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As a lifelong member of the Devon community, Susan often heard the story of how Beam House was used as a convalescent home for wounded soldiers during the Great War. She sighed sorrowfully as she regarded the imposing structure from the banks of the River Torridge. So much for their romantic weekend.
So much for their fresh start.
So little left.
After three extended tours of Iraq, her Tony had returned home a marked man. His body was virtually free of scars, yet his mind was fractured. Gone was her beloved husband’s boisterous laugh. The man who, hitherto, had been the life and soul of the party. At thirty years of age, Susan found herself married to a stranger. One who suffered nightmares and flashbacks.
One who hurt her in his sleep and had no memory of it afterwards. A man riddled with guilt over incidents he was unable to discuss for security reasons. Susan wondered if the men who used to reside at Beam House were prone to similar symptoms. Had PTSD even been diagnosed back then?
She rather reluctantly withdrew her eyes from the house and looked around for Tony. He had wandered off ten minutes earlier, ostensibly to investigate the fishing rights. There was no sign of him, and Susan hoped he had encountered other men who had engaged him in conversation. She had no clue what anglers found to discuss for hours at a time, but anything that helped her Tony shake off the demons that had him in a body-hugging, soulless grip was to be encouraged.
Although the weather was mild, Susan shivered as she wandered along the pathway, searching for her spouse. She soon spotted the group of anglers. They were huddled together on the bank, staring down into the water. A suddenly frantic Susan rushed towards them, and unceremoniously elbowed the nearest two out of her way.
Tony’s dark red hair was easily identifiable as he floated face-down in the water. Two men kitted out in waders and multi-pocketed jackets stood on either side of him. A young man in his twenties came rushing up and gasped in shock when he spotted the group in the river.
‘Pull him out and give him CPR,’ he yelled at the men. ‘What are you waiting for?’
A stocky man with curly black hair unexpectedly stepped back and put his arm around Susan. ‘Pipe down, Jeff,’ he ordered the young man in a voice deepened by emotion. ‘Tony didn’t drown. He shot himself. Why do you think we haven’t turned him over?’
The sense of relief Susan experienced upon hearing those words stayed with her always. As did the guilt. ‘Goodbye my love,’ she whispered the words to herself. ‘I hope you have found peace.’
