster, stretching his legs as he walked around the vehicle. In the distance he could see Cooksley walking down the lane, a newspaper and a pint of milk under his arm. A dog was with him, a Collie, barking and running ahead. The man's head was bowed, looking at the ground, following the curves of the pavement. His shoulders were sagging, and his eyes looked weary.
'Good to see you last night,' called Matt.
Cooksley looked up. 'You too, mate.'
Matt followed him into the house and accepted the offer of a cup of coffee. Sarah was spooning some milky porridge into the mouth of Danny, the younger of the two boys. Callum was running around waving a Monsters Inc toy. 'You a man,' he said, thrusting a green one-eyed Mikey into Matt's hands.
A smell of nappies and food filled the kitchen and the floor was covered with brightly coloured lumps of plastic. Sarah Cooksley looked tired and hassled, her eyes drooped and lines of exhaustion collected around her face. She had been a beauty when he had first seen her one night in a bar in Hereford. Matt had tried to chat her up himself, but she had thinned him out. It was a surprise when she started going out with Cooksley — she was obviously drawn to the silent, brooding type. Two years had passed since Matt had seen Sarah, but it could have been ten: her long brown hair had been cut into a short bob, her eyes had lost their sparkle and her skin its shine. She was still a beauty, Matt decided, but a troubled one. He knew nothing of her life, but he could tell it was a struggle. Daily existence was grinding her down.
'You haven't changed a bit,' she said, kissing Matt on the cheek. 'How's Gill?'
'She's fine,' Matt replied with a stab of guilt. 'Still in Marbella.'
Matt took the coffee Sarah made him, spent a few minutes play-fighting with Callum, then looked up towards Cooksley. 'Let's go for a walk,' he said. 'I need to talk to you.'
A path led away from the back of the house into the hills. The border between England and Wales lay somewhere close to here, stretching across the peaceful contours of the landscape. A few sheep were grazing in the fields. A light rain was falling, and Matt pulled the collar of his overcoat high up around his neck. The two men walked in silence. Matt wanted to put a safe distance between himself and the house before he began.
The things we are going to discuss are not for the wife and kids to hear.
He climbed over a stone wall, glad to have the chance to flex his muscles. He had drunk a skinful of beer the night before, and he had felt it when he'd woken up. The air would do him good, and so would the exercise.
'Things aren't OK, are they, Joe?' he said.
Cooksley, he knew, was a man of few words, and most of those had only one syllable. He looked up at Matt, the surprise written on to his face. 'Who told you?'
'Five,' Matt answered.
Cooksley walked on, staring at the ground. 'We're out of that game, Matt,' he said. 'Our time is served.'
Matt shook his head. 'I'm back.' He turned to look at his friend. In Cooksley's eyes he could see something he had never seen before, not even in the treacherous, bandit-infested mountains of Kosovo: fear. 'They've told me to recruit four men,' he continued. 'Men who need money, who'll take a chance if they have to.'
'Bastards,' muttered Cooksley. 'I knew Five kept tabs on us all, but I didn't realise they had access to our medical records.'
'What is it, Joe? Are you ill?'
Cooksley walked on, striding across the open field. 'It's Callum and Danny, they have cystic fibrosis.'
Matt stopped in his tracks. 'Christ, I'm sorry. Is there anything you can do?'