And what use was a loaded gun if you didn’t intend to use it?
“Fuck it,” he said, putting the Beretta back in its cloth. He rummaged around behind the other packages-he had explosives in there, too; almost every other soldier brought something with them back into civvy life-until he found another length of oiled rag. Inside was a black gleaming dagger, his Lucky 13: five inches of rubberized handgrip and eight inches of polished steel, a blade so sharp you could perform surgery with it. He’d bought it in Germany one time when they’d been training there. Its weight and balance were perfect for him. It had felt almost supernatural, the way the thing molded to his hand. He’d been persuaded to buy it by the two men on weekend leave with him. The knife cost just under a week’s wages.
“For old times’ sake,” he said, slipping it into his overnight bag.
He crossed by ferry to Oban, which was where the tail started.
Just the one car, he reckoned. To be sure, he led it a merry dance all the way to Inveraray. Just north of the town he pulled the Land Rover over suddenly, got out, and went to the back, looking in as though to check he hadn’t forgotten something. The car behind was too close to stop; it had to keep going right past him. He looked up as it drew level, and watched the impassive faces of the two men in front.
“Bye-bye,” he said, closing the back, watching the car go. Hard to tell from their faces who the men were or who they might work for, but he was damned sure they’d been following him since he’d hit the mainland: most cars would have stuck to the main road through Dalmally and south towards Glasgow, but when Reeve had headed on the much less popular route to Inveraray, this one had followed.
He started driving again. He didn’t know if they’d have organized a second car by now, of if they’d have to call someone to organize backup. He just knew he didn’t want to be driving anywhere much now that they were on to him. So he headed into the center of town. Close combat, he was thinking as he headed for his revised destination.
The Thirty Arms had a parking lot, but Reeve parked on the street outside. They didn’t hand out parking tickets after six o’clock. Locals called it the Thirsty Arms, but the pub’s true name was a reference to the fifteen men in a rugby side. It was the closest this quiet lochside town had to a “dive,” which was to say that it was a rough-and-ready place which didn’t see many female clients. Reeve knew this because he dropped in sometimes, preferring the drive via Inveraray to the busier route. The owner had a tongue you could strike matches on.
“Go get that red fuckin‘ carpet, will you?” he said to someone as Reeve entered the bar. “It’s been that long since this bastard bought a drink in here I was thinking of selling up.”
“Evening, Manny,” said Reeve. “Half of whatever’s darkest, please.”
“An ungrateful sod of a patron like you,” said Manny, “you’ll take what I give you.” He began pouring the drink. Reeve looked around at faces he knew. They weren’t smiling at him, and he didn’t smile back. Their collective stare was supposed to drive away strangers and outsiders, and Reeve was most definitely an outsider. The surliest of the local youths was playing pool. Reeve had noticed some of his mates outside. They weren’t yet old enough looking to fool Manny, so would wait at the door like pet dogs outside a butcher’s shop for their master to rejoin them. The smell of drink off him was their vicarious pleasure. In Inveraray, there wasn’t much else to kill the time.
Reeve walked over to the board and chalked his name up. The youth grinned at him unpleasantly, as if to say, “I’ll take anybody’s money.” Reeve walked back to the bar.
Two more drinkers pushed open the creaking door from the outside world. Their tourist smiles vanished when they saw the sort of place they’d entered. Other tourists had made their mistake before, but seldom stayed long enough to walk up to the bar. Maybe these ones were surprisingly stupid. Maybe they were blind.
Maybe, Reeve thought. He still had his back to them. He didn’t need to see them to know they were the two from the car. They stood next to him as they waited for Manny to finish telling a story to another customer. Manny was taking his time, just letting them know. He’d been known to refuse service to faces he didn’t like.
Reeve watched as much as he could from the corner of his eyes. From the distorted reflection in the beaten copper plate that ran the length of the bar behind the optics, he saw that the men were waiting impassively.
Manny at last gave up. “Yes, gents?” he said.
“We want a drink,” the one closest to Reeve said. The man was angry already, not used to being kept waiting. He sounded English; Reeve didn’t know which nationality he’d been expecting.
“This isn’t a chip shop,” said Manny, rising to the challenge. “Drink’s the only thing we serve.” He was smiling throughout, to let the two strangers know he wasn’t at all happy.
“I’ll have a double Scotch,” the second man said. He was also English. Reeve didn’t know whether it was done on purpose or not, but the way he spat out “Scotch” caused more than a few hackles in the bar to rise. The speaker purported not to notice, maybe he just didn’t care. He looked at the door, at the framed photos of Scottish internationals and the local rugby team-the latter signed-and the souvenir pennants and flags.
“Somebody likes rugby,” he said to no one in particular. No one in particular graced the remark with a reply.
The man closest to Reeve, the one who’d spoken first, ordered a lager and lime. There was a quiet wolf whistle from the pool table, just preceding the youth’s shot.
The man turned towards the source of the whistle. “You say something?”
The youth kept quiet and made his next shot, chalking up as he marched around the table. Reeve suddenly liked the lad.
“Leave it,” the stranger’s companion snapped. Then, as the drinks were set before them: “That a treble.” He meant the whiskey.
“A double,” Manny snapped. “You’re used to sixths; up here we have quarters.” He took the money and walked back to the register.
Reeve turned conversationally to the two men. “Cheers,” he said.
“Yeah, cheers.” They were both keen to get a good look at him close up, just as he was keen to get a look at them. The one closest to him was shorter but broader. He could’ve played a useful prop forward. He wore cheap clothes and had a cheap, greasy look to his face. If you looked like what you ate, this man was fries and lard. His companion had a dangerous face, the kind that’s been in so many scraps it simply doesn’t care anymore. He might’ve done time in the army-Reeve couldn’t see Lardface having ever been fit enough-but he’d gone to seed since. His hair stuck out over his ears and was thin above his forehead. It looked like he’d paid a lot of money for some trendy gel-spiked haircut his son might have, but then couldn’t be bothered keeping it styled. Reeve had seen coppers with haircuts like that, but not too many of them.
“So,” he said, “what brings you here, gents?”
The taller man, Spikehead, nodded, like he was thinking: Okay, we’re playing it like that. “Just passing through.”
“You must be lost.”
“How’s that?”
“To end up here. It’s not exactly on the main road.”
“Well, you know…” The man was running out of lies already, not very professional.
“We just felt like a drink, all right?” his partner snapped.
“Just making conversation,” Reeve said. The edge of his vision was growing hazy. He thought of the pills in his pocket but dismissed them instantly.
“You live locally?” Spikehead asked.
“You should know,” Reeve answered.
Spikehead tried a smile. “How’s that?”
“You’ve been following me since Oban.”
Lardface turned slowly towards him, fired up for confrontation or conflagration. A pool cue appeared between them.