Chapter 22
Thursday was delivery day at the garden centre.
By the time Tug had emptied the nursery wagons of chrysanthemums, dahlias, asters and pansies, the hellebores and cyclamens had arrived.
They all needed wheeling in, stacking on the pallets and tables, then watering.
The other staff in the centre all seemed to find something else to do when the deliveries came in and so Tug worked alone.
It didn’t usually bother him. He didn’t like to talk much, and the heavy physical work was like an extra gym session.
For three hours, he didn’t stop working, barely looked up, which is why he missed the arrival of the van that only delivered once a year, in early October.
Had he seen it, he would have made sure to be the one to meet it, to take charge of the delivery; had he seen it, what followed might never have happened.
One second, Tug was winding away the hose pipe after watering the new arrivals; the next he was back in Afghanistan, racing through the minefield of Qala-i-Jangi, desperate to be as far away from the north tower as possible, because the laser-guided bomb was already falling.
Amid the whistling of shells, the rattle of gunfire, the screaming of injured men, he was aware that he wasn’t running alone.
Behind him, men from his unit, and lads from the Northern Alliance were following him through.
He was the canary in the coal mine, his footsteps showing the safe route through, until one misstep sent his fragmented mass to spray the fort.
When he came back to reality, he was lying amid the chaos of an overturned table. Plastic pots, earthenware, foliage and compost littered the floor. Faces stared down at him. A short distance away, a woman was crying out in pain. Sirens were getting closer.
‘It was the fireworks, mate,’ said Alf, one of the other garden centre staff.
He and Tug were sitting in the staff room.
Someone had made Tug a brew, but his hands were shaking too much to hold it steady.
‘Some twat stacked them next to the storage heater. Left them there for over an hour. They all went up at once. Ten grand’s worth of pyrotechnics up in smoke.
We all thought World War III had broken out. ’
‘Who did I hurt?’ Tug asked.
‘Ah, she’ll be fine. Lot of fuss about nothing.’
‘What happened?’
Alf gave Tug an odd look. He knew about the PTSD of course, they all did. But none of them had actually witnessed it before.
‘You came charging out the warehouse like the hounds of bleedin’ hell were after you. Knocked a couple of old dears over before you dived under the perennials.’
‘Suspected broken hip.’
Tug and Alf turned to see the manager in the doorway of the staff room.
‘Her husband’s already talking about suing us,’ he went on. ‘I’m going to have to let you go, Tug. I can’t risk you running amok every time someone lights up a sparkler.’
‘You can’t do that.’ Alf looked shocked. ‘It’s a disability, is PTSD. You can’t sack someone for being disabled.’
The manager ignored Alf. ‘Go to the office. You can collect your money in lieu of a month’s notice.’
‘He’ll sue you,’ Alf said. ‘It’s not like it was his fault the fireworks went up.’
Tug said nothing. They all knew he’d never get legal aid to sue, even if he could be arsed.
He collected his things from the staff room and left via the main entrance. He made a point of knocking one of the garden gnomes off its shelf as he passed. It made a very satisfying cracking sound as it broke on the tiled floor.
He stepped outside, into a day that was darkening as clouds rolled in. At the very back of the car park sat a Volvo with tinted windows. Black.