Once A Pilgrim: a breathtaking, pulse-pounding SAS thriller. James Deegan
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away from it – partly because it just felt wrong, mostly not wanting to upset his mum – and every day he gave thanks for that. The Army had given him discipline and focus, and turned him into a man.
And now, all those years later, he looked across the desk at Topham, waiting for him to try and twist his arm.
He wasn’t disappointed.
‘You know it’s not too late to change your mind, John,’ he said. ‘What would it take to keep you? Realistically?’
‘I’d like to be an operator in a Sabre Squadron again,’ said Carr, knowing he had more chance of levitating. Experience and know-how took you a long way, but there was no substitute for the strength and fitness and aggression that a younger man could bring.
‘Yes,’ said Topham, making a church steeple out of his fingers and smiling ruefully. ‘I thought you’d say that. But that’s the one thing we can’t do. Not even for Mad John, I’m sorry to say.’
Carr smiled despite himself at the nickname, which had followed him round the Regiment for the last fifteen years.
‘Of course you cannae,’ he said. ‘But you asked. What else is there? Become an officer? No offence, Mark, but that’s not me.’
‘This has been your life for nearly twenty years. Are you sure you want to walk away from it all?’
Carr looked at the CO for a moment. ‘No, I’m sure I don’t want to. I fucking hate the idea. But it comes to us all, and this is my time. I’m going to walk to the main gate, hand in my pass, and it’s all behind me.’
‘I respect that. It’s a shame, but I respect it.’
Carr smiled. ‘Not to mention, I’ve been offered a job I can’t refuse. Twenty years living in shitholes, getting shot at, blown up, eating compo… It’s time to enjoy life. It disnae last forever. I want the cash.’
‘You tight Jock bastard,’ said Topham, shaking his head and grinning.
Carr laughed. ‘Me, a tight Jock bastard? Here’s you with your stately home, and your polo ponies.’
‘Fair one,’ said Topham, with another rueful expression.
‘Boss, trust me, I hate it more than you do, but it’s just time to go. At least I can walk out the gate with my head held high, and think about all the guys we knew who didn’t have that option. I beat the clock. Ask young Rooney if he wants to walk out the Camp again. Ask Pete Squire, or Jonny Lawton, or Rick Jones. Ask any of them.’
‘True. A lot of good men on that clock.’
‘Too many.’
Mark Topham stared out of the window at a cloudless blue sky. The thump of a helicopter landing on the field outside bounced through the glass.
‘Well, you can’t say I didn’t try,’ he said, with a resigned smile. ‘You’ve had a citation submitted for the night in Dora, by the way.’
Carr raised his eyebrows. ‘Just doing my job,’ he said. ‘It’s not about the medals.’
‘Sell it to Ashcroft, then. But joking aside, well done. Richly deserved.’
‘Thanks boss. Means a lot.’
Topham stood up, and Carr followed suit.
The 22 CO held out a hand. ‘I can honestly say, John, that it has been an enormous pleasure and a singular privilege to serve with you. You’re always welcome here. Godspeed.’
A slight lump in his throat, and his eyes stinging a little, Carr nodded.
‘Aye,’ was all he could manage.
He strode out of the Commanding Officer’s room into the corridor and towards the exit to the Regimental Headquarters building, where he walked, head down, straight into a tall, slender man in the corridor – a man whose angular appearance belied his considerable tenacity, courage, and intellect.
Major General Guy de Vere, Director Special Forces, who had arrived a few minutes earlier on the helicopter, for a planning meeting with Mark Topham.
‘Christ, John, you nearly took me out,’ said de Vere, when he saw who it was. ‘I understand you’re leaving us?’
‘Yeah, that’s me, boss,’ said Carr, shaking the outstretched hand. ‘I’m out the door. Civvie street.’
‘Mark couldn’t persuade you?’
‘Nah. Sorry.’
De Vere shook his head. ‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘Amicitiae nostrae memoriam something-sempi-something fore.’
‘I’ll be honest with you, boss,’ said Carr. ‘I havnae a clue what you just said there.’
‘Cicero,’ said de Vere. ‘I hope the memory of our friendship lasts forever.’
‘Jesus,’ said Carr. ‘I’m not dying, you know. I only live down the road.’
Guy de Vere smiled broadly and clapped Carr on the shoulder.
‘Tell you what, John,’ he said, ‘we’ve come a fucking long way since that night in the Clonards, haven’t we?’
BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND TWENTY YEARS EARLIER
LANCE CORPORAL JOHN CARR hefted his rifle in his left hand and looked across the vehicle yard at the young officer.
‘Jesus,’ murmured Carr. ‘I reckon your missus shaves more often than he does.’
Next to him, Corporal Mick ‘Scouse’ Parry chuckled. ‘You cheeky bastard,’ he said. ‘Fair one, mind.’
A thin, pink dawn was just catching the top of the Black Mountain on the edge of west Belfast, but the inside of Fort Whiterock was still lit by orange sodium. In the glare of one of the lights, the second lieutenant – who was very tall and very slender – was struggling to lay out the unwieldy tribal map on the bonnet of his Snatch Land Rover.
‘He’s in my wagon, is he?’ said Carr, with a thin smile. ‘I think I’ll stick the lanky streak of piss up on top cover. See what he’s made of. Hopefully he’ll get a pissy nappy in the face.’
‘Character-building,’ said Parry, with an approving look.
The officer finally succeeded in smoothing down the map, and now he made a show of studying it.
‘Look at him,’ said Carr, shaking his head. ‘The height of the bastard, he’ll make a fucking good target. Mind you, he’s a thin cunt. They’ll hardly see him if he turns sideways.’
Scouse Parry chuckled again.
Off to the left, near the main gate and in the shadow of the base’s massive walls, a group of soldiers – members of 7 Platoon, C Company of the 3rd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment – stood around, stamping their feet against the cold, breath forming clouds, waiting on the order to load their weapons.
Two Snatch Land Rovers and a grey armoured RUC Hotspur idled in the background, blue diesel exhaust drifting slowly over the white-frosted tarmac.
Two policemen leaned against their wagon, carbines slung round necks, smoking cigarettes and talking quietly about a young WPC one of them had his eye on.
Occasional laughter erupted from the soldiers; one started coughing violently and cursed and threw away a butt.
It was going to be a long day: patrolling and setting up VCPs in Ballymurphy, Andersonstown, and Turf Lodge till