arrived just in time for the fight. She was still wearing her coat, and her hair was wet with a rain shower that had caught her on the way to the party.
‘Tom?’
‘Cassie.’
Why now? Why had she come back into his life at this moment, when his brain had at last completely expelled everything about her from his memory? A sudden love for her bounced itself to the front of Tom’s head before a strange hatred hit him too. She had always dismissed the army. He remembered her loathsome father. He saw Will in the street through the open front door, standing in the rain. He should be looking after him, but he wanted to be with her.
He heard himself say to her, polite and distant, ‘I’m sorry, Cassie; I must go with my friend. Hopefully see you soon.’ He left her and walked out the door. At the end of the road beside a bus stop Will collapsed in tears.
Tom knelt and hugged his friend. ‘All right, mate, all right. Everything’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be all right,’ he whispered over and again as Will sobbed into his shoulder. Tom looked back up the street towards theparty, but the houses were blurred in the dark and the heavy rain.
Pre-tour leave began, and Tom went home. Constance surprised him by announcing that she had rented a cottage on the Devon coast for a week. Tom found the total peace down there the tonic he had needed all along in the testosterone-fuelled last few months. It wasn’t Las Vegas, where Clive and Scott had gone, driving from San Francisco in a rented Mustang – far from it – and Tom could only imagine what they were getting up to, but he was pleased he was in Devon.
It was like being a boy again. In the mornings Tom and Constance would go round nearby National Trust properties and castles, then have lunch in a pub and go back to the cottage, where Constance would read. Tom would go with Zeppo for walks along the cliffs, wind picking the sweat off his face and emptying his brain. There was a cove a quarter of a mile down from the cottage, completely secluded, where an Edwardian swimming fan had had a seawater pool dug into the rocks. It was straight out of an Agatha Christie novel. In the sun it warmed up quickly, and Tom spent hours swimming in it.
His favourite activity, which he soon came to do with a haunting addiction, was to jump in from a rock above the pool. As he plunged in, the thousands of bubbles that he brought down with him into the water then began to rise, and Tom dreamed, holding his breath for twenty or thirty seconds, that these bubbles were the dust and shrapnel thrown up by an IED he had stepped on, his body engulfed in the cloud of sparkling light, lost in weightlessness. The bubbles rose past his chest, tickling it on their way to the surface, as he hung in suspension and looked up from the bottom of the pool to the dancing mercury underside of thewater. He did this again and again, wondering if an explosion could possibly trick a shocked mind and screaming nerve endings into feeling comfortable. Would it feel sore? Or would it be like a dream, with you borne away in silk blankets?
Early one evening, as the late-August sun lit up everything in gold, Tom jogged up the sandy path from the cove to the house. He walked through the garden and saw through the window that the television was on. A news report announced the names of three soldiers who had been killed in Afghanistan the day before. Their pictures appeared on the screen. A sergeant and two privates. Then the scene changed to Wootton Bassett, to where the bodies of another four men had been repatriated that day. Constance was kneeling just two metres from the screen. She didn’t notice Tom at the window as he watched her watch the television and cry.
He stepped away from the window and went to catch his breath. Fifteen minutes later he walked into the house and Constance greeted him: ‘There you are, Tommy! Now what are you going to get me for a drink? I think a glass of wine,
‘Tom?’
‘Cassie.’
Why now? Why had she come back into his life at this moment, when his brain had at last completely expelled everything about her from his memory? A sudden love for her bounced itself to the front of Tom’s head before a strange hatred hit him too. She had always dismissed the army. He remembered her loathsome father. He saw Will in the street through the open front door, standing in the rain. He should be looking after him, but he wanted to be with her.
He heard himself say to her, polite and distant, ‘I’m sorry, Cassie; I must go with my friend. Hopefully see you soon.’ He left her and walked out the door. At the end of the road beside a bus stop Will collapsed in tears.
Tom knelt and hugged his friend. ‘All right, mate, all right. Everything’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be all right,’ he whispered over and again as Will sobbed into his shoulder. Tom looked back up the street towards theparty, but the houses were blurred in the dark and the heavy rain.
Pre-tour leave began, and Tom went home. Constance surprised him by announcing that she had rented a cottage on the Devon coast for a week. Tom found the total peace down there the tonic he had needed all along in the testosterone-fuelled last few months. It wasn’t Las Vegas, where Clive and Scott had gone, driving from San Francisco in a rented Mustang – far from it – and Tom could only imagine what they were getting up to, but he was pleased he was in Devon.
It was like being a boy again. In the mornings Tom and Constance would go round nearby National Trust properties and castles, then have lunch in a pub and go back to the cottage, where Constance would read. Tom would go with Zeppo for walks along the cliffs, wind picking the sweat off his face and emptying his brain. There was a cove a quarter of a mile down from the cottage, completely secluded, where an Edwardian swimming fan had had a seawater pool dug into the rocks. It was straight out of an Agatha Christie novel. In the sun it warmed up quickly, and Tom spent hours swimming in it.
His favourite activity, which he soon came to do with a haunting addiction, was to jump in from a rock above the pool. As he plunged in, the thousands of bubbles that he brought down with him into the water then began to rise, and Tom dreamed, holding his breath for twenty or thirty seconds, that these bubbles were the dust and shrapnel thrown up by an IED he had stepped on, his body engulfed in the cloud of sparkling light, lost in weightlessness. The bubbles rose past his chest, tickling it on their way to the surface, as he hung in suspension and looked up from the bottom of the pool to the dancing mercury underside of thewater. He did this again and again, wondering if an explosion could possibly trick a shocked mind and screaming nerve endings into feeling comfortable. Would it feel sore? Or would it be like a dream, with you borne away in silk blankets?
Early one evening, as the late-August sun lit up everything in gold, Tom jogged up the sandy path from the cove to the house. He walked through the garden and saw through the window that the television was on. A news report announced the names of three soldiers who had been killed in Afghanistan the day before. Their pictures appeared on the screen. A sergeant and two privates. Then the scene changed to Wootton Bassett, to where the bodies of another four men had been repatriated that day. Constance was kneeling just two metres from the screen. She didn’t notice Tom at the window as he watched her watch the television and cry.
He stepped away from the window and went to catch his breath. Fifteen minutes later he walked into the house and Constance greeted him: ‘There you are, Tommy! Now what are you going to get me for a drink? I think a glass of wine,
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