Refer Foreign and Commonwealth Office.
He has a big wide face, boyish, simple looking in a way. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’ Trace of red rising up his neck.
‘No secrets.’
‘I was company medical technician. Helped save some American’s life in Helmand. That got me invited to a functionat Winfield House, to meet a senator. Frankly some of their soldiers were pretty lightweight, all dicky sunglasses and chewing gum. Anyway, all the chat, the politeness, the pain of being on best behaviour, add a dozen or so sherbets on an empty stomach, and I sort of lost it a bit. Found myself in some crapper needing an up-chuck. Didn’t quite get my head in the bowl. Sort of coughed everything up into a nice fluffy towel . . .’
‘Why was that a problem?’
‘Well, I don’t know what I was thinking, but I didn’t put it in the laundry basket. Wanted to cover my tracks, sort of.’
‘Where did you put it, Button?’
‘I sort of folded the towel back up again. Made it look like nothing had happened. I thought I was being dead clever.’
‘And then you put it back in the cupboard?’
Button’s neck had flushed with embarrassment. But there had been a wry look of humour in his eyes too . . . he’d have worn no end of grief for this from his officers. Even more unforgiving would have been his mates.
‘And I’m presuming they had close-circuit television.’
‘Well, there was that. Also it turned out I was in the private crapper of the senator, and the wife took a shower that night and . . . well, she sort of . . . got the towel . . . and it wasn’t what she was expecting. Not the sort of freshness and fragrance she was used to. And so she got a bit fucking stressy. Don’t quite remember . . .’ He shakes his head, as though still a bit mystified. ‘Hell of a kerfuffle that was.’
‘Yes, Button. I can just imagine how delighted everybody was.’
‘There going to be any nobby social engagements in this line of work, ma’am?’
‘I’ll keep them to a minimum for you . . .’
Shoe. Colour Sergeant, C Coy., 3 Para: ‘You don’t like my tattoo?’ He looks at her, genuinely shocked.
‘I think you need to let your hair grow through . . .’
Shoe’s scalp was shaved bald. Above his neck, like some Hells Angel gang member, he’d had the words Utrinque Paratus freshly tattooed in Gothic lettering. Ready for Anything, the Para motto.
‘You’re finding it hard to let go, aren’t you?’
There’s a brief flash of light in Shoe’s eyes, a fleeting thought that he could hold the lie. Then his body droops, and his eyes follow the patterns on the carpet around the hotel room until he feels strong enough to look up at her again.
‘I was part of a team. Best damned team in the world. We had élan. Esprit de corps . We trained. We fought. We held up our end . . .’ His voice breaks with emotion, and it’s a tiny child’s voice that whispers, ‘and now it’s all gone and I feel so dead inside . . . terrible.’
He told her how he’d got a job at McDonald’s. He’d read something about the team ethos they had, which sounded vaguely Para-esque. ‘I started as a batch cooker then they put me on HBOS.’
‘HBOS?’
‘The guy in the window of the drive-through: Hang Bag Out and Smile. I must have looked into a thousand faces, dipped my head, said my Thank you, sir or Sorry about the mix-up, sir . And all the time I’m asking them, Do you know, do you even care, how many people are risking their lives for you right now?’ ‘You didn’t get the answer you wanted . . .’
‘Not even close: between the bastard youth of today and the politicians who’ve never served, don’t know what the armed services is about, what it means . . . it was doing my bloody nut in.’
‘Shoe. Listen to me. I’m serious about the hair. You have to let it go. You’re a civilian now; that Utrinque Paratus stuff, it’s over. It’s like school: nice to remember back, but when you’re done, you’ve got to
He has a big wide face, boyish, simple looking in a way. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’ Trace of red rising up his neck.
‘No secrets.’
‘I was company medical technician. Helped save some American’s life in Helmand. That got me invited to a functionat Winfield House, to meet a senator. Frankly some of their soldiers were pretty lightweight, all dicky sunglasses and chewing gum. Anyway, all the chat, the politeness, the pain of being on best behaviour, add a dozen or so sherbets on an empty stomach, and I sort of lost it a bit. Found myself in some crapper needing an up-chuck. Didn’t quite get my head in the bowl. Sort of coughed everything up into a nice fluffy towel . . .’
‘Why was that a problem?’
‘Well, I don’t know what I was thinking, but I didn’t put it in the laundry basket. Wanted to cover my tracks, sort of.’
‘Where did you put it, Button?’
‘I sort of folded the towel back up again. Made it look like nothing had happened. I thought I was being dead clever.’
‘And then you put it back in the cupboard?’
Button’s neck had flushed with embarrassment. But there had been a wry look of humour in his eyes too . . . he’d have worn no end of grief for this from his officers. Even more unforgiving would have been his mates.
‘And I’m presuming they had close-circuit television.’
‘Well, there was that. Also it turned out I was in the private crapper of the senator, and the wife took a shower that night and . . . well, she sort of . . . got the towel . . . and it wasn’t what she was expecting. Not the sort of freshness and fragrance she was used to. And so she got a bit fucking stressy. Don’t quite remember . . .’ He shakes his head, as though still a bit mystified. ‘Hell of a kerfuffle that was.’
‘Yes, Button. I can just imagine how delighted everybody was.’
‘There going to be any nobby social engagements in this line of work, ma’am?’
‘I’ll keep them to a minimum for you . . .’
Shoe. Colour Sergeant, C Coy., 3 Para: ‘You don’t like my tattoo?’ He looks at her, genuinely shocked.
‘I think you need to let your hair grow through . . .’
Shoe’s scalp was shaved bald. Above his neck, like some Hells Angel gang member, he’d had the words Utrinque Paratus freshly tattooed in Gothic lettering. Ready for Anything, the Para motto.
‘You’re finding it hard to let go, aren’t you?’
There’s a brief flash of light in Shoe’s eyes, a fleeting thought that he could hold the lie. Then his body droops, and his eyes follow the patterns on the carpet around the hotel room until he feels strong enough to look up at her again.
‘I was part of a team. Best damned team in the world. We had élan. Esprit de corps . We trained. We fought. We held up our end . . .’ His voice breaks with emotion, and it’s a tiny child’s voice that whispers, ‘and now it’s all gone and I feel so dead inside . . . terrible.’
He told her how he’d got a job at McDonald’s. He’d read something about the team ethos they had, which sounded vaguely Para-esque. ‘I started as a batch cooker then they put me on HBOS.’
‘HBOS?’
‘The guy in the window of the drive-through: Hang Bag Out and Smile. I must have looked into a thousand faces, dipped my head, said my Thank you, sir or Sorry about the mix-up, sir . And all the time I’m asking them, Do you know, do you even care, how many people are risking their lives for you right now?’ ‘You didn’t get the answer you wanted . . .’
‘Not even close: between the bastard youth of today and the politicians who’ve never served, don’t know what the armed services is about, what it means . . . it was doing my bloody nut in.’
‘Shoe. Listen to me. I’m serious about the hair. You have to let it go. You’re a civilian now; that Utrinque Paratus stuff, it’s over. It’s like school: nice to remember back, but when you’re done, you’ve got to
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