stuff – casual kit, mostly – and another half empty pack of sertraline, which gave me the impression that though the hut might have been the venue for romantic dinners it sometimes doubled as Sam’s hide when he needed the world to go away. I rummaged through anything that had a pocket but found nothing more than a few squares of man-size Kleenex.
The stove had been used recently, but not cleaned or fully reloaded. I opened its door. A fistful of kindling, a fresh firelighter and four or five crumpled envelopes lay on the ash. Inside one of them, postmarked Monday, 9 January, was a hastily scrawled note: Mate, sorry about last night. Pissed again. Story of my life, these days. Not good. I can’t promise not to repeat, but I’ll do my best. It’s a fucker, isn’t it? Ever, Scott .
I re-crumpled and replaced it, and swung the door closed.
Outside, I was just about to climb back over the wall when something made me hesitate. I knelt down, slid beneath the hut and rolled onto my back. There was two feet or so of clearance between the ground and the underside of the structure.
The woodwork was as neat and symmetrical here as it had been up above. The access hatch at the end furthest from the steps was so carefully dovetailed into the main frame that, if I hadn’t spotted the finger-hole that triggered its bolt mechanism, I wouldn’t have noticed it.
I slithered across the damp grass, using my elbows, heels and shoulder-blades, and released it. At first, all I could feel was some electrical wiring, an insulation membrane and, between the joists, that fluffy stuff you find in the loft when your cold-water tank springs a leak. But when I shoved my arm as far as I could into the space below the floorboards, I touched something that hadn’t been part of the manufacturer’s spec.
I managed to get enough purchase on the chamois-leather package to extract it. Inside was a Browning Hi Power 9mm pistol with a loaded thirteen-round mag and a spare.
There were some people who believed that if you were in the Regiment you never went anywhere without one of these lumps of metal tucked under your bomber jacket, even in your spare time. But they could dream on. It looked like I’d uncovered Sam’s second court-martial offence.
Luckily I wasn’t in the army any more. I was about to put the spare mag in my pocket when I felt a vicelike grip on both my ankles, and my arse began to slide back into the open.
9
I firmed up my grip on the Browning, flicked off the safety catch and racked back its topslide. The metallic movement didn’t eject a chambered round before picking up the top one from the mag. I felt the burr hammer move back against the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger as the rest of me emerged from the underside of the hut.
I grasped my right wrist with my left hand and raised the muzzle.
‘What the fu —?’
Being on the wrong end of a weapon was usually enough to stop anyone who wasn’t used to it in mid-sentence, even a big lad in wellies and a boiler-suit.
I kept my voice low and in control. It was blindingly obvious that a combine harvester was more likely to be his weapon of choice than an MRUD, but he still didn’t look pleased. ‘Hands up . Come on, let me see them …’
He let go of my legs, almost in slow motion, and did as he was told.
I gestured for him to step back and got to my feet, keeping eyes and weapon on him throughout, in case he suddenly felt he had to do something stupid.
He didn’t need further encouragement. He looked like a power-lifter who’d forgotten his weights.
‘You can put ’em down now, but keep your distance.’
He lowered his arms. His fingers were like prize marrows. For a moment, he seemed not to know what to do with them. Then he hooked his thumbs in his thick leather belt.
‘You a mate of Sam and Ella?’
He nodded so hard I was worried he might do something bad to his neck. ‘I’m Gerry … from the top farm. I was just … I look after the
The stove had been used recently, but not cleaned or fully reloaded. I opened its door. A fistful of kindling, a fresh firelighter and four or five crumpled envelopes lay on the ash. Inside one of them, postmarked Monday, 9 January, was a hastily scrawled note: Mate, sorry about last night. Pissed again. Story of my life, these days. Not good. I can’t promise not to repeat, but I’ll do my best. It’s a fucker, isn’t it? Ever, Scott .
I re-crumpled and replaced it, and swung the door closed.
Outside, I was just about to climb back over the wall when something made me hesitate. I knelt down, slid beneath the hut and rolled onto my back. There was two feet or so of clearance between the ground and the underside of the structure.
The woodwork was as neat and symmetrical here as it had been up above. The access hatch at the end furthest from the steps was so carefully dovetailed into the main frame that, if I hadn’t spotted the finger-hole that triggered its bolt mechanism, I wouldn’t have noticed it.
I slithered across the damp grass, using my elbows, heels and shoulder-blades, and released it. At first, all I could feel was some electrical wiring, an insulation membrane and, between the joists, that fluffy stuff you find in the loft when your cold-water tank springs a leak. But when I shoved my arm as far as I could into the space below the floorboards, I touched something that hadn’t been part of the manufacturer’s spec.
I managed to get enough purchase on the chamois-leather package to extract it. Inside was a Browning Hi Power 9mm pistol with a loaded thirteen-round mag and a spare.
There were some people who believed that if you were in the Regiment you never went anywhere without one of these lumps of metal tucked under your bomber jacket, even in your spare time. But they could dream on. It looked like I’d uncovered Sam’s second court-martial offence.
Luckily I wasn’t in the army any more. I was about to put the spare mag in my pocket when I felt a vicelike grip on both my ankles, and my arse began to slide back into the open.
9
I firmed up my grip on the Browning, flicked off the safety catch and racked back its topslide. The metallic movement didn’t eject a chambered round before picking up the top one from the mag. I felt the burr hammer move back against the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger as the rest of me emerged from the underside of the hut.
I grasped my right wrist with my left hand and raised the muzzle.
‘What the fu —?’
Being on the wrong end of a weapon was usually enough to stop anyone who wasn’t used to it in mid-sentence, even a big lad in wellies and a boiler-suit.
I kept my voice low and in control. It was blindingly obvious that a combine harvester was more likely to be his weapon of choice than an MRUD, but he still didn’t look pleased. ‘Hands up . Come on, let me see them …’
He let go of my legs, almost in slow motion, and did as he was told.
I gestured for him to step back and got to my feet, keeping eyes and weapon on him throughout, in case he suddenly felt he had to do something stupid.
He didn’t need further encouragement. He looked like a power-lifter who’d forgotten his weights.
‘You can put ’em down now, but keep your distance.’
He lowered his arms. His fingers were like prize marrows. For a moment, he seemed not to know what to do with them. Then he hooked his thumbs in his thick leather belt.
‘You a mate of Sam and Ella?’
He nodded so hard I was worried he might do something bad to his neck. ‘I’m Gerry … from the top farm. I was just … I look after the
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