The Walking Dead

'The people I'm usually with would not appreciate the description "flotsam",' Banks said, and warmed to it as if the smile chipped at his natural reserve. 'What's normal for me, as a Protection Officer, is minding royals, diplomats and politicians. You see, Mr Wright, we're a finite resource, and by the time the big cats have been looked after there's not many of us left to look after — I'm uncomfortable with the word—"ordinary" people. Don't you see us on TV? We're jumping out of cars, opening doors, heaving back the great unwashed so they don't get too close. We're part of the scene of pomp and circumstance. Those people, they judge their importance by the number of Protection Officers assigned to them. There's a pecking order. The actual threat, well, that's a whole different argument. Take Churchill in the war, see him walking through the East End after a bad blitzing, and look for how many men there are around him with Sten guns — none. How many men in long raincoats with a Smith & Wesson in a shoulder holster? Two, maximum three. Now a junior minister in Northern Ireland, where there's supposed to be a ceasefire, has a whole busload of them. We open the doors and close them, we book restaurants, we do the shopping. They're the elite, and we're an integral part of the panoply. Odd thing, but they need us to massage their vanity, and we need them to show how important we are…A crowd of jurors, you and them, or a Protected Witness is damn lucky to get us for more than the bare minimum of days.'

He was interrupted: 'We were told about a duty of care…and I was told by the man who approached me of "long arms" and "long memories". Don't we get looked after?'

Banks grinned, sardonic, and was finally enjoying himself — couldn't remember when he had last talked freely outside the corral of the Delta team. 'Don't hold your breath, Mr Wright. It'll all be about the budget that's been allocated. When the coffers are dry you'll be dumped. You'll be given an in-house alarm and a few telephone numbers. You'll be up the creek and no paddle. Of course, if you were a politician the coffers don't go dry.'

'Is that-the party line, Mr Banks?' The smile spread.

'Think about it. We rely on people like you to pedal the justice system forward, but don't expect thanks for your efforts.'

'But you — you as well, Mr Banks — you're a man of substance.'

'Am I? Haven't heard anybody say so.'

'Stands to reason, you have to be.'

'I doubt it.'

'Wrong…Wrong because of what's on your belt. Wrong because of that oil smear on your shirt. That's trust, isn't it? Is it loaded?'

Banks hesitated. He sensed they were off territory. The way he sat, the tip of the holster dug into the flesh of his upper thigh. He saw mischief dance in the eyes in front of him. Could have retreated, should have backed off…He shrugged. 'Not much point in having the thing if it goes to Condition Black, but you have to hold up your hand. "Can we please have a break while I go to the car and load up?" It's loaded, and I carry replacement magazines. Each morning, though, I clear the bullets out and reload them. If you don't, if you leave them there for a few days, a week, you can get a jam. Condition Black is an imminent and real threat, and I just have to flick the safety. That's all.'

'When would you do it — shoot?' More of the mischief, more of the sparkle, and Wright had pushed away his plate and was hunched forward, as if the talk was their conspiracy and not to be shared.

'If my life was in danger.'

'That's good — your life. Brilliant, I'm so reassured.'

Banks said, 'I don't remember if I said it to you — if I didn't I should have. We aren't bullet-catchers. We don't stand in front of Principals and make heroic sacrifices and end up a bloody paraplegic with a thirty-eight-calibre slug lodged in the spine. We do realistic assessments of threat and we evaluate our resources, and we have as our Bible the theory that the bad guy cannot get close enough. It's about as far as it goes.'

Maybe he was mocked. 'You're telling me that it's not John Wayne, life ebbing, in the dirt of Dodge City, the lady's arms cushioning his head, violins going on full scrape, and the smallholders saved from the wicked rancher — not that?'

He grimaced. They were areas he had never discussed before with a Principal. Should have closed his mouth, should have stood up and walked away.