Soldier Boy

by Alam, Donna

  I continue pulling stuff from my ruck when my toiletries bag slides from the bed to the floor with a thump.

  Fuck. While I’m a fan of the no door situation, I don’t want to wake Nell. No matter how much I’d relish her company over the memories I choose to avoid. I look down at the heaped clothing and decide there’s not much point in putting it away because it’ll all need to be washed again. I don’t want to spend the next couple of weeks reeking of work.

  Some would call it work. Others would call it murder.

  Fuck it. I grab my phone from the nightstand and creep out into the hall.

  I smile. Nelly, what have you done? To counteract the lack of doors, she appears to have pinned a scarf or sarong to the frame. Rather than making a tent for herself, I think she’s possibly trying to keep me out. Oh, darling, a steel door wouldn’t work if I wanted in without an invitation. A soldier of my rank and regiment can always get his hands on the appropriate ordnance, though not exactly questions unasked.

  Not that it matters, I decide, pulling back what I decide is the edge of the sarong, on account of the scent of sunscreen, as I poke my head inside. Nope, none of that matters because I intend to charm my way into her bedroom before I leave.

  Nell’s bedroom is a mess. In fact, it looks as though there’s been some kind of clothing explosion because every surface seems to be covered in jeans and pants, blouses and T-shirts. A tall chest of drawers stands against the far wall, sweater arms dangling out as though trying to escape, a dark coloured bra tangled in one arm.

  On second glance, it’s obvious that, other than the stuffed chest, there isn’t anywhere to store anything. Even the bottom of the bed is covered in the same shit. It looks like a good bed. Comfortable. King-size at least. Maybe an antique or heirloom piece. And there, in the middle, lies the sleeping shape of Penelope. Her dark curls are a stark contrast to the white pillows, her shoulder rising and falling with each breath. I want to watch her—look at her while she sleeps, watch the rise and fall of her chest with each of those breaths—but I won’t intrude any more than I have already.

  There’s time to watch her sleeping yet. With her permission.

  I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen, my heart in my mouth as a blur of dark fur streaks past my feet. So much for lightning reflexes. So much for the special forces training. I nearly fucking shat myself!

  Palms on the kitchen bench top, I take a half a dozen deep, even breaths, feeling like a bit of a ponce once I realise the streak of fur was a cat. She never mentioned it, but all evidence points towards her owning one, if anyone ever owns a cat. According to my dearly departed granny, a cat only deigns to live with a person and is never truly owned. Sounds a lot like being in a relationship with a soldier. There are twin ceramic bowls set on a rubber mat in the shape of a paw, a basket sitting next to it, and as I turn, a flap in the back door where the furry fucker presumably just escaped from.

  As my heart rhythm begins to regulate, I tell myself it’s only natural. I’ve just come back from a combat zone. And being on edge is part of the job.

  One that’s getting worse with each deployment.

  Shaking off the excess adrenaline, I head to the fridge. I haven’t had anything since I grabbed a strong coffee and a stale flapjack from the motorway services early this morning and . . . it looks like that’s all I’ll be having until I make plans for myself.

  ‘What the fuck does she live on?’ I find myself muttering because it’s certainly not what’s in the fridge. The answer is in a dubious looking takeout container and a tray of half-eaten prehistoric looking sushi. Slamming the fridge door shut, I begin opening drawers, almost instantly finding what I’m looking for. The takeaway menu stash. My stomach rumbles as I open the app on my phone and place an order with the nearest takeaway joint before doing the thing I’m putting off.

  ‘Benji!’ Melody almost screams down the line. ‘You’re here! Well, there. You are there, aren’t you? At Penny’s place? God, doesn’t that sound like the name of an awful café? But you are there, aren’t you?’

  ‘Breathe, Mel. Come up for air.’ Jesus, the lung capacity this girl has would probably get her through BUD/S dive training, hypothetically at least. But her tenacity would certainly give the US Navy SEALs a run for their money. My lot, too. The SAS, not that I go around shouting what regiment I belong to. ‘Yes, I’m here,’ I say in answer. ‘Why wouldn’t I be here? Were you expecting her to turn me away? To order me never to darken her door again?’

  ‘Maybe. Just a little bit. You were a massive penis to her growing up, you must admit.’

  ‘Mel, while I’m a fan of both those words, particularly in that order, never refer to what I keep in my undies again.’

  ‘Ha. A massive penis is more like what you keep on your head. It’s no wonder I had to convince her to take you in.’

  ‘Fuck, Mel. What did you say to her?’

  ‘I just spoke sense, and while Pen says she still bears the scars of your torment, she appreciated my assertion that you are sort of like family. The kind of family you endure rather than enjoy. You know, like the cousin you have to invite to your birthday party even though you don’t like him because he smells.’

  I don’t know about malodorous cousins, but I’m up for the kissing kind.

  ‘Looks like I’ve got some PR work to do, doesn’t it? Scars to kiss better.’

  ‘No. I won’t allow it,’ she says forcefully. ‘Don’t you even think about—’

  ‘Metaphorically, Mel. By being a model housemate.’ She makes a noise as though thoroughly unconvinced.

  ‘You’d better behave. I told her you were a model citizen these days. At least, you are when you’re home, as far as I can tell. Though God only knows what you get up to overseas.’

  ‘God and the British Army, Mel. And all for the good of the country.’ Or so they tell us.

  ‘But Penny was okay with you staying?’

  ‘She seemed so,’ I reply. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I only asked her today. Just as you arrived, actually.’

  ‘Jesus, Mel. Talk about putting the girl on the spot.’

  ‘The girl? You mean Dr Ballantine, you sexist shit.’

  ‘O-kay. Step away from the crazy, Melody. Seek the light.’

  ‘And not only has she worked bloody hard to get where she is, she’s also been dicked about by one of your lot—’

  ‘Was her ex a soldier?’ It wouldn’t surprise me. We don’t exactly have a good rep.

  ‘No, he probably would’ve failed his medical on account of missing his spine. And on the subject of body parts, you’re going to keep your penis to yourself while staying with her. Also, in my experience, men who brag about their dick usually have cocktail sausage not bratwurst.’

  ‘Ah-ah-ah!’ I sing. ‘That word is on the forbidden list. Also, please never again allude to the fact that you even know what a penis looks like. As far as my mind is concerned, the word penis is as unfamiliar to you as my own dick.’

  ‘I hate to break it to you, but I’ve seen your dick before. And I’ve used more than the word, if you get what I mean.’ She giggles suggestively, adding to my discomfort. ‘But do you get what I’m saying about Penny?’

  ‘You’re asking me to be nice to her.’ And I plan on being so.

  ‘No, you fuckwit, I’m asking you not to bang her.’

  ‘Melody Monroe. What do you take me for?’

  ‘A bit of a man whore. And I’ve told Penny so don’t even think about bringing some random girl back to Penny’s place—house. Get a fucking room if you find that special someone. You know, someone blind and stupid.’

  ‘Mel,’ I say, feigning a little hurt. ‘I’m not that bad. I’ve never brought random women back.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you have,’ she begins, and it suddenly and uncomfortably dawns on me where she’s taking this.

  ‘One time, Mel. That happened one time. And in my defence, I was young and drunk and—’

  ‘I know, I’ve h
eard this song before. You were only twenty. But you still made our poor parents wonder if you’d become a cross dresser because Cinderella’s slipper that was not.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I’ll never live this one down, will I?’

  ‘Not so long as I have breath.’

  On my very first leave, I met a girl in a club and took her home—to my childhood home. We fucked in the conservatory because I wasn’t yet sensible enough to book a hotel but didn’t want to take her to my bedroom and wake the house with a little headboard banging. It wasn’t even a one-night stand, more like a half-night stand after I’d bundled her into a cab. But she must’ve been drunker than she looked—and that’s to say she was probably as drunk as me—because she left a shoe in the flowerbeds on her way down the garden path. She wasn’t a small girl, and her shoe was sized accordingly, so when the dog carried it in, the assumption was it belonged to a man. Under interrogation, I crumbled, and that’s when the trouble began.

  Are you sure last night’s date didn’t have a little something tucked between her legs? taunted Melody. You know, with tape?

  We fully support you if you’re having second thoughts about being in the Forces. This from my dad who was worried his possibly cross-dressing son would garner abuse.

  Is it a cry for help? asked my mum.

  By the end of the day, I was crying for them to leave me alone.

  ‘When are you going to forget about that?’

  ‘When it ceases to draw a reaction from you,’ she answers simply. ‘It’s fun when you bite like a yappy terrier. But you’re going to be a model house guest, aren’t you? Pen will hardly know you’re there, mostly because she’s never there, but you get what I mean.’

  ‘I hear you loud and clear, sis.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad we agree that Penny’s rebound needs to be someone other than you.’

  ‘Cheers, sis.’

  ‘And if all goes to plan, she’ll find Mr Rebound this weekend.’

  ‘Do tell,’ I answer in a disinterested tone. A tone at odds with the tight knot my belly.

  ‘Well, we’re going out for cocktails, and then we’re going to dance.’

  ‘I don’t see any rebound dick in your plan.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about the dickage available. Take my word for it, it’s just like fishing.’

  ‘Sex is nothing like fishing.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard the saying there are plenty fish in the sea for those who wiggle the right worm?’

  ‘Right, that’s it. I going to tell Mum you need your mouth washed out with soap.’

  Chapter 6

  PENNY

  Ben wasn’t around when I left for work the following evening, but I made sure to leave him the spare set of keys on the kitchen countertop—Liam’s keys actually—along with a note telling him about the cat. Specifically, that I had a cat. It seems I’d forgotten to tell him, probably dazzled by the whole lot of man suddenly inhabiting my house. While I’ll admit a sudden repulsion at hearing Ben say he owned snakes, the lying ass, my horror and disgust was quickly replaced by another thought:

  Do cats trump snakes or the other way around?

  It’s not that I hate the cat. Okay, I hate the cat. But I don’t really want him to become snake chow. But I digress. The note.

  Ben,

  I forgot to mention that I have a cat. If you’re not happy about it, then believe me when I say that makes two of us. However, the cat—Smalls, named after the Notorious B.I.G. and not my idea—is part Norwegian Forest Cat, part Tasmanian Devil. You can check the internet. Both of those are actual things.

  I should also mention he’s a special needs sort of cat in as much as he appears to be depressed.

  Possibly suicidal.

  Or likes getting high.

  I’m not really sure.

  That’s why you might notice that the dials on the gas stovetop are in a cup on the countertop. When you want to use the stove, just pop them back on, remembering to take them off again at the end. The reason? Smalls likes to turn said dials, stand on said stovetop and huff the gas.

  If you don’t like him, why not just let him inhale the noxious fumes? I hear you say.

  Well, that’s mainly because I like to come home to an actual home and not a pile of post-gas explosion brick. I also like my neighbour, Mrs Hoffman. She might be eighty-five, but there’s life in the old gal yet. Secondly, it’s precisely because I don’t like him that I refuse to assist him in his suicide. Or feed his habit. Whichever.

  And finally, owning a pet is a little like becoming a parent in my mind. That is, if it were socially acceptable to let infants let themselves in and out of the house whenever, by way of their own special little door. It’s like the saying goes—with pet ownership comes great responsibility. I don’t shirk my responsibilities.

  I should mention Smalls is vindictive. I once spilt half a glass of wine on him (it was an accident! I wouldn’t waste good wine on his bad temper!) The next morning, I found the cork from the wine bottle next to my shoes. My shoes had also been given a liberal dousing of cat pee, so be warned.

  Also, he steals. Socks are his favourite. If you leave them lying around be prepared never to have a matching pair. Also, never leave your dinner unattended—he’ll eat anything except mice. Don’t worry—we only seemed to have mice the week I had the new boiler fitted. Humane traps did the trick after I watched Smalls let one cross the kitchen floor, right under his lazy nose.

  Well, that’s my news! I guess I’ll see you around at some point. We’ll be like ships passing in the night daylight, at least until my nightshift rotation is over.

  I wasn’t sure how to end it. Penny? Nell? Your New Landlord? In the end I’d left it blank.

  I’d been on my way out the door when I realised leaving the keys on the countertop wasn’t going to help Ben get back in. Lord, I need more coffee and a week in bed. While I live in the almost bucolic surrounding of Hampstead, it’s still London, and no one leaves their doors unlocked or their keys under a plant pot. At least, they shouldn’t. I may as well put a sign in the front yard announcing “Free Shit, Help Yourself”. So I locked up and popped next door. My albatross of a house is a semi-detached villa on a pretty street on the south side of the Hampstead Garden Suburb. A brick façade and dark roof are reminiscent of the Arts and Craft design movement, an ancient wisteria wrapping its way up to the first-floor terrace. It’s a beautiful house that has the potential to be a beautiful home someday, and although Liam and I bought the place with a view to flipping, I’d always hoped to be able to buy in the suburb again. To raise a family here. I close the garden gate behind me, leaving my little Fiat on the drive for a moment, and make the exact same journey up the garden path of my neighbour, Mrs Hoffman. As predicted, I don’t get as far as ringing the original 1930s era bell before the front door swings open. Mrs Hoffman is the stalwart of our neighbourhood watch scheme. I doubt there’s a thing her rheumy gaze misses, and as she’s currently almost vibrating with eagerness, I know she’s curious about Ben.

  ‘Come on, come on in, dear,’ she says, patting her ebony permanent wave. The colour is so improbable for her fair skin I decided it had to be a wig, but I’ve since learned that Tracy, her hairdresser, the dear girl, pops in to do a root touch-up and blow dry every week. Mr Hoffman might be long dead, but she still likes to look smart, she once informed me. She doesn’t believe in letting the side down.

  ‘I can’t stop, Mrs H. I’m on my way to work.’

  ‘Yes, of course, of course.’ Mrs H often believes in saying things twice. It’s kind of endearing.

  ‘I just wondered if you’d do me a favour?’

  ‘Yes, anything. Absolutely anything, my dear.’

  ‘You might have seen I have a house guest?’ With a little smile, she nods as she pulls a snowy white handkerchief from the sleeve of her twinset cardigan. ‘His name is Ben.’ I know immediately what she’s thinking—Ben is a good Jewish name. I know she also seems to forget I’m not
Jewish myself. ‘He’s Melody’s brother. You remember Mel?’

  ‘Yes, yes. The girl with the beautiful Rita Hayworth hair.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s her. Well, Ben’s staying with me, but I forgot to give him some keys before he left.’

  ‘Oh, yes. He left about lunchtime, dear. You would have been sleeping because you’re on the night shift at the minute.’ See? She doesn’t miss a trick. ‘Would you like me to pass the keys to him when he comes back?’

  ‘Yeah, that would be great.’ I place the small bunch in her hand, resolving to throw the Star Wars fob away at some point soon.

  ‘Consider it done, dear. Elsie, my home help, is popping to Sainsbury’s for me later. Is there anything I can ask her to get you?’ I laugh and shake my head. Apparently, I don’t eat enough for her tastes, and I’m rarely seen carrying groceries from the car to the front door. ‘Not even when there’s a strapping young man staying in your house?’

  ‘He can fend for himself, Mrs H.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he can,’ she says with a tiny smile. ‘But you know what they say. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind if I ever have to perform keyhole surgery on him.’

  ‘Oh, you are a funny girl.’ That’s me. The lovely, funny girl who lives next door. She’s a lady doctor, you know. It’s not that I’m a female doctor that makes me interesting to the older ladies. It’s that I’m a doctor of female anatomy that makes me an oddity. I’m only pleased they haven’t asked me to look at their bits yet. After all, the chiropodist does house visits.

  Still, it wouldn’t be the first time. Thankfully, no one has yet popped themselves up on the kitchen table to spread their legs with the words “would you mind having a look at this?” though I have been cornered at parties and quizzed about everything from rashes to fertility. So much so that I usually refrain from telling people I’m a doctor. Not that I go to many parties these days. The highlight of my month lately has been a cheese and wine party for one. Easily catered for—a small bag of singular portion cheeses from the service station on the way home, a bag packet of crackers, and a bottle of wine from Liam’s horde.