sorry."
He was apologising uselessly. Babbling. Pratt. It was time to go. This was all a mistake.
“No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you. Or Vicky. You see, I didn't know she was married now." I walked towards the lift, while he stood irresolute in the door of the flat. The red leather moccasins leered incongruously from beneath the dark suit trousers.
"She sent you an invitation, you know. To the wedding . "
"Yes?" I stood waiting for the lift. "I was in hospital, I expect."
"Oh. He looked embarrassed and confused. "I'll tell her. She didn't know. She was quite - you know, upset when she couldn't get in touch with you. I think she was quite hurt; if you know what I mean. You never wrote or phoned, did you?"
"Yes. I know. Thanks." The lift arrived. "I'll send you a wedding present."
"No, no, there's really no need. I didn't mean that."
"Perhaps." I got in. The doors started to close. "Give her my love, and say goodbye for me."
"Goodb ...". The doors cut him off. What a pratt. I could see him in twenty years time. Fat, balding, a successful stockbroker in a Surrey mock- T udor pile. Probably a Daimler and screwing his secretary. And monogrammed red slippers from Jermyn Street. Poor old Vicky.
Nevertheless, I was shaken by the visit.
Not just by the hostility, which I could understand, but by the rejection. Of all the women I've known, I would have laid money on Vicky Barnes still being around. And I was puzzled by his remark about 'prison'. As I wandered listlessly to the underground I caught a glance of myself in a black glass window: bomber jacket, gaunt, with eyes startlingly bright in dark rimmed smudges and the shirt collar away from my neck. No wonder Cornish thought I'd been in the nick. All I needed was a brown paper parcel to complete the image. I looked like Central Casting's idea of a dope fiend in a James Dean movie.
Taking a deep breath, I determined to fatten myself up before starting back to work.
You can always find another woman. They’re like busses. Another one will always come along soon.
Anyway, I had to report back for duty.
CHAPTER 5
London
After nearly nine months away, my return to Di r ectorate Special Forces was a low key affair.
To my surprise my desk was filled by a pompous ex-Greenjacket with a blue chin, dark wavy hair which he self-consc i ously brushed back while he talked and a deep, patronizing voice. And he could talk all right. Apparently he had done great things in the Balkans and had once got an MBE for being brave somewhere. Big deal. I concealed my irritation and went looking for my mate, Alex Jackson. He'd visited me in the hospital bearing a bottle of The Balvenie. As I couldn't touch alcohol at the time it had been a pointless exercise, but the thought was good.
It had made me laugh too, to see the affronted Matron's face before she ordered Alex out for trying to lead me astray. "What are you thinking of? Are you trying to kill him?" she had indignantly demanded in her lilting Welsh. "Out you go! Out with you. Disgraceful!" Alex had grinned.
"Why not, Lady? He's tried to kill me often enough!" This was true, because I had left Alex in the lurch on a couple of occasion -- but never deliberately. Sometimes it just happens that way.
I tore myself away from the patronizing questioning of the new recruit. De Court was his name, which prejudiced me even more. "Where's Alex?" I demanded.
De Court looked shifty. "Haven't you heard? You'd better talk to the boss," he said, and that was all I could get out of him. Fuming, I stomped off to find Tony Bell. When I found him, I wished I hadn't.
"Alex is dead. " Tony looked me square in the eye. "I wanted to be the one who told you. No-one else. He got run over on the Kuwait-UAE road by a truck."
I must have looked appalled. "Yes. It shook us too. Alex was one of the best."
"When? Why didn't anyone
He was apologising uselessly. Babbling. Pratt. It was time to go. This was all a mistake.
“No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you. Or Vicky. You see, I didn't know she was married now." I walked towards the lift, while he stood irresolute in the door of the flat. The red leather moccasins leered incongruously from beneath the dark suit trousers.
"She sent you an invitation, you know. To the wedding . "
"Yes?" I stood waiting for the lift. "I was in hospital, I expect."
"Oh. He looked embarrassed and confused. "I'll tell her. She didn't know. She was quite - you know, upset when she couldn't get in touch with you. I think she was quite hurt; if you know what I mean. You never wrote or phoned, did you?"
"Yes. I know. Thanks." The lift arrived. "I'll send you a wedding present."
"No, no, there's really no need. I didn't mean that."
"Perhaps." I got in. The doors started to close. "Give her my love, and say goodbye for me."
"Goodb ...". The doors cut him off. What a pratt. I could see him in twenty years time. Fat, balding, a successful stockbroker in a Surrey mock- T udor pile. Probably a Daimler and screwing his secretary. And monogrammed red slippers from Jermyn Street. Poor old Vicky.
Nevertheless, I was shaken by the visit.
Not just by the hostility, which I could understand, but by the rejection. Of all the women I've known, I would have laid money on Vicky Barnes still being around. And I was puzzled by his remark about 'prison'. As I wandered listlessly to the underground I caught a glance of myself in a black glass window: bomber jacket, gaunt, with eyes startlingly bright in dark rimmed smudges and the shirt collar away from my neck. No wonder Cornish thought I'd been in the nick. All I needed was a brown paper parcel to complete the image. I looked like Central Casting's idea of a dope fiend in a James Dean movie.
Taking a deep breath, I determined to fatten myself up before starting back to work.
You can always find another woman. They’re like busses. Another one will always come along soon.
Anyway, I had to report back for duty.
CHAPTER 5
London
After nearly nine months away, my return to Di r ectorate Special Forces was a low key affair.
To my surprise my desk was filled by a pompous ex-Greenjacket with a blue chin, dark wavy hair which he self-consc i ously brushed back while he talked and a deep, patronizing voice. And he could talk all right. Apparently he had done great things in the Balkans and had once got an MBE for being brave somewhere. Big deal. I concealed my irritation and went looking for my mate, Alex Jackson. He'd visited me in the hospital bearing a bottle of The Balvenie. As I couldn't touch alcohol at the time it had been a pointless exercise, but the thought was good.
It had made me laugh too, to see the affronted Matron's face before she ordered Alex out for trying to lead me astray. "What are you thinking of? Are you trying to kill him?" she had indignantly demanded in her lilting Welsh. "Out you go! Out with you. Disgraceful!" Alex had grinned.
"Why not, Lady? He's tried to kill me often enough!" This was true, because I had left Alex in the lurch on a couple of occasion -- but never deliberately. Sometimes it just happens that way.
I tore myself away from the patronizing questioning of the new recruit. De Court was his name, which prejudiced me even more. "Where's Alex?" I demanded.
De Court looked shifty. "Haven't you heard? You'd better talk to the boss," he said, and that was all I could get out of him. Fuming, I stomped off to find Tony Bell. When I found him, I wished I hadn't.
"Alex is dead. " Tony looked me square in the eye. "I wanted to be the one who told you. No-one else. He got run over on the Kuwait-UAE road by a truck."
I must have looked appalled. "Yes. It shook us too. Alex was one of the best."
"When? Why didn't anyone
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