Free Fortress by Andy McNab Page B

and stepped back. ‘Well, you’ve got Jimmy now.’
    He had noticed her charming their Cypriot landlord even before his father had left, praising him for letting them live in the cramped, badly ventilated flat above his shop. Such a kind man, so good to my boys. It was true: Jimmy gave them Cokes from his fridge, change for the slot machine and free kebabs. Then she had appeared in new earrings, shoes, a winter coat. He soon realized what she was doing to secure these favours, as he turned up the TV to drown the squeals and gasps that floated up from Jimmy’s room behind the shop when she was ‘helping downstairs’.
    But even as a teenager, he was relieved that someone else had come along to take the heat off him and carry the burden of bankrolling her and Karza. One major up-side of Karza taking off: he wasn’t leeching off them any more. But no matter where he was, dead or alive, he still exerted a powerful force over her.
    ‘But no Karza …’ She was still talking about him, her face clouded with sorrow.
    Jesus, families , thought Sam. They really do fuck you up.
    She looked at him with those sad Labrador eyes. ‘Jimmy is the kindest man but there can be no joy, only pain, while Karza is …’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.
    He put his arm round her.
    She nestled her head against his neck. ‘Will you do something – anything – to bring him back? Will you?’ She lifted her head away and fixed him with one of her trademark stares, gradually taking a deep breath that, depending on his response, would erupt in a wail of pure sorrow or an exclamation of love and joy.
    He heard the words leave his mouth as if with a will of their own. ‘All right, I promise.’
    Her face lit up. She pulled him to her again, squeezing him tight. Then, just as quickly, her mood changed. ‘Sahim, please go now to the flat and get my passport.’ She rummaged in her bag and produced a huge ring of keys. ‘It’s in my bedside table – top drawer.’

16
    Sam slept fitfully in an antiseptic hotel near the station. He had nodded off watching Sky News and it was still playing when he woke up. Another night of violence …
    His phone was buzzing: Helen.
    ‘Hey, sweetheart. So glad you called back.’ He had left several messages the night before.
    ‘Where are you?’
    ‘I had to go up north.’ He knew that would do. She never asked what he was up to.
    ‘Oh.’ She sounded put out.
    ‘Baby, I’m so sorry. Are you missing me? I thought you had a big shoot today.’ He seemed to remember her talking about a chocolate commercial.
    ‘Um – well, I just wanted to talk.’
    ‘Did you have a bad day?’
    ‘No – I’m just a bit freaked out about everything that’s going on.’
    She had never mentioned the riots before.
    ‘Look, I’ll be back tonight. Promise. Okay? And I can put your mind at rest about everything.’
    The thought of being back in her arms, smothering his face in her blonde curls, filled him with excitement. God, he fancied her.
    ‘Okay.’ Her voice was muted.
    Oh, well. ‘Bye. Love you.’
    Bala’s estate was a two-mile walk. In the daylight the centre of town seemed to have returned to business as usual. The exercise sharpened him and he soon forgot about Helen’s ominous tone. Further away from the centre, the damage was apparent. The estate was a ghost town of abandoned houses. Pavements were strewn with litter from overturned bins, glass from smashed windows and windscreen. A burned-out corner shop still smouldered. His mother had been right. Not since Bosnia had he seen anything like this. He didn’t expect to find someone home but at least he could say he’d made the effort. He’d ask anyone he did see around the estate, then get the hell out.
    But they hadn’t fled. Bala’s father was up a ladder, nailing plywood over a smashed upstairs window. All the others had been boarded up.
    ‘Hi, Mr Pazic.’
    Mr Pazic looked down at him, said nothing, and carried on hammering. Sam guessed they