Whiskey Lima Golf, page 3
“You’re right, I don’t think he can,” Koro smiles, recalling, “That was a good move, but I don’t think we should annoy him too much, so watch where you put your crutches next time. Now, shall I phone Sheila?”
Safe and content in the familiar surroundings, Tom takes a biscuit from the tray. “Sure, why not. As long as I don’t have to drink those foul-tasting teas of hers.”
***
Tuesday Evening
Tom eases himself into the folding chair, letting out a sigh of relief. “You don’t appreciate just how many stairs we have here at Koro’s until you are using these damn things. Now tell me what spook life is like, bro.”
Devon takes a seat next to Tom. “That’s why we need to get back to the gym, to get those skinny legs of yours back into shape. I’ve scoped out a couple that are close by. Les Mills up on Lambton Quay and a small personal trainer running out of the old Tramways building nearby.”
“No way! On the corner of Mulgrave and Thorndon?”
“Yeah, I thought we could take a look tomorrow after work.”
Tom turns to take in the view from the flat’s balcony window. The contrast between concrete and steel offices and apartments and the rolling waves of the deep blue harbour constantly in motion, strikes him as relaxing. This is the home where he grew up, this cosmopolitan city constantly punished by the extremes of wild storms, king tides and driving rain only relieved occasionally by the rare fine day that Wellingtonians are so boastful of. This is his tūrangawaewae, his home, the place where he can recover and stand on his own feet again. A thin train of thought blossoms into hope, maybe, just maybe, he can walk again without these damn sticks. “I reckon that’s a great idea Dev,” he says, turning back to Devon, “but you can’t get out of it so easily. What’s work like? Come on, spill the tea.”
“Hang on a minute bro, I’ll just set this up.” Devon takes a small portable speaker out of his bag, then tapping his phone to get some music going, he adjusts the volume with a swipe of his finger.
“Nice beat, who is it?”
“An oldie I heard at the gym. A Kiwi crew, L.A.B.” Adjusting the volume until he is satisfied that their conversation will not be listened into, Devon leans towards Tom. “Okay e hoa, well I can’t really say too much, but it’s kinda like Recon.”
“Go on,” Tom prompts, then he suddenly grimaces, bends forward and clutches his leg, as a crackling wave of pain surges from his knee up through his hip and into his brain. “Geez-us!”
“Tom, are you okay?”
Leaning back in his chair, Tom releases a deep breath, “Yeah… I get these jolts every now and then.”
“Is that, well, normal?”
“The Doc said that the nerve damage is so severe that it will continue for some time. It’s frustrating because it’s so unpredictable and I can’t take anything for it. But enough of me and my injury, tell me more about your role.”
“Okay, well there’s lots of sitting around in cars, cafés or apartments watching people and seeing who they talk to or what they are up to.”
“Exactly like Recon then, so no fancy gadgets or hooking up with drop-dead gorgeous Russian women spies then?”
Devon laughs. “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you that Sasha and Tatianna will be here soon with the caviar and vodka.”
“Now you’re talking! We’d better get a couple more chairs then.”
Devon takes a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag and passes it to Tom, “Make yourself useful and open this will you?” He unwraps a couple of tumblers from a tea towel setting them on the side table between them.
A low whistle escapes Tom’s lips, “Nice. I might have known you’d bring a single malt, Aerstone eh? Let’s see, matured in a warehouse by the sea. Well then, a wee dram brother?” Tom lifts the bottle out of the box, and picks at the black metal seal. Soon it is off and he puts it on the table, before twisting the cork stopper out and pouring golden amber liquid into the waiting tumblers. They both raise their glasses, “Sláinte!”
“Definitely a salty finish,” Tom muses, “and…”
“Yeah, and I’m getting a touch of vanilla, nice legs too,” Devon considers, noticing the tear drops of scotch rolling down the side of his glass.
The two friends spend the evening getting their whisky nerd on, trading scotch terms back and forth.
***
Chapter Four – One Step Forward…
Wednesday Evening
THE SWEET MIXTURE of stale sweat and vanilla hits Tom as Devon pushes the gym door open and holds it for Tom to navigate his way into the reception area.
“You must be Devon and Tom. Come on in,” a beaming woman with long chestnut-coloured hair invites. “I’m Taylor Leblanc. Welcome to my little gym. Shall we take a seat over here? I’ve got a few forms to fill in and some questions, so we can design your training programmes.” Taylor opens the door into a small office, and gestures to the chairs surrounding an oval table, on which sits a vase of orchids and two clip boards and pens.
Lowering himself into a chair, Tom gazes around, observing a set of double doors, with round port-hole windows, opposite. He assumes they must lead to the gym and changing rooms. As he turns back to look at the questionnaire, Tom notices Devon is taking a keen interest in Taylor.
With his trademark grin, Devon starts his approach, “We’re no strangers to gyms Taylor, but here’s a challenge that we’re both determined to overcome. We hope you’re up for the contest. Tom?”
“Hi Taylor, I’m throwing my cards on the table here. The doctors reckon I won’t walk unaided again after my injuries, but I’m determined to prove them wrong. Can you help?”
“I’d be foolish to guarantee anything. Tell me a bit about what we’re working with here…”
“What we reveal here must stay between these four walls Taylor,” Devon insists. “Are you okay with that?”
“Confidentiality is part of my brand, boys. Now, where do you want to begin?”
Devon starts with their background in the army, keeping Taylor enthralled and slowly revealing their SAS training and deployment. Tom admires his friend’s storytelling, watching Taylor’s facial expressions range between fascination, wonder and absolute horror. Tom’s breathing becomes shallow as Devon begins to retell the village deployment. An anxious feeling rises within his chest as beads of sweat breakout on his forehead. Devon’s words fade and are replaced by screams and the sounds of battle, Tom’s sweaty hands grip the arms of the chair and he starts to hyperventilate.
Taylor is the first to notice, “Tom? Are you okay?”
Devon leaps from his chair, grabbing Tom’s shoulders, his words slowly breaking through Tom’s reality. “Tom, what’s going on? Tom…”
Taylor jumps up and goes to Tom’s side. She grabs a clipboard and waves it rapidly like a fan. “Is this helping?”
Seeing the faraway look in Tom’s eyes, Devon repeats, “We’re in Wellington, brother you’re home…”
Tom takes a shuddering breath, “Oh man, what happened?”
“I dunno bro, you left us,” Devon worries.
“It was like I was back there again, you know… in the village, the screams...”
Concern is plainly written on Taylor’s face. “Are you all right now? Can I get you anything Tom?”
“A glass of water would be good thanks.”
“I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“Brother, you had me worried, there.” Devon puts a hand on Tom’s shoulder.
“Geez Dev, that was scary. What’s happening to me?”
“I dunno, but it’s sure good to have you back.”
Taylor returns with a carafe of water and some glasses on a tray. “Ah, a quick question Tom, have you seen a psychologist since your injury?”
“No, why?” Tom asks defensively.
“I’ve seen something like this once before when I was helping a girl who was in a car crash get back on her feet. But if you had a flashback, you could have a serious mental injury as well. I mean, I’m not trained or anything, but surely the army would have offered you both counselling after your time in Afghanistan?”
The boys look at each other and laugh, Devon answers, “The army does provide counselling, but your superiors and colleagues say, excuse the expression, but it’s all ‘harden up soft cock’. You soon learn to cover up any vulnerability.”
“That’s so sad and so wrong,” Taylor fumes as she pours the water into a glass and hands it to Tom.
“Thanks Taylor,” Tom gulps some water down and steady’s himself, “Yeah, they do have shrinks and chaplains on staff, but no one uses them.”
“Okay, well Tom, I’m prepared to take you on, but only on the condition that you see a professional counsellor or psychologist. I know I can assist with your physical injury, which will help with your mental health, but you will need expert psychological therapy after a combat injury,” Taylor explains, a worried look on her face.
“Okay, I guess I’ll check out a doctor,” Tom concedes, before asking, “So, do you think you can help me walk without my sticks?”
“I’m sure I can,” Taylor sees the look of relief on both of their faces, “No, really, look, if I can help people after a car accident, I don’t see why I can’t after a, what do you call it, a bomb accident?”
A release of laughter breaks the tension, “I’ve never heard it put quite like that before,” Tom smiles, “Okay Taylor, you’re on, let’s get these forms completed and check out the facilities.
***
Chapter Five – Cosmopolitan Caffeine
Thursday Morning
THE BROODING SKY mirrors Tom’s dull mood, as he swings his way into the café and heads to the counter to place his order.
“Kia ora sir, what can I get you today?” the bubbly barista enquires.
“Two large flat whites and…” Tom’s morose tone a reflection of the inclement weather. He glances at the food display cabinet, “And one of those ham croissants please.”
“Find yourself a table and I’ll bring those over as soon as they are ready,” the barista replies leadenly, catching Tom’s gloomy mood.
Tom fumbles for his card, pays for the transaction and weaves his way past the many customers, to an empty table by the front window. He sits in the corner so he can see the whole room and look outside.
Taking his new android phone from his shoulder bag, he checks Devon’s text, see you at the French café on the corner of Ballance and Featherston at 9:50. Automatically he opens the web browser to check the news. The negative headlines match his sullen disposition. He forcibly puts his phone down onto the table top resisting the electronic addiction. Re-joining the physical world, Tom takes in the ambience of his surroundings.
Smooth jazz surreptitiously plays over the sound system, almost unnoticeable over the chatter of the dozens of suited occupants who almost fill the café. Public servants can be easily separated from the business professionals by the multi-coloured lanyards and ID cards hanging from their necks. A few tall pot plants are dotted about to break up the mass of Provencal style furniture. The walls bear the obligatory Parisian scenes and the menu blackboard above the counter is flanked by tricolour flags.
An electric jolt of pain courses through his leg, catching him by surprise. Grabbing his leg with both hands, Tom slowly massages his thigh, breathing deeply and slowly exhaling to centre himself. Gradually the pain releases its grip on Tom’s mind and he leans back in his chair, relief evident on his face if anyone cared to notice.
Casually looking around the café, he catches sight of Devon.
Almost nondescript in a black suit Devon carries an overcoat over one arm. He casts about before locking eyes with Tom and purposefully striding his way over.
Devon extends his hand, confidently saying, “Good morning Mr Blake,” quickly adding under his breath, “play along for god’s sake. We’re being watched.”
Tom shakes Devon’s hand, replying loudly “Take a seat please,” then whispers, “What the hell bro?”
As Devon sits, he replies softly, “Two tables over are a couple of state-siders who are watching the table of Israelis a few tables nearer the counter.”
“Why didn’t you give me a heads up?” Tom asks softly.
“You have an unsecured phone and those Yanks have all the toys to intercept a call or message, so I couldn’t risk it. Besides, brother, I only just found out about their surveillance operation. They always keep us in the dark right up until the last minute… and I’m being appraised by my supervisor, who’s coming in now.” Devon replies.
The barista approaches with his order. “Here you go sir, two large flat whites and a ham croissant.”
“Thanks, they look great,” Tom sounds a bit brighter.
Devon takes a sip on his coffee. “Mmm, just what I need.”
“So this is what you do? Watch the people watching other people?”
“Some of the time, but I’ll tell you more later. Right now, I need to see who else is here.” Devon is covertly examining the room’s occupants. “So, what did you think of Taylor?”
Caught a bit off guard, Tom replies, “Ah, she’s nice and I like the gym.”
“Nice? She’s damned hot and she’s your type,” Devon grins, then adds, “Ah, just as I thought.”
“Mate, no hot girl is gonna want a cripple like me. She’s more your type, anyway. What did you think?”
“Don’t look too hard, but in the far corner there are three men, with a laptop on their table, which happen to be looking at the two Israelis.”
Taking his time, Tom glances over, “Yeah, what about them?”
“That looks like a French team to me. They all look distracted, here, take a photo of me with them in the background,” Devon passes his phone over.
“Say whisky,” Tom quips as he focuses the camera on the suspected Frenchmen, snapping a few shots.
“Play the long game with Taylor, brother, I thought I saw something in one of the looks she was giving you last night,” Devon hints as he looks at the photos. “Good shots Tom. They will be useful.” He hands his phone back to Tom, “See if you can get the Yanks and the Israelis in a couple.”
Lining the camera up, Tom adjusts the focus and snaps some more photos, “Now what’s this BS about Taylor and me. I’m not looking for anyone at the moment. Are you after her?”
Admiring the photos, Devon replies, “You’ve got a good eye for this, did you do the combat photography course?” Seeing Tom shake his head, “No that’s right, it was Trevor from our Troop. I bet he’s taking lots of photos of all the big-game fish his punters are landing. Now let’s get a selfie together… smile.”
“Looks like the Israelis are leaving. So let’s get back to the Taylor question, again are you keen?”
Devon’s eyes light up with more mischief, “Classic distraction tactic brother, I bet five bucks the Yanks leave next. And a bottle of scotch that you and Taylor have a date within the next two months. Oh, and for the record, she’s not my type. Besides, I’ve got a bit on with this new career. Good ol’ George has been promoted. He’s still my boss but he’s got a wider access to information now.”
“Okay, I’m playing the game, I’ve got five bucks on the French. But you will lose that bottle of scotch, I’ve got no inclination to ask Taylor out for a sympathy date, because that’s what it would be. Now, tell me more about George.”
“All in good time brother, now hand over that five bucks ‘cause the frogs are ordering another round of lattes,” Devon grins wickedly.
“I’ll still collect on that scotch,” Tom laughs, handing over the bank note.
Devon winks, “Time will tell…”
***
Thursday Midday
Swinging his way up the short outside steps to enter the Station, Tom shakes his head, wondering if Devon is seeing something he can’t. ‘I mean she is pretty, with her long hair pulled back into a pony tail, but I’m just another client and she wouldn’t, would she?’
A black clad man, emerges from behind one of the large Doric columns that flank the Station’s entrance, snidely remarking, “Here comes the so-called ‘war hero’, too slow not to get shot, eh?”
Wrenched from his thoughts by the cruel comment and completely caught off guard, Tom is rendered speechless. His crutches almost slip on the smooth polished stone floor.
“So how come there is nothing in the newspapers about our wounded homecoming hero, eh? No don’t bother to tell me your pathetic excuses, I’ve worked it out, it’s because the army is so embarrassed. You probably got shot running away.”
The spiteful words sting, burning their way into Tom’s subconscious, doubtful thoughts intrude, ‘Is this how other Kiwis see me?’
Walking parallel to Tom, his antagonist fires another salvo, “That’s right you dole-bludging cripple. Why don’t you keep on running away and get your yellow arse out of my Station so your cowardice doesn’t taint the rest of us.”
Regaining control of himself, Tom does his best to ignore the malicious words and crosses the Station entrance turning left, he passes beneath the large doorways that guard the concourse.
“Your time here is numbered, cripple. Tell your old grandpa to start looking for a new place, you hear me?” His assailant finishes stomping off in the opposite direction.
‘What’s wrong with me? I didn’t say anything to defend myself,’ Tom thinks as he closes the door to the flat behind him. For a moment he leans against the wall, takes a deep breath and rests, dejectedly gathering himself before attempting the stairs.
An idea struck him as he took in the dusty old furniture and boxes cluttering the space. ‘If I could clean this out for Koro, maybe I could have a chair down here to rest on before taking the stairs?’
“Is that you Tom?” Koro’s voice calls down the stairwell.
