Lynda La Plante: Civvies

One last call, to settle his NAAFI account and collect his rail warrant. Dillon handed over forty quid, received his change and a receipt from the Duty Sergeant, who then gave him a pink slip.

'Rail pass, and that's it.' Duty Sergeant Sinclair watched Dillon fold the paper and slip it into his wallet. There was a brief, awkward silence. Then Sinclair, instead of saluting, took Dillon's hand in a firm, rough grip. 'Good luck in Civvy Street, Frank.'

The Dakota from World War II, parked on the quadrant of grass outside the Regimental Museum, flanked by an equally ancient artillery piece and heavy-duty machine-gun, looked in better nick now than in its operational days. Kept spick and span not just for show, but for a purpose.

Under a grey, restless sky, a few bright patches breaking through, Dillon walked by the aircraft, raincoat buttoned up to the neck. His eyes moved from the bulbous nose and along the clean sweep of the fuselage, slick-wet and shining from the downpour. Those new recruits he'd seen arriving earlier would be standing in front of the old war-horse in a few days, lined up with their instructors for the course photograph. Some of them, a highly selected few, would make it from the despised DPM forage caps -craphats – to Red Berets, from Joe Crows to proud new Toms. They'd take over where he left off.

Dillon walked on, not looking back.

The minute Susie Dillon heard the phone ring, she knew. So did Helen, Susie's mother, eyes narrowed, mouth pulled down at the corners in that told-you-so expression. She tugged her cardigan straight and folded her arms, glaring at the table, moved specially into the centre of the small living-room for the occasion, laden with plates of sandwiches, cakes, biscuits, bowls of peanuts, even a bottle of sparkling Spanish wine. All that time and trouble and effort wasted, would her daughter never learn? But it was the two boys she felt most sorry for, Kenny and little Phil. Hair brushed, faces shining, self-conscious in their brand-new Marks & Sparks shirts and shorts, they sat happily together on the sofa, dive-bombing the hearth-rug and vari-flame gasfire with a model Spitfire.

Susie went through to the tiny cluttered hallway, glancing at her watch to avoid her mother's eye. She stepped round the children's bikes and picked up the phone. Helen heard her say, 'Hello?' and then call to the boys. 'Quick, it's your Dad!' They were off the sofa and gone in a trice, giddy with excitement.

And then, as might be expected, Susie's puzzled, rather plaintive tone. 'But… where are you, Frank?'

Helen shook her head at the ceiling, sighed, and picked up a sandwich and gouged off a corner. Don't let it go to waste – she chewed, grimacing – even if it was fish paste.

Pissed as arseholes. Or very nearly – but sufficiently in control to keep the slur out of his voice, Dillon hoped. He concentrated through the din of voices and 'Peggy Sue' thumping from the juke-box. 'I gotta go, Sue… no, tell 'em I'll see ' em later. I'm fine, really -' He smothered a belch. 'Sorry about this… Bye.'

After the second attempt Dillon got the receiver back in its cradle. He blinked and contemplated the five pints of Courage bitter lined up on the bar by his elbow. He'd had… how many? Eight, nine, ten? Couldn't remember, as if it made any bleeding difference. He took a deep gulping swallow, head thrown back, and plonked the glass down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Four to go.

It was somewhere around late afternoon, he could tell that by the rays of sunlight slanting in low through the red and green panes of the Haverlock's front bow-window, spotlighting the thick blue smog of cigarette smoke over the pool table. First call had to be the ex-Paras' watering-hole. Because, Dillon thought with sudden blinding clarity, he was one of them now. Ex-Para. He knew what it meant but the words wouldn't sink in.

'Eighteen?' Harry Travers was saying to a young guy further along the bar, waving his pint glass and slopping beer everywhere. 'Eighteen? You're looking at a man,' belch and a sway, '… at a man who sank twenty-five…'

'Cheers, Harry,' Dillon said, raising the next one and taking the head off it. But Harry, his face a torrid hue, sucking beer from his gingery moustache, was jabbing the air with a blunt finger, fixing the young guy with watery blue eyes. 'Get this… security company wants three drivers, one armoured car and a motorbike. I said, "For a grand, mate, I'll get the Royal Tattoo and Joan Collins." ' His mouth twisted. 'Wanker.'

Dillon surveyed the packed bar. One or two young blokes, probably still regulars by the lean, trim look of them, but mostly older hands, a couple of years out and already getting slack around the middle, beer guts hanging over their belts. Not for him, Dillon made a drunken pact with himself. He'd work out, keep a tight grip. Or else he'd end up like Wally over there, balding, fagging it, looking ten years older than his forty-five, shirt-buttons straining to hold back a phantom pregnancy nearing full term.

At least Jimmy seemed to have adjusted well to civvy life, Dillon thought. There he was, the wheeler-dealer, plenty of scams cooking and more on the back-burner, handing out folding stuff.

'And you get double,' Jimmy was saying to a young, tanned bloke who looked as if he was just back from a stint in Belize, 'if you can get me a dozen MBC suits. An' I can take as many DMBs, jungles, as you can lay your hands on. I got transport, no problem.'

Jimmy glanced over, winked at Dillon, flashed his confident grin. Looking very sharp in an expensively tailored, shot-silk blue suit and crisp white shirt, a fine gold chain fastened with studs to the collar points and looped across his matching necktie of gold and red diamonds on a blue ground. He'd let his red hair grow longer and wore it slicked back with grease; seeing Michael Douglas in Wall Street had left a lasting impression.

'Two of us on the door,' Wally draped his arm round Dillon's shoulders, droning on with another of his interminable stories, 'thirty-five a night, an' I'm not jokin', mate – I've had more fuckin' fights than I had the whole time I was in Belfast.' He gestured to the blonde landlady, working like a Trojan behind the bar. 'Two more here, Sybil, three over there…'

Dillon made a token protest, knowing he should be making tracks, but Wally was in full spate.

'You can keep hittin the Irish an' they bounce… I'll tell you, Frank, there are more of those bastards over here than they got over there!'

Feet apart, legs braced, Dillon tried to keep the floor in place. Gazing straight ahead at the optics, he stated, 'I gotta go home…' the fixed dead stare of a man recognising an ultimate truth.

Somebody came through the smoke and whispered in Harry's ear. He beckoned Jimmy over and they closed around Dillon, Harry bending close, giving the word, Dillon half-catching something about 'Kilburn' and 'bunch of paddies' and the name of a club.

Wally's face lit up. Letting out a yell, he hooked Dillon's neck in the crook of his elbow, announcing, 'Let's send this man out into civvies fighting! Yesssss! Come on!'

Getting wind that something was up but not knowing what, Dillon said vaguely, 'Where we going?' as he was carried in a scrum to the door.

At the cigarette machine, a tall, ashen-faced man with hair hanging in his eyes, pissed as a fart, did a staggering turn and collided with Dillon. About to brush past, Dillon stopped dead in his tracks. He gripped the man by the shoulders, stared into the lost, bleary eyes.

'Steve -? Steve Harris?'

In place of the handsome Jack-the-Lad, six-feet-two in his stocking-feet and with, as he never ceased to tell anyone within ear-shot, a dick that was perfectly in proportion with his Adonis body, was this pathetic, shambling wreck. Unshaven, bloated and boozed out, Steve 'the Puller' Harris, renowned for his sexual exploits, not allowed near anyone's wife, or sister, and on one occasion, Smother Smith's mother!… Steve, one of Dillon's best lads, was almost unrecognisable.