Andy McNab - Agressor

I walked into a big, well-furnished room, dominated by a mahogany bed and a window that filled an entire wall. I could just about hear a tram rumbling below us. He still hadn't unpacked his carry-on, which lay open with his washing and shaving kit and a few pairs of socks on display, but there was a black laptop sitting on the desk next to the TV, lid up and screen working.

Charlie was close behind. 'Er, don't tell me, you were just passing.'

'Had to get my finger out and find you, didn't I? You spoken to Hazel yet?'

'You're joking! She'll rip my head off and drag it down the phone. I emailed, said I'm fine and I'll call later.'

I went and sat down on the bed. If he decided to chuck me out, he'd find it more difficult if I'd made myself at home. 'Do us a favour, will you? Get a plane home with me, and I can go back to my German without your wife killing me.'

He opened the minibar under the TV and brought out two cans of Carlsberg. He handed me one and we both pulled back the rings.

'Sorry about that.' He leaned against the desk by the TV and took a mouthful. 'She can be a nightmare when she's got the blood up. I'll call her tonight to explain, now I know how long I'll be away.' He smiled briefly before taking another swig. 'How'd you find me?'

I told him about the power cut at Crazy Dave's. He laughed so loud they probably heard him on the tram.

I was feeling too out of it to laugh, or even to touch the beer; I just rested the can on my chest as I stretched out on the bed. 'I don't want to know the job, mate. That's your business. But if you're serious about working, you could do much better than here. What about Baghdad, or even Kabul? The money's better. Four-fifty to five hundred a day for a team leader, even for a geriatric.'

'Oi, less of the team leader. Anyway, who said anything about Istanbul?' He took a long swig of Carlsberg and studied my face. 'Three days' work and all my problems are sorted.'

It was my turn to smile. 'Sorted? What the fuck you on about? You're already sorted. You're living the dream.'

'Hazel's dream…' He sighed. 'Look, I'm happy to go along with it. Since Steven died, the only thing that's kept her sane is having the whole family around her. But a farm don't run on horseshit. The pension only just about pays the mortgage, for fuck's sake. Cash flow, it doesn't exist. This job will pay off the debts in one swoop, and then some.'

The high sweat-to-bread ratio sounded worrying. It normally signalled a job no-one else wanted to touch with a ten-foot pole.

'How much?'

He smiled again, and this time it was the really annoying smile of someone who knows a secret you don't. 'It's a one-off. Special senior citizen rates. Two hundred thousand US.'

'Fuck me. You dropping Putin or something?'

'Nah, I turned that one down.'

I raised my can to my mouth, then realized the taste of beer was the last thing I wanted. 'Whatever. You're too old for this shit. Go home; make Hazel happy. Let me get back to my German.'

Charlie kept looking at me and smiling, like the thing he was keeping to himself was the secret of the universe. 'It's not just about the money, lad.'

'I knew it. All that waffle about that horse of yours… then that stuff on the TV… you just want to get out there and do it again, don't you?'

'I wish.' He turned his back on me to gaze out of the window, and when he turned back, the smile had evaporated. He just stood there and stared at me for a long time, like a cop on the doorstep with bad news, searching for the right words to tell me. He looked down at his trembling hand, then back at me.

I finally twigged. 'You're sick, aren't you?'

He looked away. 'You mustn't tell anyone this, especially Hazel. You up for it?'

I nodded. As if I was going to say no.

He stared at me again for what seemed like for ever, and in the end he just shrugged. 'I'm dying.'

I was so tired I wondered if I'd heard right. 'What? What the fuck's wrong with you?'

He looked out of the window again. 'MND, mate. Motor neurone disease. Well, one of the forms of it. A few Yanks who were in the Gulf have got it as well. They're trying to find a connection, but it's pretty academic. By the time they do, it will be too fucking late.'

'You're kidding me?'

He shook his head. 'I wish.'

It was my turn to stare. I didn't know what to say. The only person I could think of with motor neurone disease was Stephen Hawking. Did this mean Charlie was going to end up buzzing around in a wheelchair and sounding like a Dalek?

'What's the prognosis?' I put the can down on the side and swivelled round to get my feet on the carpet. 'I mean, is the bad stuff inevitable?'

'It's already happening.' He took another swig of beer before holding the can out towards me. 'Sometimes I have to really concentrate just to pull the ring on one of these things. Sometimes it's a bit difficult turning door handles. It's been going on for six months. I went to see a doctor on the quiet' – he pointed his finger at me, the can still in his hand – 'and it needs to stay that way. At least until all the money's in the bank. I want something to cushion the blow for Hazel when I tell her.'

He siphoned up the last of his beer and this time I decided to join him.

'Does it have to get worse? I mean, maybe a few trembles is as bad as it'll get?'

He shook his head slowly. 'Sure as night follows day.' He sounded almost matter-of-fact. 'The next step is memory loss, then my speech gets slurred. Then I won't be able to walk or swallow… Five years on average, and that's me gone.'

'Stephen Hawking's been going for donkey's years.'

'One in a million. It's five years, some much quicker. I wouldn't mind that. Once it gets to the stage where Hazel's spoon-feeding me mashed banana, I'll get her to kill me anyway.' He started to laugh, maybe a bit too much. 'Or maybe I'll see just how much of a mate you are.'

We nursed our second can of Carlsberg in silence. I was still on the side of the bed; Charlie was by the TV, staring out of the netted window. I didn't feel like drinking, but at least it was cold and purged my mouth of three days' worth of airline shit on a tray. I wished it could have washed away Charlie's bad news as well, but it didn't. I felt sorry for him and his family, and that was a strange feeling for me to have. Normally it would just be a case of, tough shit and I'll kill you when it's spoon-feed time.

'It makes sense now.' I couldn't stand the silence any more. 'But what if your hands start disco dancing while you're working?'

'Chance I've got to take.'

'Crazy Dave know?'

'Crazy Dave's a good man, but he's not in the charity game.' He shrugged and gave me a smile. 'I just told him how much cash I needed and if there was a job that paid it, I'd be there. It's my last payday. Hazel will need the money. And you were right about the horse…' Charlie took the final swig from his can and put it down on the desk. He bent and stuck his head half inside the fridge as he rummaged among the drinks and chocolate bars. His voice was muffled. 'I don't want to spend my last few breaths stuck in the corner of a fucking field.'

Charlie hadn't seen the state Hazel was in after he'd done the runner. 'Why not go home and explain everything to her, then come back? What if you fuck up and don't get home? That'll be two Hazel's lost, and all she'll remember is you fucking off.'

He stood up with two cans, water this time, and handed me one. He placed his on the desk and had a go at opening it. This time his middle finger made a meal of getting under the ring pull.

'Well, lad.' The can finally fizzed. 'She's going to lose me whatever I do. This way at least she gets some compensation. I'm staying here.' His eyes gleamed and there was certainty in his voice. He was suddenly the Charlie I knew of old. 'Better to burn than fizzle out. I'll do the job I'm contracted to do. Then I'll go home and face the music. She'll calm down after a while. She loves me really.'