Pink Mist

by Owen Sheers

  Inside on remand, no bail.

  I’d failed, on every front. Out there,

  back home, and now saying goodbye to Arthur.

  I’ve never felt so alone.

  And Lisa and Tom, what’s so screwed up

  is that all along, through all those months on tour,

  then laid up in a hospital bed,

  through the dreams and the pain,

  it was them who’d kept me going,

  the thought of seeing them again.

  Tom, almost three, talking now, walking,

  he hardly recognised me.

  And Lisa – well, she’s still serving her tour.

  Been on it for years now, with no R and R,

  ever since I joined and walked out the door.

  So I can’t blame her really,

  for not letting me walk back through it again.

  She wanted proof I’d changed and,

  the truth is, I hadn’t.

  Prison’s not the place for change.

  It’s for getting through, surviving.

  A thickening of the skin.

  When I was released, God knows, she tried,

  but I wouldn’t let her in.

  I was on the streets for six months. Homeless.

  Fitting, in a way. I mean, I hadn’t come home,

  not in my head,

  so why should anyone give me a bed?

  And I wasn’t alone.

  There’s a spread of regiments under those blankets –

  Horse Guards, Paras, Royal Engineers.

  And a spread of wars too –

  Falklands, Gulf, Northern Ireland, Iraq.

  Yeah, you walk this country’s streets

  and there’s our history, under your feet.

  I’d still be there too, if it wasn’t for Ken.

  Ex-marine, touring the pavements and alleys at night,

  looking for people like us.

  Soldiers who’d fallen, not in the field, but out of sight.

  First time he spoke to me, I thought it was bollocks.

  Who the hell was this? Broken nose, calling me mate.

  Said he wanted to help me, get me up on my feet.

  I told him to stick it. I’d heard it before.

  Just pulled the bag over my head

  and went back to sleep on the concrete floor.

  But he didn’t give up.

  Next time was a hostel. Terrible place.

  I thought the noise would kill me before anything else.

  Ken found me again, sat on the edge of my bed,

  and said as such.

  ‘Mate, you stay here, on the streets, you’ll die.

  I’ve seen it happen. It’s no way to go. Not for a soldier,

  or for any man. Come on, pack your bags.

  I’ve got a van outside. Let’s go.’

  So I did. He fixed me up with somewhere better,

  then showed me his project down in Bedminster.

  Twelve vets, building a home,

  from foundation to roof.

  He took me to the foreman’s office,

  gave me a tea, asked if I wanted in.

  I felt something give, a thinning of that thickened skin.

  I said I did.

  He nodded, shook my hand. ‘Good,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s build somewhere to live.’

  HADS’ MOTHER

  It was different for Hads.

  I mean, I know what happened to Taff,

  but when we heard about Arthur, Hads went the other way.

  He’d only been home for a couple of weeks.

  We was all getting used to the change – the chair,

  me helping him in the lav, like when he was small.

  He was quiet, and didn’t go nowhere.

  Just sat at the window, watching,

  as if he was scared of what he’d find out there.

  Me and his dad didn’t know what to do.

  We didn’t want to push him out too soon, but –

  Then the news about Arthur came.

  Hads’ first thoughts were for Gwen and his mum.

  He called them both, right off, then,

  when he he’d finished on the phone, broke down.

  The next day, though, he’d changed.

  ‘I want to go out, Mum,’ he said. ‘Get a suit an’ tie,

  for Arthur’s coming home.’

  And that’s when I knew he’d be OK.

  It became like a goal.

  Gwen, see, she’d asked him to be at the funeral.

  But just being there, that wasn’t enough for Hads.

  HADS

  I wanted to stand. Beside his grave.

  I might have lost both legs,

  and the doctors said it was still far too soon,

  but I didn’t care. Just for a couple of seconds,

  I wanted to be there, full height, for him, for Gwen.

  And I did.

  They said my spine wouldn’t take it,

  my wounds weren’t healed.

  And they weren’t.

  I bled into the sockets of those two prosthetics.

  But I stood, with crutches, beside Gwen and Arthur’s mum.

  When the flag was folded and handed to them,

  as his coffin was lowered and they played last post.

  I stood, to say goodbye to my friend.

  In a way he’d saved me again,

  just like when we’d first met. When I was six –

  a bunch of older lads calling me nigger, firing me up.

  I was holding my own, but then Arthur stepped in,

  took me home.

  And now he’d got me home again.

  Cos after that day, I got my shit together.

  I still don’t walk, not yet, but I will.

  And in my chair, you should see me now –

  My high-jump days were done, so I went for basketball.

  It used to be a joke, in Headley Court,

  how the MoD was good for wheelchair sport.

  Well, now I’ve made that joke come true.

  For me, my mum, old man. And for you, Arthur.

  For you.

  GWEN

  It’s been over two years.

  People say I should move on. But how can I?

  I still hear him, so for me he isn’t gone.

  He’s here, in my head, my memories

  and, just about, in the smell on the clothes

  he left on the chair.

  In videos on my phone,

  in the messages I still can’t delete.

  So no, not gone.

  TAFF

  For me it’s like we’re back on the cliffs

  and we’ve dared him to touch

  some rock far out.

  HADS

  But he’s gone that bit further again,

  dropped out of sight, so we can’t see him.

  TAFF

  But we know he’s still there, on the cliff,

  holding on.

  HADS

  Out of sight, but there. Not gone.

  ARTHUR

  I watch over them, talk to them.

  They hear me, and sometimes talk back too.

  Gwen whispers into her pillow.

  Taff shows me his lad, little Tom,

  and Hads, when he can’t sleep

  he tells me stuff.

  How he worries he’ll never get a girl.

  Cos that blast, it took more than just his legs.

  But he’s good, he’s soldiering on,

  partly for him, but more for his mum.

  And Lisa’s talking to Taff again,

  I saw them laugh the other day,

  so who knows, once he’s built his home,

  perhaps he’ll have another place to stay.

  And me? Well at least I’m home, sort of,

  through them.

  Am I angry? Yeah, course I am.

  It was my life, and now it’s gone. Pink mist.

  I don’t know – up here on
Dundry Hill

  things seem more clear,

  and well, I guess I hope it’ll change, somehow.

  Till then, if people knew what it is,

  that would be enough.

  How the loss becomes the reason,

  and how the reason’s an abuse of love.

  How here and there each wounding,

  each death, resonates,

  until millions are touched.

  So that’s all I hope for.

  When the debate’s being had,

  the reasons given,

  that people will remember

  what those three letters mean,

  before starting the chant once more –

  Who wants to play war?

  Who wants to play war?

  The sound of wind on a high hill, fading

  Glossary

  Ally Irregular kit

  Bluey Military airmail letter

  Bootneck Military slang for the Royal Marines, possibly derived from the eighteenth-century practice of Marines cutting a strip of leather from their boots to wear around their necks to prevent sailors cutting their throats while guarding officers on board British sailing ships

  Brize Royal Air Force Station Brize Norton, Oxfordshire, England

  CamelBak Personal hydration system

  Corp Corporal

  Face furniture Facial hair

  FOB Forward Operating Base

  Griz To work through pain

  Headley Court Defence Medical Rehabilitation Centre in Surrey, England

  Hellfire An air-to-surface missile developed primarily for anti-armour use

  Herrick Codename for all British operations in Afghanistan since 2002

  Hydrapods Apache helicopter delivery system for Hydra rockets

  ICOM Integrated communications or unsecured walkie-talkie transmissions

  IED Improvised Explosive Device

  ISO container Intermodal or freight container

  Jäger Bomb a bomb shot drink originally mixed by dropping a shot of Jägermeister into a glass of beer, but in recent years often more popular with a Red Bull or other energy drink

  JTAC Joint Terminal Attack Controller

  Lumi Illumination mortar

  Medivac Medical evacuation

  NVGs Night-vision goggles

  OPTAG Operational Training and Advisory Group

  Painen Bristol colloquialism, to be in pain

  Pitchen Bristol slang for settling snow

  Sangar A semi-permanent fortified position or watchtower, possibly derived from the Persian slang for ‘stone’

  Terry British army slang for the Taliban

  The Thekla An ex-cargo ship, now used as a nightclub, moored in the Mud Dock area of Bristol’s Floating Harbour

  The Tunnels Underground music venue in Bristol

  WIMIK Weapons Mount Installation Kit, a stripped-down ‘Wolf’ Land Rover fitted with weapons and used as reconnaissance and close-fire support vehicles

  Acknowledgements

  I am indebted to the many service personnel and their families whose stories have informed this work, especially Lyndon Chatting-Walters and Daniel Shaw, whose own experiences are, at times, closely echoed in these pages. I would also like to thank the Royal British Legion and Alice Driver of Masterclass Theatre for making these interviews possible as part of my research for The Two Worlds of Charlie F.

  Pink Mist would not exist had it not been for the vision and support of Tim Dee of BBC Bristol, who first commissioned and guided the work towards broadcast. I am also grateful to Jon Nicholls for his sound design and to all the cast and crew for bringing my words to life so quickly and effectively.

  Lastly, I would like to thank Lee Brackstone and Becky Fincham of Faber, my agent Zoë Waldie, Clare Pollard, Chris Terrill, Ken Hames and, as ever, Katherine Eluned for her listening, advice and belief.

  About the Author

  Owen Sheers has written two collections of poetry, The Blue Book and Skirrid Hill (winner of the Somerset Maugham Award). His non-fiction includes The Dust Diaries (Welsh Book of the Year, 2005) and Calon: A Journey to the Heart of Welsh Rugby. His novel Resistance has been translated into ten languages and was made into a film in 2011. His plays include The Passion and The Two Worlds of Charlie F (winner of the Amnesty International Freedom of Expression Award). Owen wrote and presented BBC Four’s A Poet’s Guide to Britain. He has been a NYPL Cullman Fellow, Writer in Residence for the Wordsworth Trust and Artist in Residence for the Welsh Rugby Union.

  By the Same Author

  non-fiction

  THE DUST DIARIES

  CALON

  poetry

  THE BLUE BOOK

  SKIRRID HILL

  A POET’S GUIDE TO BRITAIN (ed.)

  fiction

  RESISTANCE

  WHITE RAVENS

  THE GOSPEL OF US

  plays

  THE PASSION

  THE TWO WORLDS OF CHARLIE F

  Copyright

  First published in 2013

  by Faber and Faber Ltd

  Bloomsbury House 74–77

  Great Russell Street

  London WC1B 3DA

  This ebook edition first published in 2013

  All rights reserved

  © Owen Sheers 2013

  The right of Owen Sheers to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN 978–0–571–30265–9