Exit Wound (3 page)

6

It wasn’t a marked police car but a bog-standard Wartburg with a blue light on its roof. The front was tilted off the ground like they’d driven up an inspection ramp. The two lads flagging us down were dressed for winter. Both had big furry Russian hats. One was in a three-quarter-length sheepskin, the other in a long leather trench coat. Their street shoes were up to the ankles in mud, which was probably why they looked so pissed off.

‘Stasi.’ The contact confirmed what I’d suspected.

I stayed sunk in my seat as the Gaz came to a halt. Tenny mumbled from behind: ‘What’s going on, mate?’

Red Ken didn’t have time to answer. Spag was flapping. ‘Don’t stop! They’ll kill us! I’m ordering you.’

Red Ken smiled through the windscreen. ‘Nick, Tenny – stand by. We’ll sort this once we’re out of the vehicle. I see two so far, no weapons.’

I gripped the Maglite in my right hand, with the shaft up my forearm. You’re better off out on your feet than sitting in a wagon. Once we were in the open air, I’d be ready the moment Red Ken kicked it off.

The closer the voices got, the tighter I gripped. My eyes strained at the tops of their sockets. The two Stasi seemed to be waving us out of the wagon, with the confidence that comes from no one ever fucking you about.

Red Ken’s fingers closed round the door handle.

The contact wound down the window. Cold air rushed into the wagon. His breath billowed as he spoke.

I heard the word ‘
Zigarette
’.

Then: ‘
Ach so
–
Englische Zigarette
?’

I pretended to come awake, and looked around dozily. Red Ken was sitting there, beaming friendship and goodwill.

Spag was close to hyperventilating. The knuckles gripping the bag gleamed white.

The contact opened his door and got out. The Stasi in the sheepskin arched an eyebrow as he studied the cigarette in his hand, but he accepted a light. Then he spotted the cheap disposable, and his hand grabbed the contact’s wrist.

He muttered something and the contact laughed. ‘
Ja, ja, natürlich
.’ He handed over the entire pack, and then the lighter, before gesturing to Red Ken for the carton on the front seat. They got it – as well as the one still in his day-sack.

Sheepskin stuck his head into the cab. ‘Brixmis? Brixmis,
ja
?’

Red Ken shrugged and gave him some waffle. He sounded very authoritative, which got Sheepskin sort of nodding. The other one walked all the way round the van, peering in through the windows.

A local. Brixmis. The pieces were coming together in Sheepskin’s head. He shouted down at the contact.

Red Ken shook his head and answered for him in English: ‘We have no money – no money.’

Sheepskin drew down his pistol. His mate Leatherman was a split second behind. He pointed the barrel at the contact and screamed into his face.

Spag shat himself as Red Ken screamed right back: ‘No fucking money, we got no money.’

Leatherman came round and joined Sheepskin. They were getting angrier and more agitated. A very bad combination. They both pointed their weapons into the van.

Red Ken was calm. ‘Just stay in the wagon. If we get out now, they’ll shoot.’

Spag sparked up. ‘I’ve got money. I’ve got money.’ He held the bag up high.

Sheepskin pushed the contact aside and lunged into the cab. He leant over the driver’s seat and grabbed the holdall. Leatherman kept one eye on us and the other on the bag. Both were very happy with what they saw inside it.

They turned and shouted at the contact. Fingers were pointed at their vehicle and then at us.

Red Ken opened his door. ‘Nick, Tenny – out. Leave everything in the wagon. Don’t piss them off. I’ll tell you when.’

7

As we walked up to their vehicle I saw what the problem was. The antlers of a huge stag stuck out from under the front bumper.

Sheepskin stood on the road with the cash while his mate took the wheel.

The four of us slipped and slid in the mud at the back as the driver hung out of the window shouting orders. The exhaust fumes caught at the back of my throat and made my eyes stream.

Red Ken was in the middle. ‘Nick – the driver. We’ll take the money. On my word . . .’

One final push and the front wheels rolled over the carcass and reconnected with the tarmac. The engine revved as we stamped shit off our boots.

As Sheepskin headed past us for the passenger door, Red Ken yelled, ‘Go!’ He and Tenny lunged at him. I moved to the left of the car as the contact made a run for it. Leatherman poked his head out to see what was happening. The middle three fingers of my left hand fought their way into his mouth and twisted sideways, like I’d hooked a fish. I gripped his head with my right and pulled hard, as if I was trying to land him through the window. I couldn’t see his weapon.

He screamed at me. My fingers were soaked in his saliva. His hands came up to try to grab mine and he ended up wedged in the gap. Seconds later, Tenny arrived and gave him a couple of boots to the neck. Leatherman shrieked. I kept hold of him as Tenny opened the door and grabbed a weapon from the passenger seat.

I let go. Leatherman’s head hit the top of the window frame. He fell forward onto his hands and knees, trying to cough his Adam’s apple back into place. Tenny kicked him down into the mud.

Red Ken had Sheepskin on the ground with a weapon in his neck. He shouted to the contact to retrieve the cash.

The blue light beat into the darkness.

He turned to us two. ‘Get them in the boot. If they fuck about, drop them. Tenny, cut the blues and follow.’

We did what we were told, pushing, kicking, shouting, pointing their pistols at them. Seconds later we were back in the Gaz, Tenny in the Wartburg behind us.

Red Ken was breathing hard. I knew he was angry. He tried to control himself, but it wasn’t happening. He turned and jabbed a finger at Spag. ‘All you had to do was sit tight and
shut the fuck up
.’

Spag took a breath but decided not to answer.

Good move.

The muddy bag was back on his lap.

We drove in silence for another quarter of an hour before turning down a farm track. A collection of barns stood off to the right, rough old things knocked up out of concrete blocks and corrugated iron. One or two bits of rusted machinery had been abandoned to the elements.

The contact followed the track round to the back, stopped and killed the lights. Tenny pulled up beside us.

Red Ken went over to him as the rest of us clambered out. ‘Hold these fuckers here. We do the deal and we leave. They’ll find their own way out of the boot.’

Tenny shook his head. ‘Better let them breathe. The exhaust is cracked and the fumes are getting everywhere. It’ll kill them.’

‘OK, give ’em air until we’re finished. Then we’ll close them in again.’

He lifted the lid. The two crushed and suffering bodies were coughing up their lungs. They tried getting out, but Tenny punched them back in.

The contact led the rest of us towards the nearest barn.

8

I kept a few paces behind the other three, as cover. My boots sank up to their laces in stinking ooze.

Spag tried to recover from looking like a dickhead. ‘It was right to hand over the cash. They could have killed us.’

Red Ken checked stride and rounded on him. Their faces were inches apart. ‘Listen in, twat – they were going to kill us
because
they’d got the money. Now wind your fucking neck in, let’s get the deal done and leave.’

We worked our way past a dark, mud-covered Trabant, up to its hubs in shit. I saw the prolonged glow of a cigarette tip through a gap in the barn wall. Whoever was on the other end of it was sucking hard.

The contact headed for the door. ‘Vladislav?’

A solitary
nein-watt
bulb dangled from the rafters. Its dim light only just reached the floor, but I could see the shit gleam on Vladislav’s boots. The KGB man was another egg-on-legs. He could have been Spag’s brother. Mrs Dumpty had been busy. His trench coat was so long it nearly touched the ground. He took a step back to reveal a battered canvas suitcase at his feet.

Spag barged past Red Ken and the contact. ‘OK, what you got? Show me.’

Vladislav caught his drift, unzipped the suitcase and threw back the top. Spag snorted from excitement or exertion. Either way, he should have stayed behind his desk.

Vladislav dug through a pile of old shirts and pulled out what looked like a long-legged metal spider. When he held it up to the light, I could see it was some kind of circuit board with wires coming off it in all directions.

He stood back and let Spag inspect the goods. ‘It’s intact. I have much more on offer if you are interested.’ His English was good.

Spag held out a hand. ‘You got a pen?’

Vladislav fished about inside his coat. Then he knelt to empty the bundles of hundred-dollar bills into his suitcase.

‘Don’t you wanna count it?’

‘I know you will be back for more, so why would you try to cheat me? If you have, I’ll go elsewhere.’

Red Ken leant over to me. ‘These Russians will do just fine, whatever happens to the Wall. There’s no ideology here, mate. It’s every man for himself.’

Spag’s eyes gleamed. He finished writing on one of the wrappers. ‘Come direct to me. We could do some serious business.’

He stood and they shook.

There were shouts from outside.

I started running.

9

I cannoned into a body at the door. My face rubbed against

sheepskin.

Red Ken yelled from behind me, ‘Leave him!’

I pushed against the coat, not even raising the Maglite, just squeezing past as Red Ken took him.

There were two bodies by the rear of the car. One was staggering to his feet. The other lay still. The upright one wore a long leather coat. He turned towards me and lifted his arm.

My vision tunnelled. All I could see was the weapon I was running towards. The barrel headed my way in slow motion. I felt nothing but the thump of my heart as I got within striking distance.

The Maglite came down on what I could see of the pistol and his hand. He buckled, but not enough. The weapon didn’t fall, and neither did he. I connected again, this time to the right side of his neck.

I kept hitting, kept hammering his head, his neck, his arm.

A round kicked off inside the barn, then a double tap.

I slammed the Maglite down again and again on the target’s head, jumping into the air to get that extra bit of momentum, until I heard the crack I wanted and felt warm blood spurt against my face.

He dropped into the shit beside Tenny.

I used the Maglite for the job it was designed to do – to find the weapon in the mud and guide me back to the barn.

‘Red! Red!’

‘Clear this end.’

I turned back, dropped to my knees beside Tenny and ran the Maglite beam over his face, searching for signs of life. ‘It’s OK, mate. You’re breathing – means you’re still winning. Got to turn you over. Take the pain.’

A gunshot wound to the gut. I grabbed his shoulder, log-rolled him and looked for an exit wound.

‘It’s fine, mate – it’s still inside you.’

The only good thing about a gut wound is that it isn’t as painful as anywhere else on the body. There aren’t any nerve endings there. If there were, it would hurt to eat. As long as no major organs were hit, Tenny could live for a day, maybe two, without treatment.

I pressed my beanie against the entry wound. ‘Keep it there, mate.’

Spag loomed out of the darkness with Vladislav. They both headed for the Trabant.

Red Ken had other ideas. ‘Get in the fucking van – now!’ He and the contact weren’t far behind, hefting Sheepskin by his arms and legs. They dropped him into the mud next to his mate. The Trabant rolled out of the farmyard and Spag pushed himself into the Gaz.

One look at Tenny, and Red Ken binned whatever plan he’d had to hide the Stasi boys. ‘Fuck ’em. Let’s go.’

We loaded Tenny into the Gaz and the contact pressed his foot to the floor. I got on the radio to Dex.

Tenny was less worried about his guts than about what had happened.

‘It was so quick. I sparked up the radio to give Dex a sitrep and they went for it. I—’

Red Ken placed his hand on Tenny’s forehead, like a father with a sick child. ‘It doesn’t matter. Getting you back is all that does. Not long now, mate.’

Spag just sat there with his bag of tricks on his lap. I didn’t blame him keeping out of it.

When we reached the field, Dex’s props were already turning.

PART TWO

10

Lincoln
14 April 2009

Judging by the number of lads packing the bars around the cathedral, the funeral was going to be a big one. I recognized a few of the faces knocking back the pints as they sheltered under awnings and patio heaters.

I pulled up my jacket collar, and not just against the wind and rain. I was hoping they didn’t recognize me back. I didn’t want to be pulled into any of the groups and have to waffle about jobs and families and how much hair we’d all lost. I’d only get agitated. I wanted to be here as much as I had to be here, but I couldn’t stand the garbage people spouted at reunions. Maybe I was just jealous of them for having normal lives. There were a couple of lads I was looking for in the sea of faces. They were the only ones I wanted to waffle with.

‘Oi, Nick!’

I turned. He wasn’t one of them. I didn’t know the guy from Adam – except that I don’t remember Adam eating all the pies. He was surrounded by other beer bellies and red faces, throwing down the pints like they were still nineteen-year-old squaddies. Many were thinning on top; some were bald or grey. All of them were bullshitting about how great it’s been since they got out. Great house, great car, everything’s gravy.

Some wore their Green Jacket blazers and ties over crisp white shirts and neatly pressed slacks. Others were in their best suits. Me? I was in a Tesco shirt, washable trousers and cheap leather jacket. Most of them would have been lorry drivers, security guards, painters and decorators, firemen or policemen. That was what normally happened with the lads. The odd one would be on the circuit, fucking about in Iraq or Afghanistan, but today it really didn’t matter who or what you were. The one thing everyone had in common was that they knew Tenny.

Tennyson had spent the best part of a year sorting out his gut before marrying Janice and taking up his commission in the Green Jackets – which had become the Rifles in the next shakeup. He never did make general, but was promoted to full colonel in command of media ops at Camp Bastion in Helmand province. It was a plum job, making sure reporters and news crews got where they were needed, and managing the PR output. Until he got zapped again, this time in the head by a 7.62mm short from an AK.

The voice called again: ‘Nick! Nick Stone!’

I still didn’t have a clue who he was, but shook his hand anyway. I didn’t have much choice: he’d gone for it big-time. He pumped my arm so vigorously my shoulders shook.

‘Good to see you, mate.’

Maybe he’d had more hair the last time I’d seen him.

‘Graham – Graham Pincombe. How you doing, mate?’

Still none the wiser. ‘Ah, yeah, fine . . . mate . . .’

My brain whirred into hyperspace as the very thing I was trying to avoid started to happen.

‘What you been doing with yourself? The last time I saw you . . .’ At last his hand released mine and for some reason headed for the tip of his nose. ‘Ah, yeah. Germany – remember when we were on exercise in Germany?’

No, not a clue. ‘Shame about Tenny, eh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What exactly happened – anybody know?’ I scanned the group for a face that might give Mr Pincombe some context.

He shook his head. ‘He kept wanting to go out on the ground with the rifle companies. I heard he was next on the list for a cabby on the Javelin. That’s when he got zapped.’

I smiled, and he smiled back. We both knew what that meant. The Javelin anti-armour rocket was a great bit of kit, and there was always a queue of guys wanting to have a go. Originally designed to take out tanks, it was now antipersonnel, anti-car, anti-bicycle, you name it. No job too small. And over long distances, too. Its optics and second-generation thermal-imaging technology could see in the dark or through rain and smoke. It was an infantryman’s dream. Once you’d acquired a target and locked it on, you kicked off the rocket and that was that. Most brilliant of all, it cost seventy-six grand a pop.

Everyone wanted to lob the military equivalent of a Porsche at the enemy. There was a list, and everybody put their name up. When it was your turn, it was your turn, whether you were an eighteen-year-old rifleman or a forty-eight-year-old colonel. If there was nothing between you and a target up to 2,500 metres away, it kicked off and flew line-of-sight, with pinpoint accuracy. If you had a moving target, say a car, you could select top attack mode and the missile went up into the air, climbing 150 metres before striking down to penetrate the roof – just as it would do to a tank, hitting it at the point of least armour protection.

Pincombe took a mouthful of Stella. ‘He got up onto the wall, took aim, and was just about to kick it off when . . .’ He supplied the impact site with his finger. ‘Taliban round, straight through the launch unit and into his nut. Simple as that.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and came out with the predictable, ‘At least he died the way he would have wanted.’

No, Tenny. I bet you didn’t, mate.

A photographer walked past and took a couple of shots. All he got of me was the back of my head.

A bell tolled. Shoppers stopped and nodded at the drinkers. They all knew whose funeral it was. The local media had made it a big deal. I doubted a rifleman would be getting the same attention, or his local cathedral.

I turned away as another flash kicked off. ‘I’ve got to go and meet up with a mate before we go in. See you there, yeah?’

‘You going to the wake?’

‘Nah, haven’t got time. Besides, I’m driving.’

The bit afterwards was what I hated most. That was when the storytelling started. Everyone would swap memories of Tenny’s awesome talent with anything from a PlayStation to forty-kilo dumbbells – just how he would have wanted it – but also of his courage and compassion, which he would have hated. Then, at round about the five-pint mark, everyone would start admitting to each other how shit their lives really were. Divorces, child support, mortgages . . . and a longing to return to the days when no one gave a fuck, except about each other.

Graham Pincombe went back to his beer, and I still couldn’t place him. I walked down the hill, took a left and paralleled the main road to avoid any more pubs. I followed the line of guys, wives, friends and everybody else Tenny had collected over the years snaking along the pedestrian walkway towards the cathedral.