Civvies

'Wait!' Jimmy pulled Dillon back, face pale and twitching. The last time Dillon had seen him so hyped up was standing in the open doorway of a Hercules C-130, line rigged up, cheeks rippling like a rubber mask in the slipstream, ready to jump. 'That guy I whacked,' Jimmy said. 'He was a police officer.'

Dillon slowly blinked at him, unable to take it in. Assaulting a copper and he'd been accessory to it. They were talking prison here.

The cabbie's patience finally worn though, he stuck his head in, telling them straight, 'You think I'm stupid? I've given you the warnin', now I'm gonna call the law!'

Without a second's hesitation Jimmy viciously slammed the panel shut against the cabbie's face, and in a fury started stuffing fivers in the gasping mouth. 'Here's your soddin' money… I know your cab number,' he was shouting, 'I know your name!'

The driver dragged his face free, groping for the security lock button. Jimmy reached through, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and yanked his head back hard against the glass panel. 'Try anythin', Jimmy snarled, 'and I swear before God you're fuckin' dead.' Again he yanked the driver's head back – clunk - against the panel, and once more to make sure the idea had sunk in.

Scooping up the money-belts Jimmy slammed the door shut and shouted after Dillon, walking head forward along the hard shoulder with the look of a man who's had it up to here.

'Frank, where you going?' Jimmy broke into a trot. He looked up to see the Jaguar coasting down to the roundabout, signalling to make a left. 'Frank! He's here!'

Dillon swung an angry face towards him, aiming along his pointing finger. 'I've had enough for one night, Jimmy, an' don't try an' tell me this is all legit! It reeks, it stinks. It's got nothin' to do with insurance an' you know it! I just got into civvies, an' I don't intend going to jail for you – or that bastard Newman!' He marched on, yelling over his shoulder, 'I got a wife, I got kids… I don't need it!'

'Frank, listen to me -'

'I'll make it, Jimmy,' Dillon shouted, marching on, his voice becoming fainter, echoing under the sodium-yellow streetlights. 'You do whatever you want, just stay clear of me!'

Jimmy tried to shout, but nothing came out, his throat choked tight. The last thing he wanted was to alienate Frank Dillon, his best mate in all the world. Frank knew Jimmy, possibly better than anyone else. There was no one else. He saw Dillon moving away over the frozen tundra, pale Antarctic sunlight slanting down, his figure silhouetted against the blue wash of sky. That day they'd tabbed fourteen miles with thirty-eight kilograms of kit – L1A1 weapon, thirty-round magazine, fighting order, bergen stuffed with ammo and emergency rations – sneaking up the enemy's backside after a march the Argies thought humanly impossible. Dillon had set the example, and Dillon wasn't a man you let down, not if you wanted his respect. Worth more than rubies, and he was throwing it away for two money-belts of soiled notes. 'Frank… Frank, I'm sorry,' Jimmy whispered.

'Sorry about the wait, but the filth were crawling round my place, Newman said, placing the money-belts inside his pigskin briefcase and snapping it shut. He inclined his head towards Jimmy, sitting subdued in a corner of the back seat. 'Frank all right, is he?'

'Yeah. Just needed some fresh air.' Staring without seeing anything, blur of lights, smeared faces.

Newman held out two thick bundles secured with rubber bands.

'This is your cut, and you both get a bonus. Three grand!' Newman permitted himself a faint smug smile. 'Glad Frank worked out, but then I knew he'd come round. Everyone's got a price.'

'You can't buy Frank Dillon,' Jimmy said quietly, his chest so full he hardly had the breath. Then softer yet: 'I'm the type you can buy, Mr Newman…'

The Jaguar sped on, Jimmy stared bleakly out.

He was in luck. Dillon was mooching across the paved courtyard, hands in his pockets, just as the taxi turned the corner. Jimmy hopped out, told the driver to wait, and intercepted Dillon at the bottom of the stairs. 'Here's your cut!' The grin was back, but not quite sure of itself. 'An' we got a bonus!' Jimmy handed over the thick wad, keeping his back to the cab driver.

'How much?'

'Three grand – not bad for one night's work, eh?'

Dillon's surly expression faded as he gazed wonderingly at the money in his hand. 'What – each? You kiddin' me?'

'Naaahh!' Jimmy slapped Dillon on the arm. 'Look, I gotta go, Frank, be in touch soon, yeah?'

Dillon looked him in the eyes. 'You sure, Jimmy… no strings?'

'No strings, Frank.' Jimmy ducked his head, turned away. 'Night.'

'G'night you thievin' bastard!' said Dillon, cuffing him. 'I'm sorry I sounded off on you… don't get in too deep, Jimmy.'

Jimmy looked back. 'Steve Harris still dossin' down at your place?' he asked quietly.

'He's got no place else to go.'

'He'll bleed you dry, Frank.' Bitterness there, even a tinge of envy maybe. 'His kind always do.'

'He doesn't lie to me, Jimmy.' Dillon's voice had icicles on it. 'I trust old Steve, an' I'll get him back on his feet.' He went up the stairs, footsteps ringing out on the concrete.

Jimmy nodded to himself, listening as the footsteps faded, knowing Dillon meant every word. He said to the empty stairwell, 'What about me, Frank? What about me?'

Susie was mending the kids' shirts when Dillon walked in, snipping frayed cuffs, binding them with strips of cotton she'd bought down the market. There was soccer on the telly, but the sound was off, vividly coloured doll-like figures darting about on smooth emerald-green baize, chasing four shadows at once. She said, 'Where've you been?'

'Ran into a pal of Jimmy's, did a bit of collectin'.'

Dillon looked at the screen, at the carpet, at the ceiling fixture, and turned to go.

'Buy you the suit, did he?' Susie carried on sewing.

'What?' Dillon fingered the lapel as if seeing the suit for the first time. 'Oh… yeah.' He turned again.

'What's the matter, Frank?'

Dillon slowly faced her, tugging at his moustache, eyes on the screen. He said quietly, 'It's not going to work.'

'What isn't?' The words like twin pistol shots.

'Civvies.' Dillon cleared his throat. 'I'm signing on for mercenary duty…'

'You can't do that to me – the kids.' She'd started to flush up, eyes bright and stony. 'The whole point of you leaving the Army was so you could be with us.'

'But if I can't get a job…'

'You telling me with eighteen years' experience training men they can't help you?' Susie said, incredulity straining her voice.

'Who's they? Eh? Go on, tell me!' As if she had touched a raw nerve in him, the bottled-up resentment and bitterness spilling out. 'I was in the Army, now I'm out of it. That's it. And if you want the truth – I didn't leave for you or the kids.'

'What?' Susie mouthed, stunned.

'We used to pride ourselves we were the toughest, the best fighting men, but they want to change it all, change our image. It was my life, my lads… but I got as far as I could go, as far as they'd let someone like me go.' Dillon stood there in the cheap, wrinkled suit and battered Puma trainers, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, the thin line of the scar a whiter shade of pale on his cheek.

'Yes-men, that's what they want. Yes-men. They don't want soldiers, they want blokes with good education.' He gazed off somewhere, suddenly very still, far away. 'The Falklands was the best time in my life. Everything I'd been trained for came together. It was the same for all of us – everything I was made sense.'

'And it doesn't now?' Susie asked quietly, getting up. Emotions that frightened her were chasing themselves across his face. She reached out to hold him, comfort him, and Dillon backed away, the cords in his neck standing out.