campaigning kind. Working for a Russian indie. She wanted to make the world a better place. Then she joined Russia Today and went out to Libya to cover the uprising.
‘As soon as she got pregnant, everything changed. And when our son was born, we could no longer ignore the fact that a dad in my line of work is a bit of a liability …’
‘Does your son have a name?’
‘Nicholayevich. But I think she’ll probably shorten it to Nicholai. Except when she loses it with him.’
That wry smile reappeared from somewhere beneath the Father Christmas face fuzz. ‘As a tribute to Count Tolstoy, of course.’
‘You’re not wrong.’ I felt myself smile too. ‘She started me on Anna Karenina , then had me reading War and Peace . Even the Peace bit. And going to art galleries and concerts and shit …’
My leak had become a bit of a flood. I paused for a moment and looked at him, embarrassed. ‘Any minute now you’ll have me on Piers Morgan’s Life Stories .’ I picked up my glass of water. ‘And I can’t even blame the Communion wine …’
His eyes sparkled. ‘We’ll have you in that confessional yet, my boy.’
Much later, I got my head down on Father Mart’s sofa and thought some more about what I’d left behind. I didn’t care about the things, but I did care a lot about the people. That was a new one on me. It was also one of the reasons I’d had to leave.
4
Father Mart’s lean-to was filled with the same kind of crap that real people had in their garages, only more of it, but he somehow managed to find room in there for my motor as well. I stuck my head out of his Land Rover as he pulled down the door. ‘I’ll try to bring the Popemobile back in one piece. Fingers crossed.’
He came alongside the driver’s window and I gripped his hand. ‘And if you need any help taking the Porsche for a spin, Father Gerard’s your man.’
I crunched the old Defender into gear and pulled out onto the road. It rattled a bit, but it would look after me nicely as the temperature dropped. The truth was I loved these wagons. Whatever you threw at them, they were up for it. I’d driven the 109 in Belfast as a Green Army squaddie. I’d thrown a Series IIA Pinkie – stripped of doors and windscreen and tooled-up with smoke grenades, twin GPMGs and a Milan wire-guided missile launcher – around the Middle East.
Father Mart’s 110 didn’t have the firepower of the Pink Panther, but it wasn’t covered in the outrageous so-called ‘camouflage’ paint either. As Trev hadn’t needed to tell me, nobody in this neck of the woods would give it a second glance.
First stop was an outdoor equipment store in Abergavenny. I parked in Frogmore Street and was one of the first punters through the door when they opened. I was already kitted out for a Russian winter, so I didn’t need any extra clothing, but I wasn’t about to go for an action replay of our pre-Selection adventure.
I gathered up an ice axe with a nice sharp pick, a folding shovel and a pair of crampons with the kind of claws that would have been at home in Jurassic Park . I added a first-aid kit, two boxes of hexy blocks, matches, a mess tin and a water flask. I already had a pocketful of Father Mart’s Yorkshire Teabags, so all I needed now were some protein bars, in case it was a while before he could conjure up my next full English with all the trimmings. I bundled the whole lot into a daysack.
I threw in a spare pair of socks and some discounted waterproof gaiters for luck, then paid cash at the checkout. That always brought a smile to the face of every trader, particularly since the Crash, but it wasn’t the reason I did it.
American Express used to boast that flashing their plastic said more for you than cash ever could, and that was why I hadn’t used a credit or charge card for as long as I could remember. Even before my stint as a deniable operator with the security services, I’d never fancied my movements being traced via my financial
‘As soon as she got pregnant, everything changed. And when our son was born, we could no longer ignore the fact that a dad in my line of work is a bit of a liability …’
‘Does your son have a name?’
‘Nicholayevich. But I think she’ll probably shorten it to Nicholai. Except when she loses it with him.’
That wry smile reappeared from somewhere beneath the Father Christmas face fuzz. ‘As a tribute to Count Tolstoy, of course.’
‘You’re not wrong.’ I felt myself smile too. ‘She started me on Anna Karenina , then had me reading War and Peace . Even the Peace bit. And going to art galleries and concerts and shit …’
My leak had become a bit of a flood. I paused for a moment and looked at him, embarrassed. ‘Any minute now you’ll have me on Piers Morgan’s Life Stories .’ I picked up my glass of water. ‘And I can’t even blame the Communion wine …’
His eyes sparkled. ‘We’ll have you in that confessional yet, my boy.’
Much later, I got my head down on Father Mart’s sofa and thought some more about what I’d left behind. I didn’t care about the things, but I did care a lot about the people. That was a new one on me. It was also one of the reasons I’d had to leave.
4
Father Mart’s lean-to was filled with the same kind of crap that real people had in their garages, only more of it, but he somehow managed to find room in there for my motor as well. I stuck my head out of his Land Rover as he pulled down the door. ‘I’ll try to bring the Popemobile back in one piece. Fingers crossed.’
He came alongside the driver’s window and I gripped his hand. ‘And if you need any help taking the Porsche for a spin, Father Gerard’s your man.’
I crunched the old Defender into gear and pulled out onto the road. It rattled a bit, but it would look after me nicely as the temperature dropped. The truth was I loved these wagons. Whatever you threw at them, they were up for it. I’d driven the 109 in Belfast as a Green Army squaddie. I’d thrown a Series IIA Pinkie – stripped of doors and windscreen and tooled-up with smoke grenades, twin GPMGs and a Milan wire-guided missile launcher – around the Middle East.
Father Mart’s 110 didn’t have the firepower of the Pink Panther, but it wasn’t covered in the outrageous so-called ‘camouflage’ paint either. As Trev hadn’t needed to tell me, nobody in this neck of the woods would give it a second glance.
First stop was an outdoor equipment store in Abergavenny. I parked in Frogmore Street and was one of the first punters through the door when they opened. I was already kitted out for a Russian winter, so I didn’t need any extra clothing, but I wasn’t about to go for an action replay of our pre-Selection adventure.
I gathered up an ice axe with a nice sharp pick, a folding shovel and a pair of crampons with the kind of claws that would have been at home in Jurassic Park . I added a first-aid kit, two boxes of hexy blocks, matches, a mess tin and a water flask. I already had a pocketful of Father Mart’s Yorkshire Teabags, so all I needed now were some protein bars, in case it was a while before he could conjure up my next full English with all the trimmings. I bundled the whole lot into a daysack.
I threw in a spare pair of socks and some discounted waterproof gaiters for luck, then paid cash at the checkout. That always brought a smile to the face of every trader, particularly since the Crash, but it wasn’t the reason I did it.
American Express used to boast that flashing their plastic said more for you than cash ever could, and that was why I hadn’t used a credit or charge card for as long as I could remember. Even before my stint as a deniable operator with the security services, I’d never fancied my movements being traced via my financial
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