Pecking Order, page 16
The first was of a young paratrooper, crouched on a parched runway, one hand resting on a Vickers medium machine gun. Behind him a Valletta transport plane was being loaded up. His dark glasses contrasted with the whiteness of his teeth. He glowed with health, the muscles knotted across his forearms,
Rubble looked at the next photo. The same man in the canteen of some army barracks. He was brandishing a pint at the camera and his other hand was raised with three fingers pointed up. Three what? Rubble wondered. He leaned forwards, studying the tattoo of the badge on the person's forearm. Underneath the familiar winged crest were the words, 3 Para, Utrinque Paratus. He knew most of the regiment's history from Mr Williams in the post office. Now the setting in the other photo clicked. Operation Musketeer, three Para had parachuted into a foreign airfield and taken on the local soldiers who had seized control of a canal nearby. He looked again at the man's three raised fingers. Enemy kills perhaps?
Rubble wondered who the soldier in the photo was. Probably the old man's son or younger brother, he thought,
He turned to the grey-haired figure sprawled diagonally across the mattress. Age had withered his limbs and bloated his stomach.
He wore a tatty cardigan and old trousers; legs rucked up over his ankles to reveal mismatched socks. Silently Rubble crouched down and, very gently, pushed the cardigan sleeve up the arm hanging off the edge of the mattress. To his surprise he saw the tattoo from the photo, now smeared and faded beneath the sagging skin. Its definition was almost lost but Rubble could just make out the number three and outstretched wings of the regiment's crest. He couldn't believe it was the same man. He rubbed the palm of his gloved hand up and down the back of his neck, suddenly unsure about his duty. Putting an ex-paratrooper to sleep; it didn't seem right. But then he thought of his own duty as a Government agent. He went back to the photo for another look. This wasn't the same man smiling back at him, Rubble told himself. This one was fit and honed; a fighting machine. The one on the mattress was weak and vulnerable, robbed of his strength. No use to anyone.
He took the syringe out of his pocket. Kneeling down by the sleeping man's arm, he lightly slid the needle into a bluish vein in the crook of his elbow. The snoring turned into a snort and he moved his arm across the mattress, the syringe hanging from it like a parasite feeding. In the corner the music came to a stop. Rubble's eyes remained fixed on the man's eyelids. The tape clicked over and a trumpet struck up the next march. Rubble waited patiently for the old man's breathing to steady and then, millimetre by millimetre, emptied the Euthanol into his arm.
Even before the syringe was empty the breathing had slowed right down, becoming too gradual for snoring. Now it was just an open-throated inhalation, followed by an equally gradual release of air. Rubble put the cap of the syringe back on, returned it to his pocket and waited. Minutes later, the man's throat began a wet rattling noise. Then he let out a long deep sigh, as if someone had given him long-awaited news. Rubble felt warm, fruity air wash over his eyelashes and the old man didn't breathe again. He crossed the ex-para's hands on his chest and stood back up.
Looking at the person’s mismatched socks, Rubble stepped over to the chair and rummaged through the pile of clothes. Eventually, he found a match for the one on the old man's right foot. Crouching down, he removed the odd sock, replaced it with the correct one and straightened the ruffled trousers. After giving the old soldier a silent salute, he left the house.
Over the road he waited in the shadows behind the pub until Agent Orange's car rolled to a stop outside the car park entrance. He hurried over to the vehicle and quickly climbed in.
'Mission successful?' asked Eric, hand on the gear stick.
'Yes Sir,' Rubble answered promptly,
'You waited until the subject had stopped breathing?'
'Yes Sir.'
‘Absolutely certain he was dead?’
‘Yes Sir.’
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Eric put the car in gear and they headed off down the street. 'Well done Agent White, you've done a first-class job. That is your work completed with flying colours for tonight.'
Chapter 32
'Anyone for coffee?' asked Julian, holding up the round glass jug from the percolator machine.
'What sort of beans are they again?' said Adele from the corner of the room, soles of her DM boots against the edge of the low table, a half-completed roll-up perched on her knees.
Julian picked up the foil pack, 'It's produced by a Colombian workers’ co-operative. Patricia got it from Pulse, so it's bound to be a good bet.'
'Go on then,' said Adele and Julian filled up a cup and walked round the table to where she was sitting, tongue flicking along the edge of a Rizla.
‘Clare, could I...' he pause for no more than a heartbeat, '...tempt you?' One eyebrow raised a fraction.
Clare looked up and noticed the expression on his face. 'No, I'm caffeined-out at the moment, cheers.'
Julian shrugged and handed the cup to Adele. 'Anyone else?' he asked the rest of the room.
A couple of people replied, 'Yes please.'
Clare resumed her conversation with Adele, keeping Julian's brown corduroys in the periphery of her vision. As he passed before her seat, he made an exaggerated shuffle to get round her, brushing her knees as he did so. Keeping her gaze directed at the table, Clare wondered whether the contact could have been deliberate.
Adele still hadn't lit her roll-up and was impatiently turning her mobile phone over and over in her hand. 'Anyway, as I was saying, sorry about missing the march. We had an absolute nightmare in the flat. The boiler went and the landlord's handyman wasn't answering his phone.'
Clare knew Adele rented a flat with three other girls in one of the most expensive parts of the city. When questioned once, she had explained it away with a vague mention of an unbelievably good deal. The owner, she claimed, lived overseas and hadn't put the rent up in years.
'We had to use all our towels to try and soak up the leak,’ Adele continued. ‘The whole kitchen was flooded by the time we got a plumber round.'
Clare wondered if Adele was aware that the burst boiler story was amongst the most clichéd of excuses for missing something.
'The march sounded great though,' Adele added. 'How many signatures did you get?'
‘I reckon well over three-hundred,' replied Clare. 'People were mobbing us outside the Union.'
'Brilliant, that should make the bastards think again.'
‘Yeah, hopefully,' answered Clare. 'So, you got any plans for after graduation?'
Adele looked scornfully at her roll-up. 'Nope. Probably just bum around a bit. Do a bit of travelling, South America or somewhere like that. I'm certainly in no hurry to join the rat race. You?'
Clare wished she shared Adele's laid back attitude to getting that first graduate job. She said uncertainly, 'Not really. I'm sure you know I'm looking into postgraduate positions. Here or another university nearby.'
Adele nodded thoughtfully. 'Yeah, I fancy doing an MA once I've had a bit of a break. Something related to social work or charity fund-raising. If nothing else, it's another way to use up a year or two, isn't it?' She grinned.
From the doorway Patricia's voice sounded. 'Sorry to interrupt Clare, but could I pinch you for a moment?' She was holding up an A4 sized brown envelope. 'It's about an essay.'
Clare started to frown - all her essays from Patricia's modules had been returned to her long ago. Then she saw the fixed stare on Patricia's face and realised the woman was really referring to something else.
'This coffee is spot on, Pat,' said Julian. 'Don't you agree guys?' he asked the rest of the room. Several students nodded their thanks as Clare edged round the table.
'I'm glad you're enjoying it,' replied Patricia, as she moved away from the open door. Once outside, she ushered Clare further down the corridor and into the first available room. Without bothering to turn the lights on, she shut the door, excitedly grabbed Clare's hand and whispered, 'I've had a little phone call from the ESPRC. Well, someone I know on their allocation committee. They're officially announcing it in two days' time, but, according to him, the grant is ours!'
Clare noted how Patricia used the word, ours. 'That's brilliant Pat. Well done - you really deserve it with all the work you've put in.'
'Thank you. Anyway, I know this is premature, but I thought it would brighten your day.' She raised the envelope. 'In here is an application form for a position as a researcher and part-time lecturer.'
Clare felt blood rush to her cheeks.
'It's a bit improper, before I've even advertised for one I know, but,' Patricia rolled her eyes, 'well, when you want the best, you have to bend the rules occasionally. Don't let anyone see you with this, but get thinking about research areas that interest you and make sure they correspond with what the research project will be about. We can even structure it so you end up with an MA.'
Feeling her eyes filling with tears, Clare said, 'Thanks Pat - I can't tell you how much it would mean if you offered me a position.'
'Clare,’ Patricia hastily corrected her. ‘I am offering you a position.' She held out the envelope.
Clare didn't know what to say. Looking down to take it, she noticed all the polish had disappeared from Patricia's nails. Before she could stop, she found herself gushing, 'Your lovely nail polish has gone.' Immediately she blushed at the silliness of her comment. 'Sorry.'
Patricia smiled. 'I chipped the polish on one. Typical isn't it? Just after you have them manicured. The easiest thing was to remove the rest of it. At least my toenails are still perfect though!' she added cheerfully.
Clare had recovered enough composure to say, 'Pat, I would so love to work in your department. Your courses have opened my eyes to so many social issues...'
Patricia placed a hand on Clare's forearm to interrupt her. 'You don't have to persuade me how suitable you are,' she said smiling. 'I've already offered you a position. I thought you'd be an asset to the department ever since I was your tutor for your dissertation last year. Your enthusiasm and insight stood you apart from the other students straight away. Too many see this course as an easy ride and a ticket to cheap booze, as I'm sure you know.'
Clare lowered her eyes and, with heartfelt honesty, said, 'I wouldn't have enjoyed doing my dissertation half as much as I did without your guidance. To have someone with as many commitments as you prepared to sacrifice half her summer writing letters on my behalf, suggesting material for research, places to visit, it was ... well, it was inspirational for me. You didn't need to do so much.'
'But Clare, that's the beauty of doing something you really enjoy. Work doesn't seem like work when the subjects you are dealing with are so interesting, as I'm sure you'll discover. Now don't tell anyone about this,' she said, placing the envelope in Clare's hand. 'And return it directly to me when you've done it.' Squeezing Clare's arm, she opened the door and disappeared up the corridor.
Clare stood there for a few moments, pressing the envelope to her chest and enjoying the surge of elation flooding through her. Then she sat down at the desk behind the door and slid the application form out of the envelope. She had nearly finished glancing over it when she heard a voice, low and urgent, approaching down the corridor from the coffee room. She put the form back into the envelope as a blurred head and shoulders passed along the other side of the frosted glass window above where she was sitting. The door was pushed open and Adele backed into the dark room, mobile phone pressed to her ear. Unaware of Clare sitting almost behind her, she continued to speak.
'Listen, Mummy,' she hissed. 'It's a graduate trainee job with Nestlé. Do you realise how many people get to the second round of interviews - let alone graduates off some mickey-mouse course in sociology?'
Clare frowned: there was a home-counties accent evident in Adele’s voice.
'I bloody want this job OK?' Adele paused as her mum made her reply. 'I don't care how you do it. Transfer it from your account that Daddy keeps topped up, or something. Bloody well ask Daddy how to do it. I need enough for a return flight to London, I am not - repeat bloody not - travelling by crappy train. And I need a decent outfit. There's an Yves Saint Laurent in the big department store up here.'
A pause.
‘Great.' Sarcasm was heavy in her voice. 'No Mummy, that's fine. I'll just go in my bloody dungarees and Doc Martens.’ She listened again. ‘So what? You bought me a flat up here, big deal. Sell it again when I get this job. Unless you want me to live up here permanently? Is that it? Do you honestly expect me to get a job as a social worker or something in the north of England?'
Another pause, during which time she drew angrily on the last of her cigarette.
'Yeah, yeah. Just put Daddy on, will you?'
Adele stayed silent for a while and when she spoke again, her voice had softened. 'Thank you Daddy. When will it be in my account? Excellent. Honestly, you won't regret this. I'll get that job, you wait and see. Nestlé! You don't get much bigger than that. Love you, Daddy.'
She ended the call and began to look about for a bin to dump the end of her roll-up in. As she turned round she saw Clare sitting quietly at the desk by the door. In the dim light Adele turned white. She stood there, motionless.
Clare wasn't sure what to say. Adele, of all people, was a complete fake. Memories flooded her mind of all the times the other student had passed politically-correct judgements on ill-considered comments made in the coffee room. Part of Clare wanted to laugh with relief: there were others on the course just as hypocritical as her! But to express any kind of sympathy with Adele would only expose herself. And she couldn't afford to do that. Instead, Clare smiled coldly at the other student and, as she got up, said, 'More coffee Adele? Nescafé perhaps?' She left the room without waiting for an answer.
Hours later and Clare was still shaking her head, unable to believe Adele's act. Then she realised where she was; sitting in a call-centre waiting to make money out of vulnerable peoples’ hopes and fears.
Uneasily, she ran a finger along her mouthpiece, wondering how much of a better person she was. Or even if she were worse than Adele. Before she had time to decide, her line clicked three times and, clearing the thoughts from her head, she readied herself for a caller who had dialled her extension.
‘Hello, this is Sylvie Claro speaking. Would you like a horoscope or a tarot reading?'
'Sylvie, it's me.' Then, as if he was her only caller, the person added, 'Remember?'
But Clare did: she instantly recognised the voice and its childish enthusiasm.
Before she could say anything, it boastfully continued. 'I put another one to sleep! The man called again and gave me another mission!'
Clare remembered with dismay the details of their earlier conversation.
'So my child,' she hesitated. 'You say it was a success?'
'Yeah! It was an old man this time. I wasn't sure about doing him at first, ex-para he was. But that was long ago. He'd turned fat and was snoring his head off like a pig, cider bottles all around him.'
Clare considered how to handle him, even if she should just cut him off. Deciding that he'd only call someone else if he couldn't spout off at her, she said, 'So you must have a lot of money to spend.'
'The man hasn't paid me yet. But he was really pleased with me, said I'd done a first class job with flying colours. That's why I'm calling - can you see if there will be many more missions?'
Clare paused for a few moments. The whole thing was too creepy. Rather than claim to be looking up his charts to spin out the call for longer, she decided to get off the phone as soon as possible. 'Let me see. Taurus is coming into the sphere of the dynamic Mars, which indicates a very auspicious time for you. And with a full moon on the wane, I'd say that yes, you can expect a long and fruitful run with this work.'
‘How soon will he call me again?'
'Oh, soon my child, soon.'
‘Great!' An awkward pause. 'Well, thanks. And, um ...Sylvie...do you...'
She could tell he was building up to ask her something else. Abruptly, memories of abysmal school-age fumbles appeared in her mind. She cut him off with a speedy, 'Thank you, and good night.'
Sitting back, she blew out a long sigh. Something about the way he talked worried her. He was obviously very uneducated, but occasionally words would appear in his speech which were entirely unexpected. As if he was repeating something a third, more intelligent, party had said to him.
Remembering that Brian always kept a copy of the local paper on his desk, Clare hit 'call-wrap-up' and walked over to his office. After knocking lightly on his window, she opened the door a little and said, 'Mind if borrow your paper?'
'Course not, sweetie. Help yourself.'
She picked it up and returned to her cubicle. Once her headset was back on she re-released 'call-wrap-up' to open her line once again then unfolded the paper and began scanning through the pages, searching for any reports of a murder of an old man. As usual, there were plenty of incidents of old people being battered and robbed. She passed one story about a seventy-six-year old woman being mugged in the street for a few pounds. Another about a fake gas inspector who'd duped his way into an eighty-three-year old man's flat, assaulted him, tied him up and taken his life savings. But nothing on the suspicious death of an ex-soldier, or the discovery of an old woman's body either for that matter. When she reached the TV and horoscope section she knew the following pages were only full of adverts. She refolded the paper and opened her book once again.
Over the next three hours she completed fourteen more calls, two lasting for over ten minutes. Not bad for a Wednesday night. Once the clock on her console clicked midnight she pressed the 'log off’ button and packed her stuff up. Passing the cubicles she could hear the quiet murmur of a voice coming from each one.
