Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

Tooth pushed himself up from the bench and the wind lifted his cap. He looked across the fortresses of Marseille and the city’s terminals and docks, and saw the indistinct white outline of what they called La Castellane where the new generation came from, some of them… He liked what he had been told was the fate of a boy who broke his word, could no longer be trusted. Enjoyed that. He missed business, it hurt him not to trade; he was lost if he could not.

The younger brother, with the damaged arm, remained at the principal entrance to the project.

A couple kissed, sitting on one of the rocks that restricted entry to La Castellane. They made no effort to seek out privacy. Karym knew the boy. Both had been pupils at the huge Lycée Saint Exupéry, both drops-outs, leaving on their sixteenth birthdays. A teacher had told Karym that it did not have to be this way, that he was too bright to walk away from education. The boy had his hand under the girl’s coat and she had draped her thighs over his legs, and the kissing was hard: the boy had already fathered a kid, by another girl… Karym had no girl. He did not have a pretty girl, a girl with a model’s waist, a fat girl or an ugly girl. No girl, not even one with an itch who wanted it each day. In La Castellane, girls looked for a boy who could fight with a knife, who had the patronage of a dealer, was able to act as an enforcer. Any boy who could fight. Not a boy who was crippled, and who only had a scooter because his weakened arm was not strong enough to handle a serious bike… He would ride his Peugeot later, when his shift was done, round the nearby streets, go painfully slowly… What he wished to own and what he saved for was a Piaggio MP3 Yourban, and one day he would be able to afford it, and hoped his arm would allow him to ride it. The kissing couple did not see him.

The kid’s mother came into the project. She walked heavily, like her feet hurt, and her face was puffed where there had been tears. Karym thought she would have been rewarded only with vagueness, had received no promises. No imam or school teacher could guarantee protection for her son, and the gendarmerie would not have listened to her because her son was worthless to them and had no barter value… The girl had removed the boy’s hand from under her clothing and the kissing had stopped and she chewed hard on gum and he lit a cigarette. For a moment the mother’s eyes met Karym’s, and her anguish welled, but he looked away… he had no influence. Karym was without a girl, could not fight, had never fired a Kalashnikov, was worthless. He thought the mother decided the same. She would have known his name, and who was his brother. She trudged past him, went towards her stairwell, and would then climb slowly up the staircase. All the elevators were broken. No one respected him but he was, without grace, protected by his brother. The girl flicked her gum, and the wad hit Karym in the throat, and he turned.

The girl called out. ‘When will it happen?’

Karym’s head was sunk on his chest. ‘Will what happen?’

Her boy shouted. ‘Where will it be?’

‘ What , or where , I don’t know.’

‘Doesn’t he tell you, your brother? Doesn’t tell you?’

A crowd had materialised. That was the way of the project. One moment empty walkways and deserted lanes between buildings and under the flapping washing, and the next a crowd gathering and squeezing close to hear better.

‘When is the barbecue?’

He did not know, said he did not know.

‘But there will be one, a barbecue? Yes…?’

He heard someone say that he was ‘fucking useless’, a ‘deformed cripple’. He did not know if there would be a barbecue, what his brother planned. It was usual if a stranger came to the project, or to any of the others where hashish was sold on the north side of Marseille, that the chouffes , the look-outs, would hem him in, quiz him, and intimidate. An old man arrived, pushed them aside, told them to go screw their mothers, had asked for his brother. Karym spoke to the man, seen no tremble in his hand, no twitch at his mouth above or below the beard and the moustache. He told him his brother was not there. Karym had been entrusted with the message, spoken quietly, as to when and where he should be across on the far side of the city – where Karym had never been. A name had been given and the man had walked away and when he had reached the outer barricade of big stones he had stopped purposefully, then spat into the ground. Karym had told his brother, and the instruction was obeyed, which had puzzled Karym.

There would be a barbecue, he assumed it. His brother would do a barbecue.

Astride the motorbike, hearing and feeling the power of its engine, Hamid, returned from his meeting.

Checking his mirrors frequently, staying within the speed limits to avoid police attention, he rode his Ducati Monster 821, with a horsepower of 112, towards the vieux port . He passed the Irish bars, O’Malley’s and O’Neills, but did not know where Ireland was and why its bars were considered important, and went by the McDonalds, and returned to La Castellane. It seemed necessary to get the business of a barbecue done before he was taken on for work by Tooth: he knew the man’s reputation… knew not to fail, and knew of the potential for rewards.

He wore a helmet; he was anonymous.

The meeting had made him both nervous and elated. Nervous because it was the first time that a legendary member of one of the old gangs had come to seek him out, and much would be expected of him, and he would be watched and bad consequences would follow if his standards were found wanting. Elated because it was remarkable that such a man had travelled all the way to La Castellane, had parked his car, had walked in and ignored the kids who had milled about him, had come to look for only one man, Hamid, which was a mark of his new-found success… where might his name have come from? He thought it most likely that a detective, one of the investigators working in the northern suburbs would have been owned by Tooth, would have spoken of him. It was about the future… If the future succeeded for him then he would not be riding a Ducati Monster 821, but would be in a Porsche, could be a Ferrari. With successful patronage he would move on from dealing hashish: he saw horizons unlimited and would ditch living in La Castellane. But he loved his bike. The ride was smooth, oozed power.

He turned on to the Boulevard Henri Barnier, did it with a swagger and a howl of his tyres, what was expected.

But, several matters confused him. Why was the packet to be delivered so small? Why was only one item, initially, to be delivered? Why these complicated arrangements for the transfer of a single weapon? He had not interrupted Tooth, not queried him, but he, himself, could have provided six rifles, and ammunition, and at a very acceptable knock-down price. He had been told a man and a woman would come from England to take delivery of just one AK-47. Confusing, but not for him to worry. Time first to arrange a barbecue which was necessary because authority could not be challenged.

‘And where’s it taking you?’

‘Somewhere south of Keele services.’

‘Word is there’ll be a passenger.’

‘Never rely on what you hear.’

Andy could not see the face, nor the shoulders, the head or the back of the mechanic because they were under the VW, but he’d heard the scrapes that meant shit and dirt and filth were being cleaned off cables and joins and from time to time a hand reached out to change kit. It was good of them to have found the time to look over his VW Polo: they were fine guys and he was grateful… but would give nothing.

‘And the chatter says that it’s a week’s holiday you’re grabbing.’