As a non-commissioned officer in the Royal Engineers, Corporal Daniel Francis was an explosive ordinance disposal expert—part of a small unit of highly-trained specialists. Men and women who provided munitions neutralization and disposal for both military operations and training exercises around the world, he was trained, experienced, good at his job.
Daniel missed his friends and his fellow soldiers, and he felt the familiar twinge of loneliness that always came with the memories of the soldiers he had commanded. They had been a tight team of six men and one woman, their work enabling the Army to handle battlefield conditions with fewer distractions. They were experts in their field, providing mine clearances and defusing roadside bombs in war zones, and they had been employed in post-conflict situations as well. Daniel’s expertise, and that of his team, provided the skills needed to sweep fields and roads and to clear homes and other buildings in towns, making what remained of any civilian population safe.
Corporal Francis had become the go-to man, the person the recruits turned to when they were unsure, the one whom the rest of the unit relied on as a sounding board as they puzzled out difficult situations. He was capable of focusing completely on the mine or bomb or incendiary in front of him, using his skills as the key to surviving a disarmament. He kept the balance between absolute certainty in both his skills and those of his unit and knowing precisely when the time had come to pull back and relieve the horrendous pressure on his men. Daniel had been able to call on his ability to sink into utter stillness at any given time.
Corporal Francis was decorated with awards and citations, resulting from situations that he and his team had survived. Others who praised and paid and wrote articles in newspapers back home called it incredible bravery. He and his team, however, simply called it a job.
That was then, but he had to live in the now.
Daniel Francis, invalided from service, no longer a corporal by name or possessing the ability to be a corporal by physical action, sat cowering in a sodding bathroom unable to even attempt a short walk home. He was damaged goods. Twisted and scarred and unable to even bloody breathe properly at this moment.
“How are you feeling today?” the doctor had asked with a raised eyebrow. Daniel had hesitated before answering. Post traumatic stress disorder was probably not something Dr Lester had much experience in, and the questions he asked were from some kind of script clearly approved by some specialist somewhere.
And Christ, that had been a leading question. The headache that had been nagging at Daniel all day went full blown and intense as he’d tried to formulate a suitable answer.
“I’m good,” he’d finally said, as firmly as he could. There was no way he was giving the doc any openings for further questions.
“Your knee—”
“Is fine. Improving every day.”
He’d lied. He’d said those five words as convincingly as a pro. Which he was. Daniel had managed to convince the much savvier medics at the Queen Elizabeth Military Hospital in Birmingham. The medics and shrinks there had been more difficult to convince: they were far too familiar with PTSD, not to mention severe injuries. However, Daniel had stuck to his claims, and though still reluctant, both his body and brain docs had discharged him back to his family home in Wiltshire to “heal.”
The goddamned fucking lies were acid inside him. He had seen friends crippled or ripped from him by fire and metal, faces gone or reflecting the terror that had occurred with their deaths. His head was as screwed as it could be and still leave a chance for him to pass as something like normal.
As for his knee? What if he told the doc the truth? That oftentimes the pain was so personal, so intense, that he couldn’t breathe or stop the tears from scorching his skin as they marked runnels of disappointment down his face. What if he had to admit his failure to deal with physical discomfort when Tommy Llewellyn had lost both legs? What the hell good would that do? He was alive, alive when so many of his unit had not survived, alive enough to walk and to feel the pain when they could no longer do either. He’d be goddamned if he was going to travel the rest of his days on earth in a drugged up anti-pain stupor.
Daniel could have become addicted to the Sertraline and pain pills, unable to go an hour without them, much less a day. He didn’t need the softened edges that made his memories blur. He demanded for himself the ice-cold, cut-glass edges of memory. He wanted to remember. For the Ones under his command who never made it home.
He forced himself to walk naturally from the doc’s office, refusing to show that his knee was close to giving out, the metal pins holding the bones together as rough as barbed wire grating under his skin.
“Three weeks,” the doc had reminded him as he left, and he had managed to respond to the affirmative even as he realised he needed to sit before his knee gave way. He judged the distance to the door in the convoluted nest of corridors and cubicles that constituted the surgery. The toilet was nearer. In any event, Daniel wasn’t ready to face the receptionist with her beady eyes and her concern over how he was feeling.
He locked the door behind him, shoved the toilet lid down and slumped until he sat on it. A small part of his mind registered the fact that he’d sat. He pressed blindly with both thumbs into the knot of incredible pain in his knee joint. The blast that had ripped through his team had inflicted contusion, blunt force trauma, burns, and penetrating wounds on those who had survived.
Daniel had been fortunate: many of his injuries had been superficial, except those to his face and knee. Triage had sent him behind the lines to a field hospital, where he’d been threatened with an amputation above the knee. Infection had hit the bone. Even if they were able to cure the infection, there was no guarantee that the knee would be anything close to normal, but it didn’t matter. What the surgeon said didn’t matter a damn. Nothing would have made Daniel sign that form. He might die? Then he’d die. But he’d do it with two legs. Thank fuck he’d been lucky enough to prove the doctors wrong.
Daniel’s face healed. He’d been given as much plastic surgery as was possible, but some scars remained, curling and twisting under his hairline and down his neck. He was a disgusting thing to look out now, damaged, past his sell-by date.
Feeling bloody sorry for himself, his throat thickening with emotion and unshed tears, he bowed his head and pressed more deeply into the skin over twisted muscles and tendons. His pain decreased, but Daniel couldn’t tell if the spasm had eased or if he had caused enough damage that his system had released endorphins
Silently he sat. Breathing deeply. Visualising his breathing. In, out, in, out. The rhythm became steadier than the knotting around his knee, and he realized dimly that he was trying to formulate an excuse for sitting in the bathroom for so long. God knows how long he’d sat here, sweat sliding down his face and his stomach churning.
He checked his watch—ten minutes to seven. The surgery was past closed for the evening.
Shit. He was stuck in the bloody bathroom, unable to fucking leave even if he could. Locked in. Hope remained that someone’s appointment had run late, that there would be a staff member who could let him out, even though Dr Lester had probably departed for the day. Daniel moved with the caution of the very frail, testing each change in position, measuring his own ability to deal with the stiffness and the pain. Then, gathering every ounce of his remaining energy, Daniel pulled himself to his feet. His fingers clasped the help bar so hard he thought it had given way, and he tottered, light-headed and soaking wet with sweat. Abruptly, the air shifted, and the sweat began to cool, and he shivered. A little twinge in his wrecked knee warned him. Breathe, in and out, the rhythm stronger than the pain.
He had never dreamed that he would need the alterations to bathrooms for disabled users, but he thanked God for them every time he got stuck. The lock twisted under his clammy, sweat slick palm, and he cursed as the metal slipped. Wiping his hand on his thick wool sweater, he managed at least to turn the lock on the second try. He sagged against the door jamb, the lit
tle he had done leaving him breathless.
Only evening light illuminated the corridor, and using the wall both as a support and a guideline to exit, Daniel stretched and pulled on the twisted muscle until it finally completely relaxed. By the time he’d hobbled to the door to the reception area, he was able to allow the knee to take weight. Experience had taught him he needed to stop for a few minutes and allow the knee more time to relax, for the muscle to forget about continuing to spasm. Quietly, he waited, staring at his faint reflection in the glass partition to the darkened area beyond.
His hair was no longer military-short, but long and untidy and, Jesus, verging on wild. It curled unhindered to his collar, the longer hair covering more of his scar. Daniel wasn’t totally ashamed of his disfigurement, but he didn’t want to set out to scare grannies and children.
Six months, that was all. Six months and the man he’d been had found himself replaced with this lesser being. Thinner, muscles tired, exhausted, his skin pale, his stature bent. Fuck. He’d signed up knowing he could die for his country, but he’d never signed up to become a pathetic burden on the same country that had relied on him.
Wait. He tilted his head. Someone was talking in the darkened area, but he couldn’t make out who. The corridor where he stood was darkening by the minute. His eyes were tired. There were two raised voices, but not the receptionist, not a woman’s tones. Cautiously he moved towards the door, pressing his ear against the cool wood, instinct bringing him to a stop. His military training kicked in, and he automatically assessed the situation before he jumped in. The second voice sounded erratic and edgy, a curse surrounding each word though the tones were slurred.
“…sort this… I can phone the pharmacy… I’m your doctor so I can prescribe you…”
“…just the fucking pad…prescriptions is currency… thass’all I bloody need…”
The first man? He said he was a doctor? Didn’t sound gruff enough to be the older Doctor Lester. Maybe it was the younger, the son, new to the surgery. Daniel had seen him from a distance. Tall, blond, unattainable and aloof, and a bit on the slim side to count as an asset. The second man, the threat. The environment. Closed area, only two doors in, one of which he was leaning against. There was more talking, raised voices. Was the second guy armed? Adrenaline rushed his system.
He crouched lower. Changing the expectation was the name of the game. Anyone who attacked the situation would be expected at shoulder level, not in a crouch. His knee protested, but as he had done on the battle field, it was easy to push pain away as the impetus for action coiled in his spine.
There was a lull in the talking, and he strained to hear. He heard other noises, like a chair being dragged across the floor, and then, suddenly, hoarse shouting. The soldier in him came to the fore, and coiled energy underlay his motions.
He assessed the situation in the half second required to shove open the door. A man in a suit, a white shirt, his hands raised, placating. The victim. Another, a smaller figure, hooded, his back to Daniel. He caught the glimpse of a knife, wicked, sharp and silver, glinting in the streetlight illumination from outside. The man in the suit startled as he spotted Daniel. Daniel knew he had seconds as the hooded figure turned on his heel, all the while waving the knife. Daniel sidestepped the blade, feinting left and bringing his arm up to block the return sweep, ducking and using his foot to catch the guy at the back of his leading knee, the most vulnerable point Daniel could use to overbalance the intruder. In between one breath and another, he twisted the guy onto his front, dropped his weaker knee against the other man’s lower back, and yanked back the intruder’s hood. Long, dark hair slipped free, and he clutched it tight.
“Drop the knife,” he snarled, smashing the guy’s face into the carpeted floor, pushing it harder when the hand holding the knife refused to let go. The intruder tried to struggle and twist, but it was a pathetic attempt, nothing that worried Daniel. Easily dominating the moment, he moved his hard body and made the person under him whimper in distress.
“Let—up!” The voice intruded into Daniel’s concentration. He glanced up at the other man, then down again, pressing his thumb into the pulse point of his opponent’s wrist. The other man released the knife because his fingers refused to hold it. Using his foot Daniel pushed the knife away.
“Let. Go.” Jesus, the guy in the suit was insistent. Thing is, finishing a takedown when spectators jeered and threw stones was nothing. He could push through this. In a movement as smooth as he could manage, he clambered to his feet, pulling at the intruder and shoving him at the reception desk, tense, watching for retaliation, alert to the possibility of another weapon.
What he saw was a boy, no older than seventeen or eighteen, eyes dark and huge in his face, the hood fallen and twisted around his neck. He was shaking, sobbing, and—what the fuck—the other man moved between them, holding out his hands and talking softly.
“He didn’t mean to hurt you, Connor. Let’s get you out of here. It’s okay, we’ll sort this…”
Nonsense slipped from the man’s mouth, a mumble of placating claptrap, politic-speak. Suddenly Daniel felt fury spiral up his spine. He’d risked his own very stressed and fragile body to save the doc, and the doc was acting like Daniel had committed a crime.
“He had a fucking knife,” Daniel snapped, leaning on to his other knee, the burn in his bad leg causing him to favour it.
“He wasn’t going to hurt me,” the man snapped back, his tone as hard as Daniel’s. Daniel couldn’t understand the annoyance in the other’s eyes. His anger was directed at Daniel, not at the boy who stood shaking in the corner. Daniel watched as the doc’s gaze slid to the side of his face, but he damn well refused to move his hair to cover it.
“D-Doc, please… Doctor Lester.” The boy was pleading with him, his voice shaky and slurred, then suddenly he slumped into the doc’s arms. Lester didn’t even seem surprised. He quickly pulled out his cell, dialling and speaking in short, clipped tones.
“Ambulance, Steeple Westford surgery, overdose.”
Daniel listened to the man who the unconscious guy had positively identified as the younger Doctor Lester. What the bloody hell kind of Wonderland had he dropped into where he was the bad guy? He watched Lester place the boy in recovery position; the patient seemed to be breathing, but was limp and unconscious. The doc traced the lad’s face where Daniel had pushed him into the carpet. He looked up at Daniel, who gazed back at him steadily, just waiting for the doc to try something.
“What the hell did you do?” he finally barked at Daniel, his handsome face creased into an angry frown.
Daniel took a deep breath. The adrenaline pumping through his body had been giving him an edge, but now it was starting to recede, and the pain in his damned leg was back.
“What did I do?” What the hell? Why am I the one being handed the anger? “He’s the one with the bloody knife.”
“He’s high, for God’s sake. I was talking him down.” Doc was vocal in that clipped, closely cropped, precise way that Daniel had previously only heard in the young army officers who had avoided grunt work by virtue of education. Born with silver spoons in their mouths, the lot of them, including the doctor glaring at him.
“Yeah, looked like it was working.” Daniel injected sarcasm into his voice then winced. I sound like a bloody kid, not an experienced soldier with a valid point. Doctor Lester pointedly ignored him, hunching over the prone figure of the boy. Daniel edged towards the door. He was not waiting around for any more shit. He had enough of his own to deal with.
Daniel left the young doctor to do whatever he needed to do, limping away before people started asking questions. He wasn’t going to stand and watch the accusation in Lester’s face, even as he lost himself in the depth of the man’s bloody green eyes sparking with indictment. Now was not the time to be attracted to anyone, least of all someone so unlike the cool, calm level-headedness he’d seen from the numerous army medicos he’d talked to and been seen by. Young Dr Lester’s lev
el of passion and heat in crisis was disconcerting.
Daniel needed to go, had to leave, and action followed thought immediately.
Within a few minutes he had half walked, half tumbled back to his house. The one-story rambling white cottage with its tangled autumn country garden and high wall was his family home. His parents were long since gone, and Daniel had no siblings, so the house had become his retreat. When he’d been injured, he wanted to be at home, his home, where there was peace and memories that made him smile. He had waited while the broken bones healed, waited to hear that he was cleared to return to his role in the Army. If he couldn’t be on the front line, he wanted to serve in some kind of capacity, advisory, something.
When the medical officer turned up in his room, his expression stern and serious, Daniel knew. There had been some placating words, words like pension and support and counselling. And then it was over. Just over.
The front door shut behind him, and he was finally alone. The adrenaline left his body, dropping steadily until only he and what he’d done remained. He hadn’t overreacted. He hadn’t. The intruder had a bloody knife. Never leave an opponent armed no matter who might say otherwise. The last time he’d done that, the last time he’d second-guessed himself, and trusted another, people had died for God’s sake.
He wasn’t some stupid, soft idiot who allowed shit to happen to him. He was a brave man, a strong man, and he made things happen to other people. Daniel repeated those two sentences over and again as he made his way through the house, turning on lamps until the rooms were flooded with light. He closed all the curtains. Finally nothing of the dark outside remained inside his house. On unsteady legs, he went first to the bathroom and then to his bedroom. He tipped out his tablets into his hand and counted them: two of the white ones, three of the pale cream, one red one. In a single second, he threw them in the bin. He didn’t need all this shit to take the edge off the pain. He was a soldier, and he had a high pain threshold. He could manage on his own. Pain proved to him that he was alive.
The Fitzwarren Inheritance Page 8