help you with that too.'
'So do I,' said Matt.
Damien. Damien will know the right people to deal with.
Alison, Pinky and Perky exchanged glances. They are saying something, Matt realised. But not out loud. Not so I can hear it.
'It would be better if I chose the gang members,' said Alison.
'Better for you, maybe,' Matt said swiftly. He could see her face turning to stone and some words starting to form on her lips, and he could tell they were likely to be harsh. He relaxed, flashing her a grin – he could be manipulative too. 'Listen,' he said. 'The guy I have in mind is good, and I can trust him for reasons of my own. But if you don't like him, he's not in. OK?'
'Maybe,' said Alison.
'Meanwhile, I'll start talking to these guys.'
'It has to be secret,' said Perky. 'Any leaks will cost lives.'
'Hey,' said Matt, 'anything goes wrong, I'm the one who's getting his balls blown off.'
Alison looked towards Matt, her eyelashes dropping coyly, and her red, painted fingernails brushed the edge of his wrist. 'Mr Browning,' she said softly, 'thanks for accepting the mission. I'm sure it will be a pleasure for us to work together.'
The bar was hot and crowded, the smell of beer already thick in the air. Matt stood in the doorway for a moment, letting the scent of the place fill his nostrils. It wasn't a scent you could put in a shop. Nobody was ever going to bottle it and sell it as aftershave, but to him, it was as sweet as any cologne. It smelt like home.
He walked slowly through the room. The sergeants' mess was open every evening, and although it usually catered for only serving members, it was the venue for every reunion. Tonight, the class of 1990 – the year Matt had joined up – was meeting. That was one of the things Matt admired most: the spirit and camaraderie of the Regiment. You could leave it, but it never left you.
On the walls were photographs, paintings and captured weapons from past campaigns. Matt glanced to the left. Up there was a Barrett .50 sniper rifle, the model used by the IRA for the bulk of its assassinations of British soldiers. Matt had been on the team that captured that weapon from a Provo sniper in 1993, and the sight of it now stirred proud memories. Next to it was an AK-47 captured during the battle of Mirbat in Oman in 1972.
He caught the eye of one of a group of lads standing close to the bar. Young men, maybe twenty-six to twenty-eight. There was a look of hunger in their eyes. Like looking in a mirror, thought Matt, but one that returns a reflection of how you looked a decade ago. They might look like boys to him, but they were already battle-hardened sergeants. It reminded Matt of how he had aged over the past decade.
The Regiment teaches us how to do amazing things, he realised as he took his first sip of beer. Fantastic feats of endurance, physical stamina and bravery. But they don't teach us the lesson we most need: how to survive on the outside.
He heard a voice calling his name: a raucous Geordie accent he would have recognised anywhere. Steve Watts had been one of his great pals in the Regiment. They had been on the same training courses together. Matt always remembered a rain-sodden night hiking across the Brecon Beacons with a heavily laden bergen on his back, when it seemed as if every muscle was about to explode and his spirit was already past breaking point. It had only been Wattsie's jokes that had pulled him through. Another time they had been holed up together in the bleak, dark hills of County Antrim, ambushed by a group of Provos, heavily outnumbered and under withering fire. One of them had to make a break across open country to call in some back-up. Matt offered to flip a coin, but Wattsie had said no. He had a good feeling about it, and he'd take the chance.
Matt had met plenty of people since leaving the Regiment, and made lots of new friends, but none of them were brothers like Wattsie.
Playing with life and death. It forms bonds between men that are
'So do I,' said Matt.
Damien. Damien will know the right people to deal with.
Alison, Pinky and Perky exchanged glances. They are saying something, Matt realised. But not out loud. Not so I can hear it.
'It would be better if I chose the gang members,' said Alison.
'Better for you, maybe,' Matt said swiftly. He could see her face turning to stone and some words starting to form on her lips, and he could tell they were likely to be harsh. He relaxed, flashing her a grin – he could be manipulative too. 'Listen,' he said. 'The guy I have in mind is good, and I can trust him for reasons of my own. But if you don't like him, he's not in. OK?'
'Maybe,' said Alison.
'Meanwhile, I'll start talking to these guys.'
'It has to be secret,' said Perky. 'Any leaks will cost lives.'
'Hey,' said Matt, 'anything goes wrong, I'm the one who's getting his balls blown off.'
Alison looked towards Matt, her eyelashes dropping coyly, and her red, painted fingernails brushed the edge of his wrist. 'Mr Browning,' she said softly, 'thanks for accepting the mission. I'm sure it will be a pleasure for us to work together.'
The bar was hot and crowded, the smell of beer already thick in the air. Matt stood in the doorway for a moment, letting the scent of the place fill his nostrils. It wasn't a scent you could put in a shop. Nobody was ever going to bottle it and sell it as aftershave, but to him, it was as sweet as any cologne. It smelt like home.
He walked slowly through the room. The sergeants' mess was open every evening, and although it usually catered for only serving members, it was the venue for every reunion. Tonight, the class of 1990 – the year Matt had joined up – was meeting. That was one of the things Matt admired most: the spirit and camaraderie of the Regiment. You could leave it, but it never left you.
On the walls were photographs, paintings and captured weapons from past campaigns. Matt glanced to the left. Up there was a Barrett .50 sniper rifle, the model used by the IRA for the bulk of its assassinations of British soldiers. Matt had been on the team that captured that weapon from a Provo sniper in 1993, and the sight of it now stirred proud memories. Next to it was an AK-47 captured during the battle of Mirbat in Oman in 1972.
He caught the eye of one of a group of lads standing close to the bar. Young men, maybe twenty-six to twenty-eight. There was a look of hunger in their eyes. Like looking in a mirror, thought Matt, but one that returns a reflection of how you looked a decade ago. They might look like boys to him, but they were already battle-hardened sergeants. It reminded Matt of how he had aged over the past decade.
The Regiment teaches us how to do amazing things, he realised as he took his first sip of beer. Fantastic feats of endurance, physical stamina and bravery. But they don't teach us the lesson we most need: how to survive on the outside.
He heard a voice calling his name: a raucous Geordie accent he would have recognised anywhere. Steve Watts had been one of his great pals in the Regiment. They had been on the same training courses together. Matt always remembered a rain-sodden night hiking across the Brecon Beacons with a heavily laden bergen on his back, when it seemed as if every muscle was about to explode and his spirit was already past breaking point. It had only been Wattsie's jokes that had pulled him through. Another time they had been holed up together in the bleak, dark hills of County Antrim, ambushed by a group of Provos, heavily outnumbered and under withering fire. One of them had to make a break across open country to call in some back-up. Matt offered to flip a coin, but Wattsie had said no. He had a good feeling about it, and he'd take the chance.
Matt had met plenty of people since leaving the Regiment, and made lots of new friends, but none of them were brothers like Wattsie.
Playing with life and death. It forms bonds between men that are
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