They were approaching the last turn-off from the motorway. Then, with their sirens and lights, they would have a clear run into Birmingham's city centre.
'I mean, it's like Daff said when we were back there and drawing the gear…It's a pin in a damn haystack. He's God's definition of a great comforter.'
'Maybe they should have closed up the whole damn place.'
'Can't lock down an entire city. So the centre's closed and he, slimy little sod, goes somewhere else, where people are.'
'Don't see how we can win.'
Some talked quietly, some read their magazines but interjected. There was no bravado, no joshing and crack.
'We have the photograph, and we have this daft bloody bird on the T-shirt. But he'll wear a baseball cap, and have something over the T-shirt, stands to reason, to hide the belt.'
'Remember that briefing last year — I'm not trying to be funny — that business about the smile? The Israelis say they all seem to smile. They're smiling before they go off to screw those virgins.'
'Can't shoot every Asian lad who's in the city centre and bloody smiling. Bloody ridiculous.'
The Delta team were in the lead Transit and behind them were Golf and Kilo.
'Got to be a head shot, double tap and hollow nose rounds. Only place where there isn't a spasm is the head. Chest, even straight through the heart, and his hand's on the button switch, and up the shebang goes.'
'A head shot with a Glock at ten paces — it's a miracle. How you going to use the H&K, a crowded street and all that crap? He sees you aim, and you have to, and presses the tit, and it's curtains time.'
'At ten paces, if you don't drop him, blow his effing head off — and his finger's on the switch, you go with him—but you don't get the women like he does.'
'Best thing to hope for, pray for, he's not on my bit of pavement.'
They would be on the streets, along with every gun from West Midlands and Mercia, Warwick, Greater Manchester and South Yorkshire, before the shops and offices opened. The big man of Delta, the nick on his earlobe well healed, tried with gallows humour to break the Transit's pessimistic mood. 'You got it all wrong, guys, you haven't figured it. What to do is get out a bloody great bullhorn and shout into it. What you shout is: "Anyone here with a rucksack or a big belt that's heavy, take your hands out of your pockets, and raise them over your head if you're brave and principled"…How's that?'
'Don't mention that jammy bastard, just don't.'
'Because he's history'
The sirens and the lights took them fast through the traffic, and into the city's suburbs.
The first of the management and shop staff were let in through the side door.
There had been a bad Christmas and a dead New Year of trading. Few did not appreciate the importance of the sale as a way of jacking up the turnover of the brand-name stores at the centre.
Lights flickered on, lit the shelves and counters, piers and interior window displays.
The managers began to check the tags with old prices crossed out and new prices highlighted. The shop staff started to tidy the stock they had dumped in place after closing the previous evening.
A commercial-radio DJ, from a local station, was booked to declare the sale open.
Although it was more than an hour before the outer doors would be unlocked, a small knot of customers was already gathered on the steps that led up from the square, but the feeling, and the hope, of management and staff was that, by the magic hour, the steps would be packed tight and the queues would stretch away towards the town hall.
'I'm feeling good,' the centre's chief executive told whoever had time to listen to him as he walked the aisles. 'Quite honestly, I don't reckon the start of the Third World War would keep them away'
He had been to the bathroom, had used the shower and found a razor in the cupboard over the basin.
He'd dressed. Always carried with him in the holdall a clean shirt in a plastic bag and a pair of clean socks. Had to rifle deep down among his gear for them. The shirt was crumpled from burial under the grenade canisters, the first-aid box and the ballistic blanket, but hadn't been ironed anyway after its wash at the launderette in the high street near his bedsit. Trousers on and belt buckled, he'd touched the holster with the pistol in it, as a man did to be certain he had his wallet or a handkerchief in his pocket, or his cigarettes and lighter…had knotted his tie. He'd felt decent, like he could face another day. Banks punched the settee cushions back to shape and folded the blanket he'd been given, made it neat.
There was movement behind the thin wall, and he heard their low voices beyond the thinner door.
She came out, closed the door behind her. 'Morning, Mr Banks. Looks like a nice one. You sleep well?'
'Thank you, yes. Can't remember when I slept better.'
She was coy, rolled her eyes. 'We didn't disturb you?'
'No, not at all. A big battle wouldn't have, slept great.'
She wore only an old rugby shirt, faded red hoops on a faded blue background, a trophy, he assumed, and it stretched down to her upper thighs. Oh, yes, and flip-flops on her feet. It was too long for him to remember when he had last seen Mandy with that same satisfied, well-screwed look — and tired eyes that still held mischief, and the grin…There had not been another woman since his wife had gone.
'I was just going to make a pot of tea.'
'Thank you, I'd like that.'
'And do some breakfast, the full works.'
'Brilliant.'
'And what's the rest of your day?'
'Take him back where we came from.' He added, his voice dry but his expression impassive, 'Take him back after he's been to visit his sick parents…'
'He's a lying bastard,' she said.
'…then field the flak about escorting him away from the location for an overnight, put my feet up, then we're all off on a bus outing for the afternoon. It's an all right sort of day.'
'Actually, he's a complete shit,' she said, matter-of-fact.
She went to the bathroom. He sat on the settee and reached to take a magazine from a side-table. He started to read about a film star he'd not heard of, and the making of a film he'd never see. The toilet flushed. So bored, so unfulfilled, so wrecked. She went from the bathroom to the kitchen, and he doubted she regretted calling her bed-partner a shit. Turned more pages and started to scan a profile on a couple who had renovated a castle in west Wales, and were younger than him, and had spent a half-million on consultants and builders. So worthless, so inadequate. He heard the whistle of a kettle and the clink of crockery. Read about a seashore holiday let in Barbados, with guest chalets, that cost for a week's rental — without flights — what he was paid for seven months' work. Felt so bloody useless, washed up and a spare part that had been discarded. The mug was placed on the table beside him. Sausages had started to sizzle and hiss in the kitchen. Carelessly, he chucked the magazine on to the side-table and a little of the tea slopped from the mug on to its surface. He wiped it clean with his handkerchief.
'And a very good morning to you, Mr Banks. Sleep well?'
His Principal was behind him, in the doorway, wore only his underpants.
'Very well.'
No drop in the pitch of his voice. 'I tell you, no messing, she goes at it like a bloody tiger. Right, first I'm off for a crap and a bath and a scrape.'
'What's second?'
'Second I go for my little walk.'
'Where to?'
'Into the town.'
'What for?'
'God, are we playing the professional? I go into town, after a night of shagging — always the same routine — for a packet of fags and the day's newspaper. Then, if you want to know, she has my breakfast ready and I eat it and read my newspaper. Then it's over for another week. It's not all bad, you know.'