Coming HomeWhen war hero Aidan Pennock returns home from tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan he expects at the very least to lead a quiet life for a while. He should have known better; on the train home he has a run in with two thugs who’ve set their sights on the beautiful Donna.
Once home, after coping with the shock of his father having a girlfriend, a chance encounter with a gun happy local farmer brings him up against his old school friend Brax Bollen, now a detective sergeant in the local force, whose wife Jazz has always had a thing about Aidan. Callie Sunter, Aidan’s one time girlfriend, has become the easy lay for the town. Her actions lead to disaster. Quiet life Aidan? Forget it. And what exactly happened between Aidan and Jazz Bollen on her wedding day? The 1st chapter can be read below and the book itself is available at Amazon by following the link on the page opposite. |
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Chapter 1
Wednesday 23rd December 2009
Aidan Penncock walked slowly and carefully towards the overturned Mazda pick-up, silently singing his own version of the old Clapton song, "Running guns in the hot sun, I fought the law, and the law won".
'Careful Sarge,' He heard the warning from young Brody who had him covered and lifted his hand in acknowledgment.
He looked around carefully as he picked his way through the scattered debris thrown out of the vehicle when it had overturned. He could hear the groaning of the injured man before he saw him and wondered for a brief moment whether it was a ruse but discarded the thought, he sounded in real and serious pain. All the same he carefully made his way round the front of the Mazda and when he saw the driver clearly for the first time his heart sank even lower than it had been lately. He was young, fourteen maybe, fifteen at a push.
The young Arab boy watched him through scared eyes, as Aidan approached warily, all the while checking him out for any sign of a weapon. Judging him safe he got out a pack of cigarettes and not smelling any petrol fumes lit one. Squatting by the youngster he placed it gently between his lips.
The boy didn't speak but gratefully drew on the cigarette. His face was pale and his breathing laboured. Aidan quickly and expertly checked him out. Multiple fractures, a head wound that was bleeding profusely, a foot that was hanging on by a thread, and no doubt a shed load of internal injuries; it didn't look good. He quickly prepared a pain relieving shot and stuck it in the boy's thigh.
The boy looked grateful and said, 'Is it bad?' His English fluent enough to be understood.
Aidan wondered whether to lie, but all along his philosophy had been; if you're old enough to fight, you're old enough to die, and hear the truth.
He nodded.
The boy drew on the cigarette and pulled the nicotine down into lungs that would soon have no need of it. 'What happens now?' He asked.
This was the part of the job that Aidan hated the most. 'I can leave you here with some water and cigarettes and maybe someone will be along and get you to hospital,' he paused, 'but to be honest, we're miles from anywhere and it's very unlikely that you'll be found.'
'You can't take me with you?'
Aidan wished he could but his mission was too important to jeopardise for the sake of a young Arab boy; he had a gun runner to find. He doubted the lad would survive anyway even with expert medical attention.
He gently shook his head.
'How long will I last?'
Aidan considered. 'Two hours maybe.' If you're unlucky he thought but didn't voice it.
'Is it allowed for you to....' The boy's voice tailed away.
He didn't need to finish because Aidan knew exactly what he meant: is it allowed for Aidan to put a round through his head and finish him off. Of course it's not bloody allowed he wanted to scream but looked the boy right in the eye and said, 'Don't worry lad, I'll sort it out.'
* * *
Friday 21st May 2010
Ort Murdoch eased himself into the armchair in his office and tried to get comfortable, although his height of 6'2" wasn't particularly compatible with the chair. It had been provided for a far smaller incumbent of his office and he hadn't got round to changing it. But it wouldn't have mattered how comfortable his surroundings were as his discomfort owed more to the spiritual rather than the physical realm.
Murdoch was the pastor of Slaithstone Evangelical Church in the South West corner of God's own county; Yorkshire. Slaithstone - the locals pronounced it Slattern - was a pleasant, some went as far as to say picturesque, market town bordered to the north by Huddersfield, to the east by Barnsley, to the south by Sheffield, and to the west by the heathen of Lancashire. It had at one stage been considered as the location for the long running popular BBC TV series, "Last Of The Summer Wine", but had lost out to Holmfirth. Some said money had changed hands but Murdoch didn't know anything about that and didn't really care anyway. It was a long time ago and his troubles were far more immediate.
It was hard for Murdoch to admit but something was wrong in the lifeblood of the church. He could feel it, and as the caring pastor he was, he wanted to help. Murdoch closed his eyes and asked the Lord to reveal the problem to him, for as he told Him, if he didn't know about it he couldn't do anything about it.
The Lord was silent.
Murdoch sighed and thought back over his five year tenure at Slaithstone. He had been a less than popular choice. He readily admitted he'd been a controversial character back then and there had been some opposition to his appointment. He knew that his racial background had been a consideration for some people. He'd overhead a couple talking one day, not knowing he was within earshot, where the over riding concern had been the fact that: "they'd nivver had a blackie before."
For other folks it had been his criminal record; Murdoch had served time in Strangeways and Armley Jails for drug dealing. He had been on a downward spiral of crime and was in the gutter. The only problem being, he didn't know how low he was, and he wasn't even looking at the stars. There had even been, Murdoch recalled with a wry smile, a splinter group who weren't concerned by either his colour or his criminality. For them his greatest disadvantage in life was having had the misfortune to have been born on the wrong side of the Pennines. For some Yorkshire folk greater sin hath no man that he be born in Lancashire.
But for most it had been his criminal background. Murdoch was completely open about, citing it as a great example of God's love, that He, the Lord of all had scooped him from the gutter.
They had come from a poor Catholic background, his father in and out of work as a council labourer, while his mother cleaned the houses of rich people in grand houses. Murdoch had showed promise at school and had been marked down by the parish priest as a possible candidate for the priesthood. He'd fought against it for a long time on the basic principle that he liked girls too much and boys not at all. When it looked likely that he would, by a mixture of family pressure and emotional blackmail, be forced into a seminary, something snapped. He ran away from his home in Mosside, Manchester and found himself in London where he, like countless runaways before, quickly found that Dick Whittington was a liar.
He was lucky in that he was found and returned home but not before he found a taste for class A drugs. He lived a dissolute lifestyle for a number of years, frequently spending time as a guest of Her Majesty. His salvation came one night, when at an all night rave, high on ecstasy, God spoke to him.
Murdoch remembered quite clearly how, as he was dancing to the pulsating rhythm, time seemed to stop. He heard a voice say, "Stop now. You are mine. Go home and sin no more."
And that had been that. He'd been so shaken by the experience that he'd gone home immediately and tried his best not to sin anymore. In that he'd failed miserably. He'd received a phone call from his sister the next day, who told him all the way from Australia that at the time he'd heard the voice telling him to sin no more, two hundred people were praying for his salvation at her church in Sydney.
After his encounter with God in the disused carpet warehouse he enrolled at a Bible college and gained a degree in theology and by a series of moves found himself the pastor at Slaithstone Evangelical Church.
He was happy and content for the most part with the way his life was now going. He was the pastor of a thriving church where the members for the most part accepted him. He was married to the gorgeous Tia, who many said, looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor. True, they didn't have any children but they were both happy to leave that in the capable hands of the Almighty.
Murdoch looked out of his first floor office window at the crowded Market Square below. He watched as the market vendors enticed prospective purchasers ever closer with the calls and spiel that had been used for centuries on the same spot: "Cabbages, cauliflower, pound a bowl; come and get your lovely strawberries."
It was a beautiful spring day in the middle of May, everything should be well with his world but he couldn't quite shake off the feeling that something was desperately wrong with one of his flock.
He pushed back his chair and headed for the door, perhaps a walk would clear his head.
* * *
Brax Bollen was enjoying his day off. He'd done the few chores that his wife, Jazz, had left for him, including unblocking the sink which he didn't mind and mowing the lawn which he hated. Now he was free to do as he pleased for the rest of the day and he knew exactly how he was going to spend it, but first a little trip. He drove the short distance into Slaithstone and having parked in the multi-storey walked though the ginnel into Market Square whereupon he realised he'd forgotten it was market day. Faced by a sea of people and gaily coloured market stalls - a barrier to his destination - he nearly turned back but his need being too great carried on. He skirted the edge of the crowd for a while, drifting past WH Smith, and the swathe of charity shops, looking carefully at faces, anxious not to catch the eye of anyone he knew as he didn't want to be delayed.
Brax hated shopping but this was a special trip he'd been promising himself for the last month and he was determined to enjoy it despite the nervousness he felt. The shop he was heading for was on the far side of the Market Square and after edging round the throng for a while he turned and plunged straight in and was quickly absorbed. Moving swiftly but carefully, a little jink here, a sidestep there, he was doing quite well until he came to an abrupt halt as he bounced off a large black man.
They stood and looked at each other critically, the black man spoke first. 'Brax, you seem to be in a tearing hurry. Is everything okay?'
Out of all the large black men in the whole of Slaithstone Brax thought, I have to bump into this one. 'Sorry Ort, miles away.'
'So much is obvious Brax, that's why you bumped into me.' Ort Murdoch replied with a smile.
Brax was beginning to wish he'd gone to Barnsley or Sheffield for greater anonymity.
'Sorry Ort, I was in bit of a rush.'
'Too busy to have a coffee with your pastor?'
'Well...'
'If you really are too busy that's fine, but I could do with some company for a while.'
'Never too busy for you Ort.'
'Good, let's pop into Peggy's shall we?'
Peggy's was by far the best and therefore the most popular coffee shop in Slaithstone. The eponymous Peggy was long gone but the business was in the same family that founded it back in the dark days of 1926 during the general strike. Originally created in the front room of a terraced house to provide sustenance for striking miners, it had evolved over the years but the customers were no longer striking miners - or miners of any description as the pit had long since gone - thanks to Maggie Thatcher, whose effigy was far more popular than Guy Fawkes on bonfire night. The fourth generation Peggy - real name Susan - was behind the counter today and served Brax and Ort their drinks with a smile.
It was always busy in Peggy's, it was said that everyone in Slaithstone had been there at one time or another, but they soon found a table in an alcove near the toilets.
Murdoch lifted his Latte and took a sip. 'Ahh, that's what I needed.'
Brax didn't want to be rude but could have done without this distraction. He smiled at his pastor as he spooned sugar in his coffee.
'How are you Brax, everything okay in the Bollen world?'
'Yeah, fine.'
'But?'
'Oh you know, always busy.'
'But today's your day off, you should be relaxing, not charging round bumping into people.'
Brax shrugged. 'You know how it is.'
'Tell me.'
Brax didn't need this and wondered why Ort was so interested in him. 'It's Jazz's birthday soon and I thought I'd look for something for her.'
Murdoch nodded. 'And how is the lovely Jazz?'
'Yeah, she's good' Brax sipped his coffee and looked out of the window.
'Are you two okay? No problems?'
Brax looked at Ort. 'No, why?'
'Forgive me Brax but I've got this feeling that there's a major problem brewing for someone in the church and so I'm asking everyone I meet if they're okay. And so far everyone is fine,' he smiled, displaying a row of gleaming white teeth, 'which is good, but I'm still left with a feeling that I can't explain.'
'Happen it's Ron.'
'Ron Counden?' Murdoch asked, interested. 'Why him?'
Brax shrugged, 'Dunno, he just came to mind.'
'I spoke to Ron at an elder's meeting on Tuesday, and everything was okay in his world then.'
'Nothing you can do then.' Brax said, which he knew was less than helpful but he had to get on.
'That's right. Only wait, and I've never been much good at waiting.' Murdoch frowned and was about to say something else when Brax putting his half finished coffee on the table said, 'Ort, I don't want to be rude but...'
'That's okay, you get on. I think I'll have another coffee and wait on the Lord.
* * *
Aidan Pennock walked slowly round the parade ground.
He paused at the edge of the square and watched as Sergeant Major Crossland put new recruits through their paces. 'By the leeeeft, quiiiiick march.' His voice echoed off the buildings at the edge of the square to where Aidan stood watching, recalling his own initiation into the mysteries of drill. The squad set off at a brisk pace but as Aidan continued to watch one of the squad stumbled and dropped his rifle. The rest of the squad came to a shambolic halt.
Aidan snorted. Tosser. He waited for the inevitable.
'Not you again, Atkins.' Crossland screamed. 'My old granny could march better than you... and she's been dead for twenty years.'
Aidan smiled as he carried on, nothing changed. Behind him he could hear the rest of the squad laughing at their colleague's misfortune, no doubt thinking: "there but for the grace of God go I."
Crossland raised his hand in greeting as he noticed Aidan walk past and mimed a drinking action by raising his right hand to his mouth and tipping it backwards and forwards.
Aidan looked at his watch, although he knew to the second what time it was.
Why not?
He gave Crossland the thumbs up followed by the outspread fingers of both his hands to indicate ten minutes. In two hours he would leave this place for the last time, the taxi booked, final railway warrant issued, his twenty five years of service for Queen and country would be over, so why not have a last beer with an old pal. The Stones song came to mind and he sang quietly as he walked, "This will be the last time."
What a way to finish though, bumming around the training depot while his fate was decided by higher authority. He'd been in the Army for the greater part of his life and tomorrow for the first time in twenty five years he wouldn't have to answer to anybody.
Shouldn't have left it so long he told himself, should have gone at a time of his own choosing, should have jumped and not waited to be pushed. That bastard Reynolds, remembering the interview, although, thinking about it objectively, he'd just fired the bullet that someone higher up the chain had made.
* * *
Thursday 1st April 2010
He'd stood to attention before the C.O., waiting as Major Reynolds skimmed through the medical officer's report. So much of his time in the Army had been spent waiting. "If I could turn back time", he sang in his head while he dispassionately watched the turning of the pages.
Reynolds looked up after a moment and said, 'Sit down Sergeant Pennock.'
Aidan sat down and waited; more waiting. Just get on with it man, stop farting around. We both know what you're gonna say. It wasn't going to be good news, that much he knew. What he didn't know was how bad the bad news was going to be. He idly looked about the office while he waited for the blade to fall. There was the Major shuffling the papers pretending to read them, all the while sharpening the blade. The only sound in the room was the turning of pages and the ticking of the clock. The windows were closed, the heating turned up full, and it was too hot and stuffy in the room. But not as hot as the desert. He looked at the clock; 15:25.
Nowhere was as hot as the desert, well maybe hell. He closed his eyes and was back there in the heat and the dust, the overturned Mazda, the boy, a cigarette, and the gun, always the bloody gun. "I fought the law and the law won."
'Are you okay Sergeant Pennock?'
Aidan opened his eyes and the desert receded, he wondered idly if he was losing it again. 'Yes, thank you sir.'
He looked at the clock; 15:28, and thought who was it who sang that song about the toy soldier?
Reynolds pushed back in his chair and put his glasses on the desk, 'I won't pretend it's good news Sergeant. It's not.'
The blade was being hauled to the top of the Guillotine.
Reynolds picked up the sheaf of papers and riffled through them before tossing them back on the desk. 'The M.O. reckons you've had some kind of mini breakdown.' He laughed sympathetically. 'Bloody quacks, eh? What do they know?'
Aidan wasn't sure if a response was required, Reynolds hadn't been the C.O. for long and as such was an unknown quantity, so just nodded. "I'm just a little toy soldier..."
'He believes something must have happened on your last tour, but you've said nothing about it.' Reynolds paused to give Aidan the chance to rectify this omission.
Aidan remained silent.
'Anyway,' Reynolds continued, pushing on, 'Word's come down from upstairs that your time is up Sergeant Pennock.'
The lever was pushed and gravity took over, the crones around the Guillotine cackling as the head rolled gracefully into the basket.
'You've got twenty five in, you could have had your pension three years ago. Time to retire gracefully with the grateful thanks of Queen and country.'
Still Aidan said nothing; a memory had been stirred though, he must have been, what, fifteen, sixteen, and clearing out a load o' junk his dad had been nagging him about. At the bottom of a pile of old school uniform he'd found his first ever Action Man. To this day he didn't know why he'd done it - perhaps as a definite line in the sand between boyhood and becoming a man - but anyway he clearly remembered taking the Action Man out into the garden and standing it to attention against the wall. He'd wrapped a blindfold round it's eyes and then shot it with his dad's air rifle. Trouble was it didn't look dead so he'd got the axe from the shed, and bending it over a block of wood, had chopped its flaming head off. That had done the job alright, only trouble was, because of the way the doll - as his dad called it - had been held together, all the arms and legs had dropped off as well.
The dead quadriplegic Action Man had been buried in a shoebox in the garden with full military honours. He smiled at the memory, and remembered that it was Cliff Richard who'd sung about the toy soldier.
'Anything you want to say, Sergeant?' Reynolds prompted.
'Can I appeal the decision Sir?'
Major Reynolds frowned. 'Why would you want to?'
'Only thing I know sir, being a soldier.'
Reynolds leaned back in his chair, 'It won't be easy Sergeant, but I'm sure a man of your calibre will soon adjust to civilian life.'
He paused and pushed the report across the desk.
'In all honesty Sergeant I don't think there's any point in appealing. Taking all things into consideration, your age, length of service, the medical report, etc., etc...' He tailed off and looked at Aidan.
'I see sir.'
'Good, good. We'll get things moving for you, eh? No point in hanging about.'
'No sir, thank you sir.'
Aidan stood and snapped to attention. He saluted Reynolds and was halfway through the door when the C.O. said, 'Oh by the way Sergeant.'
'Sir?'
'The padre would like a word with you.'
'Now sir?'
'No time like the present,' a faint smile, 'you know what these God botherers are like.'
"So wind me up and let me go."
* * *
Aidan had been tempted to ignore the request from the padre but in the end thought it would be easier all round if he got it over and done with. Otherwise he'd be dodging about the barracks for days trying to avoid him and he was a persistent sod who got you eventually. There hadn't been any paperwork on the padre's desk just a Bible opened to somewhere in the middle.
The padre, a thin man who always looked in need of a good feed, looked at Aidan and smiled. 'How are you feeling?'
'Numb.'
'You must have had an inkling that it wasn't going to be good news.'
'Live in hope, that's my motto, well, one of them.'
The padre nodded, 'And now?'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, you were living in hope that somehow, against all the available evidence, you were going to be staying in the Army. That hope's been taken away. What are you placing your hope in now?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing at all?'
Aidan wondered if that was strictly true. Was there a greater power? A celestial Commander in Chief ruling the great barracks in the sky. Mebbe there was but he doubted it. He shook his head and confirmed, 'Nothing.'
'You don't have a faith?'
'In what?'
'God.' The padre suggested softly.
'God?' Aidan replied as though seriously considering the idea. He'd often thought about God. He'd known many soldiers over the years who'd called on the name of God in his many forms, and not all at the point of death.
The padre, perhaps sensing a breakthrough, asked, 'Have you heard of the Alpha course?'
'Yeah, I've seen the posters.' Aidan said, disinterested, wanting the interview to be over before communion was offered.
'Do you know what it is?'
'Explains the basics of Christianity.'
'I think it might do you good to go on one. I'm sure they'll be one running near you.'
Aidan had said that he'd think about it. The padre had said they'd speak again before he left but it hadn't happened. He'd been posted to Afghanistan where, Aidan heard later, he'd been shot up the jacksey by the Taliban. Aidan never thought of the padre again without smiling.
* * *
Friday 21st May 2010
And that had been that, a few weeks of winding down, clinging to the wreckage of a life that was over. Even the bureaucracy was against him, the paperwork being processed in record time.
Aidan arrived at the accommodation block and climbed the stairs to his room on the first floor. Everything was neat and tidy, that's how he is. Neat and tidy, no loose ends. Partly this is the Army way, Aidan reflected, but he'd always been neat and tidy, even as a young lad. He looked at the half packed suitcase and decided now would be a good time to finish it.
He picked up a photo album from the table and idly flicked through the pages, stopping for a closer look at various pictures; his dad in the forces doing his National Service, his mum holding him as a baby. He eventually reached the photo where he always stopped. It's a wedding day picture; his old mate Brax Bollen, getting married to Jazz Hoarth. They stand on either side of her, both immaculate in their dress uniforms - although his is that bit swankier - it's hard to tell who is the bridegroom and who is the best man.
The best man but not the better man. It could have been him if he'd been interested enough. He had enough signals; he would have had to have been blind, deaf, and dumb to have missed them all. He hadn't wanted her though, not enough anyway, not then.
He looked at other photos; more faces, names forgotten, smiled back, reminding him that he was going back to a world that would be very different from the one he'd left. He looked at one photo with interest; him and Callie framed by the whale bones at Whitby just a month or so before he joined up. A good weekend that.
Callie Sunter. She was the one for him. It had always been Callie. He wondered if she was married with children or still footloose and fancy free. It's funny how things work out he decided; he could have had Jazz but didn't want her, wanting Callie instead who didn't want him. He came to a photo of bride and groom, best man and bridesmaid; Jazz and Brax, him and Callie. They all looked so young and happy. He looked intently at Jazz's face to see if he can see any indication of what happened later that day but of course he couldn't.
He closed the album and put it at the bottom of his case and then with a deep sigh lowered the lid before leaving the room.
* * *
Brax felt a bit put out by his encounter with Ort Murdoch and his questions. Plus he couldn't help wondering if he'd been altogether wise mentioning Counden's name as someone who might be having problems, and was still slightly puzzled why Counden's name had suddenly come to mind.
Anyway, concentrate. He glanced at his watch and confirmed the time with the Market Square clock, a fine piece of Victorian engineering that still kept good time. He'd lost twenty minutes having coffee and while normally it wouldn't have concerned him unduly, today was different. Even so he forced himself to take his time and not rush for his ultimate destination. One good thing though, he thought coming out of Peggy's, the crowds had thinned out.
Ten minutes later after wandering aimlessly, he had a careful look around, and when he didn't see anyone he knew, quickly turned into the doorway of Aphrodite's. He had never been in this shop before, not even on business, and only knew of its existence when Jazz came home with some lingerie a few months ago. He stopped just inside the doorway and looked around waiting for the panic to subside. The whole shop was covered in lingerie from floor to ceiling and Brax wondered how on earth he'd find what he was looking for. Thankfully the shop was empty apart from an attractive middle aged woman looking at matching sets of underwear. She glanced at him and then, perhaps sensing his embarrassment, quickly looked away.
Bored housewife, not bad looking though, Brax thought as the young sales girl looked up from hanging clothes on a rail and asked. 'Can I help?'
Not really thought Brax but didn't say it. 'I'm looking for a present for my wife.'
'What did you have in my mind?'
What I had mind is not to shout it out across the flaming shop. He moved towards the girl, lowering his voice. 'I was looking for a matching bra and pants but I'm...' He floundered and almost wished he was at home watching Midsomer Murders on TV.
The girl stopped what she was doing and made a movement towards him. 'Do you have her sizes?'
Brax was ready for this and fished a scrap of paper from his pocket.
She looked at the paper and back at Brax. 'We've got some things over there that might be of interest.' She pointed towards a rail at the back of the shop. Brax wandered over and looked at the bra's and pants hanging there. Brax looked at the garments hanging on rails, not wanting to touch. This is more difficult than he thought. There's too much choice he decided. Eventually he picked some things that he liked, subtly sexy but not overly raunchy, and took them to the counter where the girl was waiting for him. She took off the security tags and put the prices through the till, all the while keeping up a ceaseless chatter about nothing in particular.
Brax paid with cash and left without looking back.
Wednesday 23rd December 2009
Aidan Penncock walked slowly and carefully towards the overturned Mazda pick-up, silently singing his own version of the old Clapton song, "Running guns in the hot sun, I fought the law, and the law won".
'Careful Sarge,' He heard the warning from young Brody who had him covered and lifted his hand in acknowledgment.
He looked around carefully as he picked his way through the scattered debris thrown out of the vehicle when it had overturned. He could hear the groaning of the injured man before he saw him and wondered for a brief moment whether it was a ruse but discarded the thought, he sounded in real and serious pain. All the same he carefully made his way round the front of the Mazda and when he saw the driver clearly for the first time his heart sank even lower than it had been lately. He was young, fourteen maybe, fifteen at a push.
The young Arab boy watched him through scared eyes, as Aidan approached warily, all the while checking him out for any sign of a weapon. Judging him safe he got out a pack of cigarettes and not smelling any petrol fumes lit one. Squatting by the youngster he placed it gently between his lips.
The boy didn't speak but gratefully drew on the cigarette. His face was pale and his breathing laboured. Aidan quickly and expertly checked him out. Multiple fractures, a head wound that was bleeding profusely, a foot that was hanging on by a thread, and no doubt a shed load of internal injuries; it didn't look good. He quickly prepared a pain relieving shot and stuck it in the boy's thigh.
The boy looked grateful and said, 'Is it bad?' His English fluent enough to be understood.
Aidan wondered whether to lie, but all along his philosophy had been; if you're old enough to fight, you're old enough to die, and hear the truth.
He nodded.
The boy drew on the cigarette and pulled the nicotine down into lungs that would soon have no need of it. 'What happens now?' He asked.
This was the part of the job that Aidan hated the most. 'I can leave you here with some water and cigarettes and maybe someone will be along and get you to hospital,' he paused, 'but to be honest, we're miles from anywhere and it's very unlikely that you'll be found.'
'You can't take me with you?'
Aidan wished he could but his mission was too important to jeopardise for the sake of a young Arab boy; he had a gun runner to find. He doubted the lad would survive anyway even with expert medical attention.
He gently shook his head.
'How long will I last?'
Aidan considered. 'Two hours maybe.' If you're unlucky he thought but didn't voice it.
'Is it allowed for you to....' The boy's voice tailed away.
He didn't need to finish because Aidan knew exactly what he meant: is it allowed for Aidan to put a round through his head and finish him off. Of course it's not bloody allowed he wanted to scream but looked the boy right in the eye and said, 'Don't worry lad, I'll sort it out.'
* * *
Friday 21st May 2010
Ort Murdoch eased himself into the armchair in his office and tried to get comfortable, although his height of 6'2" wasn't particularly compatible with the chair. It had been provided for a far smaller incumbent of his office and he hadn't got round to changing it. But it wouldn't have mattered how comfortable his surroundings were as his discomfort owed more to the spiritual rather than the physical realm.
Murdoch was the pastor of Slaithstone Evangelical Church in the South West corner of God's own county; Yorkshire. Slaithstone - the locals pronounced it Slattern - was a pleasant, some went as far as to say picturesque, market town bordered to the north by Huddersfield, to the east by Barnsley, to the south by Sheffield, and to the west by the heathen of Lancashire. It had at one stage been considered as the location for the long running popular BBC TV series, "Last Of The Summer Wine", but had lost out to Holmfirth. Some said money had changed hands but Murdoch didn't know anything about that and didn't really care anyway. It was a long time ago and his troubles were far more immediate.
It was hard for Murdoch to admit but something was wrong in the lifeblood of the church. He could feel it, and as the caring pastor he was, he wanted to help. Murdoch closed his eyes and asked the Lord to reveal the problem to him, for as he told Him, if he didn't know about it he couldn't do anything about it.
The Lord was silent.
Murdoch sighed and thought back over his five year tenure at Slaithstone. He had been a less than popular choice. He readily admitted he'd been a controversial character back then and there had been some opposition to his appointment. He knew that his racial background had been a consideration for some people. He'd overhead a couple talking one day, not knowing he was within earshot, where the over riding concern had been the fact that: "they'd nivver had a blackie before."
For other folks it had been his criminal record; Murdoch had served time in Strangeways and Armley Jails for drug dealing. He had been on a downward spiral of crime and was in the gutter. The only problem being, he didn't know how low he was, and he wasn't even looking at the stars. There had even been, Murdoch recalled with a wry smile, a splinter group who weren't concerned by either his colour or his criminality. For them his greatest disadvantage in life was having had the misfortune to have been born on the wrong side of the Pennines. For some Yorkshire folk greater sin hath no man that he be born in Lancashire.
But for most it had been his criminal background. Murdoch was completely open about, citing it as a great example of God's love, that He, the Lord of all had scooped him from the gutter.
They had come from a poor Catholic background, his father in and out of work as a council labourer, while his mother cleaned the houses of rich people in grand houses. Murdoch had showed promise at school and had been marked down by the parish priest as a possible candidate for the priesthood. He'd fought against it for a long time on the basic principle that he liked girls too much and boys not at all. When it looked likely that he would, by a mixture of family pressure and emotional blackmail, be forced into a seminary, something snapped. He ran away from his home in Mosside, Manchester and found himself in London where he, like countless runaways before, quickly found that Dick Whittington was a liar.
He was lucky in that he was found and returned home but not before he found a taste for class A drugs. He lived a dissolute lifestyle for a number of years, frequently spending time as a guest of Her Majesty. His salvation came one night, when at an all night rave, high on ecstasy, God spoke to him.
Murdoch remembered quite clearly how, as he was dancing to the pulsating rhythm, time seemed to stop. He heard a voice say, "Stop now. You are mine. Go home and sin no more."
And that had been that. He'd been so shaken by the experience that he'd gone home immediately and tried his best not to sin anymore. In that he'd failed miserably. He'd received a phone call from his sister the next day, who told him all the way from Australia that at the time he'd heard the voice telling him to sin no more, two hundred people were praying for his salvation at her church in Sydney.
After his encounter with God in the disused carpet warehouse he enrolled at a Bible college and gained a degree in theology and by a series of moves found himself the pastor at Slaithstone Evangelical Church.
He was happy and content for the most part with the way his life was now going. He was the pastor of a thriving church where the members for the most part accepted him. He was married to the gorgeous Tia, who many said, looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor. True, they didn't have any children but they were both happy to leave that in the capable hands of the Almighty.
Murdoch looked out of his first floor office window at the crowded Market Square below. He watched as the market vendors enticed prospective purchasers ever closer with the calls and spiel that had been used for centuries on the same spot: "Cabbages, cauliflower, pound a bowl; come and get your lovely strawberries."
It was a beautiful spring day in the middle of May, everything should be well with his world but he couldn't quite shake off the feeling that something was desperately wrong with one of his flock.
He pushed back his chair and headed for the door, perhaps a walk would clear his head.
* * *
Brax Bollen was enjoying his day off. He'd done the few chores that his wife, Jazz, had left for him, including unblocking the sink which he didn't mind and mowing the lawn which he hated. Now he was free to do as he pleased for the rest of the day and he knew exactly how he was going to spend it, but first a little trip. He drove the short distance into Slaithstone and having parked in the multi-storey walked though the ginnel into Market Square whereupon he realised he'd forgotten it was market day. Faced by a sea of people and gaily coloured market stalls - a barrier to his destination - he nearly turned back but his need being too great carried on. He skirted the edge of the crowd for a while, drifting past WH Smith, and the swathe of charity shops, looking carefully at faces, anxious not to catch the eye of anyone he knew as he didn't want to be delayed.
Brax hated shopping but this was a special trip he'd been promising himself for the last month and he was determined to enjoy it despite the nervousness he felt. The shop he was heading for was on the far side of the Market Square and after edging round the throng for a while he turned and plunged straight in and was quickly absorbed. Moving swiftly but carefully, a little jink here, a sidestep there, he was doing quite well until he came to an abrupt halt as he bounced off a large black man.
They stood and looked at each other critically, the black man spoke first. 'Brax, you seem to be in a tearing hurry. Is everything okay?'
Out of all the large black men in the whole of Slaithstone Brax thought, I have to bump into this one. 'Sorry Ort, miles away.'
'So much is obvious Brax, that's why you bumped into me.' Ort Murdoch replied with a smile.
Brax was beginning to wish he'd gone to Barnsley or Sheffield for greater anonymity.
'Sorry Ort, I was in bit of a rush.'
'Too busy to have a coffee with your pastor?'
'Well...'
'If you really are too busy that's fine, but I could do with some company for a while.'
'Never too busy for you Ort.'
'Good, let's pop into Peggy's shall we?'
Peggy's was by far the best and therefore the most popular coffee shop in Slaithstone. The eponymous Peggy was long gone but the business was in the same family that founded it back in the dark days of 1926 during the general strike. Originally created in the front room of a terraced house to provide sustenance for striking miners, it had evolved over the years but the customers were no longer striking miners - or miners of any description as the pit had long since gone - thanks to Maggie Thatcher, whose effigy was far more popular than Guy Fawkes on bonfire night. The fourth generation Peggy - real name Susan - was behind the counter today and served Brax and Ort their drinks with a smile.
It was always busy in Peggy's, it was said that everyone in Slaithstone had been there at one time or another, but they soon found a table in an alcove near the toilets.
Murdoch lifted his Latte and took a sip. 'Ahh, that's what I needed.'
Brax didn't want to be rude but could have done without this distraction. He smiled at his pastor as he spooned sugar in his coffee.
'How are you Brax, everything okay in the Bollen world?'
'Yeah, fine.'
'But?'
'Oh you know, always busy.'
'But today's your day off, you should be relaxing, not charging round bumping into people.'
Brax shrugged. 'You know how it is.'
'Tell me.'
Brax didn't need this and wondered why Ort was so interested in him. 'It's Jazz's birthday soon and I thought I'd look for something for her.'
Murdoch nodded. 'And how is the lovely Jazz?'
'Yeah, she's good' Brax sipped his coffee and looked out of the window.
'Are you two okay? No problems?'
Brax looked at Ort. 'No, why?'
'Forgive me Brax but I've got this feeling that there's a major problem brewing for someone in the church and so I'm asking everyone I meet if they're okay. And so far everyone is fine,' he smiled, displaying a row of gleaming white teeth, 'which is good, but I'm still left with a feeling that I can't explain.'
'Happen it's Ron.'
'Ron Counden?' Murdoch asked, interested. 'Why him?'
Brax shrugged, 'Dunno, he just came to mind.'
'I spoke to Ron at an elder's meeting on Tuesday, and everything was okay in his world then.'
'Nothing you can do then.' Brax said, which he knew was less than helpful but he had to get on.
'That's right. Only wait, and I've never been much good at waiting.' Murdoch frowned and was about to say something else when Brax putting his half finished coffee on the table said, 'Ort, I don't want to be rude but...'
'That's okay, you get on. I think I'll have another coffee and wait on the Lord.
* * *
Aidan Pennock walked slowly round the parade ground.
He paused at the edge of the square and watched as Sergeant Major Crossland put new recruits through their paces. 'By the leeeeft, quiiiiick march.' His voice echoed off the buildings at the edge of the square to where Aidan stood watching, recalling his own initiation into the mysteries of drill. The squad set off at a brisk pace but as Aidan continued to watch one of the squad stumbled and dropped his rifle. The rest of the squad came to a shambolic halt.
Aidan snorted. Tosser. He waited for the inevitable.
'Not you again, Atkins.' Crossland screamed. 'My old granny could march better than you... and she's been dead for twenty years.'
Aidan smiled as he carried on, nothing changed. Behind him he could hear the rest of the squad laughing at their colleague's misfortune, no doubt thinking: "there but for the grace of God go I."
Crossland raised his hand in greeting as he noticed Aidan walk past and mimed a drinking action by raising his right hand to his mouth and tipping it backwards and forwards.
Aidan looked at his watch, although he knew to the second what time it was.
Why not?
He gave Crossland the thumbs up followed by the outspread fingers of both his hands to indicate ten minutes. In two hours he would leave this place for the last time, the taxi booked, final railway warrant issued, his twenty five years of service for Queen and country would be over, so why not have a last beer with an old pal. The Stones song came to mind and he sang quietly as he walked, "This will be the last time."
What a way to finish though, bumming around the training depot while his fate was decided by higher authority. He'd been in the Army for the greater part of his life and tomorrow for the first time in twenty five years he wouldn't have to answer to anybody.
Shouldn't have left it so long he told himself, should have gone at a time of his own choosing, should have jumped and not waited to be pushed. That bastard Reynolds, remembering the interview, although, thinking about it objectively, he'd just fired the bullet that someone higher up the chain had made.
* * *
Thursday 1st April 2010
He'd stood to attention before the C.O., waiting as Major Reynolds skimmed through the medical officer's report. So much of his time in the Army had been spent waiting. "If I could turn back time", he sang in his head while he dispassionately watched the turning of the pages.
Reynolds looked up after a moment and said, 'Sit down Sergeant Pennock.'
Aidan sat down and waited; more waiting. Just get on with it man, stop farting around. We both know what you're gonna say. It wasn't going to be good news, that much he knew. What he didn't know was how bad the bad news was going to be. He idly looked about the office while he waited for the blade to fall. There was the Major shuffling the papers pretending to read them, all the while sharpening the blade. The only sound in the room was the turning of pages and the ticking of the clock. The windows were closed, the heating turned up full, and it was too hot and stuffy in the room. But not as hot as the desert. He looked at the clock; 15:25.
Nowhere was as hot as the desert, well maybe hell. He closed his eyes and was back there in the heat and the dust, the overturned Mazda, the boy, a cigarette, and the gun, always the bloody gun. "I fought the law and the law won."
'Are you okay Sergeant Pennock?'
Aidan opened his eyes and the desert receded, he wondered idly if he was losing it again. 'Yes, thank you sir.'
He looked at the clock; 15:28, and thought who was it who sang that song about the toy soldier?
Reynolds pushed back in his chair and put his glasses on the desk, 'I won't pretend it's good news Sergeant. It's not.'
The blade was being hauled to the top of the Guillotine.
Reynolds picked up the sheaf of papers and riffled through them before tossing them back on the desk. 'The M.O. reckons you've had some kind of mini breakdown.' He laughed sympathetically. 'Bloody quacks, eh? What do they know?'
Aidan wasn't sure if a response was required, Reynolds hadn't been the C.O. for long and as such was an unknown quantity, so just nodded. "I'm just a little toy soldier..."
'He believes something must have happened on your last tour, but you've said nothing about it.' Reynolds paused to give Aidan the chance to rectify this omission.
Aidan remained silent.
'Anyway,' Reynolds continued, pushing on, 'Word's come down from upstairs that your time is up Sergeant Pennock.'
The lever was pushed and gravity took over, the crones around the Guillotine cackling as the head rolled gracefully into the basket.
'You've got twenty five in, you could have had your pension three years ago. Time to retire gracefully with the grateful thanks of Queen and country.'
Still Aidan said nothing; a memory had been stirred though, he must have been, what, fifteen, sixteen, and clearing out a load o' junk his dad had been nagging him about. At the bottom of a pile of old school uniform he'd found his first ever Action Man. To this day he didn't know why he'd done it - perhaps as a definite line in the sand between boyhood and becoming a man - but anyway he clearly remembered taking the Action Man out into the garden and standing it to attention against the wall. He'd wrapped a blindfold round it's eyes and then shot it with his dad's air rifle. Trouble was it didn't look dead so he'd got the axe from the shed, and bending it over a block of wood, had chopped its flaming head off. That had done the job alright, only trouble was, because of the way the doll - as his dad called it - had been held together, all the arms and legs had dropped off as well.
The dead quadriplegic Action Man had been buried in a shoebox in the garden with full military honours. He smiled at the memory, and remembered that it was Cliff Richard who'd sung about the toy soldier.
'Anything you want to say, Sergeant?' Reynolds prompted.
'Can I appeal the decision Sir?'
Major Reynolds frowned. 'Why would you want to?'
'Only thing I know sir, being a soldier.'
Reynolds leaned back in his chair, 'It won't be easy Sergeant, but I'm sure a man of your calibre will soon adjust to civilian life.'
He paused and pushed the report across the desk.
'In all honesty Sergeant I don't think there's any point in appealing. Taking all things into consideration, your age, length of service, the medical report, etc., etc...' He tailed off and looked at Aidan.
'I see sir.'
'Good, good. We'll get things moving for you, eh? No point in hanging about.'
'No sir, thank you sir.'
Aidan stood and snapped to attention. He saluted Reynolds and was halfway through the door when the C.O. said, 'Oh by the way Sergeant.'
'Sir?'
'The padre would like a word with you.'
'Now sir?'
'No time like the present,' a faint smile, 'you know what these God botherers are like.'
"So wind me up and let me go."
* * *
Aidan had been tempted to ignore the request from the padre but in the end thought it would be easier all round if he got it over and done with. Otherwise he'd be dodging about the barracks for days trying to avoid him and he was a persistent sod who got you eventually. There hadn't been any paperwork on the padre's desk just a Bible opened to somewhere in the middle.
The padre, a thin man who always looked in need of a good feed, looked at Aidan and smiled. 'How are you feeling?'
'Numb.'
'You must have had an inkling that it wasn't going to be good news.'
'Live in hope, that's my motto, well, one of them.'
The padre nodded, 'And now?'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, you were living in hope that somehow, against all the available evidence, you were going to be staying in the Army. That hope's been taken away. What are you placing your hope in now?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing at all?'
Aidan wondered if that was strictly true. Was there a greater power? A celestial Commander in Chief ruling the great barracks in the sky. Mebbe there was but he doubted it. He shook his head and confirmed, 'Nothing.'
'You don't have a faith?'
'In what?'
'God.' The padre suggested softly.
'God?' Aidan replied as though seriously considering the idea. He'd often thought about God. He'd known many soldiers over the years who'd called on the name of God in his many forms, and not all at the point of death.
The padre, perhaps sensing a breakthrough, asked, 'Have you heard of the Alpha course?'
'Yeah, I've seen the posters.' Aidan said, disinterested, wanting the interview to be over before communion was offered.
'Do you know what it is?'
'Explains the basics of Christianity.'
'I think it might do you good to go on one. I'm sure they'll be one running near you.'
Aidan had said that he'd think about it. The padre had said they'd speak again before he left but it hadn't happened. He'd been posted to Afghanistan where, Aidan heard later, he'd been shot up the jacksey by the Taliban. Aidan never thought of the padre again without smiling.
* * *
Friday 21st May 2010
And that had been that, a few weeks of winding down, clinging to the wreckage of a life that was over. Even the bureaucracy was against him, the paperwork being processed in record time.
Aidan arrived at the accommodation block and climbed the stairs to his room on the first floor. Everything was neat and tidy, that's how he is. Neat and tidy, no loose ends. Partly this is the Army way, Aidan reflected, but he'd always been neat and tidy, even as a young lad. He looked at the half packed suitcase and decided now would be a good time to finish it.
He picked up a photo album from the table and idly flicked through the pages, stopping for a closer look at various pictures; his dad in the forces doing his National Service, his mum holding him as a baby. He eventually reached the photo where he always stopped. It's a wedding day picture; his old mate Brax Bollen, getting married to Jazz Hoarth. They stand on either side of her, both immaculate in their dress uniforms - although his is that bit swankier - it's hard to tell who is the bridegroom and who is the best man.
The best man but not the better man. It could have been him if he'd been interested enough. He had enough signals; he would have had to have been blind, deaf, and dumb to have missed them all. He hadn't wanted her though, not enough anyway, not then.
He looked at other photos; more faces, names forgotten, smiled back, reminding him that he was going back to a world that would be very different from the one he'd left. He looked at one photo with interest; him and Callie framed by the whale bones at Whitby just a month or so before he joined up. A good weekend that.
Callie Sunter. She was the one for him. It had always been Callie. He wondered if she was married with children or still footloose and fancy free. It's funny how things work out he decided; he could have had Jazz but didn't want her, wanting Callie instead who didn't want him. He came to a photo of bride and groom, best man and bridesmaid; Jazz and Brax, him and Callie. They all looked so young and happy. He looked intently at Jazz's face to see if he can see any indication of what happened later that day but of course he couldn't.
He closed the album and put it at the bottom of his case and then with a deep sigh lowered the lid before leaving the room.
* * *
Brax felt a bit put out by his encounter with Ort Murdoch and his questions. Plus he couldn't help wondering if he'd been altogether wise mentioning Counden's name as someone who might be having problems, and was still slightly puzzled why Counden's name had suddenly come to mind.
Anyway, concentrate. He glanced at his watch and confirmed the time with the Market Square clock, a fine piece of Victorian engineering that still kept good time. He'd lost twenty minutes having coffee and while normally it wouldn't have concerned him unduly, today was different. Even so he forced himself to take his time and not rush for his ultimate destination. One good thing though, he thought coming out of Peggy's, the crowds had thinned out.
Ten minutes later after wandering aimlessly, he had a careful look around, and when he didn't see anyone he knew, quickly turned into the doorway of Aphrodite's. He had never been in this shop before, not even on business, and only knew of its existence when Jazz came home with some lingerie a few months ago. He stopped just inside the doorway and looked around waiting for the panic to subside. The whole shop was covered in lingerie from floor to ceiling and Brax wondered how on earth he'd find what he was looking for. Thankfully the shop was empty apart from an attractive middle aged woman looking at matching sets of underwear. She glanced at him and then, perhaps sensing his embarrassment, quickly looked away.
Bored housewife, not bad looking though, Brax thought as the young sales girl looked up from hanging clothes on a rail and asked. 'Can I help?'
Not really thought Brax but didn't say it. 'I'm looking for a present for my wife.'
'What did you have in my mind?'
What I had mind is not to shout it out across the flaming shop. He moved towards the girl, lowering his voice. 'I was looking for a matching bra and pants but I'm...' He floundered and almost wished he was at home watching Midsomer Murders on TV.
The girl stopped what she was doing and made a movement towards him. 'Do you have her sizes?'
Brax was ready for this and fished a scrap of paper from his pocket.
She looked at the paper and back at Brax. 'We've got some things over there that might be of interest.' She pointed towards a rail at the back of the shop. Brax wandered over and looked at the bra's and pants hanging there. Brax looked at the garments hanging on rails, not wanting to touch. This is more difficult than he thought. There's too much choice he decided. Eventually he picked some things that he liked, subtly sexy but not overly raunchy, and took them to the counter where the girl was waiting for him. She took off the security tags and put the prices through the till, all the while keeping up a ceaseless chatter about nothing in particular.
Brax paid with cash and left without looking back.
Copyright (c) Chris Gallagher
