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0945hrs Monday December 10, 2012 Boxing Gym, Aldershot Garrison |
Mackay had fifteen minutes to spare before Chris was due to pick him up. So, he took the five-minute walk down to the gym. Which was normally a two-minute walk had he not been sauntering along with a cane. That then left him with ten minutes to find the red-headed instructor and see what she was all about. He pulled out his mobile phone and messaged Chris: I’m at the main gym. See you there in 20.
Mackay stood in a long foyer of rooms framed with glass and steel, built side by side across a vast slab of concrete. The rooms looked new or at least refreshed, scattered with soldiering motivation posters endorsing all the usual values of courage, teamwork and discipline. The first room he passed was a functional training room with open flooring filled with squat racks, pull-up bars, dip bars and kettle bells. The second room was bigger. A cardio room with treadmills, stationary bikes, stair climbers and cross trainers. The next room was the weights gym crammed with every kind of machine and vanity mirrors lined wall to wall. The last room at the end of the foyer was the busiest. The boxing hall. A replica of the weights room in size and dimensions, however the atmosphere was totally different. There were no vanity mirrors like the weights gym. Self-admiration was not required. The people inside were training hard and proper. There were no girls with make-up, straightened hair or fluro activewear. There were no guys flexing or wasting time in huddles staring at the opposite sex. Mackay stepped inside. The tangy draught of sweat slapped him in the face and then passed over him. Only three distinct sounds could be heard: the snick of skipping ropes hitting the floor, wrapped fists hitting bags, and a singular, exceptionally loud, roaring female voice.
The voice in the room belonged to a woman in a wheelchair. She sat tall, confident, and domineering as she bellowed instructions. Her hair was dark red, pulled back in a ponytail. At the base of the chair where her legs should have been, were two stubby limbs poking from the mid-thigh. A pair of black training shorts partially covered the rounded flesh which was white and pink and knitted with scarring. One stub was slightly longer than the other: the left ending just below the kneecap, the right ending just above. She worked her voice from the middle of the room, yelling at four people at once: two on the agility balls and two sparring in the ring. From one trainer to the next, she was at them, in her element…
‘Robbie, move that fucking back foot, it’s not made of lead.’
‘Donna, keep your shit together, there’s ten seconds left.’
‘Don’t you dare look down at me, Harry, eyes up, I’m not the one in the fucking ring.’
‘Breathe, Pete, if you pass out again it’s a hundred squats with me on your back.’
As her countdown reached zero, the corner of her eye detected Mackay’s shape leaning awkwardly on his cane at the entrance like a tourist.
‘You, get your thumb out of your arse and get changed. I don’t give a fuck about your combat disability problems, you’re late. We started ten minutes ago.’
Mackay blinked, taken aback. He hadn’t been yelled at since Afghanistan. Mackay scoped the gym and looked for somewhere to sit or lean against. Wait out the right time for a quick word with the woman he was sure was Renee Cross. He gathered he had ten minutes to figure out how to approach her. He wasn’t sure what he would say, and he didn’t want to sound needy or desperate, but since he was there, he would do himself a favour and ask for advice on working through his PTSD.
At the opposite end of the gym was a walled shelf full of gym bags. It was isolated enough from the sweaty action, so he hobbled over. There were no chairs or benches, so he propped his cane against the shelving and leaned against the wall, easing the pressure off his sides. He leaned, he waited. After ten minutes, a drink break was called.
‘We start back in two minutes!’ yelled the red ant. ‘Be ready, or you’ll be training into overtime and sweating arse juice.’
The red ant wheeled herself in Mackay’s direction, making firm eye contact.
‘Obviously not here to box,’ she said. ‘What are you here for then, Tin Man?’
Her chin was high, her face sceptical and cold. She eyeballed him like a sniper on a fresh target. Her focus taking in a hundred pieces of information all at once.
‘Haven’t had Tin Man before,’ said Mackay.
‘Irish?’
‘Aye.’
‘You’re stiff,’ she said. ‘And your frame looks awkward in those clothes. You wearing a brace or something?’
‘No brace.’
‘Then you either got shot up or blown up. So, take your shirt off. You show me yours, as I’ve clearly shown you mine.’ She wiggled her stubs up and down.
Mackay noted the red ant’s tone, the crassness of her voice, her face, her chair, her limbs. If she’d had her legs blown off, best guess, she was likely an ex-engineer. A landmine-sweeper. She had a lined face, not because she was old, but possibly from spending hours in the sun sweeping IEDs. Or maybe from all the yelling in the gym. To be fair, going through the trauma and stress of becoming an amputee may have aged her looks, but she was still pretty. Her refined jawline, adept eyes and lean torso from years of boxing had obviously helped.
‘Show you what? My limbs?’ said Mackay.
‘Your scars, arse-hat.’
‘Mine are still swollen.’
‘Good. The bigger the better. You’ve seen mine as I sit before you, now show me yours. Soldier to soldier. Call it a rite of passage.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘I want to see. My guys need to get back to it, so pull it out. Just as long as it’s not your dick. Don’t be a weirdo, unless it’s missing, which would be interesting.’
Mackay took a defeated breath. ‘Right here right now?’
‘Right now.’
Mackay balanced himself without his cane, grabbed his shirt shrugged out of it. He wasn’t ashamed but he still felt exposed and vulnerable. This was a first. In front of a strange woman basically in a public place. Aside from the surgeons at Kandahar, Malvin was the only person to have ever seen what his ribs really looked like. Because Cross had a certain authority, and because he was within her little part of the world, Mackay obliged. A few wandering eyes from the beat trainers looked over, their eyes lingering longer than Mackay found comfortable, but they observed with a recognition of respect. A war-dog’s acknowledgement. Many made the classic double take, while some turned away with a faint shudder.
‘Holy fucking shit that’s fucked up,’ the red ant exclaimed.
‘You should talk.’
‘I win by default, since I can’t walk, but that…’
‘Like a massive cheese grater, right?’
‘Or a slab of beef cut with a blunt knife.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You said it was still swollen.’
The red ant wheeled herself closer and touched him down the side. Mackay watched her fingers against his skin. He couldn’t feel a thing. She ran her hand down a second time. Open palm, top to bottom. It was cool to the touch. Not warm, like a normal body would be. She felt the ripples and bumps, the tiny undulations.
‘I don’t think it’s swollen,’ she said. ‘Seems settled. Set like a crème brûlée. But this, this is not normal.’
‘Feels mostly okay now,’ Mackay said. ‘Still itches sometimes. I can’t feel your hand. Not even when I scratch at it.’
‘You’ve got bragging rights, Tin Man. Good work, officially the biggest fucked-up thing I’ve ever seen. What’s your name?’
‘Mackay.’
‘That a first or a last name?’
‘First.’
‘Sounds like a last. Should be a surname.’
‘Parents didn’t see it that way, so they put it at the front.’
‘My name’s Renee. Most call me Cross.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Good things or bad?’
‘Only that you’ve got a mouth on you.’
‘I’ll take it as a compliment.’
‘Looks like you train your guys pretty hard.’
‘Another compliment. Two’s a bit much this early on. As easy as it might seem for a girl without legs, you’re not getting into my pants.’
Mackay took half a step back. ‘That wasn’t what I…’
‘I’m joking. At ease, soldier. You want to meet with me and talk war stories, yes?’
‘Am I that predictable?’
‘Last time this happened the situation was reversed. I was the one sitting in this chair looking to speak with another cripple. Wanting to ask how they got through it all. Guess it’s my turn to pass the baton.’
‘PTSD?’
‘Happens to the best of us who come back wonky. We can meet tomorrow morning here, out the front of the gym. 0830. I live inside the garrison, but I’ll scoot down. I can’t drive, obviously,’ Cross batted her limbs up and down, ‘so chauffer duties will be on you. I prefer informal chats outside the wire, so we’ll head off somewhere nicer. You got a ride big enough for this chair?’
‘I’m sure I can get a hold of something.’
‘We’ll head to the Madam’s Apprentice café. It’s the cat’s fucking pyjamas. You know the one?’
‘Eastern end of the lakeside nature reserve.’
‘Food’s good, coffee’s better. See you then. Now I have to fuck off, these soft foreskins have had too long a break.’
And that was it. She turned her wheelchair around and started up the yelling.
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0900hrs Tuesday December 11, 2012 The Madam’s Apprentice café, Aldershot |
Mackay woke at 0700, showered first, shaved second, then had a cup of English breakfast tea to warm his insides. Chris leant Mackay his blue Hilux for the day, making good to his commitment in seeing his old friend seek some social connection. Besides, it was with a member of the opposite sex, which could almost be considered a date. At 0855 Mackay pulled up to Aldershot Garrison’s security gates, showed the guard his ID, then continued on to the gym. As sure as her word, Cross was out front waiting. He’d never helped a disabled person into a vehicle before, so he didn’t know any of the steps or processes. Rather than assuming what to do and looking dumb while doing it, he figured his best option was to just ask. Mackay parked in line with her, leaned over the centre console and opened the door.
‘Morning,’ Cross said, rolling into view.
‘What am I supposed to do?’ said Mackay.
‘I’ll crawl in, then you can collapse my chair and put it in the back. Not in the tray. I don’t want it slip-sliding around. Who knows how you drive.’
Mackay’s brainwaves fired a number of blurry images into his head from the remark: explosion one, explosion two. The turn of the steering wheel. Kirwan, Theckston, Freeman. It was a throwaway line. There was no real connected reference to his driving – she didn’t know his story. He clenched his jaw and blinked the comment away.
‘Sure thing,’ he said, and got out of the cab.
As Mackay walked around, Cross heaved herself up inside the passenger side.
‘You know how to collapse a wheelchair?’ she said.
‘I’m not really sure,’ Mackay said.
Cross watched and let him think on it for five seconds. She then watched Mackay remove the cushion, pull the seat inwards from its collapsing handle and place it in the back seat. Job done. Ten minutes later, they pulled into the café parking lot which was huddled between a small car dealer and an independent computer repair store. Cross pulled a disabled card from her inside pocket and slid it onto the dashboard.
‘We’re good,’ she said. ‘We can be as close as we like.’
Mackay scouted the parking lot for the disabled spaces, of which there were two: one occupied with a sporty Mini Cooper, and one other which was free. Both up close to the café’s front entrance. Mackay had been there once before. A hidden spot just out of town overlooking a small lake, or maybe it was a large pond, littered with moored boats mostly of the dinghy variety.
Mackay swung his legs out onto the blacktop then leaned over Cross’s stubs to pull his Viking cane from the passenger well. He noted the altered fabric of the pinned denim cut short to fold neatly over her limbs. He walked around, removed the wheelchair from the back, then set it up alongside the passenger side.
‘Do I help you get in?’ said Mackay.
‘No. Just watch and look interested.’
Mackay stood off to the side feeling like a moron. Helpless and special – and not in the neurotically brilliant sense. Cross moved fast. On autopilot, having done the in-and-out process a few hundred times at least. She grabbed the Jesus-bar near the roof lining, swung into the assembled chair, closed the door and rolled herself towards Mackay. Done and dusted in ten seconds. Bish bash bosh.
Inside, the café was stained wood all around. Maintaining an antique vibe that went with the lakeside location. It was busy but not crowded, or excessively loud. Mostly older folk in retirement age, aside from one table of four teens: two girls, two guys. Mackay took a long hard look. Judging. Making assumptions. They all wore various jackets matching the low temperature. No puffer styles though. The girls wore beanies, the guys wore caps turned backwards, but at least they were quiet. An overly friendly waitress, a frumpy girl somewhere in her late twenties, came out from the front reception and found them a table. She laid a couple of menus on the table and asked whether they’d like to order coffee straight away. Good customer service, thought Mackay. He was keen for the caffeine and needed something to help rejuvenate his conversation skills. Cross ordered a large double shot latte, Mackay a large double shot flat white. Neither requested sugar.
‘How are they going for you?’ asked Cross.
‘Pardon?’
‘The teens over there. Your attention was lost to them for the last ten seconds.’
‘Yes. Sorry. I’m just settling into my surrounds. Predicting whether we’ll have to deal with any obnoxious ferals.’
‘Don’t let them spoil our time, Tin Man, we’re off to a good start.’
‘I had nothing else to do. And you gave me no other choice really.’
‘Good point.’
Mackay said, ‘We haven’t introduced ourselves properly. We should do the obligatory thing and shake hands.’ Mackay stretched his hand across the table. ‘Mackay Connolly.’
Cross clasped down on Mackay’s hand like a vice. ‘Renee Cross,’ she said. ‘So, you from the North or the South? Belfast or Dublin?’
‘Born in Dublin. Moved over when I was fourteen.’
‘I’m an Essex girl originally, though I grew up in Manchester. Then twelve years in the engineer corps. And now I’m here.’ Cross looked down at her legs and smiled. Her first. Her eternally stern exterior completely vanished as her teeth, eyes, and cheeks all opened up to reveal someone warm, trusting and friendly. In the hazy daylight bouncing off the water from the lake, Mackay took her in entirely: a natural redhead highlighted to a deep ginger, scattered freckles over a fair complexion, and green oval eyes above that sharp jawline. She had perfect teeth on the top row, and slightly crooked ones on the bottom. She was older than Mackay by a few years, and overall, he pegged her as athletically sexy, rather than pretty or cute.
‘Always happy to meet a fellow battle survivor,’ Cross said. ‘I do know who you are by the way.’
‘I’m guessing there was a write-up in the Defence newspaper?’
‘Everyone with a major surgery ends up knowing everyone with a major surgery. Defence news spreads like teen gossip. An IED explosion in the Badlands with three killed. One in the first blast, two in the second. Corporal Connolly pinned in his seat by two metal shafts from the blown suspension.’
‘Good work. If I wore a hat, I’d take it off.’
‘Shit. I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘My comment before, when you picked me up.’
‘I remember. About not knowing how good a driver I am?’
‘Totally slipped my mind. I didn’t mean it.’
‘Under the bridge.’
Silence passed between them. Cross spoke first, relieving the tension.
‘Captain Andersen did your work at Kandahar,’ she said. ‘Did mine as well. He’s a good surgeon.’
‘A better surgeon wouldn’t have left me looking like a mauled wine barrel.’
‘You’re alive, aren’t you?’
Mackay didn’t reply.
‘A better surgeon doesn’t exist,’ said Cross. ‘Any other surgeon with half the quid of Andersen would still shit bricks if they came across a real combat surgery.’
‘I’ll take it back,’ said Mackay. ‘Andersen did a good job. My skin is still itchy, and looking at the scarring in the mirror makes me feel sick, but my ribs do feel pretty good. It’s like there’s a cool patch all around my torso. Colder than the rest of me, which I’m assuming is the thermo-compound.’
‘Holy shit, you received the thermoplastic?’
‘It replaced the old ribs along the attachment points damaged in the blast.’
‘Lucky man. That’s a whole new level, Mackay, some real fandangle shit. You really are a modern-day Tin Man, now let’s order.’
Cross didn’t bother waiting to catch the eye of the waitress, she simply yelled her name across the café. Numerous patron heads turned. Mackay’s eyed widened, impressed at the display. Whether Cross actually knew her name because she was a regular or if she caught a glimpse of her name tag, Mackay wasn’t sure. Either way, Katie came pronto. Cross ordered eggs benedict with a side of sourdough. Mackay went with avocado-smash with poached eggs. Katie wrote it all down, left, and then returned with their coffees.
Mackay turned to Cross. ‘So, we’re doing this, are we? The deep and meaningful?’
‘That’s what we’re here for,’ said Cross. ‘I’ll go first. Question and answer. My question, your answer.’
Mackay’s cognition switches flickered. He needed more caffeine to engage in what was to come. He took a long sip of coffee, allowing the warm antioxidants to flood his cells and attune his brain to his mouth.
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0915hrs Tuesday December 11, 2012 International Airport, Perth, Western Australia |
At the same time Mackay and Cross drank, ate, and unloaded war stories, Mackay’s older brother Malvin and his family touched down at Perth’s International Airport. They hit the tarmac a little after nine in the morning in one of the most isolated cities in the world – there for a family holiday where smoky orange sunsets fanned the Indian ocean. Malvin’s wife, Neve, and their two sons, Lincoln and Angus, were glad to finally be on the ground. Twenty hours in the air is one long innings for any young family. As international guests with an appreciation for wine, Malvin and Neve booked their travels three hours’ drive south of Perth city in Margaret River, the wine capital of the west. It was all about sampling and indulging. Aside from world-class wines, there were other assortments on offer, including cheese, chocolate, and wild game. But that was only half the menu. The other half involved surfing pristine beaches, fishing, snorkelling, and reading a good book or two.
They collected their luggage from the carousel and moved to the Hertz vehicle hire booth – the classic yellow-over-black font unmissable inside the terminal. They’d selected a late model Toyota Camry back in Bracknell, so they just needed their passport and credit card details to sign it out. The receptionist, a younger girl with straight blonde hair cut in a bob, confirmed their details then directed them outside, past the taxi rank and passenger drop-off points to the Hertz car yard.
With Perth being seven hours ahead of England, Malvin knew they’d need a day of recovery to freshen up before heading south to their main holiday retreat in the wine region. Namely to recover from the jet lag. Once the vehicle handover was complete with an exchange of paperwork for keys, the Connollys piled inside the Camry and drove to their pre-booked hotel. A ten-minute drive from the airport. A three-star, so nothing fancy considering it was only for one night. The next morning they’d drive the three hours south to Margaret River where they’d hired a beach house for a whole week.
When booking the holiday, Malvin calculated he would need at least two weeks off from duties as head pastor of Somerville Baptist Church. Three days prior to departure to pack and get the house in order, and another three days post-holiday to unpack and settle back into the Connolly routine. Six days either side was as good as a week, so Malvin indulged and took the full two weeks off – delegating his responsibilities to the elders.
Malvin’s wife, Neve, worked alongside Malvin at the church, helping out with the worship and music teams, but for the last six years since the birth of their youngest, Lincoln, she was mostly a stay-at-home mother. Lincoln was diagnosed with autism – somewhere in the middle range of the spectrum – and had numerous requirements that needed to be met for his support. Lincoln’s autism, however, didn’t make him entirely different or polarised from most children his age. Most other six-year-olds would never even know he was different. It was the social interaction, nonverbal communication, and repetitive behaviours which Neve needed to monitor and care for. She had opted to remain his full-time carer and homeschool teacher, as well as undertake every other mothering duty over the past six years. But this year was Neve’s last with Lincoln in a full-time capacity. He was due to make the big leap to a special needs school in the new year, which also meant this overseas trip would be the family’s last big holiday for a while. Lincoln was about to find out what the world was like on his own.
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0930hrs Tuesday December 11, 2012 The Madam’s Apprentice café, Aldershot |
‘Here we go,’ Katie said. ‘Avocado-smash for you, sir, and eggs benedict with your usual side of sourdough, Renee. Can I get you two anything else?’
‘No thanks, cheers, Katie,’ said Cross.
Mackay watched Cross nod and smile with familiarity, confirming she was a regular. For the next twenty seconds, Cross watched Mackay hook into his food with amused awe. At it like a medieval butcher.
‘Slow down, Tin Man, you won’t shit for a week at that rate. Nothing will get digested.’
‘Bad habits,’ said Mackay. ‘We always ate as fast as possible to get the better part of the desserts at the mess. What’s your excuse?’
‘I like tasting my food. It’s not going anywhere, and even if it was, I can’t chase eggs.’ Cross dabbed the sourdough into some spilt yolk. ‘So how is it you came to find me in particular?’
A loud burst of laughter erupted from the group of teens three tables over, wedging a pause between their conversation. Heads turned. The laughter died.
‘Friends of mine want me to… get better,’ said Mackay. ‘I was recommended to meet with you, considering we were both hit with an IED. Aside from finishing your service at Sergeant, I don’t know your story, I never really read the news.’
‘If you don’t read the news, then what? You must be a gamer? Xbox? PlayStation?’
‘Neither.’
‘Atari?’
‘It was all rugby for me. Both for the Army and the Inter-service teams. Played wing. Number eleven, on the left.’
‘Good fucking on you. Almost as tough as boxing. I like those shorts they wear, those beefcake rumps get me juicy.’
‘Christ on a bike!’ Mackay called out, almost choking on some hash brown. A few heads turned.
‘Bloody hell, Tin Man, get your hand off it. Like you’ve never heard a female grunt talk dirt.’
‘Sure, it’s just… been a while. You’ve got some proper gobshite about you, no offence and all.’
‘None taken. Calm your tits and get used to it. Yes, I’ve got a mouth. I’m a talker. I’ve heard it all. Look, I was an engineer, a Sapper. One of the first with a vagina sent on deployment for counter-IED. Checking for unexploded ordnance.’
Mackay listened intently, waiting for it all to be laid out. He picked up his coffee and drained it, as did Cross.
‘In 2010, my team was working with the Americans,’ Cross continued. ‘They had upgraded equipment that we didn’t, and we had the numbers, rank and morale they didn’t. They wanted us to use and run their shit, which neither side was happy with, but whatever. Long story short, some official said we were going to work together, so we met, trained, and moved into the desert to clear mines. On a routine patrol the Yanks had us working with the upgraded Bobcat minotaur which they thought was the bee’s fucking knees, but the wiring malfunctioned. The imaging systems weren’t scanning. Fixing the fucker would have taken over an hour, so two of us volunteered to head out and do the last kilometre manually. Me and one other Yank.’
Mackay said, ‘I heard the odds of a combat engineer being launched into the sky by a mine was one in six.’
‘Shitty odds, right?’ said Cross.
‘That’s World War One infantry odds. And was the American hit with the blast?’
‘He was, but he didn’t die immediately. The charge fragments fanned out left and right, not upwards, and the American was hit with a whole bunch of rusty nuts and screws. But it was the shock that killed him. Sent his heart rhythm into a meltdown. He died five minutes after our medevac chopper landed at the trauma hospital. His heart just stopped. The discharge fizzled it like the wires on the minotaur. I have to live with that too.’
‘You felt responsible,’ said Mackay.
‘For a long time. Blamed myself for months.’
‘There’s no way you could have known he had a bad heart. Or that it’d fry out.’
‘Didn’t matter. Either way my action contributed to his death. And that’s how I saw it. Which I’m sure is how you’ve been looking at your own incident as well.’
‘I guess. That’s been hard to shake. Hard to see any different viewpoint.’
‘Trust me, it was an accident. Call it the shithousery of life. By fate, or God, or the tree spirits, it’s all an accident. It’s not murder or manslaughter. It just occurred.’
Cross looked at Mackay with sincerity. She’d only known him for a few minutes but felt like she wanted to reach and touch his hand. Hold it, just for a moment. Like it was the natural thing to do. She knew how he felt. She’d been there. Instead, she let the thought go. No hand. She kept it at her side. Another loud burst of laughter erupted from the table of teens. This time from the two girls: one high pitch, the other long and warbled like a braying donkey.
‘Noisy little fuckers,’ Cross said, releasing a loud burp in protest. The two boys turned around and looked over. Cross looked right back.
‘Suck my dick,’ she said, audible enough for at least half the café to hear.
Cross raised her head and made eye contact with Katie, giving her the what’s up with this mob expression. Katie sighed, rolled her eyes, and countered with a suggestive shrug: teens these days, what can you do.
Cross took a forkful of egg and ham.
‘I was antsy and pissed off, so I moved quicker than normal. Hurried and unsafe. What threw me the most was the glare of the sun bouncing off chunks of scattered glass around my feet. Blown windscreens from trucks and cars. It was everywhere, like flickering beams inside my skull.’
‘I know those routes,’ said Mackay. ‘Did plenty of kilometres on them myself.’
‘The moment before the blast,’ Cross continued, ‘holding that fucking detector, I was so irritated from the glare I took a step in an uncleared direction and boom. Small mistake, big change. I forgot all about my training. I was in direct contact with the IED and got thrown into the air. Time completely slowed down in the moment. I distinctly remember looking up into the clearest blue sky you’ve ever seen. Still one of my clearest memories.’
‘I know that blast sensation,’ said Mackay. ‘That first sound, the discharge so close to your body, I can still hear it. Petrifies me. Everything is silent afterwards.’
Cross nodded in agreeance. Neither spoke for ten long seconds.
‘It took time, but I got through the toughest part of my PTSD,’ said Cross. ‘Not that I’m completely through all of it, I never will be. We want to point the finger at someone, and most of the time it’s at ourselves.’
Mackay nodded. ‘Guilt hurts,’ he said. ‘And there’s no light at the end of the tunnel.’
Cross said, ‘Blaming yourself, or finding someone to pin it on, is a total waste of mental energy. You need to let it go. Group therapy will help with that.’
‘I get it, but it’s…’
‘Easier said than done,’ said Cross. ‘I know.’
Another ten long seconds of silence. Mackay changed course. ‘So, your limbs. Did it hurt?’
‘Some vets I’ve spoken to say they can’t remember losing their limbs,’ said Cross. ‘I can still remember the rush of warmth in my legs. The heat. It wasn’t instantly painful, but I felt lighter as I was thrown into the air, then I hit the ground ten metres up the road. Some days it’s as if I can still feel my legs dangling in this chair. Warm, invisible.’
‘The phantom limb,’ said Mackay.
Suddenly, the four youths, the two girls and two boys, ran past their table, knocking Mackay’s cane to the floor and almost barging him over. They fled through the front door, one of them hurriedly chanting run, another shouting go, as they hustled out to the parking lot.
‘Hey!’ yelled Katie, darting out from behind the kitchen. ‘You haven’t paid!’ She moved her heft well for a larger girl, but in no way was she quick enough to catch them.
Mackay’s jaw flexed. If he was his old self, he would have helped. Held the four of them under citizen’s arrest. Arm-bars, wristlocks and headlocks. Whatever was needed. Stuff he’d learned in the corps for unruly locals getting edgy before a weapon was pulled.
Looking around the café, nobody else moved. No show of good social responsibility. Mackay bent down to pick up his cane and hobbled after them like an aged cripple, but he had no speed. At least it showed integrity. It was all too late though: the Mini Cooper had already started up before Katie got to the door.
‘Fucking bollocks!’ shouted Katie, puffing at Mackay’s side. ‘And they parked in the disabled park too, the little bastards.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mackay. ‘I hope that doesn’t happen often. That’s a real dog act.’
‘No, I’m sorry for swearing,’ said Katie. ‘I shouldn’t be rude like that in front of customers. Thanks for helping.’
‘Not much help I’m afraid. I didn’t even catch their number plate.’
‘Bollocks.’
Once back out in the car park, Mackay’s pants caught Cross’s eye. They were baggy and awkward around the hips. She hadn’t noticed before as he’d mostly been walking next to her, not in front. She couldn’t help but comment.
‘Your pants are too big, Tin Man. They look ridiculous.’
‘Yes and no. They are big, but I have big legs and a small waist. It’s a rugby thing.’
‘Where do you shop?’
‘Normal places.’
‘Normal for you or normal for fat people? They’re fat people’s pants. It’s sagging at your waist and bunching around your hips. Once you can walk without looking like a spastic in a sleeping bag, I’ll take you shopping.’
Mackay grinned back at her. Partly charmed, partly embarrassed. He straightened his back and threw a half salute.
ONE WEEK LATER
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0650hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Guildford, UK |
Mackay lay with his arms behind his pillow. Not asleep, just resting. Staring at the back of his eyelids, thinking thoughts. Mostly worrisome, some self-doubting, a few pitiful. Cold blood pumped away in his chest. Thoughts on repeat: the sandbox, the convoy, the first IED, the second IED. The two dead in the truck lying next to him. His fault. His alarm went off at 0650, which meant he had ten minutes to work through the getting-up process. He promised Cross he’d be at her gym at 0800 for a session. His first ever boxing class, taught by a woman who couldn’t even stand. He was interested all the same. She had the credentials, the experience, and the mouth to back herself. He showered and shaved, brushed his teeth, combed his hair. Microwaved a bowl of quick oats from a sachet and buried it down with an instant coffee.
Once Mackay arrived and saw the other trainers warming up, he felt borderline pathetic. He had adequate balance and poise, but everything else in his body felt different. The physio had said he was good to let go of the cane, but he almost felt naked without it. It’d been a full six months since surgery, but habits were hard to let go.
Cross blew a whistle and wheeled herself around, facing front and centre in the middle of the gym.
‘Listen the fuck in,’ she yelled. ‘You’re starting with a two-set repeat. Twenty push-ups, twenty double unders. Twelve minutes non-stop. If you don’t know what double unders are, fuck off home, this is not a beginner’s class.’
Mackay piped in, ‘This is my first class, Sergeant, kind of makes me a beginner. Still want me to fuck off?’
Cross twitched her head and found Mackay near a bag in the corner.
‘You’re here as per request. And I’m not in service anymore so you can knock that sergeant shit off, there’s no rank here. Can you skip with that mangled ribcage of yours?’
‘It’ll look shite, but I’ll try my best.’
‘East End prostitutes try their best. If you’re not coping, you’ve got the water cooler or the door.’
Mackay hung in well enough for the twelve minutes. His upper body seemed to work as normal as he’d ever remembered, only that it felt looser and somewhat elastic. Like it was stretching as he breathed. His lungs felt capable, operating on-point, and the strenuous work felt fantastic. Like the good old days. The endorphins helping the flow of oxygen into his brain. Although the fibres around his new ribs were still adjusting to the movements, Mackay found a good balance between the pain. When it came to sparring, Cross left Mackay out. Early days. Gloves and opponents could come later. When he partnered up for combination drills, Cross noted his footwork needed readjusting, which was clompy and leaden like a bison. She had him watch and follow the foot patterns of two trainers working a punch-and-shuffle: right foot, left foot, rotate and rip at the opponent’s floating ribs. An offensive attack to the kidneys. Perfect for weakening the bladder, or the large intestine. At the end of the session Mackay took a drink from the water cooler, then sat and sucked the air calmly. Impressed he wasn’t lying on the floor.
Cross was also impressed.
‘I’m glad you showed,’ she said, wheeling between the last of the leavers. ‘For a beginner, you didn’t look too bad. Most newbies vomit and cry. I’ve even had special forces in here keeled over holding their breakfast in.’
‘I felt alright.’
‘Good for you. Got plans?’
Mackay shook his head.
‘I’d like to head into town, buy some necessities and what not. And you still need a new pair of pants. I was hoping you could do the pleasantries?’
‘Not a problem,’ said Mackay.
‘You sure you don’t mind driving?’
‘Happy to oblige.’
‘Just double-checking.’
‘It’s all good. You have no legs and I’ve nowhere else to be.’
‘That Hilux isn’t yours, is it?’
‘It’s a friend’s.’
‘Good friend.’
‘He left it with me. At least until my army benefit scheme pays me enough to afford my own car. How could you tell?’
‘You looked like a learner driver last time. Awkward and unfamiliar. Either it wasn’t your car, or you were scared because of… you know. No offence.’
‘None taken. I get it. You’re right both ways. PTSD comes in weird shapes and forms. I’d go with cautious or hesitant. Scared is a big word.’
‘Fair call, I’ll take it back. Anyway, let’s get out of here. Refuel. Coffee and a snack. We’ll go to the Sprocket Shot first. I like their ham and cheese toasties.’
‘I’ll go shower.’
‘Good to hear. Wouldn’t want your sweaty arse juice infusing in your friend’s upholstery.
|
0930hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Sprocket Shot Café. Aldershot Town Centre |
The Sprocket Shot was a franchise establishment, similar to most get-and-go places with its own custom colour scheme and staff uniform. Mackay and the red ant sat inside where it was warm. A two-seater where Cross could move her chair underneath the flat of the table. Mackay took out his credit card, left his wallet and phone on the table as a sign of territory, and joined the queue. He was fifth in line, which took roughly three and a half minutes to filter down to first in line where he ordered for the both of them: two ham and cheese toasties with two large double-shot flat whites. Easy to roll off the tongue. Keep the line moving.
The girl at the register asked Mackay for a name. He answered, not bothering with correcting any spelling confusion. He sat back with Cross, who glanced at a text message springing to life with a chime on her phone. She dabbed and scrolled then rapped at the screen with her thumbs. She pressed send and put her phone back down.
‘This is going to be a short one, Tin Man,’ she said. ‘Might need to eat and drink on the move. We’ll do my shopping first, get your pants, then get back to the garrison ASAP. The physical training instructors have fucked a booking. They need me back earlier.’
‘Everything okay?’
‘They’ve requested the boxing gym for an infantry unit’s training session, only they’re pushing it forward. Means I have to go back earlier. More money for me, but they haven’t scheduled it through the proper channels, so someone’s going to be on the other end of a one-way conversation.’
‘Fucking Army,’ said Mackay.
‘Fucking Army,’ said Cross.
A sharp voice called Mackay’s name from behind the counter, then repeated what he ordered. The tone was all business, the subtext twofold: come get your order now, we’re running a tight ship here.
Aldershot’s main shopping hub was paved with rustic baggeridge pavers. Weathered in appearance, but smooth enough for the red ant’s chair to roll along without jackhammering. Both sides were lined with high-end brand stores, independent shops, bric-á-brac, market stalls, cafés, bars and restaurants.
‘I need new towels at the bed and bathroom store,’ said Cross. ‘I don’t use fabric softener, so my current collection has gone to sandpaper. Might indulge and go luxury. Egyptian cotton. The skin on my arse is soft like tofu now and I want to keep it that way. Then we’ll jump next door and look for some jeans for you. Head back to base after that. Happy to tag along?’
‘I’m unemployed, where else am I going?’
‘Good answer.’
Cross looked like she knew where she was going so Mackay followed. Cross wheeled and sipped, Mackay walked and sipped. Cross offered up Mackay’s toasty from inside the paper bag. Cross wheeled and ate, Mackay walked and ate.
‘How is it?’ asked Cross.
‘Toasty.’
After a florist, two independent cafés, a boutique French-Italian bakery and a tobacconist selling vaping tools and hippie flavoured tobacco, they came to the Bed and Bath. As they entered the glass sliding door, the creamy-blue walls made it feel more like a child’s nursery, which Mackay thought worked in its favour. Namely because the floor was bustling with women; some pregnant, some weaving about looking for a sale, some comparing prices, some standing next to slack-jawed husbands scrolling through their phones. It was a female’s domain, but it was a nice setting regardless. Calming. The fragrances potent but pleasant, and the daylight enough to offer a hint of warmth.
Cross searched through a few stacks of towels. Dark blues, light blues, dark greys, light greys. She kept away from the pinks and yellows which even Mackay thought were hideous and belonged to hippie singles or alternative vegans. Cross grabbed two towels: one dark blue and one light blue, which matched the same baby-blue coating the walls.
‘These will do,’ said Cross. ‘Egyptian Cotton. Let’s go. That vanilla or cinnamon or whatever incense in here is too much.’
Mackay liked the smell but said nothing. He followed her to the counter at the front where two middle-aged staff in black aprons and white turtlenecks scanned barcodes and took cards and cash. They lined up off to the side, waiting behind an elderly couple and a young pregnant woman in her mid-twenties. The wife of the two old timers was laying out the contents of her shopping basket onto the counter: hand sanitiser, smelly soaps and a plastic indoor plant probably for a porcelain bath corner or a windowsill. The pregnant woman had what seemed to be two bath robes – one his, one hers – as well as the exact same coloured towels Cross had, but in hand towel size.
The elderly couple paid with credit and the line moved on. Swift and efficient, which impressed Mackay as normally the old folk liked using cash. Long-time habits. Next was the pregnant lady. However, the robes and hand towels never made it to the counter. Instead, she was shoved violently in the back and thrown sideways into the elderly couple walking towards the entrance. Into the rear hip of the elder husband, who, through kinetic energy, then ploughed into the back of his wife, throwing her shopping bag and contents onto the floor. The purchased items sprawling out through the open sliding door onto the baggeridge pavers outside.
The pregnant lady went down, the old husband went down, the old wife went down. Tangled in a mess of arms and legs, hand towels, sanitiser, bath robes and soaps. Cross and Mackay were standing off to the side of the counter, so they missed being part of the action.
In the blurred explosion of bodies hitting the floor, Cross and Mackay first looked at the sprawled forms on the ground, then back up at each other. Like it was choreographed in a rehearsal for a play. They noticed two things at once: firstly, two young men wearing black backpacks were scrambled in amongst the tangled mess of limbs. Secondly, the same two men hustled furiously to their feet, headed for the exit, turned left and were gone. In the initial moments of brain activity that followed, Mackay struggled to piece everything together.
‘Fuckin’ shite,’ he said, bewilderment, shock and irritation combined. Then confusion took place, why the hurry? Why was it necessary to knock a pregnant woman and two old-timers over? In the next wave of brain activity, recognition of the situation appeared, clearing said confusion. Which was immediately replaced with swarming anger. Partly at the injustice, partly at himself for not seeing it coming. Mackay’s mental synapses quickly clarified the scenario: two tactless men had ripped the store off, bulldozing three hapless patrons over in the process. Zero respect. Poor form and uncalled for. Even thieves had the capacity to be mindful of the elderly, and the pregnant. Mackay’s adrenalin pumped into his stomach, the hair on the back of his neck sat up. Reactively, his fists had clenched into a couple of meat tenderisers. Two seconds later, Cross turned and whacked Mackay against the thigh.
‘You’re on, Tin Man,’ she said.
Mackay took it as scripture. Like a commandment given from God.
‘Fuckin’ aye,’ he said.
For almost two weeks he’d been able to stand and walk and skip with a rope, which also likely meant he could run. Although he hadn’t run in months – six to be precise – that old school muscle memory hadn’t lapsed. That kind of thing was locked in forever.
Mackay bent down and took the pregnant woman under the arm, bringing her to a sitting position. He visually observed her general state, making sure she wasn’t hurt, then noted the moving parts of the old couple who were already getting to their feet. He made a mental note they were all okay, then left the store.
Mackay exited the shopfront, turned left and began increasing speed. One foot after the other, like he’d known it all his life. His gait was steady. His balance perfect. Heel, toe, lift, stride. Faster, then faster again. His hamstrings felt right, his quads loose, his calves taught, the flexion in his ankles lubricated. Five seconds after shooting across the cobbled pavers, he caught site of the men: two distant figures, black backpacks, legging it a hundred and twenty yards ahead. Somewhere between a fruit and veg stall and the French-Italian bakery. The pedestrian streets weren’t in their busiest period considering it was a Monday morning at a little after 1000, the beginning of the working week. Being mid-morning, the streets were mostly vacant aside from a lazy peppering of the usual local retail staff and career-driven suits looking for their mid-morning coffee break. Mackay calculated the crowd as he ran, his tunnel vision consistently re-evaluating the best line of sight to home in on the absconders. He dodged and danced between the scattered amblers until the pavers came to the end of the precinct, opening to a clear cement footpath and an opportunity to increase speed. Free of shoppers, back on the urban streets. Like reverse osmosis he’d moved from an area of high concentration to an area of low concentration. As he ran on, he noticed his sprint pace felt relaxed. His stride light and elastic. He was catching up easily. The hundred and twenty yards had dropped to fifty as the two men rounded a left bend with a pub on the corner, spitting them onto Aldershot’s main street. For someone who hadn’t run in six months, Mackay had gained seventy yards in less than twenty seconds, and he was still breathing through his nose. No panting, no puffing. The initial oxygen debt the body usually experiences from exertion didn’t even arise. Like it never existed. He had stabilised to an optimal output faster than he could ever remember.
As he rounded the pub, Mackay gained a clearer view of the two men: skinny, average height, Caucasian. Both in jeans, sneakers, and beanies. One wore a hooded jumper, one a zip-up jacket. Two black backpacks. Big enough to fit towels, robes, and lotions. Small enough to wear comfortably for day trips, or for sprinting through pedestrian shopping precincts.
Mackay closed in with forty yards remaining. Problem was the two men had slowed to jump onto a motorbike. Parked kerbside at a forty-five-degree angle – facing the road for an optimal getaway. Planned ahead of time. Predetermined for ease of accessibility with minimum delay or setback. They’d done this kind of thing before.
The bike was a red and white Honda. Street bike, not dirt. No helmets. Easier to get on and get gone. Mackay didn’t know his bikes, never spent much time on the two-wheeled variety. He was savvy with the four-wheel kind: trucks and cars. But he could tell the bike was quick by the size: big gas tank, big engine. A Japanese racing product built for speed, which also meant quick throttle response and instant acceleration.
With thirty yards left, the two men sat on the bike and flicked the kickstand. The one in the rear wrapped his arms around the one in front and pinned his feet over the passenger’s foot pegs. The one in front inserted the key, which was when the man noticed Mackay from the corner of his eye – bounding beyond his left shoulder. Coming in hard and fast. Another man in jeans and a hoody. Arms pumping, legs pounding.
The man on the bike took a double take, watching the freight train coming in like a big rude shock. He hadn’t noticed anything up until that point. No cops, no irate retail staff. Nothing. Not until an athletically built man with quad muscles like loafs of sourdough was pelting in his direction with twenty yards left. The man in the rear cottoned on and repeated the same motion. Double take. Big rude shock coming. The man in front went from top dog to trench rat in an instant, fumbling the key; once, twice. On his third attempt, the bike kicked into life. The engine engaged, he dropped the clutch and took off.
The bike lurched across the tarmac – first gear, shrieking like a scalded cat. With five yards out, Mackay was close, but he wasn’t going to make it. The man wound the throttle and the bike shot off, hooking into the flow of traffic. The man in the rear let an arm go and flipped Mackay the bird – a skinny middle finger held long and hard. A token fuck you. The freight train had lost the round.
But today was different.
They didn’t expect what the next three minutes had in store. They’d planned on a clean getaway, but they hadn’t planned on Mackay. An angry young man given a certain commandment by a certain red ant in a wheelchair. Sometimes, plans don’t follow through as predicted.
|
1000hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Sprocket Shot Café. Aldershot Town Centre |
Aldershot isn’t a big town, and being a mid-Monday morning, most people were at work or out on coffee breaks, so the traffic flow was light. Mackay’s body felt aligned and purposeful. His breathing steady, his legs on point. His bones and cartilage gelled comfortably on the footpath, running parallel to the road as the bike headed north, away from the shopping hub. Mackay didn’t slow. Even though the bike skirted off into traffic, there was plenty of room to hustle. Mackay kept up. He felt incredible. Like the warm-up had finished and he was ready for the hard stuff.
At the maximum urban road speed of thirty miles per hour, the men on the bike surged with the flow of traffic, then sat just under the legal limit. Nothing excessive, nothing frantic. No need to draw attention. With their pursuer lost as a fleeting afterthought, they rode on. Back on the high horse. Goods in tow. Making their way back to base to present the haul to the boss, evaluate the mission and take the rest of the afternoon off. Maybe sell their goods through some dodgy pawning business run by scungy immigrant gangs.
Mackay ran on. Trailing, but catching. Gaining speed steadily. Like riding a wave of torque, the blood and air inside him surged, pressurised, then liberated his muscles to project him forward. He strode off the footpath and ran parallel to the road, his feet skipping across the street. Fists clenched, arms pumping, one meaty leg in front of the other like pistons on over-boost. His body maintaining a slight lean forward for optimal trajectory.
Mackay lined himself up alongside a passing Mazda SUV. A family wagon with a mother hauling two kids. The closest child in the rear passenger seat – a young girl of about four years old – watched Mackay maintain pace as they drove along beside him. Them in the car, him on the road. At twenty-seven miles an hour. She waved. Her face blank with awe and confusion. Mackay didn’t notice, all his tunnel vision could see was the red and white Honda fifty yards ahead.
After a quarter mile, the street came to an intersection. A crossroad with a stop sign. The bike didn’t stop, it turned left, but Mackay was on his feet, which meant he was able to cut diagonally across the sidewalk. No need to stay on the road. It meant Mackay could maintain a straight line point to point over a kerb, past a real estate agent, down the kerb and back onto the road. He kept gaining pace and stride, cutting through the slipstream while it tugged furiously at his clothes. The two men still unaware a storming pair of legs were now forty yards at their seven o’clock.
Mackay didn’t have a clue how fast he was going, the incivility of the two men barging into the pregnant woman and old-timers was still seething in his memory. It propelled him on, pushing him harder and faster. Unbeknownst to him, Mackay had hit and maintained twenty-seven miles an hour as he edged closer and closer to the Honda. At his maximal speed, Usain Bolt – the fastest human to have ever lived – had been clocked at just under twenty-eight miles per hour. His fastest hundred-metre run at the Berlin World Championships. Mackay was bordering on the same trap speed, and he was still accelerating. With twenty yards to go, he passed a Vespa scooter, an Audi sedan and an old Nazi-era Volkswagen Beetle, whose driver lurched in shock, swerving away and almost colliding into oncoming traffic in the opposite lane.
A fork in the road was encroaching at a roundabout fifty yards ahead. The front rider of the Honda flicked the indicator to turn right. Mackay was now down to ten yards behind. They had no idea he was still on the chase. For them, their job was done, complacency already set in hundreds of metres back. Before the fork merged into a dual lane, Mackay reduced his distance even further: five yards out. Basically, arm’s reach. All forms of transport on the road started decelerating with the flow of traffic, bumper to bumper at the junction. The lead rider levered the brakes and the bike slowed along with everyone else. Bad for them, good for Mackay. Mackay reached out with both hands, aiming for fistfuls of jacket. He grabbed the man in front with his left, the man in back with his right, then tried easing off his pace. Which, at the speed he was moving, was extremely difficult.
With instinctive reaction, the lead rider slammed on the brakes. Reacting to preserve the alarm of the situation: big athletic form, about to collide. Mass times acceleration to create force. Newton’s second Law. With Mackay’s fists bunched firmly around the fabric of their jackets, their thirty-mile-an-hour momentum ripped both men off the bike at once: kinetic energy coupled with the bike’s deceleration and braking traction. The brake pads bit the discs and launched the men over the handlebars onto the road, narrowly missing the Beetle in front. The locking tyres tossed the bike forward in an arc, sending it sliding across the tarmac and stopping dead underneath the Beetle’s rear bumper.
With fists still clenched into the men’s jackets, Mackay could not control the momentum and slow his stride. Decelerating from twenty-seven miles an hour took balance and eccentric muscle stabilisation which Mackay wasn’t ready for. With the men in mid-air waiting for that raw taste of asphalt, Mackay hit the pavement along with them. Another tangled mess of three bodies. Tripping over the two men, Mackay fortunately landed with the weight of his torso on one of the backpacks. Lucky for Mackay, not so for the thief. It cushioned a large portion of Mackay’s fall, and it helped that the contents inside the backpack were soft – likely towels or various thick cotton materials from the Bed and Bath. Mackay bounced off the man’s backpack and tucked himself into a ball. An automatic reaction. Instinctive from years of playing rugby, withstanding all forms of scrums, tackles, and collisions. He landed on his side and, with the accumulated momentum, rolled over and over like a boulder until his rotating mass ran its course, coming to a stop against the sidewalk.
The three men were motionless. A disarray of slack limbs, but at least everyone was breathing. Seconds passed, then Mackay stirred first, slow and cautious. All chests rose and fell, though Mackay’s rose slower, higher, and deeper than the other two. All three were grazed and bruised-up, which would soon raise its head in higher doses of pain. Within a minute, a generous crowd, including the man on the Vespa, the driver of the Beetle and the mother and daughter from the Mazda, had gathered around. Considering the event occurred outside on public roads, anyone who’s anyone nearby wanted a look-in. Rubberneck the situation. Human nature. No less than twenty people had already gathered around the sidewalk, with the numbers quickly growing. Vehicles had pulled over, scooters, vans, all flashing their warning lights so they could gawk while the rest of the traffic moved around them. Mobile phones were out, and pictures were being taken. All witnesses to the drama, wanting to catch it live. An Aldershot traffic incident wasn’t overly regular. Small town, minimal traffic. But this was news. Two men had just been ripped from their street bike doing almost thirty miles an hour. By a man on foot.
Mackay stirred some more. He was face down on the bitumen, curled in a ball. He opened his eyes and blinked, gathering clarity to his senses. Making conscious and subconscious calculations on his primaries: sustained injuries, genetic accoutrements, levels of movement and coordination. He rolled onto his front, staggered to his feet and stood up, exhilarated. The release of the running at those speeds felt indescribable. Like a consummate stimulant. A black-market drug easing all the amassed tension he’d ever had in his head.
All eyes turned towards the athletic man. Awkwardly wide in the chest, gulping in litres of air, taking in the commotion. You could almost hear the dry, wintery necks creak in unison as they turned to look. Their cold eyelids stretching wide in astonishment as he limped to the sidewalk. His jumper was torn across the right shoulder and his jeans were ripped through the lower thigh and calf. His head felt okay, as did his neck, back, hips and groin. Priorities assessed, no major alarms. His ribs were fine too, which was fortunate, as they copped a battering from rolling across the ground. He rotated his shoulders. Left, then right. Both a little painful from scuffing the tarmac but no issues there. His breathing was already back to normal, and he noticed he wasn’t sweating, which was unusual. At the pace he was going, most people would have soaked through two layers of clothes and taken minutes to get heart rates back to level. Mackay had recovered in seconds. He looked around at the crowd – a little dizzy, a little weary. Then he looked at the men lying on the ground. No movement, still breathing, likely unconscious. Kneeling over them were two bystanders. Both women, who Mackay assumed were first-aiders, doing the noble civilian duty which was more than he would have given them.
A woman approached him slowly to his left. Late forties, a young girl holding her hand shyly behind her. The mother and daughter from the Mazda SUV.
‘Are you okay, sir?’ asked the mother.
Mackay blinked in recognition someone was speaking to him. He recouped his mental composure and processed the question.
‘I guess I am,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’ she said, pressing carefully. ‘You were just in a road accident.’
The young girl stared up at Mackay. Gorgeous brown oval eyes. Curious and awestruck. She wore a little white tracksuit with an embroidered logo of a banner flaunted above a pair of glittery shoes. A uniform of some type. For dance or cheerleading, or aerobic gymnastics. Her hips twisted subconsciously. Her brown peepers didn’t blink once.
‘Well, you were only sort of in a road accident,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘You were running, and they were riding.’ She pointed to the two with the backpacks lying roadside.
An older guy also approached. Heavy-set with a big unruly beard. The driver of the Beetle. The one who swerved into oncoming traffic as Mackay sprinted past. He joined the mother and daughter, then took another step forward, watchful, closing in. Mackay was unsure of his intention and demeanour, so he took half a step back.
‘You passed me doing twenty-five miles an hour, man,’ said the beard. Big rounded Scottish accent. ‘Twenty-five bloomin’ miles. I almost shat myself. Who are you?’
His tone was marginally irritated, probably because of the bike slamming into the rear of his car, yet he sounded wholly impressed at the same time.
‘I’m just… just a guy,’ said Mackay. ‘You said I passed you at twenty-five miles an hour?’
‘My word you did. On foot you were. Running like some wild African cat.’
Mackay didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t believe it. He was a good runner but reaching that level of speed was not possible.
A siren wailed in the background, pealing closer. Blue and red flashing lights rippled and bounced off the surrounding trees and business fronts. Someone had called an ambulance. Or the police. Or both. The crowd perked up and began to move and disperse as the wail dropped to a blurt with a firm move out the way. A silver Mitsubishi SUV with chequered blues and yellows navigated through the swell of the crowd. It rolled to a halt and parked kerbside. Two bobbies stepped out: male and female. An early twenties male, an early forties female. A young constable and an experienced sergeant, both with a spring in their step. Probably due to a recent intake of coffee, and because it was likely their biggest job of the week. Barked out of the office by the chief inspector.
Next, the rear driver’s side door of the police vehicle opened. One of the Bed and Bath staff emerged: middle-aged lady, black apron, white turtleneck. The one from the payment register. The male officer led her to where the two unconscious lay. For visual identification, probably. At the same time, the female officer moved around to the rear of the SUV, opened the tailgate, removed a wheelchair and pushed it around to the rear passenger side. Cross swung out of the SUV like a gymnast and lowered herself down. She raised her neck like a periscope, scanning for Mackay. Mackay caught glimpse of her first and walked over before a second siren wailed. Marginally different tone to the first, marginally different tempo. An ambulance.
‘What in the horse’s cock have you been doing?’ said Cross, pulling up next to him.
‘I gave chase. Now here we are. What of it?’ said Mackay, waiting for it.
‘What of it? You look like you’ve been fucked by a walrus.’
‘Aye, you’re right there. Ended like shite in a bucket.’
The mother and daughter were standing within earshot. The mother pruned her face inward at the remarks while the little girl stared on. Still wide-eyed, still not blinking. The female officer, a Sergeant Rose according to her name badge and insignia on her epaulettes, pulled a pen and pad from an inside breast pocket ready to take notes. The male constable, a few feet over, was already at it, scribbling down information next to the Bed and Bath lady and first-aiders.
Cross continued, ‘The radio in the car said a man had chased down two shoplifters heading towards this roundabout. On a fucking motorcycle. Explain that to me.’
‘Ma’am,’ the female sergeant said, interrupting. ‘I need two minutes to take some notes. Then he’s all yours. And I’ll need a full statement back at the station as well. We can take both of you in our vehicle if you like.’
‘Sounds marvellous,’ said Cross.
|
1100hrs Monday December 17, 2012 Hampshire Constabulary. Aldershot Police Station |
Inside the station, Mackay gave his formal, extended version of events in a statement to Sergeant Rose. Cross sat next to him, listening, soaking in the details, running explanations through her mind. She weighed the reasonings and balanced the cause and effect with outcomes involving Mackay’s IED explosion, followed with military-grade surgery. The good sergeant punched letters and words into a generation-old computer as she asked the basic line of questioning which repeatedly began with, ‘to your best recollection’, and ‘what happened next?’. In an adjacent room, the Bed and Bath employee with the white turtleneck gave her own extended version of events to the male constable. The keys on his board tapped away with refined rhythm as he created dates, times, and sentences. At the same time, the Vespa rider, driver of the Beetle and mother and daughter from the Mazda sat outside in the station foyer waiting to give their versions.
Once Mackay was finished, Rose logged out of the computer, swivelled her chair and gave Mackay the once-over – scanning him from head to toe. She was blonde, taller than most women, and a one-time glamour. On duty in the workplace however, she looked her age, her early forties seeping through in the artificial light of the office. Age plus motherhood had added to her classic pear shape, but she’d withheld good physical form with obvious attention to diet and exercise. Maybe she was a swimmer back in her day. Or a ball player. The type of physique that could hold her own in a raid or tussle. In a more personalised line of questioning, Rose asked the big fish, the main question on every lip in the station.
‘Level with me, Mackay,’ she started curiously, ‘a lot of people are saying you maintained close to thirty miles an hour for over fifteen seconds. Do you think you were running that fast, or are they exaggerating? Because that’s some proper speed. For all my athletic knowledge, that’s world-record pace, if not better.’
‘I’ve no idea, Sergeant,’ said Mackay. ‘I’m a rugby man. Played for years. Trained right here in Aldershot. Played all our neighbouring teams, as well as South Africa, Australia, New Zealand. We even played an American team once. My legs were always my best asset. I’m a fast runner.’
‘That fast?’
‘Maybe the traffic speed was wrong.’
‘We have multiple witnesses saying the same thing. Same speed was mentioned.’
‘Maybe science could explain it differently.’
‘How so?’
‘Were all the vehicles recorded in digital speed or analogue speed? Were the witnesses all looking at the speed at the same exact time? Because the traffic flow was slowing at various points.’
‘I’m sure the difference in speed between analogue and digital is marginal.’
‘But you couldn’t be one hundred per cent.’
‘I suppose we couldn’t.’
‘Suppose I was having a good day. The guys on the bike weren’t. Like I said, my best weapon was always my speed. Tackling off the fly, hunting a getaway. Muscle memory just doing its thing. Either way, whatever pace I was doing, I couldn’t have kept it up. I’m not an Olympian.’
Rose eyed him off again. Top to toe. Uncertainties playing ping-pong in her head.
‘Well done for grabbing them anyway,’ she said. ‘Right good job however you managed. We’ve had them on our watch list for the last couple months. Plenty jobs they got done in that time too. Break-ins and shoplifting. Whoever’s organising the snatch and grabs isn’t going to be happy. An immigrant gang we think. We’ll be pushing this one up the chain to the metro task force now, which is beyond my pay grade.’
‘Now they’re down two guys,’ said Mackay.
‘And hopefully they’ll lead us to the top of the chain.’
‘Can only hope.’
Cross chimed in. ‘Will he be charged? For yanking them off the bike? They were out pretty cold.’
‘They’re awake now and cuffed to a bed at Hampshire Hospital,’ said Rose. ‘So I’ve been told. I highly doubt they’ll make a case on your friend. They’re being questioned about their gang affiliations as we speak.’
Cross said, ‘I’m just considering how modern lawsuits have been evolving, justice systems rorts, cotton wool for the offenders. All that bullshit.’
Rose said, ‘I see what you mean. Honestly, they have the option to charge him, sure. The way of the world says they can. But in our way of the world, in this part of England we’re better than that, and so are our prosecutors. They’ll have a snowball’s chance in hell making a case given their history. We’re on your side with this one.’
‘How’s the pregnant lady?’ asked Mackay.
‘Doing fine, as far as I heard from the staff at the Bed and Bath. We have her coming in soon for her statement. I’ll pass on your concern. I’m sure she’d be very thankful for asking.’
Rose stood. Mackay took it as a sign that time was up, so he did the same. Cross made a one-eighty and began wheeling herself towards the door.
‘Thanks for your civilian service,’ said Rose. ‘No reward unfortunately, but we’re glad you’ve got an eye out for the town’s better interest. Need more men like you. You Army?’
‘Ex-Army,’ said Mackay. ‘Transport corps. Not entirely a local. Born and raised in Dublin, made it over to Guildford in my early teens. I know, I know, a West Brit.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘You were thinking it. I like both countries.’
‘It’s a big move.’
‘There wasn’t much work in my father’s field. The market was saturated with his type.’
Rose stayed quiet and raised a brow, waiting for the follow-up answer.
‘He was a mechanic,’ said Mackay. ‘Mostly diesel engines. Ran a shop. There was a hole in the industry for his expertise here, just not around Dublin. He’s passed on now.’
‘Condolences.’
‘Thanks. Lung cancer. Long-time heavy smoker. Too stubborn to quit. Mum’s still kicking on though. Lives near my brother in a care home in Bracknell, except he’s on a holiday in Australia with his family. I should go see her.’
‘I’m sure she would appreciate it,’ said Rose. ‘I like Bracknell. Nice part of the country. Generally quiet from what I hear.’
‘True. The quiet can be good and bad,’ said Mackay.
‘Good for the police.’
‘Noise usually makes things more interesting.’
‘That’s Army talk that is, if I’ve ever heard it.’
‘The full battle-rattle.’
Cross rolled her eyes.
The good sergeant acknowledged with a smile. A brief awkward pause elapsed as both stood at a conversation stalemate. The mutual equivalent of knowing it was time to finish but struggling on how to part ways. There was nothing further to say from either party and Mackay wondered whether he should leave first or wait to be dismissed, like the good old days.
‘So, we’re all good then?’ Mackay said, breaking the silence.
‘All good,’ said Rose. ‘I’ve got nothing else for you. Don’t be surprised if the local newspapers get in touch with you though. Apparently, you’re fast. But from my end, if you hear nothing from us, then all’s gone well and you’re clear as mud. Hooroo.’
The stalemate broke and that was it. Mackay and Cross left the station just before midday. He was a little sore in the shoulders and the thick wing of muscle in his back, but the rest was fine. On the inside, Mackay still felt sky-high. Top of the world. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good. Somewhere in his grey matter, his neurotransmitters were finally reprocessing a forgotten form of elation he’d been missing for months. Not since he went AWOL with Chris and Luke on their first tour. When they called in an air strike on some rebels whilst looking to buy some local sour hooch.