Simon Kernick - Severed

As a soldier, you have to learn to manage your fear of death. Some do it by finding God; the majority manage simply by thinking that it won't happen to them. That's not as hard as you may think on a battlefield. You factor in that a few will die, but you also play the percentage game, which means that probability-wise you'll survive. That goes out the window when you're on your own, though, and for much of today that's the way it's been. I had Lucas with me for a while, but now he's gone, and once again it's just me. Armed only with some spray and a glorified pen knife. But I do have the one commodity all soldiers need: surprise. No-one will be expecting me.

The track bends round to the right, and I can see a faint light flickering through the trees. I'm getting close. With a growing, almost tangible sense of anticipation, I pull off the track and fight my way through a thick set of brambles, moving deeper into the woodland. I walk in a steady south-westerly arc, taking my time. The pine trees seem to close in on me, their branches intertwining to plunge me into a darkness that would be absolute were it not for the light of the cottage. Around me, there is dead silence. It amplifies my own sounds as the twigs break beneath my feet. I've been trained in the art of moving silently, but it's been one hell of a long time since I practised it.

A break in the trees appears in front of me. I stop when I reach it, and look out. I'm facing an overgrown rear garden that leads up a hill into further woodland. The garden belongs to a two-storey house with latticed windows which sits in a dip down to my left. Lights illuminate both floors.

Orchard Cottage.

This is the place I want.

I remove the lid from the pepper spray in my jacket pocket and undo the strap on the sheath containing the buck knife, then move swiftly across the lawn towards the cottage. When I reach the back door I try it more out of hope than expectation, and am surprised to find it's unlocked. Very slowly, very quietly, I open it up and step inside.

I'm in a darkened hallway with a stone floor. It smells vaguely of dogs. Pairs of walking boots are lined up against one wall, and various coats hang from hooks above them. From further down the hallway I can hear the loud ticking of a grandfather clock. It's all so frighteningly normal.

I unsheathe my knife and creep further into the house, past the staircase and towards a partly open door out of which a thin shard of light is escaping. I can hear movement coming from inside. It sounds like someone's shuffling papers.

I stop by the door and wait, planning my next move. From what I can hear, the distance from the door to my target is at least six feet, probably more. He may be armed, so I'm going to have to move very fast to incapacitate him. The major's an experienced operative, one of the best. This is not going to be easy, and this time if I make a mistake, I know it'll be my last.

I reach for the handle, but as I do, I hear a chair scrape on the carpet and somebody standing up. Whoever it is is walking towards the door. I step back into the shadows, and as he emerges, I grab him from behind in a headlock, pulling him back towards me. I can feel him beginning to resist so I press the knife hard against his throat.

'Hello, sir,' I say, 'long time no speak. Please don't make any sudden moves, otherwise I'll have to kill you.'

He's no fool, and remains stock still. I can't see his face, so I don't know what his expression is. I'm hoping it's shock. But he lets slip a deep, throaty chuckle, and I know then that he's the one who's been tormenting me on the phone today; that his is the voice beneath the suppressor.

'I didn't expect you to make it here, Tyler,' says Major Ryan in his gruff, educated tones. 'But then perhaps I should have done. You've done well today. Better than I anticipated.'

I pat him down and discover a pistol in a waist holster, underneath the waterproof mac he's wearing. The mac's wet to the touch, so I know he's been outside recently.

'Why don't you tell me exactly what you were anticipating?' I suggest, removing the pistol. It's a brand-new Heckler amp; Koch. 'In fact, why don't you tell me everything?'

'I think you've been through enough to deserve an explanation,' he admits.

'I know I have,' I say, turning him round and walking him back into his study – a spacious, traditionally decorated room with mahogany furniture, and bookshelves lining the walls. I give him a shove towards the leather chair next to his huge, spotlessly clean desk, then I point the gun at him and ask the question I've been waiting to ask all day: 'Why did you do it?'

The major makes himself comfortable. I haven't seen him in years. Not since the court martial. Considering that his unblemished twenty-year career was ruined when they threw him out of the army, and he spent at least five years behind bars, he looks damn well for it. He's dressed like a country gent in a Lincoln green waterproof mac, tweed trousers and burgundy brogues. His hard, pockmarked features are heavily tanned, and he wears a confident half-smile as he meets my eye.

'You were expendable, Tyler. That's why.'

'But I never did anything to you,' I tell him.

The major's expression hardens. 'No, but you never did anything for us, either.'

'What do you mean?' I demand, although I think I already know the answer.

'We sacrificed our careers for you when you were hit by that bomb.'

'I didn't ask you to.'

'I know you didn't. But you could have shown some appreciation. We lost everything. Not you. You bounced back, Tyler. You rejoined the army. You carried on your career like nothing had happened. And did you ever think about us?'

'I did,' I protest. 'I thought about you a lot. All of you.' But I know my words sound hollow.

He shakes his head. 'I don't think so. You were always an individual, Tyler, never a true team player. Yet it was you, the least deserving, who seemed always to be the most successful. You left the army, ran a thriving business, took Harry Foxley's woman-'

'Don't be daft. She was never his woman.'

The major sighs, concedes the point. 'Do you know what annoyed me about you, Tyler? The fact that you never paid for anything. You enjoyed an easy, good life and you never paid a price for it. Until today. Now you have. It will have made you a better man.'

'And that's it… just because I didn't do things entirely your way, and I've been reasonably successful, you put me through all this?'

'Don't flatter yourself, Tyler. It wasn't revenge. We needed you today, that's all. It was just that no-one was too worried about what happened to you afterwards.'

I take a deep breath. It's difficult to believe I'm hearing this. That people I cared about have hated me for so long.

'Why don't you start from the beginning?' I ask him. 'What is the relevance of the briefcase I picked up, and what the hell does it contain?'

'The briefcase contains materials a number of people, some very high up, are extremely keen to avoid being made public, because those materials could help to convict them of some truly horrible crimes.'

I think again of the finger. 'Go on.'

'These materials were gathered by an individual who was blackmailing several men. One of those men was Eddie Cosick.'

'Don't you mean Colonel Stanic?'

A half-smile forms on Ryan's granite features. 'Yes, Colonel Stanic. I was hoping you wouldn't get to him, because I knew then that you'd make the connection.'

'So, what was Stanic to you?'

'He was a business associate of mine.'

'You don't hang around with very nice people, Major.'

He glares at me. 'Let me tell you something, Tyler. When I left prison, I had nothing. My wife had left me. I had no money, no pension. I needed to survive. I'd always had a good working relationship with Stanic, so I made contact with him again, and helped him move his operations to the UK. I had help from others as well. Men like Foxley, Maxwell and Spann. We got a good business going, and as a result I've made back some of the money that was taken from me.'