The Game

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Well, I don’t want us to finish either. I love you too. It would make me so happy if you did this one thing. You shouldn’t think about it so much, it is only doing what you and I do, but without the love. That should make it easy, no?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I do want you to be happy and I do want us to be together.’

  ‘Then it’s easy, Jemima. You work for me and we save and then we go forever!’

  ‘To our house by the sea?’

  ‘To our house by the sea. Where we can sit in the garden and make barbeque and dance under the stars.’ He gripped her hand.

  She smiled. It sounded lovely.

  ~

  Neil managed to stay away for two days. On the third, he finished his rounds and pulled up on the edge of the road around the corner from the chicken shop. He hadn’t slept for two nights, mulling over the options, trying to decide what to do next. He had come up with a plan. He figured that if he could just get her to come home, they could work on her, persuade her and make it so comfortable that she wouldn’t ever want to be anywhere else. He would tell her about the caravan holiday that they could book and the iPod they would buy her. She could leave school; do whatever. Nothing mattered more than getting her home and keeping her safe.

  ~

  Gemma applied her make-up in the bathroom mirror. Alyssa watched and smiled, nodding her approval as Gemma painted her lips a glossy red.

  ‘You look beautiful!’

  Gemma smiled, embarrassed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. And such a great little figure. This will be easy for you, Jemima.’

  Gemma pulled at the short denim skirt that kept riding up and tried to make the gap between the over-the-knee boots and the skirt smaller. She swigged at the little glass of vodka that Alyssa had poured her; it certainly helped soothe her nerves and made the whole event feel like a bit of an adventure.

  ~

  Neil sent a text to Gemma’s mobile.

  I am around the corner, Gemma, on the edge of Praed Street and Junction Place. I’m in the van and would dearly love to talk to you, Gem. If you don’t want to come home, that’s fine, but this is our chance to wipe the slate clean and start over. You would make Mum and me the happiest people on the planet. We love you and we miss you and nothing else really matters. Please, Gemma, come to the van. I shall wait for you. Dad x

  ~

  Gemma stepped from the bathroom.

  Vassili stood in the corridor and whistled. ‘Wow! Jemima, you look so hot! Really hot!’

  She looked at Alyssa, embarrassed by her boyfriend’s attentions.

  ‘Do I?’ She wasn’t sure.

  ‘Ay ay ay, you are perfect and you shall earn so much money that it will only be matter of time.’ He winked at her.

  They had agreed not to tell Alyssa of their plans to leave London and go to the seaside. She felt her cheeks flush. Alyssa had talked her through the ropes; there was a long list of dos and don’ts. It was just business, a job. The secret was not to think about it too much.

  Alyssa slipped a little white oval into her palm. ‘Take this, Jemima, it will make it easier for you.’

  Gemma popped the tablet on her tongue and washed it down with the last of the vodka. She was all set. Climbing down the stairs in her high heels, she felt invincible and sexy. This was life. This was living.

  Vassili called from the top landing. ‘I’ll be waiting for you, hot chick!’

  She waved up at him through the stairwell. She sauntered out of the front door and strolled along Praed Street, enjoying the looks that she got from every pair of male eyes and feeling a swell of excitement in her stomach that she had never experienced before. She crossed over and her phone buzzed in her bag.

  There was a text from Vas: Tonight, you are so beautiful.

  She smiled. Tonight she felt beautiful.

  There was another text. She opened it and the breath caught in her throat. It was from her dad and he was close. Gemma looked up. There were two white vans in the road, parked one in front of the other, and a gap of three yards between them.

  Gemma headed towards them and as she got closer she could make out the ‘Delivery Devils’ logo on the back door. Walking slowly, she tried to decide what to do for the best. It was confusing, her head swam. She loved Vassili and wanted the life he promised her, a grown-up life by the seaside. But going home to Ennerdale Close where there would be clean sheets, her little sister and hot water on demand, it would be so cosy. The memory of school life pawed behind her eyes, when all she’d had to worry about was writing essays and meeting her friends.

  Gemma approached the vehicles and could make out the shape of her dad’s head in the driver’s seat. Her heart lurched and her stomach flipped. Daddy… She smiled.

  Suddenly the passenger door of the first van opened and the driver leant across. ‘You working, love?’

  The man was in his mid-thirties, not badly dressed. He was holding a roll of bank notes.

  Gemma was rendered immobile, unsure which path to take: back to safety and boredom or onwards on her adventure with the man she loved, a man who loved her.

  ‘I said, are you working, love?’

  ~

  Neil indicated and steered the van into the driveway. He put his key in the lock and watched as Jackie twisted her body towards the sound.

  ‘Any news?’ she asked in her usual strained yet hopeful tone.

  Neil stood for a second in the doorway, casting his eyes around the room as if it was strange to him. He walked past her and reached down towards the lamp on its little table by the side of the sofa.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Jackie’s voice was accusatory, incredulous.

  ‘I’m turning off the lamp!’

  ‘No you are not! You can’t, you know how she feels about the dark, we need to keep it on just in—’

  He shook his head, as his finger and thumb clicked against the little black bar. ‘No, no we don’t, not anymore.’ He placed his finger over her lips. ‘She’s not coming home. She’s never coming home, Jacks.’

  Neil knew that he would take the image to his grave; his little girl climbing into the seat of the van behind him, looking like any other tart. A part of him had died.

  He fell onto the sofa, too defeated to cry. Jackie wrapped him in her arms. He buried his head in her lap, gripping her clothes, clinging on for all he was worth, a man silently drowning in his sorrow. Jackie stroked the hair away from his forehead.

  She spoke softly and slowly into the darkness that enveloped them.

  ‘I wonder what I did wrong, y’know. I think about it all the time. I try and think about what I should have done differently, but the thing is, if you don’t know that you are doing anything wrong, then you just keep doing it, don’t you? I thought it was all about making her comfy, making her feel special, but I don’t know anything any more. I keep thinking, Neil, about that night. All those people clapping and going crazy. I never knew I could be so proud. It was incredible, wasn’t it?’

  Neil sniffed and raised his head. ‘It was, Jacks. She was unbelievable.’

  Jackie smiled. ‘Yes she was, unbelievable.’

  The two sat in the dark, enjoying a closeness that had been missing for some time. They must have dozed off eventually and were woken by a small voice that cracked the darkness.

  ‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’

  Jackie gasped as a sob leapt from her throat. She reached out and clicked on the lamp and there she was, as if magicked from the night, looking thin and bone weary, haunted and lost, but home. Home where she belonged.

  If you haven’t already read the other stories in Amanda Prowse’s gripping No Greater Love sequence, read on or click the links below for previews of

  Poppy Day

  What Have I Done?

  Clover’s Child

  and

  A Little Love

  Poppy Day — Preview

  Read on for the first chapter of

  How far would you go to bring home th
e one you love?

  A gripping story of loss and courage from army wife Amanda Prowse.

  1

  The major yanked first at one cuff and then the other, ensuring three-eighths of an inch was visible beneath his tunic sleeves. With his thumb and forefinger he circled his lips, finishing with a small cough, designed to clear the throat. He nodded in the direction of the door, indicating to the accompanying sergeant that he could proceed. He was ready.

  ‘Coming!’ Poppy cast the sing-song word over her shoulder in the direction of the hallway, once again making a mental note to fix the front door bell as the internal mechanism grated against the loose, metal cover. The intensely irritating sound had become part of the rhythm of the flat. She co-habited with an orchestra of architectural ailments, the stars of which were the creaking hinge of the bedroom door, the dripping bathroom tap and the whirring extractor fan that now extracted very little.

  Poppy smiled and looped her hair behind her ears. It was probably Jenna, who would often nip over during her lunch break. Theirs was a comfortable camaraderie, arrived at after many years of friendship; no need to wash up cups, hide laundry or even get dressed, they interacted without inhibition or pretence. Poppy prepped the bread and counted the fish fingers under the grill, working out how to make two sandwiches instead of one, an easy calculation. She felt a swell of happiness.

  The front door bell droned again, ‘All right! All right!’ Poppy licked stray blobs of tomato ketchup from the pads of her thumbs and laughed at the impatient digit that jabbed once more at the plastic circle on the outside wall.

  Tossing the checked tea towel onto the work surface, she stepped into the hallway and looked through the safety glass at the top of the door, opaque through design and a lack of domesticity. Poppy slowed down until almost stationary, squinting at the scene in front of her, as though by altering her viewpoint, she could change the sight that greeted her. Her heart fluttered in an irregular beat. Placing a flattened palm against her breastbone, she tried to bring calm to her flustered pulse. The surge of happiness disappeared, forming a ball of ice that sank down into the base of her stomach, filling her bowels with a cold dread. Poppy wasn’t looking at the silhouette of her friend; not a ponytail in sight. Instead, there were two shapes, two men, two soldiers.

  She couldn’t decide whether to turn and switch off the grill or continue to the front door and let them in. The indecision rendered her useless. She concentrated on staying present, feeling at any point she might succumb to the maelstrom within her mind. The whirling confusion threatened to make her faint. She shook her head, trying to order her thoughts. It worked.

  She wondered how long they would be, how long it would all take. There were fish fingers to eat and she was due back at the salon in half an hour with a shampoo and set arriving in forty minutes. Poppy thought it strange how an ordinary day could be made so very extraordinary. She knew the small details of every action, usually forgotten after one sleep, would stay with her forever; each minute aspect indelibly etching itself on her memory. The way her toes flexed and stiffened inside her soft, red socks, the pop and sizzle of her lunch under the grill and the way the TV was suddenly far too loud.

  She considered the hazy outlines of her as yet unseen visitors and her thoughts turned to the fact that her home wasn’t tidy. She wished she wasn’t cooking fish. It would only become curious in hindsight that she had been worried about minutiae when the reason for their visit was so much more important than a cooking aroma and a concern that some cushions might have been improperly plumped.

  Columbo was on TV. She hadn’t been watching; it was instead a comforting background noise. She had done that a lot since Martin went away, switching on either the TV or radio as soon as she stepped through the door; anything other than endure the silence of a life lived alone. She hated that.

  Poppy looked again to confirm that there were two of them; thus reinforcing what she thought she already knew. It is a well-known code; a letter for good news, telephone call for minor incident, a visit from one soldier for quite bad, two for the very worst.

  She noted the shapes that stood the other side of her door. One was a regular soldier, identifiable by his hat; the other was a bloke of rank, an officer. She didn’t recognise either of their outlines, strangers. She knew what they were going to say before they spoke, before one single word had been uttered; their stance was awkward and unnatural.

  Her mind flew to the cardboard box hidden under the bed. In it was underwear, lacy, tarty pieces that Martin had chosen. She would throw them away; there would be no need for them any more, no more anniversaries, birthdays or special Sunday mornings when the world was reduced to a square of mattress, a corner of duvet and the skin of the man she loved.

  Poppy wasn’t sure how long she took to reach for the handle, but had the strangest feeling that with each step taken, the door moved slightly further away.

  She slid the chain with a steady hand; it hadn’t been given a reason to shake, not yet. Opening the door wide, it banged against the inside wall. The tarnished handle found its regular groove in the plasterwork. Ordinarily, she would only have opened it a fraction, enough to peek out and see who was there, but this was no ordinary situation and with two soldiers on the doorstep, what harm could she come to? Poppy stared at them. They were pale, twitchy. She looked past them, over the concrete, third-floor walkway and up at the sky, knowing that these were the last few seconds that her life would be intact. She wanted to enjoy the feeling, confident that once they had spoken, everything would be broken. She gazed at the perfect blue, daubed with the merest wisp of cloud. It was beautiful, really beautiful.

  The two men appraised her as she stared over their heads into the middle distance. It was the first few seconds in which they would form their opinion. One of them noted her wrinkled, freckled nose, her clear, open expression. The other considered the grey slabs amid which she stood and registered the fraying cuff of her long-sleeved T-shirt.

  Their training told them to expect a number of varied responses; from fainting or rage to extreme distress, each had a prescribed treatment and procedure. This was their worst scenario, the disengaged, silent recipient with delayed reactions, much harder for them to predict.

  Poppy thought about the night before her husband left for Afghanistan, wishing that she could go back to then and do it differently. She had watched his mechanical actions, saw him smooth the plastic-wrapped, mud-coloured, Boy Scout paraphernalia that was destined for its sandy desert home. A place she couldn’t picture, in a life that she was barred from. She didn’t notice how his fingertips lingered on the embroidered roses of their duvet cover, the last touch to a thing of feminine beauty that for him meant home, meant Poppy.

  Martin was packing his rucksack which was propped open on their bed when he started to whistle. Poppy didn’t recognise the tune. She stared at his smiling, whistling face as he folded his clothes and wash kit into the voluminous, khaki cavern. He paused to push his non-existent fringe out of his eyes. Like the man that’s lost a finger, but still rubs the gap to relieve the cold, so Martin raked hair that was now shorn.

  Poppy couldn’t decipher his smile, but it was enough to release the torrent that had been gathering behind her tongue. Any casual observer might have surmised that he was going on holiday with the boys, not off to a war zone.

  ‘Are you happy, Mart? In fact, ignore me, that’s a silly question, of course you are because this is what you wanted isn’t it? Leaving me, your mates and everything else behind for half a year while you play with guns.’

  Poppy didn’t know what she expected him to say, but she’d hoped he would say something. She wanted him to pull her close, tell her that this was the last thing he wanted to do and that he didn’t want to leave her, or at the very least that he wished he could take her with him. Something, anything that would make things feel better. Instead, he said nothing, did nothing.

  ‘Did you hear me, Mart? I was asking if you were finally happy now yo
ur plan is coming together, the big fantastic future that you’ve been dreaming of.’

  ‘Poppy please…’

  ‘Don’t you dare "Poppy please", don’t ask me for anything or expect me to understand because I don’t! This is what you signed up for; this is what it means, Mart, you pissing off to some godforsaken bit of desert, leaving me stuck here. This is what I’ve been trying to tell you since you walked through the door in your bloody suit with your secret little mission complete!’

  ‘It won’t be forever.’ His voice was small; his eyes fixed on the floor.

  Poppy noted his blank expression, as if it was the first time it had occurred to him that she might need him too. This only made her angrier because it might have only just occurred to him, but she had been thinking of nothing else.

  ‘I don’t care how long it’s for. Don’t you get it? Whether it’s for one night or one year, it’s too long. You are leaving me here with the junkies on the stairs and the boring bloody winter nights. All I’ve got to look forward to is sitting with my bonkers nan. So you go, Mart, and get this little adventure out of your system, prove whatever it is that you need to prove. Don’t worry about me. I can look after myself, but you know that, right?’

  She didn’t want to argue, preferring instead to clamp her arms around his neck and hang on. She wanted to press her lips really hard onto his and kiss him, storing those kisses away for the times when she would miss him the most. Her ache had grown so physical that she shook; the tremors fed a growing anger.

  In the aftermath of Martin’s departure, Poppy felt some small relief that he had gone. The dread of his imminent exodus disappeared, replaced with the reality of his absence which, initially, was somehow easier to bear. She replayed the words of their argument, considered their actions… She did that, knowing the only person that suffered because of her obsessional recalling of the details was her.

  Martin called it sulking, but for her the silent musings were a way of trying to figure out what happened and why, looking for an answer or at least some kind of rational explanation. Sometimes of course there wasn’t one, a row just happens because of tiredness, an irritation or a million other inconsequential things.