Civvies by Lynda La Plante Page B

to the static line, Red on, Green on — go, go, go! You didn’t just fall out of the aircraft (that way the slipstream would whirl you round and you’d end up with a faceful of rivets), you had to punch yourself into the air in order to get clear. Dillon had seen a seasoned Para freeze at that moment, and it took three despatchers to heave him out, bashing his arm to make him let go of the strop. Focused, controlled aggression, that’s what was required. And that’s how Jimmy went at it now, grunting and scowling each time he pushed the bar to arm’s length as if he bore the sixty kilos a personal grudge. Possessing a good physique, strong bone structure, and being in peak condition did the rest. ‘We’ll have to shell out a few readies to Cliff for puttin’ us on it,’ Dillon grunted, settling the bar on the brackets. Jimmy sat up, towelling his neck and shoulders. ‘But you need a motor, right?’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ ‘No kiddin’?’ Dillon’s face lit up. Jimmy put his arm round Dillon’s shoulders, gave him a fat smile. ‘Let’s have a shower first, eh?’ Mary Davies let herself in and dumped the two plastic carrier-bags of shopping next to the hallstand, kneading her fingers to get the circulation going again. She stared with undiluted hatred at the wall at the foot of the stairs. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump – Behind the pounding bass, the sharper stacatto rattle of a snare drum coming from next door’s back bedroom. The punk drummer paused, a moment’s blessed respite, and then started over again, practising the same machine-gun attack, paused, repeated it. ‘Taffy?’ Mary shouted up the stairs. ‘Taff?!’ When there was no answer she picked up her shopping and headed for the kitchen, calling, ‘Meg, did your Daddy go out? Can you hear me? I’m surprised I can hear myself with that racket! Megan…’ Mary pushed open the door with her backside and stopped dead at the sight of the contents of her fridge stacked on the kitchen table: packets of frozen foods, processed cheese, carton of eggs, fruit juice, a full and a half-empty bottle of milk. And next to the washing machine, a gaping hole where the fridge had been. Mary slowly shook her head, faced screwed tight. The bailiffs had even taken the Wylex plug. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump –
    Dillon side-stepped the bikes and went through into the living-room, dropping his carrier-bag just in time to catch Kenny who came hurtling out of the kitchen, scoop him up and swing him onto his shoulders. Little Phil tugged at Dillon’s trousers, wanting his turn. Dillon yelled towards the stairs, ‘Steve, you in? Steve?’ Susie was halfway down, carrying the Hoover, dragging the flex after her. She mouthed at him, ‘Bedroom,’ and gave Dillon a dark look. ‘He’s drinking,’ she said in a low voice, ‘came in with it.’ Dillon swung the boy down and went past Susie on the stairs. He paused and looked back at her. ‘We got the job.’ ‘You did? That’s marvellous!’ Smile breaking, eyes aglow, making her look about eighteen. ‘Does that mean he’ll be leaving?’ Susie whispered, glancing up at the ceiling. ‘Soon as we’re paid,’ said Dillon crisply, and carried on. ‘Hey, Steve!’ The phone rang. Susie plugged the Hoover into the hall socket and got up off her knees to answer it. British Telecom’s modernisation programme hadn’t reached this part of south Wales. It was a wonder the old-fashioned cast-iron telephone box was even in working order, considering that most of the windows were broken. There was a soggy bag of stale chips in the corner and the distinct whiff of urine, bi-lingual obscenities scrawled in felt-tip on every flat surface. Forehead pressed against the cold glass pane, Taffy Davies stared out at the rain sweeping down from a grey Cardiff sky, words tumbling out of him, just glad there was a familiar, friendly voice at the other end. ‘The bastards play music all day, all night,’ he