Boy soldier

17

The bus journey passed in silence, both Fergus and Danny deep in their own thoughts.

But when they arrived in Southend, Fergus surprised Danny by leading him straight to another bus. 'Too many CCTVs here,' he said as they took their seats at the back, out of earshot of the few other passengers on board. 'We'll pick up a train somewhere quieter.'

'You do what you want,' said Danny as the bus drew away. 'The only train I'm getting is the one back to London.'

Fergus spoke quietly. 'You still don't get it, do you, Danny? You can't go anywhere without me any more. You know the truth, even if you don't believe it yet. And if he catches you now, he'll kill you.'

'Who? Who will?'

'George Fincham, the man you said you'd seen before.'

'But . . . but how do you know him?'

'Because George Fincham was the desk officer in Bogota. George Fincham was the traitor, he was the one giving the information to FARC. You think he'll let either of us live, when we know that?'

Danny looked stunned. 'You are unbelievable. You've been sitting there inventing all this stuff because I don't believe a word you say. The guy was at my army RCB: he was the one who told me about you.'

'Yeah, and I bet he was the one who gave you the idea of finding me. They've been tailing you – how else did they turn up at the cottage?'

The bus lurched to one side as the driver swerved to avoid a cyclist. 'Bloody bikes,' yelled the driver. 'Ought to be banned from the road.' There were a few murmurs of agreement from the front of the bus.

'I met Fincham too,' said Fergus quietly. 'At an embassy do, long before I was recruited as a K. I thought he was a clever, cunning bastard then. And he was; clever enough to find out that I had been recruited, even though it was meant to be classified. Face it, Danny, he set you up, and you fell for it.'

'Even if he did set me up, that doesn't mean he was the traitor,' said Danny. 'Why should I believe you?'

'Because it's the truth.'

Danny sneered. 'You wouldn't know the truth if it came up and punched you in the mouth.' But he was no longer quite as certain as he sounded. George Fincham – if that really was his name – had planted the idea of finding Fergus; Danny had sensed he was being followed; and the cottage had been raided.

Fergus knew there was more than just the question of truth or lies standing between the two of them. There was also their history, or their lack of a history. They had to talk it through. 'Look, I understand the way you feel about me, Danny. I was a total disaster as a dad, and I've been no better as a granddad.'

'I stopped worrying about that a long time ago.'

'You really expect me to believe that?'

'Yeah,' answered Danny angrily, 'like you expect me to believe everything you say!' He looked away. 'Why? Why did you leave my dad?'

Fergus took a deep breath. He was a loner, a man who'd spent a lifetime keeping his feelings and emotions in check. A man who'd avoided justifying many of his actions even to himself, let alone to the grandson he'd only just met. 'I was eighteen when I got married. Your dad was on the way, so we had to – that's what happened in those days. But I was too young, just a kid. I wanted to be off soldiering with my mates. So I left. I'm not proud of it, but that's what I did. After I left, it was the odd visit, and later on the occasional letter.'

Danny stared out through the window as the bus ploughed through the suburbs of Southend and his grandfather continued with his halting, hesitant confession. 'I got this letter from your dad, first one for a long time. I was in Malaysia, up in the north. He told me that he was getting married and that your grandmother had died of cancer. I was . . . I was sorry about it, of course I was, but . . . it was like another life. There didn't seem any point in coming back for the wedding.'

'But he was your son.'

'Yeah, and he must have hated me.'

Danny turned back from the window and glared at his grandfather. 'Don't expect me to feel sorry for you! You always had a choice in all this; I never did.' He fumbled in his jacket pocket for the old photograph he'd been carrying around for days and handed it to Fergus. 'And he didn't hate you. He always kept that.'

Fergus was still looking at the photograph when he spoke again. 'I didn't even know he had it. I was in Colombia when I got news of the car crash. The funeral had already happened. It was too late to say I wish it could have been different.'

They were silent for a few moments as Fergus stared at the old photograph. He turned it over and saw the numbers written there. 'My last four.' He looked at Danny. 'That's how you knew.'

Danny said nothing as Fergus handed back the photograph.



They got off the bus at a place called Westcliff. To Danny it seemed just an extension of Southend. A bit quieter, more old fashioned. There were a lot of old people out for their early morning stroll along what was exotically named the Boulevard. Most seemed to be wandering aimlessly, stopping every now and then to gaze into the same shop windows they'd probably gazed into a thousand times before.

It was the perfect place to do a runner. Fergus couldn't have stopped Danny, not with his limp and not without stirring one of Westcliff's finest into calling the police.

But Danny didn't run. 'Can I have my mobile?' he asked as they walked slowly away from the bus stop.

'You know you can't,' answered Fergus without looking at him.

'Don't worry,' said Danny. 'I'm not planning on calling Fincham. I have to let Elena know what's happening.'

Fergus stopped walking. 'Who the hell is Elena?'

'She's my friend, at Foxcroft. She helped me find you.'

'Oh, terrific. And who else knows about this?'

'No one. Just Elena. And I trust Elena a lot more than I trust you.'

Fergus reached into a pocket and took out the phone. 'Is this pay as you go?'

'Course it is, I can't afford a contract phone. I'm an orphan, remember?'

'Don't make any calls, just check your messages,' said Fergus, handing Danny the phone. 'If you can find a way of locating phones, I'm sure Fincham can. But we'll be well away from here long before it's any good to him.'

Danny switched on the mobile. He had five new voicemails and three texts. 'They'll all be from Elena.'

'Just check the texts, the voicemails will take too long.'

Danny checked the first text and Fergus read it with him:

Wher r u & y dont u ans fone. Its v 18. Im worried

'Stupid bloody language,' said Fergus as he worked out what the message meant.

The second text read:

Danny!!! Wots going on?? DTR asking questions. Please call!!!

'What's DTR mean?' asked Fergus.

'It stands for Dave the Rave, the bloke who runs Foxcroft. He's all right.'

The final text had been sent at nine o'clock that morning.

Something bad must hve hapened 2 u. If i dnt hear in nxt hour im telling dave wots bin going on. I must so please please call.

Fergus looked at his watch. It was nine forty-two. 'She sounds a bit flaky.'

'Flaky?' said Danny angrily. 'Elena's not flaky, she's worried about me. A lot more worried than you've ever been.'

'Yeah, all right, enough,' snapped Fergus. 'You've done the hurt grandson bit and I've got the message. But what I am worried about now is keeping us both alive.'

'Us? You keep saying us. Nothing's gonna happen to me. I'm out of this. You do what you like, I'm going back to London.'

'I can't let you do that.'

Danny laughed. 'How you gonna stop me? Tie me up? Shoot me? Fill me with cocaine?'

Their raised voices were beginning to attract the attention of Westcliff's strolling pensioners and Fergus decided to take a different line. 'All right. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe once Fincham knows you're back home and I'm nowhere around he'll question you and then leave you alone.'

'He will. And . . . and I won't tell him anything. I'm not saying I believe what you've told me, but . . .'

Fergus nodded. He had absolutely no intention of letting Danny walk into danger. For the moment, he was buying time. 'Tell you what, I'll come with you. Just to see you safely back.'

'There's no need.'

'Probably not, but let me anyway. Then I'll get out of your life. Send your friend one text. Tell her not to worry and that you'll be back in about three hours. And tell her—'

'Yeah, I know,' interrupted Danny. 'Tell her not to make any more calls or send texts to this phone.' He switched on the phone and punched in his text, knowing that Elena would be furious at getting such a brief message.

When Danny had finished, Fergus took the phone and removed the simcard. 'I'll get you another one later. But now I'm going to buy you some new clothes.'

'What?'

'You want to look your best when you get back, don't you?



They obviously had very different ideas on what constituted 'looking your best'.

On the main shopping drag Fergus found a charity shop, and after checking there was no CCTV installed, led Danny inside. He went straight to the racks of clothes.

'See anything you fancy?'

'I'm not wearing these rejects.'

Fergus grabbed an anorak from the clothes rail and thrust it into Danny's hands. 'Do this for me, Danny. I don't want you picked up outside Foxcroft. You were followed all day yesterday, so they know what you were wearing. So choose some gear and let's get out of here.'

Five minutes later they left the shop with a carrier bag full of clothes. 'We can change on the train,' said Fergus, who was already wearing a newly purchased flat cap.

'You look a right dickhead in that,' said Danny as they walked down to the small station.

'Maybe,' answered Fergus. 'But that's the idea. Mr Average, the bloke no one ever gives a second glance.'

Danny went onto the platform and waited while Fergus got tickets from the machine outside. He insisted they stay third party aware so they began the forty-five-minute journey into Fenchurch Street Station in separate carriages. The early morning commuter scramble was over and when Fergus thought it was safe, he moved into Danny's carriage.

Danny had put on his newly acquired bomber jacket and baseball cap. And he'd been thinking. 'I'm still not saying I believe you, but . . . if you were set up, why haven't you tried to clear your name?'

'Like I told you, "deniable operator" means just that: you get caught and you're on your own. Once I was captured, the story of me being a traitor was perfect for the Firm. But when I escaped I became a potential embarrassment, to the Firm and the government, and they don't like loose ends. But it's worked out perfectly for Fincham; he'll have full backing to get rid of me and he'll be covering his own arse at the same time.'

'But isn't there anyone else who knew you were a K. Anyone outside the Firm?'

Fergus shrugged. 'My old CO, Colonel Meacher – he had to sanction the move and—'

'I met him,' said Danny quickly. 'At the Victory Club. We could find him and he could clear you.'

'He hasn't up until now.'

'But he's out of the army now. If we went to him and told—'

'Look, Danny,' said Fergus, 'I appreciate what you're saying, but I'm not up to it any more. I'm fifty-three, I can't walk properly and I came back to England to keep my head down and stay out of trouble.'

'Yeah, well, you've lost that option now,' answered Danny angrily. 'And what's wrong with you? I read the stories. You were a hero in Ireland, and in the Gulf. You got medals. Now you reckon you're not up to it. Don't you want to live?'

Fergus smiled. 'Yeah, I want to live. And I thought you didn't believe me . . .'

The train was starting to slow as it began the approach into Fenchurch Street and Danny glanced out at the grimy city buildings. He spoke quietly. 'I don't. And maybe you're not up to it, but I am.'