Look at him. Go on, look. Take a good, long look. Scary isn’t he; standing there by the swimming pool, five feet eight inches of muscular, killing machine and about as hard as granite.
Not a big guy but he’s a Gurkha, ex-British Army, Palmer put me on to them. Him and his mates don’t come cheap but they are worth it because they have a very important job to do, the most important there is. They are keeping me alive.
He won’t leave my side today and his mates are patrolling the grounds of my new home right now; a huge, luxurious, state-of-the-art, all-mod-cons, gated compound, not a stone’s throw from the Hua Hin resort where I took Laura on holiday, about a lifetime ago now. Funny how things work out isn’t it?
Sarah comes out of our house looking beautiful in her tiny, little, white bikini and he doesn’t even notice her as she pads past him in her bare feet, hips rolling. At least he pretends not to, doesn’t even give her a look, not even a quick, furtive, sidelong glance as she flips her pert, little arse up in the air into a perfect dive before disappearing beneath the cool, clear water. Instead he just stands there, that big fuck-off Kalashnikov slung on his shoulder, staring straight ahead like a tin soldier. He can’t be human. I mean if you can’t enjoy a sight like that you’re not alive, not really. But me? I’m just glad he is so dedicated, so focused, so completely in the zone, concentrating on nothing more than keeping me breathing, just so long as I keep on paying.
And he is loyal, which helps in my business. Like I told you, loyalty is a rare and underestimated commodity these days. At least it is in my game. You want my opinion? You can’t put a price on loyalty.
And my tin soldier and his mates are loyal.
At least, I fucking hope they are…