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.
Rob studied the photo again before placing the card and the note on the mantelpiece. Mike was still wearing that cheap watch.
Christ, I'd love to be doing something useful again. But I need to be here for Tom.
Okay, he'd call Mike later, just to chat. He had to crack on with his routine: make a pan of chilli, leave it to simmer while he watched the news, then do half an hour with the weights before he had his dinner. A few decent kettlebells worked out cheaper than membership at the local gym. His day, week, and month were now mapped out more or less to the hour, his finances to the last penny.
>
It's like being in prison. Still, this was what we did back in Afghan. No fancy facilities like the big bases.
Rob started calculating how much difference a job with Esselby would make. He'd earn four times what he was making in the supermarket, but then there was tax, insurance, and other self-employed expenses to pay. Maybe it wasn't as lucrative as it looked.
I'd have three months off a year, though, maybe more. And I'd be doing what I do best.
He could usually switch off while he trained and just concentrate on making his body do what he demanded of it, but it was hard to focus with numbers like that in his mind. He jerked the fifteen-kilo kettlebell over his head, feeling the sweat trickle down his back, and wondered what was getting to him most, the lack of cash or simply being nothing for the first time in his adult life.
He was lost in his thoughts when the doorbell rang. He went to the intercom, expecting it to be someone trying to sell him something he didn't want or need, because it wouldn't be a visitor. He made sure none of his mates ever came here.
The voice on the crackly speaker was the last one he expected to hear. "Dad, it's me."
"Christ. Tom? What are you doing here, kiddo? You're supposed to be in Newcastle."
"Well, now I'm here. Can I come in?
Rob held his finger on the button to unlock the hall door, disoriented for a moment, and waited at the top of the stairs. Tom trudged up the steps with a tight-packed holdall and stared at Rob with an expression that said he was trying hide his dismay at finding his father in a dismal place like this. Rob had never let him see the flat. Tom hadn't needed to know.
"It's the end of term, Dad. Remember? I came back a day early. Sorry I didn't call first."
"Oh. Seen your mum yet?" Rob showed him in and shut the door before giving him a hug. He'd been caught out and he wasn't sure where the conversation was heading. "What's wrong?"
Tom wasn't the sort of lad to forget to call ahead. He was eighteen going on fifty, a man who body-searched every word before he let it pass his lips. "Nothing's wrong," he said. "Not with me, anyway. I just didn't want to give you the chance to fob me off this time. I wanted to see this for myself."
They stood in the cramped hall for a few awkward, silent seconds. Tom looked around. Rob didn't have any excuses ready. He'd expected to show up at Bev's and be nice to her new bloke in exchange for having Christmas with Tom, and never let Tom see how he was actually living. That plan had all gone to rat shit now. All he could do was make his lad feel at home.
"I'd better get you a drink, hadn't I?"
"How about going for a curry? Come on, Dad. My treat."
"Star of Bengal or The Raj?"
"Raj," Tom said. "They do coconut naans."
"Yeuchh."
"Fibre."
"Fibre's the least of your worries after a vindaloo, son. Okay, give me five minutes to clean myself up and turn off the chilli."
Rob had never felt so ashamed in his life. He could feel Tom's distress radiating like sunburn, sorrow that his father lived in this grim, bare cell of a place. When he came out of the bathroom, Tom was studying the solitary Christmas card on the mantelpiece.
"I see Mike sent you a card."
"Yeah, look at all those teeth." Rob zipped up his jacket. "You could make a piano keyboard out of that lot. Put your shades on, son. You don't want any retina damage."
"Even the dog looks rich. You're the only person I know who could have the Brayne family in his debt and not take advantage of it. Didn't you ever see Androcles and The Lion?"
"Yeah. It could have done with some car chases."
"Come on. Leo Brayne. Technology, comms, mining, charitable foundations."
"I don't want charity."
"That's a load of crap. Mike's your friend." Tom frowned at the picture. "Look, he's still wearing that watch you gave him. His twelve Cartiers must be at the cleaner's."
"It's his lucky charm."
"Is it okay if I read the note?"
Rob nodded. Tom frowned while he read. Sometimes he looked just like his mum, that square tip to his nose and the way he pursed his lips when he was concentrating.
"You're mad," he said, looking up. "Mike keeps offering you work and you don't take it. He keeps inviting you over there. Do it, Dad. He's your mate. He really cares what happens to you."
"Too far." It had to be said. "And I spent too long away while you were growing up. It's time I stuck around."
"But Newcastle's a long way, too. You know they've got planes and the Internet in America, don't you? It's ever so modern. They might even have phones by now."
"I've already got a job," Rob said.
"Not quite what you told me, though, is it?" Tom beckoned and headed for the door. "Come and tell me the truth."
They walked to the Raj, a half-hour stroll that gave Rob time to change the subject and talk about how Tom's course was going. Rob realised it was one of those weird conversations where they were discussing one thing while a separate, unspoken argument was running in parallel beneath the surface. The Raj smelled comfortingly of frying onions and lemon air freshener, but the wailing music in the background suddenly reminded him too much of previous deployments. It was probably only Bollywood soundtracks.
"Do you still run?" Tom asked. They settled down to a pile of poppadums while they pored over the menu. "Why aren't you in touch with your old mates?"
"Who says I'm not?"
"Only one Christmas card."
Tom wasn't giving up, then. Rob braced for incoming. "Yes, I still do my phys every day." He stopped short of saying that he didn't want his old oppos to know where he'd ended up. He was ashamed. "But there's no point looking back. I would have had to leave sooner or later."
"Yeah, and we're all going to die eventually, too, but that doesn't mean you lie down in your coffin and wait." Tom started moving the plates to make room for sizzling platters inbound from the left. "You could have been extended to fifty-five. You just got shat on by the government."
Tom didn't meet Rob's eyes. He dug into the chicken vindaloo as if the comment had been a throwaway observation, which it definitely wasn't. So it was gut-spill time, then. Okay, Rob would give in. He needed to. There had to be one person in the world that he didn't have to present with a stiff upper lip.
"Tom, I'm lucky," he said. "I came back with all my limbs and I don't wake up screaming at night. I've got a job. I'm not living on the streets. I've just got to get used to not mattering."
"Christ, Dad, don't say that. Every second of your life matters. That's why I can't stand to see you wasting it. Forget me for a minute. What do you really want to do now?"
Wasting it. Rob had rationalized about missing the Corps and not having those really tight relationships you only had with blokes you served with, but it wasn't his job that didn't matter; it was his life. He hadn't even returned to the real world. He was back in an unreal existence with make-believe rules and imagined safety, while actual reality – life-or-death decisions, real risks, pushing himself to his limits because he had to – was out there in some combat zone. It was one of the few places left where humans lived the way they'd been designed to, and it wasn't as simple or as juvenile as missing the excitement. What he missed was having to push himself every day. Running marathons didn't cut it. He could always stop running and sit down for a rest, but in combat nobody waited while you got your breath back. There was no safety net. It was life at the limits of human capacity and beyond.
"Okay, so I wish I was a Bootneck again," he said. "And I wish I had the stamina I had at twenty, and the looks, and that I healed as fast, but I don't. Things pass."
"You can't go on like this."
"Like what?"
"You thought I wouldn't realise, didn't you?" Tom gestured at him with his fork. "I knew damn well you'd try to pretend everything was fine. That's why you made sure you always met me at Mum's. So I wouldn't see the state you were in. You let her keep everything."
Rob didn't have a good answer
. Suddenly the sound of his own chewing deafened him. "Yeah, well, so I did."
"Dad, I can't take any more money from you. I won't have you living like this to subsidize me."
"You can keep me in my old age. Deal?"
"I mean it. I'm going to pay back what you've sent me this term."
"No. You won't."
"Yes. I will."
"Tom, I'm your dad. You think I want to see you trying to study and hold down a job too?"
"Americans do it all the time. Ask Mike."
"You're eighteen. You should be enjoying yourself."
"How can I, when I know you have to live like this?" That was Tom all over, always the little man of the house when Rob was away, sensible and responsible. "I'm serious, Dad. You're not making a fortune and you're not having a good time. Stop lying to me."
"I'd never lie to you. You know that."
"Look, I never needed to know what you did in the Marines, but I do have a right to know when you're in the shit. You deserve better." Tom went quiet and carried on eating, but he was just changing tack. Rob didn't have an answer. "I always expected you to go into private security work. Counter-piracy, close protection, that kind of thing. The MoD paid for you to do a CP course and all the other stuff before you left."
Tom knew all the correct words. Rob had to choose his own carefully. "Only so they could bin us and still get the job done on the cheap by rehiring us working for PSCs."
"So you wouldn't notice the difference, would you? Except for better conditions."
"Yeah, but I need to be home for a few years."
"Because of me?"
"I'm your father. You put your kids first, although fuck knows that's not fashionable these days." The vindaloo was hotter than Rob remembered. He was starting to sweat and a headache was forming like a storm front. He gulped down some raita as an antidote, but it wasn't working. "I was away too often when you were growing up."
"I was really proud of you being a Marine."
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