Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

He would not have expected an answer, and would not get one. Would not have it confirmed that a girl was in the melting pot, and would not be told where the love tryst was to be staged. Some, not Andy, would have slipped in a remark about the south of France, a rather adventurous and exhilarating city, and raised an eyebrow, but he gave nothing. He was not aware of what deal had been done, what the link was that had brought him to the depot: the selection process had been vague, and it was a sought-after job. Somewhere down the line there would have been a tap on the shoulder, a nod and a nudge, and there could have been a mason’s handshake, small talk over hospitality at a United or City game, could have been a debt called in or a favour begged. It had happened to him twice before when a legend was in the careful process of construction, but behind him and better not remembered. He assumed the boss knew something of where he came from, but would remain far outside the detail loop… Tittle-tattle down at the golf club about the contacts he had made and what was required of him, and to whom he gave a helping hand were all to be discouraged. It was all about secrecy, a commodity not to be slack with, and lives would be at stake… Top of the list, with a pink ribbon round it, would be Andy Knight’s.

‘Thank you, really appreciate it.’

‘What I asked, Andy: the big love of your life – for real, for ever?’

‘Which is what I didn’t answer. But thanks.’

He stood. The boss was gazing up at him. The man’s mind would have been going at flywheel speed. Who did he have driving for him, what was his purpose, where did he go at night, and what was the danger level? Was it organised crime or national security, or was the boss off the track and understanding nothing? In the past, Andy had found himself applying for work as a delivery driver – the only Brit in a team of Poles and Hungarians and Romanians – and going round Exeter and its satellite villages doing internet shopping deliveries, and enough people had said, after being in contact with him, that Phil Williams was a ‘straight up’ guy. A pub in Swindon, far end of the Thames valley, had thought it a good idea to offer Norm Clarke the chance of work – basic wages and occasional tips because it was not the sort of establishment where money was flashed. He should live, he had been told, one life at a time. It was good advice, and the life now did not include the months when Williams or Clarke were top of the heap. He smiled. The secretary from the outer office was at the door. She’d have heard every word, Andy’s and the boss’s, and would be none the wiser, and she’d gossip with the general manager, and the head of finance, and the story would stay rock solid that young Knight, good-looking boy, was off somewhere with his new squeeze. They were decent people, kind to a stranger, welcoming to an intruder, and he’d walk out of the depot the next day or the day after, and likely not come back. It was what happened… there, then gone. They’d have a master key and would check his locker and would find it emptied, and no clue as to who he was. It was how it had been in Exeter and how it had been in Swindon… and his parents were not inside that loop, and would have been hurt deeply, but it was the way things were done.

Some would always be hurt. Could not be helped. Causing hurt went with the job.

His parents were already hurt… they’d not have recognised the name of Andy Knight, nor of Norm Clarke, and would have denied any connection with Phil Williams. His father was a science teacher, in a comprehensive school, and his mother ran the reception desk in a dental practice close to their home on the outskirts of Newbury in Berkshire. They had done well, lived carefully and had managed to make a home close to a cricket ground, pleasant and decent. He was out of their lives and did not go back, didn’t claim his bedroom at the back, and they’d not have known why, and would have been bruised, bewildered. Two sisters there, or were when he’d left for the last time, and the best chance was that they’d regard him as wet dog mess for the damage he had done to the family. It could not be different… talk had a way of getting into crannies. One way to damage his work would be through his father and mother, and his sisters. The best protection for them was to cut them adrift. The hard thing about it was that he had now become – almost – immune to emotion about family, friends, people who had once seemed important. He had gone, disappeared.

The boss was rewarded with a smile. It would be around the depot within an hour, thanks to the good offices of the secretary and the manager who dealt with the drivers’ pool, that Andy was off for a week with a girlfriend. Talk of it would brighten their lives.

‘Oh, just one thing…’

‘What now? Want me to pay for a box of chocolates, or something?’

‘Bit of a liberty.’

‘One big liberty – what do you want?’

‘Can I just have the guys in maintenance run an eye over my motor?’

A nod, and a mock sigh of exasperation. The boss understood a bit, not much but a little. The chances were high that Andy Knight was history as far as this delivery service for builders’ sites was concerned. They’d run inquests over what he might have been and where he had come from, and where he had gone, and be left none the wiser, which was how it should be.

Where had his life changed, gone off the straight and the narrow? All down to a rabbit. A rabbit had done the dirty on him… a rabbit’s hole.

‘See you back, Andy. Hope the young lady realises the sacrifices we’re making on her behalf.’

‘Yes, boss. See you back.’

‘My trouble – if I have a trouble – is that I’m fond of a deal.’ Crab, with his minder alongside him, walked.

There were times when Crab wanted to talk, not to have a debate and opinions pushed at him that were the opposite of his own instincts, but just to talk and have Gary at his shoulder; the simple pleasure of hearing his own voice. But never at home – they would leave the house and walk the pavements, walk where there would be no microphones – mobile phones, of course, switched off – and they would pass the electric gates of the orthopaedic surgeons and barristers and accountancy partners, and the occasional footballer’s pile, and anyone who had a home that had cost the earth and a fair bit more. Walk and talk. Could only be with Gary now that Rosie was gone.

‘Life without a deal, sort of empty. Have to have a deal on the run.’

Crab, despite his disability, went at a good speed and threw out his right leg with each stride, then launched his weight on to it, looked as if he might stumble, but always kept his balance. The pavement was treacherous in this weather but he had confidence. If he slipped, Gary was at hand. Rain spattered on his face, ran down his cheeks, distorted the lenses of his dark glasses, and dribbled from his sandy moustache. He had poor teeth, a mess, but they flashed as he talked, and the wind clasped his coat close around him. To go outside to talk was a natural precaution against any of the Manchester crime squads that might have seen him, a veteran, a soft target, worth pursuing.

‘It’s going to be a trial run, Gary. We see what we like, feel happy with it, then we go forward and into the big time. This occasion we bring only one through, and we do the switch there, and hand it to them there, and it’s their job to transport the goodies off French territory and bring it back. It’s a joyride. We set it up, Tooth and me, we watch it happen and take our cut. Removed enough for it not to matter if the kids blow themselves out of the water. If they don’t, and it’s good, then we take the money. Personally, I think it’ll work well… A girl and a boy coming back from the south of France, all romantic and perhaps a couple of violins scraping, nice-looking fresh kids, in love, clean skins, and the merchandise hidden under the seats. It’s good… We start with just one and see how it goes. It works, so the next time it’s five and that gets through and we look again and this time it’ll be ten. Probably about the limit, but by this time some good money is heading our way, and no kickbacks. Have to say, I like it.’