Rain

by Barney Campbell

  ‘I don’t feel so clever now.’ He smiled, but a thought nagged him. ‘Mate?’

  ‘Yeah, pal?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything weird last night, did I? I mean, apart from hurling abuse at some bouncers. Did I talk about Afghan?’

  ‘Why do you want to know? Surely you know what you think.’

  ‘No. That’s the thing. I don’t know what I think about it – under all the layers, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, mate. You talked about your lads a lot. Like, a lot. Jesus, it feels as if I know them as well as you do, the amount of time you spent on them – Trueman, Dusty, Dav, GV– whoever those crazy cats are. I could write their reports myself.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not much. Banging on about how Mickey Mouse the ANA are, but that ain’t exactly revolutionary.’

  ‘But was there anything else, like more deep-rooted? Like, about fear and stuff?’

  ‘Well. You talked about contacts and IEDs blah blah, but all pretty normal, mate.’ He broke off, remembering something. ‘There was something else actually. You were talking about it on the walk back here.’

  ‘What, what?’

  ‘You were talking about the Taliban lad in black and white you killed in that town. Again, just what you wrote about in the bluey. How you kept dreaming of him, having nightmares about him and how when you killed him you felt invincible.’

  ‘And?’

  Will looked back into the pan and flipped some slices of bacon. ‘I don’t want to say, mate.’

  ‘No. I need to hear this.’

  Will got some plates out of the cupboard and the noise cut between them. He sighed. ‘You said how you were scared that he was still alive, that you hadn’t actually killed him even though you had seen the body. Like he was still around, like a ghost.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  A couple of hours later and feeling somewhere approaching normal, Tom was waiting for Cassie in the Italian restaurant just behind her house at the kink in the King’s Road. He was early, she was late, but he didn’t mind and sat recovering some strength with a hair-of-the-dog vodka and tonic. She came breezing in, squealed and as he got up hugged him, lifting her knees up behind her and making him take all her weight, in front of the whole room. Tom would have felt like a film star had he not then almost lost his balance and knocked into the table next to theirs.

  ‘Well hello, hero. Look at you! You look amazing.’ She stroked his arm and exclaimed, ‘My, what big arms we have!’

  ‘No, I don’t. I look like a skeleton. You look incredible though. Where’s the tan from? That skiing trip?’

  ‘Yep. Four weeks old but still got it.’

  ‘How were Pongo, Bongo and Mongo?’

  ‘Fine, fine, since you ask. Better than ever really.’

  ‘What about my old mate Jonty – was he there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Not too bad. Slightly chastened whenever I mentioned you. Still don’t think you’re number one on his Christmas-card list.’

  ‘Yeah, I didn’t get one.’

  They ordered, and the food arrived. She talked on and on, telling him all about London, about her new job, about Christmas. After twenty minutes she stopped herself. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it; all I’m doing is banging on about me. How are you? What’s it like? Or is that not the kind of question I’m meant to be asking?’

  ‘No, no. It’s great to talk about something that isn’t Afghan, to be honest. Seriously. You get so blinkered by it.’ He then unloaded on her all the events of the tour, and she sat rapt, half through shock, half through interest.

  He was in a really good mood, left out all the bad stuff and concentrated on the funny moments. She laughed at all the right bits, looked tense at all the right bits, and when he was really milking the stories for all they were worth leaned forward and grasped his forearm.

  Around the restaurant sat people huddled up against the winter, with pasty and sun-starved skin, sniffling and coughing into their food and drink. Cassie shone out against them. She had changed her hair since the summer; it was shorter, more businesslike. Tom had always thought of her as a girl, just as he had always thought of himself as a boy, but, watching as she whispered about the other diners and flirted with the waiter, he realized she had changed. He still felt like a boy around her, though.

  She noticed him drift away and kicked him under the table. ‘Tom! Pay attention!’

  ‘Ow! I am.’

  ‘OK, what was I just saying?’

  ‘Um, er, what were you saying?’

  She kicked him harder. ‘You are such an oaf. You’ve been staring at my breasts for about a minute, you utter perv.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Tom, everyone in the restaurant could see you drooling over me. Have you not seen any women in the last five months?’

  ‘Let me think.’ Tom thought about the American girl in Kandahar but decided it might be best not to mention her. He remembered Corporal Claydon, way back in September, getting her foot blown off. Best leave that aside too. He was desperate not to talk about casualties as he knew that when those floodgates opened there’d be no stopping him. ‘I suppose there are a few artillery girls in our base, but they’re all like East German shot-putters. All the Afghans are covered up in burkas. It’s a shame really, because you can tell they’re utterly beautiful. But you only get that from looking at the young girls, before they’re taken away to work in the house. There’s this girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, down at this base we have called Eiger. She has the prettiest face of anyone I’ve ever seen; you can just tell she’s going to grow up into an absolute babe. Sorry.’ He grinned. ‘My lingo’s shocking. I mean beautiful woman. Blame the lads for that.’

  ‘Well at least try to be a tiny bit more civilized than a dribbling caveman. Come on, let’s go.’ She winked at the waiter for the bill.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Surprise. Come on, slowcoach.’ As they left she looked at him disapprovingly. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You haven’t got a coat.’

  ‘I know. I’m fine.’

  ‘I promise you, where we’re going you’re going to freeze.’

  ‘Oh no. Please don’t say we’re going ice skating. I’ll just break my wrist and end up in Selly Oak next to properly wounded lads from Afghan.’

  ‘No, somewhere else. But you will need a coat. We can go home for one. You can borrow one of Daddy’s.’

  The thought of meeting her father was less than thrilling.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, recognizing his reluctance. ‘Mum and Dad are out skiing themselves at the moment. They’re not back until Wednesday.’

  They went to her house. Even in the bright afternoon sunshine it still cast a menacing shadow over the street. Detached and huge, with its dark brickwork it reminded Tom of the kind of place where one of Sherlock Holmes’ enemies might live. He smiled as he remembered how scared he had been of her father when he was a student. In a way Tom was disappointed he was going to miss him. He now seemed a pantomime figure of fun, to laugh at instead of run away from, with his snobbery and disdain for the army.

  They went in and he chose a ridiculous ankle-length coat made of a thick herringbone tweed in an almost white grey, with a black velvet collar perfectly in keeping with her father’s peacocking. He put it on and nearly drowned in it. But it was very warm, and he wished he had had it out on the desert patrols in Afghan. He started out the door.

  ‘Leave your bag here.’ She pointed to his rucksack.

  ‘Oh yeah, we’ll be coming back to drop off the coat.’

  ‘No, I thought you were going to stay here tonight. I mean, you can if you want.’

  Ah. Right. This is promising. Play it cool, Tommy, play it cool. ‘Er, I was just going to stay at …’ Come on, Tom. Come on, mate; for once in your life buck up! ‘I mean, no, yeah, that’d be great. You sure?
’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘Great.’

  As they left the house and walked down to the river his heart was racing.

  They reached the river, full now in the early afternoon and bouncing with sunlight, just like when they had parted back in the summer.

  ‘So where are we going? I promise you if it’s ice skating then I’m going to run away.’

  ‘What ice rinks do you know around here?’ She stopped at the black iron gate to Cadogan Pier, punched in a code and opened it. She went behind him, put her hands over his eyes and guided him down the gangway. They came to a halt and she said, ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Think so.’

  She took her hands away. ‘Oh Lord.’ In front of him was what he could only describe as one hell of a speedboat. ‘What’s this? It’s amazing!’

  ‘It was Daddy’s birthday present to himself.’

  Of course it was.

  ‘He keeps it here and gets someone to drive him to work in Temple once or twice a week.’

  Sounds like him.

  ‘He sent me on a course, and now I’m qualified to drive it. So, I thought we’d go for a spin. This is my welcome-home present for you!’ She jumped on board. ‘Come on, make yourself useful. Start untying it.’

  He wrestled ineffectually with the ropes, and she had to help him. Two minutes later they were pulling out into the Thames. She eased the throttle out and the speed increased. ‘Go on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well we can’t exactly talk.’ She was right; the engine made an almighty racket. ‘Go and sit on the front and smoke and just watch the sights.’

  Tom made his way up to the front of the boat and sat there, smoking cigarette after cigarette, wrapped up in his lovely snug coat, as London shot by, nothing in front of him as spray flicked up to lash his face.

  Finally they stopped just beyond Westminster and sat there bobbing around. She shouted from the cabin, ‘Open that cabinet at the back, will you?’

  ‘Sure.’ He clambered to the rear of the boat and opened it up. Inside was a magnum of champagne on a bed of ice. He started laughing. ‘This is just taking the mick.’

  She was buckled over with laughter. ‘Go on, crack it open.’

  He took out the bottle, ripped the foil and cage off, aimed the cork at a passing seagull and tried to hit it. He thought back to Afghan almost a month ago, when Dusty had shot a Taliban on a moving motorbike with the Rarden. It had been a hell of a shot. But he put that thought away.

  She produced two glasses from the cabin and he poured. And then they were kissing. Tom missed her mouth completely on the first go, but then his lips hit hers.

  That night they went to a pizza place for supper and then to the cinema. They walked back, and Tom tentatively held her hand, and she didn’t take it away. When they got inside the house they sat on the sofa, pretending to be interested by the telly. Cassie got up to go to bed and they tidied up downstairs and went up. She stopped outside her bedroom and turned to kiss him again. They stayed there for a minute, and Tom made to step into her room.

  ‘No, Tom, no. Not tonight.’

  ‘OK, no probs, no probs.’ He sounded hurt.

  ‘Just not tonight. It’s too …’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s just quite a lot to take on board, having you back. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No, no. No problem at all,’ he said earnestly. ‘I don’t want you to feel under any pressure at all.’ He went on: ‘But you don’t mind if I stay again tomorrow, do you? I promise you, I don’t want to make you feel uneasy.’

  ‘Of course you can stay.’ She was whispering now. ‘Just not in my bed.’

  ‘I understand. Besides, my snoring is horrendous at the mo, so you’ve got off lightly.’

  ‘Thanks, Tommy. I knew you’d understand.’ She kissed him again, this time on the cheek, and shut the door behind her.

  He remained in the corridor, smiled wryly and padded down to the spare room.

  The next morning they had a quick breakfast and left the house, she for work and he for Euston. It felt like they were a married couple as they walked together to the Tube. When they parted at Sloane Square she kissed him again, and as she did so he relished the envious glances of the passing commuters. Jog on, REMFs. He made sure he held the kiss that little bit longer to rub it in.

  He walked all the way north to Euston, slowly getting used to the city and starting to resent it less. On the train to Birmingham he read a newspaper, drank some coffee and then watched the countryside speed past the window as he enjoyed the feeling of being at ease with home again.

  As he went through the barrier at Birmingham New Street a familiar voice greeted him: ‘Oi, fancy-pants! Nice coat. Where d’you get it from? A polar bear?’

  Trueman.

  ‘It’s actually my bird’s father’s.’

  ‘What, he give it you?’

  ‘No. I sort of nicked it.’

  ‘Nice touch. Come on, boss, get to the car. If anyone sees me hanging out with you in that coat they’ll think I’m a raving bender.’

  Tom laughed. They did indeed make for an odd couple as they walked through the station, he in his ridiculous coat and Trueman in his jeans and tracksuit top.

  In the car they couldn’t stop talking, catching up on what they’d done in the last few days. It was great to see him. Tom remembered that back in the desert he had thought that when they met up it might be a bit awkward, like when holiday friends find that when they meet afterwards they have lost the one thing that they had in common. It wasn’t like that at all.

  As they got close to Selly Oak Trueman said, ‘Right, boss, how do you think we play it?’

  ‘Who are we seeing?’

  ‘Ransome, definitely. Yam-Yam’s in Headley now, though. And Mr Lanyon obviously.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mr Lanyon. What, did you not hear?’

  Scott. ‘No, what happened?’ Tom had no idea, and his mouth was dry.

  ‘He got hit a couple of days ago.’

  ‘IED?’

  ‘No, shot. Through the shoulder, I think. Not dead anyway. Cat B though.’

  ‘How did you hear?’

  ‘Just through the grapevine. I’m sorry, sir; I thought you’d know. I’d have said before otherwise.’

  ‘No. No probs. Just a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

  As they pulled into the car park Tom’s jolliness left him and he was very nervous. Trueman sensed it and said, ‘Don’t worry, sir; you get used to it after a couple of minutes. Won’t lie though; your first time in here’s a hell of a shock. Just remember, don’t stare at their injuries. That’s exactly what they hate. Just look them in the eye and talk to them like they ain’t got anything wrong with them. That is, if they still got eyes. If they don’t, it doesn’t matter where you look, I suppose.’

  Tom laughed.

  ‘And don’t say you feel sorry for them. They fucking hate that. Just treat them like they’ve got flu. That’s what I always do, anyway. It seems to work OK. If it all gets too much, then we’ll go and get some fresh air.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They approached the hospital in the midday sunshine, frost icing the grass around them. Tom felt scared. ‘Here you go, sir; the famous Ward S4. Operating theatre of dreams. Come on, ain’t that bad. Christ, it’s like trying to get my little girls onto a roller coaster!’

  At the entrance to the hospital there was a boy in a wheelchair. He had only one leg and one arm, and with his good hand was lifting a cigarette to his mouth. His face was bandaged heavily, and with his one visible eye he looked at Tom, his lips curled contemptuously. Tom smiled back awkwardly, mumbled, ‘Good morning,’ and hurried past him, heart racing.

  They were directed up the stairs to S4 and booked in as visitors. As Tom handed his coat to one of the nurses, he had to press himself against the wall as a trolley shot past him surrounded by a cluster of doctors. ‘Out the way, out the way – just in from Bast
ion.’ They rushed the stretcher into an operating room, and Tom peered after it.

  One of the nurses in its wake said, ‘No hope, I’m afraid. All gone below the navel. He’ll probably go tonight.’ Tom felt sick.

  Trueman grasped his shoulder. ‘All right, sir, this way.’

  They went further into the ward, all around them boys in wheelchairs, limping down the ward or lying on their beds. Some had families and friends around them, some were conscious, others comatose, others tripping in and out of morphine doses. Often the families were laughing with the boys; some were crying. There was one boy lying unconscious draped in a sheet that was much flatter than it should have been. He looked peaceful. Above his bed were all sorts of get-well cards and drawings. He was surrounded by flowers, and a middle-aged woman sat reading him a story, now and again leaning forward to wipe away dribble from his mouth, just as she had sat by him when he was a child and in bed with a cold. As Trueman guided him down the ward Tom couldn’t speak. All he wanted to do was to get out. He had no idea this was the cost. In Afghan every night over the net he heard the casualties from the rest of theatre but had never translated them into this butcher’s bill.

  They came to the end of the ward, and there were Ransome and Scott, in opposite beds. Both looked up with sheepish grins. Tom saw with relief that Scott did still have all four limbs. His left arm was in a sling, and his upper torso was swathed in bandages. Ransome’s stumps in the other bed looked just like Will had said they would, as though they had always been there, neat and permanent.

  Tom went to sit by Ransome and Trueman turned to Scott. Tom pulled up a chair and took a box of chocolates from a carrier bag with some magazines he’d bought at the station. ‘Here you go, Ransome. Thought you might like these. Usual stuff, I’m afraid. Zoo, Nuts, GQ.’

  ‘Cheers, sir.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘So so. Could be worse, I suppose.’

  Tom looked at his stumps, ending cleanly about six inches below his hips, and wondered how it could possibly be worse. He didn’t answer, and Ransome, sensing his discomfort, eased him into it. ‘I mean, still got my arms. And my bollocks. Still gonna slay all the birds. And the nurses here are hot.’