Scar Tissue

by Ollie Ollerton

  ‘I promised Fi.’

  ‘You promised, but it was me who made you break that promise. Just Abbott, being a bastard once again. Come on, Fi thinks I’m a big enough villain as it is. She’ll understand. She’ll probably love it that you’ve had a bit of the old Alex Abbott disappearing act. “Told you so,” she can say.’

  ‘So what now? I’m fucking stranded, aren’t I?’

  ‘I’ll post back your passport when I reach Jordan. Scout’s honour. In the meantime, you can still be a help if you want.’

  Cuckoo sighed. ‘Go on, then. How?’

  ‘I’ll need some kind of ops. For example: first thing you can do is get me a last-known address for Nathan in Baghdad.’

  ‘All right, I’ll work on it,’ replied Cuckoo.

  ‘I’m sorry, Cuckoo, but it had to be done. It’s best this way.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Cuckoo. ‘Yeah, I understand.’

  He knew that Abbott spoke the truth. They both did. Abbott could practically feel his relief halfway across the airport. Chances were that Fi would know it, too. This was a job for him and him alone. As he made his way to the gate, he put in another call. ‘Potter,’ he said when the guy answered. ‘I need a favour or two. I’m on my way to Jordan – yes, mate. I’m coming back to Iraq.’

  CHAPTER 18

  During the flight, Abbott charmed the stewardess into leaving him with more than his rightful drinks allowance, letting his Royal Marines tattoo do half the work and a winning smile the rest. ‘Thank you for your service,’ she’d said, leaving him with a selection that brought him envious glances from nearby passengers.

  He checked his wound in the toilet and came to the conclusion that it would be fine. He’d been lucky. Another lucky escape to add to the list. Back at his seat, he watched a film, Bad Santa, about a boozy department store Santa, which only made his thirst worse.

  He wanted to ask for more drink, but at the same time didn’t want to be that guy – didn’t want to see the look in the stewardess’s eyes change as her perception of him moved from ‘deserving hero’ to ‘scrounging old soak’.

  Instead he reached for his precious iPod, cueing up an album by LTJ Bukem which he found helped keep the shit-thoughts at bay.

  And it did. In a way. Instead came thoughts of Tessa.

  * * *

  For some reason, and despite the fact that he thought of her so often, it had only belatedly occurred to him to plug her name into a search engine. Had she married but not changed her surname? Either way, she was there, top result, which took him to the homepage of the law firm Fitzpatrick & Sims. There she was, in the section marked ‘our colleagues’.

  All those years. People change. They become unrecognisable facsimiles of themselves. But not Tess.

  She was older, of course. It was there in the eyes. But her face had not widened and fattened out the way faces do when time has its say. And because it hadn’t widened, her lips – which were always one of her most precious assets – remained unchanged.

  ‘You’ve got the mouth of Debbie Harry,’ he used to tell her.

  ‘I wish I had the rest of Debbie Harry.’

  ‘You and me both. Oof!’

  Something else about her remained unchanged. She had always worn her fringe straight and just a little too long so that it almost covered her eyes. It made her look as though she were constantly peering out from beneath it, something that Abbott had found unbearably sexy at the time. Likewise, it meant that she often had to tilt her chin a little in order to see, which gave her a haughty look that, again, he found irresistible. When she was cross or upset, her chin dipped and her fringe protected her from the world.

  ‘It’s my trademark,’ she had said at the time, and it turned out that as with everything else about Tess she had been true to her word. There she was on the Fitzpatrick & Sims website, peering out from behind that very fringe. Not quite exactly the same. But almost. Enough. Also visible was a high-necked white cotton shirt, while round her neck was a necklace and …

  He leaned forward.

  A pendant.

  And not just any old pendant, either, but a pendant that he’d bought her. The last present he’d ever given her, in fact, and maybe the first one that you’d ever call a proper, grown-up gift. It was for her birthday, the one before they finally split up; he’d been working at the local Kwik Save at the time and had saved hard for this pendant that she’d seen in the window of a jeweller’s shop in Burton-on-Trent. A round thing in hammered silver, it was, about the size of a ten-pence piece.

  It didn’t mean anything, of course. He knew that Tessa wasn’t wearing that pendant because she pined for him or was somehow sending him a message. She was wearing it because she liked it and because she was practical that way. Simple as.

  Even so. And while he was careful not to read too much into it, he did take something from it. He took it that maybe she didn’t still hate him, and that perhaps she still remembered him – in a good way.

  So he sent her an email to say howdy from the past and that he still thought of her, and that he hoped she could forgive him for the hurt he had caused. And he told himself that he was only doing it in order to achieve closure and by doing so get over her.

  A day later her reply came, and in it she said that it was lovely to hear from him. That she, too, thought about him often. On reading that particular bit, Abbott had tensed, wondering whether the ‘him’ of back then was worth recalling and then relaxing when her next words were ‘always fondly’.

  She mentioned no significant others, nor children. She made no reference to her and Abbott’s shared past nor their ugly ending. She wound up her note by saying how lovely it would be to catch up properly. And in brackets she left her phone number.

  Christ, he’d mulled over the inclusion of that phone number. Just a few little digits, but God …

  After all, she hadn’t specifically requested that he ring her. Ring her for what anyway? What did ‘catch up properly’ even mean? Continue the email correspondence? Meet over coffee or for a drink? Or talk on the phone?

  And he knew that she would not have agonised over her wording as much as he did, because that wasn’t really her – her being more comfortable that way. More comfortable in her own skin.

  But hey, she’d included her phone number. So, in the end, he’d made a decision.

  CHAPTER 19

  ‘Hello,’ she’d said. The way people do when they answer the phone.

  Only, not quite. Because it wasn’t a cautious hello. It wasn’t a hello-who-is-this-stranger? sort of hello. It was a hello that said, ‘Thanks for calling me, whoever you are,’ and it shot him right back in time, reminding him of how she’d always sounded: open and warm and generous with herself, a charm that made her a hit with mums and dads, great with old people, and even – and maybe even especially – bad lads who’d done a spell in remand school, who thought they were at war with the world.

  In short, she’d had an aura. And like her fringe it had survived the years.

  ‘Hi, Tess, it’s Alex.’ He wondered how he sounded to her. As worn as he felt, perhaps.

  She paused. He thought he heard a short intake of breath, but if that was true then she composed herself quickly. ‘I knew you’d be in touch one day,’ she said. His mouth opened to ask how she knew that, but she was already ploughing on, asking, ‘How did you get my email? Oh, wait, of course. You were the guy who rang reception about the school reunion? There isn’t – of course there isn’t – any school reunion. That was you.’

  He found himself blushing. It was one thing deciding to email her, he knew. Quite another going to so much effort procuring her email address. But, yes, no getting around the fact.

  ‘And you knew I worked here because …? Was it the website?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course. The website.’

  ‘I saw the pendant,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I always liked that pendant.’

  ‘It looks really – you
know – um … nice on you.’

  Nice. He’d used the word ‘nice’. He flashed back to a teacher in primary school who had banned the whole class from using the word ‘nice’ in their stories.

  ‘Well, you always had good taste,’ she said.

  She didn’t remember, then, that it had been her choice.

  ‘So, you … um. Well, you’re still in the army?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘Recently ex of the army, actually.’

  ‘I see. You, oh God, what’s the word? Demobbed?’

  He chuckled. ‘They don’t call it that, but something along those lines, yes.’

  ‘Where are you, then?’

  ‘I’m in Baghdad,’ he told her. He’d dropped it like boof, expecting a reaction and for that reaction to be concern. A show of care. Instead she said, ‘Well, it’s quite a good line, considering you’re in the middle of a war zone.’

  It should have occurred to him earlier, really. The reason she’d been happy to speak to him, giving him her phone number, inviting him to call. It wasn’t because she felt a sense of unfinished business or had ghosts she wanted to lay to rest or thought that she and Abbott might have a second shot. None of that. Quite the opposite. She was fully reconciled to it. Confident that they could be just good friends. It was there in her tone of voice, at first. And then in the knowledge, almost casually dropped, that she had a husband, Phil, and two kids, Joshua and Emily.

  ‘And what about you?’ she asked. ‘Did it work out with – um …’

  No, he had told her, choosing his word carefully. It ‘hadn’t quite worked out’ between him and, um, but they had an amazing boy, Nathan, to show for their efforts.

  He didn’t mention the estrangement. How he and Nathan had not spoken since the great army announcement. One of many things he chose not to mention at that particular point in time. Like how getting off with Fiona that night in Burton-on-Trent, when he and Tess were ‘on a break’ (and oh, how he laughed at that particular episode of Friends), was probably the biggest mistake of his life.

  ‘So when are you back from Baghdad?’ she asked him.

  He didn’t know. At that point, of course, he had no idea that his immediate future lay in Singapore. What he did know, though, was that he would love to see Tessa at some point. And that’s what he told her.

  There was a pause. It was the first time since the call began that she’d seemed at all unsure of herself. Up until that point he might as well have been an old pal calling up to shoot the breeze. ‘Well, that would be nice,’ she said, ‘I’m just not sure. I mean, Phil’s not the jealous type, but—’

  Abbott had already formed a mental image of her husband, this ‘Phil’. It was a mental image with the caption ‘perfect guy’. He didn’t drink, or not too much anyway. There were no skeletons in his closet, no demons keeping him awake at night, no anger-management issues or unresolved shit with his family. He was probably skilled in something more marketable and humanitarian than the most effective means of killing people.

  What’s more, this perfect Phil, although not the jealous type, was the reason that Tess was hesitant about meeting him.

  ‘Of course,’ said Abbott quickly, wanting to swiftly paper over the awkward moment, ‘of course. Look, it’s just great to speak to you, to hear that you’re OK, and that …’

  Another pause.

  And a pause.

  And still a pause.

  ‘That what, Alex?’ she prompted at last.

  ‘That there are no hard feelings, I guess.’

  She laughed like, How could there be? ‘No, Alex, there are no hard feelings. Look, stay in touch. It’s good to hear from you, it really is. Drop me a line when you have a moment. But let’s just talk, though, before we go thinking about meeting up. Things are different for me now, and I dare say they’re different for you, too. You understand that, I’m sure?’

  And that was it. That had been the end of the conversation.

  During his months in Singapore, he’d emailed her a couple of times. Within these emails he was probably guilty of giving her the impression that he was a good deal more prosperous than he was in reality, painting a slightly photoshopped version of himself, but hell, he was hardly the first person to do that, and nothing he said was an outright lie, just a slight varnishing of the truth.

  Why? Why not tell the truth: I’m a fuck-up? The whole time he knew that he was sowing the seeds, laying the groundwork, preparing for some mythical night out in the future when he and Tessa would meet up and he would be able to tell her his troubles so that she could save him from them. Just as she always had.

  Her replies were always sweet and encouraging. Friendly, if a touch formal. She never took the bait when he gave her the chance to open up. She kept it on a friends’ footing.

  Until one day, when she mentioned that husband ‘perfect man’ Phil was out of the country on business. One of the kids was on a school trip, the other was staying with friends. She had a spare three days and didn’t know what to do with herself.

  In his reply he had said, ‘What a coincidence, I’m back from Singapore then, in London. Perhaps we could meet up?’

  Thinking, could he scrape together the money for the airfare in time? For two days he had waited, checking his email over and over again until the reply came.

  ‘Are you really in London that day?’ she had asked.

  ‘I am,’ he replied.

  This time the reply came back straight away. ‘Then I’d like that. How about Friday night after work?’

  He’d checked. The potential meet-up was in five days’ time.

  CHAPTER 20

  Abbott was worried about Nathan, and the thought of going back to Baghdad filled him with dread. There was, however, a silver lining, a kernel of pleasure to be found in the otherwise wholly unpleasant business. It gave him the opportunity to revisit one of his favourite places on the planet: the InterContinental hotel in Amman.

  He’d never used the spa at the InterContinental, but he loved the fact that it had one; he wasn’t that bothered about the magnificent views, but he grooved on the fact that it had magnificent views. Mainly, he just loved its luxury, and what it represented to men like him. How it was the one place you could get to live in peace and relative safety before the sleepless nights and mayhem of Baghdad.

  It was always that way going back to Iraq. The InterContinental was your marker point. Beyond it lay the road to Baghdad where there might as well have been a sign saying, ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter here,’ and for that reason the hotel almost seemed to taunt you with its promise of comfort and safety. Tearing yourself away from it took an effort of will, and the more you knew about Baghdad, and what lay in store, the greater the test.

  As ever, it was a test Abbott was more than willing to take.

  He settled into his room, decanting all his gear from the holdall and placing the empty bag to one side. He checked his wound, which was healing nicely. Next, picking up his phone, he made arrangements with Potter, who told him that the next morning he could join a convoy to Baghdad in exchange for riding shotgun. Perfect. Potter on point as ever. You beauty, mate. You fucking beauty. What’s more, he wasn’t going to have time to get too used to the luxury of the hotel and its crisp, laundered bed sheets. A mixed blessing, for sure. His convoy left tomorrow when it would take the well-trodden route east favoured by members of The Circuit and journalists travelling into Iraq, guys who would shack up either in the InterContinental or Grand Hyatt in Amman for a few days before trying to cobble together a convoy or join one in order to take them into Baghdad.

  Why a convoy? Safety in numbers. That’s why. His job was to provide the muscle.

  He grabbed his empty holdall and took a trip to the below-ground parking garage, down one floor, and then the next, and then the next, to where the air was thin and warm, and every noise seemed to echo off the unpainted grey concrete surrounding him, a sharp contrast to the luxury of the hotel above.

  The further down you went,
the older the cars – or so it seemed. The occasional one was freshly parked but here in the subterranean depths, the majority of vehicles were either covered in dust or protected by huge sheets, and most had been here not days or weeks but months or years.

  It was here that he located his car, an old BMW. He looked at it for a moment or so, giving it the once-over for any tell-tale signs of tampering, even getting down onto all fours and shining a small pen-torch beneath it before he was satisfied. He stood and brushed himself off, lifted the sheet and retrieved the key from the wheel arch. Opening the boot, he took a look around to check that he was alone and then removed some of the contents, placing them into his holdall. He zipped the bag shut, locked the car up, stowed the key and returned to his room.

  There he sat on his bed and spent a moment admiring the view of Amman from the window. Back in the Middle East. Back. How could one place seem at once so much like home and yet so alien? He’d never get his head around it.

  He reached for the holdall, unzipped it and took from it an M4 assault rifle almost identical to the one he’d left behind in Singapore, as well as a Glock nine, boxes of ammo and a Gerber knife.

  He laid it all out on the bed, the familiar trappings of his rig, remembering how, when he’d stowed this lot in the BMW, he’d vowed that he was doing it for the last time. He’d told himself that he was never returning to Baghdad.

  And yet he’d still stowed the gear. Just in case. Because it was one thing making that pledge. Another thing seeing it through.

  After he’d cleaned the weapons he decided it was time for a drink. In the bar, he spotted a couple of journalists – one American, the other English – and listened in on their conversation before joining them. ‘Are you part of tomorrow’s convoy?’ he asked.