From the window Dillon watched the lads climbing into their cars. Drunken singing and shouting sailed up from the courtyard. Some of the cars drove round three or four times, headlights flaring, horns blasting. Dillon saw headlights shining through smoke, hoses trailing across a cindery patch of earth bordered by whitewashed stumps. Groups of people with blackened faces, shrouded in blankets and coats, gazing with shell-shocked eyes at the smouldering ruins of Hennessey's Bar. Harry, chin jutting out, saying Come on, let's get back in there. I'm game! Harry was game all right. Too fucking game. Because he'd nothing to lose. No wife, no kids. The Paras had been his entire life – wife, kids, family all rolled up into one, stamped in silver with a winged parachute, crown and lion. If coming out into civvies had been a shock to Dillon, it must have been traumatic for Harry, like being severed from the umbilical cord all over again. Suddenly finding yourself floating, rootless, in an alien world that didn't give a toss who you were or what you'd done. Just another useless fat knacker who hadn't had the sense to stop a sniper's bullet in the Falklands or in Ulster like some of his mates had. Isn't that why you joined the Army, mate, to get your fucking brains blown out?
The door was pushed open and Harry crept in. 'Cops arrived, but it's all under control. Just a few stragglers left.'
He went to the window and looked down, his broad, beery-red face relaxing into a fond grin. 'But they're on their way home now… okay bunch of blokes.' He patted Dillon's shoulder and turned to leave. 'I'll check out Wally's info – that what you want?'
'Harry, wait…'
Harry stopped, his hand on the doorknob. His face wasn't relaxed any more, the fond grin had gone. Now he looked tense.
'Like you said, mate,' he reminded Dillon, his voice low and angry, 'we made a pact! Jimmy's gone, Steve's dead, not a lot Taffy can do from inside, so it's down to you and me Frank… I'll check out Wally's info and get back to you.'
Harry shut the door quietly, not waiting for Dillon to reply. They had made the pact and there was no backing out of that, but without the others, without the backup – or was it without the army?… Dillon sighed, he was so screwed up inside that twisted emotions strangled each other – guilt, anger, grief. He had no fury left, he could not feel the hatred or the anger he knew he needed. What if Wally's information was sound, that these were the two dark-haired boys who were sitting at that table that fucking awful night, the two smiling boys who had downed their beers and offered Dillon's crowd their seats, those two, who had strolled out of the bar that night, knowing within seconds the place would be blown apart. They had to have known. Wasn't that why they had smiled?
There had been many weeks of checking and questioning everyone in or near the pub that night. A barman remembered the boys. He had never seen them before, they were not regulars, but he remembered them because one of them was carrying what looked like a carrier bag with booze brought in from outside. The disco attracted a lot of kids who'd slip in their own liquor to save a few bob, but then the two had ordered beers and sat at the table, the same table Dillon's lads took over.
No one had ever been arrested for the bomb attack. Months, even years after, the description of those two killers' faces was imprinted on, and in, each of the minds of those who survived. They would always mark the anniversary with one hell of a binge, and they had always sworn no matter how long it took, that they would each make it their responsibility to keep the hunt going, it was personal, not Army. The last anniversary, they had actually combined with a new recruit's birthday bash, but it didn't mean their pact was over. Yet thinking back, Dillon knew that in some way the fever was dying, life went on, other mates had been killed.
Dillon thought about Barry Newman and wondered whether maybe that was why he remembered so often now. It wasn't because of the music, the same song that was being played that night, that bloody Great Balls of Fire. It was Newman's son Billy. That was the connection or the memory and it was there like a dark cloud. Dillon stared at the wall of photographs. He closed his eyes to blank them out. 'Oh Christ,' he whispered, as he felt the dark insidious cloud creeping over him, felt the tremors of guilt, of anger, of grief and then the burning sensation, the fury. It was coming back, and he was afraid. Why was it that every time he felt as if he was breathing clean air, something, someone drew him back down? It was as if he was suffocating inside himself, but he had instigated that pact, and if there was only Harry and himself left then he would have to see it through.
CHAPTER 33
Dillon came into the office to find Susie halfway through the invoices, a neat stack of typed envelopes, already stamped, ready for posting on the desk.
He said, 'Cliff not here?'
'No, he's gone home, felt sick, said it was the pork pie.' She rolled another blank invoice into the machine, gave him a look from under her eyebrows. 'He was just hung-over!'
Dillon went to the board, hunting round for a piece of chalk. 'Good news is, we got the Embassy job – two weeks' work, bodyguard, driver for an official. The armoured Merc blew him away.'
Susie totted up figures on the calculator and started typing. 'Still not covering costs. What's the Embassy paying, and I'll log it.'
'Four hundred a day!' Dillon said, and when she didn't leap up and hug him, tell him well done, he said testily, 'Harry on a job, is he?'
'Mmm, could do with a few more like that…' Susie frowned, concentrating on working out the seventeen-and-a-half per cent VAT. Bloody stupid figure. She said after a moment, 'I don't think that car will pay for itself, you know. The Granada will, even the security wagon…' She glanced up. 'What did you say?'
Dillon tapped the board with the chalk. 'Who's crossed these fares out?'
'Do you know what your outgoing costs are?' Susie asked, resuming her typing. 'The hire purchase, insurance, the rent?'
Dillon waved her off. He couldn't be bothered with mere details. The phone rang. As Susie picked it up, Harry walked in. He gave Dillon a straight look. 'We got to talk…'
'Stag Security, Taxi, Chauffeur Drive.' Susie put her hand over the receiver. 'Are you free, Harry?'
'Yeah, yeah…' He plucked at Dillon's sleeve. 'Wanna word.'
Dillon didn't want to have a word with him. He knew where Harry had been, and it wasn't out on a job. He'd been cruising round in the Granada, checking out a certain address. Harry had his sights fixed, total tunnel vision, determined to see it through to the bitter end.
'Sorry to keep you waiting… yes… Aldershot? And the address?'
Harry reached out. 'That's for me!'
'What?' Dillon said sharply. Somebody calling from The Depot? What the hell was going down here?
'Wants to speak to you, Harry,' said Susie, handing the receiver to him. He sat on the edge of the desk, his back to them. 'Yeah, it's me, speakin'. Oh yeah, yeah… he told you what I'm interested in, did he? Okay, I'm on my way. Thanks.'
Harry put the phone down. 'I'm not free,' he said to Susie, and to Dillon, looking him in the eyes, 'I need the Granada.' He jerked his head towards the passage. 'Frank…!'
Sighing, Dillon moved to follow him. Susie threw down her pencil, arms folded tightly across her chest.
'Can we just sort a few things out first? One, you're going to have to stop using the limo for straight taxi fares, it costs us. Eats petrol. What do you want the Granada for, Harry?' Susie nodded fiercely at the telephone. 'Was that a job?'
Sitting there, Miss Business Efficiency got right on Dillon's tits. He burst out, 'Nothin' I do is right accordin' to you! An' don't start handin' out orders like you run the show -'