most crowded piece of real-estate on earth, if you believed even half the people who claimed to have been on the team. Ken really had gone in through the front window, though he would never boast about it. He never boasted about anything else either, which was one of the reasons his and Jill’s place was my next port of call. Another was that his and his nephew’s names were on the list me and Trev had agreed by the dam.
I’d overnighted at the Hunter’s Lodge on the outskirts of Wincanton, in return for a handful of Sniper One’s notes. They’d given me a warm welcome in the bar, and apologized that the kitchen was closed. That wasn’t a problem for me. I’d already stopped for a burger and Coke outside Chippenham and only needed a shit, shower and shave, followed by a good night’s sleep.
The cathedral spire was better than satnav when you needed to find your way to Salisbury. At 123 metres it was the tallest in Britain, and had been for more than seven hundred and fifty years. I’d first seen it when I’d spent a few weeks at Larkhill Camp, up by Stonehenge, during my early days with the Green Army.
I followed the ring road and took the turning to the Culver Street multi-storey car park. I didn’t want to leave the 911 anywhere near Ken and Jill’s. I didn’t think I’d been followed from Gloucestershire, but Salisbury was the next best thing to a garrison city, and if Trev was right about the CQB shit going all the way to the top, I didn’t want to tempt Fate.
I swapped my Gore-Tex for my bomber jacket, made sure I was out of sight of the CCTV cameras, then slid the Browning into my belt and the spare mag into my left pocket. Another old habit: the weight of the mag made it easier to flick back that side of the jacket if you had to draw down – not that it would make much difference with a case of beer and a bouquet of flowers under my arm.
Ken claimed that Fiji wasn’t as close to Paradise as the fantasy travel ads would have you think, but every time I’d been to their neat terraced house on the south-eastern edge of the city I couldn’t help wondering whether the old boy really didn’t hanker for the white beaches and clear blue water of his birthplace. Whatever, as soon as you walked through Ken and Jill’s front porch you knew this was home.
I’d called from the Hunter’s Lodge so they were expecting me. I’d told Ken to fire up the earth oven and stand by for fresh supplies of beer – but to go easy on the kava . They came over a bit sensitive when you refused to get their ceremonial drink down your neck, but I’d explained that something was up, and I couldn’t afford to shift onto Fiji time. I didn’t add that I’d always hated the stuff, that it made my cheeks go numb and tasted like washing-up water.
Ken hadn’t changed a bit. He still had a face like a bag of walnuts. He gave me the world’s biggest man-hug before I’d even stepped into their hall. It reminded me that rugby football was as much their national sport as cannibalism, and that you sometimes couldn’t tell between them.
Jill stood behind him, as trim and blonde as she’d always been. When I’d got my breath back I held out the Cobra to him and the flowers – tulips that were so deep a purple they were almost black – I’d brought with me from Wincanton to her. I presented them with an exaggerated bow. ‘Your favourites, Mrs M. The same colour as your husband.’
That earned me a smile and a pantomime curtsy from Jill, and a thump on the back from Ken that rearranged most of my internal organs. We moved through to the garden room, from where I could see that the man of the house had already got busy with a fork and spade.
I turned to him as we took our seats. ‘I was joking about the earth oven.’
‘Good. I was doing the border.’ His weather-beaten face creased into a grin. ‘I’m not going out there after dark in this weather, man. We’d freeze our coconuts off, eh? But we’ll treat you to
I’d overnighted at the Hunter’s Lodge on the outskirts of Wincanton, in return for a handful of Sniper One’s notes. They’d given me a warm welcome in the bar, and apologized that the kitchen was closed. That wasn’t a problem for me. I’d already stopped for a burger and Coke outside Chippenham and only needed a shit, shower and shave, followed by a good night’s sleep.
The cathedral spire was better than satnav when you needed to find your way to Salisbury. At 123 metres it was the tallest in Britain, and had been for more than seven hundred and fifty years. I’d first seen it when I’d spent a few weeks at Larkhill Camp, up by Stonehenge, during my early days with the Green Army.
I followed the ring road and took the turning to the Culver Street multi-storey car park. I didn’t want to leave the 911 anywhere near Ken and Jill’s. I didn’t think I’d been followed from Gloucestershire, but Salisbury was the next best thing to a garrison city, and if Trev was right about the CQB shit going all the way to the top, I didn’t want to tempt Fate.
I swapped my Gore-Tex for my bomber jacket, made sure I was out of sight of the CCTV cameras, then slid the Browning into my belt and the spare mag into my left pocket. Another old habit: the weight of the mag made it easier to flick back that side of the jacket if you had to draw down – not that it would make much difference with a case of beer and a bouquet of flowers under my arm.
Ken claimed that Fiji wasn’t as close to Paradise as the fantasy travel ads would have you think, but every time I’d been to their neat terraced house on the south-eastern edge of the city I couldn’t help wondering whether the old boy really didn’t hanker for the white beaches and clear blue water of his birthplace. Whatever, as soon as you walked through Ken and Jill’s front porch you knew this was home.
I’d called from the Hunter’s Lodge so they were expecting me. I’d told Ken to fire up the earth oven and stand by for fresh supplies of beer – but to go easy on the kava . They came over a bit sensitive when you refused to get their ceremonial drink down your neck, but I’d explained that something was up, and I couldn’t afford to shift onto Fiji time. I didn’t add that I’d always hated the stuff, that it made my cheeks go numb and tasted like washing-up water.
Ken hadn’t changed a bit. He still had a face like a bag of walnuts. He gave me the world’s biggest man-hug before I’d even stepped into their hall. It reminded me that rugby football was as much their national sport as cannibalism, and that you sometimes couldn’t tell between them.
Jill stood behind him, as trim and blonde as she’d always been. When I’d got my breath back I held out the Cobra to him and the flowers – tulips that were so deep a purple they were almost black – I’d brought with me from Wincanton to her. I presented them with an exaggerated bow. ‘Your favourites, Mrs M. The same colour as your husband.’
That earned me a smile and a pantomime curtsy from Jill, and a thump on the back from Ken that rearranged most of my internal organs. We moved through to the garden room, from where I could see that the man of the house had already got busy with a fork and spade.
I turned to him as we took our seats. ‘I was joking about the earth oven.’
‘Good. I was doing the border.’ His weather-beaten face creased into a grin. ‘I’m not going out there after dark in this weather, man. We’d freeze our coconuts off, eh? But we’ll treat you to
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