6. Jamie
I toss and turn, entangled in the pristine, crisp white bed sheets that are now sodden with sweat from my nightmare.
Every damn night the same images invade my mind; the truck flying through the air as though it were a toy, the bodies and severed limbs strewn carelessly across the unmade road.
Everything swirls into one horrific image that has become embedded in my brain.
My ears ring with the memory of the IED blast, and the smell of the explosives burns my nostrils as though I’m back in the moment.
Scotty’s voice echoes inside my head, “Fuck, no!”
he screams.
The skin on my arm burns as I remember Scotty gripping me as he tried to keep me inside the Landy, when all my instincts screamed at me to run to where Tom’s body lay in the road ahead.
But there’s nothing I could’ve done.
I couldn’t save Tom; I couldn’t save any of them.
The bedside clock glows red; it’s four in the morning, and I know there’s no chance of sleep now.
I throw the duvet back, climb out of bed and head toward the bathroom, where I lean against the countertop and stare at the man looking back at me from the bathroom mirror.
The hollow eyes are unrecognisable, and the beard that now adorns my face is hideous but somehow comforting.
Turning the cold tap on, I let the water run for a few moments to ensure its icy temperature before I lower my head, cup the water in my hands and proceed to swill my face.
It’s an attempt to wash away the memories for now.
Out in the kitchen, I open the fridge, grab a slice of cold pizza and a few beers before heading to the couch and switching the TV on.
Channel surfing is my only solace from the guilt and indescribable horrors that have taken over my brain.
Time slides away from me; I’m only disturbed by the shrill ring of my phone as it vibrates on the coffee table in front of me.
I watch intently as it dances along the glass table, bumping into empty beer can after empty beer can as it continues vibrating relentlessly.
Without checking, I know it’s Scarlett.
She’s been phoning constantly for the last three days; the girl cannot take a hint.
I haven’t answered a single call since I moved in.
The only thing I have done is text my mother to let her know I’m okay.
Everything else can wait.
My phone finally stops vibrating, and calm is restored, but I know it’s short-lived.
She’ll try again in an hour, that’s been the routine so far.
She’s relentless.
But for now, the ringing has stopped, and the last can of beer on the coffee table calls to me.
The hiss as I yank open the ring pull is like a balm to my tetchiness.
As the liquid slides down my throat, I feel the tension ebb away a little more, and my eyes begin to feel heavy again as the lack of sleep starts to batter my body.
With a tip of the can, the rest of the beer disappears into my mouth.
The feel of the cold steel in my fist as I crush the can is a little unnerving, but I toss it down on the coffee table with its companions.
My gaze sweeps across the mess I’ve created in the few days I’ve been here, there’s takeaway boxes and beer cans on every surface.
“Jamie, open the door!”
My mother’s voice drags me from the slumber I must have drifted into earlier.
The command is followed by knocking loudly on the door.
“Okay, okay.
Don’t break it down,”
I call out as I make my way across to the door of the flat.
“Where’s the fire?”
I poke my head out into the hallway, much to my mother’s annoyance.
“Very funny, now take some of these.
They’re cutting off the circulation to my fingers.”
She holds out her arms for me to relieve her of the shopping bags.
I have no idea what she’s bought or why, for that matter.
“You should have rung me; I’d have come down to the car to get them.”
“No, you wouldn’t.
You’d have ignored me like you are Scarlett.
Or, you’d have come for the bags then not let me up here.
Now, I’ll put the kettle on while you empty the bags.
I’ve just bought you a few basics to keep you stocked up.”
“I can do my own shopping, Mum.
You know this.”
I’m too tired to argue with her, but I know she means well.
“You don’t need to baby me anymore.”
The look she shoots me is one of all fire and hell.
“How do you plan on doing that when you’ve decided that hiding away in here is the perfect solution to your current mood?”
She doesn’t allow me time to answer that before she’s slamming two cups down on the kitchen counter and filling them with the now boiling water.
“Pass the milk out of that bag,”
she points towards the bag I’m still holding.
“We’ll have this and then you can shower.
We can clean this place up and then head out for a walk or a drive if you prefer.”
She pours a drop of milk into both cups before she hands over mine.
“It stinks like an old working man’s club in here.
Open a damn window, Jamie.”
I do as I’m told; old habits die hard, even when you’re old enough to look after yourself.
My mother makes herself comfortable at the breakfast bar, her cup cradled in her hands.
She looks tired, and seems to have aged significantly in the last few days.
I know that’s my fault but I can’t take care of her as well as myself right now.
“Look, I know you’re only trying to look after me but I’m a big boy now.
I need some time on my own to work through this.
I don’t want you coming around here to clean up after me or do my shopping.
I can order online if I need to.
Please, just give me a little time to process things my way.”
My mother gives me a disdainful glance followed by the familiar eye roll that all mothers seem to have perfected.
“I’ve given you time, lots of it.
You’re my son, if you think I’m going to stand by and watch you self-destruct, you have another thing coming.”
She takes a sip from the cup she’s holding and allows herself a moment to think.
“You know nobody blames you, don’t you? Tom’s death was not your fault.
He signed up knowing the risks, just like you did.”
My cup slams down on the countertop harder than I intended it to.
The liquid spills over the top and pools around the base of my cup.
“I blame me! I should’ve been in that truck; I was supposed to be driving the fucking thing! I should be dead too; it was supposed to be me.”
I slide the chair backwards and stand up, my hands wrap around the back of my neck, and I squeeze tightly, trying to ease some of the pent-up anger I feel deep in my soul.
“Don’t you ever use that language in front of me again.
I brought you up to know better than that.”
She stands and gathers both of the cups then places them in the sink.
“Grab all the other dishes, I’ll wash them while you shower.
You stink.”
I don’t miss that fact that she’s crying silently, and I know this is her way of coping.
Mum thinks that by taking the hard approach, and carrying on regardless, it’ll help pull me through whatever it is that’s dragging me down.
Dutifully, I gather the glasses from the bedroom and coffee table because it doesn’t matter what age you are; if your mum calls you out, you do as you’re asked.
As the steam from the shower fills the bathroom, I can hear the vacuum hum as my mother makes herself busy trying to clean up my act.
Stepping under the stream of hot water feels better than I imagined it would.
I watch the rivulets of water run down my body and breathe deeply.
The sound of my heart beating echoes through my ears and I’m reminded that Tom’s no longer beats.
My clenched fist slams against the tiles so hard that I feel the vibration beneath my feet.
I sink down into the bath and cradle my knees as the water continues to beat down on me, washing away yet more pain.
When the torment begins to ebb, I climb out of the bathtub and wrap a towel around my waist.
My hand runs over the mirror, clearing the condensation and allowing me to see the devastation I wear so well. “Fuck.”
I look like shit, but that somehow makes me feel a little better.
My too long hair is beginning to curl a little, making me look more like Charlie.
Fingertips scrub at my jawline as I investigate the beard that adorns my face these days.
Picking up my razor, I contemplate shaving, but that’s short lived.
Eyes that hide the storm inside cloud over again as I throw the razor back onto the shelf and turn to leave the bathroom.
In my bedroom, I find my mother; she’s changing the sheets on the bed and has opened the window to let in some fresh air.
“There you are, I was about to come in there and make sure you hadn’t drowned.”
“I’m saving that for when you’ve gone…”
It’s a joke, a bad one at that.
I feel a twinge of guilt when my mother takes an audible breath.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.
I didn’t mean it.”
I snap as I pull open a drawer to grab clean underwear.
I loosen the towel around my waist and my mother makes a hasty retreat and shuts the door behind her, affording me some privacy to get dressed.
When I’ve dressed in clean sweatpants and a T-shirt, I make my way back into the living area and find my mother putting on her coat.
“I’ve put you a lasagne in the oven, it’ll need forty or so minutes.
Make sure it’s hot all the way through before you eat it.
I’m not going to drag you out of here today, you’ve showered at least and this place doesn’t look like a bomb site anymore…”
she looks horrified at her choice of words.
“Sorry, that wasn’t, I mean…well you know.
Anyway, I’ll call you later.”