"Civvies" - читать интересную книгу автора (La Plante Lynda)

FRANK DILLON

CHAPTER 3

Thin curtains of chill wintry drizzle swept over the gleaming drill square, neat gravel paths and sodden grass verges of Browning Barracks, Aldershot. Known as The Depot, this unlovely collection of flat-roofed, slab-sided buildings, resembling nothing more than an inner-city council estate, housed the three regular battalions of the Parachute Regiment and units of Airborne Forces. Through the rain-streaked window of the Sergeants' Mess, lingering over his second cup of lukewarm coffee, Frank Dillon watched two truckloads of raw recruits just pulling in, 'Joe Crows' fresh from Civvy Street. Some of them would jack it in tomorrow, Dillon knew, others not last till the end of the week. As for the rest, they would go on to experience the joys of twelve weeks of mental and physical torture before they faced the ultimate test of 'P' Company – five days of sheer undiluted hell on earth.

Steeplechase, Log Race, Endurance March over twenty-eight kilometres of rough country, bergen rucksack loaded with 22kg of bricks and gravel, Speed March, Assault Course, including the dreaded Shuffle Bars – scaffolding poles fifty feet off the ground and no hand-holds -Stretcher Race with a twelve-man team hauling 75kg of steel bars and sandbags over twelve kilometres of Welsh peaks and gullies.

The ones that came through it would know – with the bright shining certainty of hardened survivors – that they'd earned the right to proudly wear the Red Beret with its winged badge of lion and crown above a floating parachute.

Their first day in, Dillon thought, watching the Joe Crows disembark, with it all before them. After eighteen years, four months and sixteen days, he was going out. Back to Civvies. Back to a world he hardly remembered. Another lifetime, a different Frank Dillon altogether, so it seemed to him, all those years ago – a gangling lad with a shock of floppy black hair, an attitude problem, and a sheaf of pathetic school reports, plus two scrapes with the law that had nearly landed him in Borstal. The Paras had sorted that out, hair, attitude, even the required discipline of book-study, the lot. They had shaped and trained and hammered him into the mould of a professional fighting man, a member of one the finest and fittest elite corps in the world, Commandos and SAS included. At thirty-six he was still remarkably fit. Still possessed the skills necessary to strip down and assemble blindfold the SA80 family of weapons, stalk an enemy through brush and bog, hurl himself into space through the door of a Hercules C-130 at eight hundred feet. That was Frank Dillon's story in a nutshell, serving Queen and Country. Question was, what the fuck was he going to do now?

Dillon pushed his cup away and checked his watch against the wall clock. 7.20 a.m. Better snap to it if he was going to catch the London train.

A Radio One DJ was babbling something about Red Nose Day as he went through the double-doors and ran along the covered walkway to the NCO's billet, feeling the sting of cold rain whipping through. His suitcase was packed, lying on top of the four grey blankets, plumbline straight and squared off at the foot of the bed; just a couple of things for his leather grip on the four-drawer chest, and that was that. The small room with its single window and plain cream walls had the austere look of a hermit's cell, but it had been home.

Dillon tossed in his shaving bag, opened the top drawer and took out a metal case tooled in dark leather. He didn't intend to open it but he did. Sergeant Dillon gazed at the three medals embedded in green velvet, the UN, the NI, the SA, not really seeing them. Now they too belonged to another life. He snapped the case shut, dropped it in the grip, zippered it.

In the square wall mirror he gave himself a final regimental inspection. A stranger in dark blue blazer with breastpocket badge, maroon tie embroidered with the Para motif, grey trousers pressed to a knife-edge, stared back at him. But for the moustache and the scar, a thin straight line below his left eye on which stubble never grew, he mightn't have recognised himself. As long as Susie and the kids did, Dillon thought without humour. Daddy's coming home – for good! Good or ill, that remained to be seen.

One last call, to settle his NAAFI account and collect his rail warrant. Dillon handed over forty quid, received his change and a receipt from the Duty Sergeant, who then gave him a pink slip.

'Rail pass, and that's it.' Duty Sergeant Sinclair watched Dillon fold the paper and slip it into his wallet. There was a brief, awkward silence. Then Sinclair, instead of saluting, took Dillon's hand in a firm, rough grip. 'Good luck in Civvy Street, Frank.'

The Dakota from World War II, parked on the quadrant of grass outside the Regimental Museum, flanked by an equally ancient artillery piece and heavy-duty machine-gun, looked in better nick now than in its operational days. Kept spick and span not just for show, but for a purpose.

Under a grey, restless sky, a few bright patches breaking through, Dillon walked by the aircraft, raincoat buttoned up to the neck. His eyes moved from the bulbous nose and along the clean sweep of the fuselage, slick-wet and shining from the downpour. Those new recruits he'd seen arriving earlier would be standing in front of the old war-horse in a few days, lined up with their instructors for the course photograph. Some of them, a highly selected few, would make it from the despised DPM forage caps -craphats – to Red Berets, from Joe Crows to proud new Toms. They'd take over where he left off.

Dillon walked on, not looking back.

The minute Susie Dillon heard the phone ring, she knew. So did Helen, Susie's mother, eyes narrowed, mouth pulled down at the corners in that told-you-so expression. She tugged her cardigan straight and folded her arms, glaring at the table, moved specially into the centre of the small living-room for the occasion, laden with plates of sandwiches, cakes, biscuits, bowls of peanuts, even a bottle of sparkling Spanish wine. All that time and trouble and effort wasted, would her daughter never learn? But it was the two boys she felt most sorry for, Kenny and little Phil. Hair brushed, faces shining, self-conscious in their brand-new Marks amp; Sparks shirts and shorts, they sat happily together on the sofa, dive-bombing the hearth-rug and vari-flame gasfire with a model Spitfire.

Susie went through to the tiny cluttered hallway, glancing at her watch to avoid her mother's eye. She stepped round the children's bikes and picked up the phone. Helen heard her say, 'Hello?' and then call to the boys. 'Quick, it's your Dad!' They were off the sofa and gone in a trice, giddy with excitement.

And then, as might be expected, Susie's puzzled, rather plaintive tone. 'But… where are you, Frank?'

Helen shook her head at the ceiling, sighed, and picked up a sandwich and gouged off a corner. Don't let it go to waste – she chewed, grimacing – even if it was fish paste.

Pissed as arseholes. Or very nearly – but sufficiently in control to keep the slur out of his voice, Dillon hoped. He concentrated through the din of voices and 'Peggy Sue' thumping from the juke-box. 'I gotta go, Sue… no, tell 'em I'll see ' em later. I'm fine, really -' He smothered a belch. 'Sorry about this… Bye.'

After the second attempt Dillon got the receiver back in its cradle. He blinked and contemplated the five pints of Courage bitter lined up on the bar by his elbow. He'd had… how many? Eight, nine, ten? Couldn't remember, as if it made any bleeding difference. He took a deep gulping swallow, head thrown back, and plonked the glass down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Four to go.

It was somewhere around late afternoon, he could tell that by the rays of sunlight slanting in low through the red and green panes of the Haverlock's front bow-window, spotlighting the thick blue smog of cigarette smoke over the pool table. First call had to be the ex-Paras' watering-hole. Because, Dillon thought with sudden blinding clarity, he was one of them now. Ex-Para. He knew what it meant but the words wouldn't sink in.

'Eighteen?' Harry Travers was saying to a young guy further along the bar, waving his pint glass and slopping beer everywhere. 'Eighteen? You're looking at a man,' belch and a sway, '… at a man who sank twenty-five…'

'Cheers, Harry,' Dillon said, raising the next one and taking the head off it. But Harry, his face a torrid hue, sucking beer from his gingery moustache, was jabbing the air with a blunt finger, fixing the young guy with watery blue eyes. 'Get this… security company wants three drivers, one armoured car and a motorbike. I said, "For a grand, mate, I'll get the Royal Tattoo and Joan Collins." ' His mouth twisted. 'Wanker.'

Dillon surveyed the packed bar. One or two young blokes, probably still regulars by the lean, trim look of them, but mostly older hands, a couple of years out and already getting slack around the middle, beer guts hanging over their belts. Not for him, Dillon made a drunken pact with himself. He'd work out, keep a tight grip. Or else he'd end up like Wally over there, balding, fagging it, looking ten years older than his forty-five, shirt-buttons straining to hold back a phantom pregnancy nearing full term.

At least Jimmy seemed to have adjusted well to civvy life, Dillon thought. There he was, the wheeler-dealer, plenty of scams cooking and more on the back-burner, handing out folding stuff.

'And you get double,' Jimmy was saying to a young, tanned bloke who looked as if he was just back from a stint in Belize, 'if you can get me a dozen MBC suits. An' I can take as many DMBs, jungles, as you can lay your hands on. I got transport, no problem.'

Jimmy glanced over, winked at Dillon, flashed his confident grin. Looking very sharp in an expensively tailored, shot-silk blue suit and crisp white shirt, a fine gold chain fastened with studs to the collar points and looped across his matching necktie of gold and red diamonds on a blue ground. He'd let his red hair grow longer and wore it slicked back with grease; seeing Michael Douglas in Wall Street had left a lasting impression.

'Two of us on the door,' Wally draped his arm round Dillon's shoulders, droning on with another of his interminable stories, 'thirty-five a night, an' I'm not jokin', mate – I've had more fuckin' fights than I had the whole time I was in Belfast.' He gestured to the blonde landlady, working like a Trojan behind the bar. 'Two more here, Sybil, three over there…'

Dillon made a token protest, knowing he should be making tracks, but Wally was in full spate.

'You can keep hittin the Irish an' they bounce… I'll tell you, Frank, there are more of those bastards over here than they got over there!'

Feet apart, legs braced, Dillon tried to keep the floor in place. Gazing straight ahead at the optics, he stated, 'I gotta go home…' the fixed dead stare of a man recognising an ultimate truth.

Somebody came through the smoke and whispered in Harry's ear. He beckoned Jimmy over and they closed around Dillon, Harry bending close, giving the word, Dillon half-catching something about 'Kilburn' and 'bunch of paddies' and the name of a club.

Wally's face lit up. Letting out a yell, he hooked Dillon's neck in the crook of his elbow, announcing, 'Let's send this man out into civvies fighting! Yesssss! Come on!'

Getting wind that something was up but not knowing what, Dillon said vaguely, 'Where we going?' as he was carried in a scrum to the door.

At the cigarette machine, a tall, ashen-faced man with hair hanging in his eyes, pissed as a fart, did a staggering turn and collided with Dillon. About to brush past, Dillon stopped dead in his tracks. He gripped the man by the shoulders, stared into the lost, bleary eyes.

'Steve -? Steve Harris?'

In place of the handsome Jack-the-Lad, six-feet-two in his stocking-feet and with, as he never ceased to tell anyone within ear-shot, a dick that was perfectly in proportion with his Adonis body, was this pathetic, shambling wreck. Unshaven, bloated and boozed out, Steve 'the Puller' Harris, renowned for his sexual exploits, not allowed near anyone's wife, or sister, and on one occasion, Smother Smith's mother!… Steve, one of Dillon's best lads, was almost unrecognisable.

'Leave him, Frank, just leave him, he's a waster,' Jimmy said contemptuously, and as if to add insult to his remark, he stuffed into the drunken Steve's torn top pocket a tenner. 'Right, we mustered? Let's go…'

Dillon held Steve's face in his cupped hands. 'Steve! It's me, Frank, Frank Dillon, what's happened to you, sunshine, eh?'

The lost eyes, sunk deep in unknown depths, roamed about and finally registered a tiny spark. The slobbering mouth opened, but instead of words, a choking, throttled growl issued out, grotesque and mechanical and meaningless as an alien's.

Dillon's heart filled his chest. He put his arms round the lad and pulled him to him, mumbling, 'Steve, oh Steve, Steve

News at Ten was just starting when Susie's mother decided she'd had more than enough, thank you very much, and put her coat on to leave. The table had been cleared, except for one plate, one cup and saucer, and the bottle of Spanish sparkling, now half-empty. The boys were long gone to bed, asking where Daddy was even while Susie was tucking them in. Now she drained her wineglass, trying not to ignore her mother at the hall door, at the same time fighting to stay calm, not lose her temper. But Helen wouldn't let it go.

'Some homecoming. Bloody hero doesn't even turn up.' She tucked her woolly plaid scarf under her chin. 'I'm sorry for the boys…'

'He'll need time to adjust, Mum.' She hated the plaintive tone in her voice, but it just came out that way.

'He's not going to find it easy to walk into a job with no qualifications.'

'He's doing this for me and the kids, and if he wants to let off steam for a few days, then that's his business.'

'Eighteen years, and all he's got to show for it is three thousand quid.' Helen's blue rinse quivered. 'That mate of his got near a hundred thousand…'

Susie snapped off the TV and faced her. 'That was for his leg. He lost his leg. You ask his wife which she'd prefer – better still, ask him. Goodnight, Mum.'