Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

The sergeant fell in beside him, spoke quietly, like an uncle. ‘Rather you than me, young ’un. Don’t think I’d manage it.’

‘Manage what?’

‘Manage being away from this family, I dread that. Living the lie, existing in deceit, not owning a friend. Trying to remember who you are, not who you were. Being alone. I hope to God they protect your back.’

He did not answer.

‘Funny old thing. The dog that peed on you was quite young then… I was here a couple of weeks ago. The woman’s still grand, slower, but fit for her age; the dog’s a bit downhill, looked as if arthritis was setting in. Hope we’ve been of use here, and good luck. Stay safe.’

It would be a short train journey back to his parked car, then an easy run to the ferry.

He sat in the car, engine ticking over, and waited for the queue to nudge towards the ferry.

Andy Knight felt the pressure build, heavier than it had on Phil Williams and weightier than on Norm Clarke, could not have directly answered why this time was harder. Would have liked a drink, but had not had one since leaving the common and his conversation with the veteran sergeant who had successfully read him, and he would not have one now. Alcohol did not sit easily with those living the lie. Remembered the bar of the pub up the road from the Newbury over-spill, but had not been there since enrolling into SC&O10… He’d assumed that he would be watched into the port and that they would have picked him up approaching the check-in process. They’d have been likely to determine he’d no last minute debrief from controllers, was only a boyfriend with eyes on a long weekend with a girl.

No protection on the boat, of course. No firearm in the car, of course. No baton, no gas and no spray; what he needed to safeguard him was the authenticity of his cover and its ability to withstand scrutiny… He would have a shit drive ahead of him and would try to sleep as much as possible in a recliner – and not dream. It nagged at Andy that the sergeant had ‘pinged’ him. He crawled forward, had the radio on, soft music – what the pub might have played. He rarely drank. Some of them in the animal crowd drank alcohol but most could not afford it and anyway preferred to smoke. The people ferrying dope around the southern counties were rarely drunk and had the wit to stay sober, stay alert, watch their bags, had a paranoia for maintaining security. In both lives he had fabricated a medical reason for staying off hooch, something about an allergy that was half concocted and half downloaded from the net. Did another few yards along the ramp, and the lowered bridge was just ahead. In the Marines he had taken his good share of ‘bevvies’, and in the early police days he had been ‘bladdered’ when coming off shift like all the other young guys and some of the young girls. The abstinence had come down like a guillotine blade… he had never liked to drink in private, alone and solitary, but yearned often enough for the warmth, camaraderie, of the pub up the road from his parents.

That was the Fox and Hounds. The usual cross-section of professionals and tradesmen and loafers with the layabouts. Did a fair cheese sandwich, had a proper log fire, had live music on a Friday. The joy of it was walking inside and not reaching the bar before his name was shouted out and smiles greeted him, and money was on the counter for his first drink of the evening. An old name and no longer used, consigned to a bin. There would be guys there, and the regular bar staff, who might wonder ‘what ever happened to… .?’, and they might see his mother out walking the dog, or might know his father from the school where he taught and ask them ‘Haven’t seen… around, any news?’, and trawl for an answer but not get it. His parents knew no more of him than the clientele of the Fox and Hounds. The drinkers would have been puzzled but his parents would have been wounded. Probably thought that some dispute separated them. The best he had said, one Sunday evening some five years ago, had been a caustic explanation, holding no water: he had been called away to ‘special duties’. He was off and gone. Through the front door, a slap on his father’s back and a peck on his mother’s cheek, and no further explanation and all done with a brusque rudeness because that was a better way of severing the link. Then, to the pub and one big round that had drained his wallet, one drink only and heading for the door on a cold night and feeling the frost forming on his face, and turning round, ‘See you, guys,’ and getting into his car, heading off into darkness. Had never been back and had never phoned his parents. He did not know whether his legends had held so well as Phil and as Norm and as Andy, that no check had ever reached that far, that the cover had stayed strong. Worst of it was the angst that he’d given his parents, who had done nothing that deserved that treatment… not proud, but the job came at a price, a high one. He had heard from the instructors in that long run of preparation that there were a few who tried to – as it was put – ‘run with the hare, run with the dogs’, and had a wife and children at home, had friends down in the town who seemed to accept that one year he was clean shaven and with a tidy haircut, and the next year he had grown a wispy beard and had greased hair staining his shirt collar. Better to make the clean break, could have been tracked, followed and stalked and seen going in through the bungalow’s front door, and then they were at risk, could have been petrol-bombed and could have been beaten. Spared them the risk, and the upset they’d have felt was cheap return for the absence of danger.

He was waved forward, drove slowly into the boat, came close to the loader who brought him the last few inches. He cut the engine. He sat for a moment. Should have felt brighter, livelier, was exhausted.

She walked well, felt confident, important.

She was the little girl from Dewsbury, and she came off the Eurostar and hitched her bag on her shoulder, had her shoulders back and her stride long, and she headed for the Metro. She would need the link to Gare de Lyon. A soldier stared at her, and raised his eyebrow a fraction, then looked away.

A puff of pride filled Zeinab.

There were four in the patrolling group. They threaded through the swarm of passengers on the concourse. They had camouflaged uniforms, and carried lightweight infantry rifles and one had a radio set strapped on his back and it was topped with a wobbling aerial. Their heads, all of them, were close shaven and berets were precariously balanced on their skulls. Their battle helmets were hooked to their belts. The soldier might have been from a north African background, and the texture of his skin was the same as hers. He had caught her eye, made contact, and had thought her worth the gesture of the cocked eyebrow, then had looked away, had resumed scanning the people hurrying about their business, eating, gazing at information boards, keeping children happy. The soldier knew nothing… it was the extent of her deception that bred the pride… might have been close to arrogance.

It was always said in Dewsbury, whispered among women in the privacy of their homes, that the parents of the children who had volunteered themselves as martyrs – or had taken the long journey through Turkey to enlist in the caliphate forces – did not know. It was the perceived truth that parents, uncles and aunts, family friends, school teachers – and the imams – had no suspicion as to what their kids were learning on the internet, what they intended for their future. She had seen, in streets close to home and under the shadow of the great minaret of the Merkazi, doors that had been broken down at dawn by the police arrest teams. Long after the wagons had gone, taking the teenagers or young men, neighbours, friends and relatives had called to offer solace, sympathy, support, and would have had the same answer – with tedious repetition – that they did not know. The pride, what gave the spring in her step, was because she had deceived her mother and father, the student kids on her landing, her tutor, all of them and had a mask across her face that served her well. The extent of the deception thrilled her, and she found the entrance to the correct Metro line. There had been armed police wandering among the benches and past the shop fronts at the London end of the Eurostar, but the sight of regular soldiers was security taken to a different level… she had no idea how it would be. She flashed a ticket and went down an escalator and followed signs.