15. Carl
15. Carl
Coming into the kitchen, I am jolted by the sight of her. I had hoped it would be straightforward. A cheerful get-together with Cherub and Jenni, a brief catch-up with Sarah, then home to my safe, steady life.
But then I, more than anyone, should know how hard it is to get out of these things unscathed.
She is more beautiful than I remember, and as she reaches up to kiss my cheek I feel something shift in my chest. A lurch of longing that I had not expected. That I thought I had locked away.
‘Hi, Carl,’ she says. ‘Good to see you.’
That voice, with its note of huskiness. The smell of her perfume. The way she pushes her hair behind her ear. The way her eyes crinkle at the corner when she smiles.
‘Well, get the poor man a drink,’ Jenni says to Cherub, pulling me out of my trance.
Cherub hands me a can of John Smith’s Extra Smooth bitter, and I smile. ‘You remembered,’ I say, lifting the tab on top of the can and taking a grateful swig.
‘Of course I remembered,’ Cherub says. ‘Although I still can’t believe you and Fridge drank this filth.’
A look passes between us, but it isn’t one of sadness. It’s the opposite, in fact, it’s a happy memory, and I’m taken aback, because it’s the first time I’ve thought of Fridge in a long while without feeling that familiar pull of grief and guilt and regret.
I think of my tattoo and feel reassured. It’s as if Fridge is with me now, literally sitting on my shoulder, and I feel braver, more confident, because of it. I know exactly what he would say too.
‘What can I tell you? You can take the man out of Yorkshire but you can’t take the Yorkshire out of the man.’
Cherub laughs. ‘I hope you’re hungry,’ he says. ‘I’ve made chicken curry.’
Like the beer, he’s remembered that this was my favourite meal when we were back in camp, and I suddenly feel such affection for him, for Jenni and Sarah too.
They get it.
We have all lived through something so extraordinary together, experienced so much pain and loss, and I see now that the bond between us is unshakeable.
I grin. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Right, then,’ says Jenni. ‘Let’s get this show on the road. Carl, do you mind feeding this little perisher while I put some rice on?’ She hands me a half-eaten pot of yoghurt.
I pull up a seat next to Toby in the booster chair and survey the rosy-cheeked scrap sitting in front of me. He flashes me an enormous grin when he sees the yoghurt, and opens his mouth wide.
I feed him just like I used to feed Adam and Scott, carefully scooping up the bits of yoghurt that ooze down his chin with the side of the spoon. Sarah is sitting next to me reading a picture book to Noah, who is curled up on her lap.
The sound of her voice is soothing, just like it was when I was in the hospital, and I tell myself that this feeling of friendship and acceptance from her is enough. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that. So long as she is happy. So long as they all are.
‘How’s Danny?’ I ask, suddenly feeling bad for dropping off the radar after Afghanistan. For turning my back on everyone. But it was just too hard. I had to walk away to survive.
Now I realize how much I want to be a part of their world again.
‘He’s okay,’ she says. Then adds, ‘Well, not really.’ She rubs her hand over an angry red scar on the side of her forearm. ‘He’s been diagnosed with PTSD so, you know, he has his fair share of bad days.’
She pulls her jumper down over her scar, but if she’s trying to protect him it’s too late. I know those wounds – defensive scars from where the victim has raised their arm to protect their head and face.
My mum has an identical one from some scumbag boyfriend who lunged at her with a broken bottle one time in a pub.
But Danny hurting Sarah? It doesn’t make sense. He adored her.
I think back to those last few weeks in Camp Bastion together. How shaky he’d become, how much he relied on her. He couldn’t possibly. Could he?
‘Dinner is served!’ Jenni announces.
Cherub heaps generous portions of chicken curry on to plates and Jenni pours even more generous portions of wine into four glasses.
‘To the happy couple,’ Sarah says, raising her glass in front of her.
‘To the happy couple,’ I repeat, my eyes holding hers.
She looks smaller than I remember, and fragile. She seems less sure of herself than she used to. There is something about her that reminds me of the way Mum used to look when she was dating that scumbag.
Suddenly I am overcome by the most intense desire to protect her. To keep her safe. The thought of someone, even Danny – although I still can’t get my head around it being Danny – hurting her … I can’t let that happen.
What if he does it again? What if, and my mind shuts down at this thought, it gets worse? I’ve heard terrible things about what ex-soldiers with PTSD can be driven to.
My guts twist with the same rage I used to feel when we were under attack, when I couldn’t account for all the members of the patrol, when I thought one of them was in danger and I wasn’t there to see them right.
Cherub is telling a story about the secondary school where he teaches PE. When we got back from Afghanistan, he signed up for a Troops to Teachers training scheme. Just like that. While I locked myself away, feeling sorry for myself, Cherub was busy getting on with life.
He’s always been good at compartmentalizing his feelings. Training. Fighting. Grief. Jenni. Becoming a teacher. Becoming a dad. And good on him, because look at him. Two kids, a woman he adores and is about to marry, and now he’s saying he’s just been made head of year.
I bet he’s a really good teacher, decent and fair. I bet the kids love him. He’s talking about a PE lesson where he told one of the lads to hold on to his balls, meaning the net full of basketballs, but the kid was a cheeky sod and literally dropped his shorts and did just that.
I’m listening and laughing, but all the while I’m watching Sarah. The stray piece of pale gold hair that falls across her face, which I know in a moment she will push behind her ear.
The scar on the side of her arm.