Crysis Escalation

A Foreign Country



Screaming. Agony. Then nothingness.

London, 2016

Jab, jab, hook, cross, move your f*cking feet. Mike reflected that the less he had trained, the more out of shape he’d gotten, the more he hit the drink, the food, certain recreational pharmaceuticals, the more he’d been fighting. I said move your f*cking feet, not mince around like a fairy! Mike bobbed left and right, weaving rapidly, and threw another combination of punches at the heavy bag.

When he’d thought of himself as a fighter, in the streets – stupid shit – as a nipper, or in pubs, clubs, he’d been lying to himself. There had been no discipline to it, no real effort, just the excitement but it wasn’t the rush he felt in the ring. There certainly wasn’t the feeling of satisfaction that there was in winning a match.

Speedball next, then pullups and then skipping to warm down. No showers in this gym, just the smell of leather and the stench of more than a hundred years of sweat. Then back to walking the streets looking for work.

It had been another morning with nothing to show for it but sore feet. He glanced at the sandwich board outside the newsagent as he made for the Blind Beggar. It was a headline from a newspaper he liked to think of as the Daily Fail, trumpeting the passing of the controversial Offenders Conscription Act. Mike just shook his head as he pushed the door open to the Beggar and the welcoming smell of his local.

He took another sip of his pint. He found it easy to waste away the afternoon in the pub, but Sarah had said he should only have one during the day, when he was trying to find work. He wanted to savour it. He stared at the sparse list of jobs in the local paper, willing himself to be qualified for one of them. As what? He remembered Sarah telling him you can’t think like that. He thought about how his world had changed. He used to be all about wanting a life like he saw on telly, a rich easy life. Now he’d settle for a job in a warehouse. The news was talking about another dip, a triple dip. Mike was of the opinion that this was just the way things were going to be for the foreseeable future. People needed to get used to it.

‘Hello, Psycho.’ The voice was so gravelly it sounded a cigarette away from full-blown throat cancer. Don’t call me that, but you didn’t tell Jack Hamilton anything. Mike looked up and pretended to be pleased to see Hamilton. In truth he liked the man, and always had done. He had been a good friend to Mike’s dad. Mike had looked up to him, and Jack had done right by his mother after his dad had died over some stupid shit in a pub.

Hamilton was tall and still had a thick, full head of hair for a man in his late sixties, though it was white now. Jack had never been a pretty man. He had a flat face and a nose that had been repeatedly broken in his youth. He did, however, have an undeniable charisma.

‘Well, well, if it isn’t Jack Hamilton, last of the great white gangsters,’ Mike said, smiling.

‘You always were a cheeky cunt, weren’t you?’ Hamilton said, smiling indulgently. ‘How’s your mum?’

Mike shrugged.

‘She’s keeping alright. Needs to get out a bit more.’

‘Real looker in her day, your mum.’

‘Jack . . .’ Mike started. Hamilton hit him on the shoulder.

‘You know I don’t mean nothing by it.’ Hamilton sat down at the stool next to Mike and lit up a cigarette.

‘Jack, you’re going to get my licence taken away,’ Jean screeched at Hamilton. Some of the pub’s punters were of the opinion that the sharp-tongued undisputed matriarch of the Beggar had been here before the pub, just waiting for it to be built around her. She’d always reminded Mike of the harpies that Zeus had sent to torment Phineus, but in a good way.

‘I think we both know that’ll never happen, darlin’. Two triple brandies, love, it’s lunch time after all.’ Mike started to protest. He started to protest because it sounded really, really good. Jack let him know that to refuse would insult him. Mike sighed, nodded and thanked the older man.

‘What’s this shit?’ Hamilton said tapping the paper open at the wanted ads. Here we go, Mike thought.

‘Looking for work, ain’t I,’ Mike said.

‘Mikey, all you have to do is . . .’

‘Please, Jack . . .’ Mike said. He didn’t want to offend the older man and it wasn’t because he was a dangerous individual. He just didn’t want to hurt the gangster’s feelings.

‘Sarah?’

‘Yeah, no. Sort of. I need to get away from all of that. She . . . we want a family and I just remember when I was a kid, my dad . . .’

‘Your dad was a good man,’ Hamilton said seriously.

‘He was. Could have been a better dad.’

Hamilton thought about this. It looked to Mike like his dad’s old friend was about to stand up for his dad.

‘I can see that,’ Hamilton finally said. ‘One of the reasons I never had kids.’

‘That and you’re still shagging twenty-one year old lap-dancers, if what I hear is right.’

Hamilton’s growling laughter made Mike think of a dog drowning.

‘Rank has its privileges, son,’ Hamilton told him. ‘Some of the work what I’ve got is legit,’ he said changing subject.

‘Jack, I appreciate it, I really do but . . .’

‘S’alright, I understand, I get it. I know you need some distance, but I don’t want to lose contact. Why don’t you and Sarah join me and . . .’ Hamilton stopped, a look of concentration spreading over his face.

‘You can’t remember your girlfriend’s name, can you?’ Mike said, grinning. Hamilton was shaking his head.

‘I’m getting f*cking old. I can picture her. Great tits, f*cks like a wolverine sewn into a sack.’

‘Nice,’ Mike said nodding.

‘You watch your mouth, Jack Hamilton!’ Jean howled at Hamilton. ‘I don’t care who you are out there!’

‘I’m sorry Jeanie, you know I’ve only got eyes for you, but you should see this girl’s tits.’

Mike was laughing now as he took another sip of brandy.

‘I will f*cking bar you, you cheeky little bastard!’

Hamilton was laughing as well. Winding up Jean was a time-honoured tradition of the punters in the Beggar.

‘Seriously though, one Sunday, the four of us can go out to Epping Forest, have a walk, spot of Sunday lunch. My treat.’

Mike nodded, grateful. He did like Hamilton’s company, but he could never shake the picture of the number of times he’d seen the older man with blood on his hands. That was why Hamilton still ran this manor. That was why all the little fresh-faced, gun-toting gangster-wannabes left him alone. He wasn’t greedy, he just wanted his patch, but if you f*cked around then he took care of business. Personally.

‘Now let’s have another drink.’

‘Jack, seriously . . .’

Sarah’s going to f*cking kill me, Mike thought, I am well hammered.

‘. . . so he comes back in, looks in the quilt cover and then back at me and says: “Jack, why’s there a dead dog in my quilt cover?” Now Richardson was a hard f*cker and you had to respect him, but I couldn’t help myself, I got all aggrieved and said: “Where did you want me to put it?” Oh, he gave me such a kicking. He was proper furious.’

Mike had heard the story before but he was still laughing. Jack’s face became serious again.

‘You picked a shitty time to become a civilian, Mikey, even the f*cking yuppies are moving out. You hear about the body of that girl they found?’

Mike shrugged. ‘It’s the Jack the Ripper theme park, isn’t it?’ he replied. ‘Every nutjob in the f*cking country wants to pay tribute.’

Jack was looking at him thoughtfully, nodding.

‘I like that. That’s, what-cha-call-it . . .?’

‘Profound?’ Mike asked, his heart sinking. He saw where this was going.

‘Yeah, profound. Good word. Where is it, Mikey?’

‘Jack, don’t do this,’ Mike said shaking his head. Hamilton had his hand out.

Mike sighed, reached into the pocket of his battered leather jacket and handed Hamilton the book. Hamilton looked at the cover, frowned and then reached into the breast pocket of his suit and took out a pair of reading glasses and held them in front of his face. Those are new, Mike thought.

‘Who’s Descartes then? Sounds like a frog.’ Hamilton put the book down on the bar. Here it comes, Mike thought.

‘Wish I’d read more,’ Hamilton said quietly. ‘Particularly history, I love that stuff. You know I heard once that down here, in Victorian times, everyone was a criminal. I mean they all had legit jobs but everyone, and I mean everyone, had something on the side. Had to, if they wanted to feed their family. Know what a dollymop is?’ Mike did, but he shook his head. ‘A part-time prostitute. You think on that. Imagine you’re a wife and a mother but sometimes you have to go out and sell yourself just to make ends meet. It’s going to get like that again, I reckon. You keep your Sarah close and you look after her. She’s a good one, son. You needed sorting out. You were breaking your mother’s heart. I almost had to step in, know what I mean?’ Mike swallowed hard. Thinking about his mum. The guilt. ‘You’re lucky Sarah saw something in you. Took the time. She may not like me or what I am . . .’ Mike started to protest. ‘Quiet. Sometimes I don’t like what I am. But you need anything, either of you, you just have to ask.’

Mike nodded.

‘Thanks Jack, that means a lot.’

‘And don’t you worry. I’ve texted her to let her know you’ll be late and that you’re with me.’ Then Jack started laughing. Mike felt his heart sink. I am so dead.

‘Hello Psycho, what’s this faggot shit?’ Mike bristled at the sound of the voice. He looked up as Davey Falconer picked up his book. Falconer was whip thin, with amphetamine eyes that looked yellow to Mike and a constantly moving jaw. His hair was slicked down with too much gel and, presumably aping Hamilton, he wore an expensive tailored suit. Saville Row can’t hide what a vicious little prick Davey Falconer is, Mike thought.

Falconer’s most defining feature, however, was the jagged scar on the right side of his face that climbed up his cheek to his temple. He’d tried to get people to call him Scarface, but it hadn’t taken. Mike was of the opinion that Davey wanted to take that scar out on the world.

‘Yeah, nothing screams homosexuality like literacy,’ Mike muttered.

‘What’s that supposed to f*cking mean?’ Davey demanded. Hamilton was laughing. Mike just shook his head. ‘How much longer do I have to wait in the Jag, boss?’ Davey all but demanded.

‘Until I’m finished you cheeky little bastard,’ Hamilton told him, less than pleased. ‘I’m having a drink with young Mikey here.’

Davey looked at Mike. Mike could feel the other man’s resentful glare. He didn’t even want to look at him. His fingers tightened around the brandy glass.

‘I hear you’ve become a p-ssy now.’

‘That’s enough, Davey, go wait out in the car,’ Jack told the younger man.

‘You’re Sarah MacFadden’s wife now, yeah? Not a p-ssy, p-ssy-whipped more like.’

‘Davey, shut the f*ck up. I’m not going to tell you again. What is it with you two? Did you give him the scar or something?’ Hamilton asked, angry that his pleasant afternoon was being ruined.

No, that was his dad, Mike thought.

‘I used to pick on him at school,’ Mike said. What’re you doing, Mike, just let it go. ‘If I’d known what a whiney little cunt he was going to turn into I wouldn’t have f*cking bothered.’

Davey was just nodding, smiling a vicious little smile.

‘Here, Hamilton, his Sarah might be a good little girl now but at school, my goodness, did that girl get around.’

‘Well you wouldn’t know, would you?’ Mike said. ‘F*cking cock-less virgin.’

‘Alright lads, we’re all friends here,’ Hamilton growled.

No, we’re really f*cking not, Mike thought.

Davey had bristled at Mike’s insults but swallowed it and turned back to Hamilton, buoyed by the presence of his boss.

‘She’d do all sorts of dirty shit, five or six cocks at the same time . . .’

‘Alright, you’re bang out of order. F*ck off Davey. Now.’ Hamilton told him.

‘She looked so good looking up at you, her mouth round your . . .’

Mike was on his feet. He hadn’t even thought about it on a conscious level. He had grabbed the front of Davey’s suit. His fist pulled back, then it shot forwards again and again into the terrified face. He felt bone and gristle giving under his knuckles. Davey went down. Mike didn’t stop punching. He wasn’t even aware of the screaming.

Someone grabbed him. Mike’s head shot round. His face a mask of rage. He was looking for the next victim. His fist coming up. Ready to punch.

‘Mikey!’ Hamilton shouted. Shaken, Mike realised that he was about to punch Hamilton. For a moment he realised how old the other man looked. He felt the rage drain from him. He turned and looked down at Davey. He was curled up on the floor, sobbing. He’d wet himself, at least. He’d seen his murder in Mike’s eyes. Mike looked down at the blood on his calloused knuckles.

‘Shit!’ Mike shouted. Jean was staring at him. ‘You need to get out of here,’ she told him.

‘What were you thinking?’ Hamilton said to Davey. He was looking down at the younger man, shaking his head. ‘He’s a fighter, you’re just a thug.’ He turned around to Mike. ‘I’ll clean this up. You get out of here, alright.’

Mike nodded, shaking. Davey wasn’t the only person Mike had frightened.

Am very angry, have gone out with Karen. Give a lot of thought to how you’re going to make up for this. Mike looked down at the note. She was pissed off, but she understood. It just made him feel worse, somehow.

He put on some music. Poured himself a brandy and then sat in his chair in the dark, putting his fist into a bowl of ice. He checked his phone. Still nothing from Sarah, which was always a sign of how angry she was with him.

The sound of the phone ringing woke him. His head was killing him, a proper spirits hangover. He’d spilled his glass and there was brandy all over the floor. We’re not getting tired of f*cking up today, are we? He glanced at the phone. It was Karen calling. Something cold uncoiled inside him.

‘Hello?’

Karen was crying.

He ran into A&E. He pushed to the front of the reception desk, oblivious to the angry complaints of the people in the queue. He demanded to know where she was. There was more shouting, complaining from the queue, but they told him where she was. He was running again.

Karen in a short dress, her face streaked with tear-stained mascara. Both her arms bandaged from where she’d tried to get in the way. She was speaking to him, telling him what happened as tears ran down his face. Sarah’s face was completely covered with the surgical dressing. He’d cut her a lot. She was out now, sedated.

Karen was on her knees on the hospital floor, screaming at him to come back as he headed for the exit. He heard her shout the last thing Sarah had said to her before she passed out. Don’t let Mike go after him.

On the phone now.

‘Where is he! Tell me where the f*ck he is or I’m coming after you!’

You don’t speak to Jack Hamilton like this, ever. Hamilton tells him what he wants to know.

Hamilton stared at the phone. He hadn’t told him because of the threat, though he had no doubt that right now, like this, Mikey would have walked through his people and beaten him to death.

Maybe in my youth I could have taken him, Hamilton thought, but he knew he was fooling himself. He knew what little pricks like Davey Falconer would never properly understand. For the likes of Falconer violence was power, which was why they hurt other people, to make them feel better about themselves. Hamilton knew something that not even Mikey had admitted to himself. Mikey just liked fighting. For the rush. A lot of people didn’t understand the difference. Hamilton did. The only thing stopping that boy from being a complete monster is his own morals and Sarah. Now that stupid little prick has tried to take one of those things away.

Hamilton had told Mikey what he wanted to know because someone was going to get hurt tonight. Hamilton was of the opinion that it might as well be the little cunt that was actually responsible. He had told Mikey what he had wanted to know because at some level he knew he himself was responsible. So he told him, and he knew he’d damned his old friend’s son.

Everyone else thought he ran the manor because he would fix things, people if needed, with his own hands. He knew he ran the manor because he understood what it was. At its heart it was a web of loyalty, obligations, relationships, respect and even friendships. He also knew that it wasn’t going to stay that way for much longer.

You do something stupid. You hurt someone you shouldn’t have. You get the wrong person angry at you, and then you have a choice. You either run, hide and stay hidden, or you get out in the open. Lots of witnesses. Lots of people to get between you and the other guy. Lots of people who will phone the police. Davey had made the wrong decision. Mike almost tore the door off the West End bar. He was screaming.

‘Mr Sykes, you hospitalised six people, including two police officers, and left several more in need of medical attention. Mr Falconer only lived due to the quick thinking and medical expertise of the ambulance service. He has, however, been left wheelchair-bound and blind in one eye. Whilst I understand that you had provocation, you also have a history of violence. It seems that despite your time spent in youth correctional facilities, and indeed at Her Majesty’s pleasure, you still have not learnt your lesson. With this in mind, I have chosen a sentence for you that will hopefully channel your aggression, allow you to contribute to your country and, most importantly, teach you discipline. Mr Sykes, are you listening to me?’

He wasn’t. It didn’t matter what the judge had to say. He was thinking about the last time he had seen Sarah.

He was on his knees next to the bed, holding her hand. Looking at her face, still covered in bandages. Covering where he’d cut her. Punched her a bit to soften her up, because she was a fighter, and then laced her with a Stanley knife, just like his dad had taught him. Did it twice. He had given her twice as many scars as he had.

‘You weren’t here when I woke up,’ was all she said.

‘I . . . got him . . .’ was all he managed. It was then he realised that it meant nothing. Her look was enough. She knew that what he’d done to Falconer hadn’t been for her. It had been for him. She pulled her hand out of his and rolled away from him. He never saw her again.

The prisoner transport rolled into Depot Para in Catterick, North Yorkshire. They’d been all but dragged out of the secure vehicle, and then the shouting had started.

‘The pampered Etonian homosexuals in Whitehall, who we have the misfortune to serve, have, in their wisdom, chosen to turn my beloved 2 Para into a penal legion! That’s penal as in penitent, not as in penis! You are amongst the first lowlife parasitical scum who have been sent to befoul my beloved battalion! We normally have nothing but contempt for recruits stupid enough to join this regiment! You! We actually hate! We hate you more than the French! I congratulate you on your stunning achievement on making the entire of 2 Para hate you! You will not be here long! We will break you! You will have training accidents! Terrible things will happen to you at the hands of trained killers! You will come to me, begging to me to be allowed back to Wormwood Scrubs so large unpleasant gentlemen can get at your tight little bottoms! What you will not be doing is joining the parachute regiment! Is that understood!?’ There were a few mumbled replies. ‘The proper reply, scum, is, “Yes, Sergeant”!’

‘Here, do you think you’re hard or something?’ Psycho asked. The training sergeant turned to look at the squat, muscular, shaven-headed item who had spoken.

‘Oh, well volunteered . . .’ the training sergeant started. Psycho laid him out with one punch.

He thought he had been tortured before. He hadn’t. He didn’t really know what it was. He thought he could withstand torture. He couldn’t. He’d tell them anything as long as they stopped. No, that wasn’t true, he’d tell them anything if they ended it and killed him. Except they weren’t asking any questions.

South London, 2017

Four hot days in summer and the riot season was upon them again, but this time it had been different. This time people, who were normally killing each other over which postcode they lived in, were armed, organised and had had at least rudimentary training.

To Psycho, looking down the barrel of his Minimi, there was a degree of inevitability to this. It was going to happen eventually in any society where the gap between the rich and the poor was so well-defined and widening. When you had a society that penalised the least fortunate for the excesses of the most fortunate, it was only a matter of time before the unfortunates at the bottom, who were used to desperation and fighting each other, finally turned on the people that were actually screwing them over. He’d said as much to the squad. Perkins had called him a communist. It wasn’t politics. It wasn’t economics. It was common sense. Cause and effect. You beat a dog often enough, it’ll get round to biting you. And frankly, as far as Psycho was concerned, if you hadn’t done anything about the reasons why these things were happening then you couldn’t complain when your capital city burnt.

Psycho had heard a couple of the old boys, ex-2 Para, talk about how the LCZ looked like Belfast during the 1980’s now. The police had very quickly been overwhelmed. The TA had gone in. A lot of them had been killed. Car bombs, rocket and mortar attacks and just good old-fashioned street fighting. Then the Paras had been called in. Yeah, because 1 Para had really cooled things off in Northern Ireland, hadn’t they? Psycho thought. The Royal Navy were also involved. The Frigate HMS Anguish was anchored in the Thames less than a mile away from where Psycho was in cover behind sandbags.

The problem was, the kids with the AKs had taken over a number of tower blocks. They were well provisioned. Knew the area. They seemed to have endless amounts of ammunition. Even for people who knew what they were doing when it came to fighting, the prospect of going in and rooting them out did not appeal. The same architecture that turned these tower blocks into rat-infested warrens was the same architecture that would turn them into death-traps that would have to be cleared room by room. Their ROE were to engage them in the street or if fired upon, but otherwise to patrol and contain while the politicians and the police negotiated.

The gunmen may have been organised to a degree, at least when it came to fighting, but they didn’t even have a name. It had just steadily escalated, kicking off with a policeman killed in revenge for shooting an unarmed kid. The gunmen and women wanted fairness, an even playing field, but lacked the vocabulary to express it in terms that politicians would understand. Fat chance, Psycho thought. Nobody with a vested interest wanted an even playing field and the negotiators were trying to buy them off with training shoes, X-Factor and PlayStations. After all, it had worked in the past.

It hadn’t taken much: a number of the older kids who’d been trained by the army, under the Offenders Conscription Act. Someone with contacts in the Eastern European mob for weapons. They would have gotten seed money from who-knows-where and then all it took was for someone to push them just a little too hard.

This was how Psycho found himself looking down the barrel of a Minimi behind a pile of sandbags in his hometown. Admittedly he was south of the river. He was probably shooting at Chelsea fans. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was on the wrong side.

They were stationed at a road junction, looking at one of the tower blocks. The six-wheeled Coyote tactical support vehicle was parked up behind them. The TSV’s mounted .50 calibre heavy machine gun was pointed at the block, the mounted general purpose machine gun, or jimpy, covering the road behind them.

‘Come on, you little shit, show yourself,’ Perkins muttered. He was looking through the scope of the L129A1 sharpshooter rifle. The corporal was one of the body-beautiful types, who somehow managed to hit the gym even after all the PT he did. An attractive guy who knew it, but his good looks couldn’t hide the vicious cast to his features. He knew who to brown nose above and who to victimise below. As far as Psycho was concerned he was a nasty piece of work.

‘Perkins, why don’t you wind your neck in? Things are quiet. Let’s just leave it,’ Psycho told him. He could see Lumley nodding in agreement. There was only one thing that career soldiers hated more than the offender conscripts: the fully integrated front-line female soldiers. This had led to a strange alliance between the women and the offender conscripts in infantry units. Psycho also knew that Lumley, a stocky girl from Derby, was harder than half the guys in his section. She’d had to be, to get where she was.

‘That would be Corporal Perkins, right, Private Sykes?’ Perkins asked, looking up from the scope.

It’ll be Corporal Wanker, Sykes managed not to say.

‘ROE, corp,’ Psycho told him.

‘The rules of engagement say that we may return fire if fired upon. I assure you that if I slot the f*cker he will have shot first. Isn’t that right, Geordie?’

‘Aye, too right, corp,’ Geordie, the thickly-set Lance Corporal manning the TSV’s .50 cal said in his thick Newcastle accent. To Psycho it seemed that every squad in the British army had to come with someone called Geordie in it. Geordie was Perkin’s henchman in the squad.

‘Walker?’

‘Aye, corp,’ the massively built Afro-Caribbean private from Birmingham said.

‘Wally?’

Walowski was a wiry Pole who had somehow also managed to end up in 2 Para as part of the Offenders Conscription Act. The Pole hesitated.

Psycho got on well with Walowski. The Pole seemed to be constantly surprised at finding himself in the British army.

Perkins turned to glare at Walowski.

‘Yes, Corporal,’ the Pole finally answered.

‘Private Lumley?’ Lumley just stared fixedly ahead, watching her sector. ‘I said “Private Lumley”?’ Lumley ignored him. ‘Stupid bitch, probably deaf as well as frigid.’ There was laughter from Walker and Geordie. ‘You know what you need, Lumley?’

‘A corporal who isn’t a wanker?’ Psycho suggested. Lumley and Walowski tried not to smile.

‘Right, Sykes, you’re going on report.’

‘Fine, I live on report. I haven’t, however, been to the Glasshouse in a while. Want to keep talking?’ Psycho was still looking down the barrel of the Minimi, watching his section, but he could feel Perkins glaring at the back of his head. He felt a glare from another quarter as well. He glanced over at Lumley. She was looking less than pleased. Psycho sighed internally. She was right to be pissed off at him. If she wanted to be accepted then she would have to stand up for herself, otherwise . . .

‘Is it love?’ Perkins asked. ‘Aw, isn’t that sweet. Thing is, I’m not sure that Lumley’s much more of a looker than the scarred-up tart who dumped you.’

He heard Lumley’s sharp intake of breath. Wally was desperately looking elsewhere. Psycho’s knuckles whitened around the Minimi’s grip. He was going back in the Glasshouse, he decided, but not until we’re out of the line of fire. He would get Perkins when they were back at the forward operating base at Battersea Power Station.

‘What, the East End hard-man got nothing to say?’ Perkins mocked.

‘See those guys over there?’ Lumley asked, trying to ignore Perkins. Psycho nodded. He’d been watching the two men in dark civilian clothes carrying high-end military gear. They were crouched behind a car about two hundred metres to their left. One of them was observing the same tower block that Perkins’ squad had been assigned to watch through a pair of binoculars. He had a boxy device slung across his shoulder. Psycho recognised the device as a laser designator. The other man was covering him whilst speaking into a radio headset. Presumably relaying the instructions being given to him by the observer.

‘Special forces,’ Psycho muttered. Lumley nodded.

‘They’ll be forward observing for the Anguish,’ Lumley said. Psycho nodded in agreement. That made him very nervous indeed. It was one thing to exchange gunfire in the streets with these kids. It was another altogether to start lobbing ordinance into south London.

‘Corporal,’ Walker said. There was something wrong with the brummie’s voice. Psycho glanced round. Walker looked shocked. He had the headset for the TSV’s radio on.

‘What is it, Walker?’ Perkins asked, concerned.

‘Someone’s just fired ten LAW 80 rockets into the Houses of Parliament,’ Walker told them. Psycho and Lumley glanced round at him. The rest of the squad were staring at Walker, appalled.

‘F*ck,’ Perkins said.

‘They’re pulling us back to the FOB,’ Walker said.

‘F*cking little cunts,’ Perkins spat. He had the marksman’s rifle up and was scanning the front of the tower again.

‘Perkins, what’re you doing?’ Psycho asked. Perkins turned on the Londoner.

‘Shut your mouth, you disloyal little bastard!’ Perkins went back to scanning the front of the tower block. Lumley glanced around, looking up at the corporal, worried, and then went back to covering her section through the optical sight of her SA80.

‘Orders?’ Psycho asked the Corporal.

‘When have you ever given a f*ck about orders?’

The sound of the marksman rifle firing echoed around the canyons made by the surrounding tower blocks. Psycho felt his blood run cold. He noticed that the two special forces troopers turned to stare appalled at the Para squad. Psycho saw someone drop on one of the tower block landings.

‘What the f*ck’re you doing!?’ Psycho demanded, not turning round, keeping up observation of the front of the tower block, his Minimi at the ready.

‘That was a kid, he wasn’t even armed!’ Lumley said. She was also scanning her section.

‘No, it wasn’t . . .’ Perkins started. Psycho could hear the panic in the Corporal’s voice.

Then it looked like the entire front of the tower block opened up on them. Gunmen and women appeared from almost every apartment. Fire was pouring down on them. Most of it was inaccurate, but there were a few people in the tower block that knew what they were doing. Thank you, the Offenders Conscription Act, Psycho thought. He, like Lumley, was just hunkering down behind the sandbags as bullets rained down, sparking off the streets.

‘Contact, contact!’ Perkins was screaming.

‘Smoke!’ Psycho shouted. Nothing happened. ‘Walker, smoke!’ Where was Geordie on the .50? Psycho wondered. He glanced around. Geordie and Walker were taking cover as bullets sparked off the TSV’s superstructure. He couldn’t see Walowski. Perkins was all but lying in the vehicle’s footwell, trying to start it up.

Lumley fired the SA80’s underslung grenade launcher blindly over the top of the sandbag. The teargas grenade wouldn’t provide them with as much cover as the smoke projectors on the TSV, but it was a start.

‘Under the wagon and get the .50 up?’ Psycho shouted at her. Lumley nodded. Psycho popped up and started firing long bursts from the Minimi, hoping to keep people’s heads down. Lumley scrambled across the floor under the TSV and up onto the back of the vehicle. Psycho then had a chance to realise the stupidity of drawing attention to himself in this situation. It felt like everyone in the world was firing at him. He curled up behind the sandbags and tried not to get shot through pure positive mental attitude. It didn’t work. His body armour was taking hits. Each one felt like he’d been hit with a baseball bat. He was glad that he’d upgraded his body armour out of his own pocket.

On the back of the TSV Lumley dragged Geordie out of the way of the .50 cal, racked the heavy machine-gun’s bolt and turned it on the front of the tower block.

Psycho was pretty sure that the slow, rhythmic hammering of the .50 cal was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. The fire slackened off as large holes started appearing in the tower block in explosions of powdered concrete. He was aware of an SA80 firing and then the jimpy started firing as well.

‘Stop firing!’ Perkins screamed at Lumley from the footwell of the TSV. ‘You’ll draw their fire. Stop firing, you stupid bitch, that’s a f*cking order!’ Lumley ignored him. ‘I’ll f*cking have you shot for this!’

Psycho saw the tracers from the .50 cal and the jimpy flying overhead. Keeping low, he started back towards the TSV, firing bust after burst from the Minimi anywhere he saw muzzle flashes.

Psycho reached the TSV and found Perkins in the footwell on the driver’s side, still trying to start the vehicle blindly. Psycho hit the button for the driver’s side smoke projectors. Four smoke canisters popped out of the tubes angled away from the vehicle. They hit the street and started emitting thick smoke. He grabbed Perkins and dragged him bodily out of the vehicle. Perkins scrambled under the TSV. Psycho unclipped the Minimi from its sling and tossed it into the back of the vehicle and then climbed into the driver’s seat.

Smoke was rapidly filling the street, obscuring the tower block’s view of the TSV.

‘Cease fire!’ Psycho shouted as he started up the engine. If they lit up the smoke with muzzle flashes then the people with guns would know where they were. Lumley and Walker stopped firing and immediately hunkered down as rounds were still sparking off the superstructure. Perkins threw himself into the back of TSV.

‘Drive! Get this vehicle moving, Private Sykes!’ Perkins screamed at him. Psycho put the vehicle into reverse, swung it around ninety degrees and then headed down the street. ‘Walker, Lumley, I need you on the MGs now,’ Psycho shouted. Both of them got up, Walker reluctantly. Lumley swung the .50 round so it was aiming back up the way they had come at the street full of thick smoke.

All of them were thrown forwards as Psycho slammed on the brakes.

‘What the f*ck are you doing!?’ Perkins screamed from where he was lying in the back of the TSV. ‘Get this vehicle moving now!’

The two special forces troopers leapt into the back of the vehicle.

‘Appreciate it,’ one of the special forces guys said and started covering out the back of the TSV.

‘I think your friends have had it,’ the other one said. Psycho looked behind him. The top of Walowski’s head was missing. He couldn’t see the wound that had killed Geordie, he just saw the man’s dead eyes staring up at the night sky. Perkins was still screaming at him. One of the special forces guys put their hand on his shoulder.

‘Mate, trust me on this, you need to start driving, okay?’

Psycho nodded and started heading for the FOB. He could see the unmistakable silhouette of the derelict power station ahead of him as he watched the light from the missile’s engines rise into the sky beyond the FOB.

‘Look, we say nothing about it kicking off, okay,’ Perkins said. Nobody answered.

Yeah right, Psycho thought, who would have thought Mrs Sykes’ little boy was going to turn grass?

The ground shook and the horizon behind them turned to fire. Psycho glanced behind. It was only then he realised how beautiful it all was. It was only then he realised how much he’d enjoyed the firefight.

He can hear a voice.

‘I’m not sure how much more the subject can take of this, physiologically speaking,’

None, I can’t take any more, please, you have to kill me, he thinks. He wants to scream this at them but he can’t.

Another voice now: ‘This is not what we intended. We’re not sadists.’

‘I’m not sure that this poor bastard would know it.’

2017, Stirling Lines, Hereford

Dragged out of the back of the wagon. He hit the floor and was given a bit of a kicking. Psycho curled up into a ball. He’d had worse, frankly. He was hungry, he’d had little to eat over the last week, but it was how tired he was that got to him. Not just lack of sleep, not the solid mass of aches that was his body, it was the physical and mental fatigue that made him feel that he was just stumbling through a half-world.

‘Get up, maggot!’ More kicking.

The Special Forces Support Group had been the hunters on the week-long escape and evasion exercise. Psycho and the other hopefuls who had made it this far had been given a World War 2 era greatcoat and a tin with some bits of survival kit in it. Basically he’d been living rough for the better part of the week. He’d made it as far as Bristol and had hid out amongst the homeless camps there. He had thought about trying to jump a train and heading back to London, but decided against it.

He had turned himself in at the end of week for the final part of Special Forces selection: RTI, or resistance to interrogation training. This would also be conducted by the SFSG, many of whom were Royal Marines, RAF Regiment and Paras, Psycho’s regiment, all performing under the watchful eye of instructors from the SAS, SBS and Special Reconnaissance Regiment.

‘Get up, you piece of filth!’ And the boots came in again.

Sorry mate, as cold and wet as the ground is, I like it down here, even with you kicking me, Psycho thought. He was pretty sure that even with them kicking him he could go to sleep on the ground. You want me up, you’re going to have to . . .

He felt himself being dragged to his feet. His legs threatened to buckle.

‘What unit are you with?! Where are the rest of your men?’ someone who’d been eating curry recently screamed in his face. He wanted to give them his name, rank and number, he really did, he tried but it came out a slurred mess. The punch to the stomach doubled him over. Made him retch up his last meal.

‘Disgusting!’

Psycho tried to collapse but arms grabbed him and pulled him to his feet before dragging him towards a set of Quonset huts.

It seemed pointless to Psycho. He was so tired he wanted to cry, but it didn’t make him want to talk. He was so tired he didn’t think he could talk. He just nodded off when he could and was woken up by shouting or by collapsing to the ground.

All the shouting felt like it was coming to him through cotton wool. He didn’t really understand what most of it was about. They had him standing in stress positions, but he kept on falling out of them as he faded towards sleep. It was cold because they had stripped him, but even that didn’t stop him from falling asleep on his feet. They’d had a female soldier come in and make fun of his genitalia. That had just seemed weird. So weird, in fact, that it had set him off with hysterical giggling that had earned him a bit of a kicking.

He’d managed to give them his name and rank a few times but he could not remember his number. It wasn’t that he was tougher than any of the other recruits that had made it this far in the selection. It was just that his brain handled this sort of thing by drifting off. Tired as he was, it all seemed to be happening so far away. The only times that he was brought back into reality was when they hit him. On the other hand, he’d taken lots of beating in the past.

They were trying to get him to stand up but he was a dead weight. His lack of co-operation was getting him another beating. He managed to stand up, leaning forwards against the wall in a stress position. He collapsed and blacked out as he slid his face down the wall.

That f*cking hurt! He was wide-awake now. He threw up down himself. Something very hard had hit him in the kidneys. Bitter experience told him he’d be pissing blood for the next week.

‘Sarge?’ The voice sounded unsure.

‘Shut up.’ Psycho recognised the voice but he couldn’t place it. It sounded like it was coming from far away, through a thick fog. ‘We’re supposed to break them, aren’t we?’

Psycho screamed. Something had hit his right hand and he’d felt the bones break inside.

‘I think he felt that,’ Perkins said. ‘Ironic, taking out the biggest wanker I’ve ever met’s wanking hand.’

Even through the pain it was so difficult to open his eyes. He recognised Perkins’ voice, though. He felt something cold run through his body. He wanted to fight, but even had he been able to move, and he didn’t think he was, he was cable-tied to a chair.

‘H-how . . .?’ Psycho tried to ask. Perkins grabbed him by the hair and bent Psycho’s head back. How did you get into the SFSG? Psycho wanted to ask. He had reported Perkins for what had happened in the LCZ but the army didn’t want to do anything about it. It got lost in the furore of the HMS Anguish’s missile attack. It had been made clear, however, that Perkins was finished in the paras one way or another. Now it seemed that he had been promoted to sergeant and had made it into the SFSG.

‘You always knew how to play the game,’ Psycho tried to say. Instead he mostly mumbled and drooled on himself.

‘What’s that?’ Perkins asked and then swung the collapsible baton into Psycho’s balls. Psycho howled and then passed out.

‘See, this little prick can’t be allowed into the SAS. Know what he did? Know what he f*cking did!? Only killed an unarmed kid in the LCZ, dropped us right in it and then shat himself when they returned fire. He’s a f*cking coward and a liability!’

Not true, some part of Psycho was screaming. He felt sick. His hand and his balls were agony. His hair was grabbed again.

‘Tell them! Tell them what you f*cking did!’ Perkins was screaming at him, spraying him with saliva.

‘N . . . n . . . no,’ Psycho managed. Perkins started hitting Psycho’s arm as hard as he could, over and over again. Psycho was screaming with every blow.

‘Tell them what you did! Tell them and I’ll stop!’

‘P . . . please . . .’

Perkins stopped hitting him.

‘Sarge, I don’t think . . .’ Psycho had no idea who the other voice was. He sounded young, frightened.

‘Tell them about the kid you killed,’ Perkins said, softly now.

He sounds like he believes it. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’ve got it wrong in my head, so tired.

‘Wasn’t . . . me . . .’ Psycho managed.

Perkins started hitting him in the arm again. Psycho screamed until he passed out.

He came to again. This had to stop now. He couldn’t go through any more. He looked down at his pulped left arm. There was bone sticking through the skin.

Someone was whispering to him.

‘They’ve got Lumley next door. Stupid bitch thought she could make it through selection. Unless you tell them about how you killed that kid and then shit yourself, that you’re a coward, she’s going to get raped. Do you understand me?’ Psycho was crying now, nodding numbly. ‘Are you going to tell them?’ Psycho didn’t answer. ‘Tell them.’ Perkins voice was getting louder. Psycho didn’t look up. He just kept his eyes closed. His head down.

He remembered the LCZ. He remembered the shooting. The missile strike. He saw a figure, he couldn’t make out his features, pointing the marksman’s rifle at the tower block. Pulling the trigger, the kid dropping. He saw the same figure curled up in the foot well of the TSV.

He felt the metal head of the baton being run up his right leg. He’s going to break my legs, Psycho knew. It wasn’t the thought of the damage, that was irrelevant now, it was the thought of the pain. He just couldn’t take any more pain.

‘You put the rifle to your shoulder, you saw the kid through the scope, knew he wasn’t armed and . . .’

He was looking through the scope of the rifle. He saw the kid. So easy, so easy to kill, just squeeze the trigger.

‘Because you’re an animal . . . .’

Stood over Davey Falconer, his face so much pulped meat. He hadn’t stopped hitting him. He could hear people screaming the word “animal” at him. He was an animal.

‘Tell them what you did,’ Perkins whispered to him. It was intimate, like a lover. He had let the tip of the baton rest against Psycho’s compound-fractured arm.

It was him. He’d pulled the trigger. He’d killed the kid. He’d been the one cowering, hiding in the TCV.

‘Tell them and all the pain goes away.’

It took every bit of effort he had. He spat in Perkins’ face. He regretted it the moment he’d done it as fear of the pain overwhelmed him again. Perkins raised the baton and brought it down on his leg. This time Psycho knew it wasn’t him who was screaming. He was too far away. Whatever was making the noise wasn’t human. It was a wounded animal.

He was going to say what Perkins wanted him to say. He couldn’t get hit again. He couldn’t take the pain. He would beg him if he had to, anything, but Perkins had to stop hitting him.

He opened his eyes to pain and light. But not as much pain as he had expected. He was lying in a hospital bed. His right hand was bandaged. His left arm and right leg were both in casts and held in traction.

‘You’re in a bit of a mess,’ a voice said. A shadow sat in the seat in front of the window. It was a sunny day. Even seeing hurt. Psycho tried nodding, but that hurt too.

‘Obviously Sergeant Perkins exceeded his brief,’ the figure said. The figure was starting to come into focus now. He was a little guy, wiry. Psycho had seen him before but couldn’t place where.

‘No . . . shit . . .’ Psycho managed. His mouth was dry.

‘I remembered him, but not at first. I knew I’d seen him before but couldn’t place him. He’s the wanker who fired on the tower block, really stirred them up.’

‘I remember you. You got a lot of people killed,’ he told the special forces soldier. He had been one of the forward observers he’d seen in the LCZ, one of the ones who had guided the Anguish’s attack. The man stared at Psycho coldly. Assessing him.

‘I remember you stopping for us.’

‘Lumley?’

‘She made it, first fully-operational female member of the regiment. Made a few of the boys uncomfortable during RTI, but I’ve seen lads go from being staunchly against women in the regiment to being really proud of her.’

Psycho nodded. He couldn’t feel much about Lumley or anything else at the moment.

‘What’re you doing here?’ He was only beginning to understand the ramifications of just how messed up he was. Even through the drugs, the pain was nearly overwhelming.

‘I came to apologise. I took an interest in you. I was overseeing the RTI.’

‘You did a really good job.’

‘I stepped out, no excuse. For what it’s worth, I’m guessing not very much, I’m sorry.’

‘F*ck you,’ Psycho said quietly. The special forces trooper nodded as if it had been a reasonable response. He stood up and made for the door.

‘Perkins?’

The trooper stopped and looked back at Psycho.

‘He had several accidents on his way out of the army. Look, we can deal with . . .’

‘No.’ The trooper nodded. ‘Selection?’ The trooper looked troubled. ‘I f*cking passed!’ Psycho spat. The SAS man nodded.

‘Yes, you did, but you can’t go operational. With those injuries we don’t even know if you’ll heal fully, then there’s rehabilitation. You’ll be lucky if you can go back to 2 Para. Not to mention . . . RTI’s not about surviving it. Given enough time, everyone breaks. It’s how you’re able to cope with it, rationalise it afterwards.’

Psycho was just staring at him.

‘Get the f*ck out of my room.’

The man nodded and then walked out.

The man that Perkins had hurt, that was someone else. A different piece of screaming meat. It had been nothing. He hadn’t known anything about pain then.

2018, Stirling Lines, Hereford

‘What unit are you with!? Where’s the rest of your people?’

Say nothing, head down, passive, don’t make eye contact, and never encourage them by being a smart arse. This last had been a hard-learned lesson. He received a solid punch to the stomach. It knocked over the chair he was tied to. Then the boots came in.

‘Corporal, that’s enough,’ the SAS man said. The SFSG corporal stopped kicking him and helped him up.

‘Sorry mate,’ the corporal said.

Psycho looked at the SAS man.

‘Exercise over?’ he asked. The SAS man nodded. Psycho turned back to the corporal. ‘You are such a f*cking p-ssy.’

The corporal laughed.

‘Don’t blame me,’ he pointed at the SAS man. ‘He told me to be particularly hard on you.’

Psycho looked at the SAS man and nodded.

‘I don’t think I like you very much.’

The SAS man smiled and helped him out of the Quonset hut. Lumley was waiting for him in the yard.

‘You look like you need a brew and smell like you need a shower,’ she told him.

‘I need two ampules of morphine and my bed, is what I need,’ Psycho told her.

2019, Stirling Lines, Hereford

Psycho was stood in front of the CO’s desk, at ease. Psycho was in civvies. The “Old Man” was in fatigues.

‘You’ve always been an insubordinate little f*cker, haven’t you, Sykes?’ the Colonel asked.

‘Yes boss, thank you,’ Psycho said, in a smug enough tone to warrant a warning glare from the CO.

‘Commandeering an RAF helicopter and taking it into the middle of an air strike. You’ve outdone yourself this time. I want to RTU so much I have an erection.’

Suddenly Psycho was taking this seriously. He did not want to be returned-to-unit.

‘Boss, I’m not going back to 2 Para.’

The Old Man looked up from the desk to glare at Psycho.

‘You don’t have a choice, Sykes, you haven’t served out your court-appointed term yet. If I drum you out of the Regiment, I assure you, you will be going back to 2 Para.’

‘Any options, boss?’ Psycho asked, worried.

The Old Man just continued glaring at him.

‘Well, it seems your little stunt impressed our American friends,’ the Colonel said, finally. He tapped a folder on the desk. ‘It’s RTU or this.’

Psycho glanced at the folder. It had the words “Raptor Team” printed on the front.

2020, Nellis AFB, Nevada

‘Well, you look a lot better than you did the last time I saw you,’ Psycho said.

Barnes shielded his eyes from the glaring desert sun with his hand. He was surprised to see the Brit still wearing a leather jacket in this heat.

‘I wanted to say thank you,’ Barnes said.

‘No issues, mate. Call sign Prophet, right?’ Psycho asked. Barnes nodded.

‘I think it’s someone’s idea of a sick joke,’ Barnes said. He was sure the nickname had come from his now highly-classified after-action report from Columbia. ‘Nice tattoo. Very subtle.’

Psycho ran his fingers over the highly-stylised winged dagger tattooed on the back of his shaven head. It had only just finished healing.

‘Thought I’d wave the flag, y’know, whilst I’m over here on secondment with Delta Farce.’

Barnes nodded, smiling.

‘I’m sure we can find some way to impress Supply And Services.’

‘Should be a laugh this, though, right?’

‘Michael? I’m going to see if I can help you,’ The voice said.

You can, the wretched thing that had once been Michael Sykes thought. You can kill me.