“Right then,” Nia commanded. “A tour of the Tower.” She linked arms with Tom and they walked over the Tower’s long-vanished moat and into the grounds.
Later, they taxied to Nia’s house after a busy day in the city. As Tom unpacked his small rucksack, he retrieved and presented Nia with a small gift. It was obviously a book and Nia removed the gift wrapping with care.
“Instead of flowers,” he said.
It was a copy of Rolt’s Narrowboat, the rather odd autobiographical canal travelogue written just before the start of the Second World War. Tom said that many canal aficionados believe the book precipitated the rebirth of leisure cruising which, in turn, led to the massive renovation and revival of the UK’s canal system. She smiled and quickly flipped through it. She stopped at a few of the book’s illustrations. Tom noted the importance of the book but also said that it wasn’t one of his favourites. Nia liked the fact that he had given her a book; he was already very familiar with her likes, dislikes, and proclivities.
“I have an ulterior motive for giving you this book,” Tom said.
“Oh, and what’s that?” Nia asked looking up from the book.
“It’s an invitation to spend some time with me on my boat.”
Nia smiled. “I’d love to,” she said genuinely. “And, I think I’m going to be free starting Thursday.”
Tom smiled.
“Okay then, that’s a date,” affirmed Nia. “Now, let’s get ready for dinner with my friends. Just to prepare you, they are going to be loud, and will probably ask you lots of personal questions that will verge on the rude and vulgar.”
“Sounds wonderful. I can’t wait,” Tom lied.
***
Nia’s friends were as she described and Tom had been well prepped. The friends were all a little younger than Nia. Amanda, Constance and Orla were actresses doing mostly stage and TV work. Amanda, who had a recurring role on a police procedural, was a household name. Constance probably drank too much. Orla had voracious appetites generally. The fourth friend, Penny was in media PR. The restaurant was quiet and exclusive with the right amount of atmosphere, light and music. Tom was immediately struck by how posh Nia’s friends appeared but wasn’t sure whether they were all to the manor born or whether it was misperception, perhaps one supported by their drama school accents and elocution lessons.
The food and service were excellent. Tom was his quiet, charming self and Nia was clearly comfortable with her old friends. Wine flowed and the women grew louder and more expressive. Tom noticed how the women interacted with Nia, respecting her experience and signalling some suspicion towards Tom. He didn’t mind, it’s what good friends do, he thought. He noticed too, that although Nia was part of the group, she was not of it.
It was late by the time coffee was served. No one wanted the evening to end.
“Let’s go dancing,” Amanda suggested.
“Tango?” Tom asked, and Nia laughed at the private joke.
Orla looked at them both trying to decipher if there had been a hidden sex reference.
“No,” Amanda said. “Regular club, decent music.”
After a quick Google of venues, they taxied to a Shoreditch club known for its eighties’ vibe and music. The kind of music Nia knew Tom liked. Once there, it was easy to find a seat in the only half-filled club. Tom choosing a booth nonchalantly after a quick visual tactical sweep of the surroundings. Tom took drink orders and headed up to the bar. All the women watched him go.
“He’s lovely,” Constance remarked. “Where did you find him again?”
Orla asked whether he had a brother or a sister. The group laughed even though jokes around Orla’s pansexuality had become a bit of tired old trope.
Tom made two trips with the drinks and then he sat back in the booth with his G&T. Nia had a vodka and slimline, for old time’s sake, and he watched and listened to the old friends continue to talk and gossip. But mostly he watched Nia. He watched how her eyes sparkled, how her lips parted over her teeth, how an occasional heavy curly stand of hair would fall over her left eye, how she would absentmindedly move the hair tucking it behind her ear, how she caught his eye and smiled.
Tom enjoyed the stories from the theatre world, of naughty things that happen on TV and movie sets, who was screwing who, it was a window into a world he didn’t know but one, through Nia, he now had a minor role in. He liked the group’s shared reminisces of a collective past as he felt it gave him access to another part of Nia.
The opening chords for the Smiths’ ‘This Charming Man’ began. Nia looked at him and nodded to the dance floor.
“C’mon,” she said and reached out for his hand.
Nia’s dancing was fluid and unselfconscious while Tom’s wasn’t, but they began to move well together occasionally touching and spinning within each other’s orbit. Nia’s friends watched from the booth.
“I don’t think I have ever seen her like this,” Amanda said.
“Me neither,” added Penny
“Ah, l’amour,” Constance said.
Orla guffawed, “Nia doesn’t do love.” But as she watched Tom and Nia on the dance floor, said, “You think so?”
Constance and Penny both nodded.
“I don’t think Nia’s grasped how lonely she’s been,” Constance continued.
“Although I think what she’s feeling on the dance floor hasn’t quite registered with her yet either,” Amanda offered sagely. “That she can’t put that emotion,” and she nodded towards Nia and Tom, “into words.”
Tom and Nia stayed out on the dance floor as George Michael’s ‘Careless Whisper’ began. More couples made their way out to the dance floor including Penny and Amanda. Nia swayed with the music and sensed the lights dimming as the dance floor became diffuse with lavender light and the spinning reflections from electronic mirror ball projectors. Tom reached out and held her by the waist and they slow danced holding each other. Nia could feel Tom’s leg muscles taught and tight against hers. She held her face against his chest and then looked up into his face. His eyes were closed. She mouthed, “I love you, Tom Price.”
Tom liked the darkness that crept across the dance floor. He loved the touch of Nia’s body against his, the feel of her waist, the smell of her hair on his chest. He shut his eyes to prolong the moment, to isolate just the two of them. He felt her move and he opened his eyes; she held his hand away from his body as she twirled under his arm and moved backwards into him. Her back was to his front and she held his hands on her hips. She subtly but purposefully ground her bottom into his groin.
Chapter Ten
London, Autumn 2001
Nia was terribly drunk. Her head had started to throb with too many vodka and tonics and the bass heavy house beat booming through the club’s speaker system. She could feel it reverberate through her body. She was hot after dancing. Tired after a long, difficult week on set and in her personal life. She had ended any communication with her family, just tired of the constant hurt and disappointment. She looked across the club, through a haze of lavender lighting, mirror balls, and dry ice to the dance floor below. There he was, Goldenboy; Nia had aggrandised the tabloids’ nickname making it her own. Even as drunk as he was, he exuded cool, beer bottle still in hand, dancing with two or three women while others appeared to be circling him, predator like. God, Nia thought, he knows he could leave the club with any of those girls. So many, guys as well as gals, just wanted to shag him. Yes, Nia recognised, he’s so good looking but he knows it. You can’t have a face like that, eyes so blue, hair so golden and curly, and the body of a Greek God, but with a bigger dick, and not be a bit of a prick. He saw her and waved his beer bottle and smiled with unnaturally perfect and dazzling white teeth. But he’s my prick, she smiled back.
She sipped her vodka. A man Nia had never seen before sat down next to her in her booth. City type, smart suit, attitude.
“Hi Nia, baby,” he started.
“Fuck off,” Nia said. Her eyes were like flint.
&n
bsp; The man looked hurt and angry and opened his mouth to respond but thought better of it and left. Nia downed her vodka and needed a pee. The toilets felt cold and the music more diffuse. She splashed cold water on her face. There was a knock on the door.
“Nia, it’s me.” She opened the door and Goldenboy pushed his way in.
“Get out,” Nia said. “It’s the ladies’ loo.”
“Don’t care. You got to try some of this,” he said. He was stoned and held out a little baggie with white powder.
He pushed her into a toilet cubicle, placed some cocaine on the back of his hand and snorted it. He placed some more on his hand and proffered it to Nia.
“I don’t want to,” she said. “I’ve given it up, remember. Bloody kicked it.”
“Come on, pussy. It’ll keep you going ‘till dawn. Come on.” He pushed the back of his hand against her nose. Nia snorted deeply. Her nostrils burned, her headache ceased, her pupils dilated covering almost her entire irises.
“Fuck wow,” she said.
Goldenboy grabbed her by the arm and they made their way back on to the dance floor. She shut her eyes and let the music wash over her. She was re-energized and became part of the music as she danced. Nia felt Goldenboy’s taut, gym toned body close to hers but then sensed him drifting away. She moved across the dance floor not caring. She opened her eyes and saw Goldenboy deeply kissing one of the other women at the dance floor’s periphery. Nia shut her eyes again and felt the music move her around the dance floor.
***
Outside the club, a group of soldiers in civvies, but noticeable because they all sported the same obvious haircuts, waited in the queue to enter. They’d been there some time and they were getting chilly and pissed off as the bouncers allowed newcomers in ahead of them. They were getting restless. They wanted a good time after long days on post-9/11 anti-terrorism duties. A large black bouncer wearing a loose-fitting suit approached.
“Sorry lads,” he began with a sincere smile. “We’re only letting in couples at the moment. If I were you, I’d move on.”
There were collective groans.
“Okay, lads let’s find somewhere else,” said one of the group, slightly older. “I’ll buy the first round.”
There was a ripple of approval from the group.
“What about a tat sir?” asked an already heavily tattooed squaddie.
“Jones, I’m not going to buy a round of tats,” said Second Lieutenant Tom Price. “What would all your mothers say?”
The group laughed.
“Nah, sir,” continued Jones. “You said you’d get a tat with the lads after deployment.”
Price smiled, “That I did, but standing outside the Houses of Parliament doesn’t count as a deployment in my book. At least, not yet. Come on lads, there’s a pub around the corner. Beer’s getting warm.”
The group pushed off shoving each other and laughing. They were happy young men feeling invincible and immortal.
***
Afghanistan, Spring 2006
The rubbish-strewn dirt road through the tiny hamlet was supposed to have been cleared and made safe. Lieutenant Tom Price had drilled his soldiers not to treat any road as totally safe, to watch where they stepped, to keep eyes peeled for wires, to be aware of any suspicious locals watching a stretch of road, or anything that looked out of the ordinary. Such vigilance took its toll. His men were physically and emotionally exhausted and concentration always slipped at the end of a long mission. Today’s patrol was winding down and thoughts were already turning to the relative safety of their Forward Operating Base and the bunks, cold beer, and Skype phone calls home that were waiting.
Corporal Nick Jones was a good soldier. He loved the army and, like many a poor boy from the inner cities with little family to account for, had found a sense of kinship with his comrades. He was close to his platoon commander, Lt. Price, whom he would have followed to the gates of hell. Jones had made it a personal mission to get Price to agree to getting at least one tattoo. Jones liked his ink. He was lost in his thoughts, thinking of his next leave when he felt something spring under his left foot. He felt the explosion engulf him in flame, dirt and pain.
Jones was thrown in the air and landed in a broken pile. He looked down to where his legs had been and where his blood was already staining the sandy soil around him. Price ran to Jones and used his own field dressing to attempt to staunch wounds that were unstaunchable in the field. Price and the platoon’s medic tied tourniquets on both of Jones’ thighs. A Medivac helicopter had already been radioed for.
Jones looked up at Price with fear.
“Jones, you’re going to be okay, do you hear me,” Price said.
Jones grabbed Price’s bicep with his right hand and Price noticed Jones’ left hand was missing. Jones was breathing rapidly and was covered in blood. Price knew that Jones was bleeding out and there was nothing they could do for him. Jones’ eyes fluttered and closed.
“Stay with me, Nick,” Price commanded. “The chopper’s coming. Stay with me.”
The medic tied yet another tourniquet on Jones’ left arm.
Jones cried out in pain and fear and his eyes opened.
He focused on Price’s face.
“Aw fuck, Lieutenant,” Jones gasped through pink stained teeth. “I think I’ve bought it, haven’t I?”
“Nonsense,” Price lied. “You’ll be fit for purpose in no time.” Price tried to smile reassuringly.
“Do me a favour, Tom,” Jones said with a smile through a grimace. “You gotta get yourself some ink. Not a proper soldier if you don’t.”
“Only if you come with me too, Nick,” Price replied.
Jones closed his eyes, he appeared to sigh deeply, and then died in Price’s arms.
Chapter Eleven
Nia’s House, December 9th
Nia made cafetière coffee while Tom showered upstairs. Her phone dinged with texts from her friends, mostly about Tom but Amanda asked Nia where she had learnt to twerk. Nia giggled. Tom’s mixture of embarrassment and excitement on the dance floor had inspired a lustful romp as soon as they had returned to Nia’s house. They had fumbled with their clothes as soon as they were in the home’s vestibule and Nia, half naked, had pulled Tom into the lounge and they made furious love on the carpet. She warmed to the memory as she sat at the table with her coffee. She heard Tom moving upstairs and she felt comforted. Her cold, quiet, and empty house was no longer any of those things.
She sipped the coffee and thumbed through the Rolt book. She liked that Tom had bought her a book and she had already begun to think about books she could, in return, present to Tom. She hoped it would become a tradition for them. She heard Tom whistling as he came down her stairs. He limped heavily into the kitchen with his hair still wet.
“You okay,” Nia said with genuine concern and nodded to his leg.
“Oh yes,” replied Tom. “Just a little achy this morning,” he rubbed his scarred thigh. “I must have been in an odd weight bearing position.” And then he remembered just exactly what had stressed his leg the night before. He smiled sheepishly.
Nia realised too and smiled back. She stood up from the table.
“Ok tiger, how would you like some eggs for breakfast?” Nia asked.
***
Llangollen Canal. December 14th
The early winter cold snap had been replaced by more classic seasonal weather: leaden skies, grey days and almost continuous drizzle. It was miserable weather but not too miserable now to keep Tom and his boat moored up. Tom took Periwinkle back north through the Llangollen canal. He watched the heavy grey clouds tumble and rumble to the west where he knew the mountains of Snowdonia would soon experience a deluge. He also knew that if the clouds weren’t spent over Snowdon, then the drizzle he was now experiencing would become a heavy pounding rain. As it was, Tom had the canal almost to himself. There were almost no hire boats out this late in the year and most continuous cruisers had moored up for the season. This was a stretch of t
he canal that he never grew tired of. He enjoyed the solitude, the tranquillity, and the beauty of the canal and its adjoining countryside. He had traversed this stretch of canal numerous times and it never failed to take his breath away. Here, the natural beauty of the Ceiriog and Dee valleys was interspersed with the engineering genius of man, personified by the canal itself and its iconic tunnels and aqueducts. Tom was hoping the weather would be kind enough to allow Nia this experience.
Jack joined him on the little stern deck. She barked good naturedly at some ducks who quacked in response. It was the only sound Tom had witnessed, apart from the comforting, rhythmic put-put of the engine below his feet, for some miles. His voice sounded strange when he spoke out loud to his dog.
“Jack, my girl, we need to train you to make tea.”
Tom moored up at Llangollen’s narrowboat basin. He took the short walk into the little village to resupply the Periwinkle’s small fridge with food and drink, bought fruit and vegetables, and, thinking about what would make Nia more comfortable, some fresh-cut flowers. He took advantage of a small and quiet launderette and washed some clothes, towels and bedding. He tidied the already spotless boat in preparation for Nia’s visit. There had been guests on the Periwinkle; Rachel and Owain were frequent summer visitors, and there had been the rare romantic partner, but this was different. He was aware that Nia had a track record of shying away from relationships and guarded her privacy and her vulnerability. But by allowing Tom, literally, into her personal space she had emotionally opened herself to him. He wanted to reciprocate by welcoming her into his home. Tom Face-Timed with Nia and confirmed her arrival time at Crewe’s railway station.
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