Hard Man

By A. W. Lambert

Rod Bishop was just fourteen when his wayward father disappeared. Since then, Rod has taken the responsibility for his mother and three younger siblings very seriously. Even while in the military, he's kept a close eye on the problems at home, sending money and advice when needed. Now, though, an IED in the desert of Afghanistan has ended Rod's army career and sent him home suffering from PTSD. But Rod isn't a quitter, and though his physical injuries have healed, mental scars still remain. He's desperately searching for something to drag him from the depths of despair and self pity the PTSD has him wallowing in. When he is approached by a retired army general from his old regiment and offered a job, it seems the perfect solution. But what at first appears to be the answer to his prayers gradually develops into something completely different. And sinister. With family difficulties developing, and a deep dark secret of his own, Rod finds himself being seduced down a path that could lead to his own destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613090718

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Prologue

Her Majesty’s Prison Wormwood Scrubs, London

Being banged up at Her Majesty’s pleasure has few advantages. But if nothing else, it does allow plenty of time to reflect on what’s gone before. That is good and bad. One of the bads being how, as a perfectly sensible, experienced coming-on thirty-year-old, I ended up here. You’d have thought, at that age, I’d have learned a thing or two and known better, wouldn’t you? Problem is sometimes life has a nasty habit of enticing you along a path you would normally have avoided like the plague, but for some reason on that particular occasion you just dive in. Why the hell was that? Who knows, and anyway there’s no point in asking why, because if you knew why you wouldn’t have done it in the first place, would you?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to justify my past behaviour. I take full responsibility for my actions over the years and accept, in the main, I got my just deserts. I say in the main because in the final analysis, that’s not strictly true. Oh, I know why it all happened, of course. That’s obvious. But knowing why doesn’t stop me constantly asking myself how. I can only consol myself by saying at least I did eventually see the light. Problem was by that time it was too late; the damage had been done.

Some say childhood, the formative years, is the blueprint for what you’ll be in later life. Others say like father, like son. I don’t know about the former, but in my case, I vehemently reject the latter. Whatever I grew into, despite my shortcomings, I refuse to believe I’m a reflection of my father. He was a despicable waster, a total good-for-nothing who, as far as I was concerned, didn’t have a single genuine quality. He was always on the make, never once held down a proper job for any length of time and had absolutely no consideration toward his fellow man. As far as the local authorities were concerned, his bad back was legendry. He even developed a permanently stooped walk, sometimes, when he remembered, a limp—both bogus—just to prove his point. Mind you, however heavy the work, it never prevented him from getting involved in any dodgy backstreet deal that put tax-free cash in his pocket. It had to be cash in hand, though. Wouldn’t want to jeopardise the family benefits, would you?

His irresponsibility also reflected in our home life. My mother, a gentle soul, worked hard, often holding down a couple of jobs. He, on the other hand, when he was around, which as I remember wasn’t often, frittered his time away, beer in hand, slouched in front of the TV, mostly watching the horse racing. Which, by the way, was where most of the family benefits and housekeeping ended up. Betting and booze, my father’s favourite pastimes. What my mother ever saw in him I really don’t know.

He wasn’t tall, particularly with his self-developed stoop, but he was chunky, thick set with broad swarthy features, predatory eyes set close together and thick bushy eyebrows. He also had unusually big hands, which he used frequently on all of us, including my mother. Her efforts to mask the bruises with makeup were seldom very effective.

Whenever he was around, his demands on my mother were constant. The result being four of us in quick succession. And I’m sure there would have been more had my mother not resorted to the pill. She never told him, of course. She knew full well that all the arrival of a new offspring meant to him was extra family benefits. So, why stop them coming? From a very early age, I grew to hate him with a passion.

But enough of him, let’s go back.

I came into the world in September, 1990. Rodney Arthur Bishop, the first child to George and Peggy Bishop. Rodney, or Rod as it quickly became, because my mother was infatuated with Rod Steiger, the American movie star. He was one of only two indulgences my mother allowed herself. She saw all his films at the local cinema and insisted he was the only actor who made his every part truly real. Seems he made her blood tingle. My father sneered, deriding the choice, calling her a stupid cow, ridiculing Steiger as bent as a six-pound note and demanding I should be called a proper name like Fred or Joe. But just for once, Mother stuck to her guns and Rodney it was. My super dad was nowhere to be seen at the birth and, I was told later, was embarrassingly drunk at my christening.

My mother’s other pleasure was her allotment. It was one of a number cultivated by the locals on an area of waste ground left by the bombing in the war and somehow missed during the slum clearance in the 1960s. It was said to be an awkward shape and the council, with no other plans at the time, allowed the residents to clear and cultivate the area, allotting a patch to those interested for a peppercorn rent. It was supposed to be for a short period of time, until plans were formalised for a permanent development. For some reason, those plans never came to fruition and the land blossomed as a permanent allotment space for the locals.

Here, after lunch every Sunday afternoon, Mum lovingly tended the various vegetables and fruits that ended up on our table, supplementing those she could barely afford to buy. It was, she told us, her personal time and space where she could forget the daily grind and lose herself in the peaceful surroundings. When I was old enough, I came to accompany her, enjoying most of all sitting quietly sipping the tea from the flask she had brought along, together with a biscuit or two.

Being the eldest, by just eighteen months, I watched my siblings arrive one by one. First came Robert or Robbo as he became known. He was followed less than two years later by James, inevitably Jimmy, and lastly our little sister, Sally.

We were hard up, and make-and-mend was most often the order of the day. And I worried constantly about our mother working herself to a frazzle, our waster of a father doing nothing to help. I automatically came to take charge of the other three when she was at work and our father was off on one of his jaunts, supposedly looking for employment. It wasn’t until I was old enough to understand that I realised a pub wasn’t the job centre.

Fortunately, our close neighbours kept their eyes on us and when they weren’t able to be around, we looked after ourselves. And we coped perfectly well, as time passed becoming a close-knit group perfectly capable of passing the day without any disasters. That was, as long as he wasn’t around. When he was, his violently demanding behaviour was as disruptive as ever. God how I hated that man.

One

The year 2004 was coming to an end when my father vanished. I was just fourteen. Rumours were rife. He’d got himself into debt with some serious heavies and had to depart rapidly. A woman, supposedly with money, had enticed him abroad. He’d even won a huge accumulator on the horses and done a runner without telling us.

None of the speculation interested me. They could say what they liked—I wasn’t the slightest bit bothered. As far as I was concerned, the scumbag was gone, out of our lives; that’s all that mattered. Over recent years his drinking had increased and with it his spiteful viciousness toward us, more worryingly toward my mother. With his disappearance, life became more relaxed for us all and Mum even began to smile. A revelation. It was the most wonderful sight and lifted my young heart.

However, financially life didn’t get any easier and my mother still had to rely on good-natured neighbours for our care while she was working. The result was four kids who became streetwise long before their time.

Though I was only fourteen, I took the responsibility of being the man of the family seriously. It changed me. Certainly with regard to the two youngest, Jimmy and Sally. I saw them as requiring the protection they’d never ever had from our father. Particularly Sally. Though just nine, she was an early developer and it could already be seen what an attractive young woman she was to become. I could already see the looks some of the horny young bucks at school were giving her.

But it was an incident with Jimmy the year before that kicked off my reputation. Jimmy was the softy of the family, a typical geek. He was studious and destined for higher things, but back then he was a target for any bullyboy looking for a soft touch. Thing was, Jimmy never complained. He took whatever was handed out and told no one. And as he was a couple of years below me, I seldom saw him during school time. So, it was pure coincidence that on one particular day, just after school, I happened upon a scene that made my blood pump.

There were three of them, all bigger than Jimmy, from one of the upper forms. I knew the biggest, the leader of the group. His name was Jason Spriggs. He was well known for strutting his stuff at school, always with a couple of cronies, easily led thickos, tagging along. Spriggs’ main aim in life was to make himself look good by pushing one of the younger students around. He was a typical bully, always choosing an easy target.

On this particular occasion, Spriggs had caught Jimmy on his way home from school and when I came upon them, purely by chance, he was holding Jimmy by the throat against a fence. He was slowly and methodically slapping my brother around the face, snapping out words in time with the slaps.

Say-after-me-you-are-a-snivelling-little-shit...

The other two stood back, giggling and gloating, egging Spriggs on.

All three had their backs to me as I quietly approached, my heart racing, a red mist rising behind my eyes. Only Jimmy faced me. He watched me creep forward, his face expressionless, giving no indication I was there.

I hit the first lad as hard as I could in the back of the neck with a tightly balled fist. With a sharp, surprised intake of breath, he stumbled forward and dropped to his knees. Swinging round, the second individual presented a perfect target. I felt his nose crunch as my fist landed smack in the middle of his face. He screamed and stumbled back. Both cronies now scrambled away, one holding his face, the other holding his neck, eyes wide. Releasing Jimmy, Spriggs spun round, his eyes flicking from one to the other of his disabled followers. He topped me by a good couple of inches and had plenty of bulk, but I saw him swallow heavily, and as young as I was, I recognised the fear in his eyes.

I nodded toward Jimmy, still standing motionless, his back against the fence. He’s my brother.

Another deep swallow. I didn’t know, he stuttered. We were only having a bit of fun.

Even now I can remember the pressure behind my eyes, the dry restriction in my throat, my words thick and slow. You were hitting my brother.

He said nothing, his eyes flicking toward his two friends, both moving further away from the conflict, one still snivelling into a handkerchief held to his face, blood now showing through.

In my peripheral vision, I saw Jimmy move away from the fence. He came round Spriggs and positioned himself between us. Facing me, he placed a hand on my chest. It’s okay Roddy, he didn’t hurt me, honest. I’m okay. We can go now.

Holding Spriggs’ worried eyes, a tense tremor running through me, I gritted my teeth, searching for control. I wanted to say more, something threatening. But most of all I wanted him to come at me, to give me the opportunity to...

Roddy, please.

My brother’s plea came to me as if from far away, the pressure in me still constricting my throat, allowing me only to stare through the red mist, transmitting my anger through glaring eyes.

Roddy, it’s okay. Really, I’m fine. Jimmy’s soft voice and pleading words slowly brought me back from a place where my breathing had become short and shallow, and a rigid stance and balled fists held sway. It was long seconds before I was able to take a deep breath and slowly relax. Even then I was unable to drag my eyes away from Spriggs.

Finally he lowered his eyes and edged cautiously toward his two friends hovering uncertainly a few yards away, all three finally heading off quickly down the street. Only then did I realise Jimmy’s restraining hand was still resting on my chest. Some years later, Jimmy admitted to me that on that day he’d seen something in me that frightened even him.

The parents complained to the school about the violent ruffian who’d attacked their innocent little boys without provocation. They even threatened to involve the police. The school head, himself a police officer before entering education, knew the score. He also knew Jimmy, one of his brightest students, a credit to the school, but vulnerable. He listened to my side of events, believed me and issued me a caution. Sometimes your best assets need protecting.

From that moment, the word was out, and in no time at all I was escalated from being just another pretty nondescript student to the school’s hard man. I’d taken on three at once, almost broken one boy’s neck and crushed another’s nose. The best bit being that bullyboy Spriggs had run away. Not quite true, but who was I to dispute it? As far as the nose was concerned, the evidence was there for all to see. It reinforced my credentials and I made no attempt to refute the story. As for Spriggs, he kept a very low profile from then on, and Jimmy was left well alone by everyone. The randy younger group, normally sniffing around my sister, also became a little less attentive. Just knowing the hard man of the school was her big brother was enough. I don’t think Sally was too pleased, but it gave me comfort.

Though it had its benefits, I wasn’t sure I was too happy with the reputation I’d gained. Sure, respect is something we all appreciate, particularly at that age, but it was the way I’d reacted at the scene that bothered me. I’d instantly reverted to violence and, if I’m honest, at the time I was deeply disappointed Spriggs didn’t come at me. He was a big lad, so I’m not sure how things would have turned out if he had, but in that rage-filled moment, I’d so wanted him to try.

At the time, I’d ask myself if my violent response was just normal, a perfectly acceptable reaction of a big brother protecting his younger sibling, or if it was an innate trait just waiting to erupt at the slightest opportunity. At the time, it was just a single event creating a worrying thought. By the end of the year, I knew the answer to those questions.

Early years? I can’t remember much about them, just that I did okay at school. Nothing special, but I was certainly not a dunce and, being well built, I loved sport. Even so, I couldn’t get out fast enough. Mum was still working all hours, and as the eldest, I felt it was up to me to contribute to the family fortune. So at sixteen, I slipped the school leash and was suddenly free to make my own decisions and determine my own future. The naivety of youth. Truth is, reflecting back, I can see that’s when things started to go just a little pear-shaped.

But that’s all in the past and now, sitting in my cell, I ask myself, not for the first time, do those early years lay the blueprint for all our future characters?

Two

My ambition was to drive. Anything would do, didn’t matter what as long as I could get behind the wheel. I saw myself as a budding Formula One driver, a future Fernando Alonso, the world champion of the time, or better still, the multi-world champion Michael Schumacher. Apart from the strong urge to drive, there was logic behind my ambition. Firstly I figured you didn’t need a degree to learn to drive. That suited me; I’d had enough of books and study. I could read and write pretty good and I believed I was streetwise enough to get me through. Besides, you were always hearing about those guys who’d left school with nothing and were now millionaires. If they could do it, so could I. But more importantly, as I saw it, these Formula One guys earned millions doing something they loved doing. That wasn’t work, was it? That was pure pleasure. So, there it was, my ambition to become a racing driver, earn a fortune doing what I loved and set Mum and the family up for life.

But there was a problem: I was only sixteen and officially you couldn’t drive a car until you were seventeen. On top of that, there was still a family of five to support. Mum needed all the help she could get right away. It was simple; I had to get a job.

That’s when my problems began. You see, at that time, around 30,000 young people were leaving the education system in the UK with no qualifications at all. That’s a lot of uneducated bodies floating around, all looking for work. Whereas having nothing but the basics to offer didn’t bother me none, it did bother potential employers. It bothered them a lot. So, somehow you had to be smart and offer something that maybe others didn’t. Not easy. Fortunately, with my urge to drive, I’d read an awful lot about cars, picking up car magazines wherever I could lay my hands on them for free. I also had a good memory, which meant whole chunks of technical data stuck in my head. I might not have fully understood what it actually meant, but I could rattle it off verbatim if necessary.

So eventually, using my gift of the gab, I did manage to talk myself into a job at a local garage. I was told there were a number of applicants and I was seen as the best of the bunch. I was pleased with that. Even more so when there were promises of an apprenticeship. First though, I had to accept being nothing more than a general lackey, fetching and carrying for the mechanics, making tea and clearing up everybody else’s mess. It was, they told me, how all apprenticeships kicked off. Not knowing any better, I accepted everything they told me. I had a job; that’s really what mattered.

Generally it was pretty boring, but it did have advantages. Firstly I got paid. It was less than five pound an hour, and though it helped at home, it didn’t leave much for me. I didn’t mind. Mum had worked for us all those years; it was time for me to do my bit. As far as I was concerned, she could have had it all. Best of all, every day was spent with cars. All sorts, from old bangers the owners were doing their best to keep roadworthy, to more expensive models in for nothing more than a service and a wash and brush up. What a bonus.

All very well, but it soon became obvious the promise of an apprenticeship was a con. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, and I soon learned it wasn’t the first time the scam had been pulled and it wouldn’t be the last. They employ a young lad on a pittance with the promise of an apprenticeship. After a while, hopefully quite a long while, being given all sorts of excuses as to why the apprenticeship wasn’t appropriate at that time, the lad cottons on and leaves. They then simply get another youngster on the same con, and so on. All the time they have a continuous stream of cheap lackeys to do the dirty work around the garage.

When she realised what was happening, Mum became furious. She was all for giving the garage owner a piece of her mind, but I stopped her. I may have been just sixteen but I was no fool. If the garage could make use of me, why couldn’t I use them in the same way?

See, I had quickly realised the garage employed some pretty good mechanics, one in particular, an older man with a wealth of experience. For some reason he had taken a shine to me and was quite happy to have me alongside him, explaining things as he worked, sometimes even assigning lesser jobs to me. And like I said before, I had a good memory. I was also a fast learner, very fast. I had a notebook which I filled with details of dimensions, specific settings and engine assembly procedures. Anything I felt I might need to refer to later. So, forget the apprenticeship...I was learning about cars on the job. There was no better way.

But though I was learning more and more each day, I wasn’t making any progress with my driving ambition. Somehow I had to get behind the wheel. I didn’t care how; I just had to do it. Then the idea hit me. What do they say: when needs must the devil drives? Yeah, you can say that again.

I figured maybe if I just borrowed a car from time to time. Just to get the hang of things. I mean, borrowing isn’t stealing, is it? Not really. Providing I gave it back, and I’d do that, of course I would. All I had to do was make sure I didn’t damage the car. Then afterwards, leave it where it could be found. A few extra miles on the clock. What harm was there in that?

One of the older lads on the manor gave me the heads up. For a start, not on your own doorstep, and choose an older car with no sophisticated alarm system. Then all you needed was a thin wire coat hanger. I was amazed how easy it was. Then, once you were in, it was under the dash and a quick hot wire. The lad taught me how to do that, too. Oh, and by the way, wear gloves all the time. Yeah, I knew it was stealing, of course I did, but when you’re sixteen and broke, it’s surprising how easy it is to convince yourself otherwise. Anyway, how else could I achieve my burning ambition? It was best part of a year before it went belly up, and by that time I’d driven a pretty wide selection of cars and got pretty good at it. Stealing and driving, I mean. I could break into a car and be away in under three minutes. And fair’s fair, I never once damaged a single vehicle. But I guess based on the law of averages, it had to end sometime, right?

One rule the older lad on the manor didn’t drum home was never to take a car from a pub car park anywhere near Christmas time. Common sense of course, but it was a BMW 5 series and it wasn’t even locked. I mean?

Sad to say, there was no getting away from the roadside checkpoint set up in a lay-by less than a mile from the pub. If I’d taken any other road...But that’s not how life works, is it?

I thumbed down the window and a broad gnarled face appeared. The accent was thick Scottish.

Just a routine check, sir. Time of year you know... He paused and looked into my eyes, a deep frown creasing his wide forehead. The next words sealed my fate. Is this your car, sir?

Er...

So just how old are you, laddie?

The courts took into consideration that I showed genuine remorse and openly asked for previous offences over a period of time to be taken into consideration. There was also the fact that mother was a lone parent and I was contributing to the family income. The garage also came good, agreeing that, despite my misdemeanour, as a reliable, conscientious hard worker they would continue to employ me. And, of course, they kept their cheap gofer. As a first offender I had a referral order placed on me and had to attend a youth offender panel for three months. There were three of them, a couple of do gooders, a bloke and a woman from my local community, and an advisor from a government youth offender team. It was intended to show me the error of my ways and steer me away from offending again. It wasn’t necessary. I was so devastated at letting my mother and family down I wasn’t likely to do it again. Besides, I’d achieved my aim. I reckoned I could now drive just about any car that was thrown at me. So until I reached my seventeenth birthday, I was happy to settle back into the job and continue learning.

But seventeen came and went, as did a couple more years, and though I was being employed more and more hands-on at the garage, and had a couple of meagre salary increases, there was still no prospect of real advancement. I had managed to scrape together the money for driving lessons and eventually passed my driving test, but buying a car, anything decent, even through the garage was out of the question. Driver’s jobs, too, were difficult to come by, requiring either experience or a heavy goods vehicle licence which I didn’t have and stood no chance at all of getting.

More and more I came to realise that not working harder at school and even pushing for further education of some kind was a big mistake. Sure I was still supporting Mum by contributing to the family finances, but that was about all I was doing. My chances of getting to be that racing driver I’d dreamed of seemed to be getting further and further away. Though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I came to realise I needed to put the driving ambition on hold and move on, advance myself in some other way. But how, and who was prepared to give someone like me a chance?

It was an exciting TV advert finally told me who.

Three

Idid nine years and , if my ambition had been to drive, I couldn’t have asked for more. A driver with The Royal Anglian Regiment, or to the faithful ‘The Vikings,’ I mainly drove the Jackal 2. This had a crew of three, a driver and two gunners who operated a machine gun and a grenade launcher. It’s an all-terrain vehicle and could go like the clappers. But it wasn’t only the Jackal. In time I was given the opportunity to drive a whole bunch of vehicles, big and small. If it had wheels, or even tracks, I was your man. Not quite a Formula One driver but immensely satisfying and with much greater purpose. Tours of Iraq and Afghanistan hardened me to some of the most distressing situations, both from a military perspective and also a humanitarian one. Robert Burns’ ‘Man’s inhumanity to man’ was never more manifest than in these countries’ conflicts. But, whatever the ills, to some the army is contagious. It certainly was for me.

The decision to enlist was a tough one. I had never been away from the family and I considered myself the protector of my three younger siblings. I was also still contributing to the family finances which, small as it was, I knew it to be of benefit.

Listening carefully to my initial approach, Mother, as always pragmatic to a fault, recognised the benefits. She saw her eldest son straining at the leash, wanting to be away, to see the world, to become a real man. She was also aware of my volatile character when roused. More than once, the police had arrived at our door as a result of a violent altercation with a member of a local gang of which I refused to be part. It was always because of intimidation by an individual who fancied his chances, and who nine times out of ten regretted pushing his luck. I had been branded a hard man since I was barely thirteen and there was always someone willing to take the challenge. As a result, mother could see that unless something was done, I was on the path to serious trouble at home. To her, my sudden desire to join up was the perfect solution. Robbo was now sixteen, she argued. He was already earning, working in a restaurant, his ambition to become a chef. Besides, army pay was good, I could still send money home from wherever I was. She gave the idea her blessing, which was all I wanted. Looking back, I’m sure I would have abandoned the idea if she hadn’t.

From basic training to the day the world crumbled around me, I loved every minute. I was part of another family, this time a fighting force that was respected the world over. Every ounce of my aggressive nature was dissipated in the daily grind of being a combat soldier. I’d even made corporal, just the first step on the promotional ladder, and I was hoping, if I carried on as I was, further promotion would come. And it was my intention to stay on, maybe even complete a full term.

Then it happened.

There was the usual crew of three. We were in a Jackal acting as convoy escort. The vehicle was one of my very favourite drives. It was fast and manoeuvrable and its fire power was awesome. I just loved driving it.

I can’t remember much. Don’t even recall a bang, just clouds of billowing sand and total bewilderment, wondering why there were panic-stricken voices shouting for medics. Then as full consciousness returned, I realised I was on my back with my legs jammed under the vehicle, which seemed to be on its side. How did that happen? Suddenly a wide-eyed, dust-thickened face appeared above me telling me not to worry, I’d be okay. And I was, eventually. They’d had to dig me out and one of my legs was broken in a couple of places. My ribs weren’t all in one piece either. Apart from that and one or two torn muscles, together with severe scrapes and bruises, I was alive. Not so my two comrades. They didn’t tell me till sometime later that neither of them had made it.

Seems our front offside wheel had run over the IED and the explosion had ripped out the front of the vehicle, launching it violently onto its side. One of my oppos had taken the full blast that had torn out the underside of the vehicle. The other had been launched from his position at the rear. His neck had been broken when he hit the ground.

From that point, my life with the military had ended. Returning to the UK, I spent some time in the Birmingham Queen Elizabeth