Stephen Leather: True Colours

A further burst of fire chewed the ground around him, and his face was needled by cuts from rock splinters, though they were no more than gnat bites compared with the searing pain in his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Shepherd saw McIntyre swivelling to face the danger and loosing off a controlled burst of double taps, but Ahmad Khan had already ducked into cover behind the rubble.

Shepherd looked down at his shoulder. There was a spreading pool of blood on his jacket, glistening like wet tar in the flickering light of the muzzle flashes as his team kept up a barrage of suppressing fire.

Shortt ran over, pulling a field dressing from his jacket. ‘Stay down,’ he shouted, and slapped the dressing over the bullet wound. Shepherd took slow, deep breaths and fought to stay calm. ‘Geordie, get over here!’ shouted Shortt. ‘Spider’s hit!’

Geordie sprinted over, bent double. He looked at Todd but could see without checking that the captain was already dead. He hurried over to Shepherd. ‘You OK?’ he asked.

Shepherd shook his head. He was far from OK. He opened his mouth to speak but the words were lost as he coughed. Helpless, he saw the dark shape of the Taliban killer move away, inching around the rubble heap and then disappearing into the darkness beyond. He tried to point but all the strength had drained from his arms.

‘I’m on it,’ said Shortt, standing up and firing a burst in the direction of the escaping gunman.

Spider tried to sit up but Mitchell’s big, powerful hand pressed him flat again. ‘Keep still and let me work on you,’ he growled. Mitchell clamped the trauma pad over the wound, compressed it and bound it as tight as he could. ‘Oboe! Oboe! All stations minimise,’ said Mitchell into his mic, SAS-speak ordering all unnecessary traffic off the radios. Mitchell looked down at Shepherd and slapped him gently across the face. ‘Stay with me, Spider. Just stay with me.’

There were four of them sitting around the table in the corner of the pub, half-full pints of lager in front of them. A football match was playing on a television mounted above the door but they paid it no attention. Dennis Weaver was holding court. He was a big man gone to fat, with a gut as large as a full-term pregnancy that bumped the table each time he moved. He was wearing an England football shirt and gleaming white Nike trainers but it had been years since he had taken part in any exercise that hadn’t involved lager or cigarettes. Weaver was in full flow, jabbing a nicotine-stained finger in the air to punctuate his angry words. ‘Yasir Chaudhry. The guy’s taking the piss. Did you see him on TV last week? The council knocked two houses together so that he had a place big enough for him and his wife and eight kids.’

‘Bastard,’ muttered Stuart Harris, a heavy-set man with a shaved head and a tattoo of a cobweb across the left-hand side of his neck. He had the words LOVE and HATE tattooed across his knuckles. Like Weaver, he was wearing a football shirt, but his was the claret and blue of West Ham.

‘Then one of the papers finds out that he’s got another wife living nearby in another council house and she’s got four kids. And who’s paying for all his little bastards?’ Weaver jabbed a finger at his own chest. ‘We are,’ he said. ‘Do you think he pays tax? Does he hell. Benefits, that’s what he gets. Benefits and free houses and free health and free schools for his bastard kids.’ Flecks of spittle erupted from between his lips and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before draining his pint. ‘Then do you know what the raghead goes and does? Stands in front of his house and tells a group of his raghead mates that they should all go on benefits. Jihad Seekers Allowance, that’s what he called it. And you know what he called us? Us Brits? Kuffars, that’s what. He hates us, but he’s happy enough to take our money.’ He banged his hand down on the table. Several heads turned to look at him, but just as quickly turned away. Weaver had a reputation as being a man who didn’t like being looked at, in pubs or out of them.

The men at his table all nodded in agreement. ‘Bastards,’ muttered Harris again. ‘Fucking bastards,’ he said, louder this time, as if gaining confidence.

‘Whose round is it?’ said Weaver, pointing at his empty glass.

‘Barry’s up,’ said Harris, gesturing at Barry Connolly, a diminutive Irishman with a straggly moustache and a greying ponytail. He was wearing a battered black leather vest over an Irish rugby shirt and had a pack of cigarette papers and pouch of tobacco on the table in front of him.

‘I got the first round,’ whined Connolly.

‘Bollocks, I got the first one,’ said Harris. ‘You went straight to the shithouse and I got them in. And you were in the shithouse again when Stuart got the second round.’

Connolly rubbed his stomach. ‘I had a bad curry last night, I’ve had the runs all day.’

‘More information than we need,’ said the fourth man at the table. His name was Andy Taylor. Like Harris he had the words LOVE and HATE on his knuckles. The ink had faded over the years and both Es had all but gone. ‘I’ll get them.’ He headed over to the bar, pulling a nylon wallet from the back pocket of his baggy jeans, which were hanging so low his underwear was visible.

‘What’s your problem, Barry?’ Weaver asked Connolly. ‘You’re always ducking your round.’

‘Dennis, mate, I’ll get the next one,’ whined Connolly. ‘Cross my heart.’ He made the sign of the cross on his chest.

‘Make sure you do,’ said Weaver. ‘It’s bad enough with these ragheads sponging off us without you not paying your way.’

‘Short arms and long pockets,’ said Harris. ‘I thought it was the Scots that were tight fisted, not the Paddies.’

‘I’ll get the next one, swear to God,’ said Connolly. He stared sullenly at the floor. A cheer went up from a group of football supporters standing at the bar and they began jumping up and down and punching the air. The men at the table looked up at the television in time to see the goalkeeper retrieving the ball from the back of the net.

‘Who scored?’ asked Harris.

‘Who cares?’ said Weaver. ‘It’s only the bloody Eyeties. Who gives a toss about the Eyeties?’

Taylor returned with four pints of lager and placed them carefully on the table before sitting down.

‘Anyway, tonight’s the night,’ said Weaver. ‘We’re going to burn the bastard out.’

‘Are you serious?’ asked Harris, his hand suspended in the air as he reached for his pint.

‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ said Weaver.

Taylor leaned forward, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity. ‘Tonight?’

‘Tonight,’ repeated Weaver. ‘I’ve got the address and I’ve got the petrol. We’re going to burn the bastard’s house down with him and his bastard family in it.’

Taylor formed his right hand into a fist and punched the air. ‘Yes,’ he hissed.

Connolly grinned. ‘Woof!’ he said. ‘Woof, woof, woof!’

Taylor frowned. ‘Woof? What do you mean?’

‘Woof!’ repeated Connolly. ‘It’s the sound that petrol makes when you set fire to it.’ He held up his hands and splayed his fingers as he said ‘woof!’ again. ‘Get it?’

Taylor sneered in contempt. ‘Yeah, I get it.’ He looked at Weaver. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘First, I need you all to hand over your phones,’ said Weaver.

‘Why?’ said Connolly.

‘Because they track phones these days,’ said Weaver. ‘If we go there with our phones the cops will know.’ He grinned. ‘But if we leave them here, it’ll look like we never left the pub.’

‘What, we’re just going to leave them on the table?’ asked Harris. ‘They’ll be gone in a minute.’