Crysis: Escalation (24 page)

Falconer’s most defining feature, however, was the jagged scar on the right side of his face that climbed up his cheek to his temple. He’d tried to get people to call him Scarface,
but it hadn’t taken. Mike was of the opinion that Davey wanted to take that scar out on the world.

‘Yeah, nothing screams homosexuality like literacy,’ Mike muttered.

‘What’s that supposed to fucking mean?’ Davey demanded. Hamilton was laughing. Mike just shook his head. ‘How much longer do I have to wait in the Jag, boss?’ Davey
all but demanded.

‘Until I’m finished you cheeky little bastard,’ Hamilton told him, less than pleased. ‘I’m having a drink with young Mikey here.’

Davey looked at Mike. Mike could feel the other man’s resentful glare. He didn’t even want to look at him. His fingers tightened around the brandy glass.

‘I hear you’ve become a pussy now.’

‘That’s enough, Davey, go wait out in the car,’ Jack told the younger man.

‘You’re Sarah MacFadden’s wife now, yeah? Not a pussy, pussy-whipped more like.’

‘Davey, shut the fuck up. I’m not going to tell you again. What is it with you two? Did you give him the scar or something?’ Hamilton asked, angry that his pleasant afternoon
was being ruined.

No, that was his dad,
Mike thought.

‘I used to pick on him at school,’ Mike said.
What’re you doing, Mike, just let it go.
‘If I’d known what a whiney little cunt he was going to turn into I
wouldn’t have fucking bothered.’

Davey was just nodding, smiling a vicious little smile.

‘Here, Hamilton, his Sarah might be a good little girl now but at school, my goodness, did that girl get around.’

‘Well you wouldn’t know, would you?’ Mike said. ‘Fucking cock-less virgin.’

‘Alright lads, we’re all friends here,’ Hamilton growled.

No, we’re really fucking not,
Mike thought.

Davey had bristled at Mike’s insults but swallowed it and turned back to Hamilton, buoyed by the presence of his boss.

‘She’d do all sorts of dirty shit, five or six cocks at the same time . . .’

‘Alright, you’re bang out of order. Fuck off Davey. Now.’ Hamilton told him.

‘She looked so good looking up at you, her mouth round your . . .’

Mike was on his feet. He hadn’t even thought about it on a conscious level. He had grabbed the front of Davey’s suit. His fist pulled back, then it shot forwards again and again into
the terrified face. He felt bone and gristle giving under his knuckles. Davey went down. Mike didn’t stop punching. He wasn’t even aware of the screaming.

Someone grabbed him. Mike’s head shot round. His face a mask of rage. He was looking for the next victim. His fist coming up. Ready to punch.

‘Mikey!’ Hamilton shouted. Shaken, Mike realised that he was about to punch Hamilton. For a moment he realised how old the other man looked. He felt the rage drain from him. He
turned and looked down at Davey. He was curled up on the floor, sobbing. He’d wet himself, at least. He’d seen his murder in Mike’s eyes. Mike looked down at the blood on his
calloused knuckles.

‘Shit!’ Mike shouted. Jean was staring at him. ‘You need to get out of here,’ she told him.

‘What were you thinking?’ Hamilton said to Davey. He was looking down at the younger man, shaking his head. ‘He’s a fighter, you’re just a thug.’ He turned
around to Mike. ‘I’ll clean this up. You get out of here, alright.’

Mike nodded, shaking. Davey wasn’t the only person Mike had frightened.

Am very angry, have gone out with Karen. Give a lot of thought to how you’re going to make up for this.
Mike looked down at the note. She was pissed off, but she
understood. It just made him feel worse, somehow.

He put on some music. Poured himself a brandy and then sat in his chair in the dark, putting his fist into a bowl of ice. He checked his phone. Still nothing from Sarah, which was always a sign
of how angry she was with him.

The sound of the phone ringing woke him. His head was killing him, a proper spirits hangover. He’d spilled his glass and there was brandy all over the floor.
We’re not getting tired of fucking up today, are we?
He glanced at the phone. It was Karen calling. Something cold uncoiled inside him.

‘Hello?’

Karen was crying.

He ran into A&E. He pushed to the front of the reception desk, oblivious to the angry complaints of the people in the queue. He demanded to know where she was. There was
more shouting, complaining from the queue, but they told him where she was. He was running again.

Karen in a short dress, her face streaked with tear-stained mascara. Both her arms bandaged from where she’d tried to get in the way. She was speaking to him, telling him what happened as
tears ran down his face. Sarah’s face was completely covered with the surgical dressing. He’d cut her a lot. She was out now, sedated.

Karen was on her knees on the hospital floor, screaming at him to come back as he headed for the exit. He heard her shout the last thing Sarah had said to her before she passed out.
Don’t let Mike go after him.

On the phone now.

‘Where is he! Tell me where the fuck he is or I’m coming after you!’

You don’t speak to Jack Hamilton like this, ever. Hamilton tells him what he wants to know.

Hamilton stared at the phone. He hadn’t told him because of the threat, though he had no doubt that right now, like this, Mikey would have walked through his people and
beaten him to death.

Maybe in my youth I could have taken him,
Hamilton thought, but he knew he was fooling himself. He knew what little pricks like Davey Falconer would never properly understand. For the
likes of Falconer violence was power, which was why they hurt other people, to make them feel better about themselves. Hamilton knew something that not even Mikey had admitted to himself. Mikey
just liked fighting. For the rush. A lot of people didn’t understand the difference. Hamilton did.
The only thing stopping that boy from being a complete monster is his own morals and
Sarah. Now that stupid little prick has tried to take one of those things away.

Hamilton had told Mikey what he wanted to know because someone was going to get hurt tonight. Hamilton was of the opinion that it might as well be the little cunt that was actually responsible.
He had told Mikey what he had wanted to know because at some level he knew he himself was responsible. So he told him, and he knew he’d damned his old friend’s son.

Everyone else thought he ran the manor because he would fix things, people if needed, with his own hands.
He
knew he ran the manor because he understood what it was. At its heart it was
a web of loyalty, obligations, relationships, respect and even friendships. He also knew that it wasn’t going to stay that way for much longer.

You do something stupid. You hurt someone you shouldn’t have. You get the wrong person angry at you, and then you have a choice. You either run, hide and stay hidden, or
you get out in the open. Lots of witnesses. Lots of people to get between you and the other guy. Lots of people who will phone the police. Davey had made the wrong decision. Mike almost tore the
door off the West End bar. He was screaming.

‘Mr Sykes, you hospitalised six people, including two police officers, and left several more in need of medical attention. Mr Falconer only lived due to the quick thinking
and medical expertise of the ambulance service. He has, however, been left wheelchair-bound and blind in one eye. Whilst I understand that you had provocation, you also have a history of violence.
It seems that despite your time spent in youth correctional facilities, and indeed at Her Majesty’s pleasure, you still have not learnt your lesson. With this in mind, I have chosen a
sentence for you that will hopefully channel your aggression, allow you to contribute to your country and, most importantly, teach you discipline. Mr Sykes, are you listening to me?’

He wasn’t. It didn’t matter what the judge had to say. He was thinking about the last time he had seen Sarah.

He was on his knees next to the bed, holding her hand. Looking at her face, still covered in bandages. Covering where he’d cut her. Punched her a bit to soften her up,
because she was a fighter, and then laced her with a Stanley knife, just like his dad had taught him. Did it twice. He had given her twice as many scars as he had.

‘You weren’t here when I woke up,’ was all she said.

‘I . . . got him . . .’ was all he managed. It was then he realised that it meant nothing. Her look was enough. She knew that what he’d done to Falconer hadn’t been for
her. It had been for him. She pulled her hand out of his and rolled away from him. He never saw her again.

The prisoner transport rolled into Depot Para in Catterick, North Yorkshire. They’d been all but dragged out of the secure vehicle, and then the shouting had started.

‘The pampered Etonian homosexuals in Whitehall, who we have the misfortune to serve, have, in their wisdom, chosen to turn my beloved 2 Para into a penal legion! That’s penal as in
penitent, not as in penis! You are amongst the first lowlife parasitical scum who have been sent to befoul my beloved battalion! We normally have nothing but contempt for recruits stupid enough to
join this regiment! You! We actually hate! We hate you more than the French! I congratulate you on your stunning achievement on making the entire of 2 Para hate you! You will not be here long! We
will break you! You will have training accidents! Terrible things will happen to you at the hands of trained killers! You will come to me, begging to me to be allowed back to Wormwood Scrubs so
large unpleasant gentlemen can get at your tight little bottoms! What you will not be doing is joining the parachute regiment! Is that understood!?’ There were a few mumbled replies.
‘The proper reply, scum, is, “Yes, Sergeant”!’

‘Here, do you think you’re hard or something?’ Psycho asked. The training sergeant turned to look at the squat, muscular, shaven-headed item who had spoken.

‘Oh, well volunteered . . .’ the training sergeant started. Psycho laid him out with one punch.

He thought he had been tortured before. He hadn’t. He didn’t really know what it was. He thought he could withstand torture. He couldn’t. He’d tell
them anything as long as they stopped. No, that wasn’t true, he’d tell them anything if they ended it and killed him. Except they weren’t asking any questions.

South London, 2017

Four hot days in summer and the riot season was upon them again, but this time it had been different. This time people, who were normally killing each other over which postcode
they lived in, were armed, organised and had had at least rudimentary training.

To Psycho, looking down the barrel of his Minimi, there was a degree of inevitability to this. It was going to happen eventually in any society where the gap between the rich and the poor was so
well-defined and widening. When you had a society that penalised the least fortunate for the excesses of the most fortunate, it was only a matter of time before the unfortunates at the bottom, who
were used to desperation and fighting each other, finally turned on the people that were actually screwing them over. He’d said as much to the squad. Perkins had called him a communist. It
wasn’t politics. It wasn’t economics. It was common sense. Cause and effect. You beat a dog often enough, it’ll get round to biting you. And frankly, as far as Psycho was
concerned, if you hadn’t done anything about the reasons why these things were happening then you couldn’t complain when your capital city burnt.

Psycho had heard a couple of the old boys, ex-2 Para, talk about how the LCZ looked like Belfast during the 1980’s now. The police had very quickly been overwhelmed. The TA had gone in. A
lot of them had been killed. Car bombs, rocket and mortar attacks and just good old-fashioned street fighting. Then the Paras had been called in.
Yeah, because 1 Para had really cooled things
off in Northern Ireland, hadn’t they?
Psycho thought. The Royal Navy were also involved. The Frigate HMS
Anguish
was anchored in the Thames less than a mile away from where
Psycho was in cover behind sandbags.

The problem was, the kids with the AKs had taken over a number of tower blocks. They were well provisioned. Knew the area. They seemed to have endless amounts of ammunition. Even for people who
knew what they were doing when it came to fighting, the prospect of going in and rooting them out did not appeal. The same architecture that turned these tower blocks into rat-infested warrens was
the same architecture that would turn them into death-traps that would have to be cleared room by room. Their ROE were to engage them in the street or if fired upon, but otherwise to patrol and
contain while the politicians and the police negotiated.

The gunmen may have been organised to a degree, at least when it came to fighting, but they didn’t even have a name. It had just steadily escalated, kicking off with a policeman killed in
revenge for shooting an unarmed kid. The gunmen and women wanted fairness, an even playing field, but lacked the vocabulary to express it in terms that politicians would understand.
Fat
chance
, Psycho thought. Nobody with a vested interest wanted an even playing field and the negotiators were trying to buy them off with training shoes, X-Factor and PlayStations. After all, it
had worked in the past.

It hadn’t taken much: a number of the older kids who’d been trained by the army, under the Offenders Conscription Act. Someone with contacts in the Eastern European mob for weapons.
They would have gotten seed money from who-knows-where and then all it took was for someone to push them just a little too hard.

This was how Psycho found himself looking down the barrel of a Minimi behind a pile of sandbags in his hometown. Admittedly he was south of the river. He was probably shooting at Chelsea fans.
He still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was on the wrong side.

They were stationed at a road junction, looking at one of the tower blocks. The six-wheeled Coyote tactical support vehicle was parked up behind them. The TSV’s mounted .50 calibre heavy
machine gun was pointed at the block, the mounted general purpose machine gun, or jimpy, covering the road behind them.