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

long, and the flower beds beside the hard standing were weeded up. A gutter dripped. A street light showed where paint had come off the window frames. Easy and appropriate for him to go up the side of the house and peer over the gate that shut off the back, and he skirted the rubbish bins and looked down that part of the garden – and whistled some more. He was satisfied and turned to retrace his steps, all the time holding the lead in readiness should his dog, whatever its size or breed, reappear. He did the part well and quite enjoyed himself.

Jonas was not a man who cared greatly for the status of rank. He had never, in his many years with the Security Service, put in for promotion, had made no effort to advance himself up the civil service grades. He belonged to no club – other than one representing caravan owners in Raynes Park and Merton and Motspur Park. He never wore the medal awarded to him, nor used the initials it bestowed.

He was pleased that he had achieved the reconnaissance without jeopardising his cover. Another curtain was momentarily flicked sideways. He imagined a whispered remark: “Poor old bugger, still hasn’t found it.” He wondered if he was being watched.

Could have already been at his mother’s home. Her birthday that day, his files had told him, or the next. Would want to be there for that. Might already have come. If he was not yet there then he would be soon, in an hour or two. Had no doubt of it. He started back up the cul-de-sac . . . Funny old place to fight a war . . . Not with any of the drama, not the location that his High Value Target, young Cameron, would have wanted . . . But the right sort of place for Jonas Merrick to be deployed – good ground for him, wrong for Cameron.

He swung the lead and whistled.

The picture was beside the bed, her side. Ornate frame of painted flowers, showed a guy who grinned proudly and wore shorts with a crease in them and a works T-shirt, and there was a space where in girly handwriting was written, “My darling Gavin, from Victoria”, and the table on the other side had a matching frame and her picture and “My wonderful Victoria, from Gavin”. The ceiling light was on and she had not bothered to pull the duvet over them. Had done it, and afterwards they’d talked a bit and then started again, her on top.

He might have asked her how she was. Might have said that she looked brilliant. Might have said that the lines her nails had made on his back, where one of the bullet holes was and where Ulrike had done some stitching on a shrapnel gash, had felt great. Might have said that he had missed her, which would have been a lie.

She might have asked what he planned, why he had come looking for her after four years with no contact, and where he was headed. She might have told him that most days she had forgotten he ever existed, which would have been good because then he wouldn’t need to feel guilty about leaving her with no explanation. Might have told him her baby’s name, and who from school she still saw. Might have told him that the worst day in her life had been when she had realised that he had gone, and had heard that his mum had no clue about his whereabouts, he’d vanished, done a runner. Might have questioned him about what he was going to do, when he would be moving on . . . Where to? Why?

She rode him. He thought they were both animals, like the dogs that roamed the streets of Raqqa, scavenging for scraps, or the ones that brazenly hunted in the flattened shallow bunkers at Barghuz. However bad life was for the dogs, ribcages prominent because they were more than half starved, the dogs would break off from searching for food if there was a bitch on heat. It took priority . . . not about love, but need.

She could have refused to let him in, been aggressive or coldly indifferent. Could have let him do it out of sympathy. Could have bombarded him with questions. Could have prattled about himself.

She helped him through the second time, went slower and took control of him. He had run the lives of his brothers, had taken only nominal advice from them, and they had been happy enough to follow him and, until the break-out and the crossing of the Euphrates in the darkness, it had worked well – better than well. Now he was alone, and needed her, and she needed him.

The second time, her eyes watching him for his response and his breathing starting to quicken, he had realised the folly of it . . . Had been to the cathedral and had looked back in time to when he had been a star in the firmament . . . would be going to his mum because any man approaching death would want that blessing, that love that did not question. He felt Vicky’s warmth over him, her nails seeking out the lines of the two shrapnel wounds on his chest, and her fingers pressing into the ugly hole where the flesh had failed to fold over neatly. Being with her, under her or over her, walking in the street with her, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, shopping with her, eating with her, and laughing with her, had never seemed as important before he had gone – or while he was away, a fighting man – as now. Realised that his anger had drained. If it ran dry then he would fail the next day. Realised the mistake.

Had not considered it possible that Vicky, a little fuller in the breasts and a little thicker around the hips, would seduce him. He was always in control. No longer.

Had been in control of his emotions and actions when they