Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

‘Marseille? Sorry, Zed, why do we want to go to Marseille?’

A hesitation, a roll of the eyes, then… ‘Family business. Something I have to do.’

‘Going when?’

‘In a couple of days.’

‘It’s that urgent?’

‘Something I have to do.’

They were on a bench in the park near to his depot. She had come out to him, and he was still in his work clothing, the uniform of the haulage driver. The rain had stopped, and snow was not threatening, but there was a cold cut to the wind. A solitary woman walked a toy dog on another path, and ignored them. He’d looked around to see if the boys who had quizzed the Somali from the canteen had showed up, but had not seen them.

‘For how long?’

‘Two days or three.’

‘And we’d fly from Manchester, and…’

‘No, you would drive. Yes, drive there and drive back.’

He could have said that it would hardly be three days of choice if he were to drive – what would it be, close to 1000 miles each way? – and look at a French resort city off season and walk around a bit. Most times when she spoke to him it was with the confidence that she was a young woman from an intellectual grade higher than himself, but this was difficult for her. Refuse? No. He would show hesitation, gently question what she intended, but would accept. Would do what she asked – as if he were besotted, smitten. She would buy into it because she was an innocent.

‘You want me to drive?’

‘You drive, you are a good driver.’

‘It’s a fair question, Zed, would I be going as your friend or as your driver?’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Do we go so as we are together, sitting in a car most of the time, or because you don’t know anyone else who would – for whatever reason – drive you?’

He had pushed her, might as well have given her a punch in the stomach. She pushed herself up off the bench. He thought they were poker players, bluffing, each seeking to exploit the other, neither knowing how far to take it. ‘I ask you. If you do not want to, do not. I don’t order you. I offer the chance. Don’t. If you don’t want to, Andy, then don’t.’

‘What do you know about Marseille, Zed, am I permitted to ask that?’

‘Have read a guidebook? No. Have I researched the place? No. But, I have to go.’

‘Just, what I heard, it’s a tough city.’

‘What do you say?’

His heart pounded because success nestled close, within reach, but he played the necessary game and acted hesitant. ‘I heard it’s a hard city… and I don’t have the sort of money that…’

‘You drive, I pay the bills.’ She said it decisively, a toss of the head, a small matter.

‘The family business? Take much of your time?’

‘It would be a chance for us. Not too much time.’

‘I’d like that. A few days, you and me, that would be good.’

‘You can fix it with your work?’

‘Think so… and you, you can take the time off, you don’t have lectures, a tutorial?’

‘Of course, I can.’

‘I’ll get it sorted in the morning.’

‘You and me, just you and me.’

‘And the family business won’t take too much of your time?’

‘My problem, Andy, not your problem.’

Settled. She had a good hold of him and kissed him hard, as she had before, and her tongue went inside his mouth and roved behind his teeth, and she seemed to have enthusiasm for it. Most of the time it was Andy Knight who did the lying, and had told lies that were smaller and lies that were bigger when he was Phil Williams and when he was Norm Clarke. He was paid to lie, not particularly well paid, but adequately. He eased clear.

‘If that’s what you’d like, Zed. Us, together, down across France and to Marseille and a few days there, and I give you room for your business, the family stuff, and then we head on back. It’s a long drive but at this time of year the roads won’t be heavy. Brilliant… it’ll be good.’

Not much light reached them from the edge of the park and the street lamps around a kids’ play area. It was enough. He saw that she was smiling. Like a cat with cream, a whole bowl of it. He thought he had done well, struck a good balance.

He had tried to ask what was natural, what he had the right to be told, but not have her on her feet and flouncing away. He put a hand on her arm. She took the side of his head, then pulled off her glove, then her fingers ran down the skin of his throat. Time for her to do the flirt bit. He thought it did not come easy to her. Her other hand was inside his anorak, and wouldn’t have been able to get closer because of the raised zip on his company overalls. He gave her a kiss, not passionate, more like a friend. Another kiss that sealed it, and her hand came out from under his anorak. They had both done, Andy Knight reckoned, a plausible job of deceit. He told her that he would get one of the guys at the depot to run the rule over his car to be certain it was right and ready for such a fierce run, and he’d be in the manager’s office first thing in the morning to nail down the time off… He knew next to nothing of Marseille except that it had deep roots in organised crime, a tough gangster scene that was run by north African ethnic migrants, that it was not a clever place to mess, to play games. He was pleased with how the session on the bench had gone, enough to forget that his backside was cold and wet and his hip joints stiff, and thought he had done the innocent bit as far as was necessary, then had done the guy who was obsessed with her. She was a good-looking girl, pleasant to look at and nearly pleasant to be with, and he wondered how far she would take him… He hoped he did not egg it, but thought she’d appreciate hearing it. Not the first time and wouldn’t be the last. He thought she was being nurtured for great things, a big moment, and there would be boys round her who pushed her forward, and he didn’t think she’d have the savvy for suspicion, not be as clear on risk as the boys behind her.

‘I just want to say, Zed, that we may have met up in daft circumstances, but I’m really pleased that I had the chance to meet you, get to know you. Really pleased because you are important. More important than anyone has been.’

‘Would a young lady be involved?’ The boss allowed himself, rare for him, a dry wriggle of a smile.

‘Something came up.’ Andy Knight wore a poker player’s face, part of the game.

‘I take it as read, a young lady.’

‘And I haven’t asked for leave since being here.’

‘Pretty little thing, is she?’

‘It would just be a week.’

The boss was rolling a pencil across the desk. A trifle of fun, a sort of formal dance being played out. Not as though there was a cat in hell’s chance that the request would be denied.

‘I’ve a heavy week in front of us – you did say you might be pushing off in the next couple of days. I heard that right? A pile of deliveries, and all needing a schedule kept, and I’m about to lose one of my drivers. Prepared to say one of my ‘‘better’’ drivers, and the guys left behind – who won’t be on a cuddle and kiss – will need to put in some overtime, if that suits at the other end of the chain. And…’

‘I appreciate it’s inconvenient, but was just hoping you could see your way to…’ Andy shrugged. Gave that near helpless look which seemed to confirm that totty was on offer, too good a chance to pass up and the implication would be that, once, the boss had been young, footloose, not married with three kids, and a dog and a mortgage, and a little villa losing money on one of the Costa del Sol estates.

‘I suppose I could.’

‘I’d be very grateful.’

‘Sure you would, least you could be. Is this – not my business, but I’ll ask it anyway – the big one in your life, know what I mean?’