Anywhere's Better Than Here (28 page)

Gerry kept looking at the snowflake. The boy leaned forwards in his seat.

‘‘What was it
about
?''

‘‘It was a long time ago.''

‘‘What? Back when it was different times?'' The boy laughed briefly. ‘‘It can't have been that fucking long ago.''

Laurie was taken aback by the anger in the boy's voice.

‘‘Eh?'' he shouted at Gerry, standing up quickly and kicking him in the thigh.

‘‘Fuck's sake!'' shouted Laurie, leaping forward and standing between the boy and Gerry. ‘‘What the fuck is wrong with you?''

The boy sat down heavily, put his head in his hands and started to cry.

‘‘It's okay,'' said Gerry. He reached up for Laurie's hand and pulled himself up ‘‘You're angry, Jamie. I understand.'' The boy went on crying, his hands in front of his face. Laurie stared stupidly at the boy, not sure whether to comfort him or tell him off. Everything kept changing too quickly.

Gerry sat down on the armchair and Laurie perched on the arm.

They stayed like that for a few minutes. The boy's crying petered out and he sat silently looking at the fireplace.

Eventually Laurie spoke. ‘‘I think it's time we all went to bed.'' She got to her feet and touched the boy's shoulder. ‘‘Come on,'' she said, guiding him to his feet. ‘‘We're all over tired.'' She led him to the door of the living room.

He didn't look at Gerry at all.

She led him out into the hall and stood at the bottom of the stairs with him.

‘‘Try and get a proper sleep and we'll speak in the morning.''

He nodded and put a foot on the first stair. She looked at him, at the nape of his neck and his down-turned shoulders. He needed a rest. They all did.

He looked back over his shoulder at Laurie. His face was blank with exhaustion. ‘‘It's just …''

‘‘It's okay,'' she said, pleased that he was finally listening to her and doing as she said. Maybe now he'd had a little outburst they could get things moving. ‘‘Go on now.'' She patted his shoulder blade very gently and gave him a little nudge. He trudged up the stairs and she watched him reach the top and go into his room. She stood for a second and watched the closed door to make sure that he was staying put and then she went back into the living room.

She closed the door and sat down next to Gerry on the floor. He put his arm around her.

‘‘Are you okay?'' she asked him, moving as close as she could. ‘‘What was all that about? Boys eh?'' She was amazed that Gerry was taking it all so calmly. She didn't know how well she'd react to being attacked by someone she barely knew.

‘‘Ach,'' he rubbed briefly at his leg. ‘‘The army's full of angry boys. Sometimes they need to take it out on someone.''

She took a deep breath. ‘‘Do you want to talk?''

‘‘About what?''

‘‘About this? Or what's happening between us? Or, I dunno, about what the fuck we're going to do tomorrow?''

‘‘I don't really want to talk just now.'' He kept stroking her arm.

‘‘It isn't good not to talk about things though.''

He said nothing, just kept up a steady rhythm, stroking her arm.

‘‘Seriously Gerry.'' She pulled her arm away gently. ‘‘What's going on?''

He sighed. ‘‘I'm just thinking some stuff through.''

‘‘What sort of stuff?''

‘‘Well …'' She knew he was forcing himself to speak. ‘‘About Jamie … And about some of the young soldiers I knew back in the day who didn't come out of things as well.''

‘‘Oh.'' What could she say to that? Nothing in her life compared. Of course her mum dying was hard, but at least it was fairly civilised. She had an idea of what to do and how to behave. But for people to be blown up or shot? How could anyone prepare for that?

‘‘I just look at Jamie and I think about these boys who should have been mucking about with their mates,'' he shrugged, ‘‘and now – '' He spread his hands out. ‘‘That's it: they're finished.'' He shook his head but he didn't seem tearful. ‘‘They had no time to make their mark. No time at all.''

‘‘You must have seen horrible things.'' She tried to pull back so she could look at him, but he pressed her to his side.

‘‘I did. We all did.'' He touched her thigh with his other hand. ‘‘But there's no point in talking about it. It won't change anything.'' He flicked his hand up to her inside leg and touched her through her jeans.

‘‘Yes, but your nightmares Gerry. You said they weren't going away.''

He was rubbing her and still holding her into his side. She couldn't move.

‘‘I'm awake just now.'' His breath caught. ‘‘Let's deal with one thing at a time.''

She didn't have the energy to persist.

She'd never been so frightened in her life. She'd been woken from a deep, dreamless sleep, expecting some sort of catastrophe to be happening, but it was just Gerry. It was like he was on fire, the sounds he was making. There were no recognisable words coming from him, just that mixture of smothered screams and a harsh, scratching shout repeated over again and again. At first she tried to wake him. She shook him gently, but to no avail. She was frightened to turn the light on, because she didn't want to see what sort of face went with that sort of sound. After a minute she curled herself around him hoping that he'd sense her comfort through the dream and it would help him to navigate back. She wondered if he knew he was dreaming, but was unable to wake himself. She lay with her head on his chest and listened to his frantic heart. Eventually he stopped. He didn't wind down. The shouts just stopped. His heart gradually slowed.

‘‘It's okay Gerry, I'm here.''

She didn't know if he was awake, but she repeated herself.

There was a scratching sound at the door.

‘‘Laurie? Is everything okay?''

‘‘It's okay Jamie. Just go back to bed.''

She could feel him hesitating outside the door.

‘‘Honestly, it's okay. We'll see you in the morning.''

Jamie's bedroom door closed.

Gerry sat up, gently pushing her off him. He turned and put his feet on the floor.

‘‘Gerry, can I turn the light on?''

‘‘No, don't just yet.'' He opened the drawer in the bedside and took something from it. She heard sloshing. His hip flask.

His voice sounded rough. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

‘‘I'm sorry I frightened you.''

‘‘It's okay Gerry. Don't worry.'' She reached for his hand. ‘‘What happens in your dream? Is it always the same?''

He took a long drink.

‘‘Here.'' He handed the flask to her.

She knocked back a glug and stifled a cough. How people could drink whisky for pleasure was beyond her.

He sighed. ‘‘It's not always exactly the same thing. But mostly it's Afghanistan.'' His voice was flat. ‘‘It's the summer usually, but sometimes it's the winter.''

‘‘What happens?''

He took the flask back and drank again. Then he sighed. ‘‘Various things.''

She waited. She didn't want to browbeat him for details.

‘‘I saw this little boy get …'' He took a deep breath then exhaled slowly. ‘‘I just saw him reach out for this box. He reached for it and that was it. Gone.'' He drank again. ‘‘He must have been about nine or ten. He probably put the explosives there.'' He tapped her in the side with the flask.

She pretended to take another drink and handed it back to him.

‘‘It wasn't like it was my fault or anything. I mean, I know that, but in most of the dreams I see him. Not dying. Just standing and watching whatever else is happening.'' She felt him shaking his head. ‘‘His face is so clear to me. It can't really be his face. But I know he's that boy,'' he said. ‘‘I just know it and then I'm calling out to him to be careful and then I wake up.'' He turned to her.

‘‘You weren't calling anything out tonight. You were just screaming.''

He drank again.

‘‘You know, he wasn't even the only person I saw that happening to. I saw it a few times. I don't understand why that's sticking with me or that it isn't even his death that I see.''

Laurie leaned over and wrapped her arms around him. ‘‘I don't suppose the details matter do they?''

She felt him shrug.

‘‘I want to make you feel better Gerry.'' She cringed in the darkness. It was such a pathetic, nonsense thing to say. But she meant it.

Gerry considered for a minute. ‘‘I want to feel better.''

That seemed obvious to her, but Gerry went on.

She could feel him wind up. ‘‘You can't unsee what you saw. I want to be better, get better – but it's too late.'' He brought his hands up to his face and rubbed his eyes.

They lay in silence for a few minutes.

She began hesitantly, ‘‘I think if you're able to say you want to get better that you probably can. You know? It's your brain processing things, isn't it?''

He said nothing, but she felt okay to go on.

‘‘I used to dream about snow all the time when my mum was ill. And it wasn't even the wintertime when she was at her worst. But I felt really lonely at first in the dream and then it would snow and I'd feel really tired and I'd lie down in the snow and then I'd wake up.''

‘‘What did it mean?'' He pulled her close.

‘‘Fucked if I know.''

She could feel him smiling. ‘‘Was it a nightmare?''

She considered. ‘‘Not in the way yours is. I didn't scream or anything. But it made me wake up with a sort of,'' she searched for the words, ‘‘feeling of dread.''

‘‘Dread?''

‘‘Yeah.'' She was embarrassed to use the word. It sounded so overblown and old-fashioned. But dread was definitely the feeling she'd woken with.

The rest of the time over those months she'd felt mostly harassed. She was the one who took her mother for chemo appointments, to the chemist's, out for lunch once a week so she wouldn't feel separate from society. Her brother was too busy with his own job (forgetting of course that Laurie worked too). Her father closed in on himself even more than usual. He played more golf. He went into work more as well. She knew that he'd been offered plenty of time off to take her mother to her appointments, but why bother when Laurie would do it? Ed had tentatively suggested that maybe she should say she couldn't make the next appointment; that she'd used up all her holiday time – which she had, long before, she was taking sickies mostly – but Laurie flew into a rage. He had only suggested what she'd been thinking, but she couldn't be seen to shirk her duties. It was very important that everyone saw how stoic she was. Not that anyone ever commented on it or thanked her or anything.

Mostly, she'd just felt she had too much to do and not enough time to do it. She didn't think too much about how she'd feel when her mother died. And she'd known from the beginning, on some level, that her mother would die. Despite what well-meaning people kept saying to her about new discoveries and medical miracles. Her mum was a goner; it was obvious. As soon as she'd had her diagnosis, even before it, back when there was a lump that could have been a cyst or something benign or treatable, her mother's head had gone down and it had never come up again.

During those months Laurie had occasionally seen something on TV that had made her cry. Sometimes she'd force herself to cry, deliberately imagining the funeral, picturing herself from outside herself as if she was watching a film. But generally, she just pressed on and did what needed to be done. It was only when she had the dream about the snow that she seemed to have a more appropriate feeling.

Gerry put his hand on her chin and pulled her towards him for a kiss. He tasted of whisky. She thought back to the two of them on the floor in the living room earlier. It was better than she'd imagined. She liked the weight of him on top of her. It made her feel grounded and pinned. It was nice being with someone older, someone who knew what they were doing. It was all very well being gentle and kind, but sometimes you wanted to feel like the weaker sex. Sometimes you wanted to feel like you weren't making every single decision. Get her, she was starting to sound like a bodice ripper.

He didn't seem interested in sex now though. But that was to be expected after his nightmare. Maybe she should make the first move. But it was too late now – she'd started thinking about it all. Somehow if it happened unexpectedly, quickly, she was able to do it.

But when she had to think about it her arms and legs were slow to respond and her mind went blank. She couldn't think how she should move. All her brain would give her was scraps of porno images and that completely put her off. Partly because she started to see what she was doing through a pornographic lense where everything looked fake and forced, including the sounds she made, and also because she had a sort of montage of the dead-eyed facial expressions the women made in those films. On the one hand she thought, you know, make money however you want, but, on the other hand, she couldn't get over the idea that all these women were victims in some way, that they were trapped in a well paying, seemingly glamorous nightmare where all anyone saw were their horrific fake tits and shaved fannies. It was like an ongoing assault where they didn't realise they were being raped. It sickened her.

‘‘It was nice earlier, wasn't it?'' Gerry's voice was husky and tentative.

‘‘Yes it was.'' She hugged into him, relieved. ‘‘You're not bad for a washed up mentalist.''

‘‘Ha ha.'' He squeezed her a little too tightly. ‘‘Now let's get some sleep. There's a lot to be sorted out tomorrow.''