The Killing Moon Page 2

  Rob took the short walk into the square to the Admiral pub which was fairly busy with revellers and the landlord, Harry, saw him and rushed over to shake his hand. "Rob! You're back, thank God you're home safe."

  It was comforting to Rob to be greeted by a friendly face although again he felt he could not open up to Harry despite his sincerity. Harry turned and said, "What are you having, a Guinness?"

  "Aye, spot on, mate, my mouth feels like my throat's been cut."

  Rob had drunk in the Admiral since Harry had been the landlord. Basically, because it was the best pint of Guinness you could get, not only in Hessle but possibly in Hull. Rob watched with anticipation as Harry pulled off half a pint of the black stuff and let it settle whilst pulling himself one too. When the drinks were poured, Harry and Rob found a quiet corner. Harry knew what was coming. Rob turned and said,

  "Annie's left me you know."

  Harry took a swig of his Guinness and said, "I know, she's gone to her mother's on Barrow Lane. She's been out shopping a few times for baby clothes with our Sarah. An' our Sarah's got it coming too cause she's pregnant after a fling on New Year's Eve."

  Rob looked surprised and said, "Fuckin' 'ell! That doesn't sound like your Sarah, who's the father?"

  Harry looked bitter as he put his pint down and said, "Leave it."

  Rob could see the conversation turning cold so he changed the subject. "So have you seen owt of me old man?"

  "Yeah he comes in now and again. Apparently, he'd been tappin' up Annie for money just before she left to live with her mother. I don't have a problem with him coming in here but I know he's upset a few people recently."

  "Like who?" Rob questioned.

  "Big John Squire, he got pissed and spilt his pint all over his wife's new coat. I have warned him but John says he's got it in for him."

  Rob replied, "Fuck me, six years after me mum's death, you'd think he'd have grown up a bit by now."

  "I know, Rob, but he's still hurtin'."

  "It's a pity he didn't realise what he had when Mum was alive."

  "I know, mate, but leave the past behind, where it should be. Anyway, speak of the devil, look who's just walked in."

  Rob looked over his shoulder to see his dad walk toward the bar ordering a double Grouse. Harry stood up and said, "Well I'd better get back to work then, are you OK then, mate?"

  "Get us another one in and one for the ol' fella and we'll leave it at that, mate."

  Rob stood up and made his way to the bar when his dad saw him and his face lit up. His dad, Rick, held his hand out and as Rob approached, he could tell his dad had not shaved for some time. He looked scruffy with his four-day old jeans and beer-stained shirt.

  "Welcome back to the real world, son," Rick said.

  "Now then, Dad, how're you keepin'?"

  "So-so," his dad replied. "Getting by on my pension, but that doesn't say a lot."

  At the same time, Harry put two Guinness on the bar and Rob handed over a tenner. Harry disappeared, and Rob turned to his dad. "Annie's left me, you know."

  "There's plenty more fish in the sea, son." His dad grinned. Rob was annoyed at the comment, but bit his lip.

  Rob questioned his dad. "How come you've been tapping up Annie for money?"

  "Oh, come on, son, I just needed to square away the bookies," Rick replied.

  "Also, you've upset John Squire, and his son Callum's a fucking maniac."

  Rick could see Rob was wound up, but played it down. "Oh come on, you know what it's like, we were having a few beers, got a bit carried away, and a few things were said. He'll be all right once he calms down."

  A couple of hours into the evening, and Rob was well and truly pissed. He had not drunk in a while, and so he was not used to consuming so much alcohol. Rob was drinking a lot. About half an hour before last orders, his dad, Rick, tapped him up for £50 and then disappeared.

  Rob was just about to go home, when Callum Squire walked in with two of his crew. Rob got another pint from the bar, and sat and watched Callum. From Callum's body language, Rob had seen his type before. The type of person that thinks of himself as a hard man, or certainly gave the persona that he assumed as much. Rob smiled to himself. Callum probably was a hard man, with his crew in the pub on a Friday night. The golden rule was not to underestimate anybody, but by the same token, looking at Callum's body language alone, he wouldn't be able to run more than a hundred metres without collapsing.

  To Rob, this said it all. When Rob was on the training wing in the infantry, young lads would make out they were the hardest men in the bar. In the morning, however, when they had to get up and do their work, they became quivering, shivering, pathetic wrecks. Some even cried. The training team would often ask these individuals where the hard man was that was in the bar last night. Usually, these were the recruits that didn't last and quit.

  Callum looked up and saw Rob, and continued to give Rob death stares as he turned to his mates. Callum looked back at Rob, in an attempt to intimidate him.

  "Thank you," Rob thought to himself, "that's just what I needed."

  Rob picked himself up and finished the last of his pint. He made his way over to Callum and his crew. All three looked at Rob with contempt as he approached, and Rob turned to Callum and said, "Here, Cal, can I buy you a drink? Just want to square things away so you won't bother my old man."

  Callum continued with the 'hard-man' persona and replied, "Well then, Foster, you'd better tell him to move out of the area. When I see him, he's gonna be squealing like a pig."

  "Don't be like that, Cal." Rob smiled. "Come on, mate, let me buy you a drink."

  "Get us all a double Sambuca and lemonade and fuck off then, soldier boy."

  Again, Rob smiled. "It's a bit strong for you that, mate. Wouldn't you rather have a lemonade?"

  At this point, the music was booming, and the atmosphere in the pub was light, with the exception of this corner of the room.

  Callum took offence "Give us your wallet now, Foster, and fuck off."

  Rob turned and said, "Tell you what, I'll get you all a lemonade and lime."

  Callum's arm raised to grab Rob by the shirt, at which point, Rob spun his arm out to block. Rob brought his knee up at the same time to Callum's groin. As Callum went down, instinctively, Rob threw his left fist into one of Callum's crew, splitting his lip and breaking one of his teeth. Rob then turned to the other crony, grabbing him by the ears and launching his head against his nose. Callum tried to recover, and smashed a glass on the bar, but Rob was too fast. Rob picked up a barstool and smashed it on Callum's hand which was holding the glass. Rob grabbed Callum by the throat, Rob then placed his leg behind Callum's feet and pushed him to the ground.

  As he went down, Callum struggled for his balance, however it was in vain. All he did was push glasses off the bar, sending them crashing like cymbals to the floor. Whilst Callum was down, Rob used the heel of his foot to smash into Callum's face. It was at this point the revellers in the pub moved away from the fight, just as Harry came to sort out the trouble. Harry's first concerns were for Rob, but seeing the three bodies on the floor, he had to make sure that Rob didn't kill anybody.

  Harry grabbed Rob. "Come on, they've had enough, and you know better," Harry said. Even by Harry's standards, the look in Rob's eyes told him Rob was full of hate. Harry tried again, shaking Rob by the shoulders. "Come on, mate, look at me. You know better." Harry then got a response, and ushered Rob away from the fight scene. Harry then turned to the three on the floor. "Pick yourselves up, lads, and fuck off. You're all barred."

  Chapter Four

  Three days after the fight at the Admiral pub, Annie had still not been in touch, although Rob was certain Annie would have heard about Rob being on leave, and almost certainly heard about the fight in the pub.

  Rob tried to settle back into a normal routine, but even Rob couldn't remember what normal was. Most of the time, he moped about the house. He tried to read, but could not concentrate. So instead, he wen
t jogging several times and listened to music. The music itself was a great therapy, and it blocked out all the horrors of events he had witnessed. So much so, that he even managed to cut the grass, just to keep Angie off his back. Although he started to clean the windows, he gave up when it started raining.

  Within a few days, the letter arrived confirming his place for SAS selection. He didn't have long to prepare, and the letter was short and to the point. He needed to turn up at Sennybridge Training Camp in Wales at eight a.m. in early July, along with the kit which was on the list enclosed in the letter. Also within the letter contained a few short do's and don'ts, the usual stuff: no alcohol, no unauthorised equipment. At the end of the letter in block capitals was the final point, perhaps the most important, that of security. It read:

  'FOR OBVIOUS REASONS, YOU SHOULD NOT DISCUSS YOUR APPLICATION OR ANY OF THE DETAILS CONTAINED IN THIS LETTER WITH ANYONE OUTSIDE OF YOUR IMMEDIATE FAMILY.

  I LOOK FORWARD TO RECEIVING YOUR DOCUMENTATION, AND GOOD LUCK.'

  Rob read the letter again. He had mixed feelings of aspiration, and was more than ready for the challenge of SAS selection. Although he was more-or-less ready physically, he felt mentally almost drained of energy, but at the same time, he knew if he tried hard and worked hard, he was sure he would pass.

  That afternoon, he started to prepare his kit that he would use in order to train for selection. He filled his Bergen with all of the relevant equipment, and topped it up with things he found around the house. Also, he got a map of the local villages which included the Wolds Way, and started planning various routes along the local hills that he could run in order to get a good head-start on phase one. Within two hours, he'd mapped his first route and was making his way to Brantingham to start on the notorious Spout Hill. From there, he would make his way over the hills and through the woods towards Welton.

  Over the next weeks and months, Rob trained furiously. Occasionally, he would stop and have a pint of Guinness in one of the local pubs, but never more than two. At the same time, he tried to get as much rest in between training as he possibly could. But since coming back from Afghanistan, sleep was hard, as well as the other domestic issues that were playing on his mind.

  All Rob wanted to focus on was passing, it was almost as if nothing else mattered. He wanted to be a part of something that only the privileged few had achieved. A family of brothers whose outlook was not saluting on a parade ground with an armful of medals, but more completing the task at hand, under any circumstances. Almost a band of misfits. Rob felt he'd be at home here.

  Chapter Five

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  Major Alan 'Chalky' White sat behind his desk just as the Adjutant brought him his first cup of coffee at seven a.m. Major White, or 'Chalky', as he was referred to, had been in the SAS since 1974 and was well-known as a good officer, serving in not only the Falklands, but also several tours of Northern Ireland and as a CSM in the First Gulf War.

  Although he was known not to mince his words, he was one of the few officers that was approachable. Having worked his way through the ranks, and he was less than a year away from his retirement and this eventuality worried him more than any other operation that he had ever been on. Now his position was in charge of the next selection for twenty-two SAS.

  On his desk was the list of every candidate that was to take place that morning for selection. He glanced through the names, but they meant nothing to him. From his experience, he knew it was how an operator conducted himself in the field which counted more than the amount of references he could get from the officers in the bar. The only other person in the room was Sergeant Nott, again, Nott was ten years into his SAS career, but also was not as high up in the ranks as he would have liked to have been, aged forty. However, his drinking habit and early teething problems within the regiment had almost prevented him from going any further up the food chain.

  Nott was Chalky's eyes and ears. Not only on the parade ground, but on the whole of selection. As far as Chalky was concerned, if there was any discrepancy with any of the students, it was Nott's job to uncover it, and bring it to light. Both men took this role very seriously.

  Chalky turned to Nott and said, "Do any names stand out to you, Sergeant?"

  Nott replied in a tough, north-east accent. "Aye, boss, there's several Paras in that have done tours in Iraq and Afghan, also a couple of marines that I quite fancy to make the grade. There'll be the usual rubbish that won't get past week one, and as you know, boss, there'll be twenty or so that'll turn up late today, or not at all. There is one name however that stands out, boss."

  Chalky's ears pricked up.

  "There's a guy from Hull, his name's Foster. On his last tour, he got eleven confirmed."

  Chalky thought for a moment, then replied, "Eleven confirmed? That's some going. But has he got the tools to handle it, Sergeant?"

  "Remains to be seen, boss," replied Nott. "That's what selection's for."

  Chapter Six

  Rob pulled into Sennybridge car park at seven-thirty. Rob reported at the gatehouse with his documentation, having slept the night before in a bed and breakfast in Brecon, keeping to himself, avoiding conversation and getting an early night. Rob did not want to get there too early, and appear too keen, but by the same token, he did not want to arrive late on the very first day of selection.

  Rob had been to Sennybridge before, and knew the layout of the camp. He parked his car, and thought for a second. Again, the image of the fourteen-year-old scarred his memory, but he shook it off, and said to himself, "I've got a job to do." He grabbed his kit and reported to the mess hall to await further instructions. When he arrived, he was pleased that other students were there before him, so he wouldn't get noticed as being the first to arrive. A quick glance at his watch told him he did not want to be any later.

  The noise in the room was a mixture of nervous laughter and quiet contemplation between the student body. Rob got a cup of tea from the urn and made his way to a quiet corner where he had left his kit. Since all the books about the SAS had been written, Rob had studied these and had a fair idea of what selection was going to entail. The first thing he had drilled into himself was to be the 'grey man', and not get noticed.

  Within ten minutes, the mess hall was full. There must have been one hundred and seventy guys all thinking they were good enough, some of them had obviously been on the piss the night before, bragging to the local skirt how they were in the SAS. But Rob could tell, at this time in the morning, they were in a shit state. At the end of the mess hall was a stage with a microphone on it and a desk for reading off. At exactly one minute to eight, Chalky walked in front of the platform with Sergeant Nott and the rest of the training team behind him. The whole room went eerily quiet.

  "Morning, gentlemen," said Chalky as he addressed the student body. "My name is Major White, and I am in charge of phase one and two of the selection procedure for twenty-two SAS Regiment. What you are all about to undertake is the hardest and most taxing Special Forces selection in the world. I hope you have all appreciated the need to prepare for the next six months, because those of you who make it to the end will find it is the most difficult and arduous six months of your life. However, for those that do make the grade, the regiment will accept you with open arms and you'll be among the ranks of not only the finest soldiers in the world, but also a unique band of men. Since I did selection in 1974, some things have changed." But then he added, "But not much. If I could give you any advice, it would be do not try and cheat or answer back the training team. Also, and perhaps the most important, when the chips are down, keep your sense of humour." He added, "Remember, gentlemen, it's harder to keep your beret than to get it. Good luck on selection."

  Chalky then turned to Sergeant Nott to invite him to take the microphone. Sergeant Nott approached and introduced himself to the students.

  "On the wall behind you, you will see sheets of paper with your name on. This will tell you where your accommodation is and what cadre y
ou belong to. Drop your kit in your barracks and be on the parade ground in PT kit in half an hour. One more thing, you're not here on holiday, lads," he added menacingly. "That's it, square away."

  The room went eerily quiet, like a set of rabbits stuck in the headlights. But then, when it sank in, the crowd dispersed.

  An hour later, the training team was beasting the recruits. All sorts of expletives were being shouted. Rob knew the score, and he also knew that this was just to clear off the lads that didn't stand a chance. Although no one had quit just yet, an hour into selection, some of the lads were already being sick. This included the lads that had been on the piss the night before. The whole routine was just a beasting, the usual. The sergeant would shout, "Press up position!" and before the student body had chance to do as they were told, he would shout, "Sit up position!" It was designed to confuse, not to see how physically fit you were.

  The next thing, all the men were told to get into three ranks. Most of the cadre managed this no problem. The training team then addressed the selection. "Right then, guys, we're going for a run. Anyone who doesn't want to come, say so now." Although no one said a word, Rob knew some of the bodies on the car park wouldn't keep up and would be back home on tonight's train.

  The whole week carried on in the same vein; intense and full-on. Although only two people left on the first day, by the end of the first week, roughly a quarter of the student body which started that morning on the parade ground, had gone. It was after this week the instructors eased off a bit on the shouting, and so began selection.

  Rob fought on with the course, and tried his best to keep to himself, avoiding conversation with the other recruits. If truth be told, he was enjoying the process so far, even though he was tired and had sores on his shoulders from the weight of his Bergen, as well as the huge blisters like saucers that were appearing on his feet. But to Rob, he felt alive. He'd almost forgotten about Annie, and was enjoying concentrating on the job at hand. If Rob stood out at all, it was probably as a bit of a loner. But with still over one hundred men on phase one of selection, Rob didn't see this as a problem at this stage.