The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (english novels to improve english txt) 📗

with working on her fingernails. Cammy had stayed on the beach, had hardly spoken, had gazed out on the infinity of the water, and had dreamed of crossing it.

His mum had been burned twice with her failed relationships, had been looking for love after the first guy disappeared, and the second guy had given her what they called in those days “a bun in the oven”, and must have raided one of his bank accounts to leave a grand in notes in an envelope. Big crises had never come at convenient times in Cammy’s life . . . his GCSE exams had been due to start the next day when the police had called round. His half-sister was dead. She had been part of a TWOC gang – Taking Without Consent – a high-performance Impreza this time, and her chum, the driver, had lost control and the signs were that he’d done so because she’d had her hand inside his flies as he’d come into a hairpin. Had not greatly affected Cammy and his marks had been tolerable. Had done averagely well when the next round of exams had pitched up two years later and they were supposed to determine whether he was “blue collar and crumpled or white collar and starched”, and his mum had been in the Crown Court to see his half-brother go down for fourteen years: conspiracy to supply and a bit of choice enforcement. He didn’t really miss either of them, but his mum did . . . He’d hung around the village and the estate and the cathedral city for another three years and then had taken the flight that would have climbed away from this beach, this coast, and across the Channel behind him.

Through the haze he could see the group of people several hundred yards away, but the view of them was partly blocked by several more grounded fishing boats.

The weather conditions helped Cammy now. The mist behind him, the brief spell of sunshine had gone and low cloud had drifted in. He was regaining his strength, and could shrug away the sodden cold of his clothes . . . Took him back to the days when they had lain all night in the slight sand scrapes and the rain had come on and the only priority was to keep their weapons dry. Always good to attack when the weather was at its lousiest, when the sentries huddled behind sandbags, when the air strikes were postponed and the pilots would have been comfortable and dry in their Mess building. Made a habit of going forward when no sane beggar wanted to put his nose outside, and the first they’d have known that the assault was coming in would have been the mortars that Tomas launched, three in the air and then shifting, and Pieter shooting with extraordinary accuracy with the sniper rifle, and Stan ducking and weaving and running and putting down suppressive fire. Cammy in with them and the rainwater streaming off his face and hard to keep it out of his eyes and carrying the big machine-gun, Ulrike following him, swathed in belt ammunition, and getting forward far enough to be able to blitz the bastards when they broke and ran; what the manuals called “enfilade fire”. Go in fast, and when least expected, and never hesitate until the stop line was reached, and they’d gather and laugh and be panting and swapping tales of how it had been. The adrenaline going into overdrive . . . Times when they had made progress although the weather had been fair, and then it was because their emir, Ruhan, had begged, borrowed, demanded, that he be given a “martyr”; better still if he were allocated a martyr who could drive an armour-plated vehicle. Sometimes the kid would have his own press button to send him to Paradise, but most times the martyr had a minder who stayed back, having checked the electronics, said some kind words, and would send the signal when the kid might have panicked and not done the business. They did not talk about the martyrs, kept away from the kids who had the glazed look of the walking dead, and who muttered their invocations of words from the Book. He and his brothers were survivors, believed themselves to be indestructible.

Had allowed himself a few minutes of dream time, which was good because it refuelled his anger.

He wriggled ahead, kept his head and shoulders down, tried to keep his backside low. The orange pebbles crunched as he crossed them and he must have left a trail behind him, and there was a spit of rain in the air. He could see down the beach and towards the castle and the town of Deal but he could no longer make out the blue lights of police or Border people or ambulances. He was under a low wall. Could not see over it and used it as cover, and waited, and listened, and waited . . .

He felt warm breath close to his face, then a tongue slurped across his cheeks. The breath was foul and the tongue was noisy as it cleaned his face of sand. He thought it a spaniel, or a spaniel cross. It seemed satisfied with what it had found, and its breath came faster, and it had cleaned both cheeks and now started on his throat. Cammy had waited and listened and had heard no vehicle approaching. He pushed himself up and his knees took his weight.

A woman sat on a bench. She held an expander lead. She reeled the dog in and gave it a treat from her pocket. She studied him, and he gazed back at her. He thought her middle or late 70s, well wrapped against the chill of the early morning, wearing a long coat that showed only her ankles and the collar was turned up. A fleece hat was tugged down over her head, protecting her ears. He thought that while she studied him she would be considering what to do, and the dog wagged a