something, I suppose.’ Max weakly turned his head back to the television.
‘You should eat some lunch.’ Sam dug a teaspoon into the mashed potato on his father’s plate. It had a dry crust around it – Sam started to raise the spoon to Max’s mouth, but his father raised a bony wrist and pushed it away.
‘I’m not a fucking kid, either.’
Sam let the spoon fall back on to the plate.
Father and son sat in awkward silence.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Max asked finally.
‘The Stan,’ Sam replied quickly, grateful that the silence had been punctured. And then, more quietly, ‘You knew that.’
Max remained expressionless.
‘Nasty,’ Sam continued. ‘Taliban crawling all over the place like ants. Nail one of them and another two pop up in his place. We could have used Jacob out there.’
At the mention of his other son’s name, Max’s eyes closed briefly. In his private moments, Sam wondered whether it was Jacob’s disappearance that had sparked all this off. The doctors had said no – it was a purely physical condition, a gradual wastage of the muscles that would eventually leave him too weak to breathe. But Sam had seen it happen. When Jacob had left the country it had hit both their parents hard. Their mother had died two years later; by that time Max was already having difficulty walking. His subsequent decline was sudden and steep.
‘Jacob was a real soldier,’ Max muttered.
Sam didn’t say what came into his head – that if Max had only told Jacob that, just once after he’d been kicked out of the Regiment, his brother might never have done a runner. Instead he took a deep, steady breath. ‘We’re all real soldiers, Dad.’
‘Not like him. None of you.’ Max turned to look at his younger son again. ‘Especially not you, Samuel Redman. If it wasn’t for your brother, God knows where you’d have ended up, so you can stop talking about him like that for a start.’
Like what? Sam wanted to say, but he knew better than to carry on with this childish argument. Jacob had always been Dad’s favourite. Since his disappearance, he’d achieved almost mythical status in the old man’s eyes. ‘Look, Dad. I just wanted to see how you were, but you’d obviously prefer it if I wasn’t here . . .’
‘Don’t be so fucking touchy, Sam. Pass me a ciggie.’
By Max’s bedside there was an opened packet of cigarettes. His habit of smoking in the room infuriated the nurses, but they had learned not to complain too heavily. Sam placed a cigarette in his father’s mouth and lit it using the orange lighter stashed away in the packet. Max took several deep drags and appeared to relax a little. With difficulty he lifted his arm and waved the burning cigarette in the direction of a photograph in a tarnished silver frame that sat by the TV at the end of the bed.
‘Pass me that,’ he instructed. Ash fell on the sheets.
Sam did as he was told.
Max was in the middle, flanked by his two boys who stood on either side of him. Jacob and Sam looked younger there. Sam’s unruly blond hair was a little longer than it was now – this was taken before his Regiment days – and there was a heaviness around his face. Puppy fat, some people might call it. His eyes twinkled and he looked like he was not taking the whole thing entirely seriously.
Jacob was a different matter. His features were quite different to Sam’s, even though anyone would be able to tell that they were brothers. Jacob’s hair was jet black, his eyes gun-metal grey. His eyebrows were dark and heavy and he had a dimple in his chin that made him look not cheeky but intense.
‘Remember when this was taken?’ Max asked.
‘Of course,’ Sam replied. It was the day he’d passed selection for the Paras. It had been Jacob’s suggestion. ‘You’ll like them,’ he’d said archly. ‘Bunch of fucking lunatics, like you.’
‘He always looked out for you, Sam.’ For once, Max’s voice did not sound accusatory.
‘You talk
‘You should eat some lunch.’ Sam dug a teaspoon into the mashed potato on his father’s plate. It had a dry crust around it – Sam started to raise the spoon to Max’s mouth, but his father raised a bony wrist and pushed it away.
‘I’m not a fucking kid, either.’
Sam let the spoon fall back on to the plate.
Father and son sat in awkward silence.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Max asked finally.
‘The Stan,’ Sam replied quickly, grateful that the silence had been punctured. And then, more quietly, ‘You knew that.’
Max remained expressionless.
‘Nasty,’ Sam continued. ‘Taliban crawling all over the place like ants. Nail one of them and another two pop up in his place. We could have used Jacob out there.’
At the mention of his other son’s name, Max’s eyes closed briefly. In his private moments, Sam wondered whether it was Jacob’s disappearance that had sparked all this off. The doctors had said no – it was a purely physical condition, a gradual wastage of the muscles that would eventually leave him too weak to breathe. But Sam had seen it happen. When Jacob had left the country it had hit both their parents hard. Their mother had died two years later; by that time Max was already having difficulty walking. His subsequent decline was sudden and steep.
‘Jacob was a real soldier,’ Max muttered.
Sam didn’t say what came into his head – that if Max had only told Jacob that, just once after he’d been kicked out of the Regiment, his brother might never have done a runner. Instead he took a deep, steady breath. ‘We’re all real soldiers, Dad.’
‘Not like him. None of you.’ Max turned to look at his younger son again. ‘Especially not you, Samuel Redman. If it wasn’t for your brother, God knows where you’d have ended up, so you can stop talking about him like that for a start.’
Like what? Sam wanted to say, but he knew better than to carry on with this childish argument. Jacob had always been Dad’s favourite. Since his disappearance, he’d achieved almost mythical status in the old man’s eyes. ‘Look, Dad. I just wanted to see how you were, but you’d obviously prefer it if I wasn’t here . . .’
‘Don’t be so fucking touchy, Sam. Pass me a ciggie.’
By Max’s bedside there was an opened packet of cigarettes. His habit of smoking in the room infuriated the nurses, but they had learned not to complain too heavily. Sam placed a cigarette in his father’s mouth and lit it using the orange lighter stashed away in the packet. Max took several deep drags and appeared to relax a little. With difficulty he lifted his arm and waved the burning cigarette in the direction of a photograph in a tarnished silver frame that sat by the TV at the end of the bed.
‘Pass me that,’ he instructed. Ash fell on the sheets.
Sam did as he was told.
Max was in the middle, flanked by his two boys who stood on either side of him. Jacob and Sam looked younger there. Sam’s unruly blond hair was a little longer than it was now – this was taken before his Regiment days – and there was a heaviness around his face. Puppy fat, some people might call it. His eyes twinkled and he looked like he was not taking the whole thing entirely seriously.
Jacob was a different matter. His features were quite different to Sam’s, even though anyone would be able to tell that they were brothers. Jacob’s hair was jet black, his eyes gun-metal grey. His eyebrows were dark and heavy and he had a dimple in his chin that made him look not cheeky but intense.
‘Remember when this was taken?’ Max asked.
‘Of course,’ Sam replied. It was the day he’d passed selection for the Paras. It had been Jacob’s suggestion. ‘You’ll like them,’ he’d said archly. ‘Bunch of fucking lunatics, like you.’
‘He always looked out for you, Sam.’ For once, Max’s voice did not sound accusatory.
‘You talk
Similar Books
