Chapter 37: Destiny's Child

It was Gino Frascetti who gave me the idea of how to end my life, which I thought apposite as it was me who had helped him end his.

Not for me the unedifying spectacle of blown out brains, or a tongue protruding corpse swinging from a rope, for some unsuspecting passer-bye to discover. Neither did I wish to inconvenience the travelling public, nor give some train driver nightmares, by flinging myself under a speeding express on the railway.

I decided to take the Inuit way of death. Ice flows and polar bears may be scarcer than hen's teeth in the UK, but hypothermia is not.

Although the UK enjoys a temperate climate it is often forgotten the British Isles lie at the same latitude as Newfoundland and Labrador. It is only the Gulf Stream which prevent us Brits suffering a similar climate to those two canine named places, and even in temperate Britain one can be in danger of exposure and hypothermia when walking /hiking in the various hills, moors, mountains, fells and peaks anywhere over a thousand feet, particularly between late Autumn through to mid Spring. The vicissitudes of British weather is well known, and a blisteringly hot — to us Brits — morning can turn into a dank, marrow freezing, drizzling afternoon, as many walkers on Scafell can bear witness. True, there are not too many wild and uninhabited places over a thousand feet in our crowded islands. The Grampians and Cairngorms in Scotland, Snowdonia in North Wales and the Cambrian Mountains in Mid Wales, the Fells of the Lake District, the Peak District, Dartmoor and Exmoor, all qualify, but summer brings scads of walkers to all of those places.

However, there is a part of South Wales adjacent to the Sennybridge Training Area — where I spent four weeks of hell prior to going down to the Falkland Islands —which includes the rugged and sparsely inhabited Brecon Beacons and Black Mountain. I decided this was where I would leave my body to moulder. From close scrutiny of OL 12, the Ordnance Survey Explorer Map of the Brecon Beacons National Park, Western Area, I picked out a likely area to search for the perfect spot where my body could lie, rotting and undisturbed, for as long as possible, allowing badgers, foxes and buzzards to dismantle my corpse until, hopefully, only my bones remain, thus making identification nigh impossible.

A few days after my decision to end it all I borrowed a casino car from Jonjo Rawlins and drove to Brecon town. I planned to leave the vehicle in the huge carpark of a supermarket on the outskirts of the town for the day, hiding it in plain sight. When it came to the real thing I hoped the car then used would escape notice for many months before the authorities started checking the (false) number plates. Unfortunately the supermarket had signs posted in the carpark warning cars left for more than three hours would be ticketed — sod it! I parked instead at the multi-storey in the centre of town, knowing I would need to amend my departure plan accordingly. No matter, I continued with Plan A and caught the Brecon to Llandovery bus at the bus station, buying a return ticket to Trecastle, a small village enroute, which was a popular jumping off point to explore Black Mountain and the Carmarthen Fans. At least half the bus emptied at the village bus stop.

For reasons you will understand I will not give you the exact latitude and longitude of my final resting place. Suffice to say it lay in the vicinity of Nant Goch.

I returned to Iver well pleased with my recce, although aching in muscles I forgot I possessed.

The most opportune time to take off and disappear into the wastes of Black Mountain would be winter, or rather just before a harsh winter set in and prevented travel to those parts. Late autumn, with a weather forecast of arctic weather to come, would be my signal to travel to Brecon and catch the Brecon-Llandovery bus — restricted time table during autumn/winter months, which I would need to check. Parking the vehicle in Brecon would create a problem, and I hit on the idea of driving the Porsche part way, to Cardiff or Bristol, then selling the car for cash and leaving the money in envelopes at various charity shops, before travelling on to Brecon by either by train or coach, probably the latter as there are few CCTV cameras on buses or at bus stations, whereas railway stations and train carriages are under constant surveillance. When it was finally realised I had disappeared I didn't want anyone checking CCTV footage, trying to spot me.

In some perverse way my depression lifted slightly now I had a plan to do away with myself. You could accuse me of having double standards, for I had been most disparaging of Sergeant Neddy Claypole blowing his brains out in Bosnia, yet here I am planning to end my own life, although not in a similar manner as his. It wasn't his suicide which incensed me, but rather his total disregard for the people who had to clear up the mess he left behind, and I'm not just talking of the brain and blood spattered platoon office but also the amount of paper work his unexpected death caused. I was determined to go out quietly and cleanly, leaving all my paperwork in good order.

To this end I began to write my will, which was when it struck me I had no relatives to leave my few belongs to, nor to mourn my passing. My mother, father, and sister were dead, and my brother went to Australia in 1969 and had not been heard of since. He too could be dead, or on permanent walkabout.

As far as I knew none of the many women with whom I had shared bodily fluids had been fruitful. If they had I hadn't been made aware, and the thought I would fall off the twig without leaving something of me behind decided me to write my story — this story.

It was now mid-June 2009; in fact the day I travelled to Black Mountain to locate a suitable resting place was the 12th June, my 45th birthday — I celebrate my birthdays in the most surprising of ways. It would depend on the weather forecast when I made my final journey to Brecon, which I anticipated would be sometime between late October of 2009 and early January of 2010, allowing me 4 to 5 months to write my life story. I had some experience in writing reports for MilSys but no experience, and probably no talent, for writing an autobiography. I am also a piss poor typist with a word per minute rate in the tens, on a good day.

I decided to quit working for Baz and spend all my time writing, which meant I would have no income other than my meagre army pension, although I did have about half of the money from the awarded for my drone suggestion, besides 20,000 Weston Holdings shares, and the Porsche. Unfortunately, a week previously I had been given an unpleasant shock concerning the vehicle. Although I was the registered owner of the car unbeknown to me Suzannah had bought it through her father's company, using some tax saving dodge, and in a snotty letter written by Bertram Weston I was informed that when selling the vehicle half the sale price would have to be passed to Weston Holdings as part owners.

I was buggered if I would hand over any money to Weston. I knew Baz Butcher had links to some less than honest car dealers, and hoped he could put me in touch with someone who would not inform the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency of the vehicle ownership transfer, and would be prepared to give cash when I turned up with a car worth £100,000 for sale.

Meantime I would give Bertram Weston something to ponder.'So you want to play hard ball, Bertram.' I thought to myself, ' Watch my smoke!'

Weston Holdings shares had dropped from a high of £10 a share pre 2008 to somewhere near 33p. I contacted my stockbroker and instructed him to sell all my Weston Holdings shares at whatever price he could get. His commission was based on the selling price so he would do his damndest to get a good price. "Weston's are in something of delicate position at the moment, Mister Desmond," he said when I rang him. "The share price has fluctuated all week, and twenty thousand shares could depress the price if you dump them on the market in one fell swoop. I would advise you to sell only a thousand at first to test the temperature, so to speak. The price could rise tomorrow and you could then sell more."

"Sell the lot. I need money today, not jam tomorrow," I said.

He laughed, "I doubt anyone will be having jam for some considerable time to come, Mister Desmond."

He did well, obtaining 32p a share, which after his commission put £6080 into my current account. I still banked at Carblays in Iver, although Gwen had left the bank and was now working full time at the casino; in fact her and Jonjo Rawlins were business as well as sexual partners.

A few hours after my 20,000 Weston Holdings shares had been sold the share price dropped off a precipice. It was like an avalanche — my relatively small holding had been the tipping point, and the share price slid from 30p to 3p in a matter of an hour.

The Gods on Mount Olympus certainly have a twisted sense of humour, which this time I could appreciate. It had been Bertram Weston's threat to sell his shares in MilSys because I was divorcing his daughter which had led to my sacking, and now it was his company spiralling into liquidation and bankruptcy because of me selling the shares given me when I married his daughter.

Of course it would be the little people who would get the shafting, I had no doubt Weston had wads of cash stashed away safe from the fluctuations of the stock market. His fingers were in many pies, including drugs, people smuggling, and armaments, so he and Suzannah would be insulated from the full effects of the company's collapse, but at least his pride, if not his bank balance, would take a humbling hit.

Baz was surprised, and not a little peeved, when I rang him to hand in my notice.

"Why Dave? Haven't you been treated right or something? Geez mate, I thought you was as happy as a pig in shit, driving the shagging waggon and shafting the girls, not at the same time, of course," he laughed, trying to get me to accompany him. I decided to come clean with him, well partly to come clean.

"The fact is Baz I've got ED..."

"What the fuck is that ... nothing like ET is it?"

"I can't get it up Baz. Driving all that hot and willing cunt around and not being able to do anything about it is doing my head in. My frustration is at warp factor ten." I wasn't absolutely truthful, as I hadn't the urge to shag any of the girls, which in some ways is worse than a warp factor ten of frustration.

I heard him take in a breath. "Bloody hell, Dave, I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do for you to help?"

We both realised the humour in his question in the same instant, and this time I did join him in a bellow of laughter.

"I haven't gone the other way, Baz, but thanks for the invitation."

He laughed again. "OK, mate, you're off the team, but come round my gaff tonight. I may have some stuff to kick start your todger."

"I've tried Viagra, and the others, but all they do is give me a blinding headache. But I'll come round and see you in any case." I could ask him about selling the Porsche at the same time.

He welcomed me with a can of Murphy's, and the offer to view a pornographic film on his TV. I welcomed the first but rejected the second. "I might as well watch paint dry for what good it does my todger," I said.

Baz's face showed signs of embarrassment. "Fact is, Dave, I sometimes get a period of not being able to deliver the goods, so to speak. I find a dekko at a cock film, followed by some special attention from Sadie, cures the malady. I'd offer her to try and start your motor tonight, but she's out with some former college pals, giving it rice up West." He glanced at his watch. "She should be home by midnight; being picked up at Maidenhead station by one of the casino drivers, Diddy Dodd."

It was well past midnight before Sadie got back from London. She was tipsy but not pissed, and gave me a big wet kiss full on the lips.

"Hi Dave, haven't seen you for a some time." She sat on Baz's knee and practically sucked his face off. Diddy Dodd had come in the house with her.

"I'll be off now, guv. G'night, Missus Butcher." Sadie unglued her lips from Baz. "Thanks honey..." She poked Baz in the ribs. "Give Mister Dodd some folding money, hon. He waited hours at Maidenhead, not knowing which train I would be on."

Baz pulled a wad of notes from his wallet. "There you go, Diddy. Thanks a bunch."

"Can you drop me off at Henley station, Diddy?" I asked.

"I'll do better than that, Dave. I'll take you to Iver, if that's OK, guv?" He said, looking over at Baz, who waved a hand of acceptance as his mouth had once more been invaded by Sadie's tongue.

"She's a lovely lady is that Sadie Butcher," Diddy said as we sped along the M4. "Baz done his self a bit of good when he copped on to her." I nodded, wondering what special attention she gave Baz when he couldn't get it up.

I discovered her technique three days later.

I travelled into Slough to a Commissioner of Oaths and had my will witnessed and signed, then went shopping for computer paper and ink cartridges in readiness for writing my life story. On arrival back home I wrote a letter of instruction to Milton, Marvell and Marlowe, my solicitors, stipulating the attached will was not to be opened until the official notification of my death.

Milton, Marvell and Marlowe would also be the recipients of my masterpiece when finished, and I had the money from selling my Weston Holdings shares to pay for the rough draft to be professionally edited, polished, and printed. However I instructed them the book was not to be published until the 1st of January 2011, unless notified of my death before that date. As the firm of solicitors were also the Trustees for the apartment block they would handle the sale of my apartment, and would ensure the sale price was donated to the British Limbless Ex Servicemen's Association, as specified in my will.

I had just put the kettle on for a brew when there came a knock on the door. The former concierge of Bourne Mansions, Steve Burlington, who had retired due to his gammy legs, would never have allowed anyone up to my flat without first telephoning. His replacement, although as smart in appearance as Steve, lacked his skill of being an efficient buffer between the public and the apartment block dwellers.

I angrily jerked the front door open and gazed in surprise at Sadie Butcher.

She was wearing an ankle length trench coat, carrying a bag such as doctors tote around with them, and sending out a Megawatt voltage smile.

"I thought I would get a welcome kiss and an invitation into your apartment, David, not a look as if I were a bad smell, or a Jehovah's Witness," she said.

I blushed in embarrassment at my greeting. "Please, come in Sadie ... is Baz with you?"

"No honey, it is just you and me." She gave me a fulsome kiss, then undid the buttons of her trench coat and shrugged it off her shoulders.

Underneath she wore the outfit as worn by the girls employed by Heels in Wheels, her and Baz's franchised car and call girl hire firm. The uniform consisted of an indecently short black skirt, and a sexy red military style tunic with a nipped in waist. Several of the tunic's buttons were undone, giving a delicious view of Sadie's breasts being only partly contained by a lacy black bra. Her shiny black Lurex stockings were held up by a red suspender belt — the shortness of the skirt displayed the straps gripping her stocking tops, as well as tanned thigh — high heeled, red 'come fuck me' shoes completed her outfit.

She looked absolutely stunning, even better than in the photograph I had seen of her wearing the kit seven years ago.

"Barry told me about your problem, David," she said, taking items, including a huge towel and bottles of lotion, from out of the bag she carried. She spread the towel on the carpet in the sitting room. " Let's see if I can help. Get your kit off, and then lay face down on the towel, hon. I'm going to give you a massage which will raise the Titanic."

I was still standing, like a fart in a colander, with my mouth hanging open. "Hurry it up, Dave. The sooner you're on your face with your clothes off the sooner the treatment can begin. I've had plenty of success with Barry when he has suffered similar problems to yours."

As if in a dream I slowly stripped down to my Calvin Klein's and lay face down on the luxuriant Egyptian cotton towel.

Sadie gave an exasperated sigh. "To obtain the full benefit of my treatment the underwear will have to go, but I will deal with that later." She slopped some sweet smelling oily liquid on my back and began to massage it into my shoulders. She was an expert, and a feeling of relaxation and well-being spread throughout my body.

Her gentle voice lulled me into a state of semi-consciousness.

"That's it, honey. Let Sadie take away the stress and aches." Her fingers dug into my knotted muscles, soothing them into soft surrender. "Geez, David, you certainly have some hard tissue."

"Yes, but not where I need it," I murmured, completely at ease as the wife of my oldest friend slid silky oiled hands over my back and along my thighs.

Sadie's accent was not unlike that of Dawn on Still Waters. Sadie was from Montana, which has a border with Alberta, and in fact she had been born in Cut Bank, a town near a Blackfoot Tribe Reservation.

The massage continued, becoming more intimate. Soft, sensual, feminine breast flesh compressed against the back of my neck, and then dragged exquisitely slowly down my back, rigid nipples caressing like stiff little fingers, and in my partly conscious brain Sadie became Dawn.

"Turn over, Des Flying Horse." Dawn breathed in my ear, and as I turned I arched my back, allowing her eager hands to slide my Calvin Klein's over my hips and down to my ankles. I had an erection!

Not massive by any means, but at least something worthwhile.

Dawn straddled me, her knees either side of my body. She was also wearing the Heels in Wheels uniform, or at least some of it as her discarded skirt, jacket and bra, were lying in a heap by the side of the towe. She still wore the black knickers, and black Lurex stockings held up by a red suspender belt.