Andy McNab - Payback

Danny was looking at the roof, where two not-quite-matching dormer windows were the dominant feature. As he stared, he realized he was slowly tilting his head over to one side. ‘Those windows in the roof aren’t straight.’

Fergus laughed. ‘Kev never quite mastered the use of a plumb line. From what I remember, the inside’s no better. He’s a good bloke, though, one of the best. We spent weeks on ops like this in Northern Ireland.’ He paused for a moment and gazed out through the window. ‘Watching terrorists get together for planning meetings. Even bomb making. Last one we did together was over a chip shop in Belfast. We stank of fat for weeks.’

Danny grinned. ‘Off on another trip down memory lane, are we, Watty?’

Fergus flashed his grandson a look, but then saw the smile on Danny’s face and let it go. Besides, he’d always quite liked being called Watty; it reminded him of the old days too, when life was a lot less complicated.

‘You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?’ said Danny. ‘I remember him telling me.’

‘Boy soldiers together; we were just a bit younger than you. Same battalion, then passed selection together. We used to be called the Grouse Beaters; he even had the kilt.’

‘But he’s not from Scotland. I remember his voice – I thought he was a Londoner. And you’re hardly Billy Connolly yourself. You don’t sound Scottish.’

‘But at least I was born there. Kev’s a plastic Jock,’ said Fergus, smiling. ‘His mum was from Glasgow, but that’s as far as it goes.’ His face clouded and he seemed to drift away with his thoughts. ‘We’ve been through a lot together. One time-’

Whatever Fergus had been about to say was left unsaid. Instead he delved into Danny’s sports bag and pulled out a bottle of water.

‘What?’ said Danny. ‘One time what?’

‘Nothing. It was a long time ago.’

But Danny persisted. ‘Come on, you started telling me something. You can’t just leave it.’

Fergus took a drink of water. ‘We got into a bad contact with the IRA in Belfast. Kev was shot but I managed to drag him out and get him away in the car.’

‘So… so you saved his life?’

Fergus shrugged. ‘I didn’t do anything Big Kev wouldn’t have done for me.’

They hadn’t spoken like this for a long time. Ever since Danny had first met up with his grandfather, he’d found that getting him to talk about his experiences in the Regiment was as tough as pulling teeth. Now he’d learned a little more.

They sat side by side on the sofa, and as Danny thought about the special and unique bond that exists between men like Fergus Watts and Kev Newman, his feelings were mixed: awe, admiration, and the slightest hint of jealousy.

He didn’t like himself for feeling that way. Fergus was his only living relative, his flesh and blood. But he kept many secrets, and Danny knew those secrets could only ever be shared with someone who’d been there; someone who’d lived through the same horrors.

‘So what does he do now?’ he asked, trying to shake off his thoughts.

‘Works for a security firm around here,’ answered Fergus. ‘But as it’s Saturday – and judging by the two cars it looks as though he’s at home – I’m hoping he might put in an appearance.’

‘Then we go and talk to him?’

Fergus shook his head. ‘We don’t know who else is watching the house. Fincham could have people out checking anyone I know. So we watch and wait for a while.’ He suddenly sat up and gestured towards the house. ‘Here’s the lad himself. He’s put on weight. Lard-arse!’

Danny looked out and saw Big Kev, wearing ripped jeans and a paint-covered T-shirt, standing in the driveway with a woman.

‘That’s his wife, Sharon.’

Kev kissed Sharon and waved her off as she got into her Mini and drove towards the town. Then he started up his cement mixer, went to the back of the house, returned with a wheelbarrow full of sand and cement and started shovelling it into the machine.

Fergus took a swig of water. ‘Should have guessed. Another extension.’

The morning passed at around about the same pace as Big Kev worked – slowly. He moved from front to back of the house with load after load of mixed cement.

‘Wouldn’t it be better if he had the mixer round the back, where he’s working?’ asked Danny after at least a dozen trips.

‘Course it would,’ said Fergus. ‘But this is Big Kev we’re talking about.’

Sharon returned at lunch time with a carload of packed Tesco bags. She stood with one arm around the big man’s waist and they chatted as they watched the mixer turn.

‘They were always like that,’ said Fergus. ‘The original happy couple.’

When the mix was ready, Kev went back to his barrow and Sharon disappeared into the house with her bags of shopping. Half an hour later she reappeared to call Kev in for his lunch. He’d stayed inside the house since then, although Sharon had gone off in the Mini again.

Danny had been on stag since two p.m. He had another thirty minutes to go before his two hours were up when, across the street, the front door opened and Big Kev emerged. He was dressed differently: his working jeans and T-shirt had been replaced with smart chinos and a short-sleeved polo shirt, and he was carrying a golf bag stuffed with woods and irons.

As Kev walked towards his car, Danny nudged Fergus, who was snoozing next to him on the sofa. ‘Heads up, Watty. He’s on the move.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Fergus as he spotted the battered golf bag. ‘He’s still trying. I thought he’d have given that up by now.’

‘Is he no good at it, then?’

‘He’s worse than that, he’s total crap. He always loved golf – must be something to do with his Scottish ancestry. He even used to take a couple of clubs and a bag of balls on ops, just in case he got the chance to practise. But he can’t hit a ball straight. Never could.’

Fergus smiled as he recalled golf balls being whacked in the desert, on ice-covered lakes in Norway and even inside an aircraft hangar the squadron had occupied for a couple of weeks in Cyprus.

‘He spent a fortune on lessons, read all the books, watched the professionals, but he reckoned he never got his swing quite right. He could hit a ball for miles, but never straight. The lads used to say it was easier to dodge a bullet than one of Kev’s golf balls.’

Kev opened the tailgate of his Land-Rover Discovery, put the golf bag inside and began rummaging around in one of the pockets.

‘What’s he doing?’ asked Danny.

‘Probably checking to see if he’s got enough ammo for a whole round.’

When Kev slammed the door shut, the whole vehicle shuddered. He got into the Discovery, smiling, and then drove away.

‘Now what do we do?’ said Danny. ‘Run after him?’

‘No need. I know exactly where he’s going.’

A few minutes later, as Fergus and Danny gathered together their kit and dismantled the OP so that there were no signs of them having been there, a blue Vauxhall Vectra cruised past Kev Newman’s house.

The driver pressed in his gearstick pressel.

‘That’s Mick on Brecon Road. Heading into town. Do we have any possible yet?’

Fran was crossing the river Wye, which runs through Hereford.

‘That’s Fran on the bridge towards the town centre. There’s nothing yet. All callsigns, get into town and start looking for Watts until we get some Int.’

The Thames Embankment was far quieter than usual. The fear of further suicide bombings was keeping visitors away. It was a good spot for George Fincham to talk in confidence to his trusted second-in-command.

Deveraux would have preferred to meet her boss in his office, where every word and look would have been recorded, but when Fincham called her and suggested they walk and talk, she could hardly refuse.