8. Jay
Chapter eight
Jay
“B est of three?” I hold out my fist again, ready for another round of rock, paper, scissors. The cab of the van is nicely warm, and the world outside is grey, the air chilled and heavy with drizzle. Aaron, my partner for the day, tilts his head, a small smirk playing on his full lips, and then he offers a fist, bouncing it on an outstretched palm before showing me two fingers in a scissor imitation. Fuck . He uses them to snip at my open palm before I can pull my hand away.
“Fuck’s sake.”
“Out you get,” he laughs. “I’ll do the bank, if you want.”
“The bank is entirely enclosed,” I grumble. The van will be parked in a secure, underground bay beneath the building for our last stop of the day, so while security is still paramount, the stakes are just a little lower. And neither one of us has to go out in the rain. I climb from the passenger seat into the cargo space in the back and stretch my arms out in front of me, rolling my shoulders. I run my finger along the caged boxes and select everything with the name of the next drop. I tuck them into a metal case and put the case into a small tube on the van’s wall, before grabbing the rest of my uniform from a small shelf.
Helmet. Gloves. Chain .
I clip one end of the chain to my belt as I hop out of the van. Van is a bit of an understatement. It’s more like a five-ton truck, armoured and modified for cash in transit, filled with locked boxes in cages, and closely tracked. I round the vehicle, unlock the small side door to spin a rotunda and retrieve the briefcase, before clipping it to the belt chain. I clutch the case in my gloved hand, mindful of the timer that began counting down when I left the van, and turn left, weaving through pedestrian traffic as quickly as I can manage as I make my way towards the clothing store. The constant twisting and turning and changing of direction have my leg aching before I’m even halfway there, and I slow my pace a little.
We make this stop four times a week, and over the last couple of weeks, I’ve come to know the staff pretty well. There’s a pretty blonde who’s always humming some pop song I’ve never heard before, and two young men with an earring each and jeans they must paint themselves into every morning. The blonde always gives me two bottles of water—one for me, one for whoever I’m sharing the van with that day—and one of the guys usually sneaks a chocolate or two into my pocket with a salacious wink.
Despite knowing that I’ll be hit on by men and women twenty years younger than me, it’s one of my favourite stops on the route, and I walk with as much of a spring in my step as I can muster, unusually looking forward to a lively chat whilst I exchange their takings for the bagged cash in my briefcase.
My helmet is heavy on my head as I swing my gaze steadily, an eye on everything in my periphery, and my other four senses working overtime on everything else.
Until there’s a loud crash.
It echoes around me like a bomb blast and I lose my footing, stumbling forwards against the shockwave. Ambush . I never even saw it coming. I bring my rifle up, gripping it with both hands as I raise it out in front of me. And then there’s yelling, and I’m stuck, and my weapon is caught on something and I can’t get it free and I’m falling. I’m falling.
I’m f a l l i n g —
I have to get out. I have to get to safety. I have to get us all to safety. My mouth is full of sand and I can’t swallow, I can’t breathe, I can’t see . It’s just noise. Crashing and yelling, yelling and crashing, and the pain as my body impacts the ground over and over and over.
Something hits my ribs and knocks all the wind out of my lungs. The visor on my helmet cracks as it impacts the ground and that explosion happens again, plumes of dust flying up around me. It’s in my ears and my nose and I still can’t fucking breathe.
Helicopter rotors whir above me, kicking up dust and white noise. I have tunnel vision. The smallest sliver of light guides me as I commando-crawl towards it, but I’m still falling. I’m still being hit. This fucking rifle is still caught on something and I can’t pull it free, no matter which way I turn. Explosions are still crashing around me, the sound echoing in my ears, and the yelling, oh god, the yelling .
There’s a metallic taste in my mouth and it turns my stomach. I swallow against the sand and dirt, trying to rid myself of the urge to vomit. Bile rises in my throat and I force it down. Not now, not now, not now. It’s not the first time we’ve been here. But it’s the first time they’ve been this close. I’m dragging myself and the first of my brothers I can reach.
Everything around us is burning, crackling and howling in my ears, the scarred landscape in flames as I crawl on my belly through a muddy creek. It’s like crawling through wet cement. They’re close enough to touch, almost on top of me, and I fling out an arm, fist closed, one sharp jab. It collides with something solid, something that grazes my knuckles and leaves them bloodied. I know there’s a jeep nearby, if only I can reach it. I can hear its engine idling somewhere in the fray.
And then I’m being pulled to my knees, into the vehicle. I’m in, I’m free… but I’m not. I take another blow to the ribs. What in the mother fucking holy hell is going on? Where the fuck am I? Where is my team? We all jumped together. I saw everyone’s parachute open as we floated down. Where are my men? Caleb was right beside me.
Get me out, get me out, get me out . I don’t want to be here anymore.
I want to go home. I want to argue with my sister. I want to eat my mum’s cooking, I want a boring office job and a boring house and a boring car and a boring life. I want to be ten years old again, when nothing mattered except what snack I’d choose when I got home from school. I just want to go home .
Another explosion. This one is close, far too close for comfort. It rings in my ears; the shockwave rattles my bones and shakes every muscle. I’m flying. I’m falling. And why does it smell like burning rubber? Am I having a stroke?
Why am I upside down?
Why is it so dark?
Why can’t I move?
Why does everything hurt? Why do my legs— my leg . I can’t feel my leg.
I wriggle my toes experimentally: first the left foot, and then the right.
Where is my fucking leg?
Oh god.
The yelling is mine .
And someone else’s.
And it’s my briefcase that’s stuck, not a rifle. It’s the briefcase I’m clutching, dragging along with me. It’s someone’s boot in my ribs. It’s another pair of hands on the case. It’s a plank of wood being slammed against my helmet, the sound roaring in my ears, consuming my every sense, dizzying me. I don’t know what’s going on.
And then it’s all quiet, but for the ringing in my ears. I’m on my knees, curled into a ball. The case remains chained to me as two people lift me to my feet. I stand shakily, stomping through the pins and needles sensation in my right foot. I think I might be fucking crying . I’m pretty sure there’s blood pouring from my nose. Aaron rushes towards me, steering me away from the crowd of onlookers.
“Police are on their way. What the fuck, man? What happened?”
I offer him my best attempt at a glare, but I doubt it’s especially intimidating. My furrowed brow aches. My head is killing me. All the adrenaline left my body when I stood, and I have nothing left. I’m swaying with the effort of being upright.
My heart slams against my ribs, which hurt like a motherfucker, and the ringing in my ears is replaced with sirens getting closer and closer, until tall figures in utility belts surround us, and I crumble.
“You’re lucky you were wearing that helmet, Mr Bevan,” the doctor finishes his monologue. He waves his pen torch in front of my eyes one more time, and then excuses himself to leave the room. Finally . I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who loves the sound of his own voice quite so much before, even in the army. And that’s saying something.
“So, tell me again what happened.”
“I said, I don’t know, okay? How many fucking times?” I flinch, tipping my head and twisting away from the nurse poking at the small wound on my brow. The uniformed policeman standing in the narrow doorway huffs a loud, impatient sigh, and his partner glares at the side of his head.
“Mr Bevan, we just want to get the timeline straight,” she says gently. She steps around her obstinate partner and squats at my bedside, one hand on the rail to steady herself. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back into a loose bun—the kind that looks like it was neat and tidy when she left the house this morning, but is now closer to unfashionably messy . Her blue eyes are piercing, and there’s a tiny stain that looks suspiciously like ketchup on the corner of her mouth. “The more we understand about the timeline and about what happened, the more likely we are to be able to find who did this to you.”
“I don’t know what happened,” I admit. The words leave a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth, although that could be the split lip, and the way I bit the inside of my cheek during the ordeal. “One minute I was walking to Bella’s, the clothes shop, and the next minute… I wasn’t.”
“Do you remember anything at all between then and now?”
“All I remember is being on my way to Bella’s, and then I was on a hospital bed with that fucking fluorescent light in my face.”
The woman sighs, pinching the material of her trousers and adjusting the legs as she stands. The nurse adjusts the lamp slightly, before continuing to poke at my brow. I wince.
“Thank you for your help, Mr Bevan. If you do remember anything— anything— please give us a call.” She digs into the pocket on her stab vest and hands me a card. “Even if it sounds silly. Anything at all might be enough to help us. We’ll let you get some rest now.”
I take the card and fold it around my fingers. The nurse continues her work. The officers leave, one hissing quietly at the other, and I close my eyes against the too-bright light. I don’t know what happened. All I know is what the police already know, what Aaron told them. He was watching from the van, and when I was just over halfway to my assigned drop point, I was jumped by a group of men in hats and masks. It felt like the ordeal went on for hours, but in reality, it was barely over a minute before he had called for assistance and run out to help me, and by then, my assailants had fled.
It was just a few men. Something I should’ve been able to handle easily. Something I’m uniquely trained to handle.
But for a moment, I was right back there—back in the moment of ambush, in the jeep, in the flames. I was transported back to the day that ruined my life, and I froze.
“I really think you ought to call someone,” the nurse says quietly once we’re alone and the door has fallen closed. “Someone must be worried about you. You have a concussion, you—”
“That’s exactly why I don’t want you to call them. A quick stitch and a good night’s sleep and I’ll be fine.” Mum and Ruth already handle me with kid gloves. Dad puts on a brave face, treats me like some kind of macho man, doing his best to avoid dealing with any emotions he might have, and any of mine, too. It comes from a good place, but I can’t deal with that right now. The only person who treats me like an adult lately is Katy. And I can’t bring her into this. She doesn’t need to worry about this. About me. She doesn’t need me to dim her light.
“I can’t let you sleep, Mr Bevan. We’ll need to perform neurological observations regularly.”
“It’s a figure of speech,” I mutter. “I’ll be fine.” I grit my teeth and try not to say something I might regret later.
The old Jay would’ve let the nurse call someone. Hell, he probably would’ve asked for it. But I’m not the old Jay anymore. I’m a new version of myself, one who finds it easier to hide behind grunts, monosyllabic responses and acerbic cuts than to let myself get close to someone. A version of myself who doesn’t want to let anyone in or let anyone worry about me, because I know what worrying does. I’ve seen what worrying about me did to my family. I’ve become a version of myself I hardly recognise when I look in the mirror.
“But—”
I open my eyes and stare directly at the nurse with what I hope is a menacing glare, before tipping my head back against the flat pillow and closing my eyes again. I hear the nurse sigh heavily, before her tray of instruments clatters lightly. I guess I’d better make myself comfortable in a hospital bed for the night.
“Just one last little scratch here, Mr Bevan, and then I’ll leave you in peace for a while.”