Red Notice (9 page)

The camp’s Grenadian physical training instructor was the ref. He was suffering from advanced alopecia, and the clumps of tight curly hair he had left looked like the island group he came from. That was what he said, anyway. The PTI got them to touch gloves. Then they were fighting. Within the blink of an eye, while Ashton was still going into his fighting stance, Tom had leaped in, landed a heavy punch on the Boss’s face, and followed it with three more, his fists beating a quick-fire tattoo.

People like Tom had the ability to keep totally in control and still think clearly when the adrenalin was pumping. It had nothing to do with bravery. It had to do with being in control of his heartbeat when it would be natural to flap big-time, and that only came from long hours of training.

Stress actually improved Tom’s performance. It always had. Even at Eton, Tom had stood out on the rugby pitch when the pressure was on. Most people’s heart rate rose with their adrenalin level – all good stuff when you needed flight-or-fight to get you out of trouble. However, there was an optimal state of arousal – when a heart rate was between 115 and 145 beats per minute. Anything above that and the body stopped being
able to control what it was doing because the brain started to shut down.

Most people then became as enraged as an angry dog – which was why some wet and soiled themselves in a firefight. Their heartbeat was so fast – 175 or above – that the brain told itself that control of the bowels and bladder was no longer an essential activity: it had bigger problems. It needed to protect the body it was in so had to keep focused on the challenge. It made all its muscles go as hard as armour to limit bleeding if its body was zapped. But all that effort, which took less than a second to cut in, made it even more clumsy, stupid and helpless in a fight.

That was why people found it hard to call 999 with their heart rate at warp speed and their co-ordination in decline. The brain forgot the number, or the eyes couldn’t see the digits on the phone, or the finger didn’t connect before its owner was screaming into the mouthpiece and flapping even more when no one answered.

With barely a pause, he followed the action with two hooks to Ashton’s body, then a savage uppercut.

There was a roar from the crowd as Ashton caught air, toppled backwards, bounced off the wall of the bouncy castle and rebounded once more onto the castle’s rubber floor.

Tom ignored the noise from around the ring, still all business, his eyes fixed on his opponent as he stumbled to his feet. Ashton might have gone down once, but he had to go down twice more or be knocked out before his fight was over. Tom used Ashton’s momentum against him, bluffing to throw a punch, then swaying to one side, like a matador, as Ashton rushed him, and swivelling to land four quick punches into his kidneys.

As Ashton swung round to face him again, Tom let go one final, brutal punch, delivered with all the force he could put behind it. It smashed into Ashton’s nose, crunching bone and gristle, and sending a spray of blood and sweat arcing upwards. Tom turned his back and headed for the castle sides
to rest, knowing that Ashton would not be getting up any time soon.

A roar from the crowd exploded in his ears. He was back in the real world.

Gavin shouted Tom’s name and rubbed his thumb and fingers together in the ‘money’ gesture.

It took him no more than twenty seconds and a swift flurry of punches, to dispose of the next officer, a young captain, who had only been in the Regiment for a few weeks and was so fresh-faced he looked like he still had down on his cheeks – but Tom knew the competition would be much tougher as the evening wore on and he began to come up against the LEs. They liked to fight as much as Tom did.

22

DELPHINE PUT ON
the same green tunic dress she’d worn for their first date. She’d made supper, but an hour had passed, then two, and there was still no sign of him. She spooned out some food and reheated it in the microwave, but after pushing it around the plate for ten minutes she left most of it untouched and threw the rest into the bin. And then she went and changed into jeans.

She checked her watch yet again and, even though she knew she was being ridiculous, lifted the phone to make sure it was working. As soon as she heard the dialling tone, she put it back on the hook, afraid she might miss his call. When she heard the door rattle a few moments later she ran to answer it, then tried to conceal her disappointment when she saw it was Moira coming in from work.

‘I finished early,’ Moira said. ‘I left the new guy to do the last couple of hours. The place is as dead as a doornail, only half a dozen guests and the boys are all somewhere else – apparently it’s Fight Night.’ She saw Delphine’s expression. ‘Ah, you know that already . . .’

Delphine nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Moira opened a bottle of chardonnay and poured her a big glass. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘You look like you need this even more than I do.’

‘Not for me,’ Delphine said. ‘But don’t let me stop you.’

Moira pulled the glass towards her. ‘Wish I had your willpower.’ She swallowed a mouthful of wine, then studied Delphine over the rim of the glass. ‘So, what are you going to do?’

‘What I should have done six months ago, and what I planned to do tomorrow.’ Delphine stood up, full of intent. ‘I’m going home. Tonight. I will not wait any more.’ She felt a tear trickle down her cheek as she said it, and angrily brushed it away.

Moira put her glass down and hugged Delphine to her. ‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ she said. ‘He won’t change. I told you that way back. None of them ever do. He’ll say he will, of course, and he’ll promise you the earth to get you to stay, but the next time the Regiment – or one of his mates – so much as whistles, he’ll be straight off again.’ She broke off, embarrassed, and looked at her watch. ‘There’s still time to catch the last London train. You could be in Paris before the morning. Come on, I’ll book a cab and help you pack.’

Delphine pointed to the bag standing beside the bedroom door. ‘No need.’

Ten minutes later a horn sounded and a taxi pulled up outside. Delphine hesitated on the doorstep, looking up and down the street.

‘Don’t fool yourself. He’s not coming.’

Delphine knew that Moira’s anger was finally getting the better of her, but she found in it an echo of her own.

‘He had his chance, Delphine, and he blew it. It’ll be hard, I know, but you deserve better than this. A lot better.’ She gave her a hug. ‘I’ll miss you, but I’ll come and see you once you get settled.’

The cab driver sounded his horn again.

Looking back through the rear window as they drove off, Delphine could see Moira, a hand still raised in farewell, standing alone in the deserted street.

Delphine caught the train to Newport, where she could change for the London Paddington express – the last of the day – with
five minutes to spare. She put her bag in the rack, then stood in the doorway of the carriage, looking back along the platform, half hoping that, even at this late stage, Tom might appear. But a few moments later the door slid shut and the train pulled away into the darkness.

23

TOM HAD WON
four fights so far. He downed a jug of water, most of it spilling over his chest and onto the bouncy-castle floor. The next bout would be the hardest.

‘Satnav’ – but not to his face – was an LE (late entry) officer. He’d risen to the rank of WO2 and had been G Squadron’s sergeant major before being offered a commission. There were three types of LE: angry, chilled and careerist. Satnav was in the first category. He’d been angry since the army had confiscated a necklace he’d made for his sister while sailing back with the Task Force from the Falklands. He hadn’t understood why it wasn’t right for a young guardsman to cut off the ears of dead Argentinians to make a necklace, no matter who it was for.

He’d got his nickname after getting geographically embarrassed while driving one of the team’s Range Rovers from Hereford to a meeting with the Greater Manchester Police. He’d taken a wrong turn around Birmingham and landed up in Sheffield. No one would have known about it had the Range Rover not been pulled in by the very force he was supposed to be visiting while he was doing 120 mph down the motorway to try to rectify his mistake. They’d let him off as soon as they saw his ID, but by then the damage was done.

The officers always kept Satnav as the trump card in their pack. They’d been holding him back tonight until Tom was exhausted, and now he was. But there was one more fight to go for Gavin to win his money. And if he did, maybe he’d start buying his own clothes.

For reasons that nobody except Gavin and Mrs Gavin fully understood, she’d piled up all his possessions in the garden one evening and set fire to them. Gavin had been left with the clothes he’d stood up in, and was too tight to go down town and buy some more. His solution was simple. He was Tom’s size. What was the problem?

The problem was: that had been five months ago. And he still hadn’t opened his wallet. He hadn’t bought any food for the house either. Tom had let it go. Gavin still had to pay for a mortgage, two cars, and the three-thousand-pound vet bill that had arrived after Mrs G’s two dogs had fallen off a mountain ledge in the Brecon Beacons. Gavin had taken them on a weekend tab. His story was that they were so excited to be out and about they hadn’t been looking where they were going. Mrs G hadn’t bought that story for a minute, and had started building the pyre.

Gavin had got home just in time to watch his life go up in smoke. His only possession to survive was his Stravinsky CD. And that was only because he’d taken it down to the ranges to rip it a new spin hole.

Satnav could still bench-press his own weight, and for a man of his size that was no small achievement. Tom knew that if the fight got to close quarters Satnav would crush the life out of him. His only chance was to use his speed of thought, foot and hand. If that didn’t work, he’d just try to keep off the floor.

Gavin seemed to read his thoughts. He shot an anxious glance through the castle window as Tom poured more water down his neck. ‘Mate, old Satnav, he’s a strong fucker, but I reckon he’s hitting the weights too much and not doing enough on the speed bag.’ He took another swig of his beer. ‘Mate, we’ve got a lot riding on this one. The sooner I get some cash together, the
sooner I’ll be buying my own gear and the sooner I’ll be out of your house. What more can I tell you?’

‘He might be hitting the weights, but he’s still a street fighter, like me. I’ll have to keep on my toes for this one.’

Gavin spluttered into his beer. ‘Excuse me? You? A
street
fighter? What part of the Malvern ’hood did you work, bro?’

A chorus of cheers and groans greeted Satnav’s progress towards the castle.

‘Fuck me . . .’ Gavin breathed, as he saw the size of him. ‘I’ve got a grand riding on this . . .’

‘No pressure, then.’ Tom handed him the empty jug.

‘Mate, Satnav thinks he’s hard, but he’s a big pussycat really.’

Satnav was now close enough to listen in. He bared his teeth in something like a smile. ‘You just keep mouthing off, Gavvers. Soon as I’ve finished with His Lordship here I’ll be loading up and putting another round into that leg of yours.’

For the first time that night, Tom didn’t have a height and weight advantage over his opponent – and Satnav was as quick to the punch. As soon as they’d touched gloves he landed a brain-rattler on the side of Tom’s head, then switched downstairs with a hook that thudded into his ribs. He blocked Tom’s counter with his biceps, then moved in, grappling with him and narrowly missing with a head butt as Tom tried to wrestle his arms free. They fell together and lay for a moment, still trading punches. The PTI signalled them up.

Through his adrenalin ear-muffs, Tom heard Gavin shouting, ‘Come on, Posh Lad . . .’ For the first time all night, there was a note of anxiety in his voice.

As the two fighters clambered to their feet and the PTI wiped down the floor with bar mats, Jockey gave Tom two thumbs up. ‘Keep going as you are, big man!’

As the two fighters touched gloves again, Tom dummied a left hook, and as Satnav shifted his weight, swaying away from the expected punch, Tom hit him with a round-arm right. Satnav saw it coming at the last moment and began to duck. The shot took him high on the temple but he still staggered at the impact and Tom was on him at once, raining in
punches until another big right hand put his opponent down.

Satnav wasn’t finished. He launched himself forward in a rugby tackle from his hands and knees, but Tom saw him coming. Stooping low, he threw a right hand that had every ounce of his strength behind it. It smashed into the corner of Satnav’s eye and the combined force of the punch and his own momentum jerked the other man’s head around as if he’d been hit by a brick.

Tom half turned away, heading for the side of the castle. But Satnav still wasn’t done. His eye already swollen and closing, he had enough presence of mind to grab Tom’s ankle and jerk his feet from under him. Even as he fell, Tom managed to land another short arm right to Satnav’s face, then dropped on him with his knees, driving the air from his lungs.

Satnav struggled to recover, but it wasn’t happening. Tom rose to his feet and the PTI closed down the fight. Tom’s supporters bayed their approval, and those with losing bets booed and jeered as Tom held both hands down for Satnav to grip and pull himself up.

They hugged and Satnav held Tom’s right hand up in the air in congratulation. They both exited the castle and Tom accepted the can of beer that someone pushed into his hand and slapped Gavin on the back. ‘I’ve got to go.’

He pulled his T-shirt over his head, grabbed his jacket and ran for the exit. His Omega told him it was just before 02.00 hours.

‘Shit.’

By the time the door had slammed behind him, he was halfway across the car park. The Beamer was resting on its kick-stand. As he jumped onto the bike, Tom reflected, not for the first time, that the Lines was the only place in Hereford – probably the only place in Britain – where you could leave a fourteen-thousand-pound motorbike with the keys in the ignition and still find it there when you got back. He fired up the engine and rocketed off into the night.