Crossfire (10 page)

Guy's Hospital, London
Monday, 5 March
1538 hrs

My arse was numb. I'd been parked on a hard
plastic chair in A and E for the best part of four
hours and still hadn't been called to see a doctor.
Maybe I shouldn't have told the triage nurse I'd
gouged my arm at work with a chisel. I should
have been more upfront about being brassed up
by a 7.62 short. At least it was getting a rest in the
foam sling they'd given me in the land of Pizza
Hut delivery.

The only entertainment left after
London Lite
and
a couple of Sunday supplements people had
dropped under the chairs was the flat-screen TV
on the wall above the reception desk. It played
without sound, and there's only so much BBC 24
tickertape reading you can take. Besides, I didn't
like what I'd been seeing.

Two Polish builders were sitting next to me,
one with half a finger hanging off and the other
making more noise than if it was his injury and
he'd lost a whole hand. Two teenage girls with
huge earrings and their hair scraped back went
on much too loudly about who was having
who on their estate, and who'd had whose kid.

I stared down at the Bergen between my feet,
getting even more angry with Dom as I thought
about Pete's few possessions stuffed into my side
pouch. It hadn't been an attack while filming,
and it couldn't have been an ND (negligent discharge).
The rumour mill would have exposed it
by now.

But I'd find out who had done it and why, and
Dom was going to tell me the truth if it was the
last thing he did. But the fucker had evaporated.

The Big Mac and fries I'd blocked my arteries
with at the on-site McDonald's an hour ago were
making me thirsty. A kid came in with a bloodstained
T-shirt wrapped round his hand. Within
minutes, he was called to the only free cubicle.
There was time to go and get a drink.

I checked the dressing wasn't leaking as I'd
ripped the wound open on the way back to the
UK. My Bergen strap had scraped down my arm
as I took it off and its weight had ripped the
stitches from the skin.

Trolleys lined both sides of the corridor, loaded
with old people coughing up shit. I couldn't tell
if they were waiting for A and E or were just
overspill from the wards.

The two Poles got very excited about something
on the TV. I looked up to see, for maybe the
tenth time since I'd been sitting there, the crystal-clear,
black-and-white images of me tumbling
into the sewage and Pete being my hero. Of
course, the part where he'd killed people had
been cut. Cameramen don't do things like that.

It was being played over and over again, not
only because it was great bang-bang but also
because it was being pushed out as a tribute to
Pete – and to Platinum Bollocks, of course, for
filming it. As for me, being security, thankfully I
didn't get a mention. I was just 'a member of the
crew'. No TV company wants it known that they
have protection. It isn't good for the image.

I watched as I got hit and dropped like a bag of
shit. The Poles were loving it. Real live bang-bang,
filmed by a real live Polish hero.

I'd booked myself on to the next day's two p.m.
Royal Jordanian to Amman. The flight had had
the world's most obvious sky marshal sitting
in the galley by the cockpit door. Kitted out in a
very sharp suit and some of Russia's finest steel
sticking out of his holster, he was even scaring
the flight attendants.

We landed at three thirty, but there were no
useful connecting flights till the morning. I'd
spent last night on an airport bench because I
wanted to be sure of a ticket for the nine a.m. BA
to Heathrow the moment the desk opened – only
to discover when it did that the airline will put
you up in a hotel if you're waiting overnight for
a connecting flight.

It had been last night that I fucked up my arm
again. I sort of let them think I was a wounded
soldier and they upgraded me to business all the
way through to London.

I'd taken the fast train to Paddington, jumped
into a cab and got the driver to take me to Guy's.
I could have walked round the corner to St
Mary's, but south London was more my stamping
ground. Going to Guy's was a trip down
Memory Lane.

Besides, it was closer to Brockwell Park.

I tried Dom's mobile for the fifth time since landing.
Still only voicemail.

I rang Moira again. 'Has he called in yet?'

'No. Have you heard anything?'

'Nothing. I'm in London.'

There was a long pause. Something not very
good was about to happen.

'Listen, Nick, with Pete gone and Dom missing,
there isn't any reason to keep you on. That's
it, I'm afraid. Send me an invoice for the days
worked and I'll get our accounts department to
sort it out.'

She wasn't one to mess about, was she?

'Nick, I have to go.'

So, that was it, then. No more pay cheques
from TVZ 24.

A very pissed-off voice paged a doctor on the
Tannoy. They might have installed CCTV since
the 1970s, but some things about the place hadn't
changed. The woman's voice sounded exactly
the same as the reception staff had when I'd been
there as a nine-year-old leaking red stuff.

I lived on the Tabard Estate, a few streets away,
in a block of council flats thrown up after the war.
They'd been built on a newly vacant site.
Demolition had been cheap, courtesy of the
Luftwaffe.

All the houses were given names associated
with Chaucer's
Canterbury Tales
. Apparently the
pilgrimage had started from the Tabard Inn or
somewhere. We ended up in Eastwell House:
Eastwell was one of the stops along the
pilgrims' route, they'd said. I'd never read
the
Canterbury Tales
. I'd thumbed through the
Canterbury Messenger
once while waiting for a
train back to Shorncliff barracks when I was
a boy soldier, but that probably didn't count.

I went to a primary school near the chocolate
factory, which for some reason us kids thought
was owned by Bob Monkhouse. Another rumour
flying round was that the sweet shop in Kirby
Grove had a shed behind it stacked with Coca-
Cola and R. White's lemonade. One dinner-time,
a gang of us set off to scale the wall. Like a dickhead,
I volunteered to be first up. I hadn't taken
account of the broken glass set into the concrete
along the top. I fucked myself up big-time. Blood
poured from my lacerated hand, but I knew Guy's
was just a couple of minutes away. I ran all the way
there. They did their stuff, and told me to go home.
I didn't argue. After that I was forever grazing my
knees and elbows and taking myself off to Guy's,
then home for the rest of the day.

All I needed now were a few new sutures and
some more antibiotics to counter any infection in
the wound and the shit I must have swallowed.
They'd do it, no trouble. This was south London.
It wasn't like they didn't know how to treat
gunshot wounds. Once they'd sewn me up
and handed out some more antibiotics and
painkillers, I'd be looking for Dom, and my first
stop would be Tallulah and Ruby's. They were
the real casualties. My arm would heal.

I stuck it out for another twenty minutes as old
people vomited into plastic containers and called
for their forty-something children, who were
wandering round, trying to find out why
their parents had been abandoned in the
corridors.

It depressed the shit out of me, and reinforced
my own plans for old age. I wasn't going to hang
about. Once I started pissing in my pants, it was
time to drop myself.

I got to my feet, picked up all my worldly
goods in my Bergen, and asked the Polish
builders to keep my seat for me.

At the coffee machine, I scrabbled in my
pocket for change with my free hand, when a
gravel-voiced Ulsterman piped up behind me:
'It's all right, boy, I'll get that.'

I didn't turn. I knew who it was. I could feel his
roll-up tobacco breath against my ear. My heart
sank.

'Shirley Temple, if I remember right?' A worn
brown leather-covered arm brushed past my face
and a big freckled hand threw a quid into the slot
and punched 'white no sugar' with a nicotine-stained
forefinger.

Sundance saw the expression on my face. 'Don't
worry, boy, we're not carrying. We're not going to
hurt you.'

We? Where there was Sundance, you also got
Trainers. I looked round and, sure enough, he
was sitting a little further down the corridor.
He was there to block a getaway, but he seemed
more intent on checking out the nurses, cleaners,
female patients, anyone with a pair of tits. His
forearms rippled below his short-sleeved shirt as
he worked a roll-up. His Red Hand of Ulster
tattoo had just been lasered off last time I saw
him, and all traces of it had now disappeared.

I didn't care what Sundance said. I was fucking
concerned. They had kicked the shit out of me
once before just because the Yes Man, the arse-hole
they worked for, felt in that kind of mood.
He'd given me a brief to kill a kid, which would
send a warning to his father. I hadn't complied,
so Sundance and Trainers had introduced me to
the Yes Man's alternative brief: go to Panama and
kill the father. If not, Kelly, a child who was my
last remaining link with the human race, would
die.

I'd nicknamed him Sundance because of his
thick, blond, side-parted hair and Robert
Redford looks, back in the days when Bob was
young enough to play Paul Newman's mate. The
years hadn't been kind. His face had dropped an
inch or two, and the parting had widened to take
in much of the top of his nut.

And Trainers? He'd got his name because he
wore them all the time and they were the first
thing I'd seen of him when they were kicking me
to shit.

They'd obviously kept hitting the weights
since their days in the H Blocks, but still looked
bulked-up rather than honed. With their broken
noses and big barrel chests they wouldn't have
been out of place outside a nightclub in ill-fitting
dinner jackets and Dr Martens. But they were in
the Good Lads' Club now, and worked for the
Firm.

Sundance nodded down at my arm as the cup
dropped on to the tray. 'Had a bit of a rough time
there, eh? I saw it on the news. Hit a bone?'

I shook my head. He glanced up again as the
cup filled. 'Fucking chaos out there, eh?'

As if he'd know. Guys like him were just
muscle, not two brain cells to rub together. They
stayed local, within the M25. These days, they
were probably used to fight the new enemy –
anyone with a towel on their heads. They
probably went round intimidating young
Muslim men, trying to turn them into sources in
the mosques.

'It has its moments,' I said. 'So, what the fuck
are you after?'

Sundance lifted the steaming coffee from the
machine and presented it to me. 'The boss wants
to see you at the office.'

I took the plastic rim with my thumb and forefinger,
but I'd gone off the idea. In fact, I
suddenly felt sicker than I had when I came into
this fucking place. 'When?'

'Eight thirty tonight.' He reached into his
jacket and pulled out a white envelope. 'Here.'
He slapped it against my chest. The end had been
ripped open and I could see cash.

'It's for being a good boy and agreeing to see
the boss. Extension two seven double eight.
There's a taxi waiting outside. It'll take you to
Harley Street and get that arm of yours sorted.'
Sundance pushed his fist harder into me. 'You'll
die waiting for these fuckers to take a look at you,
and you've got an appointment this evening.'

I took the envelope and he backed off.

'See you later, boy.'

'Don't hold your breath. There's somewhere
I've got to go first.'

Sundance's head leapt towards mine. His face
was just inches away. 'The boss said half eight, so
be there.'

It would have been stupid to get big-time with
those two, but I was sorely tempted.

He shifted so his eyes drilled into mine. 'If
you're one second late we'll be seeing you again,
only without the smile. You understand, boy?'

Yes, I knew exactly what he meant. 'What's he
want to see me for?'

He pointed to the screen. The tribute to Pete
was coming to an end. 'To do with that pal of
yours.'

They lumbered off down the corridor, thighs
rubbing against each other. I didn't breathe again
until the two brick shithouses had disappeared
through the door.

I opened the envelope and counted eight
hundred pounds in fifties. The Harley Street
address was written on the back. The wad had
started out as a grand, for sure. They'd deducted
a few expenses. I headed outside. The cab could
take me to Pete's – or, rather, Tallulah and Ruby's
– instead. I'd have to get my arse in gear if I was
going to make it to the Yes Man on time.

I usually got dragged in because they had a job
no one else in their right mind would take. But
I'd have put good money on that not being the
case today. I would be there on time, and for
reasons that had nothing to do with those two
reading me my horoscope.

It was about four miles dead south from the
hospital, a journey that would have taken ten
minutes in the middle of the night. I'd been
sitting in the cab for the best part of half an hour,
and we probably had another mile to go. I had to
be back up with the Yes Man at Vauxhall in an
hour and a half, and I didn't want to be late. My
arm hurt enough as it was.

I leant forward to the dividing window. 'Mate,
can you wait when we get there? I'll be half-hour,
max.'

'No problem for me, son. It's your clock.'

One of the Firm's alias-business-cover
accounts would be picking up the tab. There
were hundreds of ABCs dotted round the world.
They financed operations, provided cover jobs,
and generally acted as conduits for cash the Firm
needed to move into various foreign pockets.
ABCs spared government ever having to know
what was done in its name. Politicians like to
hear about results, not how the Firm achieves
them.

The area hadn't changed much, apart from a
one-way system and traffic-lights every few yards.
We headed round the edge of the park and turned
into Croxted Road. Pete was definitely local-boy-done-good.
The Victorian three-storey terraced
houses came complete with bay windows and
shiny door brasses and must have been going for
at least half a million.

'Just drop us here, mate. There's a parking spot
to the right.'

I got out and took a couple of big breaths. I
wanted to be sure I said the right thing. These
people were grieving. I couldn't fuck up.

I hit the doorbell.

A few seconds later there was a voice the other
side. 'Is that you, Nick?'

I'd called earlier to check she was in.

The door opened. Tallulah was tall, a good foot
taller than Pete. She was wearing a baggy red
jumper. Her feet were bare. The shock of long,
wavy, hippie-girl hair I'd seen in the photographs
and movie clips was tied at the nape of
her neck.

She shook my hand blankly. 'Come on in . . .'

I followed her past a sitting room and stairs,
then down a couple of steps towards a
new-looking kitchen-conservatory. She steered
me into a room just before it on the right. Maybe
she didn't want me to comment on how nice the
extension was and ask for the builder's name.

It was a family room, with a sofa, TV, toys, a
beaten-up computer. A window gave out on to
a small but perfect garden. Pete's seven-year-old
was playing on a swing.

'Ruby?'

There was no doubting whose block she was a
chip off.

Tallulah stood a couple of steps away from me,
arms folded. She smiled. 'I told her Daddy's gone
to heaven. You know what she said? "Is he
making a film about God?" '

On the wall behind her were pictures of Pete
doing camera stuff, and the three of them on
holiday, all the normal gear. A couple of cut-glass
cameras stood on the first shelf above his desk;
awards he'd won for doing the job he loved.

She offered me tea but, fuck it, I had no time
for that.

I didn't sit down but Tallulah did, expectantly.

I unzipped the side pouch of my Bergen and
handed her the bag containing Pete's belongings.

'Thank you so much for doing this, Nick. You
don't know what it means to me.'

She lifted out his things one by one, laying
them on the lid of a pink mini-piano at her feet.
She almost caressed each item.

She took out his wedding ring and the tears
came. I just stood there, thinking maybe tea
would have been a good idea. 'The station's looking
after you, I hope?' I said.

Tallulah closed her fingers round the gold
band. She looked up and sort of nodded.

I didn't understand.

She pointed at the shelf. An opened envelope
stood between the two glass cameras. 'They cremated
him in Basra.' Tallulah reached for a fistful
of Kleenex.

'Oh . . .' I thought about the donor card I'd
seen amongst his stuff at Basra airport. 'I
thought . . .'

'I know, it doesn't make sense. He always
wanted the bits that still worked to go to someone
who needed them.'

Her head dropped.

'Do you mind if I have a read?'

She took the memory stick from the bag and
plugged it into the PC. As she sat down in front
of the screen I took out the single sheet of A4 and
unfolded it. The embossed FCO crest was top
centre. There was no extension under the main
Whitehall number. The signature block belonged
to David Morlands, but there was no departmental
accreditation.

I stood behind her and read the six stark, sterile
lines that had been sent to a grieving wife. 'I
don't understand, Tallulah,' I lied. 'Maybe there
was a mix-up and they thought he was a soldier.'

I was glad she couldn't see me. I was trying
to sound compassionate, but really I wanted to
scream at the top of my voice that this was
bollocks. There wasn't going to be a David
Morlands anywhere in the FCO.

Tallulah stroked some strands of hair away
from her mouth. 'But they bring soldiers home in
coffins, don't they? I wouldn't have expected
them to drape him in a flag or any of that, but
they should have got my permission for
cremation, surely.'

The screen filled with the pictures of Ruby that
Pete had shown me.

What was I going to do? Tell her my
suspicions? What was the point in making these
two's lives even more complicated, especially
when I had no proof? 'Have you heard from
Dom?'

'You're the first to come. The station's been
sorting out for me to go to Brize Norton to collect
the urn. But I don't really care about that, Nick. I
just wish he'd been brought home the way he
wanted.'

She clicked on a movie clip I hadn't seen. Pete
was in the garden in a pair of orange Hawaiian
shorts I could only hope he'd been ashamed of, trying
to push Ruby's ice-cream cone on to her nose.

'Me, too. Maybe if Dom calls you could ask
him to get in touch. Maybe tell you where he is.'

Her shoulders lifted again as she fought back a
new wave of grief.

'You know, Tallulah, I think Pete and Dom
might have had a fall-out these past couple of
weeks. Maybe that's why he hasn't called – you
know, feeling a bit guilty.'

She bit her bottom lip as she stared out of the
window. 'He said Dom had become withdrawn.
They used to be so open with each other. It was
depressing the hell out of Pete. He said Dom had
got one-tracked about some drug story. He made
a joke about him being more addicted to the story
than the junkies were to the heroin.'

'That sounds like Pete . . .'

She tilted her head. 'He was always shielding
me like that. A few weeks ago Dom had him filming
dirty old men in Dublin. They supplied
young guys with drugs, then had sex with them.
God knows what was really going on.' She
smiled bravely, but she couldn't stop the tears.
'He was going to ask the station about changing
jobs. He wanted to spend more time . . .'

It was all too much. I reached for the box of
tissues.

'Tally! Tally!' Ruby ran into the room. She froze
as she spotted the stranger.

'Ruby, this is Nick. He's a friend of Daddy's.'

'Hello, Ruby.' I crouched down and held out
my hand. A small and grubby one reached
out, very shyly, and clung to it.

'I knew a little girl just like you once. She used
to play on her swing, kicking her legs so she
got really high. But not as high as you. You were
really good.'

Ruby's hand fell from mine. She shifted from
one foot to the other. 'What's her name?'

'Kelly.'

I got up slowly.

'My daddy's with God. He's shooting.'

She was proud of the jargon her dad had
taught her. As she craned her neck to peer
up at me I saw Pete craning his to look in the
columns outside Basra Palace. She was his
spitting image. His legacy was going to be
hanging about for another few decades for
sure.

'I know. Your daddy's so good at what he does
that God wanted him on his team.'

She folded her arms and tilted her head. 'Are
you a reporter?'

'No.'

'Well, I'm going to be a producer.'

'I see. Like Moira?'

'Yes. Daddy says she's a richid producer.' She
paused. 'Does that mean she's very rich?'

'Richid?' I looked at Tallulah for help.

She couldn't help smiling. 'He may have said
wretched . . .'

I smiled back. 'Not Pete's favourite person, I
think. He said that, as far as she was concerned,
news was more about the bottom line than the
front line.'

And then something clicked.

Pete was freelance. If he'd filmed in Dublin,
he'd have been paid. He would have raised an
invoice. Even if it was for cash, he was so
methodical he'd have kept a record.

'Tallulah, do you mind if I ask you something?
The cremation . . . Dom acting strange . . . There
are some things that don't quite make sense. I
don't know what I'm looking for, but maybe
there's a file or something . . . Maybe the station
had them filming stuff they didn't want to do.
Maybe they were playing silly buggers. You
know what a stickler Pete was. He would have
minded about stuff like that. Did he have an
office? Maybe I could . . .'

She wiped away a tear and gave me a big smile.
'Oh, Nick, you are sweet.' She tried to laugh.
'You're going to look for porn or his mistress's love
letters and spirit them away, aren't you?'

'Got it in one. Look, I know he didn't get on
with the producer, maybe there's—'

'Nick, please, do – it's a lovely idea. But leave the
porn where it is. I may as well take the bad with
the good. It's the first on the right at the top of the
stairs. I'll go and put the kettle on.'

I sat at Pete's desk, feeling sad and angry in just
about equal proportions. The three of them had
had it all in front of them. Whoever had killed
Pete had also gunned down a lot of dreams.

The desk faced the window and looked
down on the garden. Ruby was back outside,
playing on her swing. She sang a little song to
herself. I watched her for a while, but my mind
was elsewhere. I had a perfect mental picture of
Kelly doing exactly the same thing. It was no
time at all before she hadn't wanted to play on
swings any more. It would happen to Ruby, too,
in a year or two . . .

Fuck it. Time to cut away from that shit.

It was an uncluttered office, as I'd expected.
There was a desk, the swivel chair I was sitting
in, a filing cabinet, shelves containing hundreds
of labelled video-cassettes and DVDs. Sudan,
Darfur, Baghdad. Anywhere that had seen
conflict, Pete had shot some film.

Family pictures were Blu-Tacked to the walls.
A framed portrait of Dom and Pete in black tie
stood on the desk. Between them they held an
Emmy aloft like it was the FA Cup. Both wore
huge grins as they basked in the moment,
partners in crime.

I could smell perfume. Tallulah had been here
very recently . . . as if sitting in his chair, in his
room, might somehow bring him back.

Pete had said he'd miss the camaraderie if he
gave up the front line, and then he'd laughed.
Now I realized why. He was already a member of
a much stronger unit. I wondered what it must
be like.

I got up and looked along the spines of the
VHS and DVD cases. All were neatly and
precisely labelled, including several for Kabul
2006, but none said Dublin. There wasn't anything
dated this year.

The Mac was on screen-saver. I hit a key and
had a look at the desktop. It was packed with
folder icons. I did a search for Dublin. Nothing.
Then anything with D as a first letter. I got a
QuickTime film of Dubai: Pete mucking about
with Ruby in a water park. I even searched for
Dirty Old Men. Nothing. Not even any porn.

Ruby's song floated up from the garden as I
pulled open P–Z, the bottom of the three
drawers. I opened a folder marked VAT. Pete had
done himself proud. All the returns were in date
order, but there weren't any receipts or invoices.

Dublin with a D.

I pulled open the top drawer, A–J. There was
nothing labelled Dublin, but there was a hanging
folder labelled 'Invoices'. As I opened it, Ruby
was drowned by a jet lining up on Heathrow.

The folder was stuffed with receipts, ready for
Pete to process. A sheet of A4 was addressed to
TVZ in Dublin: '2 DAYS FILMING – DUBLIN.'

His rate was £200 a day, plus hotel, flight and
van hire. The invoice was for the attention of
Moira Foley, Head of News, but it had been
returned. Scrawled across the bottom in thick felt
tip was: '
WHAT JOB? DON'T TRY TO PULL THE FUCKING WOOL OVER MY EYES – YOU'RE NOT SMART ENOUGH
.'

A yellow Post-it note was stuck next to Moira's
kind words. On it, in neat biro, was: '
Sorry about
the misunderstanding – here's the cheque – All best,
Dom
.'

'Here we go.' Tallulah came in with a mug in
each hand.

I closed the file and replaced it. 'Tallulah, I'm
sorry, I've just realized the time.' I tapped my
arm. 'Hospital appointment. I didn't find anything,
but I will. I promise you.'

She put the mugs on the desk and a couple of
fresh tears rolled down her cheeks as she gave
me a hug. Her face burnt. Her gorgeous green
eyes were puffy and swollen.

'Who's Kelly, Nick? Your daughter?'

'No, I was a bit like you, really. I sort of landed
up looking after her.'

'Was? You mean you're not looking after her
any more? She's grown-up now?'

'She got to be sixteen, then went to show God
how to use a swing.'

I left her to it and saw myself out. My arm was
throbbing, and so was my head.