Shaun Hutson: Knife Edge

'Every time you were home on leave you spent all day and night drunk,' Julie continued. 'Since you left the army it's all you've done. How many bottles a day is it now, Bob?'

'What the fuck do you expect?'

She regarded him warily.

'You talk as if I'm the only one,' he said angrily.

'You're the only one I'm married to. I don't care how other soldiers cope with it. I don't care how many of them get pissed, fuck other women, get into fights. I only care about you.'

'Is that why you were going to leave me?' he said softly. 'Leave me and take Lisa with you. Don't tell me you care about me, Julie. Not when you were going to take away the only thing in this miserable, useless fucking life that I ever cared about, that I ever loved.'

He held her in that unrelenting gaze.

'Do you still love me?'

She swallowed hard. 'Yes.'

'Liar,' Neville rasped, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing angrily.

'You've changed,' she told him. 'You're not-'

'Not the man you married?' he hissed. 'Are you surprised I'm different? After what I've seen, is it any wonder? I've risked my fucking life for this country, for the army, for people who'd spit in my fucking face one day and laugh with me the next. And I was supposed to take it. And I did, because that was what I was ordered to do. That's what we were all ordered to do. We were in Northern Ireland to keep the peace. Jesus, that's a fucking laugh. What a great job we did. How many thousands have been killed out there since 1969? And what about here? How many have died in car bombs or pub bombings? How many men, women and children?'

He sat on the sofa beside her. 'Do you know how many friends I lost out there? How many other men who were just doing their jobs? Ten, fifteen? I can't even fucking remember myself. Not all of them. But some things you never forget. Like holding a bloke's hand while you're waiting for him to die, waiting for the fucking medics to come and try and put his head back together because some fucking sniper's bullet has blown most of it apart.'

Julie could see tears in his eyes.

'There was one lad,' he continued, his voice low. 'He was about twenty-two, Tony Lane. That's one name I can remember. Our unit was called to some ruck that was going on near the Divis flats. It was his first tour, he was nervous. We pulled in four guys we'd been told were PIRA. We searched them. Tony found a box of matches on one and he opened it to see if there was any ammunition inside. They'd do that, hide a couple of rounds in there. The matchbox had a charge inside it. No bigger than my thumbnail. But there were sewing needles in there too. When it went off, Tony caught most of them in his face. The needles went through both his eyes. He survived. The doctors said he was lucky.' Neville snorted. 'Blind, but lucky. I held his head in my lap while we waited for help and all the time he was crying. Trying to cry with needles stuck in his fucking eyes and there was so much blood you couldn't see the tears. He just kept saying that he didn't want to die and he kept calling for his mum. That's the curious thing, you know, when guys get shot, when they're dying, they don't call out for their wives or their girlfriends; they call for their mums. And do you know, while I knelt there talking to him, staring at him, the only thing I could think of? Thank Christ it was him and not me.'

Neville got to his feet and began pacing the room, slowly.

'He got a commendation, I think they gave him some kind of medal. I bet that really made up for losing his sight. A medal and some poxy fucking pension if he was lucky. And all the politicians crowed about how brave we all were and the army told us what a good job we were doing, but now it's all over no fucker wants to know. They don't want to know about us now. We did our job and that job's over. Now we should all get on with our lives. As simple as that. They don't realise we've got no lives any more. I hated being in Northern Ireland but at least I was doing what I'd been trained for. They train you, shape you, indoctrinate you and then, when it's over, they expect you to switch off. Like some kind of fucking machine.'

He crossed to the window and peered out, noticing the policemen moving around outside.

'Well, not this time,' Neville hissed. 'This is one machine they're not going to switch off.'

'Is he insane?'

Sean Doyle looked up and saw that the question was directed towards him.

'Neville?' he mused, then shook his head.

'How can you be sure?' Calloway asked. 'If he's crazy, he's unpredictable, there's no telling what he might do next.'

'He's not crazy,' Doyle said, a note of assurance in his voice. He was sitting on the floor of the

Portacabin, back propped against one wall, legs stretched out in front of him. On the floor next to him was a half-empty cup of tea and a sausage sandwich. The meagre provisions had been brought by a uniformed man five minutes earlier.

Calloway was seated on the only chair in the Portacabin.

DS Mason was perched somewhat awkwardly on the corner of the desk.

'If Neville's crazy, then so is every other guy in the Parachute Regiment,' the counter terrorist said, taking a bite of his sandwich.

'How many others have held their wife and kid at gunpoint lately?' Mason sneered.

'You don't know how his mind works,' Doyle said.

'And you do?'

'I've seen what he's seen, been through what he's been through.'

'You sound as if you feel sorry for him,' Calloway said.

'I understand him, there's a difference. That doesn't mean I agree with him,' Doyle murmured.

'I reckon he's a fucking nutter,' Mason interjected.

'You read his files,' Doyle said, munching on the sandwich. 'There was nothing in there to suggest he was unstable, was there?'

'I'm sure Fred West was a good laugh after a couple of pints,' the DI said, derisively. 'All I know, Doyle, is that we've got an armed man in that house over there, holding his wife and daughter hostage.'

'Our job is to get them out safely,' Mason added.

'The wife and kid are your concern. I'm only interested in Neville,' Doyle said, swallowing some tea.

'You still haven't told us exactly what that interest is,' Calloway reminded him.

'If I were you, Calloway, I'd be more concerned about the woman and child.'

'So, what ideas have you got? How do we get them out without getting them both killed?' the DI wanted to know.

Doyle shrugged.

'Come on, hotshot, you're supposed to be the expert,' Mason chided.

'Look, porky,' Doyle sneered, seeing the colour spreading through the DS's cheeks. 'This is a fucking siege, in case you hadn't noticed. There's a pissed-off para shut up in his house with two hostages, surrounded by plods and, as far as we know, armed to the fucking teeth. You make the wrong move and you're going to have a bloodbath on your hands. He'll kill the woman and kid first, then he'll either top himself or he'll start on you boys. My guess is he'll start putting it about if you try to storm the place, so I hope you've got a good supply of body bags. Neville's not playing fucking games and, until we find out exactly what he wants, there isn't a thing any of us can do but wait.'

'For how long?' Mason snapped. 'He could be holed up in there for days.'

'Give it another couple of hours then shut off all electricity and gas. We might as well make it as uncomfortable for him as possible,' Doyle offered.

'And the wife and kid?' Calloway said. 'It'll be uncomfortable for them too.'

'They're being held prisoner by a geezer with one or more guns, can life get that much worse?' Doyle mused. 'If someone had a gun to your head would you really notice if the fucking heating was on or off?'

'What else?' Mason asked.