This change had not gone unnoticed by the man who gave him his assignments; the voice on the phone that beckoned him to London to receive orders for his next piece of work. Stratton had come to loathe that voice, but, like a drug addict, or someone hypnotised, he always trotted off to do his master’s bidding.
Then one day the calls stopped. It took many months of silence before Stratton began to accept he had been beached, and a year had now passed since Sumners had made his last contact. He should have felt relieved, but the disturbing truth was that deep down he was not. Perhaps he had not yet learned to live without his fix, or perhaps it was something else; he didn’t know. It didn’t matter any more though; he would have to learn to move on. Perhaps it was the sense of failure that hurt him most, for that was the only reason he could think of why they did not call. He was no longer good enough for them.
Jobs like this one did not help. They gave him far too much time to examine himself. He watched the people on the lawn chatting politely, nibbling their cakes and sandwiches, the women in their bright hats and dresses, the men in their expensive suits, the car park beyond filled with Bentleys, limousines and other such cars. Rich trappings did not touch Stratton though. He had no interest in the lifestyles of these people who appeared dull and mundane to him.
Morgan, a large black guy with a distinct blend of African and European features, wandered over to Stratton. His father was Jamaican and his mother Antiguan, and he described his looks as Caribbean with a bit of whitey thrown in. He was in his early thirties and his broad, heavy-boned and powerful body was not designed for formal dress. He looked plainly uncomfortable in his borrowed jacket, shirt and tie, and kept sticking his fingers inside his collar in futile attempts to stretch it to stop it digging into his neck.
‘Can’t wait to get this bleedin’ gear off,’ Morgan said, pulling up the sleeves that ended at his knuckles. ‘Didn’t realise Foster’s arms were so bleedin’ long,’ he said, referring to the SBS lad who had loaned him the clothing at such short notice.‘Never seen so many toffs together in one place before. ’Ow the ’ell did we get cobbled into this job?’
‘I happened to walk by the RSM’s office just as he was looking for someone to palm it off on. Sorry.’
‘I thought the cops usually did this bollocks.’
‘They do, but apparently someone in MoD especially asked for Special Forces. There’s a lot of high-powered people here.’
‘Lotta wankers too.’
An attractive woman who looked to be in her late teens walked from the lawn and up the steps towards Morgan and Stratton who parted to let her through. She was wearing a pink frilly outfit with a low-cut neckline that was on the side of brazen for such an occasion.
She smiled coquettishly as she approached the two men and let her eyes linger on Stratton’s just a little too long as she squeezed between them to enter the building.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ Morgan said enthusiastically to the back of her head, keeping his eyes on her rear as she moved down the hallway and out of sight.‘Sweet,’ he drooled. ‘I’d crawl through an ’undred yards of minefield just to ’ear ’er fart down the end of a field telephone.’ Morgan was known for his basic sense of humour.
‘She’s probably never had an offer like that before,’ Stratton said dryly, his attention caught by a shrill scream from a clump of bushes; a very young girl in an expensive dress ran out pursued by an even younger boy in shorts, short-sleeve shirt and tie, wielding a water pistol.
‘I don’t think she was into a bit of black though. A bit of old white more like.’
‘Money has mature taste,’ Stratton said.
‘She’s probably a Lady Somethin’ or Other,’ Morgan went on. ‘Bet she wouldn’t piss on the likes of us if we were on fire . . . Mind you, that’s the very type who just might, and we wouldn’t need to be on fire either,’ he added with a chuckle. Morgan was also known for laughing at his own sick jokes, loudly and often alone.
‘Where’s Smudge?’ Stratton asked.
‘Down at the main gate,’ Morgan said. ‘And Bob’s the other side of the marquee. I think ’e’s actually enjoying this. He likes rubbin’ shoulders with this lot. Have you noticed he even starts talkin’ like ’em? And the bloke’s from bleedin’ Luton.’
‘I’m going to get a wet,’ Stratton said as he headed inside.
‘Grab me a sarnee would ya - cheese and pickle if they’ve got any. I’ll go and do another round of the walls . . . I’ll start climbin’ the fuckers if this thing goes on much longer.’
Morgan headed off and Stratton walked down the hallway. As he reached a corner at the end, a man’s voice called out from behind him.
‘I say. Excuse me.’
Stratton looked back to see a young man in a white suit and red tie that appeared a little extrovert for this gathering. ‘Would you get me a Buck’s Fizz, old boy?’ he asked with a smile.
‘What?’ Stratton said, looking irritable having heard what the man had asked him.
‘A Buck’s Fizz. Orange juice and champers, old thing.’
‘I’m not a waiter.’
‘You’re staff, aren’t you? Be a dear and run along and get me one.’
Stratton controlled an urge to say something he would regret and forced a smile. ‘Sure.Anything else?’
‘No, that would be lovely,’ the man said with a warm smile. ‘I’ll be outside.’
Stratton walked around the corner and along a corridor that led to the kitchen.‘I’ll shove a champagne bottle up your arse if you call me dear again,’ he muttered to himself.
The pretty young woman was standing in a doorway as he passed by it. ‘You’d probably lose the bottle with that one,’ she said.
Stratton paused to glance at her. ‘Sorry, I was talking to myself.’
She smiled as he carried on into the kitchen.
Food and drinks were everywhere; a chef was preparing sandwiches, a waitress headed out of a door into the garden carrying a tray full of strawberries and cream while another returned with dirty crockery. Stratton picked up a jug of orange juice, filled a glass and took a sip. He picked a sandwich off a tray and opened it - roast beef; there did not appear to be any cheese and pickle, but then Morgan would eat anything anyway. He wrapped it in a paper napkin and placed it in his jacket pocket. As he took another sip of his juice, the pretty girl walked in.
‘Would you pour me one?’ she said. ‘Please,’ she added, emphasising politeness.
Stratton picked up another glass, filled it and handed it to her. She took it from him and held it, looking at him, still smiling, obviously wanting to chat.
‘That was Pippy, Lord Branborne’s son,’ she said. ‘He only asked you for the drink because he fancies you.’
Stratton ignored the remark.
‘He likes a bit of rough now and then,’ she added.
Stratton sighed inwardly and took a sip of his drink.
‘Are you not going to make him his drink?’
Stratton gave her a tired look.
‘Oh, that’s right.You’re not a waiter . . .The rumour is you’re one of those roughy-toughy special soldier types. I’ve heard about people like you. I thought you only ran around places like the desert shooting nasty terrorists. Must be a nice change to do something like this, standing around doing nothing all day.’
‘Yeah, we all jumped for joy when we heard.’
She didn’t miss the sarcasm but it did not appear to bother her because she moved closer to him, head slightly lowered, eyes looking up at him.