Chapter 2
Chapter two
Lance
Usually, the smell of pancakes makes my mouth water. Today, it sickens me to the core.
I’d planned this. The family breakfast we would have on my return. Me in the kitchen, apron on, frying sweet circles of delight while Ainsley laughed and Hannah rolled her eyes.
But the version I’m living isn’t the same as the one I dreamed on the front line. The table’s set—stacked with sauces and fruit—music playing a little too loud. My attempt to wake my household, fill the silence.
The crackling pan steals my attention as I prod at my first try at a satisfactory pancake. I don’t hear her approach. A delicate hand taps my shoulder. I spin before I think. My daughter steps back, startled. The spatula falls from my grip, batter splattering over the tiles.
Months in a warzone will put a man on edge. Even when he comes home, the horrors never leave.
The shock of the day before still hangs heavy, consuming each second. I scoop her into my arms. Twelve or not, she still folds in to me like she’s five again. She squeezes tight enough that I wonder if she’ll glue me back together.
“I love you, Daddy,” she whispers against my chest. “When will Mummy be home?”
Hell, Mummy and Daddy, she’s not called us that in a long time.
Our names morphed into Mum and Dad years ago, once Hannah considered herself old enough to be too cool.
My heart ached when our roles changed, but this morning she’s back to being the little girl I protected from scraped knees and monsters in her closet.
Softly, I ease back so I can see her face. Her eyes are glazed, ready to cry.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. Kids know. Last night, I convinced myself she bought my lie. That she believed my story about her mother having to work. She didn’t get the reunion she deserved.
All the games we played, and the movie we watched, were a smokescreen she saw straight through. Our home is fractured, and she knows it. I crouch down so we’re eye to eye.
“Sweetheart…” My throat burns. I’m going to hurt my daughter. I don’t want to. “Your mum and I have decided to spend some time apart.”
She doesn’t even take a breath. “You’ve been gone eight months.”
That truth hits harder than any bullet. Any disaster I’ve seen unfold. I’ve dug babies out of landslides, but I can’t save my daughter from this.
“What I mean is….”
She wriggles out of my grasp, her eyes landing on the old telephone on the wall. Her small body twists in its direction.
“Hannah, your mother asked me to move out.” My fingers skim her wrist, and she pulls it from me.
“No,” she shrieks. “This is a mistake. I’ll call her.” Her fine fingers yank the phone so hard the cord snaps. She stands, focus darting between the phone in her hand and its base on the wall. The plastic handset sails across the room and explodes when it hits the floor.
She freezes. Then runs. I open my arms, catching her as she collapses. My little girl clings to me as if her life depends on it. Like I’m the last solid thing she has to hold on to.
Hannah is another casualty in my wife’s path. A bollard knocked over to get what she wants. This is happening, whether we want it to or not.
“Open up, ya antisocial bastard.” A voice I can usually hear even over gunfire shouts, as a fist bangs on the front door.
Hannah’s tears dry instantly. She scurries to the door, pulling it open.
“Dog,” she squeals. He lifts her off the ground, spinning her once, before breezing in like he owns the place, complete with hoodie, rucksack, muddy boots and a plastic bag swinging from his wrist.
“Aye, there’s my favorite girl. Hell, you’ve grown. You’re making me feel short.”
“You are short,” she teases.
And just like that, she smiles. Wide, bright, hopeful. Her first proper, genuine smile since yesterday, when she got home from school and realized her mother was gone. The day everything shattered before bedtime.
Dog shoots me a look over her shoulder. A silent question. You alright? The kind he uses when we can’t speak, when the situation is tense, and a bomb is about to blow.
I nod. Once.
He does the same. My friend knows the mission; what we need to do now. His rucksack drops to the floor with a thud. From the plastic bag, he pulls two bottles of beer and an energy drink. He throws Hannah the latter, then passes me a beer.
“Right, pack up, both of you. You’re not staying here another night,” he says.
“I’ve not even…”
“Pack. It’s sorted.” There’s no room to argue. “I’ve got your back.”
That’s Dog. Chaotic, disorganized, and reckless until it matters. Until his friend is crumbling with nowhere to go. Then he steps up. Then he’s steel, solid, my bridge out of this mess.
We move around each other, stuffing clothes into bags and grabbing essentials. Hannah packs her school stuff, her pajamas, and her favorite teddy bear. She slips a photo of the three of us at Loch Ness into her bag, back when we were a family of three.
Every few minutes, she glances over, checking I haven’t disappeared. I’m going nowhere. Not now, not when my little girl needs stability. Her happiness is my new mission, and I’m going to succeed, even if it’s the last thing I do.
Dog carries our bags out to the car. For a small man, he lifts like he’s built from iron. It might be from the years of hauling wounded soldiers to safety, or sheer stubbornness. Who knows. He’s saved my life three times; it could be more. I stopped counting after the gunshot in Baghdad.
I slam the trunk closed. Dog turns the key in the ignition as I climb in.
“Right, let’s go,” he says. “Can’t hang around here.”
“Where are we going?” I ask. He taps his nose. “Tell me it’s a hotel at least. We’re not staying in a tent. This isn’t a surprise holiday.”
“Don’t be a dick. It’s a house. With three bedrooms. Perfectly acceptable digs.”
“Three bedrooms?” I mutter.
“Sure, for you, Hannah, and me.” He says it so naturally, as if his presence is a no-brainer. “You don’t expect me to kip on the sofa, do ya?”
Hannah snorts with laughter. The tiny sound keeps me steady right there in the driveway. With a final look at the little white cottage I’ve called home for years, we drive off to the unknown.
Wherever Dog has found, heaven help us—he’s slept under bridges.
Dog flicks on the radio, singing off-key. Hannah groans, then joins in. By the time we’re driving through the village of Aviemore, both of them are turned up to maximum volume.
As we turn into a street on the edge of the village, a woman steps out of the corner shop. She has messy blonde curls, boots thick with mud, and a hole in her jeans. Her hands fumble, keys dropping onto the pavement. It looks like she laughs as she picks them up.
I only see her for a moment. I’ve never seen her before. And here, in Aviemore, everyone knows everyone. Your private life is the lifeblood of the community. Strangers stand out. She’s an outsider, and for some reason, I look twice.
Dog yells something crude. Hannah squeals, and the moment is gone.
We turn into another street, this one a dead end, stopping outside a small two-story house. It looks clean and tidy with a red front door.
“Home sweet home,” Dog says, killing the engine.
I look to Hannah, who is already pushing open her door.
“Come on, Dad,” she calls. Dad. Even though I miss Daddy, Dad means things are becoming more normal, well, as normal as they can be. “I get first pick of the bedrooms.”
“Not if I beat you to the door,” Dog shouts.
They race up the short path. My friend holds back, allowing Hannah’s fingers to touch the PVC first. She beams back toward the car, and I smile.
“Come on, Dad.”
I laugh, then make my way to meet them.