Even death didn’t want me.
I waited for something, anything, but nothing happened.
No one came.
No one spoke to me.
No one cared that a man had lost his sanity in front of them.
The rain came down more heavily, pelting my face, saturating my clothes. Cold seeped into my body, a welcome numbness.
But the world kept turning, and the sun would rise and set.
Eventually, I sat up, scrubbing my hands over my face, smearing more mud and snot across my skin.
Two U.S. Marines came running across the grass next to the plane, their rifles pointed at me.
“Move away from your weapon! Hands on your head!”
Maybe I could get them to shoot me to put me out of my misery. I reached for the pistol that was still in the mud nearby, but the one behind me didn’t shoot me. Instead, he smashed his rifle butt into my face, sending blood gushing from my nose.
Like I said, death didn’t want me.
I began to laugh again, tasting my own blood as it flowed down my face and into my mouth. I licked my lips, wet with salty blood, and I laughed.
The other Marine grabbed the pistol and handcuffed me, hauling me to my feet.
I’d promised Amira’s parents that I’d find her and bring her home. I’d failed.
I’d failed at everything.
Failed at this game of life.
THE NEXT THING I remember was staring up a short, tanned Major in the British Army.
“Get up, you piece of filth!” he yelled.
Huh. I was still alive. What a kick in the balls.
Confused and in pain, I sat up slowly. I’d been lying on a metal cot in some sort of cell. Whether it was at the airport or the local police station, I couldn’t say.
I rubbed my eyes, then spat at his feet, a gob of spittle landing on his shiny black boots.
He jumped back and swore.
“Spears, you piece of shit! You’re under arrest for desertion. You’ll be transferred back to the UK to face a court-martial. Understand? Understand!”
I just stared at him, watching his face turn crimson, matching the red cap that marked him as Military Police.
And then I started to laugh. And laugh and laugh.
I laughed so hard that I crashed to my knees, laughing so hard my ribs might crack. I laughed so hard it brought tears to my eyes.
I knelt in the dust of a German jail, laughing and crying, losing my mind, while a Royal Military Police bastard placed handcuffs around my wrists and hauled me away under arrest.
My career was over.
Amira was gone.
And there was no point in living anymore.
Three months later
THE BUZZING GREW louder and despite the anaesthetic, pain flared through my numb body.
Breathing helped. Yeah, that’s what I had to do—keep breathing. Breathe or die.
I wasn’t sure it was much of a choice.
The tattoo artist paused, pulling the needle from my body, surveying his work. He glanced up.
“Doing alright there, mate?”
The skin on my chest was red and inflamed, tiny droplets of blood oozing through the stain of ink, the design beginning to make sense. As much as anything could in the shithole that was my life.
I grunted, and he went back to work.
I welcomed the pressure of the needle, enjoyed the pain piercing the numbness that I’d carried for months.
Amira was dead. So it had all been for nothing. Everything we’d been through. So much nothing.
After my arrest, I’d faced a court martial for being AWOL and I’d served time in Colchester, the Military Corrective Training Centre—prison in all but name. Each day was the same: PT, breakfast, drill, PT, lunch, PT, evening meal, PT, drill, room inspection, show parade every hour till 5am, then PT, breakfast… it tortured the body and numbed the mind. It was supposed to break you and remodel you as a perfect soldier.
But I was already broken—there was nothing more they could do to me.
They tried to threaten me with the charge of desertion which carried a ten-year sentence. But my defence counsel pointed out that my commander had sent me on a training task to the U.S. that turned out to be an illegal op—which was tantamount to kidnapping—and wouldn’t they rather the whole thing didn’t make the newspapers. He even suggested that I should be expecting a promotion, a medal and a posting of my choosing.
He’d made his point.
I suspected the hand of Smith in the fact that I only served a few weeks of the six month sentence that I’d received, but I didn’t know for sure because I never heard from him again.
My career was over and my exit had been fast-tracked—administrative discharge they called it. No one wanted to work with me, and no C.O. wanted me under his command.
Yesterday, I’d been in prison, now I was out—not quite a dishonourable discharge, and I was a civilian again.
I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything.
My phone vibrated in my pocket and the tattoo artist paused again.
“You want to take it?”
Clay calling.
He was persistent, I’d give him credit for that. But just like all the other times he’d tried to talk to me, I ignored it. I’d ignored dozens of texts, emails and calls. The guy wasn’t getting the message.
I turned off my phone and threw it on top of the pile of clothes next to me.
The tattoo artist shrugged and went back to work. Maybe he had a lot of fucked up customers.
An hour later, he’d finished.
On the skin above my heart was inked a set of claw marks, deep and red and raw, blood dripping from them.
Having Amria’s name tattooed on my chest would have been too small, too ordinary for what I felt. Her absence, the finality of our last minutes together, it had ripped my beating heart from my body. I should be dead, but my flesh continued to live and I didn’t understand how that was possible. A man shouldn’t live when his heart has been torn from his body.
But I did.
And every day I had to find a reason to keep on living.
I was pretty sure that one day soon, I’d run out of reasons.
And then I’d find peace.
Inshallah.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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Are you angry with me for ending James’ and Amira’s journey like that? I’m sorry, I am. But this is a story about love and loss and learning, growth and strength and change.
Everything has changed for James. And although it’s the end of Amira’s story, James will go on. Look out for the sequel Bombshell, coming on 1st March 2019. There’s more about James, and you’ll see Clay and Zada again, too.
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Turn the page to read a sample chapter of Bombshell.
BOMBSHELL
Prologue
THE FIRST TIME I tried to kill myself, I failed.
Obviously.
The gun misfired. I kept pulling the trigger and nothing happened, just empty clicks and a cosmic frustration.
But next time, I’ll do it right, no mistakes. I have it all planned out. There’s a bottle of 25 year old Irish whiskey with my name on it, a handful of sleeping pills, and a plastic bag over my head. It will be a quiet end, peaceful. Which is ironic really, and nothing like the way I’ve lived my life.
So with everything in place, the last thing I want is to find a reason for living.
Chapter 1
James
THE PUB WAS dim and dingy, with a carpet sticky from decades of spilt beer, and a lingering aroma of steak and kidney pie.
There weren’t many o
ld-school boozers like this one left in London. But if you knew some of the backstreets in the poorer areas, you could still find them.
I’d been haunting this place for a month now, and before that it had been a different dive, a different part of London—different places to sink into a drunken stupor, putting off the day when I’d made a decision. It was quiet here and no one bothered me. They didn’t play music, there were no slot machines or pool tables, just a dartboard nailed to the wall. You had to bring your own darts—I’d never seen anyone play.
During the day, older blokes propped up the bar, drinking inky-blank Stout and reading Sporting Life before deciding which bets to make on the dogs, or on horseracing. After work, a few younger people came in to drink imported lager, and then just before closing, the real night life arrived, with shady characters doing deals in the dim alleyway outside.
I was content to sit and watch and drink, nursing my ninth or tenth whiskey of the day. Even that wasn’t enough to stop the empty ache inside me or to numb the pain. My tolerance for alcohol was at the point where anaesthesia was hard to achieve. Even so, sleeping at night was something I hadn’t been able to do for a while now. Passing out was the only option. The trick was to be sober enough to make it back to my flat, but not sober enough to remember anything about it. Perhaps one night I’d just drink myself into a coma and never wake up. A man can hope.
The door of The Nag’s Head swung open again sending an icy blast through the barroom, making the oldies grumble and scowl.
Out of habit, I glanced up with tired, bleary eyes. Then looked again.
The newcomer walked toward me, pulling off his beanie and unwrapping a long scarf from his neck.
“Hello, James. I’d ask how you’re doing, but I can see for myself. You look like shit, brother.”
I was still sitting with my mouth open when Clay sat down opposite me, a small, sad smile on his face.
The last time I’d seen him, he’d been in a hospital bed waiting for his third or fourth operation because he’d lost his right leg in a blast injury. Eighteen months later, he looked fit and well, and was walking easily on a prosthetic.
Not that you could tell he didn’t have both legs—I only knew because I’d been there when it had happened.
I shut my mind to the memory and lifted the glass of whiskey to my lips.
Clay’s hand closed on my wrist.
“That’s not the way, brother,” he said gently. “It’s not what she would have wanted. Seeing you like this, man, it would break her heart.”
“Can’t break her heart when she’s already dead,” I mumbled, then downed the whiskey in one shot.
Clay didn’t speak, he just watched me, his face solemn.
I had two questions tripping over themselves, but I couldn’t summon up the energy to ask them. If he wanted to tell me how he’d found me and why he was here, well, he’d get to it eventually.
Besides, I suspected I already knew the how: only our spook friend, Smith, would have the connections to find me when I really didn’t want to be found.
So, that left the question of why.
I lifted my empty glass.
“Buy an old soldier a drink?” I smirked at him.
“Sure,” he said easily, and went to stand at the bar.
It seemed to take him ages to get served, but when he returned, he was carrying two cups of coffee.
“I’m not much for strong liquor these days,” he smiled, sipping down a mouthful of lukewarm gnats’ piss, then shuddering.
The Nag’s Head was a crappy pub and served crappy beer, but their coffee was even worse.
His response pulled a grin from me, something I hadn’t done in a long while.
I didn’t want coffee—I wanted to carry on drinking until I stopped having thoughts, but I glanced up, meeting Clay’s gaze.
“You’ve travelled all the way from Ohio to piss me off, so it must be serious. You need money, advice, or an alibi? Because I’m stony-broke, give shitty advice, and couldn’t give an alibi to a nun.”
He smiled and sipped his coffee, just shaking his head as his gaze took in my scruffy beard, dirty clothes and battered old Army boots.
“How’s the leg?” I muttered at last.
“You know, I wondered about that,” he said thoughtfully. “Do you think they cremated it? Or maybe buried it? It seems weird that my leg might have had a funeral without me.”
I gaped at him.
“Oh, you are listening. Great, just checking. Well, I tell you, brother, it’s been a long road to reach this place.” He looked around him, frowning. “Although I gotta tell ya, in my mind, our reunion was somewhere classier.”
“Not romantic enough for you?” I asked through a mouthful of the dreadful coffee.
His dark eyes flashed with amusement.
“Now you mention it,” he said cheerfully, “it’s a shithole.” Then his expression turned serious again. “Why are you here, James?”
My thoughts were still blurred around the edges, but I was pretty sure that was my line.
“I was going to ask you that.”
He seemed to consider, leaning back on his seat and studying me.
“I want to offer you a job.”
I spat coffee on the table, then wiped my mouth with my sleeve.
“Your sense of humour hasn’t improved, Clay.”
He gave a thin smile.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the joke’s on you, brother.”
“Yeah, it definitely is,” I growled. “Fucking cosmic joke, an interstellar joke. Yeah, the joke’s on me alright.”
He grimaced.
“I didn’t mean it like that. Look, this is a genuine offer and I’ve come a lot of miles, so at least give me the courtesy of a genuine reply.”
I choked down another mouthful of coffee as I scowled at him.
“Yeah? Who do you want me to kill?” and I snorted at my own joke.
He sighed.
“I’ve been offered a job working for the Halo Trust. You know what they do, right?”
He wanted to work for one of the biggest landmine charities in the world? That was a sobering thought.
“Yeah, I know what they do. Clean up after the war’s over: IEDs, landmines, large calibre ordnance, cluster munitions—all the debris of battles lost.”
“You got it. I’ll be running the logistics, but I need an EOD operator to teach the locals how to search for and destroy the munitions left behind.”
I stared at him as I shook my head.
“I’m not the man you need. You need someone who cares enough to get the job done right. You need someone who gives a shit, mate.”
His gaze cooled although there was still a small smile on his face.
“A suicidal Ammo Tech? I would have thought this was the perfect job for you, James. Since you don’t care if you live or die, why not do some good before first?”
Do good.
The words echoed through my brain.
She’d wanted to do good. She-who-must-not-be-named.
I gulped down the filthy coffee and glared at Clay.
“I’ll think about it.”
He grinned broadly.
“Good enough, brother. Good enough.”
* * * *
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More books by JHB
Standalone Titles
One Careful Owner
*Dangerous to Know & Love
*Lifers
At Your Beck & Call
Dazzled
Summer of Seventeen
The New Samurai
Exposure
The Dark Detective
Novellas
Playing in the Rain
*Behind the Walls
Audio Books
One Careful Owner
(narrated by Seth Clayton)
On the Stage
Later, After: Playscript
Later, After: DVD
Trailer
* These titles are published in languages other than English. Check my website for details.
Series Books
(click here)
“Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none”—this is one of my favourite sayings. Oh, and ‘Be Nice!’ That’s another. Or maybe, ‘Where’s the chocolate?’
I get asked where my ideas come from—they come from everywhere. From walks with my dog on the beach, from listening to conversations in pubs and shops, where I lurk unnoticed with my notebook. And of course, ideas come from things I’ve seen or read, places I’ve been and people I meet.
If you’ve seen me at any book signings you’ll know that I support the military charities http://www.felixfund.org.uk/ in the UK and http://www.eodwarriorfoundation.org/ in the U.S. Both are charities that support the men and women who work in bomb disposal, and their families.
Sales from SEMPER FI go to support these charities.
www.felixfund.org.uk – the UK Bomb Disposal Charity
www.eodwarrriorfoundation.org – the US Bomb Disposal Charity
www.nowzad.com – helping servicemen and women rescue stray and abandoned animals in former and current warzones
Burqa – an enveloping outer garment worn by women in some Islamic traditions to cover themselves in public, which covers the body and the face
Daesh/ISIS – Islamic State
Didashah – traditional men’s garment in Syria
Hijab – a veil worn by some Muslim women which usually covers the hair and neck
Imam – the title of a worship leader of a mosque
Inshallah – as God wills it
Mashallah – as God willed it
Niqab – a garment of clothing that covers the face
Pbuh – ‘peace be upon him’ is a conventionally complimentary phrase attached to the names of the prophets in Islam
TICK TOCK (EOD (Explosive Ordnance Disposal) Book 1) Page 27