The rumble of an approaching car brought an end to our conversation.
Kevin raised a finger to his lips as he stood and peered through a small window overlooking the approach. ‘It’s Grady,’ he said.
‘Does he know about the document?’ I asked.
‘If he does, he hasn’t said anything. McNeil had said we’d run it past him soon to see what he thinks but now it’s lost there doesn’t seem much point in that.’
I opened the front door in time to watch a rather ancient grey Ford pull up next to my Citroen. It was now getting dark and, in the dim light, I struggled to see who was in the car. Then, as the interior light came on in response to a door opening, I saw the driver – a lean, shaven-headed man in his late forties. He raised a hand in acknowledgement of my presence. Even as he stepped out onto the track and I saw him more clearly, I didn’t recognise him. If this was Chris Grady, I would have expected him to be more familiar. The man I now saw could have walked past me in the street without drawing a second glance.
‘Captain Finlay?’ the stranger enquired of me as he lifted a heavy-looking cardboard box from the back seat of the Ford.
‘Are you Chris Grady?’ I replied.
‘That’s right. Can you give me a hand with this?’
I stepped closer and took hold of the box. A quick inspection revealed a selection of dried food, a small gas burner, some vegetables, a container of orange juice and a selection of canned beers. ‘You’re planning on being here a while?’ I asked.
‘A day or so. You don’t remember me, I’d guess, from the look on your face?’
‘Yes, sorry. I expected to.’
‘Might be different if I still had my hair,’ he quipped, and I smiled at the joke. ‘Has Taff told you the plan?’
‘He hasn’t,’ I said ‘I’ll be honest – I think he should go back and fight the case.’
Grady shut the car door. In his hand he held a bottle of whisky. ‘For later,’ he grinned as he showed it to me. ‘He said you’d say that but, if you ask me, it’s already too late.’
Kevin appeared in the light now coming from the doorway of the bothy. ‘You two talking about me?’
I managed a smile. ‘Chris reckons it’s too late for you to go back to clear your name.’
He nodded. ‘I agree. In a day or so I’ll be out of the country anyway. There’s nothing here for me now.’
I turned to Grady. ‘Is that the plan you mentioned?’ I said, lowering my voice so that Kevin wouldn’t hear me.
‘I’ve a friend in Italy; he can hole up there for a while and decide on what to do long term,’ he said. ‘For now, the important thing is to get him somewhere that your lot can’t find him.’
‘Running and hiding for the rest of his life is no way to exist.’
‘Better than being banged up, wouldn’t you say? Especially for a copper.’
Checkmate. I’d lost the argument. Grady knew it, I knew it. With no immediate family to think of, it would need to have been a far more persuasive argument than I could come up with.
With darkness closing in, Kevin suggested we open the beers immediately, while they were still cold. There was no electricity or water supply to the bothy. All it provided was basic shelter. Light was provided by two kerosene lamps that threw eerie shadows across the interior of the tiny building as we moved around. Grady offered us use of the two berths, although as I tried the one Kevin had previously decided was what he termed ‘officer standard’, I honestly wondered if the floor might have been more comfortable. In the morning, we agreed, I’d head back to London.
While the other two were preparing supper I slipped out to the car, tucked the burner phone under the driver seat and then returned to put some logs I’d found onto the fire. I began to relax as we laughed together, exchanging jokes and old stories as the beers started to flow. We talked about providing a watch, in case anyone should come looking for us, but Kevin and Grady were both of a mind not to worry about it. It was clear they thought we were safe and they were definitely far more interested in enjoying a good drinking session than taking turns on ‘stag’ outside while the others stayed in the warm.
Although more than twenty years had passed, I was reminded of many occasions when I had hunkered down with soldiers in similar situations that only varied in their degrees of unpleasantness. And yet, it never seemed to bother us so long as we had the company of men with whom the experience was shared. I’d sat through monsoons in the jungle, bitten to buggery by leeches and insects and so wet that our bivouacs lay under water; and I had lain on my bunk in the Afghan mountains where the skies seemed so close you felt you could reach out and touch the stars, yet where it was so cold that men had been known to freeze to death in their sleep and where it was necessary for those awake to check on their mates to ensure they had not slipped into oblivion. There were times – quieter moments when I allowed myself the indulgence of remembering, or like this when I got into conversation with other ex-soldiers – when I’d thought about those places and the camaraderie of shared discomfort and admitted, privately, that I missed it.
Grady cooked using the small gas stove he’d brought with him in the car. Perhaps due to the degree of my hunger or perhaps triggered by the effect of the alcohol, I found myself tucking into the fry-up with gusto.
‘Texas hash,’ he commented, seeing the speed at which I was eating. ‘It was a D Squadron special.’
‘Delicious,’ I replied, between mouthfuls. ‘So, what are you doing with yourself these days, Chris?’
‘PMC is what they call it. Private military contractor. I do the circuit and travel wherever the work takes me.’
‘Good money?’ Kevin asked.
‘Yes, if you’re thinking of it. But age and being on Scotland Yard’s most-wanted list might limit your options a bit.’
Kevin didn’t answer. I knew he’d be mulling things over, thinking through ideas on how he was going to continue to make a living. I didn’t envy him.
Grady took our plates and spoons and offered to wash up while he went outside for a cigarette. ‘Bothy rules – no smoking,’ he quipped.
As Grady slipped out the door, Kevin looked at me quizzically. ‘I never did understand why you applied for selection, Finlay.’
‘To be an SAS officer, you mean?’
‘Yes. I remember that first time we met at the end of the Fan dance exercise. You were done in.’ Kevin’s speech slurred slightly. In the half-light I couldn’t see clearly, but my guess was the beer was having an effect.
I was halfway through my explanation of how a bully of a Colour Sergeant at Sandhurst had been the motivation for my application when Kevin opened the whisky bottle and thrust a plastic tumbler into my hand.
‘I was bullied too,’ he said, his words now drawn out and deliberate. ‘Local lad who was a bit of a boxer liked to pick on people at the church disco. Paul fuckin’ Slater … I remember that bastard alright. He failed to get in the Marines so I decided to prove myself better than him. Well, I got a taste for it, didn’t I, see? And so I decided I wanted to go back to our village wearing SAS wings so I could find him and show him.’
‘Did you?’ I asked.
‘Nah … bastard was in jail for assaulting his ex-girlfriend. I made sure she promised to tell him I’d been looking for him though.’
I resumed my story and finished just as Grady reappeared. He found a third beaker in a store cupboard, wiped the dust away and poured himself a large slug from the bottle. Before long, it was empty and our host returned to the car where he claimed to have another. He was true to his word, but on his return, I had fallen asleep.
Had I not been, things may have turned out very differently. A taste from the new bottle or just a glimpse of its label may have given me enough of a clue as to what Chris Grady was up to and the real reason he’d asked Kevin to persuade me to join them.
But I was asleep. And by the time I realised, it was too late.