Chapter Six Collateral Damage
Chapter six
Collateral Damage
Nathan hadn’t even finished his second coffee when the garage shutter opened and let in the damp morning air. The forecourt was already soaked from a passing shower, puddles shining like oil slicks, the Worthbridge skyline a low, grey smudge beyond the rooftops.
Exactly how he remembered it.
No desert sky here. No wasteland.
Worthbridge. Home .
He’d dropped Alfie at his new school less than half an hour ago.
The kid hadn’t said a word the entire drive.
Hood up, earphones jammed in, backpack slung too low on his spine as if it carried more than books.
As if it carried blame . Nathan had tried, again, to start a conversation.
A joke. A comment about the weather. Anything.
But Alfie had stared out the window, silent and stubborn, and Nathan had given up before they reached the third turning.
He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up.
Trying, failing, pretending he didn’t hear the quiet judgment from all sides.
The whispers, even unspoken, were clear: Take him back to his mum.
Wash your hands. Walk away. Let him fall back into that estate.
That trap. The gangs that had already started sniffing around by the time Nathan had shown up.
But how could he?
It was harder than he’d imagined. Full-time parenting. He wasn’t trained for it. Could strip and clean a rifle in under ninety seconds. Could throw himself out of a chopper in crosswinds. But this? Trying to raise a boy who barely looked at him? That felt like walking into battle without armour.
Until recently, he’d done his parenting from afar.
Deployed, always. Sending monthly maintenance payments that tore a hole in his infantry wages, even if his room in the barracks meant he didn’t pay rent.
Katie did though. And he’d paid hers. Every bloody month.
Paid so she could turn that flat into a halfway house for her next fix, for whatever bloke she was screwing in exchange for something stronger than affection.
He hadn’t known. Hadn’t wanted to know. Had told himself Alfie was fine, school was fine, everything was fine.
God, when he thought about what he’d let his son grow up in because he hadn’t been ready. Because he’d buried himself in duty, in structure, in distance. Because it was easier to be a soldier than a father.
It was gutting, really. To think how one bad decision, one mistake when he was eighteen, shoved onto him by peer pressure he hadn’t been strong enough to resist, had spiralled into this .
“Start with the Corsa.” Ron didn’t look up from the battered clipboard he kept wedged between oil tins on the counter. “Cambelt’s rattling like a skeleton in a tumble dryer. She’s got a school run to do, wants it by three.”
“Right.” Nathan pulled on his gloves.
Petrol, wet concrete, and the pungent tang of metal dust had seeped into the walls of the place years ago and gave Nathan that familiar feeling of home.
The garage was old, but solid. Corrugated metal walls, greasy skylights letting in a little light but not enough, and too many tools that never got put back where they belonged.
One hydraulic lift still wheezed when it moved.
The coffee machine in the corner groaned worse than Ron did, and the radio never picked up a station that wasn’t mostly static.
But it worked. It functioned . And today, that was more than Nathan could say about himself.
So he got to work yanking the Corsa’s bonnet up and half-buried his body in the engine’s guts, wrenching the belt housing open, knocking his knuckles into bolts, the sting of old scars flaring where the skin still hadn’t fully healed.
He’d almost buried his thoughts in grease when a car with the distinctive whine-thud-whine of something that wasn’t happy caught his attention.
So he slid out from under the bonnet, wiping his hands on a rag that was more oil than cloth, smearing grease up his forearms as he watched the car roll into the forecourt.
Red Peugeot.
Like the one that had been outside his house yesterday .
Paint dulled with age, exhaust coughing gently, the driver’s door opened, and Nathan’s heart gave a traitorous kick in his chest when out stepped Freddie Webb.
No uniform now. No badge in sight. It was all figure-hugging jeans, a dark jumper clinging to a trim physique, and a fitted jacket stressing his now broader frame, and hair that was both a mess and perfectly styled. It was the look that said I didn’t try, but meant I absolutely did .
Then those eyes, warm, dark, honest , landed on him.
Nathan swallowed. Hard. And didn’t have time to get his game face on.
Because it still felt as absolutely devastating as it was the day Nathan had stood in Freddie’s bedroom and uttered the words, “I’m leaving.” And Freddie had hit him.
“Hey.” Freddie spoke first, voice low, uneven, as if it tripped over itself on the way out.
It wasn’t the confident, sharp-tongued Freddie Nathan remembered.
Wasn’t even the version that used to laugh loudest at his own jokes.
Nor the professional policeman of yesterday who’d arrested his kid.
No. He was… cautious. Stripped back. So different from the way they used to speak.
Talking over each other, racing to fill the air, as if silence between them was some kind of sin.
Nathan inhaled, letting the icy sting of the garage hit his lungs before he tossed the greasy rag over his shoulder and managed a, “Hi.”
Not nearly enough.
Freddie gave an awkward laugh, running a hand through his already-dishevelled hair.
His mouth twisted as if he was fighting with himself.
Then he glanced back at the Peugeot and gestured vaguely.
“It’s, uh… making a noise. Rattling or knocking or something.
I was passing and thought I’d bring it in for Ron to take a look at. Didn’t know you’d be here. ”
Nathan arched a brow, but didn’t call it. He didn’t need to.
Lie. Clear as day. They both knew it.
“Right.” Nathan scratched through the stubble on his buzzed scalp. An old nervous tic. One Freddie probably remembered, and he stepped forward, instinctively closing the distance, but immediately regretting it.
Freddie smelt the same. Not exactly. Less Lynx Africa, more grown-up aftershave with a woody finish clinging to his clothes as if he’d just left his house.
Nathan had to shift past him, brushing his shoulder to get around to the car, and the contact sent a jolt down his spine as if his body hadn’t got the memo that they were no longer that .
“I’ll, uh… take a look.”
He crouched beside the Peugeot, listening to the engine idle.
The knock Freddie mentioned was faint, but there.
He popped the bonnet and braced it open.
The engine block was already warm from the drive, ticking quietly to itself.
Nathan reached for a small torch on the tool trolley and angled it inside.
He’d start by checking the obvious: loose spark plug leads, coil pack issues, maybe a cracked ignition coil.
The knock could be detonation. Maybe timing off, or a worn engine mount letting the block shift slightly under strain.
If it wasn’t mechanical, it could be as simple as low-grade fuel or a dodgy sensor.
But none of that was the issue Nathan was dealing with right then.
Not really.
The real problem stood behind him, hands in his pockets, pretending not to look at him while Nathan was trying to remember how to breathe.
So yeah.
He could check the car .
But he already knew he was the one who was about to fall apart.
“So… you’re back?” Freddie hovered beside the car, as if he wanted to be closer but didn’t trust himself with the distance.
Nathan kept his eyes fixed on the engine bay. “Yeah.”
“How come?”
This time, Nathan looked up.
And fuck, that hit him harder than it should’ve.
Freddie’s eyes, familiar and tired in a way that made Nathan ache.
He wanted to tell him everything. Every damn thing.
From the moment he boarded that bus at eighteen with his whole life packed into a green duffel, to every broken promise, every compromise, every time he stared at a photo of Alfie and wondered who he was becoming while Nathan was halfway across the world and pretending he wasn’t a father.
He wanted to say it all. To spill the truth into the quiet space between them and watch Freddie catch it with the same gentle steadiness he always used to. He wanted that look— that smile —the one that had made him feel as if he were King of the World and could take on anything.
But fifteen years was a long fucking time.
A roar cut through the still air. Tyres on gravel. The unmistakable growl of a powerful bike tearing into the courtyard.
“Fuck.” Freddie stepped back as if caught doing something he shouldn’t.
The bike pulled to a stop inside the garage threshold. A Triumph Bonneville. Matte black, sleek and aggressive. Nice fucking bike. The rider straightened, tugged off his helmet in one smooth motion, and grinned .
“Freddie?” he called out, voice rich with easy confidence, eyebrows quirking as if amused… and mildly suspicious.
Nathan stood, wiping his hands on the cloth again, instinctively squaring his shoulders.
The bloke was tall. Stupid tall. Had to be six-eight at least. Built like someone who spent more time at the gym than doing anything useful with his life.
Hair styled messy enough to look deliberate, and a neatly trimmed beard that screamed I know exactly how good I look.
And he looked at Freddie as if Nathan wasn’t even there. As if he knew something.
“Reece.” Freddie nodded, voice a little too neutral.
Reece’s grin widened. “Don’t you usually take the rust bucket to that place over at Point Bay?”
It was casual.
Too casual.
Nathan didn’t miss the way Freddie shifted his weight from one foot to the other.