He thought of them in London, in the capital under lockdown, the men of Delta, Golf and Kilo, doing what he should have been doing. Sitting in court eighteen, he realized he did not care a damn whether Ozzie and Ollie Curtis went down, whether they had an arm long enough to reach from a gaol cell and hit Julian Wright, his Principal. He had short-changed himself…It had gone on too long, and he would grovel, whatever it took. He imagined the racks behind Daff's counter — emptied, the ammunition issued — and heard the Welsh lilt of the armourer: If you're in shit, get clear of it. If you're in a quagmire, crawl out of it. Banksy, don't let the bastards destroy you. Always believe it, something'll turn up. He seemed to hear the gallows humour around him, and rough camaraderie, and his isolation from his team ate at him…and he craved it. He stood up, bobbed his head at the judge.
He walked out of court eighteen.
He crossed the forecourt and strode towards the centre of a great expanse of grass. Ahead of him were the lake and the geese. The rain was in his face.
He took his mobile from his pocket, and dialled.
He didn't call him the Rear Echelon Mother Fucker, but said, 'I'm hoping, sir, that you've got a moment. It's Banksy, sir.'
The reply was dismissive. 'Only a moment.'
'What I wanted to say, sir, was…well…it's…' His voice died and he stumbled for words.
'If you didn't know it, Banksy, I have better things to do than listen to your breathing.'
'It's just that I've been thinking…what I should be…' Again he was caught out and could not find them.
'Christ, Banksy, you sound like a teenager asking her mother if she can go on the pill. Don't you know things are quite busy back here? I've another phone going, do I pick it up?'
'Thinking what I should be doing and where I should be.'
'Think a bit harder about your orders: what, is looking after jurors — where, is Snaresbrook Crown Court. All right? Is there anything else?'
He heard that second phone answered, and a second caller was asked if he could wait a minute, no longer. Banks let the hesitation go fly. 'I realize now, sir, that my attitude to colleagues was out of order. I am prepared, absolutely, to make a fulsome personal apology to the rest of Delta for my behaviour.'
'Wouldn't that be nice? Quite touching.'
Banks swallowed hard. 'I want back in. I need, sir, to belong again.'
'Am I hearing you right?'
'I want to come off this crap job and rejoin Delta. I will, sir, apologize with no strings. I admit that my behaviour to colleagues was unacceptable. Do I, sir have your support? Please, sir.' The rain mixed with the sweat on his forehead and the damp seemed to shrink the collar round his throat, and his jacket clung tightly to him. 'That's what I'm asking, sir, for a chance to get back to Delta. It's where I should be.'
'You're a bag of laughs today, Banksy.'
'I know that Delta's doing a proper job of work, and I reckon I should be with them. Sir, I've learned a lesson and will not speak again out of turn. I don't see that I can do, say, more…' A hand was over a phone, but he heard the muffled request for the second caller to continue waiting, and the quip: 'It's just a little administrative fuck-up to sort out, but I'm about there — give me thirty seconds.' Banks knew now what he was: an administrative fuck-up…and knew his value. He listened.
'You want to come back in, want everything forgotten…I'm not enjoying this, Banksy. I have every man and woman capable of carrying a firearm out on the streets, and some who are so ropey and stale on their training I wouldn't want to be within a half-mile of them. They're all doing double shifts, sixteen hours a day, while you're joy-riding round the Home Counties in your jury bus. God knows how many of them are popping pills to stay awake. Why? Because this city is under threat, real threat. They are looking for a suicide-bomber — not possible, not probable but actual — and if they see him, and I pray to God they do, they'll slot him. They're the front line in the defence of London. Oh, wait a minute, good old Banksy — superior bastard but we'll forget that — wants to rejoin the team. But it's not as easy as that, Banksy, not any more. You see, the doubt exists as to whether you're just a square peg that won't slot down into the round hole, whether you're up to the standards demanded of the job. That's the feeling, and whining about apologies won't change it. Sorry and all that…My advice, go back to jury nursing and leave the real work to those who've the bottle to handle it. In the pleasantest possible way, Banksy, get fucking lost.'
He switched off. His jacket, heavy and sodden, with the notebook in the pocket, slapped against his hip.
He walked through the smokers on the building's outer steps — they skipped aside to let him pass — and flashed his card at Security. In his wake the corridor floor was sheened with the wet off his shoes and the mud. He went into court eighteen and took his old seat. He looked across the court at the brothers, at the barrister who was on wind-down, at his Principal.
Wally leaned close. 'You all right?'
'Never been better, ' Banks said.
'Sure?'
He heaved a sigh, and murmured, 'I did something I shouldn't have, and from it I learned some truths. Not to worry now, because I've unravelled that problem and it's behind me. I'm fine.'
He was a traitor to two men, one in his mind and the other across the width of the court. He caught the eye, saw the wink directed at him, and stared back at the juror.
'Did you see that?' Ozzie Curtis rasped the question to his brother. 'See what?'
'God, you're so dumb — don't you see nothing?'
'Seen nothing.'
Ozzie Curtis's mouth was against his brother's ear. 'The bastard's doing eye contact, winks and all, with that 'tec in the gallery.'
'Which one?'
'The one that's come back like a drowned rat.'
'How'd you know he's a 'tec, Ozzie?'
'Because he has a shooter on his hip — haven't you seen it?'
'Haven't.'
'Well, start looking at the bastard. See him, he's all smug and comfortable, and the bastard thinks he's safe, with his shadow We're going down, Ollie, and — '
'You reckon it, definite, we're going down?'
'- and, I promise you, we're taking bodies with us,' Ozzie Curtis growled, savage and feral. His face twisted as his tongue rolled on the words. 'Plenty of bodies — Nat bloody Wilson's body, and the Nobbler's, and that bloody bastard's. He's going first, and that's my promise.'
'Yes, Ozzie, if you say so.'
'I say so.'
Ozzie Curtis gazed over the shoulders of Nat bloody Wilson, past the robed back of the bloody barrister, to focus hard on the bloody bastard…but the eyes didn't meet his. He had that gaze, cold and threatening, that would empty a bloody bar in bloody Bermondsey when he used it, but the bastard never looked at him. Looked instead at the drowned rat in the public gallery. He vowed it then — didn't matter how much of what he had was taken by the Assets Recovery crowd — he would use his last penny to take that bastard, above all others, down with him…his last penny. What made his anger more acute, the bastard seemed so calm, and kept eye contact with his shadow.
A wan smile was returned to him. He listened to the barrister and wondered how much longer the peroration could last, scratched hard in his beard and tried to think of Hannah. Tried, but not with success, and tried again.
Jools did not have Vicky, close up and pressuring his hip and knees, to fall back on for thinking of. He'd been late into court, the back-marker as they'd filed into their seats with their escort pressed round them. Vicky had Corenza on one side of her and Fanny on the other — he didn't know whether purposely or by accident. As the last one in, he'd had the choice of sitting between Rob and Peter, or between Baz and Dwayne…Some damn choice. He had ended up with Baz and Dwayne.