Alan Judd - A Breed of Heroes

Colin shook his head. ‘It might drive him to all sorts of places but not to drink. He never gets drunk. He gets merry, tipsy now and again, but he never has that much and he never gets really drunk. He likes the good cheer, but that’s all.’

‘I’ve never noticed,’ said Charles. ‘I mean, he often has a glass in his hand and you can see it in his eyes when he’s had a few. I admit I’ve never seen him properly drunk.’

Colin leant back in his chair, balancing on the two rear legs with the back of his head against the wall. He lit a cigarette. ‘His father was a doctor in Leeds, an alcoholic, and I think he gave the family a hard time. Eventually he left — ran off with another woman, I think — and died in Newcastle. The CO was brought up by his mother in much reduced circumstances and he was put through school by an uncle. He had a younger brother who died when he was very young — about four or five — and for some reason he always seemed to blame his father for that. After he’d joined the Army he paid back his uncle every penny of his education. He wanted to go to art school really but couldn’t afford it, and his mother, who was a very strict Methodist, for some reason didn’t approve anyway. She died last year.’

‘How d’you know all this?’ asked Charles.

‘His wife told me. He never talks about it himself. You know one of their children is a spastic?’

Charles shook his head.

‘Named Raymond after the brother who died. Children are the CO’s soft spot. Any soldier who says his wife’s having a baby can get all the leave he wants.’

‘It’s hard to imagine him at art school,’ said Charles.

‘I suppose it is now. You don’t know what he was like then, of course. He has four pet hates now — adulterers, or anyone who’s even reasonably promiscuous, drunkards, people who don’t pay their debts and anyone who’s unkind to children. He thinks journalists are the first three anyway so don’t whatever you do introduce him to a child-beating one.’

‘I’ll look out for that,’ said Charles.

In fact, his first substantial contact with the press was with the man called Beazely, against whom Philip Lamb had specifically warned him. Beazely rang, identified himself and invited Charles to dinner in his hotel that evening. Philip Lamb had not led him to expect such treatment as this, and he did not know whether he was allowed to accept. The adjutant referred him to the CO who agreed, saying, ‘On condition you carry.’

‘Sir?’

‘Bertie.’

‘Bertie, sir?’

‘Bertie Browning, for God’s sake. Where’ve you just come from, Charles, the nursery? You’re not at university now, you know. Carry your Browning nine-millimetre pistol. Wear a shoulder-holster. You’ve worn one before. I don’t want my officers shot in the back over dinner.’

Beazely was in the Europa, the large modern hotel in the city centre. It paid no protection money to the IRA and so was elaborately fortified by wire, lights and security guards. It had been the target of several bombing attempts, one or two partially successful, but was still used by many of the press. Charles was dropped outside by Land-Rover, which made him feel unpleasantly conspicuous, and at first he could not see his way through the defences to the entrance. When with Janet he had not even attempted them. In fact, an uninformed observer would have been hard put to tell whether the wire and corrugated iron were meant to keep intruders out or guests in. However, this time Charles was elated to be in civilian clothes. He felt quite different — not normal, but at least he could begin to remember what it might be like to feel normal. Of course, the discomfort of his shoulder-holster would have prevented him from going too far in that direction. Instead of nestling snugly under his arm, as they appeared to do in all the films, the bulky Browning pressed heavily against his ribs and bulged awkwardly beneath his jacket. For all the defences around the hotel, the body search was cursory and he did not have to explain anything.

Beazely was bloated, bespectacled and friendly. He had a red face and a mop of brown hair which straggled over his ears and collar. A large signet ring was squeezed on to his podgy third finger and the half-smoked cigarette in his other hand looked just as permanent. His manner was both impersonal and intimate. His handshake was limp and wet. ‘Glad to meet you, Charlie. What’ll it be?’

‘Lager, please.’

Beazely ordered two double whiskies. ‘What’s happened to the other bloke — Phil thingie?’

‘He was shot.’

‘Christ, that’s going a bit far. Badly?’

‘No, in the foot.’ Charles had decided to spare the details partly for Philip’s sake and partly out of latent regimental pride.

‘He should’ve rung me. He promised he would if anything happened in your area. I could’ve done a piece on it. He could’ve been a hero. I hope you won’t forget if you get mixed up in anything interesting. Cheers.’

‘The incident was filmed. There was a camera crew there.’

‘Was there? Can’t compete with that. The old steam press has its limitations, you know. At least where that sort of thing is concerned. Same again?’

Beazely either ignored or genuinely did not hear Charles’s protest. ‘We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, Charlie, because I do a lot of Army stuff, you see. You scratch my back and I scratch yours. We can be very useful to each other. That’s the way me and Phil worked it, anyway. Cheers.’ Beazely swallowed with a practised gulp. Charles edged his barely-sipped first drink out of sight with his elbow and raised his second. Twenty minutes later there were four more lined up on the bar, filled to varying levels. Charles was vividly aware of details of his surroundings, such as the closeness of Beazely’s sweating red face and the prodding of Beazely’s fat forefinger, but felt pleasantly detached and remote.

Beazely was swaying backwards and forwards very slightly and talking all the time, his words accompanied by a liberal sprinkling of saliva. ‘The root of the problem is sex, of course. That’s the answer to the Irish question, only no one ever asked it properly. The men booze and so the women don’t bother. The women are hags and so the men booze. It’s the same throughout working-class Belfast, East or West, Loyalist or Republican. Beating each other up on a Friday night is about the closest they ever get to communicating, some of them. Nothing for them at home or in bed and so they go outside for their kicks, and there’s your violent society. If the men knew how to make love and the women had enough self-respect to make themselves desirable it would be a different place, believe me. Balanced, fulfilled, sane, you know. As it is, the divisions in the society as a whole reflect the brutalities and animosities at home. You’ve only got to look at the kids. Old faces on young bodies. They scare me as much as anything.’ The sweat on Beazely’s face was mingling with tears. He put his hand on Charles’s shoulder and drew closer still. Charles was distantly aware of laying his hand on Beazely’s arm in comradely fashion. He was not aware of speaking.

‘Be honest with you, Charlie, straight up. It bloody terrifies me. All of it. I’d rather go back to London and do accidents or gardening or any damn thing but they won’t let me. Keep on about what a great job I’m doing. Great job, my arse. They can’t get anyone else to do it, that’s all. Won’t ever let me write what I want, you know, what I’ve just been talking about. They want hard news all the time. There’s enough hard news in the world without all this. Christ, I’d rather do the chess reports.’

He took off his glasses and, blinking, wiped his eyes upon his sleeve. ‘Main reason I do a lot with the Army is because I’d rather talk to them than to the terrorists. Gives me the creeps just to go in the bad areas. All right for the likes of Jason Kyle and his rag, hobnobbing with the IRA all the time and proud of it. Me, I’m not proud of anything. Not ashamed either. What’s more, I like the Army. Good blokes, know what I mean? Not always too bright, but you can trust ’em. Straight up, like yourself. No messing about. And they don’t chuck bombs around. You and me will make a great team, Charlie, I can see it coming. Two more, please.’