Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

Phil stood in the centre of the room.

Sarcasm. ‘Hope this isn’t inconvenient, Phil, dragging you off the chores.’

Shrill. ‘Just a few things we’re not understanding, Phil.’

Hectoring. ‘’Cos you don’t fit, Phil. Don’t seem right.’

Cold as ice. ‘Some questions, Phil, that need answering.’

The bloody obvious. ‘We’d be upset, Phil, if you weren’t what you said – were a stooge, a plant. Bad times would follow us getting upset.’

He had a car parked down the road. The car had a clapped-out engine and the requisite three different makes of tyres, and the engine was shit, and put down a smokescreen on any cold morning, and it had a dash cupboard. Deep in the dash, behind an old manual, and stuff about the insurance, was what seemed to be a discarded pocket radio, out of date and out of fashion. It could still do broadcasting, could also do an alarm call. Press two of the buttons for pre-set stations and the signal was sent. State of the art technology. And, a two-mile radius for the pick-up. It would sound out in the Hampton Street police station. They were supposed to come running. The alarm meant curtains for the infiltration, also meant that he – Phil Williams – was in danger of a bad experience. Would they come? How fast? Mob-handed? Didn’t really matter because it was in the car, and the car was down the road, and the alarm in the dash had been there since they’d been out to the beagle puppy farm. He always drove. He was the one with the car, was also the one with a job as an Amazon delivery driver. He drove and that way the group were supposed to become dependent on him. The signal would go to Hampton Street and then to a particular annexe office off the CID section, had to be picked up by one of the people – not many of them – who knew there was an Undercover doing the animal group. He did not say anything. Phil tried to look confused, a bit stupid and astonished that they came at him this way, no warning and from the big blue.

‘Things that don’t fit.’

‘Too eager. Always there. Nothing too much trouble.’

‘You come in off the street and you’re a best friend.’

‘You might be a cop, Phil. We can’t just put a cop out through the door, Phil.’

‘You thought it very funny, Phil, when Bethany saved the spider’s life, took care of it. I am telling you flat, Phil, that if the spider had been a cop it would have had each leg pulled off it, then would have gone in the flower-bed – dead.’

Whoever he was, whatever his name, he had left home as a pretty straightforward kid, a bag on his shoulder and Mum and Dad quiet, not making speeches. He had gone, had joined up which was not easy, the failure rate was high. He was a Royal Marine, had done all the stuff. Was in a high state of physical fitness. Could do rope and balance work. Could do speed marching, and speed scrambling over rough ground. Could do assault courses and could do the 30-mile march on Dartmoor with his feet raw and blistered but inside the eight hours and with a pack on his back, and had endurance. Some of the NCOs had suggested he might go for officer training, and a captain had said he should apply for Special Forces. All glamour, and all massaging the ego… the rabbit had intervened. It was the rabbit’s fault. There were eight of them in the room. There was a bay window at the front and he would have to go through the glass. He heard the quiet click behind him as a key was turned. If he made a run that would be the same as saying, ‘Fair and square, well done, guys, bright of you’. Admitted. Like bending over and confessing. They would pummel him first, then it would get to be a frenzy, and he had been gone from the Marines long enough for his strength to have dissipated, and he had the injury from the rabbit’s digging, and the aggression was diluted. He had heard them talking about what the future would be for the scientist when they paid the visit, late at night. They’d all be on him, and scratching each other for the chance to punch, kick, bite.

‘Great cover, Phil, the job. We don’t know where you are, don’t see who you meet.’

‘No background to you, Phil. Nothing spelled out. Where were you before coming to us, and what other group did you work with? Are we the only ones, a late convert?’

‘Spit it, Phil, your version.’

‘Good answers, Phil, or it gets bad, and bad hurts.’

He thought the girls would be worst, would do the big damage. He looked for a friend, found none. He did not know whether he had ‘cop’ written on him in big letters across his forehead.

The questions started. Following fast on each other. Hard to think, register. Pummelling him with questions, and waiting for the slip-up, the mistake. Not knowing how he would make it out.

Lying on the hostel bed, tossing, but asleep and unable to wake .

The guys picked her up.

The one Zeinab knew as Scorpion drove. The one who called himself Krait sat beside him. She had the back seat with her bag.

The text to the tutor had been sent: she had to be away, family business, the essay was delayed; a perfunctory apology, it would be completed when she was back. Dark, a spit of rain: foul and dispiriting. She was not greeted as a friend, nor as an equal. When it was Andy who met her, he’d be out of his car and round the side, seeing her coming towards him across a pavement, and he’d open the door for her and see her settled in, like she was special. Perhaps to them she was not remarkable, not pretty, not able, not a part of the team, just a convenience. To the tutor she was not remarkable. Perhaps he had a kid at home who was crying, who had woken him, and his mood might have been soured by the messages he found on his phone. The tutor was not supposed to have read the feeble excuse until she was well clear and had given her phone to the guys, had it replaced. Not remarkable and not greatly valued.

Dear Zeinab, Regret your essay is delayed and hope the family business is both pressing and soon dealt with. Just a formal thought – if your course work is anything to go by then your interest in that aspect of your degree course is only partial in my estimation. If you are not interested you could always give up your place, not be a version of a ‘bed-blocker’. I note your recent offerings to me have been satisfactory at best, poor at worst. Some people, we find, are not well suited to the rigours of university education and move on towards other directions. Enjoy your ‘business’, and we should talk on your return and when your essay is delivered. Best, Leo (Tutor, Social Sciences, Met Manchester ). Like a kick in the teeth, what Andy had done to the attacker on the pavement. She had read it, had not deleted it; had tried to juggle and was failing. They went fast, on an empty road, towards the outskirts of the city.

Was failing to keep up with her work, was increasingly drawn into the world of Krait and Scorpion, spent more time with Andy and the sealing of a relationship on which a plan now depended… could not do it, keep the necessary balls in the air. She did not tell them. Three times she had read the message, which seemed a politely phrased call that she should quit, go home to Savile Town, be the little girl who fell short and was not the clever bitch she had thought herself. The guys would have cursed her for removing a brick in the construction of the plan. Her parents would have shouted abuse at her for tarnishing their reputation, first in the family to go to university – first in the street to go to university – and it would have been boasted of at any opportunity. She sat and bottled it. She was drawn in, assumed it was like quicksand. Each step and sinking deeper. Zeinab could remember the heady times when she had first been recruited, in love with the memory of two cousins, dead, could remember every shop window with the careful displays from the last visit to the shopping mall – and the images and the blood – and could recall an old longing to be a part of that army… Turning towards her, Krait – whose venom was fatal – eyed her in the light of oncoming traffic, and clicked his tongue for her attention.