Ignoring a black cab's furiously tooting horn and its driver's mouthed obscenities, Cliff pulled out into the swirl of traffic and headed north round the Crescent towards Marylebone Road. In the back, Dillon was chortling and jumping about with almost childish glee, as if he was the birthday boy who'd just been given the present he'd always wanted; even Steve seemed a mite excited, cheeks flushed, some of the old devilry dancing in his eyes.
'He closed the folder, looked over my letters, never said a word. He just gave a nod to the other geezer and walked out of the room!'
Cliff looked at Dillon through the rearview mirror. 'He's a real bastard. Used the firm six times in the last two years.' His lip curled. 'Fired two or our guys because one of 'em was caught smoking. But take his crap and you could see two grand minimum in the hand on top of your fee…'
'How you gonna handle it,' Dillon was concerned to know, leaning over the front passenger seat, 'when they pay the company?'
'Taken care of.' Cliff flashed his confident smile. 'I'm having a fling with the secretary, she'll lift it before it gets to accounts.'
'SaiD he WanTs uS – rouNd tHe clOCk – onE dRiviNg – oNe -'
'What did he say?' Cliff interrupted, frowning.
Dillon interpreted, 'We're to be on call twenty-four hours, one driving, one baby-sitting. Two weeks definite, could be longer. Start Monday.'
Cliff gunned the car to beat the lights and spun right into Baker Street at the Planetarium, broad black hands caressing the wheel, steering with his fingertips. He laughed aloud, shaking his head. 'You lucky so-and-so's… you just got yourselves a class A earner!'
CHAPTER 10
Bugger this for a game of soldiers, Dillon was thinking. He looked down at his new pair of shoes, up to the welts in mud, and then glared round at the heaped-up wrecks, rusty engines, crazed windscreens, leaking sumps, the assembled detritus of a thousand crashes stacked under the viaduct that carried the lines south-west from Waterloo. Leave it to me, Steve had said. Famous last fucking words. Might as well leave brain surgery to Stevie Wonder.
Dillon could see Steve through the window of the lean-to shack that passed as an office – at least see as much of him as the cracked, filthy panes and cardboard covering the gaps allowed. Patience worn to a brittle point, Dillon was about to storm in when Steve emerged with a mechanic in overalls sagging with grease and engine-oil. The mechanic, sixty if he was a day, was thumbing through a dog-eared ledger, pausing now and then to wipe his nose with the back of his hand.
Dillon unfolded his arms. 'Where's the car, Steve?'
The mechanic said, 'Hopefully picking up the bride – it's not due back until four.' He looked up from the ledger, eyes bloodshot in the corners. 'How many days did you want it for, Steve?'
Dillon's nostrils were white and pinched. He burst out angrily, 'What is this…?'
'The only day it's needed is the Wednesday of the first week,' the mechanic went on, 'there's a big funeral from twelve till -'
'Forget it.' Dillon made a sweeping gesture with the flat of his hand and turned away, yanking his shoes from the mire. He took one look back at Steve. 'Stay away from me, okay?' And really meant it.
'Arms dealers, that's what they are – and the prat gets a weddin' Roller lined up!'
Dillon stood at the press-ups bench, his hands underneath but not touching the bar Jimmy was hefting, acting as safety back-up as the big lad did ten reps with forty kilos. Face contorted, lower lip between his teeth, Jimmy strained with the last one, got it full stretch, and Dillon eased it onto the dead-weight brackets.
'You know he's a liability…' Jimmy panted, taking in deep breaths. He relaxed, broad muscular chest beaded with sweat, the veins standing out over the bulge of his biceps. He not only looked good, he had all the gear to show it off: black cutaway singlet, dark-grey exercise shorts with purple stripes and high vents at the sides, Reeboks that must have set him back a hundred and forty pounds. 'Don't know why you waste your time with him.' Upside-down to Dillon, his forehead wrinkled as he looked into Dillon's eyes. 'You wanna see if I can line something up?'
'Not with that crook Newman. Why do you keep trying, Jimmy? I don't wanna know.' Dillon wasn't angry, just a bit pissed-off. He slid another two ten kilos onto the bar, snapped the locks shut. He sighed. 'If this had worked out, Cliff could have farmed out more work on the QT…'
Jimmy snorted derisively. 'I heard Sambo Morgan was still doin' transport – just switched his uniform. He's another prat!' He jerked his thumb, indicating the bar. 'I'll need a hand with these, just do three to five reps. I don't understand you, Frank. At The Depot you wouldn't give Cliff the time of day, now… Uggghhhhhh shit!' His arms tautened, muscles solid and bulging as he took the strain. 'Okay, I'm set.'
'Right now I need any break I can get,' Dillon said grimly.
'What do you come out with – uhhhh! - at the end of the day?'
'Fair whack – course, we got to hire the uniforms.' Dillon's cupped hands followed the rising and sinking bar. He said, 'Don't strain, mind your back… easy now…'
The three character traits most highly valued – and actively encouraged – by the Parachute Regiment were aggression, aggression, and aggression. Not only directed at the enemy, but internalised too, to make a man overcome his natural inclinations of fear and self-preservation when standing at the door of a Herc, hooked up to the static line, Red on, Green on – go, go, go! You didn't just fall out of the aircraft (that way the slipstream would whirl you round and you'd end up with a faceful of rivets), you had to punch yourself into the air in order to get clear. Dillon had seen a seasoned Para freeze at that moment, and it took three despatchers to heave him out, bashing his arm to make him let go of the strop. Focused, controlled aggression, that's what was required.
And that's how Jimmy went at it now, grunting and scowling each time he pushed the bar to arm's length as if he bore the sixty kilos a personal grudge. Possessing a good physique, strong bone structure, and being in peak condition did the rest.
'We'll have to shell out a few readies to Cliff for puttin' us on it,' Dillon grunted, settling the bar on the brackets.
Jimmy sat up, towelling his neck and shoulders. 'But you need a motor, right?' he said. 'I'll see what I can do.'
'No kiddin'?' Dillon's face lit up.
Jimmy put his arm round Dillon's shoulders, gave him a fat smile. 'Let's have a shower first, eh?'
Mary Davies let herself in and dumped the two plastic carrier-bags of shopping next to the hallstand, kneading her fingers to get the circulation going again. She stared with undiluted hatred at the wall at the foot of the stairs.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump -
Behind the pounding bass, the sharper stacatto rattle of a snare drum coming from next door's back bedroom. The punk drummer paused, a moment's blessed respite, and then started over again, practising the same machine-gun attack, paused, repeated it.
'Taffy?' Mary shouted up the stairs. 'Taff?!'
When there was no answer she picked up her shopping and headed for the kitchen, calling, 'Meg, did your Daddy go out? Can you hear me? I'm surprised I can hear myself with that racket! Megan…'
Mary pushed open the door with her backside and stopped dead at the sight of the contents of her fridge stacked on the kitchen table: packets of frozen foods, processed cheese, carton of eggs, fruit juice, a full and a half-empty bottle of milk. And next to the washing machine, a gaping hole where the fridge had been. Mary slowly shook her head, faced screwed tight. The bailiffs had even taken the Wylex plug.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump -
Dillon side-stepped the bikes and went through into the living-room, dropping his carrier-bag just in time to catch Kenny who came hurtling out of the kitchen, scoop him up and swing him onto his shoulders. Little Phil tugged at Dillon's trousers, wanting his turn.