Deep Black - Andy McNab [72]
The Australian squaddie looked on enviously. He must have been weighing up the chances of swapping a rifle for a TV camera. I was feeling the same way.
The waiter had been on his way to me but got waylaid by Cecil B. de Mille. I’d never had much restaurant presence, either. Maybe I didn’t look the tipping kind.
I took off my greasy sun-gigs and gave them a wipe as I listened to their conversation – or, rather, his monologue. He’d worked with them all, you know – Simpson, Adie, Attenborough. He was interrupted when, from maybe a hundred metres away, either a car backfired or there was a single gunshot.
I was thirsty. I spotted another crumpled white shirt up on the terrace and got up. I walked past the Aussie and the two women, who’d abandoned their books to listen to their new friend. Shit, I wished I could waffle like that. They weren’t good-looking, but that didn’t seem to matter in this town. If you were young, white and had a pulse, you’d be scoring like a supermodel. No wonder the Balkan boys were in town.
I managed to catch the waiter’s eye by waving like a lunatic, showed him where I was sitting, then started back. Jerry soon followed. He didn’t look happy.
‘Everything all right, mate?’ I held out my hand for the phone as he sort of nodded. ‘I think I’ll make one.’
‘She saw the news and got totally hyped about me staying.’
Family shit: best keep out of it. Back in the shade, I pressed number history, but nothing was stored. Even the last number dialled had been cleared. Good skills.
‘I hope you’re clearing the history every time.’ I did the whole pretend-dialling bit and held it to my ear.
‘Yep. I don’t know if those pinheads at the camp checked it, but they’d have got zip.’
I closed the phone down. ‘No answer. Shame. It’s my mum’s birthday.’
As I watched the to-ing and fro-ing about the pool I tried to remember her birthday, or even how old she was. It wouldn’t come to me. I’d sort of lost interest in that kind of thing when she lost interest in mine, when I was ten. My last birthday present was my first ever 99 ice-cream. The deal was me not saying anything to the school about the bruises on my neck and cheek.
My mum had been called in to explain. Was Nicholas being beaten at home? The ice-cream worked: I shut up as she told them how I’d fallen down the stairs. I nodded in agreement instead of saying her nice new husband had filled me in because I’d asked for a 99 when the ice-cream van came into the estate. Whatever. At least she’d come in handy for an excuse to see who Jerry had been calling.
The waiter turned up with two cans of cold Coke. Either he was clairvoyant, or I was fluent in Iraqi sign language. Or maybe this was all they stocked. He put them on the table and showed the kind of smile that could have done with renting the Aussie’s teeth.
Jerry pulled back on his can and took two very thirsty gulps.
I picked up the menu before the waiter had time to decide he had better customers elsewhere. ‘I’ll have some potato fingers and a couple of bread rolls.’
‘Yes, sir. Sure, sure, sure.’ He didn’t write it down, which was always a worry. It normally meant he wouldn’t come back, or if he did, it would be with a boiled egg.
Jerry was checking his camera gear. ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having, and another Coke.’
I looked up at the crumpled shirt. ‘Two more Cokes, two potato fingers and tons of bread. These soldiers here, do you know if they’re allowed drinks?’
He didn’t seem too sure.
‘Give them a Coke each, will you? And make sure they’re cold ones.’ I handed the waiter eight dollars as Cecil managed to make the women laugh. Bastard.
Jerry was obsessing round his lenses with a little brush. ‘You’re getting generous in your old age.’
‘Must be thirsty work listening to that bloke’s bullshit all day.’ I sat back in the chair and enjoyed the shade a while. I might even have dropped off for a minute or two.
53
‘Sir?’
Crumply Shirt was back with the bowls of chips and bread rolls.
I showed Jerry the finer points of making a buttie with undercooked