Walking Wounded

by Lee Rowan

  They’d finally realized that no matter how readily they might agree on other things, this was one subject that would always divide them. So they dropped it, made love frantically for the few days they had left, and parted on more or less amiable terms.

  The parting of ways didn’t change how John felt about Kevin, but time and distance had put an end to the relationship. They had exchanged a couple of brief, superficial e-mails—of course, they had never been indiscreet enough to write anything, anywhere, that might be considered compromising—but there had been so little left to say. I thought I knew you. I thought I understood you. Or, more truthfully, I thought you knew me. I thought you cared enough to stay with me.

  And that brought John back to the mystery of the phone call. Why now, after all these years? What was there left to say?

  Or was Kevin waiting for John to say, “You were right”?

  No problem there. He had been right. Diagnosis: Delayed Stress Syndrome resulting from Military Impotence. Take two Viagra and a bottle of sleeping pills, call the doctor in the morning if you’re still alive.

  Yes, Kev, you were right. And if I know you, you’ll say, “I wish I’d been wrong.”

  John jittered away a quarter of an hour, trying to see the humor in a sitcom that was the least annoying offering, but finally gave up. The sole point seemed to be that no matter how bad your life was, this family was worse, and watching the actors snipe at one another was more painful than amusing. There was a football match on as well, but he could no longer tolerate that fierce conflict over something so meaningless as kicking a ball from one end of a field to the other. Not after watching that same us-and-them intensity turn ordinary men into genocidal monsters.

  I liked sports, once.

  I used to have a sense of humor.

  But something else had not changed at all, despite all that had happened. One thing he had tried to forget that now assumed enormous importance.

  I still love him. Want him.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  He ought to apply himself to his books to pass the time. He’d put that statistics course off as long as he possibly could, but he had to pass it to graduate. And he had to study to pass. And of all the classes he had taken, this was the one he really did not want to take a second time. Study was imperative.

  But not tonight. He’d need full concentration to prepare for next week’s test, and his mind kept presenting him with distractions. So many years ago, but the memory was so sharp, it could have been last week.

  There were other memories along that trail, more recent ones. A woman newly released from hospital, one eye gone, thanking Hanson in broken English for seeing to it that her murdered husband had been buried decently instead of being left to rot in pieces. “He was my life….” The woman wept, holding her surviving child in her arms. “What will I do now?”

  Why was she asking him? “Keep going. Keep him alive in your memory. Raise his son to remember his father. Just live one day at a time, what else can you do?”

  It was the most honest thing he could have said. It was how he had been surviving, one day after another, ever since Kevin had gone. Whether his words had helped that poor woman, who could say? He had not known the couple at all; he had seen the little family walking past his guard station on their way home every day, and that was all he knew of either of them. He’d been standing there, supposedly guarding the peace, when the Serb truck drove by and gunned down half a dozen innocent civilians. But he wasn’t allowed to shoot at them; he was a Peacekeeper. Armed, dangerous, and hamstrung. All he was allowed to do was bury the victims. He’d given the widow the standard information on refugee assistance, in case she’d wanted to leave, but she told him she had nowhere to go.

  He was glad, after he got back to England, that he had at least tried to help her. There had been so little he could do for anyone, to stop the soul-numbing brutality. Serbs returning headless bodies under a flag of truce, then playing football with their victims’ heads just over the no-pass line, in full sight of the bereaved families—how could anything have prepared him for that? So many people he’d met, stupid people turned into monsters, decent people trying to make some kind of a life under impossible conditions. So many of them dead now. And here he was, sitting, waiting, afraid to hope—

  Even though he’d expected it, the doorbell’s ring sent him a foot into the air.

  Chapter 2

  JOHN GLANCED around the room, noticing the clutter now. He should have tidied up, but there was nothing to be done for it at this point. Same for his loose gray sweatshirt and pants; at least they were clean. He brushed a few biscuit crumbs off the old denim quilt that he kept folded over the back of the futon, shrugged, and clattered down two flights of steps to answer the door.

  He opened it without checking and found himself awash in a spicy wave of fragrance, nostalgia, and hunger. A stray thought reminded him that scent-associated memories were very powerful because the olfactory nerve went directly from nose to brain, and he wondered if he’d been studying too much lately.

  “I didn’t think to ask,” Kevin said over an armful of grease-spotted paper bags, “but it occurred to me you might have eaten already and I haven’t, so I stopped for a takeaway.”

  “I haven’t,” John said, embarrassed at his oversight. “Sorry, Kev, I should have cooked something—”

  “There’s plenty.” Kevin smiled tentatively. “I remember you always get ravenous late at night.”

  That made him very happy for some reason, and they stood there for a moment, eyes locked, until John realized his bare feet were freezing. “Come on, then!” He shook off the paralysis and reached for the paper bags, noticing Kevin had a blue carryall over his left shoulder. His heart took a leap. He turned to the stairway to cover his emotions. “I’m at the top, penthouse level. Lots of healthful exercise and cheap rent.” He could hear his heart pounding as they ascended the stairs, but not from exercise. “So how’ve you been?”

  No reply. Maybe he hadn’t heard. Kevin followed him up to the flat, stepped inside, and stood quietly as John locked the door, then trailed along to the tiny kitchenette and took the covered foil tins out of the bag while John fetched plates from the cabinet.

  “Coat hook’s behind the door,” John said over his shoulder.

  Kevin hung his jacket, dropped his canvas bag beneath it, and said, without preamble, “You were right, Johnny.”

  John nearly dropped the crockery. “What?”

  “You were right. About the SAS.”

  “I’m sorry.” He set the plates down and said the only thing he could. “Well, you were right too.”

  Kevin made a choked sound that must have been meant as a laugh. “For a couple of smart officers who were both right, we made quite a balls-up, didn’t we?”

  He looked at Kevin then, really looked, and saw how tightly wound his friend was. Saw the pain. Easy enough to recognize that, yes, indeed. “What happened, Kev? I don’t understand.”

  Kevin was incredulous. “You don’t? What, haven’t you watched the news in the last couple of weeks? Read about the Court of Inquiry?”

  “Court—my God—you?” He could not imagine Kevin doing anything so dreadful that he would be subjected to something like that. “No, I haven’t. Nothing.”

  “You’re serious?”

  John swallowed. It hadn’t taken long to get to this point. He had hoped they might at least have a little while together before he was forced to give up what had been and reveal his lovely new flaws. “No. I—I mean, yes, I’m serious, and no, I almost never watch the news anymore. And I don’t read much of the paper. I’m a refugee from the information age.” That earned him a slight grin, so he explained. “I had a choice: give up beer for Prozac, or give up the nightly news and keep the beer. I don’t much miss the news.”

  Kevin stared at him disbelievingly, and then the lines of strain on his face shifted. A snicker escaped. “Really?”

  “It’s not funny!”


  “I’m… I’m not laughing.” But he was. “Christ, Johnny, that’s brilliant! Wish I’d thought of it!” He sobered almost immediately. “Wouldn’t have done much good, though….”

  John wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Well, that food smells good—be a shame to let it get cold. Let’s eat now. You can tell me what happened later, if you want to.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to. One good thing about a media disaster, I don’t have to keep you in the dark. I don’t think anyone’s resigned so publicly since Edward traded his crown for Wallis Simpson. But you’re right; the whole story may sit better on a full stomach.”

  “Beer?” Decent beer was his one indulgence, and he had a couple weeks’ worth in the cabinet.

  “Yes. I could use it.” Kevin’s mouth tightened, not quite a smile. “I’ve made it a point not to drink alone, right now. Too easy to slide over the edge.”

  John wanted to ask what had happened but realized he would get the answer eventually. So he pulled out two bottles and asked, “What did you get for us?”

  “Bread, mixed veg curry, saag paneer, and some chicken tikka for you.”

  He laughed. “What, you’ve gone veggie on me?”

  Kevin bit his lip. “On our last action, we had casualties. Two of my men were killed. I stood there staring at the bodies—couldn’t believe they were dead, you know?” He closed his eyes briefly. “Stupid, isn’t it? The next time I sat down and ordered chops, I took one look and ran for the loo, heaved my boots up. It’s nothing to do with the animal; I just keep seeing them lying there, dead. Just… meat.”

  “Ah, love—” Half his mind was screaming to stop before he ruined everything, but he couldn’t. It was only a step across the little space, and then he had Kevin in his arms, holding him as a floodgate of tears burst loose. So strange—how long had it been since he’d been the one weeping out the horrors? “It’s all right, Kev, don’t worry, it’s just me, you can’t possibly be more fucked-up than I’ve been.”

  Arms snaked around his ribs, Kevin hanging on for dear life. John leaned back against the cooker, holding him, drinking in the closeness but damning the cause. “One of my men—when we got back—same thing. He couldn’t even defrost a chop. It’s nothing wrong with you, it’s just sensory overload. It eases, in time….”

  “Sorry,” Kevin mumbled against his neck. “Didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s all right,” he said again. “I know what you mean. It’s the blood. The smell. Gets into your nose….” Odd, now that he thought of it. When he ate meat himself, he always made certain it was cooked through. And spicy, loaded down with any sort of sauce. It didn’t have that rank, dead smell when it was spicy.

  “Well.” Kevin’s arms fell away, and he straightened. “I didn’t realize—sorry. Blood sugar’s down, I think. Haven’t eaten all day. I had to go and clear out my office, and I didn’t see any point in embarrassing myself further.” Even now, Kevin didn’t look like a man walking the razor’s edge. As always, he was impeccable: a tailored shirt open at the collar, V-neck cashmere sweater, well-pressed trousers, and sports jacket. He could have just stepped out of a faculty lounge or off the pages of a gentlemen’s magazine. But the pain was there in his eyes, in the tightness of his mouth.

  “Sit down, then.” John put a bottle in his hand and pointed to the futon. “I’ll dish this up.”

  Kevin had finished the beer before John got the plates filled. He’d found a set of four folding trays at a thrift shop, though this was the first occasion he’d had to use more than one of them. He balanced both plates on one tray and dropped the second onto his friend’s knees, sliding Kevin’s plate down when the tray stopped joggling. “Here. Get some of this into you. I’ll get you another bottle.”

  “‘Malt,’” Kevin said, “‘does more than Milton can, to justify God’s ways to man.’”

  “Glad to hear it.” He put the food and beer carton on a third tray and settled himself on the futon with everything in easy reach. If Kevin needed to get drunk, this was the safest time and place he could find. Safe from the world? a mocking voice in his head inquired. Or safe from you?

  I’m not going to hurt him. Of that he was sure. But how could he judge? Here he was, still trying to get himself back to something approaching normal, presuming to know what was best for his dearest friend and erstwhile lover. Yes, he wanted to take Kevin in his arms, take him to bed, reach back to that time before they were both so badly damaged. But his own motives should be examined. The ethical injunction against treating one’s own family had a sound basis.

  Then again, if Kevin had wanted an Army psych doc, he would surely have had access to one. The SAS might even have insisted on it. But he came here instead. Or maybe after they were through with him.

  He came back to me. The thought simultaneously warmed and frightened him, and he set it aside for a little while to enjoy the Indian food. Interesting that Kevin had chosen this echo of their first time, the same sort of food but not the same selections. He had brought all John’s favorites too. He’d remembered.

  They both ate ravenously and finished off a few more beers. “I forgot dessert,” Kevin said at last.

  “Too full right now.” John set the tray down beside his feet. “There might be ice cream in the freezer.”

  “You’re right. Maybe later.” Kevin relaxed against the cushions, staring upward. “D’you know there’s a spider on your ceiling?”

  “Good. It’ll keep the flies away.” He leaned back too, suddenly aware of how close Kevin was. He could smell Kevin’s aftershave, something new that blended deliciously with the food’s aromas, could hear the faint exhalation of his breath, even sense the warmth rising off his body. He turned slightly, just to look at him, and saw that Kevin was watching him too.

  “Your hair’s longer.” Kevin touched John’s short pigtail. “I like it, but—?”

  “I didn’t want to look like a soldier anymore. Saves on haircuts too—I can trim the front myself.” He ran his fingers through Kevin’s shorter military cut. His hair looked nearly brown now, not the dark blond it had been years back. “You need to get out in the sun more often.”

  “I suppose I do. This past year….” He sighed. “It’s been like living under a rock.”

  “And I don’t suppose you’re allowed to talk about it.”

  “Not much, no. This last mess—yes, some of it. But not right now.”

  The expression in his eyes said well enough what he’d like to do now; it didn’t need to be spoken. They slowly leaned in toward one another, but John’s scruples got the better of him, and he put a hand on Kevin’s cheek. “Kev, not that I don’t want to—but are you sure?”

  In answer Kevin seized him by the hair and devoured his mouth. Right or wrong, he was sure. And John had never been more certain of anything in his life. He’s using you, that nasty little voice in his head told him smugly. He wants to feel alive, and he knows you’ll do that for him.

  Yes, he acknowledged. I suppose he does. And if I can, I will! And what’s wrong with that? A fierce resentment at the whole notion of clinical detachment flashed through him, and he let Kevin’s need pull him out of his intellect and back into his body. How long had it been? Too long. Years. It was all very well for a psychiatrist to tell him he needed to work on his own emotions first, but unless you had someone else to exercise those emotions with, what was the point?

  And it was so sweet, better than his favorite memories. There was nothing in the world to match the taste of Kevin’s mouth. He ran his hands up under Kevin’s sweater, tugged the tail of his shirt free so he could slide his hand in to stroke that sensitive spot at the base of Kevin’s spine. Kev shivered, and the two of them started to slide sideways. Then Kevin let out a yelp.

  “What’s wrong?” John gasped, untangling himself.

  Halfway on top of him, Kevin shifted his weight. “Right arm. I’ve got to be careful. Don’t worry, it’s almost healed.”

  Our last action. We had casualties
…. John’s blood turned to ice water. “My God, you were shot?” His hand shook as he reached to touch the sleeve. “How? When?”

  “Tell you later. Not now, Johnny, please….” Kevin grabbed John’s sweatshirt with both hands, demonstrating that he could use the arm. It was not terribly obvious that the right arm didn’t move quite as easily as the left, and John pretended not to notice, shivering as the cool air hit his bare skin. “It’s nearly well,” Kevin said. “Just don’t flop over on it.”

  The hem of the shirt caught John’s chin; while he was untangling himself, Kevin took advantage of the distraction, pushing him flat and lunging on top of him like he was going for a goal, nuzzling hungrily at the juncture of neck and shoulder, and John had to laugh. “Kevin, if you want something, just ask.”

  Pulling a cushion under his own head, he held Kevin close, careful this time to let that right arm dangle over the edge. He’d been surprised, their first time together, at how strong Kevin was despite the difference in their height. He wasn’t surprised now, just relieved that Kevin seemed his old eager self. Whatever else had befallen them, that at least had not changed.

  He stopped trying to think and just let himself feel—the warm mouth and cool breath on his throat sending shivers down his spine, the soft brush of the sweater on his belly, the hardness against his thigh. It was happening faster than he expected, faster than he’d hoped, maybe faster than he wanted—but he would have died sooner than stop it.

  Kevin’s mouth slid up the side of his jaw; their lips met again, and he was overwhelmed, wrapping his arms and legs around Kev, hardly believing it was real but determined to hold on. He should get his pants off, he should get Kevin out of those clothes, they really should—and what about a condom?—but it was too late, he had Kev’s arse in both hands, and they were rocking together, lunging against each other. Release swept over him in a rush, Kevin cried out, and for a little while, it felt as though they’d melted into a single heap of warm flesh and rumpled clothing.