Before Others Die: Book 1 - Revenge

CHAPTER ONE

Guy Matthews lived alone.

He had told himself so many times he liked it that way, he now believed it.

He had many occasional friends.

And he had two constant cats.

But today was his birthday, and he always spent his birthday alone.

His cats were with him in the lounge, and no friends were either expected or invited.

Which meant the slow footsteps creeping across his kitchen floor above him belonged to someone else.

Not feline. Not friendly.

He lived in an upside-down house. The entrance and kitchen were upstairs, along with a toilet. Downstairs were the lounge, where Guy was now sitting with his cats and the evening news muted on the television, two bedrooms and a bathroom. Guy’s armchair was ten feet from the bottom of the stairs. From its position in the room it was impossible to see up the stairs to the kitchen. Impossible to see anyone coming down. The entire staircase was enclosed by the Victorian house walls. Guy wouldn’t see anyone until they stepped into the lounge.

He cocked his head to one side to make sure he was hearing correctly. Had he not muted the television properly?

The floor above him creaked.

One of the cats sensed something and arched its back. The other stretched out a leg.

Guy shifted forward in his armchair. The cats dropped to the floor.

His damned eyelids started flickering. He already knew he was not a brave man, he didn’t need his butterfly blinking eyes and the thumping reminder from his heart. He opened his mouth to shout out, then thought better of it. Perhaps whoever it was upstairs wouldn’t know that Guy was downstairs. Perhaps they would simply look around up there and leave. An opportunistic burglar.

Perhaps.

The footsteps moved from the kitchen to the top of the stairs.

Guy stood up and looked around the room he knew so well for something he’d never had to look for before. A weapon.

On the mantelpiece were his ornaments. Chinese figurines mostly. Worth a bit but probably expendable. To reach them he would have to cross the room. He’d have to make a noise. Let whoever it was at the top of the stairs know that he was at the bottom.

Guy stood where he was. His calves knocked against the armchair and he realised he was swaying.

He reached down for the TV remote. That would have to do.

A foot fell on the first step down.

Guy opened his mouth again, this time determined to shout out. But nothing came. Not even a rattle from his vocal cords. Nothing. He looked over at the door that led into the garden. A small enclosed concrete space with a wooden tub full of geraniums. No way to escape once he was out there. And he’d have to get the key from under the right-hand figurine anyway. Safer to stay put. If he could get past whoever was in his house, he’d be able to run out of the front door upstairs. He’d be able to shout for help in the street.

Second step down.

Guy tried to picture how many steps made up his staircase. He’d been there for nearly twenty years, for God’s sake, how could he not know how many steps there were?

He knew the carpet. Threadbare and old. Laid there since before Guy had moved in. Probably before the previous owner as well. Maybe from the sixties when this part of London really was swinging. Maybe the fifties. Not so swinging then. Guy had thought the old carpet had given the house more character. But now, tonight, with his heart racing, he thought it might look dreary. The entire staircase was dreary. Old, dreary and threadbare. And dark. Way too dark.

Third step.

The staircase creaked. Ached with the weariness of years carrying people up and down, up and down. Tired now. No one else, please.

Something hit Guy’s nostrils. A familiar smell. A happy smell. What the hell was it?

There were two more steps before Guy recognised what was confusing his senses. Burning wax.

A candle?

He gripped the TV remote and took a step towards the bottom of the stairs. Only one step.

Whoever was coming down the stairs made a noise. A low vocal tone. It reminded Guy of the electrical hum he heard whenever he walked past the electricity substation on his way to work.

The hum became a distinguishable tune. A deep voice. The person coming down the stairs was a man.

The man started singing.

‘Happy birthday to you — Happy birthday to you — Happy birthday dear Guy — Happy birthday to you.’

Guy’s heart eased a little. But his mind tumbled through pictures of all the men he knew. All the men he’d known. Hundreds of pictures. Some without names, but all with faces and voices. Guy was good with faces, good with voices.

But he couldn’t place this one. He couldn’t find a picture to match the voice of the man who was walking down his stairs, singing him Happy Birthday.

Guy found his voice. ‘Hello?’

The singer finished the verse and stopped on the stairs, still hidden from Guy’s view.

‘Happy birthday, Guy,’ he said.

More pictures fell from Guy’s memory. Still no match against that voice.

Guy forced a smile onto his face and tried to sound as though he was amused by the whole thing. The TV remote shook in his hand.

‘Who is this?’ he said, as if his many occasional friends always played impromptu pranks on him and this was just one more in a long line of fun.

‘Come and see, Guy,’ the man said. ‘See what I’ve got for you. A special present for a special boy on his special day.’

Guy couldn’t be sure, he wasn’t used to situations like this, but he thought he detected an edge to the man’s voice. Not sarcastic, necessarily, but not particularly warm either. Almost as though he’d been forced to come to Guy’s party. Forced to bring him a present. Forced to be nice.

But Guy wasn’t having a party.

‘Is that Christopher?’ Guy said. ‘Is that you, Chris? For God’s sake stop being a twat.’

The man took another step down the staircase. ‘Happy birthday to you.’

Guy managed another forward movement. Almost a complete step. One of his cats jumped back onto the armchair and pressed into the gentle furrows left by Guy’s buttocks.

‘Come on, Chris,’ he said. ‘This is very lovely of you. But really. Just stop now. OK?’

His eyelids fluttered frantically. He wished he could stop them.

The man on the stairs took the last few steps down, onto the same worn-out carpet that covered Guy’s lounge.

He held a small cake before him, several candles burned on top, one or two had died. White smoke drifted back up the stairs behind him. The flickering flames caused darting shadows to strike the man’s face. He looked like he was wearing a moving camouflaged mask.

The TV remote in Guy’s hand shook more. He didn’t recognise the man. It wasn’t Chris. He didn’t think it was any of the many men he knew. No one that he had known.

The man with the cake smiled. ‘Hi, Guy.’

Guy looked him over. Brown corduroy trousers, brown shoes, dark blue outdoor jacket. Glasses. A leather messenger bag hung over one shoulder. And, of course, a birthday cake. Guy guessed he was about 45 years old, maybe 50. The same age as Guy. But he still couldn’t place him.

‘Is it the beard?’ the man said. ‘Is that what the problem is? And the glasses?’

Guy shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I’m usually really good with faces. But I just can’t place you. I am sorry.’

The man removed his glasses and took a couple of paces towards Guy. Guy took a couple of paces away from the man. He lifted the TV remote to shoulder height.

‘Are you going to hit me, Guy? Even though I’ve brought you a cake. Even though I’ve brought you some presents,’ he indicated the messenger bag, ‘you want to hit me?’

Guy dropped his hand to his side. The man stared at the TV remote in Guy’s hand. Guy dropped it.

‘Try to picture me without the beard,’ he said. ‘Just imagine that wasn’t there.’

Guy squinted at the face. Screwed his own face up to try to see something he recognised.

The man held the cake in one hand and opened his arms wide. Guy looked closer. More pictures tumbled. More memories passed.

And then something stuck.

But that couldn’t be right, could it? He pushed that picture away. Tried to replace it with another. But it popped back up, demanding his attention. But that couldn’t be right. His heart beat faster.

‘— Mallory?’ Guy said. ‘James Mallory?’

‘Let’s find somewhere to sit upstairs,’ the man said, ‘and we can open your presents.’

CHAPTER TWO

The last time Sal Smith had been shot at, apart from the dozen or so times over the past five weeks, had been in Italy.

Then, he’d been searching for Amy, his wife. That had been six months ago. It felt like a lifetime. A lifetime without her.

He still wore her wedding ring, although now it hung from a chain around his neck. Sometimes, as he walked, it would lodge itself into a position just above his heart, between his shirt and his skin.

Another bullet screamed into the Afghan soil a metre from his feet. He pulled his camera up to chest height and glanced over at Captain Sharkey. Sharkey’s face was dusty, although probably not from the current skirmish. Sal clicked off a couple of shots of the captain and the rest of the men. Sharkey was weighing up the situation. His eyes fixed on the direction of fire one moment, his men the next. Sal clicked some more.

Captain Sharkey lifted his hand and shouted over the gunfire. Almost as one, the group raised themselves from their positions in the dirt and eased backwards at Sharkey’s command. Brave to a man, this was not a withdrawal of failure. More a tactical move. Sharkey knew what he was doing. He’d pretty much saved all of them countless times before.

The easing turned to a run. Jonno was three metres in front of Sal. Another shot rang out and Jonno stumbled, then fell to the ground. Sal slowed his pace a little and reached a hand down to grab the back of Jonno’s combat jacket. There was no blood. He hadn’t been hit. The only thing that had got him was the undulating earth beneath his boots. Sal yanked him to his feet and set him off running again. Jonno smiled a thank you and they both ducked their heads as another barrage chased them through the desert terrain.

Sal squeezed off a few more pictures as they moved over the soil. That was what he was there for, after all. Officially.

But part of him had been looking for an escape. An escape from the aching, just below Amy’s wedding ring. Afghanistan helped. A little.

Jonno tripped again but didn’t fall. Sal nudged him with his elbow.

‘You know you shouldn’t drink before coming out here,’ Sal said.

Jonno smiled again. ‘It’s the heroin mate. Sends you wobbly.’

Sharkey directed them away to the left and pulled them in towards the remnants of what looked like a badly built donkey barn. Sal could never be sure whether the fighting had messed up the buildings or whether they’d been shoddily built before the allies had even set foot over there.

It was a poor excuse for a shelter, especially from the high-powered stuff being thrown at them now. But it was that or thin air. And Sharkey knew what he was doing.

Bullets slammed into the ground a few feet away, the sound following a second later.

Sal looked over at Captain Sharkey.

Sharkey smiled. ‘You OK, Sally?’

Sharp-edged stones and orange dust flew into the air next to Sal.

‘Never better.’

Sal pushed down on the button with his left index finger and held it there. The camera fired off ten rapid shots, clicking between each one. The sound usually reminded him of old cinematic film running on reels. But on this occasion, he couldn’t hear it.

They scuttled into the barn as more gunfire rang out and more bullets thudded the ground.

‘Heads down, lads,’ Captain Sharkey shouted. ‘Return fire.’

Sal took more shots of the captain and his men as the dry soil erupted around them. It would have been all but pointless to try to get pictures of the enemy. Too far away to see anything other than the desolate countryside, with perhaps the shadow of an insurgent or the puff of a long-distance weapon as it was fired.

And he wasn’t there to catch too much of that anyway. He was assigned to Captain Sharkey and his men. Official photographer. There to capture the men in action. To provide a snapshot for the folks back home. The mothers, children, wives and girlfriends. The fathers and husbands. For the people as a whole. The nation. The government. For history.

Sal’s heart thumped from the short exertion, from the engagement. He felt fully alive — for the first time since Amy. Since before Italy. Almost fully alive.

Three military aircraft screamed overhead. Sal lifted his camera but they were gone in a heartbeat. Long seconds later the ground beneath them shook as the aircraft found their target. A successful sortie, Sal guessed.

Back at camp he scrolled through the shots he’d taken on his camera. The lads had settled back down from the day, got their sense of reality back again. As much as anyone could out there.

Sal had watched them all for more than a month now. Got to know them all. Got to know about their lives back home. Those that had them. For a couple of the youngsters, younger than Sal, this was their life. Afghanistan, the army. A hard way of life. But no harder than it had been for them at home. Just different. At least out here they felt as though they were making something of themselves. At least out here they felt like they were needed.

When he’d first come out with them, they were unsure what to make of him. More than six feet tall, built bigger than some of them. No weapons, only cameras. But he was with them in the thick of it. Wherever they went, he went.

Sharkey hadn’t been sure either, at first.

The men called the captain Jaws. But not often. He’d earned their respect through hard work and bravery. And sound judgement. This was the captain’s third tour. He’d already been wounded and decorated. And still he’d come back for more.

Sal had originally been assigned to them for a month. But he managed to persuade the army board to up it to six weeks. He’d tried for the full six-month tour, but they were having none of it.

‘You’re lucky to get the six weeks,’ they’d said. ‘Our boys have got enough on their plate than to be worrying about a bloody photographer getting in the way.’

Sal reminded them that he was only there at their request in the first place.

‘It was you who asked me to join them,’ he said. ‘So who’s helping who here?’

So now Sal had just over a week left. Then back home. Back to his London flat. The flat he and Amy had shared.

He wondered if it was worth approaching Sharkey. If it was worth asking him to put in a word for him. See whether he could fix it for him to stay for the full six months. Or even just an extension to the six weeks. He knew he’d try for him. He was a good man, Sharkey. At 37 he was only five years older than Sal.

‘They tell me you have experience at this sort of thing,’ he’d said when Sal flew out with them.

‘Syria,’ Sal said. ‘And various uprisings around the world. We live on a messed-up planet.’

‘So you know the score then. We can’t be looking after you all the time. If we need to engage with the enemy, we need to engage. I don’t want to be checking to see where the damned photographer is every time there’s a firefight.’

Sal didn’t want that either. ‘Just forget I’m even here,’ he said. ‘I won’t get in the way. And if I do — shoot me.’

Sharkey had nodded. Looked as though he’d be happy to.

But a week in, Sal was one of them. He’d helped haul equipment, he’d done more than his share of work around camp. And he’d got to know all the lads. And the captain. And they’d got to know Sal. A little.

‘So you were injured?’ Sharkey said, rolling up his trouser leg to show off his own wound. ‘Where did you get hit?’

‘Homs,’ Sal said.

Sal had thrown himself into the work. Gone out with them at every opportunity. Done what they had done.

One of the men had offered to give him a sidearm, but Sal refused. ‘I want to be reaching for the camera. If I’ve got a gun, I might be tempted to use it.’

When one of the lads stepped on a roadside device, Sal had been the one who tried to pull him away. He’d stayed with him as the life bled from his ruined body.

Two weeks after that it had been Sal’s turn to be pulled away.

They’d been inspecting a desolate building, a small hut. There had been a suicide bombing nearby and Sharkey’s bunch had been tasked with checking it out.

Sal had seen Sharkey sense something as soon as they walked around the perimeter. Just a flicker of movement across his face told Sal that something wasn’t quite right. He pulled his camera into a position he was happy with. Held it firm but not tight.

Inside the building was shadow and light. No man-made lighting, only the searing Afghan sun striking small areas through rough cut squares hewn from the side of the building for windows.

Among the stones and grey dust was what appeared to be a human skull, resting on its side against one of the interior walls. Sal crouched and took a picture.

Sharkey almost whispered his command. ‘OK, lads. We should move out. There’s something I’m not happy with here.’

Less than ten seconds later, an explosion ripped away the wall the skull had been resting against. Sal had watched the others leave the building, he was the last one out. The explosion sucked him off his feet and spat him against the low roof of the hut. He hit the ground dazed and groggy, a high-pitched whine in his ears.

He wasn’t sure, afterwards, if he had been aware of the building collapsing around him. And he wasn’t sure if he had felt Sharkey’s hands pulling him out of harm’s way. But that was what happened. And Sal knew that if Sharkey hadn’t done that, he probably wouldn’t have left the building at all.

That had been three days ago.

So it wouldn’t be right to ask Sharkey to try to get him an extension. No doubt he’d do it, but it wouldn’t be right. This wasn’t a holiday camp for photographers. It wasn’t supposed to be therapy. If Sal had things to deal with, things to forget or remember, he’d have to do it in his own time, not the army’s.

And that was fine. He’d get there in the end.

He pulled his jacket around him. The nights could be cold in Afghanistan. One or two of the lads had huddled around a stove. Embers crackled, sending sparks drifting up into the dark sky.

Captain Sharkey wandered over towards Sal.

That was unusual. Captain Sharkey never wandered anywhere. Usually every step he took was deliberate. But now each one was hesitant. Fifteen feet from Sal, he stopped. Then started again. Eventually he pulled up alongside him.

‘I thought you were never going to make it,’ Sal said.

The captain crouched down in the dirt next to Sal’s bed.

‘Have you got a couple of minutes, Sal?’ he said.

CHAPTER THREE

Sal eased off his bed and sat in the dirt opposite Captain Sharkey.

‘What’s on your mind?’

For the first time since Sal had known him, Sharkey looked like he wasn’t sure what to say. Didn’t know what to do.

‘Are you OK, Captain?’ Sal said.

Sharkey reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a grubby-looking piece of paper. Sal had seen several like it before. All the men had at least one. A letter from home. Grubby from the incessant dirt of Afghanistan, grubby from constant reading and rereading. Some of them were nothing more than tatters. Good-news letters kept for protection. Bad-news letters kept with thoughts of revenge. Thoughts of payback. Thoughts of taking it out on the enemy.

Sal couldn’t tell what sort of letter this was.

‘You have a week left, Sal,’ he said.

‘Eight days,’ Sal said. ‘But who’s counting?’

‘I’ve had this letter.’ Sharkey waved it but didn’t unfold it. Didn’t read it.

‘OK?’ Sal said.

‘From home. A letter from home.’

The night seemed to be falling fast. Sal wondered if Sharkey had meant to ask him for two hours, rather than two minutes. He was struggling with every word.

‘It reached me last week. From my wife. From Kate.’

A snap from the stove caught Sal’s attention. Every noise had the potential to be something else. Something more sinister.

Sharkey didn’t notice it.

Sal watched the spark die a few feet above the flames, then turned his attention back to Sharkey. His cheeks looked a little red.

‘Is she OK?’ Sal said.

Sharkey waved the piece of paper. ‘Oh, she’s fine, Sal. It’s not about her. Kate is just fine.’

One of the lads by the stove laughed at something. Another swore.

Sharkey opened the letter up and read it to himself for a few seconds.

‘It’s about Kate’s brother. Half-brother, really. My brother-in-law. Guy Matthews.’

Sal wondered why Sharkey was talking to him about this. Wondered where the conversation was heading. He knew there had to be a destination. Sharkey wasn’t one for idle chat. For random meandering. But Sal had time. He wasn’t going anywhere.

‘To be honest,’ Sharkey said, ‘I don’t really know him that well. I mean, I met him, a couple of times, but there’s a big age difference, between Kate and him. I think twelve years or something. She’s younger.’

‘OK,’ Sal said.

‘And the times I met him, we didn’t really hit it off, you know? Just different kinds of people I guess.’

Sal raised his eyebrows. Sharkey was a people person. As far as Sal could tell, Sharkey got on with just about everybody he met. He’d seen it first hand. The way he interacted with his men, with other officers, with maintenance crew — with everyone. Sharkey seemed to get on with them all. Treated them all with respect, and earned the same back.

‘OK?’ Sal said again.

Sharkey lowered his already quiet voice. ‘To be honest, I think he liked to keep himself to himself. A bit of a loner, I guess.’

Nothing wrong with that. That kind of life had a lot going for it.

‘But he meant an awful lot to Kate,’ Sharkey said. ‘She looked up to him, I think. She really wished they were closer, but Guy seemed to distance himself from everyone. I think he just liked to be alone.’

‘Liked to?’ Sal said.

Sharkey looked up. ‘What?’

‘You said he liked to. Does he not any more?’

‘He’s dead, Sal. Kate says he was killed.’

Sal swallowed. The cold night air could be dry as hell sometimes.

‘Killed?’

Sharkey handed Sal the letter. Sal hesitated before taking it. Letters from home were personal. Hallowed ground.

Sharkey nodded. ‘Go on. Read it.’

Light from the fire threw dancing shapes over the words. Kate had handwritten the letter. She had beautiful writing. Even the shocking words were straight and evenly spaced: burglary; murdered; probably tortured; bled to death. Sal stopped reading and looked up at Sharkey.

Sharkey nodded. ‘A terrible business.’

‘I’m sorry, John. How is Kate?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m guessing she’s dealing with it. Kate’s a strong woman. Nothing much fazes her. But Guy was the last family she had. I know how much he meant to her.’

Sal passed the letter back. Sharkey held up his hand.

‘Did you read it all?’

Sal hadn’t. He’d stopped as soon as he’d got the gist of it. Hadn’t wanted to intrude further.

‘Do you want me to?’

‘Please.’

He read the rest. As he read, he could hear Captain Sharkey’s breathing coming heavy and slow. Like he was blowing out the full measure of the war. Everything he’d had to suck up over the days and weeks and months and years of fighting. Like he was expelling it from within him. Sal wondered if he did that every night, when the men weren’t watching, when he had his thoughts to himself. He wondered if that was how he kept on going.

He finished reading the letter.

‘I’m sorry, John,’ he said again.

Sharkey took hold of it and put it on the dusty earth between them.

‘So do you see my problem?’ he said.

Sal didn’t answer. Wasn’t exactly sure which problem Sharkey was referring to. The problem of Kate dealing with the news alone? The problem of organising the funeral? The problem of Sharkey being stuck in Afghanistan for the next five months? Or the other problem?

‘You see, the thing is,’ Sharkey said, ‘I can’t just ignore it, can I?’

Sal shook his head.

‘I mean, you kind of know a little about this sort of thing, don’t you. I’m sorry, Sal, I don’t mean to draw comparisons, you know, with what happened to you, and to Amy. I know this isn’t the same at all.’

He didn’t know. And Sal regretted having opened up a little. But he liked Sharkey. He nodded.

‘But I don’t really know what else to do,’ Sharkey said. ‘Stuck in this bloody place for months on end. I mean, I love it. I really do. Don’t get me wrong. This is tough. But it is living, you know?’

Sal knew. Living of sorts. Escaping from life too. Living it and escaping it, all wrapped up in one.

‘Sal, you can say no, of course. I mean, I shouldn’t really be asking you at all. But, I trust you. I’ve seen how you work, out here. I’ve seen how you live, what your values are.’

Sal knew which problem Sharkey was referring to. He’d known as soon as he’d read the rest of the letter. As soon as he’d read the six words that struck deep within him. But he’d tried to ignore them. He didn’t want to go there again. Not so soon after Italy. Not so soon after Amy.

‘It’s just that I’m not there, Sal,’ he said. ‘You read the letter yourself. The police say it was a burglary. A burglary gone wrong. They say they think he was tortured into giving his bank details or his PIN number or something.’

Sal had read the words. He knew what the police had said. Kate’s beautifully written words had outlined the whole thing.

‘If you could just visit her,’ Sharkey said. ‘Just have a conversation with her, see what you think yourself. Then walk away, Sal. I’m not asking for anything more than a visit and a conversation. And I’m asking you as a colleague and as a friend.’

Sal heard Sharkey’s words. Heard every one of them. But already those six words, beautifully written by Kate, had sunk into his mind. Already they had snagged on past memories. Already they were trying to take root.

The police had said bank details and PIN number. The police had said burglary.

And Kate’s six words said something else.

But I think they are wrong.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘So what would you like me to do?’ Sal said.

Sharkey sat back on the dirt. Stretched his head back. Sal could see he needed a shave.

‘The problem is,’ Sharkey said, ‘that I don’t really know what to do about it. I mean, Kate’s a clever woman. Really clever. Much brighter than me. And she doesn’t take any prisoners.’

Sal imagined her. Thought about Amy.

‘So something is obviously not sitting right with her about the whole thing. I mean, it’s bad enough that he was killed, but she clearly thinks the police have missed something.’

Sal knew that feeling only too well. As far as he was concerned, that was the default position when it came to the police.

‘Have you spoken to her?’ Sal said. ‘Since the letter?’

‘I picked it up last week, when we were passing through Bastion. I scribbled a reply back to her, but we’ve been out here ever since. I can’t email until we’re back. You know what it’s like out here. We might as well be on the moon sometimes.’

Sal knew. He liked that about Afghanistan.

‘Do you mind if I read it again?’

There was nothing in it. No clue as to what had made her write those six words. Nothing that told Sal what had been going through her mind. Nothing to tell him why the police were wrong.

He had never met Kate. Never met her half-brother. The first communication he had ever read from her was the letter in his hands. But he was inclined to believe her. Inclined to trust her. He already owed her husband his life.

‘I wonder what’s made her think they’re wrong,’ he said.

‘If I give you our address, Sal. Just a quick visit, if you don’t mind. Of course you can say no. Of course you can. And if you think it’s nothing, then that’s fine. But I trust Kate’s instincts. She married me after all.’

At last Sal saw the broad smile that was usually never too far from Sharkey’s face.

‘How long before you’re home, John?’ Sal said.

Sharkey rolled his shoulders in an easy circle, looked as though he was suddenly back where he should be, fully back with the lads and Sal, back with the camp beds and the fire on the stove. Back living.

‘Five months,’ he said. ‘Maybe a little more if I’m needed.’

‘You’ll let Kate know I’m coming?’ Sal said.

Sharkey