Authors: Graham Hurley
On the train going back to London, Gary and I settled down with a
half-bottle of Scotch and a milk jug full of water from the buffet car. I
knew the day had been a knockout but I wanted to be sure.
‘
You
’
re OK about the kids?
’
I asked him.
‘
They
’
re great. As great as we
’
ll get. Vicious little bastards.
Absolutely bloody perfect.
’
‘
So how do we crack the training?
’
This was a problem. Brendan was still banging on about lifting the
odd day here and there, stitching together a month
’
s induction, but
Gary - even more than me - knew that was crazy. What he had to
build was a sense of
esprit
,
a sense of belonging, and to do that he had
to prise our kids out of Pompey and take them somewhere wild and
remote where they could test themselves
against
some pretty heavy physical odds.
‘
Anywhere in mind?
’
‘
Skye,
’
Gary grunted.
’
The Cuillins.
’
The Western Isles, it turned out, had long been Gary
’
s favourite
playground. He
’
d holidayed there as a kid and returned years later
with a bunch of mates to tackle some of the more formidable peaks.
The Cuillin range offered some of the toughest rockfaces in Europe
and over his third glass of Scotch
Gary confided that his first
taste
of one of them - a monster called Am Basteir - had literally shaped the
rest of his life. After
that
, he said, he
’
d been addicted to physical
risk. Thus his decision to join the army. And t
hus, a little later, the
months of
savage training that had fin
ally led
him into the
SAS.
The way he put it, that nod of quiet satisfaction, was the closest I
’
d
yet come to pinning down exactly what it was that lay at the heart of
Home
Run
.
By taking these kids, and pitting them against themselves,
we
’
d be showing thousands of others just what might be possible.
I tackled Brendan about the training schedule that same night. We
hadn
’
t seen each other for days. I told him about Portsea, and about
our conversation over cold pizza in the community centre. He didn
’
t
like what he heard.
‘
Why Portsmouth ? Why not here ? London ?
’
I told him about Everett. That simply compounded the problem.
‘
He
’
s not using Washington kids?
’
‘
No, I just told you. He
’
s out on the coast. Portsmouth, Virginia.
Suburb of Norfolk. And he
’
s thrilled about it.
’
‘
But we agreed capital cities.
’
‘
No, we didn
’
t.
’
‘
Excuse me, I think we did.
’
We were sitting in a restaurant round the corner from the office, a
Greek place that served excellent moussaka. Brendan had barely
touched his. I poured him another glass of retsina.
‘
Portsmouth
’
s fine,
’
I assured him.
‘
And Gary
’
s happy, too. It
’
ll
work. I know it
’
ll work.
’
I could see Brendan wasn
’
t convinced. I decided to go back to the
training issue but there were problems there too.
‘
Skye
’
s out of the question.
’
He dismiss
ed it with a shake of his head.
‘
Too bloody far. Too bloody expensive.
’
‘
Expensive
?
’
I was beginning to get angry.
‘
I thought you
’
d lined up
all this backing? I thought we had money coming out of our ears?
’
‘
Pledges,
’
he said.
‘
We have pledges. It
’
s not
bankable.
Not yet.
’
‘
Then borrow,
’
I said.
‘
Isn
’
t that what banks are for?
’
Brendan caught the taunt in my voice a
nd I could tell at once that he
didn
’
t like it. Money was his depar
tment. I belonged in the Creatives
cage. I reached for his hand, givin
g it a little squeeze. No point
screwing the boss and not using the leverage.
‘
Say we make it three weeks.
’
‘
Where?
’
‘
Skye.
’
‘
No.
’
‘
Where else then?
’
‘
Fuck knows. Salisbury Plain. Isle of Wight. Somewhere handy.
Somewhere cheaper.
’
He withdrew his hand and emptied his glass at a single gulp. To do
that with retsina you
’
ve got to be seriously drunk or seriously upset.
Brendan wasn
’
t drunk.
‘
What
’
s the matter?
’
He looked away, shaking his head.
‘
Nothing.
’
‘
Tell me.
’
‘
It
’
s nothing.
’
‘
Please.
’
He summoned a chilly smile and then signalled the waiter for the
bill. I looked at the remains of his moussaka. Dessert would have been
nice.
‘
Is there a real problem?
’
I tried to sound as sympathetic as I could.
‘
With what?
’
‘
The money. The budget.
’
I should have anticipated his reaction. Asking Brendan a question
like that after banging on for the last couple of minutes was like
questioning his manhood. He got to his
feet and pushed the chair back.
He scribbled a signature on the Acce
ss chit and then headed for the
door. I didn
’
t move. Through the window, I could see h
im wrestling
furiously with the car keys. Seconds later, the Mercedes had gone.
I caught up with him at home in De Beauvoir Square. He was lying
full-length on the sofa, his eyes closed, listening to the record I
’
d
bought him when he returned that time from Australia. I circled the
living room, turning off lights, then I settled on the carpet beside the
half-empty bottle of Glenlivet, my back against the sofa. His hand
found mine.
‘
He
’
s brilliant,
’
he murmured.
‘
You have to admit it.
’
I listened to Charlie Parker for a while. Saxophones had never
turned me on but now wasn
’
t the time to admit it.
‘
I
never told you why I bo
ught it.
’
I glanced up at him.
‘
I
bought it to
say thank you.
’
‘
For what?
’
‘
For you,
’
I kissed his hand.
‘
And for
Home
Run
.
’
‘
Fuck
Home
Run
.
’
‘
For you, then.
’
He held my hand tight. We listened to the music. Finally he got up
on one elbow. I could smell the whisky on his breath.
‘
I
mean it about
Home
Run
,
’
he said.
‘
It
’
s
not important. It
shouldn
’
t…
’
he made a loose, flap
ping motion with his hand,
‘
…
come between us.
’
‘
I
agree.
’
I smiled up at him. I was going to get
to
Skye after all. I knew it.
Tonight, tomorrow, next week, Brendan was going to say yes.
‘
Let
’
s forget it.
’
I said,
‘
We can talk about it some other time.
’
He gazed down at me, saying nothing, and I fought the temptation
to join him on the sofa. That could come later. And doubtless would.
‘
I love you,
’
he said at last.
‘
It
’
s important you know that.
’
‘
I do.
’
‘
And believe it.
’
‘
I do.
’
He nodded, as if the question had somehow been directed at
himself, then began to trace the outlines of my face with a single
moistened finger, the way kids make a pattern in the condensation on
cold glass. It was something he occasionally did in bed, after we
’
d
made love. I trapped his finger in my mouth, and sucked it softly.
‘
I
’
m dead serious,
’
he said.
‘
I sometimes don
’
t think I tell you often
enough, you know. Maybe I let other things get in the way.
’
He
frowned.
‘
They won
’
t, will they?
’
‘
What?
’
‘
Get in the way?
’
I wondered exactly what he was talking about, what he meant.
There was an odd expression on his face, almost supplicatory, and for
a second or two it reminded me overwhelmingly of Gilbert. Same
need, I thought. Same strange sense of lostness, almost despair.
It was my turn to talk about priorities.
‘
Home
Run
’
s
important,
’
I said gently.
‘
But it isn
’
t this.
’
‘
What?
’
‘
Us. It isn
’
t us.
’
He nodded.
‘
It isn
’
t,
’
he said.
‘
And it mustn
’
t ever be.
’