Real Monsters

by Liam Brown

  After we finished up eatin we sat around talkin some more, pickin the meat from our teeth and tellin stories, talkin about scrapes we’d gotten ourselves into and whatnot. I guess I was feelin pretty good, because I piped up about a little trouble I had a few weeks back.

  I was out on patrol with a few of the lads, just mindin our own business, when we see this thing comin over the horizon. I mean, it was fuckin horrible – eight legs, two heads – like nothing I’ve ever seen before, not in no classification guide, nothin. Jus’ awful it was. So of course we start blastin away, sprayin it with lead until this thing drops to the floor, dead. Well that was easy, I thought, as we headed over towards it. We still had our guns out mind – I’ve seen too many horror movies in my time to start gettin sloppy – but as it turns out we didn’t need ’em. ‘Cos when we got a little closer I saw what it was we killed. Lyin on the floor was two camels, with what looked like four or five goatskins stretched over them. And behind the camels, three natives – blood seepin from their mouths, turnin their beards red.

  I mean, I guess they were off to the market or whatever to sell the goat hides – but seriously? What the fuck did they think would happen, goin around like that? Of course they wound up getting shot. A couple of the guys got out their phones and started takin pictures. One of them, Macky, even took a piss on ’em. That Macky – he’s always been a prick. We talked about buryin ’em but in the end we thought it best to jus’ leave it to the crows. You can’t get mixed up in that tribal shit, no siree.

  When I finished talkin, nobody said anythin for a while.

  Finally Jett cracked a grin. ‘You know when you hear things like that… Well, I guess you could say it really gets my goat.’

  Shit we did laugh.

  Eventually the fire started to die and we started to think about turnin in. When Doggie got up to go for a piss I noticed that Cal had passed out in the dirt. I turned to Jett and asked if he had a blanket or something we could chuck over him. That’s when Jim decided to stick his nose in. ‘Private Marshall needs to wake his ass up this instant. We’re in an unknown location and it’s vital we secure the perimeter overnight. I’ve drawn up a rota so… ’

  I didn’t wait for him to finish. ‘Now wait a minute, Jim. It’s been a hell of a few days in case you haven’t noticed. Starvation, dehydration, sunburn. We’re fucked. All of us. You’re fucked Jim, just look at yourself. Don’t ya think it might be worth havin a night off? To recuperate I mean.’ Across the remains of the fire Jett was starin at us. Unusually for Jett, he seemed reluctant to take sides. I guess he wanted some sleep too. Jim was insistent though. ‘Do you think Monsters take a night off, soldier? Well, do you? Because at the end of the day they’re the reason why we’re in this shit. They don’t take a night off. Not a second. Now perhaps if the perimeter had been a little more secure a couple of nights back then things wouldn’t have gone down the way they did. And would you please address me as Staff Sergeant… ’

  Well son, I ain’t proud but at this point I have to admit I may have lost my temper some with the commandin officer. In fact, as my ol’ daddy used to say, I gave it to him with both barrels.

  ‘Now you listen to me, Jim. We ain’t goin to secure the perimeter. It ain’t happenin. Not tonight, anyway. The boys here need sleep, so I say we let them sleep. If you want to go then be my guest. But I’ll tell ya this for nothin, ya ain’t gonna see no Monsters. Ya wanna know why? Because there ain’t none!’

  Opposite me I sensed Jett freeze. I knew I’d gone too far, but what could I do? I couldn’t back down now. I carried on, warmin to my subject. ‘I mean it – when’s the last time we had a confirmed sightin? Eight years? Nine? Who knows, maybe they were here once, a long time ago, but they’re sure as shit gone now. That’s why we’re bein sent home. Nah, the only attacks we gotta worry about are from mosquitoes. Them and the wogs. And who can blame ’em, huh? Maybe if we spent a bit more time buildin roads instead of stealin their oil… ’

  I didn’t know where it was all comin from, these words. Hangin round with your mother too long probably. Fillin my head with her bullshit. All I knew was that I was angry. Angry and tired.

  Jim leapt to his feet. ‘That’s enough soldier! It’s one thing havin you disobey a direct order. That I can put down to exhaustion, or maybe jus’ plain old fashioned retardedness. But what I will not tolerate is havin you disrespect the memory of every man, woman and child who has died in this conflict by spoutin out some damn commie hogwash to anyone who’ll listen… ’ He was jabbin his finger at me, his fury silhouetted against the night sky. ‘Now in the interest of the group I will not address this issue formally until we make our way back to base, but rest assured when we do return I will ensure that your comments are properly documented and passed on to the appropriate authorities, who will no doubt give you the opportunity to explain your theories in much greater detail. Until that point however, I would be grateful if you would keep your revolting opinions to yourself. Do I make myself clear?’

  I looked across at Jett and Cal, who was now rubbin the sleep from his eyes. Neither of them would catch my eye. ‘Yes sir,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Good. Patrol commences from 2100 hours. Private Marshall and I will take the first watch with a handover every two hours from then until daybreak.’ And with that he was gone, marching off into the night, followed by a confused-lookin Cal. We sat in silence for another few minutes until we heard a crashin in the bushes and looked up to see Doggie, a look of concern etched on his stupid face.

  ‘Hey, has anyone seen Lucky?’

  That night none of us got much sleep. Instead we carried out the patrol exactly as Jim’d requested, swappin every two hours to take our turns walkin in circles in the dark, not one of us seein a damn thing worth mentionin. While I was out there I made my mind up to talk to Jim. I might have overstepped the mark, but there was no need for him to speak to me like that. I wanted to let him know that I thought he was bein a jerk for no good reason, and that his attitude wasn’t gonna help any of us in the long run. I weren’t gonna get angry, jus’ spell it out to him plain and simple in a way he couldn’t argue with. Yeah, I had a whole little speech planned out in my head.

  In the end though I never had a chance to use it. Because by the time the sun finally rose in the east and the sky cracked blister blue and red, Jim was already dead.

  Danny was gone again – although as I ghosted around the spotless apartment I found myself wondering whether he’d ever been there at all. The first few days following the passing out parade I’d refused point blank to speak to Danny, barricading him from the bedroom and forcing him to sleep on the sofa while he made half-hearted grovelling noises in my direction. To be honest I’d almost enjoyed it. After all, it was the most attention I’d had since he’d got back.

  As I drove my sister to the airport we studiously avoided the topic of my faltering marriage, talking about the kids, her job, her new man – anything but Danny. Still, I couldn’t help noticing the little concerned glances she kept shooting me across the car, or the little sigh she gave whenever she said my name.

  ‘Oh Lorna… ’

  But whatever. My sister wasn’t exactly in a position to talk when it came to tragic life stories, and as tempted as I was to jump on the plane with her and fly away from the carnage, I knew in my heart that I needed to stay and pick up the pieces. At the very least then I’d be able to see what I had.

  And whether it was worth holding on to.

  As the day of Danny’s departure drew closer, he did his best to bridge the chasm that had opened up between us. The day before he was due to leave he came home with a bunch of flowers – the first I’d received in my married life – and that evening we sat down and ate dinner together. As I cut into the steak he’d cooked me, Danny set about trying to apologise again. ‘Don’t,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘All I’m asking for is a bit of communication. I mean – it’s not like you’re popping down the road for a pint of milk. How long are you going to be gone f
or again? Three months?’ ‘Six,’ Danny mumbled. ‘Six months! And you weren’t even going to tell me?’ Danny sat there chewing his steak. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually. He said the words slowly, like he meant them.

  It wasn’t much.

  But it was all I had.

  That night we made love for the first time since he’d returned from training. It was rough, animal sex – angry, desperate – but it was good. Cathartic. And when we finally collapsed in a dehydrated heap a few hours later I knew I could never leave him. That he was as much a part of me as my leg, or my heart. I fell asleep and didn’t dream.

  In the morning we said goodbye at the door, having previously decided I wouldn’t drive him to the station again, and then he was gone, walking down the hall, a small bag clutched under one arm. I was alone again. This time though, I was determined to take control of my life. If I was to be an army widow I wanted to at least fill my days with something worthwhile. Which is how, after a few weeks of fruitlessly searching through night school brochures and internet forums, I found myself volunteering as a shop assistant at my local branch of Save the Animals. The shop itself was something of a bombsite, with stacks of clothes strewn in no discernible order and random junk cluttering up every available inch of floor space; broken toys mingled in with stacks of vintage bodybuilding magazines, unspooling VHS cassettes tangled around crumbling boxes of Bakelite bangles. It would take a lifetime to sort it all out – which, seeing as I had nothing but time on my hands, suited me just fine.

  On my third day there I was introduced to the new store manager, Dustin, who had recently transferred from another branch. ‘Hmmm, recovering alcoholic or clinically unhappy cat lady?’ he asked, watching as I attempted to sort a selection of loose pearl earrings from a tub of marbles. ‘What, they’re my only two choices?’ I asked. ‘How do you know I’m not a socially conscious billionairess?’ Dustin grinned, ‘Oh, I’m sorry – I’m afraid that’s all we usually get in here. The mad, the sad and the bad. Still, it’s always nice to make the acquaintance of a borderline-psychotic fantasist. Great to meet you.’

  He was tall and good-looking in a nerdy, app-designer sort of way, sharply dressed in an open necked shirt and designer glasses, an expensive-looking smart watch strapped to his wrist. In fact, he was far too well dressed, too shiny and refined – next to the tatty chaos of Save the Animals he resembled a time-traveller from the future. I was instantly suspicious. ‘Lorna,’ I said, sticking out my hand. ‘And what about you? Paedophile? Serial killer? Don’t tell me – you’re one of those men who still lives at home with Mummy and spends his evenings painting model tanks and planes?’ ‘Close,’ he nodded. ‘Except I don’t live with my mum. But seriously, I’m just your run-of-the-mill, politically engaged, hybrid-driving, blog-reading, sushi-eating, loft-dwelling über asshole.’ He smiled. ‘Welcome to Save the Animals.’

  Over the next few weeks Dustin and I formed an unholy alliance, terrorising the old women who visited the shop, playing tricks on each other and generally goofing off whenever we got the chance. It had quickly transpired that Dustin was both as pretentious and self-deprecating as his initial description of himself suggested, and to my surprise I found we had much in common. For one thing it was apparent that neither of us gave a shit about saving animals. No, the real reason we were both there was because we had nowhere else to go – or at least nowhere we wanted to be. Being something of a perpetual student, Dustin had more letters after his name than most CEOs, yet the thought of committing himself to a ‘real’ job filled him with dread. So instead he was happy to live on minimum wage and use and abuse his position to siphon off donations of rare and collectible vinyl records to sell on eBay for a profit.

  For my part, I was running from Danny – or at least the reality of life without him. Not that I was willing to share any of my own miserable half-existence with Dustin. In fact, when on our second day working together he asked if I had a boyfriend, I point-blank denied Danny’s existence altogether, having slid off my wedding ring and left it on the bathroom cabinet the day Danny left. It wasn’t that I fancied Dustin – far from it. I guess I was just tired of dragging around all of the ridiculous baggage that came with being a soldier’s wife. Besides, it felt good to be just plain old Lorna again, if only for eight short hours a day.

  As before, I received no contact from Danny – no phone call to say he’d arrived safely, no letter lamenting how much he missed me – yet somehow, between my work at Save the Animals and my burgeoning friendship with Dustin, it all felt more manageable this time around. I began spending more and more time at the shop, volunteering for extra shifts at the weekend, doing anything I could to spend time away from the apartment, and all the unhappy memories it contained.

  After around six weeks at Save the Animals, Dustin asked me if I’d like to meet him for a drink after work one night. My first response was one of panic – I still hadn’t mentioned Danny to Dustin and I was worried about giving him the wrong impression. In addition to this, I’d been feeling out of sorts for the last couple of weeks. It was hard to put a finger on exactly what was wrong with me – a general malaise had coiled itself around me, and the thought of sharing a bottle of wine with Dustin actually turned my stomach. In the end though I felt I couldn’t refuse. After all, Dustin was the first new friend I’d made since school, unless you counted Danny.

  And I wasn’t sure if I could still count Danny.

  With that in mind, and promising myself I’d only stay for one short drink, I made my way across town on a dark and dreary Tuesday evening to meet Dustin, keeping my eyes open for an even darker and drearier bar.

  The place he’d suggested we meet was called the Tokyo Lucky Hole, a notorious downtown dive, popular with middle-class alcoholics and art-school poseurs. I’d been there once before actually, years ago, back when I was an alcoholic-poseur-student myself, and the sticky floors and stink of stale beer brought back embarrassing memories of dodgy dancing and drunken fumbles.

  ‘No, Steve – that’s the whole point! They want you to think that… ’

  I heard Dustin before I saw him. He was propped against the bar with a beer in his hand, gesticulating at the barman. The volume of his voice told me it wasn’t his first beer. ‘Oh, hey Lorna,’ he smiled as he spotted me, before turning back to the barman. ‘Right then, you capitalist scumbag,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you stop antagonising the punters and do your bloody job for once. What are you having, colleague? Tequila slammer? Triple sambuca?’ I smiled at the barman. ‘Just a lemonade please.’ Dustin thumped the bar. ‘What? You drag me halfway across town to this toilet of a public house and you won’t even have a real drink with me? That’s just bad form, Lorn!’ I shook my head and sighed. ‘Okay, stick a vodka in there,’ I said to the barman. ‘Single.’

  ‘Friend of yours?’ I asked as we took a seat in a grimy booth. ‘Who Steve? Nah. I just like to shout politics at every member of the service industry I come across. It keeps them on their toes.’ I laughed. It was reassuring to see that Dustin was as much of an immature, combative asshole in real life as he was at work – even if it did mean I had to spend every other breath telling him to shut up. But it was nice. Chilled. Just two colleagues – friends even – hanging out and having a drink after work. Totally normal. Completely legitimate. And 100%

  Not a date.

  For the next hour or so the world outside disappeared as I listened to Dustin tearing into everything from corporate tax avoidance to secret surveillance networks, only pausing to take increasingly large swallows of beer. I was taken aback. While I was used to his stream of conscious monologues from our time at work – nodding idly as he espoused the virtues of a rare Miles Davis recording or moaned about the launch of a new social network – here at the Tokyo Lucky Hole with three or four pints inside him he was transformed. Focused, furious; a one-man campaigning machine with facts at his fingertips and fire in his belly.

  And what fire.

  As he waved at Steve to bring o
ver another round of drinks without breaking for breath, I noticed the damp patches under his armpits. He was actually sweating as he strained to connect an increasingly disparate set of global dots. Whether railing against illegal drilling in the Antarctic or radioactive dumping sites in Uruguay, he did seem to genuinely believe everything he was saying – although thankfully he was also self-aware enough to recognise how sickening his righteousness might seem, littering his rants with asides, such as: ‘And I know I’m a self-righteous dick, but… ’ or ‘For god’s sake, there I go again… ’

  While I just smiled and nodded and drank my drink.

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  At some point Dustin got up and staggered to the toilet, leaving me in deafening silence for a couple of minutes. Even though I was still feeling guilty about Danny, I was forced to admit to myself I was having a good time. I guess it was just refreshing to hear somebody speak with passion about something – or at least to talk about anything outside of television or work or shopping. To give the impression they were actually alive for once. Funnily enough, the only other person I’d heard speak like that before was Danny, when he was talking about the army.

  Except Danny only usually spoke about killing things.

  As I was sitting there thinking, I happened to notice Dustin’s jacket, which was hanging limply on the back of his chair. A leaflet of some sort was poking out of the pocket. And maybe I thought it was something to do with Save the Animals or maybe it was just because I’d had one too many vodkas or maybe I was just being a nosy bitch, but either way I reached across the table and tugged the little flyer and laid it flat on the table.

  And I started to read:

  Fuck The Fake War!

  Next Sunday will see the thirteenth anniversary of Year

  Zero.

  Thirteen years of lies and injustice.

  Thirteen years of slime and sleaze.

  Thirteen years of being told: mission accomplished. 1,000,000 civilians dead, 5,000 soldiers wounded – and still no Monsters.