Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

“Come on, our ‘friend’, don’t fucking fail us, keep your eyes open.”

… and slapped his face. A light blow but not a caress.

His voice was a whisper and she strained to hear.

“You owe them nothing. You should have gone home, never been here. Listen to me while I can still talk. They are never grateful. Should you ever get to London there will be no trip to the Palace, and no posh men in pinstriped suits to grip your hands, and no medals dished out, and the ‘thanks of a grateful nation’ on offer. I know, I’ve seen. We had wonderful people in Afghanistan, in Syria, put their lives, and their families’ lives in our hands. Fought alongside us… Then we were bored, or could not afford to fight any longer. We went home, and the Yanks did, and these good people were abandoned. Do we give them asylum in UK, a safe refuge from the Taliban, from the Damascus regime? We do not. Charities make a bigger effort to bring a mongrel puppy in because it used to have the run of a soldiers’ garrison camp, and a guy is lonely without it. But the heroes who fought alongside that guy, they don’t get the treatment. Nor will you.”

“Talking just tires you.”

“You ought to have left me.”

“You, friend, should have shot him.”

“I’ve told you who they are, what they are.”

His head dropped, chin on to his chest, and he would have seemed heavier to her and to the boy, and the rain came down and the cloud was lower. He wanted to sleep, to lie down on the pine needles, and… She slapped him again. They went forward, but slower.

Knacker and the Norwegian sat close to each other, had a decent view, and he’d dozed, and in front of him the troops beyond the wire showed no sign of immediate action.

His phone vibrated. Alertness returning, and ignoring the rain that dripped on his head, his shoulders, found its way under his shirt collar, puddled in his lap. He saw the source of the call… had dozed and had dreamed. Had been up on the Wall, and Maude had been somewhere within shouting distance. Plastic sheeting had jumped and arched over her, and mud swilled over her waterproof clothing, and she had been at the cleaning job with her toothbrush. God, it must have been foul for them there, stuck by that rampart, watching that frontier, waiting for the bastards to come out of the mist, screaming and shrieking and wanting blood… And on a similar day, the chap in the woad, their intelligence officer who plotted moves against the wheat collector and garrison commander, would have been huddled – pretty much as Knacker was now – in bushes or under trees, waiting for an agent to come through the gate ahead of him, and leave Roman territory and keep walking with his mules. All the time that individual would have been, near as dammit, messing his pants for fear that a Roman voice would peal out into the rain. Might have an accent of empire from Spain or from North Africa, or from the Tigris River where the bargemen were originally recruited, might have called the wretch back. Probably restless and gasping, because twice the Norwegian had elbowed him, but dreaming and understanding the future. Him up on the Wall, squatting on a shooting stick and watching the horizon, and Maude with her archaeology friends. Knacker had a skill that was much envied by those of the same trade: he saw little point in Canute levels of obstinacy.

“Yes, DD-G, how may I help?”

Actually, Knacker was told, it was ‘acting D-G’ who called him, not ‘DD-G’. Had he received communications?

“I have, yes.”

Was he at the airport? Was he flouting instructions? Did he regard himself as emanating from an independent fiefdom?

“Just wrapping things up, tying loose ends, not wanting to leave any untidiness.”

Had matters been made plain to him? A new broom and a new mood, and a new acknowledgement of ethics and morality, and a new rubbish bin for outdated attitudes towards the Russian ‘enemy’. Did he not realise that times changed, attitudes moved on, techniques grew more sophisticated in the light of electronic advances? Putting these unprotected wretches in harm’s way for the sake of some hypothetical advantage to be gained in central Syria. All ridiculous. Quite apart from justifiable annoyance felt by the Russian agencies. It was over, and the stable was to be cleaned. Did he understand?

“All understood.”

He would have expected a fight. Probably, in front of him and at the desk where he sat – hopefully on borrowed time – would have been a crib sheet of clever lines to throw back at Knacker if he’d argued. Would have slapped him down and would have had around him a room full of Young Turks, or Albanians, or Egyptians, wherever they came from these days. Would have seen himself as a prizefighter with an opponent on the ropes and a stadium baying for blood. Knacker gave him a trifle of ducking and weaving, and then silence. To the point of impertinence, he frustrated, gave no cause for the crib sheet to be used. Would he not, at least, stand his corner?

“Just those loose ends, then be on the plane.”

And his man? How was the ‘wretch’, his man, doing? Going to make it out without repercussions off the Richter? Or in a holding cell, waiting to be shot dead on the wire? What was happening?

He terminated the call, then switched off the power. The Norwegian would have heard it all, gave a sardonic grin. The top of the thermos was unscrewed. Fish soup was offered. A foul night, and cold, and hope dying and any form of intervention beyond his capabilities… taking the rough with the smooth… win some, lose some… worth the risk, wasn’t it? Through the wire he could see that the border troops huddled in their oilskin capes or crowded close to their trucks for shelter. The sort of evening, and sort of weather, where optimism was difficult to purchase.

“So, this is the end for you… will you miss it?”

Knacker held the coin, felt each indentation. He said, “I am going to be a wheat collector and plan the decapitation of my opponent, or I am going to be wrapped in a wolf pelt, my face painted blue and plotting how to slit the collector’s throat… Sorry but no large lady has yet sung. Not the end, not yet. What we call the dark hour, but then there’s dawn… A hell of a good soup.”

“Is that them?”

“Could be, I’m not sure.”

The wind pounded them and the rain was relentless and the light faded and clouds hugged the hills either side of the entry to the harbour at Kirkenes.

Fee said, “Just can’t tell.”

Alice said, “Would they have just fucked off without a word? I mean, after all we’ve done for them, and what we’ve paid them up front.”

“Rats getting out early, sinking ship and all that,” Fee said.

“You’ve got the glasses,” Alice said.

Which meant that Fee had to get her hands out of her pockets and then root in her ample handbag, and it was sods’ law that the pocket binoculars were at the bottom. Swore softly because the rain was now coming into the bag. She had the glasses, wiped the lenses on her pullover.

“It’s them. Pretty much have the registration bit. Not a hundred per cent, but near enough. Bastards…”

“The same old trouble. You bring in outsiders and they say the right thing, then haggle over the washers, then reckon they’re your best friends, then fuck off out without a word of what’s been done for them. Predictable.”

They were on the coast road. Deep in the mist was a fishing boat, a dark grey outline and chucking back a small wake from its engines. Grey sea, a grey mist and grey hills.

“And us? What about us?” Alice asked. “Are we joining the rats?”

“Could sign up. Rats have a trait of survival. Would be sensible,” Fee answered.

“Knacker wouldn’t. He’ll not compromise.”