Honour And Betrayal

HONOUR AND BETRAYAL Tom laughed, humourlessly, as the knife was introduced into the fetid air. “So here it ends,” he murmured; and so it proved. . ---------Even in civilian guise, the four men grouped together at the bar could not be mistaken for anything other than soldiers. Cropped hair sat atop identikit faces – sun roughened skin, alert gazes and granite chin lines that spoke of intense physical endeavour. Their outfits, uniform and neat, completed the caricature; well worn desert boots, blue jeans and maroon tops were de rigueur within the parachute regiment, and served to identify the individual as a member of an elite band The first floor of the Punch and Judy was mobbed; a hot Sunday afternoon during the indolent month of August drew the tourists to Covent Garden like bees to honey, and the lads had chosen this location to start, and now finish, Billy’s stag weekend. “So this is it, boys, our last drink together as dedicated singlies”, said Des, a tall, gangly Liverpudlian with an extended scar stretching from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. “You speak for yourself, ziphead, I’m never getting hitched!” Andy, the determined bachelor, oozed casual malevolence from every pore and this attitude was magnified by his menacing cockney drawl. “He’s got a point though, big man,” said Tom, the unelected leader of the quartet. “We’re all off on our separate ways after this – you’re on SAS selection, Des is promoted and posted as an instructor to P Company, and I’m due to go on my last operational jump into the exciting world of commerce and consumerism”. This last comment was stated with bitter irony – Tom had been persuaded, against his better judgement, to leave the Parachute Regiment in order to help his father run the family used car dealership in Nottingham. “Aye, but lads, there’ll be other times, good times, when we’re back together as a crew”, said Billy anxiously, unsure whether to phrase the words as a statement of fact or a hopeful question. He had begun to slur his words, entering as he was the morose, depressed stage of a slow burning and well earned hangover. “And remember the oath – remember the blue badge of courage”. This was Des again, referring to the inscribed parachute wings they’d each had tattooed on to their left shoulder blade. He turned to Andy, saying, “Do me a favour mate, just make sure that Greek bastard didn’t fuck up the words”. Des hitched his red sweat top up and turned his back to the big Londoner, awaiting inspection. Andy carefully pealed back the bloodied dressing and read out the two lines of text that, taken together, formed a concentric circle around the blue wings. Airborne till we die – London 01/08/1994 Pegasus comeback tour – P & J’s 01/08/2004 “Remember lads, whatever you’re doing, wherever you are, you must make it back to Punch and Judy’s for midday on the first day of August 2004 – is that understood? If anyone jacks, they don’t just piss off their mates, they fuck with the honour of the Regiment”. Normally cool and taciturn, Tom’s half shouted words were both passionate and beseeching. They all nodded silently; the euphoria of the weekend was starting to dissipate, and in its place emerged the gradual realisation that an important chapter of their lives was ending. ---------Colchester military cemetery is steeped in history, reflecting as it does the close relationship between the British people, their armed forces and the numerous conflicts and misadventures visited 1

upon them by remote royalty and opportunistic politicians. The space it occupies, however, on the outskirts of the ancient town is cold and utilitarian, and was certainly not a fitting place for the outpouring of grief visited upon it by Sheila as she buried her man. Billy had been killed when his open top Landrover had rolled whilst on exercise in Kenya, a freak accident which had stunned the entire Regiment. It had also acted as the catalyst for the three remaining members of the group to meet up again, and they stood together at the back of field, forlorn and yet unwilling to give vent to their real emotions. As the last notes of the buglers’ refrain floated out over the Essex flatlands, Tom turned to the others and, taking control of the situation, said the only thing he could under the circumstances. “Beer”. The lads had eventually ended their impromptu wake in the County Hotel, a shabby 19th century coaching Inn that had definitely seen better days. Andy had booked himself into one of the grander suites, and loftily informed them that they could bunk down on the dressing room floor or sofa. He then sprung the biggest surprise of the day by introducing the others to his wife, Nadia. A tall, elegant brunette from New York, he’d met her on his first trip Stateside with B Squadron after passing selection five years ago. “My God,” thought Tom, “she’s gorgeous, what’s Andy doing with her!” They’d done a lot of reminiscing about Billy and the good times they had enjoyed, but had not spoken about the present or the future – those subjects had proved elusive under the circumstances. Nadia’s presence now enabled the three men to paint a broader picture of how far they’d come in the five years since Covent Garden. Des was now a Colour Sergeant in C Company, and was strongly fancied for the Regimental Sergeant Major’s position, while Andy had been allowed to channel his aggression in a more focused manner with the SAS in assorted official, and unofficial, hotspots throughout the world. Although half a decade had passed, it quickly became obvious that Des and Andy remained, intrinsically, the same people, with the same attitudes, opinions and general outlook. Tom had moved on, however, and as the evening progressed he began to sense the distance that had developed between himself and his two erstwhile comrades. So did Nadia. “And what do you do now, Tom?” she asked, as the other two played pool in the games room. “Oh, I bought my Dad out a few years ago, and now own five car dealerships throughout the East Midlands”, he replied, pleased to be moving the conversation towards familiar ground. “Wow, my old man sold Chevvys’ in the Bronx for half his life”, she stated, with genuine interest. For the next hour, while Des and Andy played increasingly erratic games of pool, Tom and Nadia talked about cars, America and the comparative merits of Nottingham Forest and the New York Yankees. Underlying this mundane conversation, however, was the realisation that a spiritual and emotional connection had been made. It took Tom half an hour to manhandle Des and Andy upstairs to the suite. Leaving Nadia to deal with her husband, he unceremoniously dumped a somnolent Des on to the sofa, and then settled into the nest of blankets he’d found in the wardrobe. He was awoken, only minutes later, by a light touch on his winged tattoo. He turned lethargically, confused by alcohol and the strange environment, and was therefore too slow to stop Nadia, naked and predatory, from slipping in beside him. He started to protest, but she was insistent and he weakly allowed himself to suspend all sense of reason and decency. Tom woke early, and as he dressed he tried to persuade himself that the incident with Nadia had all been a bad dream, conjured up by cheap ale and a fiery vindaloo. Before slipping out the room he called across to Des, “Scouse, are you awake mate”, and he received a bad tempered grunt in reply. Tom persevered, “Good luck pal, hopefully see you at the Punch and Judy in five years time”, he said, and then walked downstairs to call a cab. 2

---------Tom hovered nervously in the saloon bar of the King George, a few hundred yards from Covent Garden and the upstairs bar of the Punch and Judy where he knew his two friends waited – he’d already seen Des walking towards the square. The last five years had been good for him – he had recently been bought out by Volkswagon and had invested the money wisely. He knew, through the grapevine, that life hadn’t been so kind for Andy, however. Nadia had left him a year after Billy’s death, and he’d been thrown out of the Regiment after turning to alcohol, drugs and self-loathing. “C’mon, it’s not your fault, pull yourself together man”, he muttered, though he was sure that the guilt he felt could not be assuaged by mere words. One more piss and then I’ll go, he told himself, and moved towards the toilets. He had just finished washing his hands when his assailant brutally smashed the metal bar onto his crown, causing his forehead to crash into the mirror a fraction of a second later. His legs buckled immediately and he slumped to the floor, pain flooding his body and causing him to momentarily lose control of his bowels. A pool of rank faeces started to seep through the fabric of his expensive trousers. “You piece of crap, you talk of honour and yet you betray your best friend,” said the man, talking through clenched teeth. Tom laughed, humourlessly, as the knife was introduced into the fetid air. “So here it ends,” he murmured; and so it proved. ---------“Any sign of Tom yet, Des?” Andy asked, as his friend returned to the bar. “Not seen mate – I don’t think he’s coming. He thinks he’s a cut above now, we’re probably better off without him,” said Des. Andy looked doubtful, “Nah, he’s still a good bloke, just changed a bit, s’all. We’ll have another beer and wait here for him”. Des smiled. “Your round then, big man, but I’ve got a hunch that Tom’s not going to make an appearance on this comeback tour,” he said, and there was a sense of finality in his voice. End

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