The Phantom Soldier

By Jon L. Cadel

London, 2005. A re-elected government and fresh anti-war protests. Without a job, without purpose, and without experience, Paul Elements is soon tasked to tie up loose ends when an ex-convict holding a secret appears in his social scene.
As his carefree hedonism dissolves amidst paranoia, tested loyalties, and shocking violence, Elements might just become the man he wants to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon L. Cadel
• Release date: Apr 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463308578

Jon L. Cadel

El Chapo caught; new CEO needed. If you like feel free to advise at [e-mail]

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Blaine was a little under six foot and had a slender upper body underneath his loose shirt, premature wrinkles on his forehead and a smile that was uneasy, forced, as if he never found the humour of his friends genuine, or as if he was in a faraway land and this was just his response to the present reality.

When his pint came Blaine made sure to neck it as fast as the rest of his company. Conversation continued as the group reminisced. There was some cunt, or some fuck, who was out of order at the weekend. There was Ezmeralda’s friends who were uncommunicative, thirsty, and forever without cigarettes, without a light. And then there was the Asian girl wearing a faux-fur coat, knee-high boots and diamond earrings, with hair coiffed like a pin-cushion, but missing her pearly necklace. The big man’s wallet came out, celebrated her, and shots were ordered. The waitress greeted them with a smile they thought as genuine, and they let their appreciation be known.

When Blaine happened to glance out of the window he flinched at the unbecoming eyes peering in: a heavy set man wearing a beanie and cupping his jaw, shifting it left, shifting it right, as if to imagine the damage a right hook could inflict.

Check the looney out there, he muttered.

Stop checking out blokes you fag, came the reply, and Blaine’s comment sank amidst a plethora of insults.

When Blaine turned back to the window the man wearing the black beanie was now looking to the left and right of the street. There was little in the way of traffic. His walk across the road was slow and measured, a sober man’s walk, a man wondering about the reasons why men were getting drunk on a Monday night. Blaine laughed it off.

After midnight he parted from his friends. The send-offs were quick, abusive, a wolfish camaraderie.

As he walked the couple of blocks home the street lights were flickering, causing him to stand to a pause and detect a pattern, even a reason. They continued to flicker, relentlessly. It was a drunken man’s game. He was looking around now, checking who else was in on this game. Sure there was someone.

His walk was into London, the centre of London, and the detached tenements were expanding in depth, developing fortitudes like cemetery plots, and it got to a point where a road divided one block of properties to another, another of tree-lined abodes, fancy apartments, work offices, dentists, architects, consultants, and so on. It wasn’t where he belonged but he was smart enough, just, to realise his luck in a place on the periphery. He wanted to keep that element of distance. It was vestigial to his being to maintain some kind of versus battle. There was a woman who walked a Burmese cat around the blocks, never actually his block, or his pavement, but the other side, right at the cut off, where the smart cats belonged. Initially it didn’t bother him, until he realised it was a daily habit. If he was to see her tonight, with his drunkenness he might howl, make her feel uncomfortable, or the cat, anyway.

For a moment he was sure someone was following him, and he looked around again, not shy of a challenge, but there was just the sound of the elements: all wind, no husking breath. Yet there was something about wind when bodies were absent, how it seemed to strengthen, grow in confidence, adopt an almost supernatural quality. He moved on, this time at a quicker pace. Wind at his back now, yeah, fuck you, see you later. Looked round again, shoulders hunched, all streamlined, thinking it was behind him. When the wind could rattle his bones then there was nothing sure in the world.

He shook his head, dismissing the thoughts, the paranoia … then thinking there was time for a quick joint before bed. Time to catch a few music videos or even smoke it in bed and wake up to bombers burning through his quilt again.

He was grimacing when he walked past a large white van, which was blocking the entrance to an alley. A man jumped out from the alley and with both fists smacked him in the chest and Blaine fell back gasping against the side of the van. The man wearing the beanie walked round from the other side of the van and lifted him. One hand grabbed his left arm, the other held his right arm. Both were twisted up behind his back. Blaine howled; his hands tickling his own nape. The beanie man marched him down the alley. To the left the partner held up a metal shutter. The beanie man pushed him to the garage floor and closed the shutter. There was little room as a black Audi, raised on bricks, was parked before them. Fluorescent lights glimmered, and there were dead moths and flies encased with dotted shadows for all to see.

The two men stood over Blaine. The partner held two blades in his hands, sandwiched between knuckles. Two inches in length, they had stabbed his upper chest. Blaine saw this and clutched at his chest. Pulled his zip down. The two red spots swelling on his cream shirt looked like blooded nipples. Suddenly enraptured in pain his eyes dilated with what yielded an understanding, and he wheezed heavily, repeatedly. Something momentous was going to happen.

You speak when I ask you to speak, the beanie man said. You do what I say. Your entire fucking being is dependent on everything I do and say. And just so you know …

The partner grabbed Blaine’s left arm and twisted it straight, clutched the fingers in his own and with an obscene show of strength bent Blaine’s wrist backwards. Several snaps, and the hand hung from the forearm, flopped in confusion.

Blaine gagged on his own breath, useless against the man’s might, his head fallen. He tried to manoeuvre his other hand but he bellowed in agony and began to cry; with a shoulder dislocated the arm swung over alien and nervy.

The two men waited, ignoring the cries.

When Blaine peered up at them, finding focus through the pain, he whimpered, Why?

The accomplice, the beanie man said. It was you! You took a fucking knife to the kid?

Blaine looked from the beanie man to the partner without saying anything, gasping for oxygen, there, where, everywhere.

It was you all along, stated the beanie man.

No … it wasn’t me.

Do you want to be fucking tortured for something you didn’t do? Look at your arm, you ain’t gonna be stabbing any kid soon.

Eyes widening. Gasping like he was drowning.

We can’t go around you fucking dicks … just to get the right man.

I’ve alibis.

You didn’t say that in court.

Was with Jessie. Please. I was at me dealer’s gettin’ some Charles.

Fucking coke fiend. Who’s your dealer?

Blaine shook his head.

The beanie man gave a thin-lipped smile and then looked at his partner and the partner grabbed Blaine’s right hand. The arm flopped so he gripped the elbow and he clenched Blaine’s fingers in his own and with little resistance bent back the wrist and the hand tore away from its rightful stance. Blaine was halfway through his scream when he lost consciousness.

He shuddered as though enduring a violent nightmare; this body fighting to break back through to the real world—but he was not slumped at some keyboard in an office where an unimpressed boss looks on.

The two men stood and stared at the hideous bone extrusions.

Amazes me how white bone can keep, the beanie man said.

The Colles’ fracture is one of the most common breaking spots in the human body, said the partner.

Bull! Who the fuck keeps breaking their wrists?

Skateboarders.

The beanie man pursed his lips. He kicked at the soles of Blaine’s feet, kept kicking, metronomically, until he came around.

Who was it?

I don’t know.

Who was there?

All the rest, honest!

Who was it?

Me and Jessie had left the club early.

The beanie man shook his head. You’re Blaine, right? You want to live, right? So tell me, Blaine, how can you not know? You fucking drink with them all the time!

Karl might know!

It’s you.

Blaine shook his head, keeping his eyes away from the protruded bone yet he could see blood that stained the concrete, also stained his sleeves. ‘Ave asked them meself, I ‘ave.

The beanie man took out some chewing gum, unravelled the wrapper and put the gum in his mouth. He didn’t offer any and he chewed for some time.

Naw, Blaine doesn’t know, he said at length, and he stepped to Blaine’s side and squatted. He padded at Blaine’s jean pockets and felt the thickness of a mobile, the thickness of a wallet. He stuck a gloved hand into his jacket pockets and he dangled a set of keys.

You gonna let me live, or you just hurting us? Blaine asked, his voice soft and wheezy, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Dunno. The beanie man gave the keys to his partner and told him to be no longer than ten minutes. Lifting the shutters the partner stepped outside and then pulled the shutters down. The beanie man leaned against the car and chewed on his gum and often paused with mouth agape as though seeming ready to speak but instead he looked away.

After ten minutes he crouched and looked into Blaine’s terrified eyes. In this stare he understood about such vulnerability when man was under extreme duress.

At least you’ve cut your fucking whining.

‘Cos I’m drunk.

The beanie man sighed, his eyes inspecting the rusted chassis of the car. But you’re sober now, he muttered.

Am sober as a fucking judge, Blaine said, and he bawled. My hands, me fucking hands!

The beanie man just shook his head. You’re not a judge.

The shutter came up and the partner stood with arm raised and with the large van parked behind him. He opened both the rear van doors, looked towards where a red and black suitcase lay and he pushed it up into the corner.

Was all quiet? the beanie man asked.

Not a soul to be seen.

Right, wring it.

The partner crouched and gripped Blaine with one hand around the neck, pressed him flat on the concrete and squeezed; helpless arms seemed to gesture in defence but they remained like limbs nullified and phantomesque. A paleness soon superseded the redness of fear and blood and the partner loosened his grip and something, cartridge, ligament, or bone, seemed to realign in the neck of the dead man.

Find a bag okay? the beanie man asked.

There was a suitcase in the hallway. They lifted the dead man by his armpits and by his ankles and carried him into the back of the van. Jeans, socks, boxers, toiletries, the works. I checked his alarm clock too. He had it set for seven forty-five. I changed it to ten.

The beanie man paused and then pursed his lips. Whatever.

They closed the shutter and took their seats in the front with the beanie man driving. They drove along the A406 and turned north onto the A10. It was a half hour after midnight and it was as dark as it was going to get.

You think we should have gone for the big ‘un? asked the partner.

We could have gone for the skinny ‘un. Gone for the jiggy niggy. It’s a fucking lottery.

What do you think he’ll say?

The man took off his beanie and flung it onto the dashboard. We’ll get the dead-eye stare, he muttered. His fiery flame hair fringed forward halfway down his forehead. His face now seemed paler, his blue eyes colder. And then he’ll tell us we’re fast running out of chances.

TWO YEARS LATER

DAY 1

His reflection, feeble as it was, shuddered as an unearthly click budged the hand vertically. In his long black coat he stood in the hallway where the grandfather clock towered over him like some hostile military commander. He eyed away from the dialled face and followed on through into the study, unfolded a padded chair that had leaned against the oak desk, and he sat opposite James Thompson.

Not quite yet.

He nodded.

You hear?

The Whittington chimes sounded, an unending tune, and he sat still and breathed through his nose; his despairing whistle drowned out. Ten dongs. He had been in London ten days. Ten days it took to get this meeting. Ten days where he had waited and drank and renewed old friendships with those who had relocated, biding his time …

You just don’t have enough experience.

Paul Elements took it on the chin, barely allowing for a frown.

Reasons being… Thompson swivelled slightly in his chair. Well, experience is everything. We’re talking hostile engagement here. More than courage, intellect, and even common sense. Yes, sense, even that, just an afterthought to the wisened values of experience.

Elements nodded.

But, I like you, Paul. You have to understand.

Nodded again.

But, as we know, you come from good stock, Thompson said, and he leaned back and contemplated Elements with a judicious eye. And while I say you might not be applicable at this particular moment there could be a chance for optimism in the near future. It is, after all, a devastating and unpredictable business that we’re involved with. You have to keep that in mind. And so shall I.

I know a guy, Elements said, leaning forward, his hands gripping his knees. A bouncer down a pub Putney way—that’s all the experience! He’s off to Baghdad, working as a security guard, on a wage of his life.

Thompson’s face contorted, he licked his lips and stared at the younger man for several seconds. His left hand tapped a rhythm on the desk. Well, of course, you must understand, he said, pausing and putting his fingers to his mouth, as if to stutter over phrases when the stuttering over a vowel could empathise better with a lesser man. It’s all about timing, and coincidence … I’ll let you in on something. At the moment a deal’s being brokered with an American firm, hoping that it’ll be concluded shortly, and we’ll be supplying men as protection, drivers, as general muscle for construction firms. So much new enterprise to be raised, and this is where I think you can come in. But maybe, just not now.

Thompson’s index finger pointed at him. We are dependent on men with experience, Paul, and your track record in the army is hardly flattering you. It is something you have to understand.

I do understand. Getting any job is impossible without experience.

Thompson snorted. Wars never really end. Some men exist with their beliefs to make sure of that.

As long as there is no end then …

Oh, yes, no end.

Elements’ head inched away from Thompson and towards the window where a blustering wind could be heard rattling the fat hedges that barbed the garden to the detached home, and he thought to a time, a matter of days before, when slits of rain speared the ground and he walked down one of these nondescript London streets and around a despairing man who was attending to a punctured tyre on his van. The man’s arms were akimbo, as he stood motionless certain that his fixed tyre wasn’t burst, and Elements punched his fists into the pockets of his black raincoat, pulling the garment tight around his body. The collars sprung up and high around his face, shielding whatever contact eyes could attempt to make. He was not a Londoner, but was cultured like one—he was glad he wasn’t him. And he wore that same coat, uncouthly wrapped around him, as he sat opposite James Thompson in the dry heat of the study, as awkward with his eyes as he strived to be. His hands, though, were clasped, visible by his abdomen, and he longed to lose them in his pockets. It just seemed too much of an exuberant and telling movement.

We have to be exact on the recruitment side, Thompson said. Lieutenant Colonel Kirby will be back from Basra shortly, not for long but I think, if we get this contract, then more men will be employed. We need men that are trustworthy, have a good moral grounding, and can take orders. We don’t get taken for mugs, I certainly don’t. It is a brutal no-nonsense set-up that is run—that’s why the rewards are so handsome.

Thompson sat back, his hand quizzing his chin. His eyes fell to his lap. It was the first time his hard, grey eyes had left Elements since they sat. From the top of the head there was no thinning, no giving away, within that viscous mane of grey hair. His lips and nose were thin; the nostril flares had somehow been inhaled during the precursor to a sneeze and never returned. Resurfacing, the morning light splintered across the right side of his face, a thick jaw line that was etched with wrinkles, a propitious place to define his lantern chin. The man looked like a lantern, beanpole body and big head—a grey lantern, a burning grey, if such were possible.

Did you have a few drinks last night?

Don’t have the budget to drink that much.

Thompson stood up. Back in a minute, he said, and left the room.

Footsteps echoed off the wooden floors. Coarse breath, hints of a curse, and then silence. Elements shuffled inside his coat, eyes on the study desk; a globe sat serene like a pedigree cat on the corner. And there staring back were all the countries in a myriad of colours, labelled and aligned and with their histories intact. And he thought of himself and his own history and he thought of nothing.

You need to be focused, Thompson said, the door closing behind him. He placed an envelope in the top drawer of his desk. Noticing the globe, he frowned, lifted it off the table and placed it on the window ledge. Anyway, having a casual drink … well, of course. He sat back down and shuffled his upper body side to side as if he were on the pan and searching for a release, but in all he managed to cross his legs, with his toes in the tight middle space beneath the table and drawers. I have a drink every evening and like everyone else I think I drink more than I should. You do get that dehydrated feeling in the morning. As dry as an Arab’s sandal, as you say. I know that you army boys when off-duty can quite easily sink into a routine of drinking on a regular basis, need to spend that cash somehow … it’s one of those things. That’s why I feel it’s important for me to get you a job. Help you out of your current predicament. It’s all the same with you modern young males—a lack of purpose.

Elements leaned forward, his hands clasped in prayer fashion beneath his chin. I go for runs most mornings, he said, work-out three times a week. Got myself into excellent shape. He stretched out the limbs of his six-foot frame, toned and taut, and he smiled shyly, an endearing smile with minute dimples, but the smile of a man who was perhaps a bit too self-aware.

I can believe that. Do you remember that night I saw you in a bar on the Fulham road?

Last Friday night.

Yes, imagine—it was quite the passing rendezvous, don’t you think?

Elements’ dimples manifested briefly but there was no smile.

Nothing wrong with indulging, of course, but, how shall we say it?—you seemed to linger on the periphery of your group for most of the night. Like a spare prick.

Don’t know many.

Well, you were with, what we in certain positions like to call, unsavoury men. I don’t know if and how you’re aware of that? A woman, Becky Stockton, several thugs too, buddies of a Karl Stockton.

Yeah, Karl, heard his name mentioned. Not actually met him.

Not a pleasant man.

Elements shook his head.

How long have you known them?

Hawkins—an old bud of mine, from childhood. The others are his friends. I just met them for the first time last week.

A new social group for you then?

Just drinking buddies, I guess.

Well, whatever cures one’s loneliness, Thompson said. But they have history. They were involved in an assault that left a man vegetating in a coma. Their friend, a William Spencer, was convicted of GBH, but he refused to name his accomplice—could’ve been one of several—it has all but ended a young man’s life.

Elements nodded. When he didn’t say anything, Thompson nodded too and ran one hand through another.

This Spencer was too drunk and high at the time to remember whom he was with. Farcical. The case at the time was a farce! The police were next to useless, and the judge only sentenced Spencer to a four-year spell. Apparently, it wasn’t his decisive actions that maimed the man. It wasn’t him who wielded the knife. Now, Spencer, I’m led to believe is at the end of his penitence. This particular act of violence has all been forgotten, swept under the carpet. The media seems to have greater morality plays to seize upon.

I can’t say I’m familiar with the incident.

Of course not, you were no doubt breaking a leg in Kosovo at the time.

An ingrained wrinkle on Elements’ forehead deepened, resembling a thin smudge of stretched print whenever he raised or furrowed his eyebrows.

Thompson gestured at the globe, his voice lucid. And you have to understand our recruits are of the highest moral fibre, a thorough understanding of the rights and wrongs, measured in instants.

They’re hardly my friends.

Yes, I know, but they are enough. I can’t have you hired, knowing of this … this moral degradation you exhibit. With these morals it would be like hiring a fucking SS officer!

Elements laughed a little but Thompson didn’t. He unclasped his hands and pocketed them in his coat. His coat swung freely by his sides. Beneath he wore a navy rugby polo-shirt. Thompson peered to see if there was a team affiliate but there was none. I really want this work, Elements said. I can drop them, new friends, old friends, no problem. I don’t need them. I want this work. I need it.

Thompson was silent a moment, studying him with narrowed eyes. Everyone needs work, he said. You investigate your new friends for me then, come back and impress me, with sufficient detail, do a bit of research and you’ll realise that, that things can just happen.

As if in preparation Elements leaned forward and replied instantly: I might see them within the next two days. Get you some feedback then, poke around, other than that …

Good, good, you arrange that. Thompson pointed a finger at Elements, a long middle finger and he prodded it back and forth and Elements sat with his coat tight and hands clasped by his abdomen in much the same position he began with and he nodded his head up and down, and then, at once, both their petty movements stopped; some abbreviated understanding. Young Elements, Thompson said. I can relate—unimpressed as I am—that you’re in a position brought on by your current lack of social affairs … but you’re young and learning. And it is not necessarily success that I want from you, but to know your moral compass is precise, a functioning gear of war … How about you come back on Friday afternoon, once you have realised what kind of men you hang about with, and then we’ll conduct this interview again? Some men deserve a second chance, Elements. But some do not.

Elements stood on the doorstep of the house in the borough of Kensington and Chelsea where the quiet of a mid-morning had him surveying no people and no passing cars, but grimacing against the persistent wind siphoning through the arrangement of garden boundaries.

He walked towards Bayswater Road, heading east of the city. He phoned his friend Hawkins and told him that he might only be in the city for a week longer; he could be called up