Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

“Go back where you came from.”

“I’m doing you a favour. Mean it. Can’t spend the rest of your life cowered in a corner. Chance to get your esteem back. Think on it. Come and get me when you’ve had the think… into Murmansk, yes? Sort of job we do well. Out of Murmansk? We’re putting it all together. Just think on it.”

“Go away.” A choke in Gaz’s throat.

“A cup of coffee would be welcome, while you think.”

The man sat down. Put a hand out to steady himself, his fingers going beneath the puddle, lowered himself, and sat. The rain doused him and he reached up to steady his hat so the wind would not take it.

“You’ve had my answer. Go.”

Gaz closed the door. He left the chain on, but turned the key in the lock. The weather was as bad this night as it had been that day in the village. Would he weaken in his resolve? In a few minutes, the man would be gone, would be bashing at the door of the Pierowall hotel, demanding a room and warmth, and then he would not have weakened, but he remembered the girl, and how it had been.

Knacker sat on the path.

Gravel gouged his flesh. The rainwater lapped round him and his shoes were filled and his trousers and jacket clung close to his body and his raincoat no longer gave him protection and he kept his trilby hat low over his eyes. He was confident.

There were times when James Lionel Wickes, Knacker to all who were important to him excepting Maude, would have broken down the door and grabbed by the throat a man who prevaricated, and squeezed to inflict pain, and times when he would have pushed his fingers into his hip pocket and extracted a wad of notes and paid them without equivocation, whatever was required. He was familiar with winning, was rarely disappointed. He had no doubt that his target would weaken, that drama was avoidable and a bucket of rainwater on his skin and wind on his face would hurry the process along… Always won and a slow smile at his mouth, disturbing the dripping water, as he reminded himself of the shock, the horror, the squeals of other parents when he had tripped his closest rival in the school Under 10 sack race, flattened him, and crossed the tape first. His own parents had run a market garden in the West Midlands, fancy flowers and cacti, now managed by Knacker’s younger brother. Last time he had been there was for his mother’s funeral seven years back… Had joined the army at eighteen and transferred to Intelligence after basic training… with a slight detour. Had enrolled at Sussex University, had done a solitary week in International Relations and seen his fellow students legless and pissed, and had heard out a lecturer talking of the aims and benefits of the course. Had packed his bag at the student hostel, taken a bus into town, past the Dome and right into Queen’s Road and then pushed at the door of the Recruiting Office and signed the form… expected and demanded that others match his commitment… A reputation was quickly forged. A few labelled him ‘eccentric’, most rated him ‘difficult’, all agreed that he ‘delivered’, and the name of Knacker came fast, from the early days in the fag-end of violence in the Province.

He talked to the girls, to Alice and Fee. Almost dozed, could have slept anywhere. Heard what was achieved, nailed down and in place – did not query them or second-guess.

“And you, Knacker, how’s your evening going?”

Told Fee he might later have a cold, and that it rained where he was and a wind blew.

“You’re not going to get your death? Christ’s sake, can’t you find some shelter? And the boy? Eating out of your hand?”

He was just gathering up a few loose ends, which would satisfy her. He was known for his annoyance if ends were not tied.

“Just checking, Knacker, he’s not messing you, is he? You’re not doing this with kid gloves? Doesn’t he remember what happened there?” That was Alice, a dear girl with an accent from a stone-wrapped village near Bath, petite and looking like a chocolate box cover portrait, and ferocious if challenged.

Told her he was fine. Told them both that all was well. Told Alice where he would be in the morning. Told Fee where she should be.

He sat and could not quite control the shivering as the wind bucked him and each time he moved the security light was triggered and he had not heard Gaz padding inside the bungalow nor the flush of a toilet and imagined him still crouched in the hall and tortured. He knew of the man’s illness, its symptoms and had with his legendary discretion briefed a magistrate who would hear the assault case. It was a foul malady and had brought down many outstanding soldiers, as Knacker knew. He sympathised with sincerity. But he sat on the flooded path and waited and thought he turned a screw remorselessly… he was confident of the outcome. Wondered how the target was, the man the girl had described, considered how his evening was going while in the comfort of ignorance of what would await him.

His father was out for the evening, his mother entertained friends.

Lavrenti had stayed in his room, risked annoying her. He watched TV. A ridiculous game show but in the isolation of Syria he had seen canned episodes and in Murmansk had become almost addicted. He was not out, dining and dancing or in the new cocktail bars, because he had no friend to be with. At least in Murmansk, as in Syria, he would have the sidling company of Boris and Mikki, a few paces behind but close enough to mind him. Not that either would drink if he did, would not match glass for glass, but would be there to heave him up and lug him back to the car, and might take off his shoes or boots in the apartment room north of the Arctic Circle or in the prefabricated cabin where he lived on base, alongside the Iranians. They listened to his monologues, grunted, laughed when required. Company of a sort.

The ripple of voices was easy to hear, even above the game show track. Four of his mother’s friends had come for the evening, and two had brought daughters. No other men of his age regarded Lavrenti as a friend. He had thought that the kids in the teenage ice hockey team were buddies and they had played well in a league, and he had even believed that his future might be in the professional game, had dreamed of it. He had been dumped. No ceremony, no bullshit, just told that he was inadequate to progress to the necessary levels of fitness, skill and motivation. His mother had wept, his father had growled a refusal to intervene. Had no friends in the college for FSB graduates because there the brigadier general had clout and he was marked down for fast advancement, and others oiled to him but would never be friends… and no girls.

His mother called him from the salon. He ignored her. He detested her scheming for his advancement. He had no friends because he lived outside any loop where he might have found them. Often he had wondered whether his posting to the liaison role with the Iranian troops of the Quds unit was an attempt by superior FSB and army officers to keep him beyond sight, and whether the posting to Murmansk was dictated by a worthwhile job or ‘Send the little shit somewhere, anywhere, where we don’t have to see, hear him’. His mother called again and he recognised the higher pitch in her voice, annoyance. He had changed out of his uniform and wore jeans and a T-shirt and his hair was a mess, uncombed, and his feet were bare. If his father had called him he would have run to be beside him, would not have dared to act otherwise. He was the son of his father, always had been, still was, would be as long as his father’s name was known in FSB circles.

She called again, louder. The four friends, would have been honoured to receive such an invitation. Not talked about, but slyly hinted at by his mother, was the relationship between the brigadier general and the President, a personal friendship… and proof was always in the pudding. A barbecue a few years back, six or seven, and his father heating up the charcoal, and Mikki ordered to the kitchen to help his mother make sandwiches and nibbles, and Boris sent to the hypermarket for more beers and soft drinks. The dacha his father had acquired was on a turning off the Uspenskoye Highway, the fast route to Moscow, and half a dozen kilometres away and off the same road was the Novo Ogaryovo, the rural home of the President. No caterers that night, and no fuss and no entertainment except for a string trio out of Crimea, and he had come. Without a great cavalcade, only a knot of noisy motorcycles and he had been wearing leathers and a helmet with a tinted visor as had his escort who would have been from the Presidential guard. His father had been hugged and his mother’s hand shaken. Lavrenti had been in the background, told where to be, and for a moment his father had pointed to him and he had looked that way and identified him, and Lavrenti had blushed and ducked his head in respect: it was the closest he had been. He had stayed a couple of hours and eaten well and then the leathers had been zipped tight and the helmets were on and the visors dropped and the air had filled with the noise and the fumes and they were gone, and he was merely an anonymous figure in the midst of the bikes, and Lavrenti’s father had never referred to the occasion again, nor had Lavrenti’s mother. He had understood the message… his parents existed within an inner circle, were ‘untouchables’, were to be deferred to, and their status would last as long as the regime of the President survived…