this for a game of soldiers, Dillon was thinking. He looked down at his new pair of shoes, up to the welts in mud, and then glared round at the heaped-up wrecks, rusty engines, crazed windscreens, leaking sumps, the assembled detritus of a thousand crashes stacked under the viaduct that carried the lines south-west from Waterloo. Leave it to me, Steve had said. Famous last fucking words. Might as well leave brain surgery to Stevie Wonder. Dillon could see Steve through the window of the lean-to shack that passed as an office — at least see as much of him as the cracked, filthy panes and cardboard covering the gaps allowed. Patience worn to a brittle point, Dillon was about to storm in when Steve emerged with a mechanic in overalls sagging with grease and engine-oil. The mechanic, sixty if he was a day, was thumbing through a dog-eared ledger, pausing now and then to wipe his nose with the back of his hand. Dillon unfolded his arms. ‘Where’s the car, Steve?’ The mechanic said, ‘Hopefully picking up the bride — it’s not due back until four.’ He looked up from the ledger, eyes bloodshot in the corners. ‘How many days did you want it for, Steve?’ Dillon’s nostrils were white and pinched. He burst out angrily, ‘What is this…?’ ‘The only day it’s needed is the Wednesday of the first week,’ the mechanic went on, ‘there’s a big funeral from twelve till —’ ‘Forget it.’ Dillon made a sweeping gesture with the flat of his hand and turned away, yanking his shoes from the mire. He took one look back at Steve. ‘Stay away from me, okay?’ And really meant it. ‘Arms dealers, that’s what they are — and the prat gets a weddin’ Roller lined up!’ Dillon stood at the press-ups bench, his hands underneath but not touching the bar Jimmy was hefting, acting as safety back-up as the big lad did ten reps with forty kilos. Face contorted, lower lip between his teeth, Jimmy strained with the last one, got it full stretch, and Dillon eased it onto the dead-weight brackets. ‘You know he’s a liability…’ Jimmy panted, taking in deep breaths. He relaxed, broad muscular chest beaded with sweat, the veins standing out over the bulge of his biceps. He not only looked good, he had all the gear to show it off: black cutaway singlet, dark-grey exercise shorts with purple stripes and high vents at the sides, Reeboks that must have set him back a hundred and forty pounds. ‘Don’t know why you waste your time with him.’ Upside-down to Dillon, his forehead wrinkled as he looked into Dillon’s eyes. ‘You wanna see if I can line something up?’ ‘Not with that crook Newman. Why do you keep trying, Jimmy? I don’t wanna know.’ Dillon wasn’t angry, just a bit pissed-off. He slid another two ten kilos onto the bar, snapped the locks shut. He sighed. ‘If this had worked out, Cliff could have farmed out more work on the QT…’ Jimmy snorted derisively. ‘I heard Sambo Morgan was still doin’ transport — just switched his uniform. He’s another prat!’ He jerked his thumb, indicating the bar. ‘I’ll need a hand with these, just do three to five reps. I don’t understand you, Frank. At The Depot you wouldn’t give Cliff the time of day, now… Uggghhhhhh shit!’ His arms tautened, muscles solid and bulging as he took the strain. ‘Okay, I’m set.’ ‘Right now I need any break I can get,’ Dillon said grimly. ‘What do you come out with — uhhhh! — at the end of the day?’ ‘Fair whack — course, we got to hire the uniforms.’ Dillon’s cupped hands followed the rising and sinking bar. He said, ‘Don’t strain, mind your back… easy now…’ The three character traits most highly valued — and actively encouraged — by the Parachute Regiment were aggression, aggression, and aggression. Not only directed at the enemy, but internalised too, to make a man overcome his natural inclinations of fear and self-preservation when standing at the door of a Herc, hooked up
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