Andy McNab - Bravo Two Zero

There was a strong waft of coffee, and I longed to be in Ross’s cafe in Peckham with a big frothy coffee in front of me. On Saturdays as young lads we’d go down and get two sausage and chips, pile on the salt and vinegar, and get a frothy coffee. Ross the Greek would let us spend all morning there. We can’t have been more than eight or nine. My mum always gave me the money to go and get my dinner at Ross’s; she knew it was the big thing. In wintertime there would be condensation running down the windows and that strong, strong coffee smell. It was such a snug and cozy place to sit. It came back to me so vividly that for a brief moment I felt like a child who has fallen over and is crying for his mum.

There was no way Dinger would have gone into his cover story yet. Name, number, rank, date of birth, the Big Four-that’s all he would have given. I thought: I’m going to get severely filled in here because they’re going to want a lot more than that. I sort of hoped maybe they won’t be asking me now; maybe they’ll be asking me later. Maybe they’ll just be taking their frustrations out now. Maybe no one can speak English! My mind was racing at incredible speed as this character got nearer and nearer, and finally stopped just inches away.

He pulled my head up and punched me hard in the face. The blow knocked me backwards and to one side, but they were surrounding me, and I was pushed back upright. Even when you’re expecting a punch like that, you’re shocked when it comes. I wanted to stay down because it would give me time to rest before the next one, time to think. Everybody piled in. There was laughter as they tried to outdo each other’s efforts. I felt drunk. You know what’s happening, you know what’s going on, but there’s nothing you can do to control it. You begin to feel detached. It’s happening to you, but your mind takes over and says Fuck this, I’m not having much more of this, and you start drifting into unconsciousness. You can feel it happening, but your mind goes off into a wander. I was being punched into a semi stupor

I let myself drop to the floor because at least then I could protect my face. I drew my knees up and kept them together, kept my head down, kept myself clenched up. As the blows rained down I screamed and moaned. Some of it was put on. A lot of it wasn’t.

Then, as if on a signal, the beating stopped.

“Poor Andy, poor Andy,” I heard, and a mock clucking of concern.

I got to my knees and put my head against the man and shook it. I leant against him, my breathing heavy and rasping because my nose was so clogged with blood and mud. I started sinking to the floor again. I needed his help to get me up. This gives time, I thought, this stalls the operation. Hopefully they’ll come to their senses and see that I’m just a pathetic, useless cretin, not worth the effort, and leave me alone.

I was helped back into the chair and somebody dead legged me. I screamed. Even as a schoolboy I used to hate dead legs-and they were just the variety that were delivered with the knee. This was a full blooded kick. Boots flew in from all directions again. I went straight down.

You know the sensible thing to do is to appear weak and plead with them for mercy, but something takes over. I was so angry that I made a conscious decision once more not to beg. There was no way I was going to demean myself. They were going to do it anyway. I knew it was counterproductive to resist, but you can’t fight your pride and self-respect. If I moaned, that would only give them more pleasure. The only way I could beat them was by my mental attitude, and beat them I would. By keeping as quiet as I could, I was winning a small battle. Even the slightest imagined victory is magnified a thousand times. I’m winning this, I thought. Ridiculously, I felt my morale soar. Fuck ‘em, I said to myself-don’t give them the satisfaction of going home for their tea and saying to their mates, “Yeah, he was begging us to stop.”

They didn’t stop. Boots swung into my ribs and head, steel toe caps connected with soft shins. There was no point to what they were doing; everybody was just being macho. My only hope was that they’d get bored with it soon.

A couple of them started sounding off in English, denouncing Bush, Thatcher, everybody they could think of. My body was starting to throw its hand in. I felt limp and drained. It was difficult to breathe. I had already been deprived of my sense of sight; now everything was swollen and throbbing, and I felt my other senses numbing, too. My heart pounded so strongly it was creating its own chest pain.

I could hear screams and anguished groans. They must have come from me.

Somebody shouted into my face from inches away and then laughed manic ally “Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” and backed off.

I should have had the sense to become a quivering wreck and let them laugh about it and say, “Ah, bless his cotton socks, leave him alone, what a dickhead.”

But I just lay there and took it.

“You are the tool of Bush, Andy,” one of them said, “but you will not be for long because we are going to kill you.”

I took the threat seriously. He had just confirmed my worst fears. They would give us both a good kicking, then take us off and slot us.

Good, I thought, let’s get on with it then.

They dragged me to my feet again. Blood was pouring down my face from gashes in my scalp. It trickled into my eyes and mouth. My lips were numb, as if I’d been to the dentist. I couldn’t control them to blow the blood away. I bent my head forward to redirect the flow and to avoid any eye-to-eye contact. I didn’t want these bastards to see what I was thinking.

For another fifteen minutes people continued to take turns at punching and slapping, often not even bothering to put me back on the chair. I stayed crunched up as tightly as I could. A pair of hands grabbed my feet and started to drag me across the room so that the others could get an improved angle on their kicking. This is way out of control, I thought. Any more of this and I’m going to be well out of the game.

The blindfold had come off by now with the hustle and tussle of events. I didn’t bother looking that much. All I saw was my knees hard against my face, and the light-cream lino floor, once beautifully polished but now smeared with mud and blood. I was finding it more and more difficult to draw breath. I was really getting concerned about the long-term effects. I felt my body disintegrating. I could die here-and the only good thing about it would be that I’d mucked up their floor.

The back of my throat was rattling. I coughed blood. Another twenty minutes, I thought, and we’d be into serious damage. That would really slow down my chances of escape.

At last they must have tired of the game. I was a bag of shit, they’d got me where they wanted me, there was little point going on.

I lay there on the floor, drenched with my own blood. There was filth and gore everywhere. Even my feet were bleeding. My khaki socks were wet and dark red.

I opened my eyes for a moment and caught a glimpse of a pair of brown Chelsea boots with zippers on the side, and a pair of bell-bottomed jeans. The boots had cheap and nasty plastic heels, the stuff that Saturday markets are made of. The jeans were dirty and faded, and well and truly flared. Whoever was wearing them probably had on a David Cassidy T-shirt as well under his uniform shirt. Glancing up quickly, I saw that they were all ruperts, very clean-cut and smooth-faced, not a hair out of place. Everybody had a mustache and hair that was sleeked back. The Saddam look was in.

I lay in a corner against the wall, trying to protect myself. There were people on three sides of me. Their faces loomed down at me. One bloke flicked his fag ash at me. I looked up at him pitifully. His response was to do it again.