The Judas Sheep by Stuart Pawson

than I am, Norris thought. He had the measure of his man now: he was a turkey, a turkey with the scruples of an alligator.
    ‘Oh, what a shame,’ Norris sympathised. That doesn’t seem fair. Your own mob must have needed you pretty bad.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Who were you with?’
    ‘The Paras.’
    ‘The Parachute Regiment! Well, they’ve got to be some of the finest soldiers in the world. Did you see the siege on TV?’
    Parrott was grinning now. ‘Yeah! And seen it on video. They were crap. Did it all wrong. I’d have been in twice as quick,’ he enthused. ‘In and out, no survivors. Got what they deserved.’
    ‘What do they call that,’ Norris asked, ‘when they come swinging down the buildings?’
    ‘Abseiling,’ Parrott blurted out, eager to impress. ‘Anyone can do that, it’s dead easy.’
    ‘Jeez, I couldn’t do it. Would you believe it—’ he leant over and tapped Parrott on the arm ‘– I’m an ex-jet jockey and I’m scared of heights?’
    They laughed, like two old buddies sharing a joke.
    Norris had noticed two new customers come into the bar. One of them was big, and had a military bearing about him, with neatly cropped hair. The newcomer had slowly consumed a pint of beer, while possibly surveying them through the ornate mirrors that decorated the wall behind the bar.
    Parrott got to his feet and said: ‘I’m going now.’ As he walked away Norris noted that he had a slight limp.
    The newcomer came over and sat with Norris. Norris said: ‘You don’t take chances. I like that.’
    ‘Can’t afford to. You said you wanted to talk business.’
    ‘That’s right. First of all, do you have a name?’
    ‘Frank.’
    ‘OK, Frank. Your buddy thought that I might be setting you up. How do I know that you aren’t doing the same to me?’
    ‘You don’t, so let’s cut the crap. We’ve got your wife; you’ve got a video showing Shawn in all his glory. Let’s call it stalemate.’
    Norris gestured with his thumb after the vanished figure of Parrott. ‘Is that your buddy’s name, Shawn?’
    ‘That’s what he calls himself.’
    ‘He looks some mean hombre.’
    ‘He is. So what’s this business you need doing?’
    Norris finished his beer and placed the glass back on the table. He studied it for a few seconds, adjusting its position so that it fitted neatly into the pattern of the tiles. ‘Was Shawn really in the SAS?’ he asked.
    Frank Bell shook his head. ‘No, they wouldn’t have him.’
    ‘Why?’
    Bell smiled for the first time. ‘Too violent for them,’ he replied.
    ‘I can believe it. What happened to his face?’
    ‘That? Oh, he was mixed up in a riot in Belfast. Silly prat was off-duty. He’d infiltrated the other side and was right there with them, confronting the troops. We let go with a few baton rounds – plastic bullets – and Shawn caught one, full in the face. It should have killed him; blinded him at least. He just shook his head, grabbedtwo of the ringleaders by the throat, and dragged them across to our lines.’
    ‘Jeez. Did they give him a medal?’
    ‘No. Thirty days in the cooler.’
    ‘Now ain’t that just typical of you Brits. So I’d be correct in saying that Shawn has a chip on his shoulder?’
    ‘Yep. A bloody big one. Shawn has a dream. Do you know what it is?’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘One day, he says he’s going to do something so bad that they’ll lock him up and bury the key. He’ll spend his declining years in jail, watching TV and basking in his reputation. He calls it his pension plan.’
    ‘Wow! But he’d follow you through thick and thin?’
    ‘He’s saved my life, more than once.’
    Norris nodded his approval. ‘So what’s your main line of business, Frank?’
    ‘Import and export. Mainly import.’
    ‘Bit like me, eh?’
    ‘More than you’d imagine, Mr Norris.’
    ‘Ah ah! I know what you mean. People want a little fun, a little … stimulation. We fill the need. That’s what I call good business.’
    ‘Except that