Free Civvies by Lynda La Plante Page B

Frank Dillon, his best mate in all the world. Frank knew Jimmy, possibly better than anyone else. There was no one else. He saw Dillon moving away over the frozen tundra, pale Antarctic sunlight slanting down, his figure silhouetted against the blue wash of sky. That day they’d tabbed fourteen miles with thirty-eight kilograms of kit — L1A1 weapon, thirty-round magazine, fighting order, bergen stuffed with ammo and emergency rations — sneaking up the enemy’s backside after a march the Argies thought humanly impossible. Dillon had set the example, and Dillon wasn’t a man you let down, not if you wanted his respect. Worth more than rubies, and he was throwing it away for two money-belts of soiled notes. ‘Frank… Frank, I’m sorry,’ Jimmy whispered. ‘Sorry about the wait, but the filth were crawling round my place, Newman said, placing the money-belts inside his pigskin briefcase and snapping it shut. He inclined his head towards Jimmy, sitting subdued in a corner of the back seat. ‘Frank all right, is he?’ ‘Yeah. Just needed some fresh air.’ Staring without seeing anything, blur of lights, smeared faces. Newman held out two thick bundles secured with rubber bands. ‘This is your cut, and you both get a bonus. Three grand!’ Newman permitted himself a faint smug smile. ‘Glad Frank worked out, but then I knew he’d come round. Everyone’s got a price.’ ‘You can’t buy Frank Dillon,’ Jimmy said quietly, his chest so full he hardly had the breath. Then softer yet: ‘I’m the type you can buy, Mr Newman…’ The Jaguar sped on, Jimmy stared bleakly out.
    He was in luck. Dillon was mooching across the paved courtyard, hands in his pockets, just as the taxi turned the corner. Jimmy hopped out, told the driver to wait, and intercepted Dillon at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Here’s your cut!’ The grin was back, but not quite sure of itself. ‘An’ we got a bonus!’ Jimmy handed over the thick wad, keeping his back to the cab driver. ‘How much?’ ‘Three grand — not bad for one night’s work, eh?’ Dillon’s surly expression faded as he gazed wonderingly at the money in his hand. ‘What — each? You kiddin’ me?’ ‘Naaahh!’ Jimmy slapped Dillon on the arm. ‘Look, I gotta go, Frank, be in touch soon, yeah?’ Dillon looked him in the eyes. ‘You sure, Jimmy … no strings?’ ‘No strings, Frank.’ Jimmy ducked his head, turned away. ‘Night.’ ‘G’night you thievin’ bastard!’ said Dillon, cuffing him. ‘I’m sorry I sounded off on you… don’t get in too deep, Jimmy.’ Jimmy looked back. ‘Steve Harris still dossin’ down at your place?’ he asked quietly. ‘He’s got no place else to go.’ ‘He’ll bleed you dry, Frank.’ Bitterness there, even a tinge of envy maybe. ‘His kind always do.’ ‘He doesn’t lie to me, Jimmy.’ Dillon’s voice had icicles on it. ‘I trust old Steve, an’ I’ll get him back on his feet.’ He went up the stairs, footsteps ringing out on the concrete. Jimmy nodded to himself, listening as the footsteps faded, knowing Dillon meant every word. He said to the empty stairwell, ‘What about me, Frank? What about me?’
    Susie was mending the kids’ shirts when Dillon walked in, snipping frayed cuffs, binding them with strips of cotton she’d bought down the market. There was soccer on the telly, but the sound was off, vividly coloured doll-like figures darting about on smooth emerald-green baize, chasing four shadows at once. She said, ‘Where’ve you been?’ ‘Ran into a pal of Jimmy’s, did a bit of collectin’.’ Dillon looked at the screen, at the carpet, at the ceiling fixture, and turned to go. ‘Buy you the suit, did he?’ Susie carried on sewing. ‘What?’ Dillon fingered the lapel as if seeing the suit for the first time. ‘Oh… yeah.’ He turned again. ‘What’s the matter, Frank?’ Dillon slowly faced her, tugging at his moustache, eyes on the screen. He said quietly, ‘It’s not