Blast Radius

by Rebecca McKinney

  I remember Captain Macpherson and his advice, and stare into my tea wondering how to define necessary. After a while, when it has become truly dark and the worst pangs of hunger have been sated by half a packet of stale Hobnobs, I drag an old quilt to one of the mattresses at the back of the shop, kick off my trainers and curl up.

  XXIII

  Dreams of enemies and running with blocks of concrete on my feet, dreams I have to force myself out of like a drowning man writhing for the surface. I wake periodically to the sounds of our own little post-industrial skirmishes outside in the back alley: breaking glass, drunken laughter tipping over into rage, police sirens. Bawling voices, slurred, incomprehensible syllables.

  Morning arrives with a headache behind both eyes, sinuses thick with mould and dust, and Harry, apparently unshaken by my dishevelled presence. Less shaken than I am, anyway, when he wakes me with a gentle pat on the shoulder.

  ‘Jesus,’ I blurt, sitting up, momentarily lost in a jumbled room with too much furniture.

  ‘At ease, Sean, it’s only me. Here.’ He hands me a cup of tea, sits beside me and stretches his legs out. Faded jeans, dark green wool jumper, smells of coffee and wood smoke. ‘You’ve been here all night?’

  ‘Aye. Sorry, Harry, I . . .’ I stop there, mouth open as it all comes back to me. Words seem pointless at this stage. Back to the wall right enough; there’s nowhere to go from here. I pick up the tea, take a sip and wish the mug was big enough to hide my face.

  ‘This can’t be the nicest place to sleep,’ he says after a moment. He leans forward slightly, turns his eyes to me in such a way that it’s impossible to avoid his gaze. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Just a bit of a . . .’ my voice revs, splutters, fails. The mug trembles between my hands, my reflection shimmering in the vibrating liquid. ‘Nothing.’

  Harry is so still he’s almost feline. A grizzled old cat waiting to pounce, watching me shiver like a mouse in his gaze. ‘I think you’d better tell me whose blood that is.’

  I glance down at my shirt, then at the shadowy bruises on the knuckles of my right hand. ‘An old guy called Duncan Campbell. Turns out he’s . . .’ I can’t say the words. My throat closes and my eyes start to burn. I close them, draw in a long breath, which catches and forces its way out in a strangled laugh. ‘He’s the guy who fucked my mother. He fucked her and beat her up and left her pregnant.’

  ‘He’s your father?’ For the first time, his voice betrays note of surprise that he isn’t able to hide in his beard. ‘What happened last night?’

  ‘He lives on Cauldhill Farm, as it turns out. I went out there to talk to him and he didn’t like what I had to say. He came at me with a bottle, so I went for him. I wanted to kill him.’

  I laugh again at Harry’s earnest, worried face, but it’s the kind of laugh that only brings you closer to tears. ‘Relax, Harry, I didn’t. He’s doing a good job of it himself, bottle by bottle. You want to call the police? You can, I don’t care.’

  ‘I don’t want to, but I would if I thought there was a reason. Why didn’t you go home last night?’

  ‘My sister thinks I’ve lost it completely. She’d have had me taken away in a padded van if she’d had her choice.’

  ‘Does she know where you are?’

  ‘No.’

  He takes a deep breath. ‘What about Duncan Campbell? How badly did you hurt him?’

  ‘I broke his nose at the very least. Possibly a rib or two. Janet was there; she’d have got him help if he needed it. She likes looking after wasters; she’s spent her life doing it.’

  His fingers curl into his beard and he sits there for a moment, plotting his next move. Probably trying to work out whether Janet is right about my state of mind without having to ask too many questions.

  ‘Is there anything I can help with?’

  I shake my head, then drain my mug and set it on the floor. ‘I just . . . don’t know what to do, Harry.’

  ‘Tell me what you mean.’

  ‘I mean I . . .’ I breathe deeply and try to find a passable explanation. ‘All I want is to pick up and live a normal life, but I don’t know what that is. I always thought there was something better than this, you know? I thought I could be better than just . . . a fatherless son of a bitch, but maybe Janet’s right. Maybe I’ve lost the plot. Maybe it’s more than my head can cope with.’

  ‘Maybe it is, Sean. I don’t know very many heads that could cope with everything you’ve been through. There’s no shame in admitting it.’

  ‘So . . . what? I’m just another casualty at the side of the fucking road, like Billy or Duncan, or my Ma for that matter?’

  Harry smiles gently. ‘Why should you end up like them?’

  ‘I don’t know how to come back from where I am at the moment.’

  ‘Step by step, just like any other serious injury. Your ear doesn’t hold you back. If you’d lost a leg, I’ve no doubt that by now you’d be out running miles every day on a prosthetic. Why should this be so different?’

  I run my fingers through sweaty, unwashed hair. ‘It just is.’

  He sighs. ‘Would you mind if I told you what I see when I look at you?’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘Are you going to listen?’

  I remove my elbows from my knees and sit up, spread my fingers onto my filthy trousers and stare at them. There is dried blood under my nails. ‘Fire away, then.’

  He leans toward me so I have to make eye contact again. ‘Sean, when I look at you, I absolutely do not see a fatherless son of a bitch. I see a very brave and intelligent and determined young man. I see someone who could have followed his parents down the road of addiction and had the strength of mind to choose not to. And I see someone who is punishing himself for choices made by other people. Your mother’s drinking wasn’t your fault. She didn’t drink because of you; she didn’t die because of you.’

  ‘I didn’t help her.’

  ‘It wasn’t in your control.’ He punctuates this point with a little nod of his head. ‘This country didn’t commit to a string of unjust wars because of you. Your friend Mitch . . . didn’t die because of anything you did wrong. Someone else placed that device there, not you. Mitch chose to save you. Do you hear me? That was his choice, and you are not to blame for his death. Carrying this stuff isn’t like carrying a wardrobe on your back. This stuff will flatten you, my friend. It will, no matter how strong you are. You have to set it down. It’s not your load to carry.’

  ‘Whose is it, then?’

  ‘God’s, if you’re that way inclined. Nobody’s. You have to set it down, son.’

  He looks at me with those armour-piercing eyes, giving me permission to cry. I look back and feel nothing. His eyes cut through an empty space.

  ‘I understand what you’re trying to do, Harry, but I can’t.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says softly and places his hand on my back for a moment. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes. Don’t go anywhere, alright?’

  I nod and he gets up, scurries toward the back door, slips out and closes it gently. Alone again, I go to the loo, wash my face and run wet fingers through my hair. It makes me feel slightly less groggy but doesn’t help my appearance much; I still look like an extra from a cheap zombie film.

  Harry returns and hands me a warm, greasy paper parcel containing two bacon rolls. ‘Breakfast.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I follow him to the kitchen and demolish the first roll while he fills the kettle and makes a second round of tea.

  ‘I’m sorry about this. I’ll get you the money back.’

  ‘I can afford a couple of bacon rolls. Here.’ He places a mug in front of me and sits down opposite. For a minute or two, we lose ourselves in the comfort of salty meat and caffeine. I finish mine and tip back in my chair. The two front legs make a sticky sound as they lift off the floor.

  ‘Mitch talks to me, Harry. I hear his voice in my deaf ear.’

  Harry pauses chewing for a moment and looks a
t me, eyebrows arched, then swallows this information with a slug of tea.

  ‘What does he say?’

  I shrug. ‘He commentates on whatever I happen to be up to. He sings, he . . . calls me an arsehole from time to time. He remarks about women. Sometimes he goes quiet for a while and then he just speaks up out of the blue.’

  ‘When did you first hear him?’

  ‘Just . . . the minute he died. We were thrown metres through the air and he was lying on top of me. His legs were blown clean off and he was bleeding out right there. His blood was so hot it felt like someone had poured a flask of tea all over me. I was clinging onto him, and . . . he told me to let him go. So I did, and that was it. Next thing I heard in that ear was him singing Hank Williams.’

  ‘Hank Williams?’

  ‘Lost Highway. He liked hillbilly music.’

  Harry smiles for a moment, but it fades. ‘Does he tell you to do things?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Do you do them?’

  I laugh. ‘Only the sensible ones. Will I go out and murder someone because the voice in my head tells me to? No, of course I fucking won’t. My sister thinks I will.’

  Harry blows out a long breath but doesn’t say anything.

  So I try to force his hand. ‘Do you?’

  His reply is indirect, but clear enough. ‘Have you ever spoken to a doctor or a counsellor about this?’

  ‘Aye. They said it was trauma-induced psychosis or some bloody thing. They put me on medication, which totally strung me out but didn’t get rid of Mitch.’

  He considers this for a moment. ‘Do you want to get rid of him?’

  ‘I . . . want him to be at peace.’

  ‘You think he’s not? Do you think he’s a ghost?’

  ‘I think . . . it’s him, somehow . . . part of him. Part of something that got left behind. I mean, you know I really am crazy now so I can’t make it any worse by saying this. I think . . . he needs something from me before he can go.’

  ‘What does he need?’

  ‘I don’t know that either.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘I do. He says I have to figure it out by myself.’

  Harry rubs his belly. ‘Maybe he wants you to figure out what you need, Sean. Maybe you have to go away and figure it out.’

  ‘Yeah, there’s a place where people like me go away to figure things out, it’s called the Royal Edinburgh. Billy and I could be roommates.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting that at all. I thought more on the lines of a holiday, somewhere away from here. A beach somewhere. Somewhere you can just relax and stop running for a few days. Have you had a holiday since you left the Marines?’

  ‘No.’ My eyes nip and I press my fingers into them. ‘Ach, maybe you’re right.’

  ‘I also think you need to get some professional help.’

  A wet blanket of disappointment settles over me. ‘I knew we’d get round to this.’ I stand up, walk toward the window, stare out at seagulls investigating rubbish in the grotty carpark behind the building. ‘You’re a counsellor, Harry, or at least you do a good impression of one. I can talk to you.’

  ‘I’m your manager. It’s not appropriate. Would you let me introduce you to someone?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Chick Thomson. He’s a friend of mine, going back to our Navy days. He was a doctor for years, and when he retired he trained up as a counsellor. He works with a lot of ex-servicemen, and knows as much as anyone about Post Traumatic Stress. I think you’d like him.’

  ‘You were in the Navy? Why didn’t you tell me that?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to think I gave you the job out of sympathy, because I didn’t. I never went to war. But we’re not talking about me, Sean. Will you let me take you to meet Chick?’

  Too worn down to protest, I shrug and lean my arse on the warm radiator. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  He offers me a reassuring smile, though I think he’d prefer to drive me off to see his mate this very minute. ‘That’s good enough for now. Meantime, the crew’ll be here soon. Maybe you should go home and get some rest.’

  I nod. ‘Thanks for . . . you know . . . being alright with me. I appreciate it.’

  He dumps our dishes in the sink. ‘You’re welcome. And thank you for telling me about Mitch. Now get yourself home, get cleaned up and let your sister know where you are. I think maybe a few days off, eh? Take a week if you want.’

  ‘What, just . . . now? Are you suspending me?’

  ‘No, I’m asking you to take a few days off for the sake of your health. You’re exhausted, I’ve been noticing that for a while now. You can take sick leave if you’d rather keep your annual. I’ll help Jack in the van if I have to.’

  ‘What about Chick Thomson?’

  ‘You just let me know when you’re ready.’

  I take a deep breath and nod, anticipating pain and unpleasantness, as though I’m about to receive my first round of cancer treatment. Which, in a way, maybe I am.

  XXIV

  Back at the house I bolt two bowls of cornflakes and listen to last night’s voicemails.

  Janet: Sean, I can’t believe you. You’re so fucking lucky I followed you, or you’d be in the bloody jail by now. You need to come home. We need to talk about this. Don’t be a baby about this, please.

  Janet again: Where the hell are you? Look, I’m sorry, alright? I guess this is partly my fault . . . I know it is. I should have told you before. But it still doesn’t justify what you did. Duncan . . . he’ll be alright, you just gave me a fright. Will you please call me?

  Molly: It’s me. I feel awful and I . . . don’t really know what to say. Call me when you’ve calmed down a little. And please . . . don’t do anything stupid, alright, Sean? I couldn’t live with myself.

  Paula: Hey. So ehm . . . Janet phoned me. I guess she thought you were with me. I wish you were with me too, but . . . well . . . you’re not. Guess what? Eva slept six hours last night. I feel human again. Simple pleasures really are the best things in life at the end of the day. You know I really do love you, right? Maybe you don’t, so I’m telling you. I always have. When I married Ewan . . . I wished it had been you standing there. Shocker, eh? Please call me, Sean. Let me know you’re okay.

  Janet: Oh, wee man, I’m sorry. Please just let me know you’re alright.

  Three women and how many pleases? My face burns in a way that only happens when you know you’ve done something shamefully idiotic. More than that, I realise that my actions have been those of war: interrogating, intimidating, attacking. Brutally attacking with intent to kill. I have forgotten rules of engagement in normal peaceful civilian existence, or maybe excused myself from them for reasons that would never hold up anywhere except in my own head.

  I stare at the phone for a moment with an invisible set of fingers around my throat, then switch it off again, wash my dishes and head upstairs. After a shower, I collapse face-first into my pillow.

  Mrs McGrath, the Sergeant said, would you like a soldier of your son Ted?

  My eyes open into the stale pillowcase and I turn over.

  ‘Mitch . . .’

  With a scarlet coat and a big cocked hat, Mrs McGrath, would you like that?

  I sit up and look around, as if I might find him hovering somewhere just out of reach. ‘I’m trying to sleep here.’

  I’m trying to sing here. With a too-ri-ay-fol-diddle-aye-ay . . .

  ‘After the kind of night I’ve had? Take your fucking too-ri-diddly shite and occupy somebody else’s head.’

  Well Captain dear, where have you been? Have you been sailing the Mediterranean? And have you news of my son Ted? Is he living or is he dead?

  ‘Mitch, go and move something. Make the door creak or . . . do something ghostly. Prove you’re not just a voice in my head.’

  Then up comes Ted without any legs, and in their place two wooden pegs . . .

  ‘Come on, buddy, you can do it.’

  She kissed him a
dozen times or two, and said My God, Ted, is that you?

  He’s fading out again. I think I can hear him laughing. ‘Mitch . . . please?’

  Oh was you drunk or was you blind, when you left your two fine legs behind? Or was it walking upon the sea that wore your two fine legs away?

  ‘Mitch, it has to be you!’ I’m shouting into the still, empty house, not a thump or a creak to be heard.

  I’m beyond sleep now, wired and twitchy as I used to get before heading out on operations. Guys used to pace, chain smoke, wank furiously, fight, pack and unpack and pack their kit again: anything to kill the anticipation. I heard of people killing themselves with pills and of Americans who went mad and turned machine guns on their own men. I used to run in frustrated circuits around the perimeter of the camp, but Mitch would just sit and pick that guitar and sing. Eyes closed, smiling, content. I think he actually loved war.

  Maybe we all did, once.

  I get up again and dress myself in camo trousers and a black t-shirt, thick socks and boots. Then I drag my Bergen down from the top of the wardrobe and begin stuffing things into it: spare pants and socks, waterproofs, my favourite bandana, hat and gloves, knife, torch, camel pack for water, a couple of thin fleece tops, spare trousers, two packs of Ibuprofen tablets, first aid kit, midge spray, compass, OS maps, wallet, phone, toothbrush and towel, sleeping bag and bivvy bag, primus and billycan. Then I thump downstairs and raid the kitchen for any reasonably portable and non-perishable foods I can find: some cereal bars, a chorizo sausage, raisins, a Soreen’s fruit loaf, a pack of KitKats, a jar of peanut butter and a spoon.

  Loaded up, Bergen slung over one shoulder, I leave the house again and walk toward the bus stop with the urgency of a man on the run from the law or his wife. The stop is busy, mainly with old grey women with walking sticks and young grey women with bairns in pushchairs. A couple of the younger ones stare at me and whisper comments, and I look purposefully at my phone so that they’ll know I’m occupied by something important.