Jumped-up pompous twits with their bloody bits of papers and petty rules! Newman’s visit had put him in a foul temper and his trip to the
DSS
office later that afternoon didn’t improve it one iota. Christ, he could have sat on that plastic chair staring at the muddy green wall till the cows came home for all the good it did him, till his teeth dropped out. What did they care? Three, four years ago Dillon had run across an old mate with sixteen years’ service under his belt who’d recently got his discharge. This bloke, ex-sergeant, had asked the C.O. for a reference, set him up in Civvy Street, and the C.O. had written in his file: ‘Suitable for petrol pump attendant.’ After all the bullshit about serving Queen and Country and upholding the honour of the Regiment and drumming it into you that you were the cream of the Army’s elite fighting men, that’s how the system treated you. All of a sudden you were a social leper. Brain-dead. About as much use as a wet fart in a wind-tunnel. Thanks ever so much for all you’ve done, old chap, now kindly fuck off. Well, the
DSS
could go fuck itself, in spades, as far as he was concerned, Dillon thought savagely, slamming the front door shut behind him and stopping in the nick of time from cracking his shin on the bikes in the hallway. He went through, wrenching his tie loose, feeling sweaty and ridiculous in his best suit that Susie had pressed for him that morning. She looked up, eyebrows raised, hopefully or expectantly, he was past caring. ‘I been in that dump all afternoon, waiting like a prat, for my number to be called out —’ ‘And? Well, what did they say?’ ‘Number twenty-three to cubicle four…’ Dillon mimicked a prissy officious voice. ‘Number twenty-four to cubicle five. I was number fifty-three. Went to the friggin’ job centre section, came back and I’d missed me number!’ He took a pale-green ticket from his breast pocket, tore it in half and scattered the bits on the coffee table. ‘So you didn’t sign on, did you?’ Dillon was on his way back through the hallway, jacket half-off. ‘I’ll get Steve, go for a run.’ ‘Fine, you go and see Steve.’ Susie was up quick, after him. ‘And while you’re up there could you tell him to throw out his empty bottles and his dirty bandages… Did you tell them about your experience in the Army? Frank?’ Leaving his jacket draped over the banister post, Dillon started up. ‘Anythin’ I’ve done was in the Army, and that don’t mean nothin’. Bloody
IRA
think more of us!’ He suddenly turned, hot angry eyes burning down into hers. ‘Every Para’s worth seven grand to them. Six, if you’re dead.’ Steve leaned over the banister, mouth working, croaking at Dillon. ‘YoU’D bE — burp —BetTEr off cOMin’ OuT —burp — Of thE nlcK!’ Too right, mate.’ ‘What did he say?’ Susie frowned. ‘He said I would be better off comin’ out of the nick!’ Dillon threw a punch. ‘Move, Steve — let’s be havin’ yaaaa!’ Steve gurgled something and Dillon responded with force, ‘Right, mate, half-way houses, career officers, counsellors, subsistences, therapists, psychiatrists, physiotherapists…’ The phone rang on the hall table, Dillon’s voice floating from above (‘An’ if that’s Jimmy, I’m not in.’) as Susie snatched it up. ‘Hello?’ Susie listened, eyes growing bigger, then in a rush, ‘Oh, yes, yes, he is, just hang on a second…’ Head craning up the stairs, yelling excitedly, ‘Frank, it’s that friend of Mum’s — he owns a building site… quick!’ Dillon cleared the banister rail and did a free-fall drop, arms parallel with his sides, to land at Susie’s feet, springing lightly up and grabbing the phone. He coughed and said, ‘Frank Dillon…’ listening and nodding as Susie stuck both thumbs up. ‘…there’s two of us, yeah.’ He grinned then, nodding harder as if somebody had tightened his spring. ‘… Fantastic!’ Beaming a great big smile, Susie punched holes in the air, fists raised high. Yippee!
The tinny blare of a transistor playing Radio One echoed round the building-site, some berk with a mid-atlantic accent and no sense of humour trying to crack jokes at seven-fifteen on a dismal grey Monday morning. The young bloke alongside Dillon in the cradle, twenty feet up, supposed to be — literally —’showing him the ropes’, considered himself something of a joker too, and a patronising bastard into the bargain. Making clever cracks ever since Dillon and Steve had walked on the site at seven o’clock, bang on time. ‘You okay?’ he asked Dillon with a smirk as the cradle swayed and bumped against the side of the half-erected five-storey apartment block. Scaffolding poles rose above them, forming a skeletal framework nearly a hundred feet into the drizzly air. Dillon watched as the ganger manipulated the ropes on his side of the cradle. ‘Right, first you make a figure of eight like this… you know how to make a figure of eight?’ ‘Sure,’ Dillon said. What did this prat take him for, a kid straight from school? Not much more than a kid himself. ‘Right, you in the parachute regiment then, were you?’ The ganger grinned, as if this was something funny in itself. The other building workers down below seemed to think so too, an appreciative audience with the ganger as comic, Dillon the stooge. Keeping up a running commentary, he demonstrated, releasing the rope with his right hand, holding firm with the left. ‘You let it run through nice and easy, from your left to your right, keep it slow for safety…’ Then gave a sly wink to the builders below, leaning on their shovels watching. ‘You’ll be used to this kind of thing, then’ — suddenly letting go so that the cradle jolted and tilted to one side. If he was expecting a reaction from Dillon, he was disappointed. Not a flicker. ‘Okay, you wanna have a go an’ lower the other side?’ Dillon hauled himself up the sloping cradle, released the figure of eight, gripping the ropes tightly — then just as quickly let out double the drop, tilting the cradle even more steeply the other way. The ganger slid cursing down the cradle, grabbing the rail to save himself. His flailing foot dislodged a half-f bag of cement which tipped over, sending a thick shower of cement dust swirling down directly on top of Steve, who fell to his knees, hands clutching his throat, a pitiful helpless figure like a caked snowman. ‘Steve?’ Dillon yelled down anxiously. ‘You okay Steve?’ The ganger gave Dillon a venomous look and shouted down, ‘Turn the hose on the stupid bugger!’ The other workmen whistled and cat-called as one of their mates let Steve have it full blast, knocking him flat so that he slithered around in the mire of wet cement, half-blinded, trying to protect his vulnerable throat as he gasped for breath. ‘You bastard!’ Dillon made a swipe at the ganger and shouted, ‘Steve, get up here!’ On his feet now, Steve was like a hunted man, backing away, shaking his head, unable to handle the fear and humiliation. Dillon leaned right out, hanging on the ropes. ‘On your feet, Harris — move it!’ This time it was an order, and Sergeant Dillon was giving it. The same voice that had whiplashed men up Mount Longdon, pushed them on through the pain-barrier of sub-zero temperatures and hostile terrain and the constant threat of sniper fire, and kept on pushing them to the limit of human endurance and beyond. ‘I want you up on them shuffle bars, on those bars, you prat. I said move… you deaf? You deaf as well as dumb, Harris, are you?’ The ganger and the workmen gaped as Dillon used the ropes to swing himself from the cradle, and with amazing agility began to climb the fretwork of scaffolding until he was balanced, sixty feet off the ground, on two parallel bars above the well of the building. Every fledgling Para had to go through the ordeal of the high shuffle bars, a test of nerve, skill and overcoming the fear of heights to find out if he had the bottle to jump on command from a balloon or aircraft. Dillon had taken a thousand Joe Crows through it, showing by example that you could shuffle along on the soles of your boots, arms spread wide, touching your toes at the halfway point. ‘Come on, you bastards, any takers?’ Adrenalin pumping, enjoying the mental challenge, Dillon taunted the men far below. ‘Any takers, come on! Show ‘em, Steve, get up here…’ In stunned silence the workmen watched as Steve obeyed the order, clambering up through the well of the building to join Dillon, the pair of them facing each other, legs apart, balancing like trapeze artists, and both of them grinning like loons! ‘Ready, Harris… Wait for it! Go – Go – Go – Go Goooooooohh!’ Steve was back in his element. Just like old times, him and the Sarge risking their fool necks. But a calculated risk all the same — calling for mental and physical coordination, daring, guts — because that’s what you’d been trained to do and you took pride in doing it well. And that’s what had been lacking, Steve knew full well: pride. He’d sunk lower in his own estimation than a snake’s belly. He exulted in the chance to re-live it all, feeling suddenly re-energised with the joy of applying the old skills he’d almost forgotten he possessed, the exhilaration of flirting with danger… It’s me, Sarge, it’s Harris… when the fireman grabs him, hang on to me… I’m right behind you! Flames spurt from the side of the building as the ladder edges up, smoke billowing all around. Dillon inches out, Billy Newman draped across his back. The fireman reaches out across the gap, Dillon sliding one cautious foot after the other, knowing that when he transfers the weight he’s going to overbalance. But Steve’s there, Dillon’s collar bunched in his fist, his other arm braced inside the shattered window-frame. Watch yer balance when you get lift-off… Voice calm and reassuring in the confusion of sirens, flames, screams, the stench of burning flesh. Dillon nods to show he gets the message. Shouts to the fireman: Lift, on the count of three — One — two — three! The wood buckles and splits under Dillon’s feet, he teeters, hands clawing thin air, and falls, Steve hanging on for grim death, teeth gritted as he hauls the dangling Dillon back onto the ledge. Steve grins, white teeth in a smoke-blackened face, green eyes twinkling as if he’s damn-well enjoying this. Couple of Hail Marys, Frank, then I reckon we should get the hell outta here! Bleeding understatement of the year. Mad bastard. And Steve keeps on grinning, even when Dillon gives him a whack for his pains.
What had happened on that terrible night had broken something inside Dillon; Susie sensed it but had never pressed him, knowing that sooner or later, in his own good time, Dillon would want to talk about it, unburden himself. Now was the time. Propped up on the pillows, she listened to the quiet, unemotional voice of her husband, the lamplight gilding his head and shoulders, making dark swirling patterns of the tattoos on his forearms and the paler skin of his biceps as he sat hunched on the side of the bed. ‘It was all for nothin’, as it turned out… the kid was dead. It was Barry Newman’s son, that friend of Jimmy’s.’ ‘So you feel you owe Steve —’ ‘No!’ Dillon’s tone was sharp. ‘I owe nobody nothin’. We were all doing a job of work, no more, no less.’ He stared into the darkness. ‘It was a job.’ Susie was silent for a moment, then: ‘What about the job you had today?’ ‘Didn’t work out.’ Dillon raised his head as a muffled thud came from Steve’s room next door. He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Susie, I can’t just dump him. I can’t do that…’ She didn’t need to be told. He was her husband, the father of her children, her lover, and she could feel his pain. She stroked his arm, leaning forward to nuzzle his cheek. Dillon gathered her in his arms and they slowly subsided onto the bed, their gentle lingering kiss becoming urgent, more intense. Dillon brought his hand up to cup her breast, Susie moving her body against his, needing to feel the hardness of his chest, the heat and passion of him. Something thudded against the other side of the wall, a few feet away from where they lay, followed by the crash and tinkling of broken glass. ‘Oh shit!’ Dillon extricated himself and rolled off the bed. What in hell was the prat up to? He got to the door, holding up his hand as Susie raised herself. ‘No, you stay put. I’ll sort him!’ Too late anyway — the racket had woken the kids, little Phil bawling — and Susie went to see to them while Dillon pushed open Steve’s door to find him sprawled half on the bed, half on the floor. The phone in the hallway started to ring as Dillon went in, checking his anger when he saw the bright red face shiny with sweat, the soundless gaping mouth, Steve’s hand pulling feebly at his throat. ‘What? What is it?’ Dillon was scared. An ominous gurgling rattle was coming from Steve, his face now beetroot red. He kept pointing at the bedside table. ‘What is it?’ Dillon asked again, lifting him upright. ‘The filter blocked? Steve? Amongst the clutter of personal belongings Dillon found a small plastic bag, and snatching it up he scanned the printed instructions. ‘Okay, Steve, gonna be all right.’ Dillon was very calm, his voice low and soothing. ‘Now, tip your head back, just try to relax…’ Dillon’s head rested almost against Steve’s chin as he sucked out the blockage, spat it out, and re-inserted the tube. He then checked over Steve’s so-called medical box, re-read all the instructions and, working patiently and methodically with the thin piece of fresh tubing, prepared clean gauze and adhesive tabs. ‘Gonna fit a clean tube, okay?… Now get ready, get a good bellyful of air, and I’ll fix it in place, you ready?… One — two — three — right, you’re all set, I’m gonna do it now.’ Steve sucked in a lungful of air and flopped back on the pillow, growing quiet, his hair stuck to his forehead as he held his breath while Dillon worked inexpertly with the tube. His hands were steady, his face strained in concentration, eyes flicking to the instruction leaflet. Steve watched him and saw no sign of distaste, no gawping at the gaping hole in his throat, but that steady, hawk-eyed look as he carefully inserted the clean tube and placed the square of gauze across Steve’s throat. He nodded proudly to Steve, as Steve breathed easier, giving a small wink to Dillon to show he was okay. ‘You’re gonna have to get this medical box shipshape, it’s a mess.’ Dillon sat on the edge of the bed, sorting through Steve’s tin box. Steve reached out and gripped Dillon’s hand, needing the physical contact to quell the fear that was still lurking in his eyes like a dark shadow. Dillon pulled up a chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, speaking quietly in an easy, conversational tone that had the desired effect on Steve, relaxing him. ‘We’re gonna have to set up some kind of routine, so this doesn’t happen again. Always check equipment, first rule — you know that, Steve. How many jumps you done, for chrissakes? Always check the equipment!’ ‘Thanks — mate.’ Steve found a smile. ‘Give us — a couple of — Hail Marys — will ya?’ Dillon grinned back. He glanced round as Susie inched the door open and put her head in. ‘It was that Jimmy again, said he’ll pick you up.’ Turning back, Dillon caught the disapproving look in Steve’s eyes, more reproaching than accusing, but it still pissed Dillon off. ‘Lay off me,’ he warned. ‘Everybody’s on me!’ Susie glared at Dillon’s back. ‘I was just passing on his message!’ she snapped and banged the door shut. Steve looked at Dillon, and Dillon returned it, square in the eyes. ‘If it’s bent, I walk away,’ he said.