Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

She held tightly to the rifle but did not know which posture to assume. He had tried, a minute or so earlier, to remove it from her. She did not permit it. So, instead, he had fiddled with a lever at the side, had depressed it, told her it was now safe. Dead eyes greeted them, and she did not know whether they had the support of the young people or were to be treated with hostility. They went as quickly as their bruised, grazed legs would take them, and her elbows were raw, and her jeans torn. At the entrance to the block where he had taken her in the small hours, parked in the shade of the building was a powerful bike, a big one and a big man’s… and she remembered. It had come past them, the rider had tried to snatch her weapon. She had kicked full force, the first injury of the day had been her bruised toes. Youths guarded the stairs. Space was made for them, but no encouragement given… Did Karym expect a hero’s return? If so, would be disappointed.

Andy Knight, the lorry driver who was a straight sort of guy, and did not threaten, had a way of getting where he’d no right to be. He had never been Phil, did not recognise Norm, but also had once been in the Royal Marines, and identified by a service number.

Something distant but an experience to feed off. Older men told stories. Liked the ones that featured bluff, getting where they were not welcome, and having the style to seem to belong. He came to the line of youths. Remembered all he had been told. Out on manoeuvres on the moor and a weathered, gnarled company sergeant major would give them the benefit of his reminiscences, good stuff and the recruits were spellbound. The best were about bluff.

Eyes peered at him, muscles flexed, he saw the light catch the steel-sharpened surface of a knife blade, saw a hand go down and pick up a bottle that had been left on one of the big rocks. They had no weight to their bodies, were small and sinewy and their clothes hung loose on them. Most wore sports kit, designer jogging suits, and designer trainers, and he doubted that any had ever competed on a track. The hairstyles were exotic, most with the sides and above their ears shaved, as the boy’s was. The eyes had a deadness to them as if joy rarely visited. He thought the ‘trade’ employed them all. He walked towards the line, to the centre of it; the youth on the right of where he was aiming to go through them held the bottle, and it would be the work of a moment to break the glass, create jagged edges. The one to the left held the knife, showed the blade.

A firm voice, English. He walked up to them. Something about it being a ‘good afternoon’, and something more about ‘just following my friends’, and winding up with ‘excuse me please’. The line split, a parting of the sea. It might happen once, and would not happen again. He was against them, body to body, and he reached out to a youth in front of him and seemed to roll his eyes at the boy’s appearance, and he fastened the buttons on the youth’s shirt and tutted in disapproval at the kid’s appearance, and he was through. Others were laughing at the one who had been gently reprimanded… There was a corporal, a weapons instructor, and the story was a party piece: a small convoy in some distant snow-bound corner of Bosnia, on a glistening icy road and the road block was Serbian and all half-cut with slivovicz high-proof stuff, and tempers frayed and some weapons cocked. The corporal had stepped down from the Land Rover and had lined them up with the acumen of any well-practised drill NCO, had tongue-lashed them for their dress and bearing, had had them on basics, attention and at ease and weapon handling, had inspected them, had drunk a toast to them, and they had gone through with the aid lorries they escorted. Just happened once, and he’d used the ‘once’, and was through – and had his hand shaken for his trouble. The motorcycle was there.

It had passed him at speed. He had seen the girl, Zed, resist the attempt to snatch the rifle, and he had seen the same man on the plaza. He went inside, was engulfed in darkness, the fierce sunlight lost. Shadows around him, then guttural voices, and one figure had swaggered close to him. Questions thrown at him. He stood his ground, waited, allowed his sight to settle. It would be bluff, another strong dose of it, had to be. He knew well enough the story of the Beirut negotiator who had gone back to the city one time too many and had believed that his status and bearing gave him protection, had walked tall and had seen his mission as clear-cut: winning the release of hostages trapped by the civil war, held as pawns in abysmal conditions. And the bluff was called and a gun pulled on the negotiator and his arms pinioned, and he’d rot for years in a primitive cell with those he’d tried to free… A sergeant in the sniper training section had told a story of a plain clothes soldier, masquerading as a journalist, alone in the Creggan estate of Londonderry, and a crowd of Provo supporters round his car and shouts and anger, and no help in sight. The joker had managed to get out of the car, and fingers poked him and fists grabbed at his clothing, and he had seen his saviour: an Irish setter, a big, rangy and adorable dog with feathered auburn hair, had wandered by, oblivious of the tension. Down on his knees, and the animal immediately warming to him, and tickling under its chin, and where was the owner? A man pushing to the front, hostility lining his forehead, and the soldier asking questions about diet, and what exercise it needed, and how his coat was so beautifully kept and how hard they were to train, and him being everybody’s friend – and able to get the fuck out. Likely, afterwards, the dog took a heavy kicking when they realised the trick performed on them. A kid, might have been fourteen years old, had a sub machine-gun. It was an Ingram, a MAC-10, obsolete and out of production, a spray close quarters weapon, short barrel, range around 50 metres for doing damage… he ignored all the other weapons, made himself the kid’s friend. Quick action, and left them confused and had it in his hand and the kid hardly knowing how else to respond. Pitifully poor light, and the big chance taken, and he started to strip it, take it apart, lay the pieces out. Had never done it before. And put it together, and took the magazine out, and cleared it, and was smiling wide enough for all to see in the grim light. He slotted the magazine back in place, and handed it back. Had never done it, and he’d used hand speeds that a magician would have prided himself on. Had given it back. Then had held up his open hand, ready for a high five, and been awarded one from the kid, then from the others.

He pointed to the big bike outside, the Ducati, then indicated the stairs. The kid would lead him. He was their friend, best friend. They guarded the door behind which the goods were stored, where the customers came. They would kill and regard it as less significant than eating a breakfast. All done with bluff, and fast, and never to be repeated. The rancid smell of the stairs was alive in his nostrils. The kid scampered up the stairs.

He followed… and tried to consider what he would do when he reached the right apartment, and why he was there. And how it would be.

‘You betrayed me, bedded me and betrayed me.’

He was against the wall beside the door, in a corridor, and his hands were high above his head.

‘You tricked me, deceived me.’

The rifle was held one-handed. She used it as an actor’s prop, and jabbed at him with the barrel tip, and the weapon’s selector lever was lodged on ‘single shot’, and her finger was on the trigger guard, and he believed that she had no idea how simple it was for a bullet to be fired if the weapon was waved around like a damn magician’s wand.