Dropping back to the floor he noticed their stunned expressions.
‘Bit tired today,’ he said in their general direction as he made for the bench press.
Snow showed a member’s pass and was let in. He followed the signs for the gym. Mid-afternoon and the place was busy with young mums and those who, he supposed, worked shifts. He looked around before spotting the man he wanted to talk to, pumping his arms into the air.
‘Is that a warm-up set?’ Snow looked down at Fox.
It took a second for the old soldier to register the face, then his own creased into a broad smile. ‘Wouldn’t be for you, you English poof!’ Fox rested the weight on the stand and rose to his feet, extending his hand. It had been more than fourteen years since he’d seen the young trooper he’d shared a cold ditch with.
‘It’s good to see you, Paddy.’ Snow shook the large hand.
‘You too, mate.’ Fox jerked his head and implied they should move.
Snow followed him to the personal trainer area in the corner, away from the other gym users. They both sat on different pieces of exercise equipment.
‘So, what are you doing here?’
‘I came to see you.’
‘Well, you see me.’ Fox took a gulp of water.
Snow gave a quick look over his shoulder to see that no one was within earshot. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’
Fox wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘You still Regiment?’
‘Not quite.’
Fox raised his eyebrows; he knew better than to question any further here at the gym. ‘Listen, let me get a shower and meet me outside. You got a car?’
Snow nodded.
Snow brought his Audi round to the entrance. Five minutes later, he and Fox were leaving Brighton Marina and heading back to Shoreham.
‘You’re a celebrity.’ Snow cast Fox a wry look as they pulled out into the seafront traffic.
‘Apparently I’m very popular on Al-Jazeera.’
‘So what happened?’ Snow wanted to hear it firsthand.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Just me, Paddy.’
Fox folded his arms and leant back in the seat. It was a relief to recount the story to someone without fear of either prosecution or publication. He trusted Snow. As they headed towards Shoreham, Fox gave a full account of his actions on that eventful afternoon.
‘Did you see it was Sawyer before you pulled the trigger?’
Fox kept his eyes on the road. ‘He was in my line of sight.’
‘But did you see it was him?’
‘Yes, I saw him.’ Fox gripped the leather armrest. ‘He was shagging my wife.’
Snow slowed as they reached the outskirts of Shoreham. ‘You didn’t get the job then?’
‘What?’ Fox chuckled. ‘No, I did not.’ He pointed ahead. ‘Take the next on the right; you should be able to park at the Co-op.’
Snow turned and within a minute eased the car into a space.
‘So, who are you working for?’ Fox was blunt.
‘Six.’ Snow had no need to hide the fact.
Fox nodded knowingly. ‘I could tell.’ He tapped his hand on the dashboard. ‘Has this got machineguns and rotating number plates?’
‘No, but it’s got an ejector seat especially for passengers of the Scottish persuasion.’
Fox held up his middle finger in reply as they exited the car.
Snow followed Fox out of the car park and onto the narrow high street. Both men stayed quiet until they’d reached the pub and were sitting with a pint. As usual, the Crown and Anchor was empty except for Burt and Dave. Burt pointed to the newspaper in his hand and gave a thumbs up.
‘So what can I do for you?’ Fox had an idea what his old comrade in arms had been sent to ask.
‘I heard you got offered a big job?’
Fox nodded. ‘Aye, I did that.’
‘I think you should take it.’ Snow sipped his lager.
‘You mean “Six” thinks I should take it?’
‘Yep.’ Patchem had known all along about Snow’s operational relationship with Fox, which was why he had chosen him to make the approach.
Fox downed his pint. ‘Training makes me thirsty. You’ll have to persuade me.’
Snow took the hint and got Fox another pint of bitter and a Diet Coke for himself.
‘What, you become bent or something? Where’s yours?’
‘I’m driving.’
‘You are not. I said you’ll have to persuade me. Now get yourself another. You’re staying the night at mine.’
Snow returned to the bar; he hadn’t needed much encouragement. This time, in addition to his pint, he plonked two double whiskys on the table. ‘If we’re drinking, we’re drinking.’
Fox lifted the spirit glass. ‘Up the arse, no bebies!’
‘You’d know.’
Fox narrowed his eyes. Not many could get away with saying that to him. They both downed the whisky. Dave looked up from his newspaper but said nothing. Fox sipped his pint. ‘So what’ve you been doing for the last decade and a bit?’
Snow recounted his own story, from his return to the Regiment after his assignment with The Det, to assisting the Ukrainian SBU, getting shot, and then ‘joining’ Six.
Fox whistled. ‘Me? After the Regiment I worked for a bunch of tossers for six years, got made redundant, and then, I nearly forgot, killed three bad guys and saved a princess.’
Neither story was the usual ‘reacquainting yourself with your mate’ chat, but then neither man was a normal ‘mate’. Although of different generations, they had worked and almost died together in the SAS. Snow thought back to the night in Armagh when they’d been dragged out of the ditch by Jimmy McKracken, the IRA’s newest and, by reputation, hardest ‘hard man’. Fox, having an Irish father from whom he had inherited the nickname ‘Paddy’, had played the local trump and claimed to be from another cell. He had knocked Snow about with blow after blow to give his story credibility, while using his best Ulster accent.
After McKracken’s men finished planting the roadside bomb, Fox and Snow were taken back to a farmhouse, where, in a world before mass mobile phones,
