'Which is why we need to be more flexible and mobile. Which is why we need the Paratroopers.'
'The threat is more "up and down", if you like, I'll grant you that. Yes, more flexible, I agree. So why not use the Territorial Army to plug any gaps at a time of occasional crisis?'
God, watching this man fumble with his brief was like watching a child play with a loaded pistol in the school playground. 'The Territorial Army, sir?'
'Yes, the Territorials, Colonel.'
'You mean the same Territorial Army that the Government cut in half only three years ago? It would be easier to plug the gaps with traffic wardens. There's more of them to spare.'
'Take care about your tone, Colonel. We have a job to do here. It may be distasteful but do it we shall.'
'So who's going to stand up for the Army, then?'
'I resent that, sir! I'll have you know that my ancestors fought at Waterloo.'
'On which side?'
The brigadier was out of his chair as though a grenade had rolled beneath it. 'Enough! We've heard enough from you, Colonel. Evidence over!'
Typical of bloody Amadeus, they all said, and smiled. Yes, somebody had to stand up for the Army. Amadeus was safe.
Until the last minute. For it was only at the last minute, as the main outlines of the recommendations were being prepared for consideration by Downing Street, that someone remembered the Prime Minister had a constituency interest, a Royal Marine base on his doorstep, and a majority that was anything but robust. So the Royal Marines had to be spared. The outlines were redrawn and an additional lieutenant colonel from the Parachute Regiment was put in the slot instead.
Amadeus.
– =OO=OOO=OO-= They couldn't tell him that, of course, couldn't even hint they'd destroyed his career for the convenience of the Prime Minister, so many of them simply avoided him. They left it to a wretched captain to meet him when he travelled up to the Personnel Centre of the Military Secretariat in Glasgow to exercise his right of appeal. (He was meant to be seen by a colonel, equivalent rank, but the colonel in question had heard of Amadeus's reputation for being bloody-minded and had suddenly discovered a mountain of urgent paperwork to sort through. So he'd delegated and the captain had drawn the short straw.) The Personnel Centre was next to the bus station, a place which came complete with its full quota of derelicts and dossers, men with outstretched hands and reluctant eyes who had been unable to manage some transition in their lives. Former soldiers, perhaps. As Amadeus passed them by he wondered with a flash of alarm whether he might even have served with some of them. Yesterday's heroes. He hurried on, ashamed.
The Personnel Centre was gaunt, built of red brick, economic, cold. This was where he had come to argue for his life. Inside Amadeus found nothing but a heartless open-plan room with cheap industrial screens providing the only means of privacy. He also found the shifty little apple-polisher who passed as a captain in the New Model Army.
The captain had Amadeus's file open in front of him. Twenty-five years' worth of bravery and dedication. Top in 'P' Company. Director of Infantry's Prize at Platoon Commander course. His tour with the SAS out of Hereford. Instructing at Sandhurst. And the battles – the South Atlantic, the Gulf, the Balkans. The season ticket to Northern Ireland and the Queen's Gallantry Medal that went with it. Even the little details like Warren Point, where he'd shovelled what was left of his companions into plastic bags after the bomb. Everything was there. Not many files as thick as that in this place.
'You've done extremely well, sir,' the captain began. 'I see from reports that you've had an excellent career…' The captain read on, prattling, patronizing. Anything to avoid looking Amadeus in the face. 'A difficult matter, sir. But you see, a decision had to be made. And I see you have a problem with dyslexia.'
'It's only a problem if you can't tell the difference between an order to shit and shoot, sonny. Haven't made that mistake yet. So how about you?'
'Sir?'
'You ever had an order to shoot?'
Flustered, the captain pushed a piece of paper across the table. If you want to go through the formal appeals process, Colonel, you will need to fill in this form.' More nervous shuffling of papers. 'And I've got some additional details of the assistance we offer with resettlement, just in case.' At last the captain summoned up the courage to look into Amadeus's slate green eyes. 'Do you need any help filling out the form, sir?'
Amadeus picked up the form, and with it a glass of water. His mouth had suddenly gone dry. And as he read, and sipped, he realized something had happened to him. Tiny almost imperceptible waves upon the water in the glass were catching the light from the overhead bulb. As he watched, transfixed, he thanked all the gods that the bumped-up little creep of a captain couldn't see what had happened.
For the first time in his life, Amadeus's hand was shaking.
– =OO=OOO=OO-= He is back outside the theatre, in the rain, feeling homeless in his own homeland. In a moment of silent fury he tosses away the half-burnt cigarette, the cigarette that will change his life, then in considerably less silence he mouths a curse more suited to a sergeants' mess after the beer has run out. As the wind carries his curse away into the raw night, a figure darts from the shadows, barely dodging the front end of the now-departing taxi and forcing it to a sudden halt. The brakes screech in protest but the figure pays no heed. It is a figure that belongs to the night, of no definable appearance, swaddled in a grime-streaked blanket. A man, by its size, bent and scurrying awkwardly, with no apparent care in the world other than to retrieve the still-smouldering cigarette from the damp, evil pavement.
From beneath the blanket a thin, bone-filled hand reaches out to snatch up its prize. Eyes flicker, yellow in the night and on fire. A stare is held. A glimpse of recognition passes.
Then the eyes are gone.
– =OO=OOO=OO-= Amadeus freezes, paralysed by memories of another life. Another place.
Mount Longdon in the Falklands, on the march to Stanley. Amadeus no more than a first-flush lieutenant, a Para platoon commander on a night assault in the swirling snow, up against Argentinian lines that were well dug in. In the dark it had come down to hand-to-hand combat, bayonets and guts. A lot of guts, mostly theirs. Sleepless for three nights. Exhaustion to the point of hallucination. And carelessness. When he'd jumped into the trench he'd assumed that the spic was dead, like the other three, killed by his grenade, and so he'd turned his back. That was when he had seen those eyes, and the man, advancing on him through the darkness and snow with murder in mind and a bayonet already caked in blood. He remembered a lunge, a scream, another gut-spilling twist of the blade.
But no pain, not for Amadeus.
Behind him the Argentinian, rifle still clenched in his hands, had fallen dead.
'Behind you, bastard!' Amadeus had heard. 'Why, there are Welsh Guardsmen out on this fucking hill and the sheep have all scattered or been blown to buggery. No telling what those Welsh fairies might get up to without their sheep. So remember. Watch your bleedin' back, you stupid bastard. Sir.'
And with that the eyes were gone once more, away on their mission of murder.
The eyes had belonged to Scully. 'Skulls.' Albeit Andrew. At that time a camouflage-covered, crap-chewing corporal, and later the Regiment's finest and most formidable Sergeant Major with an MM, a QGM and a mention in despatches as proof, and a portrait hanging in a position of honour in the mess. A man who had risked his life on occasions beyond remembering in the service of his country.
A man who now values his life as no greater than a discarded cigarette butt.
– =OO=OOO=OO-= Scully.
They'd betrayed him, too.
One minute he had been sitting in a bar off a cobbled backstreet in Osnabruck, having a last drink before being sent out to Kosovo, the next he'd been spewing his mince and tatties into his partner's hands, his leg and his career shattered by a coffee-jar bomb. Kids' stuff, those bombs. A simple affair, nothing more than a glass jar filled with scrapyard confetti and a compression detonator, and the top screwed on. The coffee jar had been thrown from the back of a motor scooter which disappeared into the night even before the coffee jar had hit the floor. The one brief sighting of the bombers suggested they were teenagers. Truly kids' stuff. When the glass broke less than a dick-length away from Scully's right foot, the detonator had decompressed and exploded, and the confetti – sharp, murderous chunks of metal with razor teeth – had chewed a path halfway through his leg. All in a day's work for a Para keeping the peace on the streets of Djakovice or Pristina, perhaps, but not in a backstreet bar in Germany, not when he was off duty. Which is why, when they decided they had no further use for a soldier with only one leg, they offered him their very best wishes but no compensation beyond a meagre disability payment. They argued that Osnabruck wasn't a war zone, the sort of place where you budget for a heavy cripple count. Hell, he was off duty. Drinking! Couldn't expect the Treasury to pay for every last damned scratch. It was unfortunate, of course, and unexpected, but that's what goes with being a soldier. Have to expect the unexpected. Of course, the two youths on the scooter might have been members of the pro-Serbian Prince Lazar terrorist group that was chucking bombs all over the place. That was entirely possible, but not provable. So, sorry, Skulls. Now, if you'd actually reached Kosovo, that would've been different, and Northern Ireland, too. Part of the home country. Sensitive. Soldiers weren't supposed to get blown up and butchered on home turf, so if Scully had copped it there he'd have got a thousand pounds a stitch.