The SAS And The Glam That Goes With It

Chapter 7

Sam had plenty to think about, but she tried to ignore it. She tried to focus on the everyday tasks of her own life, but the siege was hot gossip: in the papers, on the news, in the overheard conversations in the supermarket. Sam couldn't avoid it, no matter how hard she tried.

She didn't follow politics closely, but the instability in Russia had been insidiously creeping into news bulletins for the last twelve months. Sam had been born at the tail end of the Cold War, growing out of the long, dark shadow of The Bomb that had gripped her parents with fear, but she still regarded the Russians as Other, the people who had been crouched behind the Berlin Wall, ready to invade and steal the cornflakes. Now there were Russians in London, holding up a refugee centre and Sam didn't really understand why.

To keep her occupied, she had her work, and at least she could focus on getting to know her colleagues. Friday brought a retiral party for someone that Sam had never even met, but she was invited anyway and for a few hours the laughter, dancing and general chatter took her mind away from her worries.

On Saturday morning she woke late, unable to remember what she'd been dreaming about, but feeling ill at ease. She pulled herself out of bed and stretched, feeling the muscles of her back complaining. There had been dancing, lots of dancing. At some point, after the pub had closed, the hardcore stragglers, which had included herself, piled into a nightclub and she had been dragged to the dancefloor. She had fuzzy memories of the pounding music and flashing lights. Gingerly, she pulled down a lock of hair, sniffed it and winced. She smelt like she'd sweated vodka.

After a shower she felt more like a normal human being. As the kettle boiled she made the same, solemn vow she'd made a week earlier when she'd woken from Vivianne's abandonment heart-to-heart: she would never touch alcohol again. She rummaged in the drawer for some paracetamol and then poured herself some orange juice. As she knocked back the tablets it occurred to her that she should find out what was going on in the world and switched on the radio.

Ten seconds later, the glass shattered on the floor.

Sam sat, slumped, on the sofa, feeling like she'd been kicked in the chest.

Four dead, including a member of the rescue team...

She'd muted the television, but she continued to stare at it anyway.

A daring raid by British special forces... four dead...

She felt sick.

The television was showing footage of the raid, with smoke billowing from the doors of the refugee centre, and a body lying on the pavement outside. She switched it off, quickly. If Price had died, she didn't want to watch.

Oh, God! She thought, her stomach churning. It could be him: dead. Stunned, she stared at the empty coffee table in front of her. Suddenly, she remembered her phone. Surely someone would let me know? She wondered, but there were no messages and no missed calls. She realised that even though he'd never been far from her mind in the last few days, she barely knew him really and where on the list of priorities would be phoning a girl who'd been on half a date with him? Surely Vivianne would tell me? And then she realised with a jolt: what if it's Gaz?

Sam bit her lip. She felt awful not knowing. She wanted to phone Vivianne, but if her husband had just been killed, she wouldn't want to hear from some pining friend wondering about her date from last week. She thought about Gaz, to whom she'd said approximately four words and who'd manage to slap her on the bottom with a door. She remembered looking away when he'd held Vivianne, pressing their foreheads together and then kissing her like they were a pair of teenagers in love. Six years together, ripped apart. It made Sam's heart ache. She swallowed, trying to suppress the lump developing in her throat.

"I can't take this any more." she said, to the empty room. She made a decision: she went out.

It was the evening before she found out the truth. She had gone out walking, something she'd wanted to do since she arrived in Hereford, but hadn't had the chance. The man at the tourist information office had looked slightly taken aback when she'd appeared, with her wet hair and strained expression, demanding to go for a walk. Despite this, he'd been forthcoming and she'd headed out to Woolhope to try and lose herself in the countryside. It had worked, because her aching legs consumed her thoughts and the only thing she wanted now was a warm bath.

She switched on the laptop as the bath filled. It was the lead story: the death of decorated war hero Donald Lamont.

Sam felt relief wash over her, briefly, and then she felt rather hollow. It didn't feel right, or make her feel better. She stared at the portrait that accompanied the story: Donnie Lamont had been a handsome man in a very generic, chiselled way. If she'd seen him in the supermarket, she might have assumed he was a sports teacher who had drunk too much with the rugby team in his youth. The rest of the article told her he had a wife, and two children. Reading this made her feel more uncomfortable, and guilty. She switched off the machine and headed into the bathroom.

Oh, God. She thought, sighing as she slipped into the welcoming embrace of the warm water. How did this happen to me?

She was twenty-nine years, seven months and four days old. She had lived in Hereford for exactly four weeks, and her life was entirely unrecognisable from what it had been before. Previously, it had been ordinary: she'd cruised from brief relationship to brief relationship with men who ranged from mind-numbingly dull through to utter bastard, courtesy of the combined match-making skills of her various settled friends. Ordinary and boring, she reminded herself. It had always felt like there was something missing, some spark, some passion.

And then along came Captain John Price: mysterious rescuer of knitted breasts, leaver of notes, secretive defender of the realm... She felt her stomach flutter at the memory of him in the restaurant, sleek and elegant in his suit, his wiry body concealed beneath. She recalled the firm grim of his hands on her arms as she'd trembled on the street, flushed and nervous. It sent a tingle down her spine. He was attractive, and she did like him.

She pressed her hand to her face, absent-mindedly chewing at her thumbnail. Previously, she'd just assumed that the siege would sort itself out. She imagined that he would phone her to rearrange their date and she would figure out what the hell she was supposed to do about the Harriet problem. She hadn't considered him not coming back, but now she understood the risk that Vivianne ran, the tightrope along which she and her husband walked, hand in hand. How many times has his fate hung in the balance? She wondered. And when it happens again? And the time after that? The nervous excitement faded, replaced by a slick of fear.

She admitted that his mysterious nature had been part of the frisson, not being able to know him instantly intrigued her, but now she knew the cost it came at. She suddenly flashed into the future, putting herself in the place of a heroine she'd seen in a war film once, holding a telegram she couldn't bring herself to open. That could be me. She thought. She bit her lip.

To and fro she went, from one side of the argument to the other, unable to reach any sort of meaningful conclusion. Her thoughts swung from the crackling she'd felt across her skin when she'd stood close to him, then over to the awful worry she'd felt just that morning, the cold brush of terror on her heart when she'd thought he was dead. It made her head spin.

"Bollocks!" She swore, aloud, her voice echoing in the bathroom. She sat up, the water sloshing alarmingly around her. She didn't know what to do and she was going round in circles, getting nowhere.

Dried off and swaddled in her dressing gown, she thought about making dinner, but she wasn't hungry, not really. She looked at the bottle of wine in the rack and was tempted, but decided against it. She was contemplating the chocolate when the phone rang, shrill and insistent in the quiet of the flat. She picked it up, looked at the caller and her stomach plummeted: John Price.

Her heart quickened in her chest. She held the phone, feeling it quiver against her palm as it called to her. she could feel the thumping pulse in her throat, sickened with a sudden fear as she stood paralysed by its plaintive noise. It rang and rang and she was frozen with indecision, rooted to the spot.

Eventually, the ringing stopped.