One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night

• ■ 09:00 ■ nether kilbokie ■ elite unit assembles ■
  
• ■ 09:09 ■ kilbokie brae ■ return of the mac ■
  
• ■ 09:17 ■ auchenlea ■ the start of a great adventure ■
  
• ■ 09:50 ■ glasgow airport ■ lost soul in transit ■
  
• ■ 11:04 ■ fipr charter coach ■ road to (inver)nowhere ■
  
• ■ 11:08 ■ fipr charter coach ■ five seats doon ■
  
• ■ 11:19 ■ three seats back from that ■
  
• ■ 12:23 ■ floating island paradise resort ■ behind a great man ■
  
• ■ 16:18 ■ rosstown nick ■ cromarty’s most wanted ■
  
• ■ 17:38 ■ ‘tropics’ bar ■ cocktails and aperitifs ■
  
• ■ 19:30 ■ moran cove ■ three men in a boat ■
  
• ■ meanwhile ■ fipr ■ humility and that ■
  
• ■ 19:51 ■ beneath fipr ■ column 4.9 and turning ■
  
• ■ still sort of meanwhile ■ fipr ■ if onlys ■
  
• ■ 21:00 ■ fipr ■ freestanding ventilation unit/
  faecal interface scenario ■
  
• ■ 21:12 ■ orchid suite ■ the uninvited ■
  
• ■ 21:12 ■ laguna room 322 ■ the uninvited ii ■
  
• ■ 21:12 ■ ballroom ■ the uninvited iii ■
  
• ■ 21:18 ■ laguna room 322 ■ true confessions ■
  
• ■ 21:44 ■ laguna hotel ■ hunt the cunt ■
  
• ■ 21:52 ■ laguna ballroom ■ fuck this for ■
  
• ■ 21:55 ■ fipr ■ a game of soldiers ■
  
• ■ 22:11 ■ majestic room 105 ■ missing the war ■
  
• ■ 22:18 ■ laguna ballroom ■
  plan b
  plan c
  plan d ■
  
• ■ 22:27 ■ cromarty firth ■ merrily merrily merrily ■
  
• ■ 22:54 ■ fipr ■ Radioheadgames ■
  
• ■ 22:59 ■
  
• ■ 22:59 and thirty seconds ■
  
• ■ 23:04 ■ laguna laundry depot ■ machine‐
  gun etiquette ■
  
• ■ 23:13 ■ fipr ■ gunfight at the k-mart corral ■
  
• ■ 23:26 ■ laguna laundry depot ■ oh,
  that
  bomb ■
  
• ■ 23:30 ■ laguna laundry depot ■ cometh the hour ■
  
• ■ 23:42 ■ fipr ■ cometh the man ■
  
• ■ 23:49 ■ laguna laundry depot ■ song for the dumped ■
  
• ■ 23:52 ■ laguna laundry depot ■ murder polis ■
  
• ■ 00:02 ■ orchid suite ■ all along the watchtower ■
  
• ■ 00:09 ■ fipr ■ two riders were approaching ■
  
• ■ 00:28 ■ fipr ■ strike! ■
  
• ■ 00:33 ■ fipr ■ this never happens ■
  
• ■ 00:38 ■ the ha’penny thing ■ inevitably … ■
  
• ■ later ■
  

William Connor was standing outside a disused cattle shed on a bright Highland summer’s morning, ankle‐
deep in cowshit, liquidised mercenary raining splashily down about his head from the crisp blue sky above. He wasn’t an overly superstitious man, but this was precisely the sort of thing that tended to make him wonder whether fate wasn’t trying to drop just the subtlest of hints.

He reached up reluctantly and wiped the gore from his eyelids, then, grimacing, ran a hand through his caked hair, shaking it at the wrist in a whiplash motion. The slick red goo made a wet snicking sound as it ticked the dung‐
carpeted ground. Sighing, he turned around languorously to face Dawson, who was as inevitably likely to be right behind him as he was extremely
un
likely to be impressed. In fact, Dawson’s state of impressedness had begun at its default low and pursued a steepening downward trajectory since his arrival an hour back. At that point, he had given the assembled unit a cursory few moments’ scrutiny, then signalled Connor to join him out in the yard.

‘Who the fuck are these clowns?’ he’d asked.

‘This is the crew, Finlay. These are my men.’ Connor had tried to sound persuasively confident, but only managed slightly miffed.

‘Men? They look like a bunch of thugs. here did you get them? Ned Warehouse?’

‘Don’t judge them till you’ve seen them in action,’ he countered, throwing in a knowing smile to disguise the fact that his teeth were beginning to grind. It had been a few years since he’d seen Dawson, but it had taken only moments for the backlog of irritation and resentment to catch up. ‘Believe me, mate, these guys are sharp.’

‘You’ve worked with them? All of them?’

‘Individually, yes,’ Connor offered confidently, until Dawson’s sodium‐
pentathol stare had its inescapable effect. ‘Well, most of them, anyway,’ he adjusted.

‘Never together, never as a unit?’

Connor sighed, ever his most consistent means of expression in Dawson’s company. ‘No, but I can assure you—’

‘Who actually are they, Bill? What’s their background?’

‘Christ, Finlay, we don’t have time. Do you want a pile of fucking CVs? You’re the one came to me at about five minutes’ bloody notice. You wanted a team – I got you one.’

The display of petulance failed to deflect Dawson’s stare. Connor guessed an extended tenure attaching electrodes to anyone who disagreed with him couldn’t have done much to mellow the man’s notoriously uncompromising nature.

Dawson glanced across to where two men were unloading a crate from Connor’s truck.

‘Those two, for instance. Which half‐
derelict council scheme did they escape from?’

Connor looked across to the diesel‐
reeking vehicle. Both of the men stopped a moment and gave him a salute. He wasn’t sure whether it was paranoia induced by Dawson’s withering disapproval, but he couldn’t help thinking there was an element of sarcasm to the gesture.

‘That’s Mailey and McKelvie.’ Dawson’s penetrative gaze demanded he elaborate. Balls. He’d been hoping to put off this particular revelation until Dawson had seen what the pair could do. ‘They’ve both been in, em, active service,’ he mumbled.

‘British Army?’

‘British Army was involved, yes.’

‘
Involved
?’

‘Yes, they …’ Connor sighed, yet again, and rolled his eyes. ‘All right, they’re ex‐
paramilitaries,’ he admitted.

Dawson’s eyeballs began to inflate. ‘Paramilitaries? Terrorists? Good God, I need soldiers, not amateurs, man.’

‘I’m telling you, Finlay, these guys are far from amateurs. It’s a bloody stunning track record they’ve got. You should see the list of places they’ve blown up. It’s like the back of a roadie’s t-shirt, I’m not kidding.’

‘So what are they doing here, working for you? Were they kicked out or something?’

‘No. They went freelance. They got bored. Too many cease‐
fires and peace agreements, not enough action. They’re not really interested in politics. They just like the pointing‐
guns‐
at‐
people part.’

‘And presumably you feel you – or rather we – can trust these pyro‐
Paddies?’

Connor’s frequency of sighing was starting to make him sound like an asthmatic. He’d heard there was now a particular form of torture named after Dawson in the Middle‐
East; presumably it had to do with the rectal region.

‘Look, I’ll come clean with you right now,’ he told him. ‘Yes, I’ve hired ex‐
terrorists. And yes, before you ask, there’s more republicans than just those two in the unit. There’s guys in there with loyalist paramilitary backgrounds, as well.
Ex
‐
terrorists, get it?
Not
interested in politics –
like
action. What they’ve done before doesn’t matter – it’s just previous employment, if you like. No longer relevant. They work for me now. And yes, I do trust them, because I know I’m uniting these guys like no politician ever could, by offering them the chance to get well paid for doing what they do best and enjoy most: threatening unarmed civilians.’

Dawson closed his eyes and exhaled at length, a hint of a smile finally appearing at the corners of his mouth.

‘All right, Bill, my man,’ he said, slapping Connor on the shoulder. The gesture was nauseatingly insincere, but he was grateful nonetheless. At least it meant he’d knock off moaning for a few minutes. ‘It’s been a while, a damn long while, but I’m still me and you’re still you, right?’ Dawson continued. ‘If you trust them, that’s good enough for me.’

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Connor doubted he’d managed it. The moaning would resume soon enough.

‘So what about the rest of them?’ Dawson asked, lighting a cigarette.

‘A few ex‐
army. Worked with them in various African shitholes, the usual cycle of coups and rebellions. Gaghen in there has got the record, I think. He helped Matsutu to the presidency, then joined the rebels and deposed him, then got the contract to put him back on top. An exemplar of mercenary professionalism. Absolute ideological detachment at all times. He’d be back with the rebels again now except he got Triso … Trypaso … Tryoso … Ah, fuck it, that nasty business with the tsetse flies – you remember, McGoldrick got it that time.’

‘I thought McGoldrick got elephantiasis.’

‘Maybe that’s what it was. Whatever, Gaghen says he’s feeling a lot better now. Anyway, there’s a few more from either side of the Ulster bomb‐
tennis match and a couple of Yanks, used to be in one of those militia capers until their particular Brownie pack got forcibly disbanded. A Norwegian, too. Roland something. Can’t pronounce his surname.’

‘And what about the bloke with the video camera?’

‘Oh, that’s Glover. He’s shooting our promotional video.’

‘Your
what
?’

‘Promotional video. This is the future, Finlay. The mercenary market’s a busy place these days. If you want the contracts, you’ve got to be able to show people what you can do. Things have changed while you were sunning yourself in that wee Arabian sinecure. The competition’s absolutely fierce, and so many of them are complete fucking cowboys. All these ex‐
Soviet and Stasi guys for a start – wouldn’t trust them to kill your budgie, neither you would. And the worst of it is they’ve had a knock‐
on effect for the reputation of the business as a whole. People are very nervous of dealing with a new outfit, so we’re filming the crew limbering up here, handling the toys. Then when we tender for a job in future, we can show them what they’ll get for their money.’

Dawson made no attempt to disguise a sneer. ‘So you see this … crew, as you called them, as a long‐
term venture? I thought you were complaining to me two seconds ago about only having five minutes’ notice?’

Connor was determined not to sigh, frequent exposure to Dawson’s haughty expression having cultured in him a certain immunity to it. Unfortunately, his recent years of apparent good living meant there was more of Dawson’s face for the expression to take up. If offered a choice between a million quid or Dawson’s head stuffed with fivers, it would be a tough call.

Connor sighed. ‘I wouldn’t say this is my envisaged first‐
team line‐
up,’ he admitted. ‘I wanted Gerry Thomson, for instance, but it turns out he’s in jail in some place hot and sticky. Got involved in drug running, silly boy.’

‘Drugs,’ Dawson said with obvious distaste, flicking ash from the end of his fag. ‘He should have known better than that.’

‘And Nigel Dixon was meant to be here too, but the Sonzolan air force went in the huff and bombed the army’s HQ, so he reckons the coup’s going to take another couple of weeks at least. He says hello, by the way. Truth is, a few of these guys are really only stop‐
gap appointments, but they’ll get the job done, don’t worry.’

Dawson shrugged his shoulders, about as uncharacteristic a gesture as Connor could imagine. ‘Well, it’s a fish‐
in‐
a‐
barrel affair, I suppose,’ he reflected. As long as they know one end of a gun from the other, there’s not really a lot can go wrong.’

He did seem to be lightening up. Connor was evidently doing a remarkable job of masking his own misgivings about the patchwork assembly he’d thrown together. But, like the man said, it was a fish‐
in‐
a‐
barrel deal.

‘So do many of these guys know each other?’ Dawson enquired, incidentally pinpointing the very aspect of the assembly about which Connor had his misgivings.

‘Some,’ he managed, half‐
heartedly. ‘A few have worked together before, a few haven’t but know who each other are, and a few have never met in their lives. But in my experience, it’s amazing what the smell of cordite and the promise of a few bob can do to generate team spirit. This time tomorrow they’ll be ready to name their children after each other.’

Dawson gave that laugh of his, that wheezy, gravelly effort, like jackboots coming up your garden path. Connor could never tell whether it was amusement or dubious derision.

‘Well, I suppose you’d better introduce me to this elite unit of yours,’ he said. ‘Then we can get on with explaining our evil masterplan.’

‘Soon as you’re ready, yeah.’