While he waited, Harry busied himself. From his bergen he took out nine separate components wrapped in dark green dusters and laid them in a row next to the microwave. The 40-watt bulb in the bedside lamp gave him barely sufficient light to work by, not that it actually mattered. He could assemble an M16 Armalite AR-15 blindfold, and had, too many times to count. He loved the feel of the lightly-oiled precision-engineered sections, slotting smoothly and easily into place with a satisfying metallic click. Call the Yanks all you want to, but they knew how to make a bloody good weapon. Gas operated, rotary locking mechanism, the M16's small calibre 5.56 mm cartridge didn't suit all tastes, but it could stop a body stone cold dead in the market at anything up to 400 metres. And Harry intended being a damn sight closer than that. Like, say, ten feet.
He hefted the assembled rifle, just over three kilos unloaded, and balanced it on his broad palm. Lovely piece of machinery.
The bell pinged. Harry took out his steaming dinner, savouring the smell of hot gravy. 'Bloody marvellous,' he murmured, rubbing his hands together, reaching into his bergen for knife, fork, spoon.
The break was to the left forearm, the X-ray revealed, which considering that two inches lower it would have been the more complicated wrist alignment, was good news, so the doctor said.
The facial injuries looked bad, but they were superficial, he assured Dillon. Her arm in plaster, supported in a stockinette sling, Dillon pushed Susie in a wheelchair to the car, Kenny and Phil tightly gripping either side, Mum's personal bodyguard.
Back home he took Susie up first, made sure she was comfortable, and then got the boys bedded down. They were both dead on their feet, and Phil was off the instant his head touched the pillow. Dillon tucked the duvet round Kenny in the top bunk and switched off the lamp. Standing in the wedge of light from the landing, Dillon's gaze moved slowly over the wall of photographs. All his lads were there, singly and in groups. All the faces in all the places. Belize, Ulster, Cyprus, Oman, Falklands, Pen-y-Fan. Jimmy Hammond, No. 2 Dress, lounging outside the NAAFI at The Depot. Dillon touched the photo, remembering the day, almost the minute, it had been taken. Two weeks prior to the Ulster Tour '87. The old sweet-talking bastard…
'Is he fighting again, Dad?' inquired Kenny through a yawn. 'Uncle Jimmy?'
Dillon unpinned the photograph.
'Yes, he is, he's joined up with mercenaries,' Dillon said. He unpinned several more, collecting a sheaf of them. 'They're freelance – still soldiers, they just get paid better!'
Lastly he took down one of Steve Harris, added it to the pile.
Kenny had pulled the duvet over his head, Phil was fast asleep. Dillon went out and softly closed the door. From within, he could hear the sound of Kenny's crying, muffled under the duvet. Dillon turned away, the sheaf of memories in his hand, and moved silently along the landing to where Susie was sleeping.
She was lying on her back, breathing rhythmically, the pale blur of the plaster cast resting on top of the bedclothes. After watching her for several moments, Dillon backed out, easing the door to.
'I'm awake, Frank.'
Dillon came in and closed the door. He groped towards the bed, the room in darkness except for a faint spray of light on the ceiling from the streetlamps below. He sat on the opposite side to her, slightly hunched, the photographs crumpled in his hand.
'Susie…?' He hesitated and then went on, very subdued. 'I'm sorry for everything. The way I am, way I've been. Just that, I've had a lot on my mind… but, well, I made a decision, I'm going to put the past behind me because…' His voice sank to a husky whisper. 'You're the best thing that ever happened to me, and – and if I was to lose you -'
He bowed his head, face screwed up tight, tears squeezing out from under his eyelids.
'I don't want you to leave me,' Dillon said, weeping openly now, unashamedly. 'I love you, Susie.'
With her right hand she reached across, found his hand, held onto it.
Dillon wiped his face with his sleeve. 'Everything you say is right, I know it, and I guess I just, well, I won't listen because -' A small rueful smile into the darkness. 'Takin' orders from a woman, you know, it's tough for a bloke like me. I never had nothin', I think I joined up because I was nothin' – never passed an exam at school.'
'I know.'
'I've acted like a kid, stupid.'
'You deserved the break, Frank.'
Dillon looked at her. 'It doesn't mean anything without you. You want me to sleep downstairs?'
'No.'
Dillon held her hand tight. He said softly, 'I'll just turn all the lights off.'
Susie nodded and smiled, hearing him creeping down the stairs, light switches clicking off, and waiting for his soft footfall to return to the bedroom. He eased the door closed, and from half-lidded eyes she watched him take off his clothes. She didn't say a word, he always folded everything up neatly, and was meticulous about clean socks and underwear, he stuffed his dirty clothes into a basket by the dressing table. He stood naked in front of the mirror, his taut muscular body with the shades of the many tattoos over his back, his legs, his arms, even his hands, and there was a heart with her name, and their two boys' names entwined with his own.
Dillon eased back the duvet and slipped in beside her, leaving just a few inches between them, but it was a while before she felt his body heat closer, closer.
'Are you awake?'
'Yes,' she whispered, and he leaned up on his elbow, gently lifting a stray strand of her thick brown hair away from the bruise on her face.
'I love you, you do know that don't you?'
She met his dark eyes, and nodded, she could see him straining to find the right words to say. 'I… we lose each other a bit sometimes don't we?'
Again Susie nodded and he rested his head against her breast. 'I'm not hurting you am I?'
He could feel her heart beating, and he wanted her to hold him, but knew with her bad arm she couldn't.
'I can fix the nightdress, Frank, it'll look okay.'
He lifted his head, and gave the smile, the smile she so adored, childlike, innocent. 'Bugger the nightdress… all that matters is you and me, and we're okay aren't we?'
'Yes, yes we are…'
Susie had no knowledge of how long he lay close to her, or for how long he studied her face as the painkillers made her drift into a deep dreamless sleep. He scrutinised every pore, every contour of her lovely face, her lips slightly parted, her dark eyelashes, the same as Kenny's, thick, dark eyelashes, and her high sweeping cheeks, just like Phil's. His wife, their mother, his beloved. He knew it had to be over, he would start fresh in the morning, have a serious talk to Harry. It was not their business any more, and may God forgive him, he would bury the pact he had promised the dead boys, it was the living, his family, that mattered most in all the world to him, and he was not going to jeopardise their safety. He had almost lost Susie's love, he knew that, and to have used physical force on her was shameful, he would never do that again. He could feel that dark cloud lifting, perhaps it was just sleep slowly enveloping him, but he felt good, felt peaceful for the first time in many years.
CHAPTER 35
Start afresh, don't look back, what's past is past. The bright new philosophy according to Frank Dillon. The past had fucked up, so dump it in the trash bin and given the future a fighting chance.
And Dillon meant it, more determined than anything he'd ever done or attempted in his life before to make it work. Which meant (Susie was right, he knew it in his bones) that Stag Security had to be run by the book. Get the business up on its feet and they were off to a flying start.
Anyway, the signs looked good, because the office had never looked better, Harry with the Hoover on the go, Cliff mopping down the basement steps when Dillon showed up. He got an earful soon as he walked in.