The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (best summer reads of all time txt) 📕

missiles, artillery, Special Forces raids. They had a tough time. They will not be coming home to get work in a factory, or drive a car or fade into the background or peddle dope. They want to give something back, and with interest. You need to take him down, and quick, and forget the niceties. Kill him, Mr Merrick. Right, sir, if that’s all, please excuse me. The burgers are about ready. Nice to have spoken to you, sir, and good luck.”

“He was rather lovely, Cameron. Am I allowed to say that?”

Tristram said she was. Izzy didn’t remark on it.

“You have a class full of ten-year-olds, and they pitch up at the start of the Christmas term and you really don’t know what they’ll be like. You don’t know who is going to become a pain, who is just negative, no ambition to better himself, herself, and who will be the leader. Always one kid, usually a boy, and it’s like a herd of any animals and the rest will follow, go the way he takes them. I rather liked him.”

They’d had to wait for her to get back to her flat. A living-room and a bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchen, and a very small balcony that was home to a few pot plants. An austere interior, and evidence of a life with few excitements. They had not given her warning, preferred to bounce her, a better route towards frankness, both Tristram and Izzy had been taught.

“If I had little Cameron on my side then the class was usually quite manageable. I suppose I paid him too much attention, but you don’t get a star coming through your hands every day. He had a beautiful voice . . . not disciplined, and untrained of course. I tried to get a school choir going, hard work, but when I persuaded him to sing then others flocked to follow. For nearly a year I based the choir around him. Most of the boys would have reckoned that singing was too effeminate for them, but I had Cameron on my side. Not for very long . . . he was too talented to stay at the level. I had a friend who worked with the cathedral’s choir, we sang together, indifferently, but she helped with the proper choir, the best.

“Look at it this way. Every cathedral has to have a very competent set of choristers. Think how many there are – then consider the pressure on the cathedral authorities to provide, year in and year out, the best . . . And Canterbury Cathedral is the headquarters of Church of England plc. It is a massive undertaking, it hosts prestige visitors pretty near every day of the week, and it cannot be second rate. I told my friend about this boy, little Cameron Jilkes. The cathedral has scouts, looking for voices, the same as any football team does. I suppose I can say this now, can I? A tough family. A brother in gaol, a sister who was killed in a car crash. A mother working all hours God gave. A father who was long gone. And there is this child with an exceptional voice. I put him up for audition . . . Expected that I would have to cajole him, offer bribes of some sort but I was wrong. Took it in his stride and there was a scholarship built into the agreement. There’s a school that provides the academic side. He sailed in there . . . in case you think – sorry, I didn’t catch your names – that I am too gushing, there could be a darker side. While he was still with us, an older boy picked on Cameron because he received free school meals, was disadvantaged as we call it now. The boy had a go at him one lunchtime and Cameron was eating and he didn’t react. Finished his lunch, then took the fork off his plate and went to where this boy was sitting and came behind him, and held the fork against his tormentor’s throat. It was a dramatic moment. It could have ended with the emergency services. The older boy stumbled through an apology and the assault was never again mentioned.

“What do you want me to say? He had a superb natural voice . . . I heard what happened, the Syria business. I’d like to think that he was not responsible for any of the really beastly things that were done there. That’s all I can tell you, but I have a name and a number for the choirmaster who took Cameron on, retired now . . . A difficult boy, but in that brief window while his voice was perfect he soared to great heights . . . Did he die out there? Don’t misunderstand me, I hope he did. A free spirit. Not one to languish in a cell, behind barred windows.”

At the door, they were again asked, “Forgive me, did I ask you? Did you tell me your names?”

The phone rang and the child was crying.

The cot was in front of her, the phone was out in the hall, and the ironing board was between the two, and a pile of washing filled the plastic basket.

It was the time that Gavin had said he’d call to let her know whether the conference would go on through the evening and whether he’d stay overnight.

Vicky did not particularly enjoy the motherhood experience, had not taken to the housewife role chores, did not particularly relish the marriage bit either and him working all the hours God gave him for their “future security”. No time left for fun, for excitement, for challenge . . . She picked up the phone.

“Hello, love, just thought I’d check in with you. We’re between meetings, so I had the chance to ring, and we don’t know yet how it will be later. I think it will be an overnight job but . . . Love, what’s wrong?”

What was wrong was that the baby was filling its nappy, and was hungry, and was yelling.

“What I’m saying, we may stay and may not. The talk