Exit Wound (4 page)

11

I was early, but I could already see that by the time Squaddies Reunited rolled out of the pubs and got themselves up the hill it was going to be standing room only. Lots of guys were in number-twos, their best dress. Boots and medals gleamed around me. Off to one side, I spotted a bugler blowing nervously into his mouthpiece to keep his lips up to the mark. It was a huge responsibility, playing the Last Post. If you fucked up, it was the only memory people took away with them.

‘Oi, lard-arse . . .’

I spun round. ‘Pikey, mate – how’s it going?’ I had to keep my voice down to control how happy I was to see him.

Pikey had joined the battalion back in the late seventies, the same time as me. We were both scabby seventeen-year-old riflemen. He was South African and, I soon discovered, a total nightmare. For the first six months I couldn’t even understand what he said. All I knew was that every time I went down town with him, I woke up the next day with a hangover and black eyes.

For this lad, fighting was recreation. Provoking a brawl and getting filled in was his equivalent of going to the pictures. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing now. One, he was still in the army, and two, it was now Major Pikey. He had more medals hanging off his chest than a Soviet general on May Day. And he still looked as fit as a butcher’s dog, the fucker.

I grinned. ‘Should I say “sir”? Well done, mate!’

A group of senior officers filed past. Any rank above full colonel confused me. I’d never understood all that scrambled egg even when I was in. The American system of one to five stars was easier on the brain.

Pikey whispered, ‘It’s a fucking nightmare.’

I thought he was talking about the promotion.

‘I’m on rear party. I’m the lad who has to go and give the families the bad news. I’ve got four kids myself and two of them are older than the last two we buried.’

A couple of the scrambled-egg brigade nodded at him and he nodded back. ‘I go and break it to them but they’re the ones making me cups of tea. Even reading the eulogies, I start to crack up, man. Just send me back out there, I can’t hack all this. My youngest, the girl, every time the mobile rings she flinches. She thinks it’s someone else in the battalion who’s got zapped.’

My eyes followed the officers as they took their reserved seats in the first three rows on the left. Tenny’s family filled the opposite side of the aisle. Near the back of the church, a guy who’d just come in removed his raincoat to reveal an immaculate dark grey suit and well-pressed shirt. Pikey had also seen him – and noticed me noticing. ‘Who’s he?’

The closely cropped hair, clean shave and glowing ebony skin made him look like a Premiership footballer from Senegal. ‘No idea.’ I turned back to Pikey. ‘I didn’t even know Tenny came from up here. All the time you’re with someone, and it never occurs to you to ask where they come from . . .’

‘That’s because it doesn’t matter where you come from, man. It’s where you are that matters.’ He slapped me on the back. ‘Good to see you, mate. Now I’ve got to fuck off and sort out the bearers.’

His George boots clicked off down the aisle and I squashed myself into a seat at the end of the very last row. I liked being at the back. It had something to do with my schooldays. People can’t see or hear you there. And I’d be able to ping everyone as they came in.

I picked up the order of service. Tenny stared out from the cover in his Green Jacket kit and, for some reason, a moustache. Maybe it was part of the uniform. Whatever, he looked very much the colonel. But some things never changed. I felt myself grin. His rusty Brillo pad hair was still trying to fight its way out from under his cap.

Dex, Red Ken and I had told him that when he was prime minister we all wanted a peerage, something that would set us up for life. Tenny promised he would, if only to make us shut up: Lord Ken of t’Pit, Lord Dex of Cards, and Lord Stone of Stony Broke.

The smile left my face. It couldn’t disguise the grief I felt that someone like him, a man with a future and a purpose, had got zapped – while someone like me . . . well, I just plodded on.

Another flurry of toe- and heel-caps clicked along the flagstones as a group of officers and warrant officers made their way to the front pews. Then Dex and his girlfriend appeared, looking sharp in their immaculately tailored outfits. He was decked out in a black suit, crisp white shirt and thin black tie. She was in a short black dress and very high heels. Even her hair was jet black, in honour of the occasion. She still had her sunglasses on.

I recognized Dex straight away, even though he’d shaved off all his hair. It looked like his new thing was Buddhism. He didn’t see me. He was too busy feeling pleased with himself – every squaddie within a fifty-metre radius had leant across to cop a good look at his companion, elbowed his neighbour in the ribs and muttered what a lucky bastard he was.

Just a few paces behind – and dressed just as sharply – strutted the roll-up king. ‘Nicky boy, all right, son?’

He gave me a quick wink and carried on going with the flow. ‘The do . . .’ He raised an imaginary glass. ‘We’ll see you there, yeah?’

I nodded and grinned. These were the only two I wanted to spend time with today.

12

The lads at the back were packed shoulder to shoulder. Those who hadn’t been able to make it that far had to jostle for room on the cobblestones outside. The bugler fidgeted in one of the side chambers, now nervously flexing his lips. A dozen or so rows in front of me, Dex and Ken stood for a hymn. I could just see the shiny top of Dex’s head now and again when those behind him moved. The choir was really going for it, and so was he. Ten years of starting school with chapel every morning probably got you into the swing of things. The tall bird next to him didn’t seem to share his gusto. Now she’d removed her glasses I could tell she was bored out of her perfectly shaped skull.

The only thing Dex seemed to have changed was his hairdo and the ribbon on his chest. He’d won the DFC in Iraq four years ago, just before he got out of the RAF. Dex’s dad would have been really proud. When Hitler marched on Poland, Dex’s dad, the seventh son of a maharajah, was just graduating from one of the poshest private schools in India. The moment Neville Chamberlain declared war on Germany, so did the Viceroy. He didn’t consult the Indian Army, of course, but that’s colonialism for you. Thousands rallied to Lord Linlithgow’s call, and Dex Senior’s headmaster, an Old Etonian, made sure that when all his lads left for England they carried letters of introduction to an old schoolmate of his, an air vice marshal in the RAF.

Dex’s dad took to the skies over London and Kent in a Hurricane, and if he was anything like his son, he’d have flown with a white silk scarf sticking out behind him on a coat hanger. After the battle of Britain, he fought in North Africa and Burma, winning the DSO and ending his career as a group captain. He stayed in England, made a fortune, inherited a couple of others, and sent his only child to Eton in honour of his old headmaster. The only downside to the Khattri story was that Dex’s dad must have been as mad as he was. When he died, most of the cash went in death duties.

The Berlin ponytail had been about Dex keeping the RAF on their toes. He said his dad had flown in a turban and kept a spare in his flying jacket in case he became a PoW, and he was keeping up the tradition. The high command couldn’t make up their minds whether he was honouring a sacred tradition or taking the piss, and that suited him just fine. He’d liked to keep people guessing.

The madness and the hair weren’t Dex’s only claims to fame. He was such a fine athlete that he beat all-comers at the 100 metres when he was at Eton – despite having had to stop and put his massive dick back into his shorts after it popped out in all the excitement. Sports Day had never been the same there since.

Red Ken had gone totally grey, and the extra creases in his face had moved him on from basset hound to deflated barrage balloon. His nickname had originated during the miners’ strikes in ’84 and ’85. His family had been down t’pit for generations. His dad and two brothers had fought the police from the picket lines. Red Ken, along with quite a few others from mining families, had refused to meet Maggie Thatcher when she took time off from haranguing Arthur Scargill to visit Stirling Lines.

The great and the good from the MoD trooped up and gave their addresses, then a couple of Tenny’s sisters got to their feet. One of them read a poem, the other extracts from letters he’d sent from Afghanistan. There wasn’t a dry female eye in the house, apart from the tall one’s, of course. I even saw a couple of guys’ hands go up and brush away a tear.

The big moment came. The six pallbearers, all bulled up in their number-twos, moved up the aisle at a slow march. Pikey was one pace behind. The bugler got his lips in gear. Every man and his dog kept their fingers firmly crossed.

As the hymn finished, the coffin was slowly raised from its cradle. Pikey stood at the head, his hand touching the wood. He guided its ascent onto six shoulders with a combination of reverence and precision that had us all reaching for the Kleenex now.

The cathedral fell silent. There was a muffled sob from the family seats, then the squeak of perfectly synchronized boots as the crew carried their heavy load. With Pikey leading, Tenny was marched slowly back down the aisle. The first mournful notes of the Last Post sounded across the nave. Every head swivelled as the coffin passed. Immediately behind it, the family huddled together, supporting each other as they walked, followed at a respectful distance by the lads with the scrambled egg.

Janice looked as beautiful as ever, and so did the teenage twins. Their mother pushed one in her wheelchair and a much older man pushed the other. They wore identical long black velvet dresses that didn’t quite conceal the sheepskin-padded straps that held their ankles. They had bibs around their necks to catch the saliva, but nothing could stop their heads moving rhythmically from side to side. Tenny and Janice’s perfect world had collapsed around them when the girls were born – but their care had become the only thing that mattered.

As the coffin reached the courtyard, the bugle call faded. It had been note perfect. The organ sparked up, which seemed to be the signal for everyone to exchange a few hushed words.

The cathedral began to empty from the front. Red Ken and Dex filed past. Red Ken gave me another little nod and gestured discreetly to meet outside. Dex didn’t seem to understand protocol. He grinned from ear to ear as the tall one slid her sun-gigs back on, and gave me a big slap on the shoulder. ‘Great, wasn’t it? Splendid selection of hymns. I wouldn’t mind the same when I crash. Looking forward to the wake.’ He made a coming-for-a-drink? gesture.

I nodded and waited for my turn to leave.

By the time I got outside, the hearse was pulling away. Everyone in uniform saluted the coffin and the people in three black limos leaving for the private burial.

Then the mayhem began.

‘Great service, wasn’t it?’ they all bellowed to each other. But unlike Dex, who’d meant it, they were just going through the motions.

A voice piped up behind me that would have done the Tetley Tea Folk proud: ‘I’d rather have a shite life than a good service – that right, Nick?’

I turned and now I could smile. ‘How’s it going, Red?’

‘Better than it looks as though it’s going for you, son. Look at you – shit state. Get yourself a decent suit.’ He produced a pack of Benson & Hedges.

I shook my head, pointing at the disappearing black limos. ‘You’ll be hitching a lift in one of those any minute now, if you keep on with that shit.’

‘Good to know you still care, lad.’ He put one in his mouth and coaxed a flame from a purple disposable. He nodded across the cobblestoned courtyard. It had started to glisten in the light drizzle. I pulled up my collar and we started to walk.

‘How you been, anyway?’ he said. ‘I haven’t heard much about you since you left.’

‘This and that.’

‘The Firm, Dex said.’

‘Only when I first got out. I binned it. They hated me anyway.’

He laughed. ‘They hate everyone, lad. You want a lift up to the do?’

We’d reached the road. Red Ken pressed a key fob and the indicators flashed on a long silver Merc.

‘Whoa, you haven’t done badly!’

He grinned as he opened the passenger door for me. ‘Better than most. Still way behind Tenny, of course.’

I nodded. ‘But he never made prime minister.’

‘He still owes us our fucking peerages.’ He waved to a couple of lads who recognized him, threw away his half-smoked B&H and opened the driver’s door. He got in and played about with his seatbelt.

We nudged into the traffic as the one big wiper silently removed the rain. I sank back into a world of black leather. The Premiership player in the dark grey suit was standing back from the crowd, watching the Merc disappear. ‘How’re Chrissie and the girls, Red?’

He concentrated for a moment on the road as we wove through groups of mourners wandering oblivious to the traffic because they were too busy waffling to the mates they hadn’t seen since the last funeral they’d all been to.

Finally he shook his head. ‘She binned me. The youngest is in the States. The other married a hairdresser and fucked off to Australia. Can’t blame them. Fuck-all left in Brown’s Britain, is there?’ He continued before I could even draw breath, keen to change the subject. Fair one. ‘What about you? Remarried? Kids?’

‘Nah.’

‘So it’s just you on your own, is it? Nicky No-mates-and-no-money?’

I smiled. ‘Yep, just me. Who’s the woman?’

‘In the sun-gigs? Cinza. Not a clue why she’s with him. Maybe she saw him in his running shorts. She works in London for some Italian fashion mag.’

The one-way system was blocked. It would have been quicker to walk. The Merc finally glided into the car park opposite the drill hall.

‘What do you do, Ken? How do I get one of these?’

We climbed out into the drizzle and jogged towards the queue at the open door of the nineteenth-century Territorial Army building.

He grinned. ‘Same as you – this and that.’

‘Must be a better bit of this and that than I’ve been fucking about with. I’ve been on the circuit now and again, daily rates.’

‘Still got your house?’

I shook my head. ‘Renting – a studio flat in north London, near Tufnell Park.’

He slapped me on the back. ‘There’s fuck-all wrong with you, is there? You need to sort yourself out, mate. Get a roof over your head and a good woman under you.’

We filed in. The bar was doing a roaring trade. The bowls of peanuts on the veneered tables were already nearly empty.

‘There they are.’

Dex and Cinza were standing by a table on which sat two fresh pints, and Cinza was clearly trying to work out what the hell was happening – why all these people were drinking and shovelling peanuts down their necks like there was no tomorrow.