Cthulhu Deep Down Under Volume 2

by Various Authors

“Dad!” Jon shouted as he hugged his father. I felt my eyes well up again as it really hit home that Tom was back.

  “Good to see you too mate.” Tom roughed up his son’s hair. “I swear you’ve grown a foot since I saw you last.”

  “I’ve been…” he paused and stood up from the bed, his mind finally catching up with what he was seeing.

  Jon blushed. Tom did too.

  “Oh come on you guys,” my son covered his eyes and backed out of the room, almost tripping over his school bag. Tom went even redder. I burst out laughing.

  “We should probably put some clothes on,” I managed to get out between giggles.

  “Probably,” Tom laughed, cheeks still flushed.

  “Yeah you probably should,” called Jon from down the hallway.

  “Dad’s next,” whispered Danielle. She looked lovely in her dress, bought especially for the occasion. She was bouncing up and down in her seat, unable to contain her excitement.

  “Quiet,” Jon elbowed his sister. He’d somehow found time to loosen his tie.

  “Sergeant Thomas Lilyman,” the Governor-General paused for an uncomfortable second, clearing her throat. “…152 Signal Squadron, Special Air Service.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Tom stepped onto the stage in full dress uniform. I felt such pride seeing him up there.

  “For your bravery in service to your men, your regiment, and your country,” The Governor-General held forth a felt-covered box. “We, the people of Australia, thank you.”

  Danielle gripped my hand. I squeezed back; feeling the unfamiliar weight of the strange gold bracelet Tom had given me that morning shift on my wrist.

  “For your actions defending the lives of innocent civilians against the assault of anti-Coalition militia,” the Governor-General announced, “it is my honour and privilege to award you this: the Medal of Gallantry.” She leant forward, pinning the medal to his chest.

  The crowd began to politely applaud. Jon rose to his feet, but Danielle pulled him back down before I had to. It was a sombre occasion, though I could not help but smile as my husband turned around.

  He stood there as the cameras flashed—I had to assume they were from the army, as the ceremony was not being made public—and smiled, slightly. His eyes made contact with mine, and I realised the smile was a lie; as fabricated as the insinuation that he and his men had been serving with the Signal Squadron instead of one of the combat units. Then, as quickly as it happened, he looked away from me, smiling that fake smile at our children instead.

  I shuddered. Something was not right. Not right at all.

  “We need to talk.”

  Tom did not look away from the television. “What about Steph?”

  “About what happened over there,” I had sent the kids out to see friends so Tom and I could be alone. He had been fine the majority of the time in the couple of days since the award ceremony; but there was still a certain distance there, and I could not shake the feeling that he was hiding something.

  “Sweetheart,” he turned, smiling at me. I could feel the wariness coming off him. “You know the rules—I can’t talk to you about work.”

  “I don’t need to know the details of your adventures in ‘signalling’, I leaned forward in the old recliner, resting my chin in my hands. “But I do need to know what happened that makes you so unhappy to be back here with me and the kids.”

  I regretted it as soon as I said it.

  “That is some passive-aggressive bullshit,” Tom snarled as he stood up from the couch.

  “I’m sorry, but you haven’t exactly been making it easy,” I tried to soothe him, but I’d put my foot in it already.

  “What, exactly, am I guilty of here?” he paced over to me and grabbed the remote, jabbing a finger at the power button.

  “You’ve been quiet, distant. Sometimes you seem fine and everything is great, and then five minutes later you’re staring off into space and I don’t know whether to hug you or lock myself in the bathroom.”

  He froze on the spot and stared. “You think I’m going to hurt you?”

  “Oh god, no, Tom, not like that,” I was backpedalling now. “I’m just scared for you because you look so hurt; so angry. I just want to know what is happening in your head.”

  “I need to go for a walk.”

  I reached out to him, but he turned his back and strode away.

  It was three in the morning.

  The kids had come home earlier; Danielle first, dropped off by my sister and bubbling over with excitement that quickly disappeared when she sensed my mood.

  Jon came in a couple of hours later, smelling of cigarettes and booze, not expecting anyone to be awake. I knew he was waiting for me to tear him to shreds, but I honestly didn’t have it in me. He went to his room, mumbling about how late it was.

  I sat there in the dark and at three in the morning my husband came home.

  “What are you still doing up?” He sounded tense.

  “You walked out before we could finish talking earlier,” my voice was a harsh croak; I hadn’t spoken in hours. “I needed to talk to you and you’ve been gone for hours.”

  He walked over and sat next to me, grabbing my hand. So gentle compared to earlier, much more like himself.

  “I’m sorry,” we both spoke at the same time, the words tumbling out. Tom snorted and I couldn’t help but smile.

  “I didn’t think you’d still be awake,” he said after a little while.

  “Where did you go?”

  He hesitated; it obviously wasn’t the question he had been expecting.

  “I need to tell you something,” he said after a long moment. “You’re probably not going to like it.”

  I nodded, knuckles white where I gripped his hand.

  “I’ve been seeing someone.”

  My fist was flying at his face before I even realised it, a left hook just like my dad had taught me.

  Tom, the utter bastard, slapped my hand away with his forearm before it could connect. Then he had the temerity to laugh.

  “Not like that, not like that!” He grabbed my wrist, gently, before I could try to deck him again. Bloody training. “I’m not cheating on you, Steph, I swear. Shit, when would I have had the time?”

  It was a good point.

  “Then what?”

  “A therapist, in the city,” his voice turned serious; earnest. “She was over there with us.”

  I just stared at him. I had known Tom for most of my life, and this was the last thing I ever would have expected him to say.

  “At first we thought it was just bullshit, you know? But after a few visits we all realised that she was really helping. She moved back here when we did and said we could call on her at any time.”

  “So you saw her tonight?”

  He looked away, cheeks flushed, emphasising his smooth shaven cheeks. “I was so angry and my mind was spinning. I—”

  “What, hon? You can tell me.”

  “It was bad, Steph.”

  I drew him toward me on the couch and wrapped my arms around him. He was shaking.

  “That medal is a joke, you know that?”

  “That’s not true, Tom.”

  “It is, believe me.”

  I held him, feeling him shudder against me. Finally, he pulled away and looked at me.

  “You’re not mad?”

  “No I’m not mad,” I smiled at him and reached up to stroke his face. “In fact I think it’s good for you. What is this doctor’s name?”

  “Olmstead,” he replied. “Doctor Marion Olmstead.”

  “The doctor will see you now.”

  The pretty receptionist gave us a smile and wandered back to her desk. My eyes lingered on the necklace she wore; dark, reddish gold of a very strange, almost unsettling, design. It looked oddly similar to my new bracelet.

  “Ready, sweetheart?” Tom looked at me as he stood up. He was smiling, a gesture that would have usually calmed my nerves, but not today.

  I nodd
ed and stood up from the leather chair, throwing the magazine I had been thumbing through onto a table. Briefly I wondered how the Army could afford to pay for its soldiers to attend a therapist who worked in these kinds of surroundings—all glass and brushed steel, and a prime waterfront location.

  The elevator gave a soft chime as the doors slid open—no ground floor offices here—and Tom pushed the button for level six with the confidence of someone who had been spending more time here than at home of late.

  Tom held my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back, heart thumping in my chest.

  The elevator doors slid open again, framing Doctor Olmstead.

  “Welcome Thomas, Stephanie,” Olmstead said, a cool little smile on her face.

  She was younger than I had expected, not much older than myself, if I had to guess. She was a plain woman, slightly pop-eyed and with a blotchy complexion no amount of makeup or expensive clothing could disguise. Still, she was not the horrible monster I had been expecting, and I felt myself relax slightly.

  Olmstead led us down the hallway to a room at the end, exchanging pleasantries with Tom. All the offices were built of opaque glass, with unlabelled doors, making me wonder if anyone else worked on the floor.

  “Please, make yourselves comfortable while I set up,” the psychiatrist ushered us into the room and closed the door.

  “Have a seat, Steph,” Tom suited action to words, making himself at home on a black leather couch, the twin to the furniture in the lobby. “She won’t keep us waiting too long.”

  “What did she mean by ‘set up’?” I tried to keep the sense of unease from tingeing my words as I sat down next to him.

  “We do a lot of video sessions,” Tom placed his hand on my knee. “It helps, you know, with my condition.”

  It was easy to forget, with how strange he had been the past couple of weeks, that this was all happening because he was sick.

  I leant over and pecked him on the lips, feeling his hand squeeze my knee in response. The doctor chose that moment to return.

  “No issues with personal contact, at least,” she said, closing the door behind her and dimming the lights. “I assume there has been no problem with your sex lives?”

  I coughed and blushed. It wasn’t that I was embarrassed, but the question took me by surprise.

  “It’s just fine, thank you,” I murmured, hating the fact I sounded prudish.

  “Is it, Stephanie?” She sat down in the chair opposite us, crossing her legs and peering down her nose at us through rounded glasses. “Thomas has indicated otherwise in our prior sessions.”

  I shot Tom a look and he did not even have the good grace to appear embarrassed.

  “Do not blame him, Stephanie. The truth is everything within these walls, even when it is uncomfortable.” She paused, smiling thinly. “Especially when it is uncomfortable. Everything depends upon it.”

  “It is hard to have a discussion about the truth when my husband is here talking to you, and yet he cannot tell me anything about what is troubling him.”

  Tom winced. “Steph, you know I can’t—”

  “That is not the issue right now, Stephanie.” Olmstead leant back, steepling her fingers. “But let me assure you that all truths are revealed in here, even those once hidden.”

  I raised my eyebrow, “I find that hard to believe.”

  “As I find it hard to believe that everything is fine when you have only slept with your husband once since you have been reunited, despite almost a year apart.”

  Tom at least looked away this time. I might have hit him otherwise.

  “But perhaps we do not need to discuss that right now,” Olmstead continued. “You have issues of trust. Let us see about addressing them first.”

  She tapped a few times at the tablet resting on the arm of her chair. The lights dimmed, leaving the room in darkness for a moment before a large flat screen that was recessed into the wall hummed to life. The lights came back up to a dim glow, seemed to flicker, and then finally died completely.

  Grainy, off-white tinted footage began to play, accompanied by heavy breathing that crackled with static. It took me a moment to realise what I was looking at; or, more specifically, who.

  “Isn’t this classified?” My voice was a whisper, as though someone might overhear. My husband’s face stared at me from the screen, bearded and dirty. His eyes seemed to glow with a feverish light, courtesy of the night vision camera.

  “Of course it is,” the therapist responded, “but, as I said, there are no secrets here.”

  Tom’s eyes were locked on the footage, staring at his own face like nothing else existed.

  “There’s a BMP and twenty grunts sweeping down the ridge towards the beach.” Tom’s voice was a harsh whisper.

  “What are they doing?” The camera turned to another soldier: Greg Fells, one of Tom’s troopers. “Going for a swim?”

  “Dobbo says there are civilians down there,” Tom said, referring to Slavko Dobric, another one of his men. We had known Slavko since high school, and he and his wife Hannah had been my closest friends for a very long time. “He reckons it’s some sort of religious ceremony, lots of dancing around fires and chanting—maybe a rival sect?”

  “Rival sects don’t last long coming out in the open like this, especially not this close to a major town.” The voice seemed to emanate from the camera, but I struggled to recognise it. “Besides which, there aren’t too many religions dancing around fires in this day and age, are there?”

  “Then why are there soldiers about to murder them?” Greg muttered.

  “Enough,” Tom beckoned with his right hand and the sound of movement came from off camera, but our viewpoint didn’t change. “We need to decide what to do.”

  “What’s to decide? This isn’t our mission.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  My heart was in my throat as Tom spoke.

  “Which is why I’m asking for your thoughts instead of giving you orders. Your quick thoughts.”

  “We’ve got a perfect position to flank them,” Greg nodded at the blurred outline of the ridge behind him. “Hit them from behind with the height advantage, no way they’re expecting the attack.”

  “They aren’t expecting the attack because we shouldn’t even be here.”

  “Well, we are here.”

  “They’re civilians, we have—”

  “Not our civilians—”

  “We can’t risk the mission—”

  It would have been comical, these bearded commandos whispering fiercely over the top of each other, if the situation wasn’t so obviously serious.

  “Enough,” all talk ceased when Tom spoke. “Suppressors on. Hank, hit the BMP. Boys, numbers only from here on in.”

  The cameraman nodded, finally revealing his identity as Hank, the newest member of my husband’s squad.

  “And mate,” Tom reached toward the camera, crooked grin on his face. “Camera off for this one.”

  The screen went black. The lights in the room pulsed and buzzed before finally coming back to their full, fluorescent brightness.

  We didn’t speak on the way home.

  I pulled the car into the driveway and turned the key. Tom just stared into space.

  “It was a good thing you did,” I said after a long while. He didn’t respond. “… That you all did; trying to save those people.”

  He said nothing.

  “Damn it, Tom,” I snapped, tearing open the car door. “You barely spoke for the rest of the session while that woman asked me all those horrid questions. I thought this was meant to be helping you! What is it exactly you are so ashamed of?”

  As I moved to leave the car, he grabbed my wrist.

  “You don’t understand,” he whispered. I was shocked to see there were tears in his eyes. “What we did…”

  “You killed soldiers to save the innocent civilians they were going to slaughter. That is what you did!”

  “We killed soldiers. We saved those people.” H
e looked at me, his eyes cold, tears wiped away on the back of his hand as suddenly as they had arrived. “But what makes you think anyone is innocent?”

  We went back to Olmstead’s office seven more times over the next few weeks, each visit seeming to mark another low point in my relationship with my husband.

  Each session began with the Doctor replaying the same footage over and over and asking me impertinent questions about our love life, whether ‘the change’ was coming on, whether our children were sexually active, and all sorts of things that seemed to have no connection to Tom’s wellbeing; or, indeed, Tom himself, at all.

  The only discussions that touched upon my husband were repeated assurances by Olmstead that the acts he had committed in war were natural and normal, and he should not feel shame nor regret.

  For his part, Tom was relatively normal in the lead up to each session. Once there, however, he barely spoke, eyes glazed as he stared at the screen, and when we left he grew more and more sullen, not talking for hours, or flying into a rage over nothing. It was maddening. The footage, so exciting to see initially after years of not knowing anything about what my husband did, became a source of frustration. I found myself dreading the monotony of the visits, of the strangely inappropriate questions and the dark comments, the ghostly wartime footage and the incessantly irritating malfunctioning lights.

  During the seventh session, I excused myself to use the ladies room.

  As I walked, I tried turning the handles on the rows of unmarked doors surrounding me, but not one of them was unlocked. I had just begun wondering if the building was otherwise deserted when I heard a door click shut ahead of me. I rushed forward, coming to a single door identical to all the others. I placed my fingers on the handle and turned, gently.

  It was unlocked! The door cracked open, revealing a room as dark as night, heavy blackout curtains obscuring the windows. A smell like rotten seaweed washed over me, pungent enough to make me retch. My eyes began to adjust slightly to the darkness. I thought I could make out a shape, moving slightly.

  “Did you get lost?” Olmstead tore the door handle from my fingers and slammed the door shut.

  I didn’t bother saying anything. I was caught, and no amount of excuses would explain that away. Olmstead merely turned and walked away.