romantic evenings by the fire listening to them, yeah?’
Tom grinned. ‘Where do I begin? You’re about a third to a half right, which is probably about as good as it ever gets with you, isn’t it? Stravinsky was a Russian, though he did live in France for a long time, and Lang Lang is Chinese.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yah, yah, yada fucking yada. Whoever they fucking are, and wherever they fucking come from, it all sounds the fucking same to me.’
‘Gav, you’d give Philistines a bad name, you would. I even bought you the CD last year, remember?’
‘Yeah, I know, and thank you. It makes a great beer mat. Barry White’s all you need to knock the birds bandy.’
Tom reached across and switched the radio back to Stravinsky. ‘Get used to it, mate. My roof, my rules. You’re living with me now. And if you ever manage to find someone stupid enough to marry you again, I intend to make sure they’ll be getting a cultured man.’ He shot him a sideways glance. ‘Trust me, she’ll love you for it. Now relax, listen and learn.’
Tom leaned back in his seat, tapping out the rhythm on the steering-wheel. After another loud sigh, Gavin reclined his seat as far as it would go, closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep.
They eventually rolled into the Lines, just outside Hereford, and the Blue team’s hangar. The new Lines, an old RAF camp, had been officially opened in 2000 after the Regiment had moved from Stirling Lines on the edge of the city. The old Lines had looked more like a 1980s red-brick university and hadn’t had the room needed for an ever-growing Special Forces contingent, or been able to accommodate larger aircraft like Chinooks. When the RAF had abandoned the base, it was a no-brainer.
‘Why the Lines?’ Delphine had asked him.
The term had been used in the British Army for hundreds of years, Tom had explained, and referred to the tent lines that solders inhabited in the field. ‘The rows of tents had to be in perfect alignment – even the guy ropes and pegs had to be just so.’
Now Gavin sat up, yawned and stretched, then jumped out. ‘We’d better motor,’ he said. ‘It’s five o’clock already and we’ve got a big night ahead of us.’
‘Always the optimist, aren’t you?’ Tom pulled his ready-bag out of the back of the wagon. ‘I’m the one with the big night ahead. The most you’ve got to look forward to is a couple of pints with the lads, then falling asleep on the sofa watching Hollyoaks on catch-up.’
‘Mate, you’re wrong there.’ Gavin shouldered his own ready-bag and headed for the door. ‘In fact, I intend to have a very big night with all the money I’ll be collecting later.’
20
THE REST OF Blue team arrived over the next forty minutes and spent a couple of hours cleaning their weapons and sorting out their kit. There was a quick debrief in the crew room with Major Ashton, though not the full post-mortem, which wouldn’t take place until the next day.
Tom headed for the washroom. He’d towelled himself dry and was dressed before most of the rest were out of the showers. His Omega Planet Ocean told him it was fast approaching 20.00 hours. He weighed it for a moment in his hand. Lots of guys in the Regiment had one, but it never failed to give him a kick. The offer of a special-edition watch had been made by the company a couple of years earlier, the sort of deal usually reserved for Formula One teams and Premiership clubs. It was a good marketing ploy, and the Regiment guys got a great watch at a discount.
The Regiment version looked like a regular Planet Ocean, until you turned it over. The engraved case-back had a winged dagger in the centre, ‘22 Special Air Service’ around the circle, and the first two letters of the wearer’s surname, followed by two digits indicating the year he’d passed Selection, then the last four digits of his army number. On the case side, between the shoulders, he could still read,‘ALWAYS A LITTLE FURTHER’, taken
Tom grinned. ‘Where do I begin? You’re about a third to a half right, which is probably about as good as it ever gets with you, isn’t it? Stravinsky was a Russian, though he did live in France for a long time, and Lang Lang is Chinese.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yah, yah, yada fucking yada. Whoever they fucking are, and wherever they fucking come from, it all sounds the fucking same to me.’
‘Gav, you’d give Philistines a bad name, you would. I even bought you the CD last year, remember?’
‘Yeah, I know, and thank you. It makes a great beer mat. Barry White’s all you need to knock the birds bandy.’
Tom reached across and switched the radio back to Stravinsky. ‘Get used to it, mate. My roof, my rules. You’re living with me now. And if you ever manage to find someone stupid enough to marry you again, I intend to make sure they’ll be getting a cultured man.’ He shot him a sideways glance. ‘Trust me, she’ll love you for it. Now relax, listen and learn.’
Tom leaned back in his seat, tapping out the rhythm on the steering-wheel. After another loud sigh, Gavin reclined his seat as far as it would go, closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep.
They eventually rolled into the Lines, just outside Hereford, and the Blue team’s hangar. The new Lines, an old RAF camp, had been officially opened in 2000 after the Regiment had moved from Stirling Lines on the edge of the city. The old Lines had looked more like a 1980s red-brick university and hadn’t had the room needed for an ever-growing Special Forces contingent, or been able to accommodate larger aircraft like Chinooks. When the RAF had abandoned the base, it was a no-brainer.
‘Why the Lines?’ Delphine had asked him.
The term had been used in the British Army for hundreds of years, Tom had explained, and referred to the tent lines that solders inhabited in the field. ‘The rows of tents had to be in perfect alignment – even the guy ropes and pegs had to be just so.’
Now Gavin sat up, yawned and stretched, then jumped out. ‘We’d better motor,’ he said. ‘It’s five o’clock already and we’ve got a big night ahead of us.’
‘Always the optimist, aren’t you?’ Tom pulled his ready-bag out of the back of the wagon. ‘I’m the one with the big night ahead. The most you’ve got to look forward to is a couple of pints with the lads, then falling asleep on the sofa watching Hollyoaks on catch-up.’
‘Mate, you’re wrong there.’ Gavin shouldered his own ready-bag and headed for the door. ‘In fact, I intend to have a very big night with all the money I’ll be collecting later.’
20
THE REST OF Blue team arrived over the next forty minutes and spent a couple of hours cleaning their weapons and sorting out their kit. There was a quick debrief in the crew room with Major Ashton, though not the full post-mortem, which wouldn’t take place until the next day.
Tom headed for the washroom. He’d towelled himself dry and was dressed before most of the rest were out of the showers. His Omega Planet Ocean told him it was fast approaching 20.00 hours. He weighed it for a moment in his hand. Lots of guys in the Regiment had one, but it never failed to give him a kick. The offer of a special-edition watch had been made by the company a couple of years earlier, the sort of deal usually reserved for Formula One teams and Premiership clubs. It was a good marketing ploy, and the Regiment guys got a great watch at a discount.
The Regiment version looked like a regular Planet Ocean, until you turned it over. The engraved case-back had a winged dagger in the centre, ‘22 Special Air Service’ around the circle, and the first two letters of the wearer’s surname, followed by two digits indicating the year he’d passed Selection, then the last four digits of his army number. On the case side, between the shoulders, he could still read,‘ALWAYS A LITTLE FURTHER’, taken
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