Lynda La Plante - Civvies

The judge leaned back and straightened up in his chair. His voice straightened up too, stood to attention.

'For offences of this sort the court has no alternative but to pass an immediate prison sentence. That sentence must reflect the gravity of the offences, and it is all the more sad in this case that none of you has had the courage to plead guilty, despite overwhelming evidence against you.'

Dillon stood hands by his sides, Harry and Cliff either side of him. Since rising none of them had moved a muscle. Three uniformed officers stood directly behind the three men. In the well of the court, Detective Chief Inspector Jenkins watched the faces of the three leading actors in the drama. It had unfolded beautifully, he couldn't have written it better himself. Now he was anticipating with great relish the climax to the third act.

'Morgan, I take the view that your part in these offences was as culpable as Travers, but nonetheless I take into account your youth, and for the offence of conspiracy to steal I sentence you to six years' imprisonment and three years' concurrent in respect of the possession of the firearm. Take him down.'

Cliff's knees buckled. He might have fallen but for the officer, who gripped his arm and supported him. In a state of total shock, Cliff was too stunned even to look at Shirley, or to hear her sobs as he was led down the stairs.

'Travers, you will serve a sentence of eight years' imprisonment for conspiracy with three years' concurrent for possession of a firearm with intent to commit an indictable offence. Take him down.'

Harry glared. At everyone – judge, court, Jenkins, reporters, the whole swinish, double-talking, fixing, finagling, fucking lot of them. His final verdict as his head disappeared below the level of the dock was one enraged bellow of defiance.

'Bastards!!!'

Alone in the dock, Dillon awaited his fate. Susie's wedding ring cut into her flesh as she gripped her mother's hand. Two rows behind, gaunt face completely impassive, Newman stroked his chin.

'Dillon, the sentence of this court for conspiracy to steal is that you shall serve nine years' imprisonment; for possession of a firearm with intent to commit an indictable offence, three years to run concurrent. Take him down.'

Dillon stood his ground. He wouldn't be budged, this was madness. Handcuffed, his hands, with his fingers tattooed with the words 'love' and 'hate', clasped tightly. An officer came up the stairs to assist his colleague. Between them they wrestled Dillon round. He looked up to Susie but she bowed her head. Her mother clung onto her hand, crying; no matter how she had gone on and on about her son-in-law, she loved him, and she felt the betrayal of her trust in him as devastating as Susie did. It was Susie who patted and comforted her mother, watching her husband's straight back as they frog-marched him down to the cells below the court.

Not until he was in the holding cell did Dillon's shoulders slump, his head go down. He felt all his willpower and all his strength seep from him. There was no more fight left in him, the fight was gone. They led each man out, Cliff first, Harry second and then Dillon. Harry had to be pushed hard up the steps of the van, he stumbled forward cursing, Cliff, already inside, sitting dull-eyed, still in shock. Lastly Dillon stepped in, and they sat side by side, as the handcuffs were attached onto the steel bar.

The clang of the heavy doors left them in almost total darkness and the small slit windows high above their heads sent shafts of sunlight across the interior of the van. In the darkness, as the engine ticked over, their eyes searched for each other, locked, and then looked away again. There were no words, not at this stage, nothing to be said, they were all in shock at the harshness of their sentences, the loss of their freedom still not fully comprehended. They were mute, as if the stuffing had been punched out of them.

Dillon closed his eyes and the van became the old Hercules. He was standing at the open door, the wind rippling his cheeks, the lads lining up ready to move to the open door. 'Tell off for equipment check… shuffle forwards!'

He stepped out, and felt the rush of the howling wind, the explosion inside his chest, the exhilaration of the air itself, the tug to his guts as the parachute opened up, like a glorious white cloud, and suspended, with sky below and above, you were the hawk, you were the eagle, the swallow. You never mentioned this because they'd call you a wanker, but there was that moment when the feeling of freedom was the sweetest most precious thing in the world. Afterwards came the fighting, the killing, the anger, the feverish rage when your mates died, the blanking off of feelings, the sick jokes about the injured, because you were relieved it was somebody else's legs blown to smithereens. It was as if all those early days, those first jumps, merged into one mass. Why now, just as his freedom had been taken from him, did Frank Dillon remember, with crystal clarity, the way he had felt all those years ago, when he was young, he was healthy, he was a bit wild, he had his whole life ahead of him? And that life for eighteen years became the Army's, was the Army. He had placed it before his wife and sons, had given the Army himself one hundred per cent, and left little for Susie and his family. He knew he had been given chances, like the bank loan, but he was just ill-equipped to deal with it, he was almost as inept now as he was when he first enlisted, he'd never even had a job before he signed on the dotted line. How could he have cared and trained blokes and yet remained such a fucking walking liability in civvies? He shook his head in confusion, and turned to Cliff.

Cliff bowed his head, as if unable to meet Dillon's eyes.

'S'okay Cliff, you did right son, it was me that fouled up, and I'll…' he was going to say he would sort it, like he tried to sort everything, everybody. 'I'm sorry, sorry about Shirley and the weddin'.' Dillon leaned over and patted Cliff, who gripped his hand tightly.

'We'll get a re-trial, we will won't we?' Cliff asked.

Harry elbowed Cliff away. 'Not with that bloody Arnold Crook! We need a better friggin' lawyer, he couldn't get a hard on, never mind fight a bleedin' complicated case like ours, we was framed. Did I ever tell you about that time in Argie? Well, Dick the Armpit, you remember him don't you Frank? Well he's got a bag full of smoke right and…'

Harry nattered on, Cliff only half-listening, his eyes straying to look at Dillon, who sat staring ahead, deep in thought. As if he knew Cliff was watching he turned his head a fraction.

Harry continued… 'I said what you got in the bag Armpit? It smells like camel's shit! It is, he said, that bastard Blackie Hardcastle sold it me, said it was Colombian Gold, so I said to him…'

Dillon smiled, the smile Susie fell in love with, the smile that came across his dark features so rarely. It stunned Cliff, because he saw the vunerability, almost the youth of the man he had believed was so invincible, the man he had trusted. The smile disarmed him, he was no longer his sergeant, just an ordinary bloke. Harry continued, 'In shit up to his armpits, so I said…' Cliff leaned back and Dillon returned to leaning against the wall of the van as it continued its journey to the prison. They were in it all right, up to their armpits, and Harry realising no one was listening to his camel dung story went quiet. They remained silent for the rest of the journey, each wrapped in his own thoughts until the van stopped as Brixton Prison gates were opened. Their papers were checked, the door opened and the wardens peered in to view the three new prisoners. The door clanged shut again, and a disembodied voice was heard discussing the new arrivals. The driver leaned out, jerked his thumb to indicate the back of the transport van. 'Got the Army back here, mate!'