Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

I drove back to Devon, reaching Bannister’s house at lunchtime. I’d filled the Peugeot’s tank with petrol as amends for borrowing it, but no one seemed to have missed the old car which Bannister kept solely for local errands. I could hear voices in the house, so I took the path through the woods down to the wharf where Sycorax lay.

I emptied the bergen on the cabin floor. There were sweaters still smeared with dark peaty Falklands soil. There was a shaving kit, canteen, monocular, two shirts, and a camera which still had a roll of undeveloped film in it. There was a situation map, a cigarette lighter, a letter from my bank manager which I’d never opened, and a deck plan of the Canberra . This was the kit we’d left behind as we marched to the start line for the last attack. There was a letter from Melissa’s lawyer demanding that I surrender pension rights, bank accounts, all joint savings, everything. Like a fool, I’d given in on every demand. At the time it had seemed a most irrelevant letter and I had simply wanted the matter out of the way before the grimmer reality of taking the heights above Port Stanley began.

There was a letter from my father that I had not answered, and two photographs of my children. There were three pairs of underpants that needed washing, a towel, a pair of gloves, and a tin of camouflage cream. There was, God alone knew why, a map of the London Underground. There was my beret, which gave me a pang of old and still bright pride. There were no bad dreams.

And underneath it all was the reason why I had driven so far. It was a souvenir wrapped in a dirty towel. I’d taken it from a dead Argentinian officer who’d been lying in the burnt gorse on Darwin Hill. I unwrapped the towel to find a leather belt from which hung a pouch and a holster. In the holster was a .45 calibre automatic pistol, made in the USA; a Colt. It was ugly, black, and heavy. I turned it in my hand, then ejected the full magazine. I emptied the magazine of rounds and noted that the spring was still in good condition, despite being compressed for so many months. I cocked the empty gun and pulled the trigger. The sound seemed immense inside the Sycorax ’s hull. The words Ejercito Argentina were incised on the barrel’s flank.

I opened the pouch and took out the spare magazines and rounds.

I did not want to use this weapon, indeed I had hoped never to fire a gun like this again, but Jill-Beth’s warning, and the memory of how easily Fanny Mulder had resorted to his shotgun, had persuaded me to retrieve this trophy of a faraway war. Now, staring at the gun’s obscene and functional outline, I was suddenly ashamed of myself. I wasn’t a prisoner, there was no need to stay. Holding the heavy gun I was suddenly disgusted that my affairs with Bannister had come to this. I would get out now, I would resign. I would leave Bannister. There was no sense in staying in a place where I had been driven to arm myself with a weapon.

My disgust tempted me to hurl the gun far into the river, but there are still seaways where such a thing is needful, and so I oiled and greased the pistol, loaded it, then sealed it in two waterproof bags.

I hid the gun deep in Sycorax , deep down where the sun would never shine, deep beneath the waterline in a dark place where such a thing is best kept.

A hand rapped on the outside of the hull and I jumped like a guilty thing.

“Mr Sandman?” It was one of Mulder’s crew. “Mr Bannister wants to see you. Now.”

It wasn’t a request, but an order. But I wanted to see Bannister too, so I obeyed.

Bannister was waiting for me in his study. He had taken care to provide himself with reinforcements. Fanny Mulder stood to one side of a table littered with charts and weather maps, while Angela slumped in a deep chair in the corner of the room. They all three looked tired.

“Ah, Nick!” Bannister seemed almost surprised that I’d come. I sensed that there had been an argument before I arrived. Angela was sullen, Mulder silent, and Bannister was nervous. He crossed to his desk and shook a cigarette out of a packet. “Thank you for coming,” he said.

“I wanted to see you anyway.”

He clicked a lighter, puffed smoke. “Angela tells me you borrowed a car this morning?”

“I filled it with petrol,” I said. “I should have asked you before I borrowed it. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right.” His denial was too hasty. Bannister, it was clear, did not have the guts to go for a confrontation. Clearly Angela and Mulder were expecting a fight, and I guessed that was what the argument must have been about. They wanted to attack me, while Bannister wanted to keep things gentle. For all his tough-guy image, he crumbled at the first touch.

“Is that all you wanted?” I asked. “Because I’ve also got something to say to you.”

“Where did you go in the car?” Mulder asked in his flat voice.

I ignored him. “I’ve come to tell you that you can count me out,” I said to Bannister. “Not just out of the St Pierre, but out of everything. I don’t want any more of your film, any more of your company. I’m through.”

“Where did you go?” Mulder insisted.

“Answer him,” Angela said.

“I’ve got nothing to say to you! Nothing!” I turned on her furiously, stunning the room with my sudden anger. “I’m sorry,” I said to Bannister. “I don’t want to get angry. I just want out. After last night”—I glanced at Angela, then looked back to Bannister—“I don’t see how I can decently stay. And as I understand things, you promised to restore my boat, so give me a cheque for a thousand pounds and I’ll finish Sycorax myself and leave you alone.” Bannister hated the confrontation. “I think we should talk things over, don’t you?”

“Just give me a cheque.”

Mulder seemed to despise Bannister’s pusillanimity. He moved close and looked down at me. “Where did you go in the car, man?”

“Get out of my way.”

“Where did—”

“Get out of my bloody way or I’ll break your fucking neck!” I astonished myself by my own savagery. Mulder, even though he could surely not have feared me, stepped back. Angela gasped, while Bannister stayed motionless.

I made my voice calm again. “A cheque, please.” Bannister found some courage for the moment. “Did you go to see Miss Kirov, Nick?”

“No. A cheque, please.”

“But you did invite her to the party?” Bannister insisted.

“Yes, but I didn’t know Fanny was going to try and rape her. Are you going to give me a cheque?”

“I didn’t—” Fanny began.

“Shut up!” I snapped. I’d harried them all into submission. They’d summoned me to this room to dress me down as if I was a small schoolboy, but they were all now silent. Mulder stepped away from me, while Angela fumbled in her bag for a cigarette. I could hear the murmur of voices from the terrace beneath where the guests gathered for brunch. “I want a cheque,” I said to Bannister.

I thought I’d won, for Bannister walked to his desk and pulled open a drawer. I expected him to bring out his chequebook, but instead he produced a stack of cardboard folders. “Please look at those, Nick.”

I didn’t move, so he lifted the top one, opened it, and handed it to me.

My own photograph was in the file and curiosity made me take it from Bannister. “Read it,” he said quietly.

There were only two sheets of paper in the folder, both topped with a printed letterhead: ‘Kassouli Insurance Fund, Inc. (Marine)’.

My photograph was pasted on to one of the sheets with my career, such as it had been, carefully typed out beneath. The citation for the Victoria Cross was reproduced in full. The other sheet was handwritten in what, I supposed, was Jill-Beth’s writing. “Captain Sandman’s presence in AB’s house is unexpected, but could be fortunate for us.