Everyone has a different way of handling things when a job's coming up, mine's sex. I've seen guys sit and wallow in their own self pity for days on end, others write their will a dozen times over, even when they've got fuck all to leave anyone. I've watched men sink into a bottle, while others count their ammunition time and time again, just to take their mind off the forthcoming event. It's an individual thing, and, in the regiment each guy has his only little eccentricity. It's forgivable, after all, a few days later he might not be with us anymore, he might be dead thousands of miles from home or slowly dying in some filth ridden field with a bullet in his guts, screaming for someone to put him out of his misery.

My eccentricity, as I say, is sex. Sex, sex, sex and more sex. In fact, the more sex the better. Whenever a job's coming up or I've done one in the past I get randy. I'm like one of those annoying dogs in someone's house who can't leave your legs alone. You know the sort I mean. You visit a friend, sit down, extend your legs and the animal locks on to them like an over zealous wheel clamper, and starts pumping away for dear life. That's me. Perhaps it's an adrenaline thing, a rush of hormones or last ditch attempt at spreading my seed, I don't know. Personally I think it's like doing something normal, it justifys the acts I'm about to commit, like the last super of the condemned man.

We've all seen how in the States, after they've executed someone on Death Row, a prison spokesman comes out and says something like: 'Billy-Bob, enjoyed a last meal of fried chicken wings, followed by apple pie and cream. Just like his Mammy used to make.' The fact poor ol' Billy Bob got fifty thousand volts up his jacksy for desert is neither here-nor-there.

The last meal is an act of contrition. It says to the world, although we've just executed an unarmed man, we're still human: we're better than him. It keeps the whole process on an even keel. He might have killed an unarmed man himself, but his act didn't have a veneered, surface to it unlike ours.

Even with what I've seen in life, I'm not into capital punishment. Personally I think it's cowardly. It's easy to kill unarmed men, women and children, and the state doing it is even easier. I'm proud to say I've never killed a man that didn't either have a weapon in his hand, or within easy reach. In my job, I've always considered it kill or be killed. Christine from the travel agents was an opportunity. I saw her smile illuminate the shop, looked down her blouse and felt the fire in my loins rise: she's beautiful, but not as I told her, model material, however, like most people in life she has a weakness. Hers is flatery. I told her what she wanted to hear and by doing so, hoped to reward myself. HMG offered me the use of the hotel room for the next few weeks, and tonight I intend to untilise it until I'm exhausted.

I returned to the Red Lion public house as promised at 7.30pm and entered the same door as I had during lunch time. Christine wasn't their when I arrived, but the evening trade was fairly buoyant. I shuffled my way past several suits, gently placing my hands on their hips, with a polite 'excuse me' as I made progress to the bar. A blonde woman in her thirties was already pulling a pint for someone as I dived in my Levi's pocket for a tenner. The moment she saw the colour of my money resting on the beer soaked bar top, she mouthed above the noise: 'In a minute love.' I smiled.

Christine arrived a couple of minutes later, tapping my shoulder as she joined me at the bar, as the barmaid just completed serving me. 'What you having?' I shouted, as a spontaneous burst of laughter from the suits deafened me me and the rest of the room .

'Vodka and lemonade--' She said, leaning into my ear, as I tilted my head in her general direction. I called the barmaid close over the counter with a wiggle of my fingers and repeated what Christine ordered. The barmaid obliged. With our drinks, I encouraged Christine to follow me outside to the tiny beer garden, away from the racous noise inside. It was a warm evening, the sun faded in the distance, and only a few other people inhabited the garden. They sat farther down near a children's play area of plastic slides and climbing frame. Christine and myself walked over to a long wooden table with two plank seats, and sat on opposite sides of the table to each other.

'It's manic in there, isn't it.' I said, my face alive with smiles.

'It's always the same with the office lot,' she replied, friendly. 'Anyone'd think they don't have homes to go to,' she added, lifted her drink and gently sipped, before replacing it and flicking her long blonde her from her face. She wore her hair down, unlike up as she had in the shop. I think it suited her more. Perhaps she did have model potential after all. The way her lucious red lips pouted involuntary offered the impression she was shy, but not painfully shy. The way her eyes lifted over her drink suggested she knew how to use her famininity to its maximum potential. She also had something rather special about her, something I liked, but couldn't quite place my finger on. Sex appeal I suppose.

'You worked in the shop long?' I enquired, conversationally.

'Bout a year, maybe a year and a half. They promised me lots of travel when I started, but I haven't been anywhere yet. You?'

'What about me?'

'Have you been running your model agency very long. It must be really exciting, seeing the world, all those beautiful locations, meeting so many famous people. Have you ever been to New York?'

'A couple of times.'

'Them poor people. D'you see it on tele? I couldn't believe it, those aeroplanes. My god.'

I thought once Christine got into her flow there's no shutting her up. Out of her shell, she could talk for Britain, and the more I indulged her, the more she talked. She was the type of bird who could very quickly drive you nuts. She barely finished one sentence, before starting on the next, and any attempt at answering her seemed pointless.

'D'you see the way them towers fell, all the dust from them? I thought more people would've been killed. Thank god they weren't. I'm not going to America to do any modelling if you put me on your books.'

'It was a one off, I wouldn't worry about it if I was you.' I said. I assumed Christine was a touch nervous, after all, I imagine she believed making my aquaintance was her big opportunity, this was her one chance in life to leave the shop where she worked and hit the big time. Little did she know the man opposite her was a stinking, rotten liar. 'I booked a table at the hotel,' I said, my eyes pointing to the hotel which lifted above the trees in the distance. 'For 8.30,' I added.

'Great,' she mumbled, as she raised the vodka to her lips.

'You want another before we go?' I asked politely, emptied my pint in one long swallow and stood with the glass. I reached out and took hers and moved to the bar, leaving Christine to contemplate the situation alone at the table. No doubt her imagination would work overtime, count how many celebrity parties she'd attend, and what sort of superstars she'd meet. It's natural, that's life. I used to fantasise about how many men I'd kill when I first joined the Paras. I had heroic visions of single handly taking on the enemy, killing them all, being awarded god knows how many medals and walking home ten feet tall. The real problem in life is when you get what you want. When we shipped out to the Falklands in 82 I still harboured such ambitions, and did so all the way to the South Atlantic on the QE2.

Even when we transfered to the Camberra and moved stealthily into San Carlos sound and the Sky Hawks tried to bomb us, I still had visions of heroics. But war, like anything else in life is not as you imagine it to be. I found that out the hard way. We were ordered down the scramble nets into the waiting landing craft. The swell of the South Atlantic forced them to rise and falllike elevators on the sea. When I saw men get their legs crushed against the side of the ship, listened to them scream and waited my turn. Even when we made the shore, the problems weren't over, far from it, they were only about to beging. Our helicopters were wiped out on the Atlantic Conveyor, and so we had to TAB (Tactical Advance to Battle) over fifteen miles, in the driving rain, the howling wind, the freezing cold. Men soiled their trousers, pissed themselves or simply wretched every few miles.

It was pityful, an orchestrated fuck up compliments of the British Army.

By the time we reached Goose Green, I was wet through, shaking uncontrollably and desperate to get it over with. We had 1400 Argentine soldiers, conscripts and regulars dug in and prepared to mix it. We fixed bayonets at 4.00am and then moved on Sunray's orders. Through the blackness we attacked Agentine positions. Suddenly, the crackle of weapons exploded. Long streams of red dots seemed to appear from nowhere, then the woosh! woosh! woosh! of bullets passed by. They streamed into the distance and were gone forever. The ocassional PIG (general purpose machine gun) from my own section opened up. It spat tracer back the other way, and another series of endless red dots streamed back at them with us chasing after them bayonets fixed howling like Banchees as we covered open ground. The heavy ching! ching! ching! of my SLR (self-loading rile) feeding round after round into the chamber from the magazine below, before detonating the cartridge and ejecting the empty shells out the side was all I remember hearing, and the sudden thud! of a guy next to me cop an awkward one.

But you don't stop. You never stop. You're easy prey for any enemy machine gun post if you do. You just keep going, keep going, keep going your waterlogged boots crossing the sodden uneven ground, the sound of your own heat thumping like a big bass drum in your chest, the sissity in your mouth, the dryness in your throat, the tears in your eyes. Fear, adrenalin, excitement all cocktailed into a lethal, deadly mix of controlled aggression.

By the time you get to mix it with the enemy things are getting really unpleasant. If you're lucky enough to have made it to their positions without being hit, you're half way there. All you have to do is finish the job, you can then move to the next objective, or with a bit of luck, fuck off home.

When I hit the Argentine positions I was just about out of ammo. I had enough to lay a few rounds into a machine gun nest, slot the operator through the neck and then close on them before the crew had chance to take over. Two young Argentine soldiers on that fateful day came into contact with a twenty year old British Paratrooper, SLR and bayonet. Screaming at them out of the darkness I stuck the first in the back, a few inches above the right kideny and twisted the rifle into him nearly as much as my face twisted. I pulled the bayonet out, still screaming, still cussing. I then engeged the second.

Most NCOs in the army will tell you the correct way to use a bayonet is to slip it in, twist and drag it out. In the Falklands we used the standard British assault bayonet; six inches of cold steel with a serrated edge down one side, otherwise known as the sawing edge because of the teeth. The problem with it is, if you get it wrong, and in the heat of battle that's what tends to happen. When I closed and attacked the other man; I say man, really he was no more than a boy, seventeen, eighteen at a push, I got it wrong. Rather than slide the bayonet between his ribs, edge up, turn and cleanly extract, I did it arse about face. I slid the cold steel between his right rib cage about half way down his body, turned and tried to remove the bayonet, only to find the serrated edge jammed between his rib bones.

Through the seemingly endless darkness, once your eyes accustom, you can clearly make out defined shapes, the shape of a man's face, his helmet, the whites of his eyes, the white of his teeth: for some reason your hearing seems to home in. It's like radar. Everything else gets lost in the confusion. Certain things become crystal clear. The Argentine kid on his back, on the floor, wriggling on my bayonet was more than clear.

As I rammed the bayonet home, then tried to rip it out, I could see his clenched teeth, his eyes screw tightly shut and hear the ululating howls for his Mumma. Mumma! Mumma! Please! Please! Mumma! He screamed, as I screamed back at him: 'Shut up! Shut up! Shut-the fuck-up!!' Even with my heavy steel studded boot on his face, pushing his head into the quagmired ground I couldn't shut him up. Even when I finally managed to rip the bayonet from his guts he still screamed, even when I looked down on him and saw the dark patches of blood pump from every orifice, I knew what had to be done. I pushed the bayonet through his tunic, through his chest, through his heart. I watched as with both his hands clawing at my rifle he wheezed heavily and surrendered the last signs of life. It was then a high velocity round came out of nowhere, struck my left arm with a sickening thud, spun me round and knocked me from my feet. As I lay on my back looking up at the black sky, as light rain peppered my face, I realised fantasy wasn't all it was cracked up to be. I lay there alone, other paras thundering past, the screaming seeming to manifest from everywhere, and feeling so alone. I'd never been so scared, so frightened in all my life. I couldn't think of anything accept home, my Mum and Dad, my family. Be careful what you dream of, you never know, you might just get it. I caught an unfortunate one, but fortunately for me I was found in time, medi-vaced out to the hospital ship Uganda, and returned UK side. Many of my mates who had the same silly fucking dream weren't. They're still there today, buried in a lonely grave, on a remote hillside eight thousand miles from home.

'Here we go,' I said to Christine as I returned with the drinks, placed hers on the table before her. I cocked my leg over the wooden bench and made myself confortable. I sipped the head from my pint, placed it down, checked my watch and said: 'We'd better make a move in a minute.'

'You have many girls on your books?' She asked mercenary.

'Yeah,' I replied, nodding my head as though thinking about it: 'Quite a few. But none as pretty as you,' I added strongly, to ram home the point. 'You've got what it takes,' I continued, convincing her of her own ability. And yeah, it seems a shit thing to do, to mislead a young woman so I could climb inside her knickers, but no more deceitful than her flogging me that over priced holiday. Lies are what makes the world go round, little white ones, whopping big black ones, we're all at it. After all, I wasn't going to cut her up and melt her down in a bath full of acid for godness sake.

'So when will I get to do some pictures?' She asked, flicking her hair from her face again. 'Do we do them in a proper studio?' She continued before I could answer her first question. I looked down at her left hand, the big diamond engagement ring on her third finger, and lied some more.

'What you wanna do, Chrissie is take it slowly, just one day at a time. We have to mould people, shape them into a perfect image the public expect to see. It's not just about pictures, it's about the whole personna. Men don't just wanna she your body, they wanna look in your eyes and feel you reach out and touch them. They wanna see you smile; feel as though you're personally smiling for them, not anyone else in the world. And women wanna feel as though you're their best friend, someone they could confess anything to. It'll happen, just go with the flow, take it slowly; enjoy it. You could be about to go on the biggest adventure of your life. You could be the next Naomi Campbell. They found her working in a shoe shop. These things do happen if you believe hard enough,' I said, accentuating the last part to draw her in further. I reached across the table, took the fingers of her right hand and caressed them gently in mine. 'You're a beautiful woman,' I said. As I looked up, her eyes seemed to follow mine, and I felt the chemistry. 'Just believe!' I whispered passionately. I released her, raised my glass, swallowed a long swig of beer, checked my watch, and said with a smile: 'Come on, let's eat.

I lifted from the table, and my body action seemed magnetic, Chritine lifted when I did. She followed on like a whipped puppy. We walked the length of the garden, out the gate, and I watched as three guys standing by the doorway, pints in hand, dreamt of what I was about to have. I heard one's voice behind me say: 'Look at the arse on that,' and unintentionally I made Christine smile, by adding: 'He's probably a homosexual.' I winked as her eyes caught mine, as she closed in toward me for protection, and guided her to my dark blue Mondeo Z-tec, and like a gentleman I opened the passenger door, so she could slip in. Women like a man to make them feel special, as though they're the only women in the world, as if every action conducted is designed especially for them. I rounded the vehicle, opened the driver's door, scrambled in and slammed the door, inserted the key in the ignition and fired the engine. Spandau Ballet's True! burst to life on the radio, and Christine relaxed in the seat, as I reversed out, turned the wheel, breaked, found the drive gear, and left the car park for the five hundred yard drive to the hotel. All it was one straight road through the High St, past the shops on our left hand side, past McDonalds and over the railway bridge, turn right at the bottom into the carpark and park bonnet on to the road .

We strolled across the carpark, pushed our way into the foyer and moved through to the long, oblog dining room. I took Christine's coat from her, to reveal a black Chanel number, off the shoulder and reasonably short. I assumed it Christine's sunday best, and I must admit, the ponce at the pub was right, she did have an arse to die for. Still acting like some upper-class romeo, I pulled her chair from the table, allowed her to position herself, and gently slid it back in, before moving around the other side and seating myself comfortably. I felt somewhat under dressed compared to Christine. I'd thrown myoid blue suit on, with a white shirt and dark blue tie.

A waiter seemed to appear from nowhere, as if he'd sprang-up from the ground, and asked in a slimey way: 'Would you care for the wine list, Sir.'

'Champagne,' I instructed, and gave him time to move three or four feet away before I added loudly so everyone could hear: 'Make it your most expensive.' What did I care, it wasn't my money I was spending, it was HMG's and I assume the government can afford it.

Christine looked impressed. I saw the corners of her mouth lift unintentionally and a satisfied look cover her face knowing she was being spoilt. She studdied the menu intently, as the waiter returned and opened the Champagne at our table. There was an explosion from the cork which drew other diner's attention, and a fountain of foamy bubbles before he filled two flutes and placed the bottle in a silver ice bucket.

Christine reached out, took her glass, raised to her lips with a school girl giggle, and said: 'You don't have to do all this you know.' I replied simply: 'You're worth it,' and mimicked her action. I lifted the glass to my mouth, and held eye contact as the pair of us flirted outrageously. 'You want to order?' I asked, placing my glass down.

'Can I have the lobster?'

'You can have whatever you want. Money's no object,' I said, winked, encouraged her to order the finest things imaginable - and thanked god I wasn't picking up the bill. The price, Jesus. They even made my eyebrows raise. I called the waiter over, placed our order and silently watched as Christine toyed with the stem of her glass as though contemplating what to say. My mind was elsewhere, already upstairs in the bedroom, peeling her out of her little black number - unhooking her bra. God she's got fantastic tits. Really supply, perfectly round, not too big, not too small.

'Penny for them?' She asked warmly, her voice no more than a whisper as it reached across the table and broke my concentration.

'I was just thinking how to market you,' I mused, making it sound complimentary, not cheap or tacky. 'You're absolutely stunning,' I added.

'It makes a change to be somewhere nice,' continued Christine, her eyes surveying the decodence of the room as she mentioned it. 'I usually get to go down the pub for the evening; end up with some leech slobbering allover me, telling he's in the SAS.'

'Really?' I said, my eyes widening, as though surprised. But I wasn't surprised; I'd had drunks tell me they were part of the regiment, been places, seeing things, done things. It didn't matter. They bullshit about being in the regiment, we bullshit about other things, it's each to their own. There's no such thing in life as a totally honest person, everyone embelishes or stretches the truth at some point in their life to suit their own purpose. Some do it to attract the opposite sex, others to get a job, some because they want to feel important. Joe Solmo who I picked up next morning has a habit of telling women when he meets them he's a lottery millionaire. Not just any lottery millionaire, but a millionaire on a double rollover week: 23 million is usually the amount Solly tells the girls he's won. When in fact, he hasn't got two happenies to rub together. But it works, it gets Solly a result, so who am I to critisise. As the women tell him they're not interested in his money, I suppose it don't make much difference does it. Or does it?

As Christine crunched her way through the lobster, and I devoured my lemon chicken, we continued to talk openly. She revealled things to me 1 guess she hadn't told other boyfriends. I imagine she saw me as non predatory. She thought I was a man, older enough to be her father offering her a once in a life time chance. She had an innocence about her, although it was espoused with a certain mature understanding. She was quite young, but not inexperienced or naieve.

After the main course, we shared a bowl of wild strawberries and fresh cream, feeding each other in a frivolous way across the table. Not like lovers, but more like friends teasing one another. We downed a couple of bottles of claret after the Champagne, and when Christine went to use the loo, I called the waiter over. As soft classical music playled gently in the background, I instructed him as he leant in close toward me:

'Slip another bottle of Champagne and a red rose in my room.' I dropped a twenty pound note in his top waistcoat pocket, and he whispered:

'Of course, Sir.'

As he walked away, Christine returned, and a few minutes later I suggested we go upstairs to finalise the detail of her new career.

'Great,' she enthused, standing and pushing the chair away. I never thought it'd be so simple. I thought she'd have reservations, question my intention or simply make a bolt for the door calling me a dirty old man in public. But dreams don't work like that do they? We all see what we want to see, hear what we want to hear, and disregard the rest.

We took the elevator to the forth floor, fell out of it together, both tipsey - and walked, using each other for support along the carpeted landing to the room. I swiped my key and the door popped open. I reached in and switched the light on. Christine entered the room first. A bottle of Bollinger chilled in an ice bucket, and a single red rose had been placed on the pillow. 'Grab a seat,' I said, ushering her towards one of the small arm chairs. She swanked across the room, her arse moving as though hinged, turned and fell into the seat, the hem of her dress scraping up as she did so, so her black topped stockings revealed. She giggled drunkenly as the alcohol finally kicked in and I grabbed the next bottle ready to intoxicate her some more. Christine screamed as the cork exploded, covering her head with her arms as though someone just lobbed a grenade in the room. Her laugh became infectious as I giggled, filled the glasses and swaggered drunkenly over to join her.

'There you go,' I said, handing her a glass of frothy wine. As she sipped her drink, I stood, moved across the room and switched the radio on, found a luw station and permitted the mellow music to waft invasively throughout. Whitney Houston's I will always love you played softly in the background, and once back at Christine's position, I extended my hand, inviting her to dance. She obliged, struggling from the chair, standing uneasily and placing her hands around my neck, so she drapped like a beautiful rag doll in my arms, her long blonde hair dishevelled, her head on my chest. I bent over and gently kissed her forehead, inched her away, lifted her face high with my fingers beneath her chin and tenderly kissed her mouth. My kiss lingered, broke as my hands cupped her face - and then returned.