Civvies

Steve gulped down another mouthful and, riding on the back of a huge belch came… quite clearly, 'Baaa… ssst… aaard.'

'Yeah, great, that was great,' Dillon nodded, with an effort forcing his eyelids wide, as if they were lead shutters. '…bastard, right? Am I right?' Dillon grinned crookedly. 'You bastard.'

Steve doubled over in a wheezing laugh that turned into a paroxysm of gurgling and bubbling. He went a shade of blue and had to thump himself in the chest to clear the air-lock in the plastic tube that served as his wind pipe. Only Steve knew the terror of the tube getting blocked. Even though he had been told over and over by the doctors and the specialists just how dangerous it was to get drunk, to be out of control and that a vomit attack could suffocate him, he ignored the warnings. He could no longer laugh, but gave guttural snorts, the sound to his own ears hideous. Steve hated his disability, was incapable of caring for himself because he felt he was a social misfit, his only way of dealing with it to become even more of one than he already was. Dillon was not the first to try and help him, but somewhere in the Steve's confused, drink-befuddled mind he had a premonition that, maybe, Frank Dillon was the last hope he had of straightening out. He couldn't as yet thank him, he didn't know how to…

Susie walked in to find them laughing like drains, noting the rows of empty bottles with a decided coolness. 'Frank, I want to make the supper! The kids are hungry -'

Dillon waved her to silence. 'Show her how you talk…'

Susie waited patiently, her hand on Dillon's shoulder, as Steve drank straight from the bottle, held his breath, and belched, 'Suu – sss – ieee'

Dillon, three sheets into the wind, didn't catch it, though Susie did, and couldn't help smiling. 'My name – did you say my name?'

Steve gave her a boyish gleeful grin, tickled to death. Susie's smile faded at the edges as she saw Dillon pick up a crate of lager and make off with it. 'Where you taking that?' she demanded suspiciously.

But all she got was a muffled profanity as he collided with something in the living-room, followed by a yell, 'Steve – upstairs. Mind the bikes!'

Susie stood on the blue-and-white squared linoleum, surveying the wreckage of her kitchen, listening to their unsteady progress through the hallway and up the stairs. A bell tinkled, a clash of tangled spokes, one of the bikes was over. Susie closed her eyes and counted to fifteen.

CHAPTER 5

Steam rose from Dillon's face. His hair was wringing wet. A towel around his neck and tucked into his tracksuit, black Puma trainers on his feet, he reached the third-floor landing and turned, jogging on the spot, and bellowed down at Steve: 'Come on, come on, keep your knees up! – come on! One-two, one-two, on your toes -'

Two flights down in the block of red-brick council flats that formed a square surrounding a paved central court, Steve Harris laboured up the concrete steps, a bergen containing four house bricks wrapped in newspaper strapped to his back. Ten-past-eleven in the morning and he was on his sixth climb, chest heaving, his tracksuit top practically drenched. Still, in better bloody shape than he was a week ago, Dillon thought with satisfaction. Couldn't beat the tough Para training regime to work the flab off, tauten muscle tone, get the old heart-and-lung machine functioning.

And in the process drag Steve up from being the useless fat knacker with no future he'd turned into after two years in civvies.

Susie came out of the flat, buttoning up a fawn topcoat that had seen better days, a shopping-bag in the crook of her arm. 'I'm going to the shops,' she announced to Dillon, still jogging, elbows back and forth like pistons. 'You want anything?'

'Where are the kids?' Dillon asked, but he was more interested in Steve, who'd stopped, panting for breath, on the floor below. 'Oi! Move it, Steve, don't slack off. Keep moving.'

'They're at school.' Susie's voice had a sharp, irritable edge that had nothing to do with kids and school, everything to do with the subject she'd tried to raise at breakfast.

'Are you going to sign on, Frank? You said you'd go today…'

Steve finally made the last few steps, stood with hands on hips, head thrown back, gasping for air, totally wiped out.

'Go on – down again.' When Steve didn't immediately respond, Dillon stuck his arm straight out and pointed. 'Go on!'

Off he went, staggering a little under the heavy pack. Susie tapped her foot. 'Frank? Did you hear what I said?'

'Yeah, yeah, I'll go this afternoon…' Dillon brushed past her on the stairs, jumping three steps at a time, calling out, 'Right, back up, Steve, come on, push yourself.' He skipped down and started pushing Steve up from behind. Susie had to flatten herself against the wall as they came by. 'Don't leave it too late, Frank… you should have gone yesterday.'

'I said I'd go, all right?' Dillon snapped back at her. From the landing above he called down, ' Oranges. Get some oranges for juice, not that bottled stuff!'

'Oh, right -' Susie said, marching down, heels ringing on the concrete steps. '- I'll just go and pick 'em for you! You want them, get them yourself.'

Wiping his face with the towel, Dillon silently cursed himself and hung his head over the brick parapet, but she was lost to sight. That was all he knew, rapping out orders to squaddies and Toms – Do this, soldier, do that – expecting to be obeyed on the instant, and it was hard to break the habit, even with his own wife. He'd better start learning. This was Civvy Street, where anarchy ruled. Nobody took orders from anybody.

Dillon, about to turn away and suggest to Steve a shower and a well-deserved beer, happened to notice a car parked by the estate entrance. Nothing too unusual about that – except the locals in this part of the East End who could afford to run a jalopy just scraped by with a clapped-out Skoda or a Lada with a failed MOT. Not a sleek black J-Reg Jaguar Sovereign 3.2. The Jag's push-button window slid down, a face appeared flashing a cocky grin, red hair plastered straight back, and Dillon ducked away, but a fraction too late. 'Hey, Frank!' Jimmy Hammond hailed him. 'Frank!'

'How ya doin'?' Jimmy greeted him, climbing out, all smiles, giving Dillon a bear-hug and a punch for good measure. 'You okay? Everythin' okay?'

'Yeah!' Dillon's glance slid sideways to the passenger in the back seat. 'Just been workin' out.'

Jimmy followed his look. 'You know Mr Newman, don't you?'

Dillon gave a brief nod, went over as the rear window glided down; a slender elongated hand encased in blue-black leather took his in a soft, limp handshake. 'Hello Frank, you remember me, don't you?'

Dillon remembered the voice too, flat and expressionless, nearly as soft as the handshake, so you had to listen hard. Some people had to take orders after all, Dillon reminded himself, and this was the voice that gave them. He said politely, 'How ya doing?'

'Jimmy said you were looking for work…'

Dillon cast a sidelong glance at Jimmy, cool and sharp in his tailored blue suit leaning against the Jaguar's glossy bonnet, arms nonchalantly folded, wearing his fat grin. Always the fixer, trying to run other people's lives for them. Newman uncoiled from the car, a tall emaciated figure that with his dark business suit and leather gloves put Dillon in mind of a long dry-skinned lizard. And yes, there was even something reptilian in the sunken flaking cheeks and deadpan grey stare, the tongue flicking out along the thin wide mouth.

Newman strolled a few yards, a cheroot trailing smoke in his wake, and indicated with a small incline of the head that he wanted a private word. Dillon followed, waiting as Newman sent a plume of smoke thoughtfully into the air.