Blast Radius

by Rebecca McKinney

  She tilts her head slightly to one side. ‘You don’t strike me as the kind of person who believes in ghosts.’

  ‘I believe in ghosts. Some of the places I’ve been . . . they’re everywhere. Sometimes you’d walk into a ruined village and you’d feel them hanging about, watching you.’

  She shudders. ‘Awful.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Molly stares at the floor for a moment, biting her lower lip, then takes a step closer to where I’m standing. ‘You’re not at all like I thought you were, Sean.’

  ‘Meaning?’ I want to back away, but stand my ground.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She looks at me as if she’s seeing something in my face she’d never noticed before. ‘There’s just . . . a bit more to you than I realised.’

  I raise my eyebrows at this. ‘He’s smarter than the average bear, is he?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘What did you think, exactly? Nice set of pecs but not a lot going on between the lugs.’

  ‘No! Oh God, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘Oh come on, Molly. Why are you people so fucking patronising?’

  ‘You people?’

  ‘Aye. Toffs.’

  ‘I’m not a toff!’

  I laugh at her. ‘You are. That’s exactly what you are. I won’t hold it against you.’

  ‘If I’m a toff, what are you?’ A note of challenge creeps into her voice.

  ‘Cannon fodder. Exactly what guys like me have always been.’

  She stares at me for a moment, eyes wide, then takes a deep breath and turns away. ‘I’m . . . sorry . . . honestly, Sean, I didn’t mean to come over like that. I’m not a snob. I promise I never meant anything like that and I apologise if that’s how it sounded. I like you. I know maybe I shouldn’t say it, but I do. I can’t help it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Molly. It’s just not meant to be, okay?’

  She nods, her lips pressed together, accepting this without wanting to. I wish could call the whole conversation back. I’ve exposed far too much of myself, and it feels dangerous. She needs something I can’t give; desperation radiates from her like some kind of tractor beam. Suddenly I realise something about Molly: she’s just like me. Under the sleek clothing and reformed accent, she’s just another one of the Saddos.

  X

  A Lammergeier soars above the mountain and drops a human skull from three hundred feet. It hits dry earth and explodes with the force of a mortar. I inhale dust, and wake up coughing. My latest crappy library book lands in a fan of pages on the carpet.

  ‘Jesus,’ I mutter, running my fingers through my hair and letting my feet clunk down off the coffee table. A spasm of pain in my lower back pulls me upright.

  The doorbell goes, possibly for the second time. I hurry to answer it, and find Paula Fairbairn, coatless and round, rubbing her hands over her arms.

  ‘Hi.’ She looks embarrassed. ‘Bad time?’

  ‘Sorry, no . . . I only dozed off.’ I stand aside. ‘Come in.’

  ‘It’s alright.’ She holds out a twenty-pound note. ‘For the messages. Mum says keep the change.’

  ‘Ta.’ I stuff the note into my back pocket. ‘Come in anyway. Janet’s out at her fitness class, so I’m on my own.’

  ‘Ah . . . well, in that case . . .’ She laughs, steps inside and follows me into the kitchen, stands there pressing her fingers into her lower back and looking around. ‘Oh God. I haven’t been in your house in fifteen years, at least. It hasn’t changed.’

  ‘A bit cleaner, maybe.’

  Paula smiles. She was one of the few friends I ever let into my house as a kid and she saw it all: Mum drunk as a monkey at three o’clock on a Monday afternoon, a week’s worth of dishes in the sink, and Janet digging down the back of the couch for coppers to feed the electricity metre. Most folk only came to my house the once; after that, there was always some excuse.

  I pull out a chair for her at the table. ‘You’ve grown since last week.’

  ‘Aye.’ She winces and lowers herself onto the chair with a little grunt. ‘Bursting at the seams. Some women seem to carry a wee football tucked under their jumpers, but not me. I’m like Cinderella’s bloody pumpkin.’

  ‘You’re a very bonny pumpkin. It suits you.’

  Her laugh is like joyful applause. ‘That is such an incredibly sweet thing to say. It’s full of shit, but it’s very sweet.’

  ‘Honestly, I meant it.’ I fill the kettle and switch it on. ‘I assume you’re having a brew.’

  ‘Yes please.’

  I turn away and reach down mugs, a plate and the biscuit tin. Paula says something behind me, but over the hiss of the kettle, I don’t catch it.

  I turn around. ‘Sorry, Paula, I missed that. It’s useless talking to me when my back’s turned.’

  ‘That must be annoying.’

  ‘Very. What did you say, anyway?’

  Her eyes catch the overhead light as she smiles. ‘I said you don’t look like a pumpkin. You still look unbelievably fit. You must work hard at it.’

  ‘I run a lot. And I shifted about four tonnes of furniture from an old farmhouse out by the Moorfoots today. My bloody back’s killing me.’

  ‘Just par for the course for me these days.’ She gives a heavy sigh and rubs her tummy. ‘How are you, otherwise?’

  ‘Ach, you know. Living the quiet life.’ The kettle lets out steam and switches itself off. I pour water into the teapot and carry everything to the table on a tray. ‘Trying to get used to being here.’

  ‘For good, you think?’

  ‘No idea. I try not to think too far ahead.’

  A gentle nod as she lifts the teapot, swills it twice and pours tea for both of us. Then she takes a chocolate digestive and dips it into her mug, bites delicately and sits there chewing and regarding me thoughtfully. The fingers of her right hand curl through the handle of her mug, and I notice that she isn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  ‘Are you glad to be home?’

  ‘Ehm . . .’ I cup my hand over my mouth and drag it down over two or three days’ stubble. It was always impossible to maintain any kind of pretence around her, so I don’t bother. ‘I don’t know what home is, Paula. A place other people go, I think.’

  ‘I can believe that,’ she says softly.

  I stare into my tea.

  Paula puts down her mug and rests her chin on folded fingers. ‘I always thought about you, you know. Whenever the news was on and they started talking about the war somewhere or other. Sometimes I watched those documentaries about the soldiers in Afghanistan, thinking stupidly I might even see you, but I never did. It feels like we’ve been at war ever since you joined up.’

  ‘Not far off it.’

  ‘Did you like it? The Marines, I mean, not the actual combat.’

  ‘Combat’s the best buzz you’ll ever get. It’s even legal.’

  ‘That’s sick.’

  I give her an eyebrow. ‘True though. No . . . Honestly, you know what I liked? Being part of the Borg. They make you forget who you are and where you come from. The fact that you’re the bastard whelp of alcoholic tart doesn’t make a blind bit of difference to your quality as a bootneck.’

  ‘For fucksake, Sean, is that really how you see yourself?’

  ‘That’s how people here see me.’

  ‘No they don’t.’

  ‘Aye they do. I’m past caring, really. I wasn’t the only one, by any means. I had a C.O. who used to say Jocks made the best soldiers because no war could match the violence and sheer bloody squalor of your average Scottish town on a Friday night.’

  I watch the tree branches outside the kitchen window bend like dry bony limbs.

  ‘I did like it. I loved it for a long time but it goes for your head eventually. I lost it, Paula . . . one day, I just . . . couldn’t do it anymore. I was done with fighting, even before Mitch died.’

  ‘I remember him well. It must have been horrendous.’

  ‘When did you meet him?’

 
; ‘Your mum’s funeral.’

  ‘Oh Christ, yeah, I forgot about that. He chummed me just to make sure I actually turned up.’

  ‘Sean.’ She sighs. ‘I spoke to him for ages. Or . . . well . . . he spent about an hour regaling me with tales of adventures on mountains and seas and jungles.’

  ‘Only an hour? You got off light. He must have sussed you were married.’

  She smiles. ‘I could have listened to him all day, with that lovely accent.’

  ‘Aye, typical. Every bloody woman who crossed his path. I . . .’ My voice trips in my throat and I sit there for a moment feeling like I’ve just been winded. It’s maybe ten seconds before I can inhale, and when I do it comes in a big, ragged gulp. ‘I’m sorry. I can control myself, I promise.’

  ‘Oh God, don’t apologise. I’ve seen you cry before, remember.’

  ‘Aye, I guess you have. I . . . assume you heard what actually happened.’

  ‘D’you know, I heard it on the news.’

  ‘Oh Jesus Christ. You’re joking.’

  ‘No. It was on the radio, early in the morning when I was getting up for work. When they mentioned the names . . . it was like . . . I knew already. It was just like a confirmation of something that I always knew would happen. To make it worse, I had to teach about Afghanistan in my Modern Studies class that day, and I kept bursting into tears.’

  ‘Maybe the wee shites’ll remember that lesson, at least.’

  She nods. ‘Maybe. I am so, so sorry, Sean. I’m grateful to him, though. Very selfishly.’ She reaches across and draws my hands toward her, folds her fingers over mine.

  I sit here, my hands in hers and my pulse rushing in temples, and wish I could bring myself to agree with her. I’ve spent so many shameful months wishing Mitch hadn’t made that decision to send me back here when I deserved to be vulture food, that now the words me too seem impossible. Even with Paula here, the only girl I’ve ever come anywhere near falling in love with, so close I can smell the fruity perfume of her hair and feel the heat radiating from her body, her fingers tightening around mine in a way that makes me want to pull her onto my lap, I can’t say them.

  ‘Ooh . . .’ She says, before I can gather a muddled collection of thoughts into any kind of response. Her eyes widen and her hand goes to her side, her palm pressing into her ribs. ‘Kicking practice in there. Here.’

  She pushes her chair back from the table, reaches for my hand again and guides it to the firm, warm curve below her breast. For a moment all I feel is the steady lift and fall of her breath, but then a hard lump pushes against my hand, like a foot trying to break free of over-tight blankets. I can actually see a ripple of movement beneath her jumper.

  ‘Oh wow,’ I breathe, and I keep my hand there, waiting for more. After a moment, there are a few more gentle flutters, and another kick. It draws laughter from somewhere deep inside me. ‘That’s incredible.’

  ‘It’s magic, isn’t it? Just don’t think about Alien.’

  ‘Oh thanks. Now I will.’ I move my hands over her belly, feeling lumps and rounded curves here and there. The baby seems to respond to my touch, following the movements of my hands with little prods and bumps. ‘Is it sore?’

  ‘No.’ Paula smiles and places her hand over mine. ‘It’s reassuring. I start to worry when she doesn’t move for a while.’

  ‘She?’

  She shrugs. ‘I think it’s a she.’

  Her grin is infectious, and we sit there for ages grinning like a pair of jokers, my hand magnetically attached to her belly, every little scuff or inquisitive prod from inside sending a shiver up my arm. I look up at her, and for just a moment our eyes hold each other, hovering like droplets of water just before they fall.

  Then I catch my breath, pull my hand away and stand up. A repeat of the Molly fiasco is definitely not on the cards. ‘What am I doing?’

  She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, like a drag on an imaginary cigarette. ‘You know I’m not with Ewan anymore, don’t you?’

  My mouth opens a little and hangs there. ‘No. Since when?’

  ‘Oh God. I’m sorry, I thought everyone knew. We separated last year. Technically we’re still married but I’m working on fixing that. Mum is completely disgusted with me. I thought she’d told more or less the whole town.’

  ‘She doesn’t really speak to me. So, the baby . . .’

  She drains her mug and puts it in the sink. ‘Is it okay to sit in the living room? I’m not very comfy in that chair.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ I say stupidly, still chewing slowly over the potential implications of what she’s just said. ‘Aye. Sorry. Come on.’

  She follows me to the living room and sits on the sofa. I settle on a chair, safely on the other side of the coffee table.

  ‘How open minded are you, Sean?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean . . . you haven’t gone all right wing and conservative on me, have you?’

  I laugh. ‘I haven’t turned into a raving Tory if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Okay.’ She presses her hands into a praying gesture. ‘Ewan . . . didn’t want kids. He worked too much, he played guitar in a band, he liked his mountain biking and his snowboarding, and he was just too into himself. I hit my thirties and realised that I wanted to be a mum more than anything in the world. We just couldn’t find a way around it, so . . .’ A little shrug. ‘That was that. We had fun together, but I guess I grew up and he didn’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not, Sean. Not at all. So . . . the baby . . . doesn’t have a dad. I went to a sperm bank. I know I’m going to have to explain it all to the kid one day, and it’s always going to be a little weird, but I don’t care. I’m happy. My mother isn’t, as you might imagine. I’m sure she thinks I’m going to Hell, and she probably thinks I deserve it.’ She looks at me pointedly. ‘Do you agree with her?’

  ‘You know where I come from, Paula. How could I agree with her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve met a few guys who’ve been in the forces and they all seem pretty traditional about family life.’

  I shrug. ‘They like you to be married. Probably they think marriage makes men more . . . I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Compliant?’ she suggests.

  ‘Maybe. Something like that.’ I get up, turn my back on her and say the first thing that comes to mind, speaking to her reflection in the window. ‘I watched some Taliban beat a woman to death once.’

  Oh here we go, listen to Mr Depressive here. Take your Prozac and get over it, Nic.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  A silence stretches behind me, heavy with unspoken questions.

  ‘We were looking for a guy, a serious bad nut. If we’d given away our position, we would have been dead and the job would have been blown, so we just had to watch this evil thing happen.’

  ‘What horrible sin had she committed?’

  I turn and face her. ‘I don’t know. That’s Hell, Paula. Hell created by men and their twisted ideas of morality. So to cut to the chase . . . no, I dinnae agree with your ma. In fact as far as I’m concerned, Brenda can take her judgement and her gossip and her miserable face and get to fuck.’

  Paula covers her mouth with both hands and blinks rapidly. Then she pushes herself off the sofa and crosses over to me, her belly swaying in front of her. I open my arms and she slips into them, her bump pressing into me.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispers.

  ‘Does my opinion matter that much to you?’

  ‘Yes. It always has.’

  I close my eyes and rest my chin on her head, and we stand there for a little while. Her hair is warm and silky against my cheek.

  Eventually she straightens and looks up at me. ‘This is like trying to cuddle across a beach ball.’

  I hesitate for a moment, then lift my fingers to her chin and bend my face down to hers. ‘Let’s see what else we can do across a beach ball.’ We kiss in a way that would ordinarily lead to fumbling with b
uttons and getting tangled in trouser legs. But circumstances are far from ordinary, for either of us.

  I pull back and look at her. There are tiny lines at the corners of her eyes, each suggesting the passage of time I know nothing about.

  ‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ she says.

  ‘Ehm . . .’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just that I think I’ve suddenly developed a fetish for pregnant women.’

  She laughs, slides her hands down my arms and grasps my fingers. ‘They say sex can bring on labour. Give me another week, I may be banging down your door.’

  ‘I’m sure I’d be happy to oblige.’

  You could try, Mr Floppy.

  Peace evaporates from the room like water on hot sand.

  Can’t you just give me a fucking break, Mitch?

  It’s a trap, mate, can’t you see that? You’ll be up to your bollocks in nappies before you know it.

  And what if I said I didn’t care?

  Oh Jesus Christ, when did you get so soft?

  I turn my back on Paula and stare out the window again. Her hand rests on my back and she says something quietly.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yep.’ I press my palm hard over my left ear, as if I could squash the bugger into silence. ‘I get this . . . ringing in my ear sometimes. It’s a bloody annoyance.’

  Ringing? The fucker’s laughing at me. Aren’t you going to tell her about me?

  ‘Can’t anyone do anything about it?’

  ‘It’s psychological, apparently. Some kind of Post Traumatic Stress thing.’

  She nods and takes this in. Now would be about the time for a sharp exit.

  ‘Mum says sometimes she sees you running at four or five am, when she’s up for the toilet. Do you do that because you can’t sleep?’

  ‘Mmm . . . yeah. That final tour finished me, Paula. My nerves are ripped to shreds.’

  ‘Whose wouldn’t be?’ She comes alongside me and slips her arm around my waist. ‘My dad used to have nightmares about the pit. He dreamt about being buried alive, right up until he died, and he was too proud to do anything except suffer it. Mum never wanted to speak about it; she just pretended it didn’t happen. I’m sure that’s what did his heart in the end, you know.’