Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

He held the weapon proudly and his shoulder was cuffed, and he was told what time in the morning transport would collect him and that he – and his rifle – would be gone from the camp a long time, many months, and he would not be home soon to see his mother… The pride bloomed in him, and he was pleased that he had not given up his rifle, which was a part of him, treasured.

Sleeping, dreaming, crystal-sharp recall and unable to wake .

‘My nose can see a copper, and hear a copper, and smell a copper. My nose can.’

That was Bazzer who had now taken over from the father and son. Bazzer had thick lenses held in tortoiseshell frames, and one of the side arms was held in place with Elastoplast. His eyesight was grimly impaired but they all accepted that his suspicions were as good as any dog’s. When they dealt in skunk, any of the hashish family, he could tell the quality of what was on offer. Also credited to him was an ability to identify chancers and tossers, liars and frauds. They would not have moved against Norm Clarke if Bazzer had not called it.

‘I’m saying he’s a copper: what my nose tells me.’

He was on the floor. They had dragged him off the chair, pushed it away, and he was down on the plastic sheeting. They had torn off his clothes, had done some slapping and used their toes to nudge him, and questions had been thrown, and they’d tried to catch him on the detail of his legend – what school, how long there, what class, what name his best mate had – where he had lived then, what his dad did, what his mum did… Norm Clarke had gone through the background as worked out with his Control who operated out of the headquarters of Avon and Somerset police. Why had he never been picked up, done time? That would have been the killer, where he had been – what landing, what cell block. Easiest thing they could check out. He was the newest member of the group who was not a blood relative or a marriage relative, had come to them off the street and worked, insinuated, wormed and wriggled his way towards a position of trust. High-risk stuff. He thought they were not sure. Bollock naked, supposed to further humiliate, weaken him. Had had to speed up the process of acceptance, and might have pushed too hard. Always there, always ready, nothing too much trouble. Had to be like that, but was the sure route to the mistake… always was going to be a mistake. Could not place it… They had a chain-saw revving up, and he’d also heard the whine that a power drill made, the sort that DIY people used when screwing up home improvements, and the plastic was cold under his buttocks, and control of his bowels and bladder was difficult.

‘I’m saying he is. Take it or leave it, my reckoning. What I’m telling you, what my nose sees, he’s a cop.’

The instructors always said that the copper-bottom guarantee was that backup was in position, ready to go. Through twenty-four hours and through seven days a week, the backup was armed, alert, had the fix on his location, would get the call, would come. But he was stark naked and had no wire to record the threats and denunciations, and no wristwatch that could do a code-alarm if the button for the hands was shifted to a certain degree and then… didn’t matter, didn’t have it. The time they were looking at, scratching for evidence of guilt, was a stop he had done on the run back from Plymouth, on the M5 motorway, services near to Taunton, a chat with his Control, a half-hour break, and he had not made the call to say that he was good, had the shipment, was making decent time. They had done their mathematics, and had reckoned he’d be through the Bridgwater junction at a particular time, but he had not checked in. They’d have put a vehicle and a spotter on the bridge and would have looked and waited for him to sail through, middle lane, and not going fast, and would have checked out that he had no tail, and likely would have done the same procedure at the Chippenham exit for the M4 motorway. He had in the bag a consignment worth, street prices, a million and a quarter. His mistake was not to realise the extent of the precautions and therefore the importance of the schedule. Norm Clarke, country and western music loud on the speakers, had come through both checks around a half-hour after he was expected… enough to set off the juices of the miserable little bastard who was half-blind, Bazzer.

‘I’m saying he is. Get to work on him, he’ll tell you.’

Bound at the ankles and at the wrists, but no blindfold and no gag. They had trouble keeping the chain-saw engine going. Started it up, and it should have ticked over, given up a sound as menacing as any in the limited experience of Norm Clarke, but it had coughed each time and then died, and one guy was heaving, grunting, and yanking the cord. The drill was steady enough, no trouble with the power, and the whine getting shriller. No one would stand his corner. None of them would sing his praises… the boys supposed to be – ‘copper-bottomed’ and a guarantee – alert and ready to go, and firearms loaded, were likely in the canteen and queuing for more tea, more cake, more overtime, and were in ignorance. How well would he last? Not difficult. If the goddamn chain-saw came close to his groin, if they brought the drill near to his eyes, either, then it was curtains. Began to see it different – only a few kilos of good-grade hashish, and when one shipment was lifted and one gang taken off the street then the importation chain would be disrupted for a week and fresh faces would be on the plot: the customers would hardly know that there had been an interruption in supply. He was thinking about the sanctity of his testicles and the integrity of his eyesight, and starting to weigh an equation, and his buttocks moved on the plastic and crunched it and the noise of the drill pounded in his ears.

‘He’s a cop. I’m telling you. Ask him who he met on the route, where he stopped. Ask him… I’m Bazzer, I’m never wrong.’

The sounds rang in his ears, and the shouts buffeted him. The chain-saw was up and running, coughing and then going sweet… and, with the power drill, was being carried closer… Remembered the guy who had been Phil Williams. Bad times then but not as bad as now. He was yelling, screaming, and no one would have heard him in the back annexe of the club. Shouted and hoped, and Bazzer’s voice was the drumbeat in his head. Always because of a mistake. The hood was off his head, like they wanted him to see the saw and the drill.

A cacophony in his mind, but not enough to wake him .

‘That shite…’ Pegs looked away from her screen, glowered towards the door.

Gough grimaced. ‘Enough of them, which?’

‘Three zero eight, which else? Banker for top of the league in the “shite” stakes.’ In Room 308, down the corridor, was the officer – senior rank – who controlled them. He would have thought himself careful, and unkind towards cowboys, and always eager that matters stayed on ‘an even keel’. Rarely dished out praise but had a goading, wounding touch in his fingers when on a keyboard. Room 308’s occupant was seldom seen, kept himself behind a closed door, dealt in electronic communication. It was not considered sporting to criticise his lack of personal appearance as a third of his face had been removed by a flying length of four-inch builder’s nail enclosed in an Improvised Explosive Device detonated in County Tyrone: the operation to patch up the damage had been cursory and the end result not pretty.

‘And suggesting what?’

‘Suggesting, beauty and value of hindsight, that we have lost little Miss Zeinab, do not have identities and addresses for her boys, that our own asset is out of touch with her, that we have a considered but unproven assessment of what they are looking for in the south of France, and we are under-resourced… Our fault, implied, that we did not stand and shout, stamp our fucking feet and demand more. Throw toys out of the pram, scream for another sack of dosh. Should have upgraded the fuss.’