"Yeah. I didn't quite get my compromise right. Kids?"
It was a far bigger question than Rob could have realised. "Still trying," Mike said. "We've been married fifteen years."
"Stick with it. My mate and his missus had twins two years after they'd given up." Rob rummaged in the grocery bag and fished out a couple of cans of beer carefully wrapped in a T-shirt, presumably to muffle the telltale clanking. "Nurse Ratchett's going to go mental if she sees this, so hide it for later, okay? And Sam retrieved your kit. Phone, wallet, the works." He tossed the items onto the bed. "I hope you didn't leave your contacts on your mobile."
"No, I always wipe it." Mike checked his wallet for Livvie's picture first. He hated the idea of some stranger dumping it. Yes, it was still there. "Thanks, Rob. And thank Sam for me. No watch?"
"Missing something diamond-studded?"
"No. Just a service issue timepiece. Three hundred bucks. My lucky watch."
Rob took something out of his pocket and tossed it onto the bedcover. It was the black diver-style watch he'd offered Tariq as an extra bribe. "You better have that instead, then. Ten quid in Argos. Glows in the dark, too. Great story to tell the grandkids."
It was unlikely Mike would ever have any, but it was a kind thought. He strapped on the watch next to his hospital ID bracelet.
"That's lucky enough for me. Thanks."
Rob took out his cell, tapped it a few times, then handed it to Mike with a big grin that completely transformed him. "Look. This is my boy, Tom. I love him to bits and he's going to university next year. Computer science and linguistics."
Tom looked like a teenage version of his father. Rob started chatting, and in minutes Mike was sure he'd known him all his life. They were still talking like long-lost buddies — family, how much England had changed since Mike had been at Oxford, politics, the price of gas — when the nurse interrupted them. She walked in with a diagnostic trolley and an expression that said it was high time that Rob left. Mike checked his new lucky watch. They'd been talking for nearly two hours.
"Rob, give me your contact details," he said. "We've got to stay in touch. There has to be something I can do for you besides shake your damn hand."
Maybe Rob thought Mike was one of those guys who thrust his business card at people he met on vacation and insisted they look him up sometime without really meaning it. For a moment, Rob hesitated. Then he rummaged in his pockets and produced a pen and a few dog-eared business cards. One was a taxi company's. Mike flipped it over and started writing.
"You hang on to this." Mike handed back the card. "Now you give me yours. You saved my life."
"I think the surgeon did that."
"Yes, but he didn't patch me up under fire when he could have walked away."
"Bugger it, Mike, you're making me sound even more amazing than I already am." Rob glanced at the nurse, who was waiting with silent impatience, and wrote on another card. He got a faint smile from her, though. "Yeah. Let's stay in touch."
"Seriously. What can I give you? What can I do for you?"
Rob shrugged. "If you ever need someone to clean the toilets, let me know."
"Sorry?"
"More bloody defence cuts. Got to get a proper job soon."
Mike panicked for him. "Hey, I can definitely help with that."
"Thanks." Rob looked awkward, breaking eye contact for a moment. "I appreciate it."
"You've got my number. Call me next week. Understand?"
"Thanks."
"I mean it. I'll call you if you don't." Mike was already trying to formulate a rescue plan. It just took money, and that would never be a problem. "That's the kind of thing I'm good at fixing."
Rob finally surrendered to the nurse's time-to-leave stare. "I better be going." Perhaps he didn't want his future fixed for him. "Look after yourself, Mike."
"You too, buddy," Mike said. "Keep in touch. Whatever you need, I'm there."
"Three wishes, too, eh?" Rob winked conspiratorially. "Keep your head down. I won't be around the next time."
Mike watched him go as the nurse moved in with the blood pressure cuff, and felt oddly cheated. But what was his display of gratitude for, to convince the guy that he'd done something life-changing that would never be forgotten, or to make himself feel like a better human being? No, Mike
liked
Rob. It was the same as that instant connection he'd had with Nick nearly thirty years before. Plucked from the river a second time, Mike was determined to value this extra lease of life and the man who had given it to him.
It looked like it was going to be hard to give Rob anything, though. He was visibly self-reliant, the kind of man who'd finish a race on a broken leg rather than ask for help. But Mike had his own stubborn streak. He could do good, and he would do it for Rob Rennie.
LOCKSWAY SUPERMARKET, BRISTOL, ENGLAND
DECEMBER, ONE YEAR LATER.
In the aisle between the display of ed
does and the stacked boxes of karela, Rob felt like the last Englishman alive.
The store was busy with chattering shoppers. Some conversations made themselves heard above the public address system pushing today's special offers, but none of the languages were his. He thought he could pick out Bengali and Thai, but he couldn't understand any of it.
No, that wasn't strictly true. Sometimes a word that sounded like Pashto jumped out at him. Instantly, he was back on patrol in Helmand, waiting for the worst to happen in a suddenly-deserted street, or wishing he knew more Dari or whatever, so that he could work out whether the dodgy-looking locals were discussing how far the infidel bastard's legs would get blown when he hit the IED at the next corner, or if they were just griping about the price of carrots.
But it was probably Urdu, not Pashto. They had words in common, according to one of his mates, and there were a lot of Pakistanis around here. The realisation did nothing for the knot in his gut or his guilty sense of resentment. He walked on. Sod it, he was store security. He could look at anyone he pleased without needing to feel bad about it.
It's not race. Shit, we had all colours in the Corps. Bloody good blokes. It's the language thing. It's not knowing what they're saying. This is England and we should all be speaking English. It's not knowing what England is these days.
It was also not knowing if Rob Rennie belonged here any longer. He checked the display clock on the wall above the dairy section, a plain, white-faced thing with a jerky second hand that he'd come to see as running parallel with his life. He hated that fucking clock. He hated it more than he hated his job, although he knew that there was nothing particularly wrong with either. The clock simply counted down the remaining hours of his life, unstoppable and implacable.
But this was for Tom, to help him through uni and see him settled with a job and a family. It was the natural order of things: survive, mate, reproduce, die. Rob had seen it on a depressing documentary once. He refused to dwell on how he'd decayed from an experienced and valued NCO – a bit worried about the defence cuts, nothing more, still fit and functional – to scrambling for low-paid jobs with hundreds of other unqualified, middle-aged, working class blokes.
Wind your neck in and crack on with it. The Corps wasn't always a bundle of laughs either. I get paid. I've got all my body parts. I've got a roof over my head. What am I dripping about?
It was three minutes to six. Some iffy-looking teens were hanging around the snack section. His gut said to go and move them on, but for once he decided that it just wasn't important enough. What was the worst that could happen? Locksway would lose a few bags of peanuts. Nobody would die. Nobody would bleed to death or find themselves out of ammo, pinned down and relying on him to make the difference between life and death.
See, that's what's wrong with all this. It doesn't matter. My job doesn't matter.
I
don't matter.
He headed for the doors marked STAFF ONLY. Beyond the keypad barrier, the noise of the store dropped to a whisper. Sheets of paper pinned to the employee noticeboard shivered in the downdraft of a heating duct. He checked his watch to make sure it was one minute past six, then waved his pass in front of the sensor and went to change into his street clothes. The bloke on the goods
-in gate was a former Gurkha, Krish. Locksway had a policy of employing ex-service personnel and made a lot of noise about in their ads. Rob wondered if Krish also had moments when he wondered what the hell it had all been for.
"'Night, Krish," he said. "See you tomorrow."
Krish gave him a big grin. "You want to come round for a meal next week? The wife, she says you need a proper
dhal bhat.
"
"Love to, mate. Thanks."
Rob zipped up his jacket and headed for the bus stop. Krish was a good bloke, the best. But being sociable was harder these days because Rob didn't like turning up empty-handed to freeload off kind people, and money was tight. Still, he'd work something out. Every spare penny went into Tom's university fund so he didn't have to live on beans. Rob would survive and resume his life later, and Tom would graduate and never find out how much of a struggle it had been for his dad.
He took out his notebook on the bus journey home to do his sums, working out how much he could put away this month. The street lights became a blur in the corner of his eye as he rested his head against the cold glass of the window. Sod it, he could do this. It was just like a long tour of duty somewhere shitty, or a bit of escape and evasion behind enemy lines. All he had to do was focus on the outcome and the rest would follow just like it had in the Corps. He didn't need a car, he didn't need an expensive phone contract, he didn't need to get rat-arsed down the pub every night, and he didn't need expensive ready-meals. He cooked plain, cheap food and went running in the evening. He borrowed books from the library and watched TV instead of paying for videos. This wouldn't break him. It would only make him fitter and harder, more of himself than ever.
Yeah, he felt fine just being Rob Rennie. No fucker could take
that
away from him. It was one of those days when he felt murderously bitter about being disposable, and hated whatever this country had become, because it wasn't home and it wasn't his. But the anger passed. At least he hadn't sacrificed his life, his limbs, or his sanity for this fucking government or any other.
And I've got Tom. That's what matters.
The hardest part of the day was opening the door of his flat. The air smelled empty and stale, not poorly cleaned but just devoid of all the things that made places feel homely and lived in — a roast in the oven, Bev's perfume, air freshener, laundry.
Or even coffee, grease, and sweat.
He wasn't used to living alone. He'd spent most of his life cooped up in barracks or camps with other blokes just like himself, or at home with Bev and Tom.
And this wasn't the kind of place to impress a woman. Friday nights brought that home to him more than ever.
I hope my bloody dick's still working by the time Tom graduates.
He bent to pick up the mail scattered on the mat, a pile of pizza delivery fliers and pale cream envelope of expensive textured paper. He thought it was bad news from officialdom until he turned over the envelope and saw the US stamp and Mike's distinctive, formal handwriting. Americans still learned to do proper joined-up writing. It always looked very foreign.
Rob sawed open the envelope with his forefinger and pulled out a Christmas card, a proper one, not something run off on a home printer. Instead of a generic snow scene, there was a picture of the Brayne family, all wholesome and smiling in front of a huge, log-laden fireplace festooned with red and green swags of ribbon. It was like a team photo of the very rich and powerful: Mike, Livvie, Mike's politician sister Charlotte, her lawyer husband Jonathan and their two kids, plus Leo and Monica — Mike's parents — and their yellow Labrador, Billy, a nice enough dog if you didn't mind his farting and leg-humping. The greeting was about peace and prosperity in this holiday season, as if Christmas wasn't a word you could use in polite society. Inside the card was folded sheet of velvety paper.
'Rob, if you want a break, we'd love to see you again. Livvie wants to know if you can make it for Christmas. Just leave the travel arrangements to me. And Esselby could really use you. Always open. Dad can fix the work permits. Let's talk.'
Mike never gave up. He was a thoroughly decent bloke, no side to him at all, and it was easy to forget that his family was oligarch-grade rich. Rob stared at the card, trying to see the heir and not an earnest, awkward man who didn't seem to have any mates. Mike was an oddball, all right. He'd paid a fortune to go on every elite tactical training course available so he could be a private contractor, when he could have spent his days shagging his way around ski resorts or snorting coke on some tropical beach. But he'd opted for a thankless, invisible, dirty job a long way from home.
Mad as a fucking hatter. God love him.
Rob dithered for a moment. Did Mike mean his own house in Maine, or his dad's place? Maybe Livvie was hosting the whole family this year. Mike's place was big and empty, like he was always waiting for guests who never came, a house that should have been full of kids and dogs. But it was just him and Livvie. It was a bloody shame that they didn't have children. Mike made it clear that it was a big gap in his life.