Street Soldier by Andy McNab Page B

eighteen months ago, about the estate. There’s foreigners moving in, Seany! Which basically meant strangers . Well, Sean didn’t recognize any of the kids clustered around the dry fountain in the middle of the square, knocking back tins of stuff they were way too young for. But he was prepared to be friendly, so he gave the hand sign that identified the Guyz – thumb, forefinger and little finger pressed together, other two fingers outstretched, hand held across his chest. It was meant to be something that could be used anywhere – it could look like a deliberate signal or it could look like you were just scratching your shoulder.
    ‘Hi, guys.’
    Three of them gave him the finger, two of them sniggered, one just rolled his eyes in disgust.
    ‘Fuck off, pig.’
    ‘ Pig? ’ Sean exclaimed, half laughing, half horrified. They thought he looked like a cop? Maybe he was just too smartly turned out. Shit. ‘No, mate, you got it all wrong. I was just on my way to shag your mum so I thought I’d be friendly.’
    That got their attention. They stood up, and two of them blocked his way.
    ‘You got a problem?’ the pig boy asked.
    ‘Nah.’ Sean took the smile off his face and looked at him the same way he looked through an ACOG at something he was about to shoot. He also didn’t break step. ‘You?’
    He saw their shoulders square up, their jaws go firm . . . and then give, as it dawned on them that they might match him in height but there was no way they matched him in build or confidence. They stepped aside and he walked between them, shoulders bumping.
    ‘Twat,’ one of the boys muttered. Sean held a finger up over his shoulder to say goodbye as he walked away.
    Now, that was interesting. A bunch of kids who obviously weren’t Guyz, acting like they owned the place. OK.
    He didn’t bother to see if the lift was working. Even if it had been, Sean knew from experience that the piss smell would be strongest inside it. He took the steps upto the fourth level two at a time, long legs falling automatically into the old rhythm that had always helped him keep in trim, even before the army. At least the graffiti was the same – the usual riotous swirl of colours, tags, slogans and misspelled obscenities. He swung onto level four and a grin appeared on his face as the stylized G that had always dominated the far wall came into view.
    But the grin stopped, and then faded, as he saw more of it. Only half the G was visible. The rest was covered over. He was pretty sure that at least two of the symbols and glyphs that had replaced it were gang logos, but he didn’t recognize either of them. There were slogans in English, and something foreign with letters he could at least read, and something even more foreign in squiggles that he had no clue about.
    OK . . .
    The balcony was worn and chipped, with graffiti on the bare concrete. He walked along to the third door and raised his hand to knock. And hesitated, millimetres from the scuffed paint of the door.
    Come on. Just knock. Get it done.
    He gave the number a last check – like there was any doubt about it being the right one – and knocked a quick rhythm against the wood. Then he stood back and waited.
    On the other side, he heard a door open, then footsteps shuffling closer. Sean checked to make sure he looked smart, presentable. He wanted his mum to see that her son was doing OK.
    The door opened.
    ‘Hello, love . . .’
    She seemed to say it to his shoulder. She couldn’t lift her head any higher. He stared down at her. He still towered over her, of course. Janice Harker was thirty-three years old, sixteen years older than him, but looked fifty, and the dye didn’t hide the grey. She’d done her hair and put on her best clothes for him – a fading blue dress over an appallingly thin figure. Eh? He had always thought of her as a soppy fat cow. Now she was anything but fat.
    And she had clearly spent some time on her make-up, but he didn’t know if that was to