Shagger shouted in her ear, competed with the engine power, ‘He won’t let go of him. He has Foxy.’
Harding yelled in her other ear, ‘Cold, dead, been gone for hours, but he’s not loosing him.’
She said, with a wonderment, ‘All that time, through all that, carrying him, already dead, with what was chasing him – it’s incredible… a miracle.’
A gunner – had the name ‘Dwayne Schultz’ stamped on his jacket – passed her a headset and she heard the pilot. They were to overfly Basra and go direct to Kuwait City. She shrugged, not her decision. She twisted in the seat and could see back up the fuselage and past the gunner’s squatting body. Badger wore the suit and his hands were wrapped across his chest. Through the open flap she could see Foxy’s head and arms, a little of his shoulders; she could see also some of the wounds on his body. The responsibility weighed on her, and the cost.
‘Good to have you back with us, Badger. To have both of you…’
Chapter 20
He was early, and confused. It was pretty much like being a national serviceman, new to his corps, not daring to be late on parade and standing by his made bed with the folded blankets on it, waiting for the sergeant to pitch them onto the drill yard. Doug Bentley was early because he hadn’t known how long it would take him to get to the town at that time of night. He was confused because no one he’d met or spoken to had seemed to know the form. Just ‘Best bib and tucker, Doug, and all the gear.’
It was past eleven and, other than on a British Legion night, that was way past Doug Bentley’s bedtime. Most of the pubs had closed, the Chinese was only doing slack trade, and the last bus had gone through. He stood outside the Cross Keys and it was cold, properly cold, with no moon to speak of, a clear sky and a hard frost forecast. He’d taken the precaution of wearing a wool pullover under his white shirt, which made his blazer tight, but better a little discomfort than being seen to shiver.
There had been a phone call, taken by Beryl and passed to him, from their local organiser around the time they were having their tea. That was all the warning he’d had. ‘And, of course, Doug, completely up to you as to whether you turn out but others will be there. Don’t ask me any more because I don’t know anything.’ The big decision was made to go, even if it meant a taxi fare to get home.
Others came, looked as lost as himself, men from Bath, Melksham, Frome and Chippenham, two from Swindon, and the Hungerford fellow who’d been cavalry. They all wore their polished shoes, the usual slacks and blazers, and had their white gloves and their standards in the leatherette cases. Well, obvious that a hearse was coming through, but no one knew the name on the box, or where he’d bought it.
He was glad of the company, and them being there made it real. They formed a casual line, as they always did, a little down the street from the big pub and opposite the war memorial. He didn’t like to show off his ignorance so didn’t quiz his colleagues, but he realised they were all in the same boat when questions were put to him. Answers were in short supply. So be it. He followed the actions of others and put his pole together, letting the standard hang free. He checked that the black bow at the top wasn’t creased, and started to hear voices. If he tilted his head a little and looked back to the arched entrance of the Cross Keys, he could see people emerging.
A man in a striped suit, with an open camel overcoat and a trilby low on his forehead, said, ‘Bit of a dump, don’t you think, Bob? Probably all right on a spring morning, certainly not a November evening. I suppose if that’s what was wanted it was right to do it. It’ll bring closure. It was a good result and achieved at a rather low cost… Can’t ask more than that.’ The thick-set man with him might have been, Doug Bentley thought, a bodyguard. He nodded his head, on which the hair was almost shorn, and might have murmured, ‘Yes, Director.’
They crossed the road, had to wait for an old saloon, speakers thumping. A young woman, with fine golden hair hanging loose and bright under a street-lamp, parked up the High Street and came at a jog towards the Cross Keys. She met a man – another suit, but creased and with shapeless trousers. ‘It’s Len, isn’t it?’
‘And you’re Abigail? Good to meet. Funny old place this, but a funny old occasion. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against it, only that it’s a bit left-side, irregular, sort of off the beaten track. What is it – a week since you were back?’
‘A long week.’
‘And the colleague?’
‘Bizarre. Out on his feet when he went into the chopper, and wouldn’t let go of Foxy – you remember they were Badger and Foxy? – and was talking to him, soft and quiet, all the way to Kuwait, a lengthy flight even in a Black Hawk. When we landed Badger had to be separated from the body – it was stark bollock naked. Weird. It took two of my escort to get him to free it. The corpse went into the care of the ambassador, formalities to be gone through. We had to quit sharpish, and did. We were out on the first London flight, straight after he’d had a medical. What did I expect? That he might sit with me, put his business seat flat and sleep? He went into Economy and I never saw him until Heathrow. Frankly, Len, I might have enjoyed a drink with him at the airport and we might have shared a ride to… God, we went through tough times in a tough place, and in a sense were together – don’t quote me or I’ll throttle you – but he walked past me in the concourse and said not a word – like I didn’t exist. The last I saw of Badger he was at a bus stop, waiting for the shuttle – creepy.’
‘It all went well. I had time for a quick shop on the way out for some marzipan, useful as a present for home and my office. Then it was a cloud of dust and gone. I assume he knows how it all turned out.’
‘I don’t know who told him, if anyone did. We sent a message to the opposition.’
‘Sent it in clear and loud.’
‘Will it be listened to?’
‘What matters is that we sent it, and it’ll hurt them and bloody their nose. I value that as justification.’
‘Good. Where should we be standing? Is this right, or should we be on the other side?’
‘Where he is, I suppose. But… Can you believe it? That big bastard cut me dead in the bar, didn’t know me. We stand near to the director but on pain of death we don’t speak to him. We don’t show the world we know him. Did I get a glass of sherry? Did I hell. Did I get a nod and recognition? Not yet. I think it was something to be proud of.’
‘I’ll catch you.’
The one she’d called Len crossed the road, now empty, and took a place a dozen steps from the director. Doug Bentley’s eyes darted. She had a pretty face, with frankness in the eyes and a jut at her chin. Her cheeks were red and the freckles alive. She wore old jeans and a quilted anorak, and every few seconds she swept the hair off her face. He realised she needed a moment of privacy from view – and lit up a cigarette.