Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

‘Are they going to be able to do it?’ Crab asked.

‘Why not? It’s what I pay them for,’ Tooth answered.

The wind’s pitch had freshened. Even with rugs and thick coats, the force of it was too severe for them to lie out on the recliners kept on the patio. The sea view, impeccable, was diminished behind the plate glass windows. They drank coffee… Crab had no sea legs, distrusted the water, might have admitted to having a greater fear of an ocean’s depths, in bad weather, than anything else that had confronted him. A pot, with a geranium in it, was caught by a gust and flipped on its side, then careered over the width of the patio. What they could make out of the sea’s surface, through the glass that was encrusted with the sand brought across from Africa by the mistral , was a mess of white caps. They talked nostalgia, what they were best at. Since neither could verify the stories of the other, it was possible that the anecdotes were either true or a fantastic fiction of fake news. Unimportant, they were old friends, and amused each other.

‘We did this job, centre of Manchester, the smart end of the city, cracked a jewellers, and we’d lifted a souped-up BMW saloon for the getaway. Trouble was, coming out with balaclavas still on and carrying pickaxe handles, and all the loot, an off-duty cop was passing – got a description of our wheels. We were tuned into the radio. Nothing followed us, we were clear… What happened? Believe it. The retired Head of Finance, pillar of the city bosses, the council, had the same model, same colour. He picked up half a dozen cop cars. Was rammed off the road, and when they’d finished apologising we were long gone… Trust me, one of the better ones.’

‘My favourite, here in Marseille, when the Ministry targeted me – personally named me in briefings – the premier smack importer of the city. A team was formed to investigate me, a conviction demanded by Paris. In that team, I promise you, each officer was on my payroll. Each one, eight of them. I was then the Sun King of the third arrondissement . All of them now live in good properties by the Botanical Gardens and an easy walk to the Prado beaches. It was a comfortable time.’

They competed.

‘Not, of course, what it used to be.’

‘Used to be respect.’

‘We were decent people.’

‘My word was my bond.’

‘No honesty among the young today.’

‘And the way they wave these AKs around, like it’s just a toy.’

‘We had the best days, Tooth.’

‘Lucky to have lived when we did, Crab.’

And another pot was cracked, and Crab told the story about his hacker boys getting through the cyber defences of the city’s main supermarket chain, and lodging an order for boxes of food for free delivery, no charge, to a food-bank warehouse. Kept it up for two weeks and then signed off with sincere thanks from ‘Robin Hood, Sherwood Mansions, Near Nottingham’… It had been eight years ago but he still told it and Tooth would never let him know he had heard it before, word for word, like a fucking gramophone record with a scratch.

Tooth said that he had the best relations with the cops than any of the big men that had gone before him in the city. Their wives knew him and would near curtsey if there were a party and he was introduced, and their teenage kids greeted him with averted eyes, no lip, called him ‘Sir’, and bankers queued to manage his investments, and the presents that were courier-delivered at Christmas filled a spare bedroom.

‘Great days.’

‘The best, we were privileged.’

‘And you know what I am thankful for, Tooth?’

‘What’s that, Crab?’

‘That I’m not on that fucking water tonight.’

‘Like I said, they get paid. They don’t like it, then they should have stayed pimping.’

Karym watched his brother go.

Astride the Ducati Monster, the wind making river trails in his hair, Hamid powered away, rode out of the project, swerved between the big rocks across the entrance to La Castellane.

He thought his elder brother gripped by a foul, sullen mood. He did not know the reason, knew only that Hamid was at work on behalf of the old man – clapped out, past it, from yesterday – who had once been called Tooth: now, likely, had none. Too old, fucked up, teeth rotten or fallen out. He did not know why his brother danced to a tune called by this man who should years before have gone to the knacker’s yard.

Himself, Karym felt good – better than good. Hard to remember when he had last experienced that degree of elation.

The Ducati was gone. He had been told where he should be the next day, at what hour. That seemed secondary. His brother had snapped the instructions at him, his mouth quivering and his lips narrowed, and his fists on the bike handles had trembled, and the wind had ripped at his leather coat: cost him close to a thousand euros, but his brother still refused to pay for better transport for Karym, nothing as good as the Piaggio MP3 Yourban… The cause of his excitement? It was a declaration of war. War was about firearms. Rifles would be issued.

It had been the most intense sensation in his short life, Karym had claimed to his brother. The moment that the kid beside him, holding the weapon at his throat, had been taken down by the marksman. Blood on him, and the kid’s piss, and perhaps some brain tissue. An incredible shot, might only have had a quarter of the head to aim at. The shot of a genius – Samson. They said Samson was a killer, an executioner in history… a brilliant marksman and he would have liked more than anything, to meet the man, be face to face with him. Not to thank him, but to admire him… and it had been the start of the war that would now follow. War was important.

War brought shape and purpose to life in the housing blocks. The kids would be armed, would go to a state of alert… For himself there was the prospect that Hamid would give him a Kalashnikov, one for him to have, hold, look after, one for him to own … Karym had in his room on that high floor of the building he shared with his sister, every book available in the French language on the history and working of the Kalashnikov. He could recite the dates of manufacture for each phase of the weapon’s development. He knew which of the liberation movements had been sold the AK – the Klash, the Chopper. He could explain how the version sold to the People’s Army of North Vietnam had proved superior to the rifles of the American marines: knew it all. War would be his best chance, for all that his arm was withered, of handling one, having it under his bed and with a magazine loaded, and with the sites set down at the extremity for Battle Sight Zero, close range. Might… His brother ignored him if he talked of the AK. His sister would switch on the TV, turn the sound to its loudest, if he spoke of it. None of the kids who existed off Hamid’s cash cared about the theory, the culture, of the most amazing weapon ever built. He had no one with whom to share his enthusiasm.

But that was detail. More important was war. He presumed it, war, fascinating and unpredictable, brilliant. He walked across the project towards the van that came each midday to La Castellane and cooked burgers… What he should do, Hamid’s instruction, and the hour for it, confused him, and where he should be afterwards. But he had not argued, queried – might have been kicked if he had.

Andy led, followed the Avignon tourist signs.

Held her hand and thought her more relaxed than he’d have expected. He could not say how she had lifted the stress off her shoulders. She talked, he listened. It would be a first time… Andy had not been with any of the women on the animal rights group, nor with the girls who hung around on the edge of the cannabis courier gang. Two or three times, on the pavement, pedestrians had come either side of them, and they’d been pushed together, and their bodies had touched. They went down to the river, where the coaches ejected their passengers, saw the bridge, then climbed steep steps in a tower, and she’d laughed at the thought of her needing help, but it was windy at the top, and she had a sheen of sweat on her forehead.