The Major

By Stephen Lawrence

Ex Army officer Captain Peter Wicks, now medically discharged and living in the Cotswolds with his wife Jessie, receives a mysterious offer of employment days before his 45th birthday. Accepting the well paid offer, he finds himself embroiled in a web of espionage, blackmail, arms deals and assassinations. He later finds out that its more difficult to break free from the organization than it was to join it.
How can he detach himself from the grip of The Major and his organization, whilst he and his family are under threat? Will his friend at GCHQ help him to expose the man who poses a danger to him, his friends, his family and his marriage?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477243435

Stephen Lawrence

I was born in Gloucester UK, in 1953. Went to Secondary Modern School leaving at the age of 15 to take up an Engineering Apprenticeship. After moving to a larger company to work i progressed through to a management role before leaving work at the age of 52. At that point, my wife and i moved to Spain to live. I started writing as a pastime and found that i had ideas which i could put into words, so i began writing in earnest to see if i had the ability to write a full novel. After a few aborted attempts i have now completed several books.

Book preview

ONE.

It was 6:30am and Peter Wicks lay in bed alongside his sleeping wife Jessie. He was always awake early. He was a very light sleeper, but moreover, he was ex army and learnt to sleep less than the average person. His life sometimes depended on it in the forces when he was on missions with the lads from the regiment.

As he lay quietly, slightly propped up on a pillow with one arm behind his head, he watched Jessie as she slept, she hardly made a sound. Her breathing was slow and rhythmic, calm. He lit a cigarette and took a deep draw on it, blowing out the secondary smoke upwards towards the ceiling fan. She often woke and bollocked him for smoking in bed. He never argued with her about it, he would always get out of bed and drop the cigarette down the loo and piss on it, before flushing it away.

Each morning since leaving the army 9 months ago, he regularly found himself lying in bed watching Jessie sleep, and thinking about his past life as Captain Peter Wicks, the good times and the bad. He missed the life he had in the forces. The camaraderie, the adrenaline, the discipline, the thrills and spills of it all, most of all he missed his mates.

After leaving school at the age of 15 with no qualifications, he spent 8 years of his life going from job to job. A builders labourer, a shop assistant, a painter and decorator, a bouncer in a nightclub, you name it he had done it. He was going nowhere, until one night at the club where he worked, three old mates from school were in the queue waiting to get in. He could see that they stood out from the crowd, and when he chatted with them and asked what they were up to, he found out that they were all in the Army, and loved it.

As the night went on he couldn’t help but notice the lads as they drank and danced with all the fit women who were in the club. They really did seem to have a charisma that attracted attention, something he wanted, to be someone and have stories to tell his kids when he was old like his grandad.

So at the age of 23 he decided to join up, he became a squadie in the Glorious Glosters. He stayed with the Regiment for 9 years and then applied for the SAS, passing the grueling training first time, something not many were able to do. The last 12 years of his Army life, he had been in the elite SAS where he attained the rank of Captain. He had been on all the tours of duty, Ireland, The Falklands, Iraq and Afghanistan, resisting the move to a higher rank, because he preferred, no, he needed to be amid the action. Moving up the ranks would take him away from that, but that was later to be his demise from the force.

His commanding officer, Colonel James Morris-

Smyth, was constantly pushing him to sit the exams for further officer training, which would promote him from Captain to Major; telling him he was getting too old to be on the ground, but would make an excellent Major. He could then step back and let the younger fitter lads do the grafting, but he continued to fight against any further promotional moves.

Then, on what turned out to be his last mission, he was injured when an IED was triggered, killing two of his team and sustaining wounds himself to his right thigh and abdomen. He was lucky to pull through, though to his dismay, after his recovery he was declared unfit to return to active duty with the SAS.

He declined an offer of a desk job, and left the Army on a medical discharge, with a full pension and a small disability supplement. He did not consider himself anything like disabled in any way, all he had was a slight limp from the damage to his thigh, other than that he was as fit as the next man. He knew that his commanding officer had used the injury as an excuse, to try and get him into a desk job with promotion, but there was no way he wanted that.

Now, in one weeks’ time he would be 45, and he was living a quiet life in the Cotswold’s, a few miles outside the village of Broadleigh, with his 10yr younger wife Jessie, their two Staffordshire bull terrier dogs, Zeus and Indie. They also had two Vietnamese pot bellied pigs called Nutmeg and Rosemary. A fat cat called Peggy, five chickens all who have names that he cannot remember, two lovebirds called Sid and Doris, four ducks Johnny, Jemima, Ronald and Donald, plus a donkey called Don. It was a proper little menagerie.

Pete and Jessie bought the property 3 years ago, shortly after they were married.

It’s a cozy two bedroom cottage, with a barn, a small stable within a paddock, and an acre of land, what is known as a small holding in the Gloucestershire area.

Jessie always wanted to live in the country, and Pete loved the outdoors, so buying the smallholding seemed the right thing to do. While Pete was away on active duty, which was more than he was home, Jessie enjoyed working from home, but being able to look after the animals in between her work broke the monotony.

She’s a freelance architect, and good at her job. Her reputation grew after she designed a huge shopping mall complex in Florida; that had brought her to the forefront in design and had pulled in some lucrative contract offers.

Since being at the cottage, she had designed a conversion for their barn, which she and Pete had been working on, making slow progress for around eighteen months, but since Pete had come out of the Army, the work had moved on much quicker. The main structure was now complete, and it left just the inside work to do.

Pete got out of bed and slid into his flip flops by the side of the bed. He went downstairs to the kitchen in his boxer shorts and a tee shirt and started making breakfast. He liked his bacon and eggs in the morning, with coffee and toast. He believed in the old saying, that an Army marches better on a full stomach, even though he was no longer doing any marching.

When he had cooked breakfast for Jessie and himself, he told Zeus and Indie to go and ‘wake up the mummy’. The two dogs knew this command, and they both bounded up the stairs and leapt onto the bed trying to lick Jessie’s face, while she tried to escape the lashing tongues by pulling the quilt up over her head. She would finally give in to their game, when they decided she had to be dug out, their paws scraping rapidly at the mound under the soft quilt.

‘Okay, okay I give in, now get off me you great lumps, go on, I’ll be down in a minute!’

With that, the dogs would report back to Pete downstairs, who would reward them with a doggy biscuit then let them outside into the yard. This was the prompt for Peggy the cat to gain entry into the kitchen, and munch on her cat food and drink fresh milk.

This had been the routine since Pete had been discharged, and he was beginning to feel trapped with nowhere to go. He was reasonably happy, but not totally content.

It was just like before when he was younger, before going in the Army, not knowing what he wanted to do in life. He was still reasonably young and fit and believed he had a chance of doing something new, but what?

TWO.

Jessie came down to the kitchen in her dressing gown, and kissed Pete on the cheek.

‘Morning hun, you okay?’

Pete smiled and said ‘Yeah fine, here you go, get that down ya!’ he put a plate of bacon and eggs on the table opposite his own. He poured her a cup of coffee, then he set the toast and butter in the middle of the table. They sat and ate, discussing what was on the agenda for the day.

Pete said, ‘I need to go and get some more timber, for the upper floor of the barn, from the timber yard this morning. Do you need anything from the village while I’m up that way?’

‘You can get a newspaper and some milk… oh, and I think we will need some more bread too, I’ll check before you go, and give you a list.’

They finished eating breakfast, and Pete went up to the bathroom for his shower while Jessie cleaned up the dishes. Then she came upstairs and stepped into the shower as Pete got out.

As he toweled himself dry, Pete thought back to when they first moved in, and how they used to make love in the shower most mornings. Sex was anytime anywhere to start with, the kitchen, the utility room, even in the barn, where once Pete grazed his knees quite badly, from making passionate love to her on the rough floor. The lust had gradually died away, and now they generally only had sex in bed, at night before they slept, and with the lights out.

As Jessie got out of the shower, Pete grabbed her and said, ‘how about it sexy?’ Trying to maneouvre her back into the shower.

She pushed him back, ‘not now Pete, I have a busy day ahead. I have to finish that Scott & Drysdale contract this week and I’m well behind. Sorry luv… maybe later.’ she kissed his forehead, then wrapped a bath towel around herself up under her armpits, tucking the loose end in between her ample breasts to hold it up. Then she went off into the bedroom to dress.

Pete had a shave before dressing and going downstairs.

Back down in the kitchen, he poured himself another coffee from the pot he had made earlier, which was sat on top of the range cooker. He went outside with his drink and played ball with their ever faithful dogs. He thought of a tale someone had told him once, and smiled to himself. They said, "If you locked your wife and your dog in a shed with no windows for a day, which one would be most glad to see you when you opened the door? . . . Mmm I wonder?"

He walked over to the paddock and let Don the donkey out of his stall. They had rescued Don from a farm out near Hereford. The owner had left him without food for weeks, he was emaciated and in a really bad way when they rescued him, and for a while it was touch and go whether he would survive. But, along with help from the local vet, they were able to aid him to full recovery. Now, fully fit, he seems to show how grateful he is, by nuzzling up against Jessie and Pete whenever they are in the paddock with him.

The name they had given him came from the tales of the famous Spanish conquistador Don Quixote, which Jessie always pronounced Donkey hoty.

Back inside the cottage, Jessie was writing Pete a shopping list, nearly a full page from a writing pad.

‘Only a few things then?’ Pete said with a grin.

‘Well it will save me going out later, plus I know the fresh fruit and veg gets delivered this morning, so don’t let Mrs.Watkins give you all the crap from 2 days ago, she’ll try it on, but you’ll see the difference, just look at the trays at the back of the display, that’s the fresh stuff.’

‘Right then,’ said Pete, ‘I’ll be off. I’ll probably be a couple of hours getting this lot plus the timber and screws I need!’ He gave her a peck on the lips and went around the side of the house. He hitched the trailer to the Land Rover and drove slowly up the driveway to the five bar gate where he stopped, jumped out and opened it. The dogs had accompanied him to the perimeter, and after he drove through and shut the gate behind, they ran back to the house, knowing Jessie would be putting their breakfast bowls out.

The village was a five minute drive, but the timber merchants was about twenty minutes, so he decided to go there first then stop in the village on the way back.

He drove along the winding lanes on auto pilot, while his mind wandered off on an adventure.

He was brought out of his dream with a sudden bang, and almost lost control of the heavy Land Rover. He pulled over to the side of the narrow country lane, and when he looked back up the road he could see an adult fox dragging itself off the road towards a gap in the hedge.

He went to the back of his vehicle and opened the rear door. In there was a box of tools. He dug around in the tool box to find his knife, a short bladed but very sharp combat knife in a sheath, which he acquired from an Argentinian soldier that he’d fought to the death with during the Falklands conflict.

As Pete walked down the road to the injured animal, he recalled the vivid detail of the story from one of his many memories. How could he ever forget? June 11th 1982 the battle of Mount Harriet in the Falklands.

He remembered becoming isolated from his unit during a fire fight against a small enemy unit. The air was filled with smoke and fume of cordite, but when he eventually made it through the haze, he had strayed past the enemy line, coming face to face with one of the enemy. He had raised his rifle to fire but it seized, the soldier could easily have killed him, but instead, he put down his own rifle and drew the blade. They both fought long and hard, hand to hand combat, until Pete delivered the fatal strike, his knife penetrating under the soldier’s ribs and into his heart. He held the brave man until his breath ceased. Pete had suffered knife wounds to his forearm and gut in the battle, but they were not life threatening. He had kept the soldiers knife as a memento.

As he approached the spot in the road where a bloody trail led to where the fox lay, he identified that it was quite an old vixen; it had reached a gap in the hedge but was very badly injured. He grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and dragged it into the field beyond, then, in one quick movement he slit its throat and ended its misery.

As he walked back up the road, he wondered if the vixen had left cubs behind anywhere, he didn’t like to see any animal suffer, but there was nothing else he could do.

Back at the Land Rover, he found an old piece of cloth to clean the blood from the knife before putting it back in its sheath. As he wiped away the blood of the fox on the rag, he remembered that after his fight with the soldier, he had wiped his bloody knife clean on the uniform of his combatant.

He thought that he should be dead now; killed in action they would have said to his family. Instead, his opponent was so confident that he could win the fight with a knife, but he now lies buried somewhere, with a headstone that probably says he was killed in action and a hero to his country. A dead hero!

Pete continued his drive to the timber yard without anymore daydreaming; he was worried that he could have killed a child instead of a fox back there. His lack of concentration was not normal for a man trained in stealth and self preservation, but he had no need of those skills anymore, so consequently he was rusty.

At the timber yard, Tim a young apprentice carpenter helped him to load the three metre long timber floorboards onto the trailer.

‘Do you want me to charge it to your account Pete?’ he shouted back from the office.

‘Yeah, please Tim… oh and I need another four boxes of those brass number ten wood screws, 40mm long as well.’

‘Here you go,’ said Tim handing him the four boxes. ‘So… how is Mrs.Wicks?’

Pete knew that Tim had a crush on her, even though she was old enough to be his mum. Jessie had said that he goes all gooey eyed whenever she has been there for stuff, so Pete played him along for a while.

‘Yeah she’s good, she said to say hello to my little Timmy . . . hey,if I didn’t know better, I might think that you were having an affair with her behind my back Tim!’

‘No… no not me Pete, she’s alright… well… I mean she’s lovely, but… too old for me, I… I don’t mean like you know, old as in old, I mean… you know Pete!’

‘Well do you know what I did to the last guy who tried fooling with her?’

Tim shook his head. ‘No.’

‘I gouged his eyes out with a stick, then I pissed in the sockets!’

‘R… really?’ said Tim now visibly shaking, and knowing Pete was ex-military.

‘Yep’ said Pete, ‘in fact I still have the stick here in the back of the Land Rover somewhere, just in case I need it again.’ He reached into his toolbox and pulled out a lollypop stick, which he had used for pointing between bricks, and held it up menacingly. Tim was just about shitting his pants now; then Pete burst out laughing.

Tim was slightly embarrassed, but very relieved that Pete was taking the piss out of him.

Pete walked over to the office with Tim and signed the invoice receipt. On his way out of the office he stopped and turned to Tim.

‘Here’ he said, handing him the lollypop stick and laughing, ‘it might come in handy one day.’

‘Yeah thanks Pete, I’ll keep it safe,’ he said trying to keep on the right side of Pete’s joking.

Pete drove away from the timber yard with a smile on his face. At least the bit of banter had cheered him up a little.

He pulled into the car park of The Dog and Duck, his local pub, taking up two spaces because of the trailer. He could walk from there to all the shops he needed, first was the post office where he and Jessie had a rented post box. Any mail for them would be delivered here, and they picked it up once or twice a week. He pulled out his key pouch from his pocket and opened the little door to their mail box. Inside was the usual, a few bills and some junk mail. He usually sifted through the pile as he walked back outside, then he would dump all the advertising junk in the rubbish bin just outside the post office.

He found a letter addressed to himself amongst all the promotional crap.

It was hand written; FAO. Capt. Peter Wicks, and marked Urgent along the top. There was no stamp on it, so someone had delivered it by hand to the post office. He went and sat on a nearby bench, next to an old pensioner who was there with his flask of tea enjoying the bit of sunshine.

Pete opened the letter, curious of its content.

It was a short instruction to him, all it said was, Look out for the delivery man on your birthday. It was hand written, but there was no signature or indication who had sent it. He was unsure what it meant. Was it a threat? Was it a joke? Perhaps it was one of the lads from the regiment playing a trick? He didn’t know what to think or do.

He must have looked worried because the pensioner said, ‘Want some tea lad? It helps with bad news you know.’

Pete vaguely heard the words of the old gent… ‘No, no thanks, its okay just a family thing, you know. Thanks anyway.’ he moved off back to the Land Rover. He threw the other letters into the glove box, taking the mystery one with him. He then went in the pub to have a pint and try to figure out what the mysterious message meant.

THREE.

Pete stood at the bar gazing at the letter in his hand, the landlord Ronny, came out from the back where he had just reloaded a new barrel. ‘Hey, Peter! How are you, the usual is it?’ which was a pint of Stella Artois.

‘Oh hi Ron, yeah I’m fine… and yep the usual please.’

‘Not been called up again have you?’ said Ronny jokingly, nodding towards the letter in Pete’s hand.

‘Nah, no such luck!’ replied Pete.

‘What, you mean you’d want to go back to all that shit again?’ said a surprised Ronny.

Pete replied within a heartbeat. ‘Yep… I’d go back tomorrow.’

‘Well you do surprise me; after being injured and all, you still miss it then?’

‘Yeah, I really do,’ Pete said after slurping at his lager. ‘I don’t really know what I miss most, but I guess the fella’s, and the adrenaline rush when you’re out there, you know in unfamiliar territory, not knowing what lies ahead. Yeah, I miss all that shit Ronny! Now, the only excitement I get is going to the builder’s yard, or shopping for fruit and veg… shit! I gotta get some stuff for Jessie. Alright if I leave my pint on the bar whilst I nip over to the store for a few bits Ron?, I won’t be long!’

‘Sure thing Pete, we don’t want you getting in Jessie’s bad books now do we?’

Pete went to the corner store which was a mini market type of place. He bought all the items from the list, apart from the fruit and veg bits which was two shops down. In there Mrs.Watkins filled a carrier bag with cabbage, cauliflower and tomatoes, then another one with potatoes, carrots, bananas and apples. Pete also bought a bunch of flowers to take back for Jessie. He loaded all the shopping in the Land Rover and then returned to the bar.

Pete resumed his position, sitting on a stool at the bar, sipping his lager and thinking about the strange letter again. The more he thought about it, the more he believed it to be a hoax by one of his old mates from Hereford. Yeah, one of them was taking the piss, and he had a good idea who it could be. He swamped the rest of his drink and asked Ron to fill his glass again.

He stuffed the letter into the ass pocket of his jeans, then as he sat drinking his second pint and reading a newspaper on the bar, three lads aged about twenty came in chatting noisily. Ronny immediately told two of them that they were still barred from the pub. Apparently, they had caused trouble there a couple of weeks earlier and had been banned for a month.

One of the lads started mouthing off at Ronny, who reiterated that they were still barred and were to leave now or he would call the police.

A gobby one back chatted him, saying, ‘Go on then call the police, but we’ll do you over good before they get here. Now give us a drink or we’re going to smash the place up you old poof!’

Pete could see that Ronny was shitting himself, so he slowly slid off his stool and stood facing the three lads. He quietly said to them, ‘come on lads, you heard Ronny, you’re still barred, so why don’t you just be on your way? Go and have a drink somewhere else.’

The mouthy one said, ‘Who the fuck do you think you are then,