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1630hrs Saturday December 08, 2012. Mackay’s Unit. Guildford, United Kingdom |
6 MONTHS POST-SURGERY
The dragging time sitting on the sofa inside Mackay’s cookie-cutter home, in the cookie-cutter block of flats did nothing but sharpen his pain. Mackay gazed through the television, staring a hole in the wall behind it. Some run-of-the-mill, late afternoon cooking show was playing but his mind was vacant. Something else was in his head, moving like a cork in the surf. His hair stood in unruly tousled bunches and his upper lip gleamed with sweat. He found himself grinding his teeth and clenching his jaw – the small muscle mounds bunching at the sides. His anxiety was flaring but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. He ran his fingernails through his hair. Hard. Over the skin of the scalp, opening the tiny little blood vessels beneath the surface, on the cusp of drawing blood. Back and forth like a grater releasing the tension. A quiet pleasure just enough to take his mind off his life, or lack thereof.
It had been at least four days since Mackay last showered and shaved. Which in effect made him look like a sullied inpatient at a care home. A week earlier he’d finally been given the okay to ditch the wheelchair he’d been using from his physiotherapist, which, for the most part was a huge relief. One step closer to independence. It meant he could now get around with just a single crutch braced under one arm, relieving the pressure from his ribcage. It was slower than the wheelchair but overall, it helped strengthen everything else. Readying his body for walking upright and unaided. Soon anyway. On the same day he ditched the chair, Malvin had bought him a homecoming present. An old-timer’s gift. A cane. Finished in dark walnut with a cast handle crafted into a Viking’s face. A Nordic god-like figure like Odin or Thor, complete with a metallic winged helmet. It was beautiful.
Not much of him felt right at all. Day or night the world outside seemed like it was caving in. Pressing down like gravity solidified. While half feeling sorry for himself, half wishing he was among the stars, he failed to notice his phone ringing. And ringing. Until it stopped. Only the chime notification from the voice message woke him from his dreariness. Picking up the phone, he listened. Out of boredom mostly. Hopeful something better than his planned dinner of blanched asparagus, steak and mash would lighten his evening. Two familiar voices crowed in his ear. Spritely and lathered with a hint of forced enthusiasm. Doing their best to try and liven things up. Mackay checked his watch; an old black analogue G-Shock. Military standard the world over. The familiar voices were coming over in five. Guildford locals. Warfighting brothers from way back.
‘Alright then,’ Mackay muttered. He grabbed his cane from against the sofa, braced himself to his feet and hobbled down the hall to unlock the door.
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1700hrs Saturday December 08, 2012 The Farmer’s Arms Hotel, Guildford |
Mackay really didn’t feel like being there, but the Farmer’s Arms was an old familiar hang with good beer. Plus, it was on doctor’s orders to go out and meet people. Which admittedly, was a lie, and was actually just his brother’s encouragement.
‘Stay social,’ Malvin had said. And more than once. ‘Go out and meet people.’
The pub wasn’t buzzing with life, but it wasn’t dead either. It did its best to welcome families into a refurbished beer garden which doubled as a Mexican-themed family restaurant. Complete with a sombrero jumping castle and spring-coiled piñatas for the kids. It was approaching dinner time and Mackay sat in the back corner of the restaurant opposite the kids play area, staring at his half-empty pint. Chris and Luke held the conversation, catching up and drowning beers left and right. Extensively throughout the wider soldier community they were affectionately known as Cabbage and Bowser. Luke’s family were farmers who grew cabbage, while Chris’s name referred to his family business; a small number of gas-station franchises throughout southern England. Mackay also had a moniker, though his was a little more war related. To be fair, it was entirely war related. A whole different kettle of fish to the origin of Luke’s and Chris’s…
*
During his first week into deployment, Mackay’s unit was sent on a task with the armoured corps: deliver rations and an armoured tank to allied Afghan soldiers camped in a compound for familiarisation training. Mackay’s team ended up locked in enemy contact. Rounds were pelting down from a row of urban buildings raised across an intersection to their left. Mackay’s Land Rover was flanked by a small, but well-supplied section of Taliban rebels. What the rebels couldn’t see was their tank, hidden behind a shopfront, waiting to spring out like a jack-in-the-box. By the time the enemy identified the tank, it was too late. The tank operator had already locked onto their building and ripped it apart. Consequently, a suicide bomber was sent out. A lone Taliban on horseback, prepared for martyrdom and his seventy-two virgins. Allah’s gift for those who die waging jihad. The horse beelined straight for Mackay’s Rover with a hundred yards of distance diminishing quickly. Mackay had one option: put it down. In the heat of the moment, given it was his first week, Mackay was so flustered, he completely forgot about hitting the rider. His archaic brain took over. Instead of blowing the rider away, Mackay opted for the bigger target and lit up the steed. Automatic burst until the animal dropped. Both horse and rider exploded in sync, forty yards out. The heat of the blast was close enough to peel layers of paint off the Land Rover. Animal welfare groups would have been mortified – Mackay turned the horse into dog meat. A cloud of leather, hair, and flesh. Subsequently, Horse-Killer became Mackay’s term of endearment, and stuck for all three of his deployments.
*
The Mexican-themed beer garden was scattered with people young and old. Varied wealth and class. The Saturday afternoon flock of trendy humans letting their hair down had started to swell, slowly building into a babbling pit of sweat, salsa, perfume, and tattoo ink. Some were dressed up, some dressed down. Mackay was tucked into a square table near the back, next to the playpen for kids. Which was empty aside from a small Asian toddler left crawling around a blow-up sombrero. Mackay sat to the left of Luke, while Chris sat opposite, chatting away over a tiny partition of salt and pepper shakers, a fake cactus and a bottle of token hot sauce. The fourth chair at the table was empty, which had Mackay’s Viking cane propped up against it. He made a conscious effort to sip the fermented yeast and hops, thankful that the alcohol helped loosen the invisible reigns bearing over him. The numbing effect allowed his neck and shoulders to ease and slowed his thought processes down just a little. Even when his mind meandered off, the flashbacks stayed away. He contemplated whether he should have another pint. Or whether he should start on spirits next.
Mackay’s eyes shot from Chris to Luke, then back again. Like a rally at Wimbledon. They’d been out of the military for three years now and it was a strange concept trying to understand how they were able to fit back into mainstream society so easily. He wished he could be like them and unbury himself, he just didn’t know how.
‘Wouldn’t have mattered if Luke was Mother Teresa,’ said Chris. ‘He interrupted a woman trying to get laid. Her reaction was a given.’
‘She called me everything under the sun,’ said Luke. ‘She sounded just like Sergeant Cross from the boxing gym. Way too much influence.’
Chris said, ‘Mackay, you’d know Sergeant Cross, yea? The redhead from Aldershot?’
Mackay focused. The various sections of cognitive synapses searched the name.
‘From the Army rehab centre at the base?’ said Chris. ‘She runs the boxing classes there. Pretty amazing if you ask me. No legs and all. They let her do her own thing, like a form of gratitude for her service to the country. She’s not a serving member now of course, finished her rank at sergeant after the IED took her legs. A good boxer in her prime. Won both the Women’s British Lightweight and European Lightweight Championships around four or five years ago.
Mackay’s mind finally completed the search and joined the party. ‘Sorry, I don’t know Sergeant Cross. I walk with a stick. What would I be doing taking a boxing class?’
‘I’m not saying you’d be participating in the class,’ said Chris, ‘I’m just asking if you’ve seen her about. You should check her out, have a chat about your similar experiences. Both being hit with IEDs before being medically discharged and all. Foulest mouth I’ve ever heard on a human.’
Luke said, ‘You do go to Aldershot Garrison for rehab, yea?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cross runs her boxing classes right there. It’s part of the gym next to the rehab clinic. She also runs her old engineering unit’s fitness classes as an acting physical training instructor, but it’s easier to find her at the main gym.’
‘Never seen her,’ said Mackay.
‘Never?’ said Luke. ‘Shame. Good-looking redhead in a wheelchair with a voice like a fucking drill sergeant.’
Chris said, ‘Can hear it echo through the entire gym’s corridors. Like a white Aretha Franklin on crack cocaine.’
‘She’d have to be diagnosed borderline crazy,’ said Chris.
‘We’re all crazy,’ said Mackay.
‘I like her version of crazy,’ said Luke. ‘She says it as it comes naturally. Totally unfiltered. Sometimes it’s a breath of fresh air, sometimes it’s outright nasty. She can get away with it too, nobody’s going to come down on an ex-sergeant boxing instructor with no legs.’
‘And she’s fit,’ said Chris. ‘I’d shag her as is without the legs. You should seriously have a chat with her, Mackay, next time you’re there for physio.’
‘You two would definitely have a lot in common,’ said Luke. ‘A lot of your deep and meaningful shit could be opened up, bounced back and forth. You could listen to someone else’s perspective. Another person’s wisdom and experience with…can I say it?’
Mackay’s back stiffened. ‘With what?’ he said.
‘You know,’ said Luke, ‘all that PTSD stuff. Would be a good idea to…’
‘To shag her? For shits and giggles?’ spat Mackay. ‘To say I’ve had me a veteran with no legs? Fuck off. I don’t need to be matched up with another cripple just to get some release.’
‘No man, ease up,’ said Chris. ‘To go talk to her. Proper talking like. To share stories, get things off your chest. Would do you good.’
‘A worthwhile option at least,’ said Luke. ‘You’ve been stuck in your brother’s apartment for months now, doing fuck all. I understand it must be hard. Really. But being a sad loner isn’t you. I know you know this. You’re stuck in a rut, but the whole post-traumatic stress thing…’
‘What about it?’ said Mackay.
‘There’s help out there,’ said Luke. ‘And Cross is a good start. She works close to your rehab. You’ve both been medically discharged and have lost mates in the desert.’
‘And if not her, then go and see the Four Armoured Medical Regiment,’ said Chris. ‘I know for a fact they have PTSD groups for Veterans.’
‘Not going there,’ said Mackay.
Mackay stayed quiet, staring at his glass.
‘I don’t know how much help we can be,’ said Luke. ‘I mean, we were all out there sucking dirt, but I didn’t see any real action like you, Horse-Killer.’
Luke smacked a reassuring hand against Mackay’s shoulder. ‘I held my weapon, the steering wheel and my dick,’ he said. ‘Only time I squeezed the trigger was during safety checks after unloading the magazine. The only bodies I ever saw were our guys being choppered into base in bags. How about you, Bowser?’
Chris said, ‘I did maybe forty tasks and patrols, transporting food and then sticking around the locals, maintaining peace and security. Saw one air strike, which was amazing, and was there when that Afghan friendly had a change of heart and killed two Italians and an American. Other than that, I mostly talked to kids, gave them books and stickers, water bottles, hats, and toys.’
‘Look,’ said Mackay, ‘the rehab clinic at Aldershot is the regional rehab unit for ex-serving personnel like me. I go there for the physiotherapy. I don’t go for any chit-chat. I don’t need to talk to anybody right now, okay? Except maybe you guys. That’s enough for a start.’
‘To be fair, mate,’ said Luke, ‘when we do get together, you don’t exactly open up.’
Mackay continued. ‘They’ve already given me a thousand contact numbers, pamphlets, email addresses, group therapy providers, all that shit. They’ve provided the referrals and I just need to show up to the group sessions. But right now, right this minute, I’m not ready.’
Mackay stayed silent for most of the conversation. He finished his beer and ran his fingernails through his hair. Once. Twice.
‘I honestly don’t feel up to talking to anyone about anything, okay?’ he said. ‘At least not yet. And don’t ask me when. All I’m feeling now is hunger. So, let’s order some food already.’
‘Sure thing’, said Luke. ‘I’m starving too. This one’s on me. What you all having?’
Luke memorised their orders. He went for the chicken fajita, Mackay the spicy salsa burger and Chris the beef nachos. They agreed on chipotle-smothered corncobs as sides, and a large serving of guacamole corn chips for the table. He stood, then sashayed through the growing crowd to order at the counter.
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1700hrs Saturday December 08, 2012 Adelaide Terrace, Perth, Western Australia |
The client, who gave his name as Kristan, also savoured the concept of anonymity and was on time with ten minutes to spare. A good first impression. The way he sat, however, bothered Van Breeman: cross-legged, thigh over thigh, socks peaking from the ankle. He always thought it awkward for a man to cross their legs in that particular way. Figured it was more or less a sign of femininity. A cynicism passed down from his father. And almost certainly from his father’s father. However, if a man or woman was sitting in front of him with a big chunk of cash, that was all that mattered.
Van Breeman opened one of two laptops lying on the oak desk. He was a pragmatic man and operated on two standard forms of personal computer tech. One old, one new. He opened the old one. The one that managed funds for his organised crime – not the new one that managed the wine exporting. It was a bulkier piece from the mid-2000s with a single program installed. An accounts table with an antique version of Microsoft Office from the XP generation. It had no email access, no Bluetooth, no airdrop or webcam. It was for the accounts of those rare breeds of clientele like the one sitting in front of him. It had never been updated and it never would. As a rare breed of human, he liked the obsolete hardware. He liked the set-up and flow of the old spreadsheet. He kept the accounts himself and managed the ebb and flow of each transaction meticulously. Each time a new client committed to a transaction, a new row was inserted, validating Van Breeman’s hard work and adding to his self-worth. He wasn’t a frequent consumer of recreational drugs, but seeing the numbers shuffle, change and rise, was as good as any hard hit from the street. Pill, powder or crystal. Punching in additional numbers gave Van Breeman that long-lasting high without the withdrawals or comedowns. The transaction itself was the stimulant. The ultimate drug was numbers and it was totally addictive.
Kristan leaned forward and placed his entire right arm with the attached briefcase onto the desk in front. With his other hand he reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out a key. A small Smith and Wesson item with a one-inch neck, a dinky tooth and a loop at the end. He undid the cuff from his wrist and swivelled the combination lock, rotating the numerals to a four-digit code before sliding the case across the table. Van Breeman flicked the fasteners. $1.2 million.
The bills were smooth, pressed, but dirty. Laundered through an unspecified business, which could have been anything. A coffee-roasting plantation, a franchise café, pizzeria or hardware store. Internally, Van Breeman was at fever pitch, yet he kept his gaze steady and his demeanour calm. There was no way he would express his elation through any form of body language or facial expression. Exuding confidence and self-control was paramount, otherwise he would never be taken seriously.
As a greedy sociopath, Van Breeman was still an honest businessman. Always true to his word for a clean exchange – if the client upheld their side of the set parameters. It was his turn to reciprocate.
‘One moment,’ he said, his South African accent coarse and textured. ‘Let me collect your merchandise.’
Van Breman stood and moved towards the wall behind Kristan. Above a waist-high liquor cabinet filled with glass decanters of aged whiskey, was a safe. Concealed behind a hand-painted oil reproduction of Van Gogh’s The Night Café. Twenty inches by twenty-four. Framed in reddish-brown mahogany with a satin finish. He liked having a frontal view of the painting. A pleasant sight at any angle, whether he was happy, frustrated, or exposing a client’s throat. Van Breeman grasped the frame and slid the painting to the right. The safe behind it was equal in size to the Van Gough, necessary to keep the feel and allure of the room artistic, rather than corporate. He blocked the client’s view of the spinlock with his body and twirled some numbers. The metal door released with a dull thunk and he opened it to its full width, which was necessary based on the dimensions of the package inside. He reached in with two hands and hauled out a large sports bag. A duffel: grey straps, black body. Thirty inches in length, sixteen inches wide. Good for sweat towels, water bottles, a change of clothes, a pair of shoes. Maybe two pairs. Maybe a suit and a selection of belts and ties if one was committed. It was filled to its maximal height which meant the zipper was firmly snug across the top. He slung it across his left shoulder, closed the safe and replaced the painting. He walked back to Kristan and shrugged the bag gently onto the floor next to him.
Kristan unzipped the bag and pried open what seemed to be a tightly closed lid. He stared back and forth for a solid ten seconds. Thirty inches up, sixteen inches across. He took a small piece of paper from his inside pocket. Same location as the handcuff key. Litmus paper. He reached back inside the bag for another healthy ten seconds, then smiled, happy with the secured contents. He closed the lid, double-checked it was pressed down firm, then zipped up the duffel and stood up.
Kristan said, ‘Pleasure doing business.’ He picked up the bag and hung it over his shoulder.
Van Breeman said, ‘Most definitely. A future transaction would be beneficial for the both of us.’
‘I’ve no doubt,’ said Kristan.
Van Breeman downshifted to stern. ‘However, you and I must never meet again,’ he said. ‘All future face-to-face contacts must be different. Same client, but a new face. All transactions must be unrelated and dissimilar every time. Agreed?’
‘Agreed, Mr. Van Breeman. As long as you stay in business, my personal clients will be very happy.’
Kristan reached out his hand. Van Breeman thought it good character to offer the hand first, especially considering he was the client. Essentially a guest in Van Breeman’s home. Good first impressions count. Van Breeman shook the hand and sent him on his way.
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1800hrs Saturday December 08, 2012 The Farmer’s Arms Hotel, Guildford |
Chris eyed their table of empty glasses and decided he wanted another.
‘I got next round,’ he said.
The main bar was much busier now than when they’d first arrived. The barmaid facing Chris delivered a courteous, I’m ready for your order smile. Chris doubted it was genuine or intended for him specifically, but it made ordering easier and certainly pleasant. The dark tones of her skin were creamy-smooth and tastefully on display with her low-cut top. He couldn’t tell if she was Indian, Pakistani or Sri Lankan. Still, her smile was kind and professional. As good as you’d get in a place like this.
‘Three pints of the pale ale please,’ said Chris, pointing to the tap. She nodded and smiled back in an equally polite gesture. A social formality. The barmaid grabbed three clean glasses and got on with the order. As he waited, Chris prepped a crisp twenty-pound note between his index and middle finger, flat as a credit card. He traded beer for cash and placed the change in his pocket. He watched the foam coil its way down each glass like a snake as he triangulated the pints in front of him, spreading them carefully.
As Chris moved away with the pints, two inner-city Londoners in puffer jackets walked inside with a well-established vocal volume. Out for a wild night somewhere other than the usual big smoke. Aside from their voices drawing attention, the stud earrings, French-crop haircuts, neck tattoos and nylon jackets all helped. One wore it in red, the other in a mustard yellow. As they entered, they moved straight to the main bar. Chris had no other option but to pass them directly, losing two of the three pints’ worth of liquid on the floor in the process. With no apology. In Chris’s humble opinion, and in appreciation of the modern conception, he immediately classed the fine specimens as cut-price chavs. He also immediately noticed the words “Tamara” tattooed on the side of the red-puffer jacket’s neck. Written in excessively large calligraphy script, appreciated by someone somewhere.
‘Thanks for watching where you were going,’ said Chris, balancing his hands and steadying the sloshing ale away from his shirt. He looked back at the two of them. The shorter one in mustard yellow turned first.
‘What’s that?’ said Yellow-Puff.
At this point, Mackay had just returned from his slow walk to and from the bathrooms, back to their table. He placed his Viking cane against the chair, sat and got comfortable. He looked out past the restaurant and through to the bar, which was when he saw Chris holding a tray with one full pint of beer and two half-pints. Which was unusual, and Chris wasn’t one to skull another man’s drink. Chris was also conversing with two men in colourful jackets. Chris looked heated. The guys in jackets looked mocking. Mackay’s heart rate leapt instantly.
Yellow-Puff grabbed Red-Puff on the arm and pointed at Chris, trying to compute a response. Which, on all accounts, given the attire and ink, was going to lack a lot of social finesse. Chris on the other hand, struggled to decide if he should walk back into the restaurant, or stay and play.
‘Alright, bruv?’ said Red-Puff. ‘Do we know him?’
‘I fink we spilled the old man’s beer,’ said Yellow-Puff.
‘Did we now?’ said Red-Puff, louder, making sure Chris knew he was speaking to him. ‘Maybe next time you only handle two beers instead of three, yea? Not our fault, bruv.’
Chris said, ‘I wouldn’t have spilled it if you and your mate were looking where you were walking. Bruv.’
‘What the fuck?’ said Red-Puff. ‘Are you being cheeky, man?’
Yellow-Puff grinned ear to ear. From where Mackay was sitting, he could see that grin, and knew what it meant. It meant a) he was a common sidekick of an assumed alpha specimen, and b) it meant there was a fight brewing. Judging Red-Puff’s body language – the straightened back and extended chest – Mackay could see he was drunk enough to want to fight in public. Ready to reinstate his dominance. Prove and assert his alpha specimen-ship to his smaller, Yellow-Puff sidekick. Although Mackay had just sat down and made himself comfortable, he shuffled his chair backwards, stood, picked up his cane in his left hand and the bottle of token hot sauce in his right.
‘I spilled your beers did I, bruv?’ said Red-Puff. The pitched sarcasm in his voice plus his use of ‘bruv’ bumped him up another level, confirming for Chris he was in fact a full-price chav. A social cancer.
Over a dozen sets of eyes from around the bar locked focus onto Chris and Red-Puff. Including the brazen-skinned barmaid. Like Mackay, Chris knew what was most likely to come. In many ways he wanted to stay and fight the wannabe alpha dog then and there, but the sensible part of him said it was better to walk away, drink his beer, polish off his nachos and support Mackay. After all, he and Luke had invited him out. Before he could say anything more, the barmaid piped in.
‘It’s alright, luv,’ she called out across the bar, ‘I’ll pour you a couple fresh pints. No charge.’
‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ said Chris, the rush of his fight responses easing. Deep down he was thankful she spoke up, doing her bit to dissolve the situation.
She opened the taps and began pouring two more for Chris, but Red-Puff was having none of it. High on his chav-pride, his dumb, neanderthal ego hankered to prove his worth. Itching to show Yellow-Puff his alpha testosterone.
‘I suppose that’s for me then, yea?’ said Red-Puff to the barmaid. ‘There’ll be a long, hard tip in it for you too if you can handle it.’
Yellow-Puff snorted. The barmaid ignored them, walked around the bar with the two fresh pints on a tray and made a swap, taking the spilled pints from Chris’s hands.
‘Thanks again,’ said Chris, adjusting the tray.
‘Isn’t that some lovely service,’ said Red-Puff. ‘Now hurry up and bring those tits back here, leave the retard alone before he spills anyfink else.’ Red-Puff was purposefully raising the situation. Egging for a response. Chris drew a breath, keeping his eyes firmly on the barmaid who was now showing initial signs of unravelling. She kept a brave face, but her hands were shaking as they held the empty pints. She glanced around the bar, looking for the hotel security who were nowhere to be seen.
Red-Puff raised the situation once again, ‘Come on, I got money to spend. Or you going to stay there and polish him off?’
Chris didn’t like that one. There were families with kids around.
‘That’s not a very polite thing to say for a little London boy,’ said Chris. ‘Considering you both look all coordinated for your little chav evening out, makes me think you two are a cozy little item. So how about you polish each other off outside instead, leave the grown-ups in here. I’ll film it for you too, as I’m sure you’re into that sort of thing.’
The barmaid pursed her lips and smiled cautiously.
‘What’d you fucking say?’ said Red-Puff.
Chris stood, breathing, contemplating. Staring at the three pints on the tray which were now unlikely to be drunk. All nearby voices around him dropped, and those closest to the bar began to leave. The music through the speakers changed. Another old-school RnB classic.
‘Hey!’ shouted Red-Puff. ‘I’m fucking talking to you.’
‘Let’s start this from the beginning,’ said Chris. ‘If you weren’t drunk and were looking where you were going, we wouldn’t be here.’
‘Is that a fact?’ said Red-Puff, posturing, making himself taller as he took a step forward. ‘I’ll flip that. I say it’s you who is drunk and should have watched where you was fucking going. So maybe you owe me an apology. Or how about you buy us a drink each and call it even.’
‘How about neither,’ said Chris. ‘I was clearly out of the way, and you weren’t looking at all. Plus, your comment toward the barmaid was uncalled for. I’m not buying anything.’
‘Last option then,’ said Red-Puff. ‘Let’s take it outside.’
The smile on his sidekick in yellow widened. Red-Puff slowly made for the exit, his fingers twitching and rolling in and out into fists. Chris liked the last option as much as Red-Puff wanted it. The only annoying aspect was he’d likely miss out on the beers and nachos. He too wondered where the security was, but it was still early. Perhaps they started an hour or so later when the crowd really kicked off. So, he resolved himself to Red-Puff’s last option, almost gladly. He stepped towards the bar and for a split second, turned his back while he placed his tray of pints down on the table. Which was when Red-Puff doubled back and swung at Chris’s head. A sucker-punch from behind. Early and without warning. Very ungentlemanly. Very chav.
Chris wasn’t ready for the throw. Didn’t see it coming. He fell sideways, over an empty table, two chairs and onto the sticky carpet. It was the last thing he remembered. The haymaker put him out cold. Luckily, the furniture was all he hit. And luckily nothing else happened to him. Because during the verbal back-and-forth between Chris and the Puffer-Boys, Mackay had quietly and slowly made it around the bar. Step by step, unnoticed with his crutch and bottle of hot sauce. Mackay had made a flanking manoeuvre. At the same time Chris placed his tray of pints onto the bar with Red-Puff doubling back for the swing, Mackay unscrewed the cap on the sauce, dousing the fiery red liquid over his right hand. It was rated three chillies out of four, which meant the heat was at a nice temperature for a burrito, enchilada or plate of nachos. Not so for someone’s face. Especially the eyes. Mackay wasn’t a great fighter, and even less capable with a cane, but he was angry. Angry at the situation, angry at himself, angry at the world. A quiet anger. The best kind. The kind that never surfaces in outbursts, it just simmers and seethes below the surface waiting for an imminent scrap to explode. And when it did, he always arrived with full enthusiasm. He’d seen his share of scraps both locally and on deployment. Pubs, streets, mess halls and garrison boozers. Usually against infantry grunts, sometimes against haughty Airforce crabs and Navy duckfuckers. Sometimes because it made for interesting recounts during beer-and-story-time with the lads, but then more often because there was a strong point to be made out of principle. This was one of those situations.
In the ascending heat between Chris and the Puffer-boys, Mackay decided that a release of anger might just do him some good. Relieve some of his pent-up frustrations for a cause. Out of principle for souring everyone’s evening.
Edging himself close in behind Red-Puff’s swaggering pride, Mackay reached around the front of him with his chilli-sauced hand and wiped it firmly across his face. Making sure his soppy fingers brushed hard into the crevices of the eye sockets. He knew Yellow-Puff would react first, but he was prepared, having thought out the entire process during his uneasy walk from the restaurant to the bar. He held the bottom end of his cane against the lower edge of the bar between the sticky carpet and the wooden skirting board, for leverage. Mackay knew his best defence wasn’t upright bare-knuckle boxing given his healing ribcage, so he would have to use his legs. Although he had killed people on operations – including one unfortunate horse – fighting a couple of chavs in the civilian world was a totally different ball game.
Yellow-Puff reacted, just like Mackay knew he would. His hero mate was in trouble, and it was part of his duty to chip in. Which was a good thing, because Mackay was twice his size in width and twice the intellect in perception. He would easily go down first, cane or no cane.
With his hand steadied on the head of the Viking, Mackay waited for Yellow-Puff to turn back towards him. Then he let it go. A release, like a click of the thumb. A short breath of fresh air in the maddening world inside him. Mackay kicked out. Front kick straight into Yellow-Puff’s pubic bone. He tried for the lolly bag, but it ended a little high. Still, a shot to the pubic bone can easily bring a man down. The kick landed brutally, pulling Yellow-Puff’s feet out from underneath him. Physics and kinetic energy hauled Yellow-Puff down onto his front, chin first onto the thin sticky flooring.
With one man down for the count, Red-Puff – all fuming and bleary-eyed – was now somewhat easier to handle. Wiping furiously and trying to assess who had juiced his eyeballs with the red-hot liquid, Red-Puff turned immediately, swinging and jabbing at the air. He could barely see, and Mackay knew the main heat of the sauce hadn’t taken full effect yet, so he waited, counting down from three in his head.
‘Holy fucking shit!’ screamed Red-Puff.
And there it was. The alpha chav had found the pain. It wasn’t just stinging his eyeballs, he was going to have a red-raw face in less than a minute. Red-Puff kept swinging. Right, left, right, rubbing maniacally at his eyes with his red sleeve at the same time. Which, given it was made of polyester, wasn’t the best at absorbing the three-star fiery juice.
Mackay braced against his cane once more. At the same time, his peripherals saw a half-empty pint at the bar – left by one of the many patrons backing away from the ruckus. He picked it up in his right for backup. Red-Puff squinted, prying one fluttering eye open to calibrate his position for a connecting punch, but Mackay had the upper hand and kicked out a second time. Aiming even higher: the sternum. Something cracked underneath Red-Puff’s jacket as he was flung backward into the wall, toppling into a heap on the floor next to Yellow-Puff. Then, for reasons that could only be related to his unchecked PTSD, Mackay didn’t stop there. He flipped. From a calculated flanking manoeuvre, Mackay crossed over into the unchartered waters of animalistic madness.
With his cane in his left hand and the pint glass in his right, Mackay hobbled over to Yellow-Puff’s lazy form and cracked the half-drunk glass across the side of his head. The smaller chav went out like a light, his head rocking weightless against the floor. Immediately after, Mackay threw himself onto Red-Puff, who was sucking air in partial gasps, trying to force his diaphragm to work. Mackay dropped a knee into the middle of Red-Puff’s back and went to town. Right fist on repeat into the right ear. Left hand still gripping the cane, pressing down into the back of the man’s neck.
‘Mackay!’ yelled Luke, back from the ordering counter.
Mackay didn’t hear a word. He kept driving his knuckles into Red-Puff’s ear. Pounding at the rubbery cartilage while the guy wriggled underneath him, trying but failing to cover the shots with his forearms.
‘Say it!’ growled Mackay. ‘Apologise, you cheap shot motherfucker!’
Four, five, six drum-bursting whacks later, Mackay fidgeted his thumb to the front of Red-Puff’s face and went for his eye. The ball moved like stress-foam as he pressed it into the socket. Red-Puff screamed and recoiled but was stuck under Mackay’s thick, rugby-powered thighs. Before he could dip in past the knuckle, Luke had Mackay wrapped up in his arms and dragged him off. Which was when the police arrived in a wagon with an empty cage in back.
|
2000hrs Saturday December 08, 2012 Guildford Police Station |
The cops didn’t really give Mackay a hard time. For visual purposes and the principle of the law they stuck to protocol and made the arrest look legitimate, and Mackay didn’t argue. The police had Luke and Chris tag along to the station, for all round breath tests and statements which kept the chief inspector happy. The chavs were eventually brought in as well, although they were held back at the pub with a pair of paramedics, namely, to check over Red-Puff’s head. A good thing, considering they didn’t want the men crossing paths again on account of second-round shenanigans.
One of the two bobbies, Sergeant Mulder, an older guy blessed with an aged beer belly and sparse white hair, used to attend Mackay’s brother’s church. When Malvin preached in town at St Matthew’s Anglican. His main concern was Mackay’s ferocity. He’d never been involved with a Connolly. Never knew Mackay was the type to lash out like that. On the football field, Mackay was a machine. Perfectly built like it was genetically bestowed upon him from some divine Rugby-God. But nobody had seen Mackay throw himself into a violent rage before.
At the station, the bobbies were once again nice enough not to put Mackay in a cell. Chris and Luke had given their statements first while Mackay sat outside Sergeant Mulder’s office. Watched by a fresh-faced lanky constable and an unimpressed older woman behind a monitor. An administrative assistant with fluffy chin-whiskers and a lined top lip. Classic smoker. A pack-a-day type for the last forty years. She punched away at the keyboard, her eyes occasionally darting up and down over the monitor making sure Mackay was still seated like a good boy.
Mackay’s eyes wandered vaguely around the interior walls. The admin area had been thoughtfully decorated. British police hats from the late 1800s ran across a rack on the back wall, a list of officers killed in the line of duty were hung on the right, with landscape canvasses hung on the left. Mostly acrylics of tropical oceans, exotic birds, and palm trees. As Mackay slowly stiffened in the wooden chair, the good Sergeant Mulder poked his head out, waking him from his absorbed gaze.
‘Mackay, I’d like your statement now please.’
‘Aye,’ Mackay said. ‘I’ll be honest, it’s quite a basic recount to be sure.’
‘That’s all I want.’
‘The short end of it, a pair of amadans walked in acting the maggot. Wasn’t right, you know.’
Sergeant Mulder looked confused. Mackay was Irish.
‘Right, I’ll say it English-like. A pair of fools walked in the pub, began stirring trouble with complete disrespect. You follow?’
Mulder nodded.
‘A maggot is a parasite. They ruined the mood.’
‘I understand, Mackay, I know the type. I’ve been around and I’m inclined to agree with you. Anyway, your two friends have finished, and we have other matters to deal with this evening. Do you need a hand?’
Mackay drew a breath and a shook his head. He wobbled upright with his cane, shuffled into the room to an empty chair next to Chris and Luke and began laying out his version of events.
After everything was said and done, printed and signed, Mackay wanted a final word.
‘If that crumb didn’t sucker punch Chris, we wouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘That cheap shot in the back of his head could have killed him. I had to step in.’
‘I think you did much more than just step in, Mackay,’ said Mulder. ‘As little as I think of those boys, one is now in hospital under observation. And you should be thankful he’s not in intensive care. You almost took his eye.’
‘Just being honest, Sergeant, I’d probably do it again if I saw a friend get hit in the head from behind. One eye isn’t a bad exchange for a lowly fucker like that. Excuse the language. What if Chris wound up in hospital instead? Or died?’
‘That’s all relevant in hindsight,’ said Mulder. ‘All fair points. But you already had him. It was all over. If you did in fact mess up his eye, I’d have no choice but to put you in that cell in the room next door. That’s grievous bodily harm which exceeds the grounds for defending your mate here for the cheap shot. I hope you understand.’
Sergeant Mulder looked across at Chris and Luke, projecting his quantified concern. A this is serious look on his face.
‘Anyway,’ continued Mulder, ‘I doubt there will be any court proceedings, even if those two do wish to press any charges. It’s unlikely though, given their criminal history, which we’ve just received from East London. Plus, your current physical ability, your past service to the country, your friend’s witness statements, and the statement of the barmaid.’
‘The barmaid gave a statement?’ said Chris.
‘Good as,’ said Mulder. ‘Notes were taken back at the bar. Her version aligns. That means right now, Mackay, it looks okay for you. But there is one thing we need to talk about, and that is getting help for your PTSD. Your friends here are very concerned.’
‘I know,’ said Mackay flatly.
‘So, what’s happening?’ said Mulder
‘What do you mean?’
‘Inside your head.’
Mackay paused. He was borderline reticent, but the time and place to talk was now. He couldn’t not say anything, especially after the evening’s violence. He didn’t want to reveal his thoughts, and he especially didn’t want to burrow inside and bring up anything potentially horrid or unpleasant. Yet, looking at the piercing eyes around the room, he bit the bullet. The context and tension in the room was suffocating.
‘Thanks for not putting me in the can, and thanks for the support,’ said Mackay. He looked up at everyone in turn. ‘I appreciate you all, really. As for the apparent PTSD, I’m sure a day will come when I do go to a meeting. But it won’t be tomorrow. I hate seeing people. I’m just going through the daily motions, trying to fit into this place while everyone else has their eyes closed.’
‘Closed to what?’ asked Chris.
‘To the real world. To the war still going on over there. Where I should be. Where we were.’ Mackay eyed Luke, then Chris, then Mulder. ‘Everyone just walks about oblivious, safe as houses. Thinking about their next booze-filled weekend, or what pair of shoes they’re buying next while we’re out there fighting for them. For them to live in this comfort. We went out there to represent this country while everyone else sits at home deciding on what brand they’re going to wear or what video game they should buy. Slobs wondering what tattoo design they’ll get because they want to express how much their fucking cat means to them.’
‘There are thousands of ex-soldiers that feel the exact same way,’ said Luke. ‘But there are better things in the world that you could focus on. And as much as we’ve tried, it seems we can’t really help you.’
‘Your brother might be able to,’ added Mulder. ‘I know him well. He’s a good pastor. But for now, son, you need to seek counselling support or therapy of some kind. Army therapy. With people you know. People you have a connection with.’
The sergeant paused a beat, then, ‘My wife, my children and I attended your brother’s church. You know this. Every Sunday when he ran St Matthews. Before his recent move to Bracknell. For the past five years we were regulars. I always wondered why I never saw you.’
‘Church was never my thing,’ said Mackay.
‘Do you speak with him much?’ said Mulder.
‘Here and there. As much as brothers normally do I suppose. He knows when to leave me alone at least.’
Sergeant Mulder looked at Mackay serenely, then closed his eyes.
‘Look, I don’t want to preach to you. I’m not your brother, and I am not a psychologist, but what I am saying is, you need to be surrounded by good people. And you have two right here. But there are more people who are experienced with helping you with other specific needs. Part of my job is to try and steer you in the right direction.’
Mackay listened to the good sergeant with enough sincerity to pass as genuine. He maintained eye contact, agreed with a low murmur here and an occasional nod there. In the end, he agreed to two things: he would book in and attend counselling with one of the psychs at Aldershot’s Garrison, and he would meet with Renee Cross the boxing coach. Chris and Luke even offered to drive the half-hour trip for him now that Malvin had moved to Bracknell. Talking it out with experienced battle-honed soldiers of similar ilk seemed an okay option, even if it was with a red-headed boxing instructor with no legs.
Overall, he felt good about how he’d reacted. He didn’t feel it was irrational at all. In fact, the justice aspect of it felt right. The boys got what they deserved. And a slap on the wrist was better than spending the night at the station. Or quite possibly longer at Coldingley Prison.
|
0700hrs Monday December 10, 2012 Mackay’s Unit. Guildford, United Kingdom |
At 0700 when Mackay eventually sat up in bed, he felt exhausted. Unrested. His overactive mind, the vividness of his dreams all added to feeling washed out, dry and hungover. He was scheduled for an 0830 appointment with the military counsellor at Aldershot, and Chris had offered to pick him up and drop him off, out of support and loyalty. Making good on his commitment. Mackay could probably have driven alone. The physio had given him the okay to drive since managing with the cane, which was a small step toward the light, as long as it was an automatic and not a three-pedal.
If Mackay didn’t get moving, he’d be late. There was nothing on the wall except paint, and he needed to stop staring at it. He also needed to stop running his hands up and down his butchered, cheese-grater ribs, even though they itched like bollocks underneath the skin. Once he was on his feet (an achievement in itself), he moved to the kitchen, started the kettle, prepped an instant coffee and pressed two bits of bread into the toaster. At 0730, Chris entered Mackay’s driveway to the complex of units in a blue dual-cab Toyota Hilux. It was too early to tap the horn on account of the neighbours, so instead he left the throaty hum of the diesel idling, hoping it was enough of a warble to signal his arrival. Which it was. Mackay limped outside within thirty seconds, threw his cane down into the footwell, then clambered in after it.
Chris followed the easy morning flow of traffic out onto the A31, then drove the half hour west from Guildford to Aldershot Garrison. The onset of trickling sleet reduced everybody down to stupid levels of slow, not to mention turning the tarmac to a greasy film spattering all over Chris’s windscreen. The land either side of the motorway was an old familiar sight, but it made Mackay feel uneasy, invoking recent memories he didn’t want circulating. Reminding him of surgery, which then reminded him of what he’d left behind: his career, his friends, and the friends that were no longer coming back. They arrived at Aldershot Garrison at 0815. At the security gates, the guard confirmed the appointments for both Mackay and Chris, as well as the correct registration quoted for the Hilux. He made a brief check through the vehicle’s tray, glovebox and rear seats, then let them through. Chris dropped Mackay out the front of the medical wing, and the two agreed on meeting back there at 1000. An hour of psychotherapy fun, plus a quick look-see around the gym for the infamous boxing instructor.
The medical wing housed both the rehab centre and counselling clinic. Two single-story officers’ residence buildings joined together. Old military housing built sometime after the Second World War. The two buildings were attached with modern interior renovations, new furnishings, and a reconditioned courtyard with a kept garden.
Mackay didn’t need to sit down in the waiting room. As soon as he entered, the counsellor was standing at the front desk pointing here and there at a computer monitor over the shoulder of a skinny, middle-aged brunette. The receptionist. Probably reviewing the daily appointments. There was nobody else in the room. For the hour of the morning Mackay assumed he was first off the block. The counsellor was taller than most, somewhere around six foot two or three and likely a doctor with a PHD. Whether it was in psychology or psychiatry Mackay wasn’t sure. He had a long face with thick spectacles and dark brown hair cut short and clean. A mirror image of Postman Pat, thought Mackay, the stop-motion children’s television character. The receptionist also wore glasses, but her face was amped and edgy. Maybe from excess coffee or cigarettes. Probably both.
‘Mackay Connolly,’ said the counsellor.
‘Aye, you said that like a statement, sir,’ said Mackay. ‘We’ve never met.’
‘You’re the first to walk through the door this morning, and your picture is right in front of me on our system. Only your haircut is shorter here. Your file was sent through from your surgeon in Kandahar. Captain Andersen. He works here now, at the hospital. Transferred not long after you were medically discharged. Honourably might I add.’
‘Are you a psychologist or a psychiatrist?’ asked Mackay.
The man stepped out from behind the reception desk and held out his hand. The closer proximity allowing Mackay to judge his age to a tighter ballpark of the mid-forties.
‘I’m a psychologist,’ he said. ‘Dariusz Swibinski.’
Mackay braced with his cane and shook his hand. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said. ‘What’s the main difference between your profession and a psychiatrist?’
‘A psychiatrist is a medical doctor who usually makes specific diagnoses,’ Swibinski said. ‘I mostly focus on conversation. Verbal treatment for those suffering depression and anxiety. For deployed soldiers, a lot of that rolls off the back of PTSD. Does that sound like something you can relate to?’
Mackay downloaded the information, then analysed the question.
‘You could say that,’ he said.
‘Honesty, that’s good,’ Swibinski said. ‘Word of mouth says you were an excellent corporal, and so does your file.’
Swibinski gestured Mackay to the first door down the corridor. ‘Don’t stress,’ he said. ‘We’ll just talk. Keep it simple. I won’t diagnose you or prescribe you anything. I’m trained to assess problems in people’s thinking and emotions.’
‘Great. What I was hoping for,’ said Mackay. ‘So, Swibinski? Polish?’
‘Bingo. And you grew up in Dublin.’
‘Aye. Another statement. Good old military files.’
|
0845hrs Monday December 10, 2012 Aldershot Military Support Centre |
Inside his office, listening room, or whatever workspace the shrink community called it, there were two comfortable armchairs. No couches, sofas, or designer pieces. The army budget wouldn’t allow for it. The chairs were quality enough, lined with soft cushioning, covered in leather and leaned to a slight recline. Doctor and patient both at eye level. Equal positioning. The room was relatively small, which worked to create a more personalised and focused approach without any major distractions. The carpets were cream, there was a short filing cabinet and a tawny-brown desk for writing scripts, reports and referrals. On one wall hung a wide frame of a serene waterfall, while on the opposite were two framed certificates: Swibinski’s qualifications. A doctor in clinical psychology, and an accreditation with the British Psychological Society. What stood out most in the room was a bonsai tree. A ficus bonsai, with green oval leaves and a thick gnarled trunk. At least fifty years old if not more, and small enough to fit in the palms of two hands. Strategically placed at the corner of Swibinski’s desk, closest to the patient’s armchair. Either as a point of reference during reflections, or to spark discussion. Although dwarfish in features it looked like a thousand-year-old Major Oak from Nottinghamshire. Nestled in white pebbles inside a wood-fired clay pot it was meticulously cared for, as it should be, giving Swibinski a higher level of approval in Mackay’s book.
‘So, the bonsai,’ began Mackay, sitting into the patient’s armchair opposite the doc.
‘Ah, the Zen question,’ said Swibinski. ‘Nice little addition, don’t you think?’
‘Is the tree part of my psych experience?’ said Mackay.
‘It doesn’t need to be. Many seem to like it for what it is.’
‘Which is? A small Japanese plant that looks like an old tree?’
‘Sure. It looks nice though. Makes me look cultured as well, right?’
Mackay said, ‘I’m assuming there’s a concept where you use it as an analogy to paint a bigger picture for us, so we look deeper within ourselves.’
‘All the above. Almost for every person that comes in here. Me included. You comfortable, Mackay? Is it okay if I call you Mackay?’
‘Aye. That’s my name.’
‘Just checking. Being military, many prefer using their surnames.’
‘First-name basis is fine, I’m not in the army anymore.’
‘Okay,’ said Swibinski. ‘To be frank, Mackay, the tree visually represents harmony and balance. In this room I can physically control that harmony and balance by taking time to care for it. Giving it a snip here and there, giving it water. It’s that control that is key for us as people too, but we often forget to take the time to care for ourselves. For me, my control in this room is to look after the tree, make sure it’s thriving. Other things I have control over include having a place for everything. My books, the two chairs, my stationary, my keyboard. I keep things neat and tidy, placed in certain ways, in certain places. I keep things ordered, that’s my control. Can you think of an example of what a control scenario looks like for you?’
Mackay sat and pondered, stretched his side and scratched involuntarily at his ribs.
‘Not these days,’ Mackay said. ‘I couldn’t be sure now. I guess I’m lucky if I get to my feet in the morning.’
‘What about when you were still in the service? Corps of transport, right?’
Mackay chewed the inside of his lip. ‘Well, it’s the army, sir. There was an ordered way of doing things. For literally everything. Your bed, your uniform, the way you walked and cleaned your weapon. The army even tells you how to think. I went by that.’
‘Of course. No need to call me sir either. Darryn is fine.’
‘Not Dariusz?’
‘A little uncommon around here. My mother calls me Dariusz. She likes to keep things traditional.’
‘Control is associated with power,’ Swibinski continued. ‘We like having a personal power over our world, but sometimes we lose it. Without having our own space to control we can often start falling apart. It matters for the things we do day to day, as well as for the things that pop up unexpectedly. Like that IED explosion.’
Mackay closed his eyelids down tightly. The memory of the exploding flashes and dead bodies of Theckston, Freeman and Kirwan lit up his mind.
‘When power and control are gone, when it goes up in smoke, the mind can change in an instant. How would you say your head feels right now, in your own terms?’
‘I suppose I’m one big dark tunnel without any light at the end of it.’
‘Mackay, I do need to ask you a serious question. Are you suicidal, or do you have any suicidal thoughts?’
Mackay paused. Searching his deeper recesses. Exploring the frenzied grey matter connecting dark memories. He paused maybe a fraction of a second too long.
‘No,’ Mackay said, as confidently as he could.
Swibinksi took the answer for what it was and nodded. ‘Next hard question, are you drinking?’
Mackay knew where he was going with this one.
‘A beer occasionally.’
‘Heavily?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing excessive to numb the pain?’
‘No. That was three questions.’
‘Fair point, let’s move on. I’d like you to open up on what’s getting you edgy. What is it you’re struggling most with? Take your time.’
Mackay put his hands to his face. Pressed his fingers into his eyes, his brow, then down the bridge of his nose. He scratched at his temples and ran his fingers through his hair.
‘I’m always thinking about why I reacted the way I did.’
‘React how?’
‘Turning that fucking steering wheel and driving off the road. I’m constantly analysing and dissecting. Why did this happen? Why did that happen? Why didn’t I just plant my foot into the brakes. My whole equilibrium feels shot.’
‘Wallowing in your headspace after an incident like yours is part of the process. Like grieving. You’re in an enhanced state of sensitivity. The mind is a strange, nonsensical, and magnificent mechanism. Even our own thoughts can hurt us immensely.’
The room stayed silent. The lack of sound felt comforting.
‘Sometimes we forget to consider the positives we have in our lives,’ said Swibinski. ‘You’re alive, your health is on the mend, you have your compensation, your family.’
‘Fair,’ Mackay agreed.
‘It’s no secret that everything in your file, everything we’ve uncovered, comes under PTSD. I’m sure you know this, right?’
‘So people keep telling me.’
‘Touching on the incident, had you ever seen or experienced an IED before?’
‘I’ve seen claymores, grenades and mortars go off.’
‘How close were they?’
‘I should have braked hard and stopped. I should not have turned the wheel.’
‘Your reaction could not, and cannot, be learned or practised. How did you know what to expect? It was down to an automatic response. How could you have known there were two IEDs planted in the ground?’
Mackay leaned back in his chair, the tears behind his eyes scratched at the surface.
‘Here’s my last perspective. If you knew there were IEDs in the ground at those exact points in the road, and you deliberately swung your vehicle over them causing those deaths, then that could potentially be considered murder. You’d be court martialled.’
‘I suppose,’ said Mackay.
‘But you didn’t know where either two IEDs were, because you were fighting for the British, and you’re not an Islamic extremist.’
‘Right.’
‘So, what does that make it?’
Mackay didn’t answer.
‘An accident. Can you say that?’
‘Say what?’
‘The words. It was an accident.’
Mackay swallowed. His throat was dry. He couldn’t answer. He wiped the corners of his eyes with his palms.
‘We’ll get there, Mackay,’ said Swibinski. ‘You had enough?’
‘Aye.’ Mackay tried to smile, it felt fake. He stared at the bonsai tree. As much as he thought the session to be okay, he still couldn’t give a proper smile. The muscles in the corners of his mouth worked, but it wasn’t real.