Blast Radius

by Rebecca McKinney

  I pull off my jumper again, pack up quickly to avoid the onset of the West Highland Way morning rush hour, and make my way up the Devil’s Staircase at a jog.

  I trot into Kinlochleven a couple of hours later, head for the Co-op, stock up on food and water (Sorry Macpherson, I think as I stand in the queue to pay for my provisions, my scavenging days are well and truly behind me). Then I make my way through the village, across the bridge over the river Leven and up the steep track that leads through the Mamore Forest. It has become almost hot and I sweat out the remnants of last night’s Guinness as I reach the top of the incline and head into the Lairig Mor, which leads between the Mamores toward Fort William.

  I camp wild beside a little tumbledown wall, the remnant of one of the many shielings that used to populate this glen. It’s a mild, dry evening and I make a fire, boil my kettle over it to save gas, drink tea and eat a couple of Cornish pasties warmed over the fire, dried fruit, chocolate. Little rustles and snaps make me start from time to time, and I have to take a deep breath and remind myself where I am. I am too far into the wilderness for any Kinlochleven chavs to claim I’ve stolen their boozing spot, and Scotland’s wilderness is a defeated landscape, emptied by force, with nothing left to pose any threat except weather. And even that is subdued tonight.

  So I sit very still and listen to the cries of oystercatchers, the far-off bleating of sheep and the wind in the grass. Words come to my mind, form themselves into sentences and fall apart again: things I should have said, and things I still have to say. Things I might once have been ashamed of, but which no longer seem shameful. Sometimes I am almost aware of him sitting beside me, but he’s quiet, as though he understands that I need time to gather my thoughts before I can answer his questions.

  I sleep hard and in the morning leave the West Highland Way and head north into the Mamores, following a semi-circular line of peaks from Stob Bàn to An Gearanach. Sometimes I pass other walkers and we stop to chat for a few minutes, sharing information about the condition of the path or the weather back where we came from. There’s rain coming in tomorrow, I’m told. It’s hard to believe, looking out at an almost cloudless blue sky, but things change brutally up here. Rain on low ground could fall as snow up here, even in May.

  The end of the third day brings me down into the verdant glen below the waterfall of An Steall Bàn. I camp in a little hollow filled with wood sorrel and bluebells and wake up to the sound of the persistent, pattering rain that has moved in overnight. The sphagnum moss is like a wet sponge under me.

  In the meagre shelter of my bivvy I eat two cereal bars, more peanut butter and a bunch of raisins, and manage to boil up some water for tea. I wriggle into my waterproofs and force myself out into the rain, packing up quickly, trying and failing to keep things dry. Above me, the hills disappear into mist and I pull my map and compass out of my pack and keep them handy in my jacket pocket.

  It’s a long, bleak slog over the Grey Corries in the cloying mist, which gathers like ghosts in the hollows and threatens to lead me in the wrong direction more than once. As I climb the rain congeals into sleet, then back to rain again as I drop down, and in some places ground blizzards obscure the path so navigating becomes a technical affair. After four days, I’m tired and my knees have begun to ache in earnest. My pace has slowed and I can hear Macpherson bellowing through the mist: Let’s get moving, ladies! My granny could have climbed this hill by now, with two hip replacements and a fucking colostomy bag! I can’t lift my legs any faster. Twice I slide and land heavily on loose, wet scree. Pain judders through my body, but I get up again and force myself to keep moving. I don’t even let myself sit down to eat.

  As I walk, I dig down into layers of memory, past Afghanistan, Mitch, the Marines, to those shadowy remnants of childhood which serve as my rather shoogly foundations. Janet was right; the brain blocks things out for good reason. I sift through redacted history. I turn over fragments: my mother arguing with a man in a swing park; a man, possibly the same one, in our front room doing his best to ignore my efforts to maul him with a stuffed monkey. So many guys progressed meaninglessly in and out of her life that I never paused before to wonder who this particular gaunt, angry person was.

  No doubt she would have thought she loved him. Mum thought she loved all of them, even if they only hung about for a few days. And no doubt she would have pressed a pack of frozen peas to her battered face and accepted his fumbling, gutless apologies time and time again. Janet would have been around, at least sometimes, and would have had very clear memories of him. She must have witnessed their fights, and I wonder what it’s cost her to keep them secret all these years.

  She was right about another thing: I have not found a father. I have found a decaying wraith who will soon leave this world for some black place, with or without help from me. Anything he might once have been, before the army and the drink and the years of hollow lonely life on that hill, is dead already.

  That will not be my life. This is the one thought that keeps me going as a mixture of sleet and sweat drips down the back of my neck. The RMC took me apart and rebuilt me once, and Afghanistan has taken me apart again. The pieces are so small and jumbled now, I can put them back in any order I want. Or not, as the case may be.

  I stand at the cairn at the top of Stob Coire na Ceannain and shout it into mist so thick my words echo back at me: ‘THAT WILL NOT BE MY FUCKING LIFE!’ I shout it three times, until my voice breaks.

  By the time I stumble down into the relative civilisation of Spean Bridge, ten hours after crawling out of my bivvy this morning, conscious thought has dissolved into a haze of pain, cold and hunger. The only place open is the aptly named Commando Bar at the Spean Bridge Hotel, so I go inside and pointedly ignore the tourists and RMC memorabilia on the walls on my way to the Gents. Leaving little muddy pools on the floor, I pull off my boots, strip off my sodden waterproofs, shirt and socks and dig into the rucksack for dry kit. Dressed and slightly drier, I stand at the sink and hold my peat-stained hands under the warm water until my fingers thaw enough to move freely again. I down a couple more ibuprofen tablets, empty my camel pack and refill it with fresh water, then gather my gear and mop up after myself as best I can with a paper towel. At the bar I order a steak pie and boiled spuds, a pint of Best and a double Glenlivet.

  I find a seat in the back corner of the pub, subside onto the bench, splash a little water into the whisky and take a large sip. Even watered down it burns in my belly and makes me shudder, but almost immediately its heat squeezes into my bones. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the bench, slip my feet out of my unlaced boots and sit there in my socks. The voices around me melt into each other and become indistinguishable, and I doze, dream that I’m walking on a crust of deep snow into an arctic blue sky. A sky with no stars and no end, a sky that could sweep you off the earth and swallow you. Mitch is walking in front of me, leaving no footprints at all.

  Then I’m falling. I’m shouting for him but he can’t hear me. I hit some kind of bottom and my eyes pop open. My shoulders snap back against the upholstered seat. I am dizzy from the whisky and blood rushes in my ears.

  After a while my food arrives and I eat mechanically, hand to plate to mouth and back again until the white china is polished clean and the hollow ache in my belly has disappeared. I order sticky toffee pudding and coffee, finish them quickly, then slide my feet into my boots and pull on my clammy, smelly anorak. At the bar I ask for another double measure of whisky, knock it back and pay up.

  I head outside, sit on a bench and pull my phone out of my rucksack, lace up my boots while I’m listening to the voicemails. There are only three: two tremulous and frustrated messages from Janet, which I disregard, and one from Molly:

  I’m afraid I’ve turned your life on its head at a time when you needed things to be stable; it seems I have a talent for doing that to people. I hope you’re going to be okay, and I hope you come home soon. I want to talk to you about the farm. I honestly would like you
to help me with my idea. Call me, alright?

  I look up. The clouds have started to break in the face of a stiff breeze from the northwest. Gradually the hills emerge from their cloaks of mist, their snowy tops glowing pink and gold. It is light long into the evening now, so I stand, hoist my Bergen onto my back and start walking again on wobbly legs.

  XXVII

  The Commando Memorial occupies a hillside a mile or so above Spean Bridge. The three bronze soldiers stand on their plinth looking out over the commanding mass of Scotland’s highest mountains: the Grey Corries, the Aonachs and Ben Nevis, its hunched, bulky top in clear view. The only other people here are a group of young men, snapping photos of the memorial and of the sun just slipping down behind the hills. I sit on a bench for a little while, eyes on them, waiting for them to leave. They’re big, fit buggers with short hair, possibly soldiers but more likely students. They glance at me a few times and I sit there like some kind of half-cracked assassin, still enough to feel my body sway with my own pulse, pretending I’m made of stone. One guy whispers to his mate, and at last they head down the hill to the car park.

  When they’ve driven away I head for the little garden of remembrance, which has been built more recently to the side of the original memorial. It is a low, circular granite wall framing a ring of memories: flowers, impromptu crosses, wreaths of poppies, candles, photographs, faces fixed in time.

  I look at each one, walking slowly around the circle with sweating palms. I find four men I knew: snipers Ryan Brigham and Joshua Meeks, who were blown to oblivion by an American airstrike outside of Basra, Colin Richards who was shot in the head within a week of arriving in Helmand on his first operation, and Mitch. A smile like the moon in his passing out photo, a boy’s face as yet untarnished by the job he has signed himself up for. A wreath of poppies has been left under the photo, with a message on laminated plastic card: “To our Gareth. We never needed proof that you were a hero. Gorwedd mewn hedd. With love, always. Mam and Dad.”

  I drop to my knees and sit on my heels. ‘I walked here for you, you bastard. I hope you’re listening.’

  I’ve been listening to you whinging for two years now. It took you long enough.

  ‘Why did you do it, Mitch? I didn’t want you to die for me.’

  Like I said, maybe you should have watched your feet a bit more carefully that day then.

  ‘I’m sorry mate. I’m so fucking sorry. I just didn’t see it. I was tired of watching my feet. Tired of watching other guys’ backs. Just . . . tired of all of it. You know I was.’

  Would you rather I had let you cop it?

  ‘Yes.’

  Fucking get to it then, if that’s what you really want.

  I drop my pack onto the ground and pull my FS knife out of the side pocket, unsheathe it, tilt it to catch the last of the light. It’s a brutal thing, purchased years ago in a fit of pride, never used in anger except on small animals destined for a billy can.

  The wind pushes at my back like a hand and my heart thunders. I sit with my back to the stone wall, push up my sleeve and press the point into the tender skin on the inside of my elbow. Very slowly, I draw it down the length of my forearm, raising a hairline of blood. I smear the blood across my skin like finger paint. Then I draw another line parallel to the first, and then a third. Finally I pause at the blue ridge of the radial artery at the wrist. The pressure in my chest makes it hard to breathe.

  Is this your final answer, or would you like to phone a friend?

  ‘I’m not listening to this. You’re dead, alright? Shut the fuck up for once. Just stop talking!’

  If you end yourself in a Scottish sheep field I fucking swear that I will never stop talking. I will personally torment your cowardly soul for eternity.

  I press the tip down until it punctures the skin, but at the very last moment I pull the blade away from my wrist and instead drag seven inches of honed Sheffield steel across the inside of my left hand.

  The pressure releases, breath explodes from my lungs in a gasp and I shout into the gathering darkness: ‘YOU BASTARD, MITCH!’

  I open my palm to see blood seeping out of the gash, stare at it until my vision blurs and tears burn down my cheeks. ‘I fucking loved you, alright? There’s your answer.’

  I loved you too. I’d have given up women for you. What else could I have done that day?

  ‘I’d have done the same for you. You know I would.’

  I know, Nic.

  The knife falls onto the ground and I press my hands over my face, blood mixing with tears and snot. I’m rocking back and forth in the gravel, gut contracting so hard that I can barely force in a breath. It feels like I might cry forever.

  Minutes – hours – lifetimes later, I become aware of a ferocious ache in my hand and cramp in my knees. The tears begin to choke themselves off, but I am shivering with pain and cold and pure fatigue.

  ‘Mitch? You still here?’

  Are you?

  ‘Apparently.’

  What now, boss?

  I pause for a moment, listening to the wind in the trees and the cry of gulls. ‘I guess my name wasn’t on that one.’

  I could have told you that, but you wouldn’t listen.

  ‘What about you?’

  I’m tired, Sean. You’ve knackered me out.

  ‘Stay with me just a wee bit longer.’

  Alright. You’d better sort that hand out.

  My breath shakes and I’m starting to feel light-headed, possibly shocky. One-handed I dig into my pack and find the first-aid kit and head torch. I flush my hand with a little water and examine the wound; it’s long and deep and will need stitching. For now, I dab some antiseptic on it and bandage it tightly. Then I pull on my hat and jumper, coorie into my sleeping bag, sit back and nibble some chocolate. The wind cuts my cheeks and stars are appearing through the empty blue all around me. I draw my knees up to my chest and hug them.

  A crow startles to my right and I look up. Mitch is sitting beside me in his combats, long legs stretched in front of him, back against the stones and arms crossed over his chest. He appears to be sleeping, his face clean-shaven and unlined, mouth curled into a wee smile. His skin looks warm and solid enough to touch, but I don’t try. He’ll vanish if I try.

  I pull my sleeping bag up around my shoulders and lean against the stone ring beside him, wishing I could lean against him instead. My head swims and I feel like I’m fading in and out of consciousness. ‘I’m tired too, Mitch. Can I sleep now?’

  He opens his eyes and looks at me, speaks to me clearly as a living man sitting right there. ‘Do one last thing for me, bud. Send word home. Tell them you’re okay.’

  I don’t question him. I get my phone out a final time, switch it on and tap in a text to the first person that comes to mind. I hit send and shove the phone back into the bag without waiting for a response.

  ‘Alright now?’

  ‘Alright, Sean. Now get some kip.’

  I close my eyes and huddle down beside him, wondering as I have so many times before, whether we will survive the night.

  ****

  I realise through closed eyelids that the first rays of sun are spilling over the hills and, with some relief, that I am not dead. A step closer toward consciousness and I’m confronted by a parade of discomforts: pain, cold, dehydration, a numb arse and a desperately full bladder. The wind moves in the grass and down the hill the tree branches creak. My eyes are crusty with dried tears and take a minute to focus. Mitch has gone and left no indentation in the gravel to indicate he was ever here.

  ‘Mitch?’

  Nothing but the tireless wind in the grass and the ache of loss in my chest.

  It’s very tempting to swamp the sleeping bag rather than face the effort of moving. I weigh it up for a few seconds and eventually conclude that, since I have so spectacularly failed to despatch myself, I will have to walk off this hill and get myself to hospital. Probably better not to have to do it with sodden breeks.

  I take a
deep breath and my head pounds. A fearsome burn radiates from my left hand up my arm. The bandage is stained with fresh blood, so I clutch my hand to my chest and slowly uncross my cramped legs, pull them toward me and struggle out of the bag. My legs feel about as substantial as wet spaghetti as I stagger a few steps away, pee into the heather, then lurch back and subside onto my sleeping bag again. I gulp a couple of ibuprofens and most of my remaining water. The earth spins beneath me and I lean back, close my eyes and sit very still, fighting down a wave of nausea.

  I doze again and wake to the bleep of my phone in my pack. I groan, then pull out the phone and squint at the words on the screen:

  Was sleeping-- just got your text. Where the F are you? And don’t say it if you don’t mean it. P.

  Then I read the text that I only vaguely remember sending her last night:

  I am alive. I love you too. Will call you tomorrow. S.

  ‘Jesus,’ I mutter. That’s me committed then. I rub my cheek, consider my next move and after a moment, text her again:

  Heading into Ft William. Hopefully catch train to E-burgh today. Don’t want to go to Janet’s. Can I come to yours? PS- I did mean it.

  The reply is almost immediate: Yes.

  I pocket the phone. My head feels a little clearer, but my hand is throbbing and sticky. Cautiously I turn my palm up and open my fingers to have a look. They move freely, which means I probably haven’t sliced any tendons, but the bandage is gory and saturated. I pack it with cotton wool, wrap the last of my gauze around it and pull it tight. I splash a little water onto a fleece towel, scrub my face, then do my best to stow my gear one handed.

  The sleeping bag proves impossible, so I fold it and lay it beside Mitch’s picture. Then I tear a page out of my little notebook and write on it:

  Sleep well, mate. And thanks (Kajaki, Afghanistan, 27/04/2009). SMcN.