Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

He would not choose when the arrest squad came for her. He might be there and might not. He could be bundled aside as the guys spilled out of a convoy of cars and covered her with aimed firearms… could have been eased away from her and then would see her taken down and weapons a few feet from her head on the flickering image of a video recording. She would be in shock, near to wetting herself, perhaps not realising at that moment that the heavy goods driver she had taken in her arms and… in trauma when she did know. Not screaming, but quiet, crushed and huddled. His call. For him to decide. She was close to him, warm against him. Would he turn her in, after this and when the assignment dictated it, betray her – and walk away, and have a beer at the pub and blow a kiss at the girls who pulled the pints, and take time somewhere at the end of a far track where the demons could not travel, nor trouble him, and go back to work with another name and another target and Rag and Bone ditched? Would he? And have a hug and a squeeze from Prunella in the office? Would he consign her to HMP Holloway, maximum security? She covered his mouth, kissed him… Of course he would turn her in. Of course.

They were together, warm, damp, holding each other tight, bodies locked.

The bed shouted for something to be done about the springs. Andy had pain in his back from the scratches her nails had made on his skin, open wounds, like he had been whipped.

It was a sacking offence: an appearance before a disciplinary tribunal, a predictable outcome… some grave-faced guy or an angry woman chairing the hearing. No sympathy, no talk about ‘how difficult it must be for you people, in the circumstances of close proximity, to keep your zipper fastened and your dick hidden away’, no leeway for a caution and a rap on the knuckles. Out, gone, dumped on the street.

It had started slowly, as if both were frightened, coming from opposite horizons. He broke each and every regulation laid down by the SC&O10 bosses. Never discussed with Gough and his woman, never defined how the relationship should play out, and studiously ignored once the trigger had come – him meant to be driving her to the south of France. Had he raised it then, an answer might have been, ‘If that happens we’ll give advice, but not dealing with a hypothetical, better just kick that can down the street until we have to confront it… use your judgement.’ She drove the old cart and horse through the culture wall of her parents, then of her cause – neither Krait nor Scorpion would have factored it into their decision that she was reliable on the mission as a courier. Had begun with the sensation, both of them, that they tasted forbidden fruit. Her first time? Of course. She could have shouted, that bloody obvious. It had come to that stage, do it or get off the pot, and he was shown that him and her, that bed, was calculated. Yes, she had gone into a chemist in Avignon and he had stayed outside, had not followed her because she had waved him away, and then she must have bought the small pack of condoms. Could have been 5 euros for that size of pack. They had blundered towards the first start.

Not the first time for Andy, or any of the alternate identities he’d assumed. But not done many times. A girl in Exmouth, down the road from the Lympstone barracks, seemed to have enough of an itch to want it from any recruit needing a trip to adulthood: fast, perfunctory, in the back of a car. A girl in the town where his parents lived, name and address exorcised from his mind, and pretty much everybody of his age knew her. A leaving dance at school, and some of the kids had left bottles, alcohol, under the shrubs closest to the gym hall, and she could barely stand, nor him, and both had confided dread afterwards, no protection. Another girl in the office, used to do the opposite shift to Prunella… All in common with one aim: get it, have the T-shirt, forget it… he would not forget her, his Zed.

She had started to writhe and him to grunt, and sweat sheened them… He had wanted to shout it into each room of each floor of the hotel, then little squeals from her… He would go before the hearing, she would be taken into an interview room off the cell block, and she would spill out the detail of the liaison, be encouraged into graphic detail, and the end-game would have her brief declaiming in court, between theatrical questions delivered with a tone of manufactured disgust. He was the man, and older. He was an experienced officer. At best she was ignorant of the criminal conspiracy in which she was involved, at worst she had been encouraged deeper into the plotting, used as a crude Trojan horse. She was a simple girl, without sexual experience, and the seduction was little more than ‘entrapment’. Were the undercover officer’s superiors responsible for encouraging him to step outside the parameters of his duty? Did he act without authority? A judge would send the jury out, hear submissions, call them back in, refer to irregularities and dismiss the charges, and would write a note of complaint to the Crown Prosecution Service for their handling of Crown v Zeinab… Out on his neck, disgraced. She would walk free but would be despised in her own community, deplored for providing rich pickings for the popular press, dismissed by the university, after spending months locked up. It was that big, for each of them, what they did.

She nibbled at his ear. He sucked and bit at the moist skin of her throat.

The wind fluttered the curtains, and a bin was blown on the square, and noisy gangs of youths were returning through the old part of the city as the clubs closed… she screamed. He called out, pushed a last time, accepted that it was an animal instinct that gave him the last strength left to him. A shuddering, an end to a career… something so unprofessional that it shocked him. Her hold on him loosened. He subsided, rolled away from underneath her.

What would he say in court? Deny it. A defence fabrication. His word against hers. An experienced officer against a dangerous and motivated terrorist, an easy choice for a jury: there would be files full of evidence of her proven lies. Deny it, wash his hands of her. Where had he slept? ‘On the floor, sir.’

Another couple, below, had started up. He chuckled… Heard the rhythm of the springs. Had to laugh. She asked him why, little panted gasps breaking up the question. He said it was because of them, they led the way, maybe now half the street would get going, like it was with the Mexican Wave. But they had been the first – and said also what he thought of her… Might have meant it.

‘Zed, hope you listen to me, hope you believe what I say… you are fantastic. You are the best.’

Enough light came into the room for him to see her skin, and the shape of her when he eased back, gazed at her. The bedding had slipped. She did not cover herself, as if he had snatched away any modesty, had given herself. The great almond eyes gazed up at him… nothing like this in his life before… he could remember how it had been at the start. Him doing the Galahad stuff, riding to the rescue. Handing out a sustained beating to the ‘thugs’ who had attacked her. All play-acting, and her buying into the sham. The pendant, usually hidden and private only to them, hung from its chain, nestled in the cleft; a small stone that reflected the limited light, and he had charged for it on his expenses sheet, filled in each month, and it had not been queried. ‘Cheap at the bloody price – bit skinflint’, the woman would have said as she shuffled the paperwork and what few scrawled bills he could include.

She took his hand. Held it softly. Pulled it towards her. Laid it on the hair, gazed at him, gave trust. It was, he might have said if challenged, ‘in defence of the state’, but his mind stayed silent.