Dillon closed his eyes and the van became the old Hercules. He was standing at the open door, the wind rippling his cheeks, the lads lining up ready to move to the open door. 'Tell off for equipment check… shuffle forwards!'
He stepped out, and felt the rush of the howling wind, the explosion inside his chest, the exhilaration of the air itself, the tug to his guts as the parachute opened up, like a glorious white cloud, and suspended, with sky below and above, you were the hawk, you were the eagle, the swallow. You never mentioned this because they'd call you a wanker, but there was that moment when the feeling of freedom was the sweetest most precious thing in the world. Afterwards came the fighting, the killing, the anger, the feverish rage when your mates died, the blanking off of feelings, the sick jokes about the injured, because you were relieved it was somebody else's legs blown to smithereens. It was as if all those early days, those first jumps, merged into one mass. Why now, just as his freedom had been taken from him, did Frank Dillon remember, with crystal clarity, the way he had felt all those years ago, when he was young, he was healthy, he was a bit wild, he had his whole life ahead of him? And that life for eighteen years became the Army's, was the Army. He had placed it before his wife and sons, had given the Army himself one hundred per cent, and left little for Susie and his family. He knew he had been given chances, like the bank loan, but he was just ill-equipped to deal with it, he was almost as inept now as he was when he first enlisted, he'd never even had a job before he signed on the dotted line. How could he have cared and trained blokes and yet remained such a fucking walking liability in civvies? He shook his head in confusion, and turned to Cliff.
Cliff bowed his head, as if unable to meet Dillon's eyes.
'S'okay Cliff, you did right son, it was me that fouled up, and I'll…' he was going to say he would sort it, like he tried to sort everything, everybody. 'I'm sorry, sorry about Shirley and the weddin'.' Dillon leaned over and patted Cliff, who gripped his hand tightly.
'We'll get a re-trial, we will won't we?' Cliff asked.
Harry elbowed Cliff away. 'Not with that bloody Arnold Crook! We need a better friggin' lawyer, he couldn't get a hard on, never mind fight a bleedin' complicated case like ours, we was framed. Did I ever tell you about that time in Argie? Well, Dick the Armpit, you remember him don't you Frank? Well he's got a bag full of smoke right and…'
Harry nattered on, Cliff only half-listening, his eyes straying to look at Dillon, who sat staring ahead, deep in thought. As if he knew Cliff was watching he turned his head a fraction.
Harry continued… 'I said what you got in the bag Armpit? It smells like camel's shit! It is, he said, that bastard Blackie Hardcastle sold it me, said it was Colombian Gold, so I said to him…'
Dillon smiled, the smile Susie fell in love with, the smile that came across his dark features so rarely. It stunned Cliff, because he saw the vunerability, almost the youth of the man he had believed was so invincible, the man he had trusted. The smile disarmed him, he was no longer his sergeant, just an ordinary bloke. Harry continued, 'In shit up to his armpits, so I said…' Cliff leaned back and Dillon returned to leaning against the wall of the van as it continued its journey to the prison. They were in it all right, up to their armpits, and Harry realising no one was listening to his camel dung story went quiet. They remained silent for the rest of the journey, each wrapped in his own thoughts until the van stopped as Brixton Prison gates were opened. Their papers were checked, the door opened and the wardens peered in to view the three new prisoners. The door clanged shut again, and a disembodied voice was heard discussing the new arrivals. The driver leaned out, jerked his thumb to indicate the back of the transport van. 'Got the Army back here, mate!'
About Lynda La Plante
Lynda La Plante was born in Liverpool. She trained for the stage at RADA, and work with the National Theatre and RSC led to a career as a television actress. She turned to writing – and made her breakthrough with the phenomenally successful TV series Widows. She has written eight subsequent bestselling novels, The Legacy, The Talisman, Bella Mafia, Entwined, Cold Shoulder, Cold Blood, Cold Heart and Sleeping Cruelty and her original script for the much acclaimed Prime Suspect won a BAFTA award, British Broadcasting award, Royal Television Society Writers award and the 1993 Edgar Allan Poe Writers award. Lynda La Plante also received the Contribution to the Media award by Women in Film, a BAFTA award and Emmy for the drama serial Prime Suspect 3, and most recently she has been made an honorary fellow of the British Film Institute.
