Christopher's Medal

by S. A. Laybourn

  “I hope this is just a fluke.” Her father opened his phone. “I’m phoning the vet’s. We’ll get Brian to check, just to make sure.” He offered her an uncertain smile. “Why don’t you get yourself home, Gracey. I’ll finish up here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Go on. Spend some time with Chris.”

  “Thanks.” Grace put her hands in her pockets and walked across the gravel, leaving the noise of evening stables behind. She glanced at the cottage, at the kitchen window open to catch the spring breeze. Shadows lengthened across the yard and a crow hopped across the lawn. It took flight when Grace reached the door step.

  “Chris?” She tossed her boots into the laundry room and hung up her jacket. The chicken breasts on the counter still held a thin frosting of ice. Grace put them in a plastic bag and dropped them into a bowl of cold water. “Chris?”

  She peered into the living room and sighed.

  Christopher sat in the chair beside the window. An open book rested face down on his lap while he stared at something Grace couldn’t see, slightly to the left of the window and right of the television.

  Not again.

  She returned to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. Grace debated whether to put the chicken into the fridge. She’d be the only one eating and it seemed a shame to waste good chicken.

  “Will you be joining me for dinner, darling?” Grace sipped her wine and waited. She put the chicken away. “Never mind, I’ll just have spaghetti on toast. Don’t worry about me.”

  The gates clanged open, heralding the end of evening stables. Grace wandered back into the living room and sat on the arm of Christopher’s chair. “Are you going to talk to me?” She picked up his hand and laid it on her knee. “Chris, please.”

  His hand rested, unmoving, on her knee. Grace traced the space between his fingers. “I really hate it when you’re like this. I feel like I’m living with a zombie.” She covered his hand with hers, brushing his knuckles with her thumb. “I miss you.”

  Grace’s voice came from far away, echoing down a long, dark corridor. Christopher watched her thumb drift across his hand. Her fingers curled through his, warm and gentle. He tightened his grip, seeking her strength. He couldn’t find the words to answer her—to tell her that he missed her too.

  He knew that he’d find her in the night. That he would wake shaking from nightmares and Grace would always be there to hold him and tell him he was safe. In sleep, the veil that kept him from her during the day disappeared. He sought sanctuary in her arms.

  Christopher looked at Grace, at her eyes, filled with a sorrow that echoed his own. Finally, words found him, crept from him in a choked whisper.

  “I love you.”

  * * * *

  Grace leaned low over Allonby’s neck and urged him along the track. Billy held the two-year-old filly alongside, grinning. The final furlong fell away behind them. Allonby’s hooves drummed in a comforting, steady rhythm on the turf. His ears twitched back when Grace talked to him, keeping him calm. She listened for any change in pace, any sign of faltering, but Allonby kept on, easing into a canter when she rose in the stirrups. Grace was sorry to pull him up. She let his head drop and held on to the buckle-end of the reins.

  Billy eased his filly up alongside. “How did he feel?”

  “Fine, he felt just like he always has.” Grace patted Allonby’s neck.

  Grace watched her father walk toward them when they left the gallop. The spring air was damp with the promise of rain.

  “He looked good.” He tugged at Allonby’s ear. “Any problems?”

  “None that I could feel.”

  “Good. Take him back and make sure he gets a good cold-hosing on that leg. We’ll see what it’s like in the morning.”

  At least something was going right. Grace wished that things showed the same hope at home. All she had to look forward to when she returned was Christopher’s silence.

  * * * *

  “Chris?” Grace was woken by a blast of wind and rain against the window. The bed beyond her cavern of sheet and duvet was cold. She lay still for a moment, listening for the inevitable swish of pacing feet on carpet. There was none, just the late spring storm wreaking havoc outside.

  She slipped out of bed, shivering in the draft that moved the curtains, and crept into the hall. The spare room door was open and there was nothing in there but half-unpacked boxes of books and a half-filled bookshelf.

  “Chris?” She kept her voice low when she peered into the living room. The settee was empty.

  The security lights at the gate illuminated the kitchen. A patch of pale gold light fell across the floor and found Christopher huddled in the corner, his arms wrapped around his legs while he stared at something she couldn’t see.

  “Chris?” Grace knelt beside him. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just leave me alone. I’ll be okay.”

  She touched his arm. He shrank away from her fingers. “Shall I sit with you?”

  “No, and don’t touch me. You don’t want to touch me. I’m not clean.”

  “Of course you are.” She sat back on her heels and bit her lip.

  “Please leave me alone.”

  Grace shivered at the chill in his voice. “You know I can’t do that. Come to bed, Chris. You’ll catch a cold sitting out here.”

  “Go away.” His voice had a hard edge to it.

  She swallowed. “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Damn it.” He lunged across the small space between them and seized her arms. “Do what I tell you, for fuck’s sake.” Malevolence glittered in his eyes and he pushed her away.

  Grace caught herself, jarring her arm on the hard, cold tile floor. She shuffled away from him and stood up, trembling. “All right.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going.” She backed out of the kitchen and sought refuge in the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the clock. The green numbers glowed in the darkness, marking the passing of the hour as two-fifty-nine edged into three. She would have to get up for work in another hour and a half and wondered if it was even worth trying to get back to sleep. Grace curled up on her side, her back to the door and to the icy space that Christopher had occupied. Grace turned her face into her pillow and wept quietly so that she didn’t disturb the monster in the kitchen.

  By the time Grace got up for work, Christopher was asleep on the sofa. She stood in the kitchen and drank her coffee. The dawn was creeping, watery and gray, across the sweep of gravel and the horses were already awake, their heads hanging over the stable doors as they waited for her and Dave to bring them breakfast. She could hear the thump of empty feed buckets being moved in the feed room, reminding her that there was work to be done. She poured the dregs of her coffee into the sink, stubbed out her cigarette and retreated out into the cold, damp dawn.

  * * * *

  Grace put her hand on the door and crept into the kitchen. The cottage was washed with silence, apart from the eternal ticking of the kitchen clock. She glared at it.

  “Chris?” I’m beginning to sound like a bloody broken record.

  The settee was empty. The only evidence of his presence there was the hollow in the cushion where it still rested against the rolled arm. The spare room remained as it had done for a few days and the bedroom didn’t look any different from the way she had left it. The duvet curled back from when the alarm had woken her. His cell phone sat on his bedside table, but his wallet was gone. Grace, her stomach rolling, opened the wardrobe. His coat had gone.

  He’s gone for a walk. He’s gone to cool down. That’s what it will be.

  Grace made the bed and took a shower. She hoped it would wash the badness away, the darkness that lingered in the house. He wouldn’t be gone long, his leg wouldn’t stand it. She busied herself throwing dirty clothes into the washing machine, tidying the kitchen and tossing away the pile of newspapers that cluttered the table. Grace stared at the contents of the fridge for a long time, but nothing tempted h
er enough to eat. Her stomach still had a pit in it, full of simmering unease. An hour passed and the clothes went into the dryer, the kitchen sparkled and a goulash bubbled in the slow cooker. There was nothing left to be done. Grace sank onto the settee, wrapped her arms around the cushion and stared out of the window. The scent of Christopher was in the fabric. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The act did not make him reappear and Grace curled up on her side and waited. When her phone rang, it made her jump.

  “Gracey?” Billy’s voice was hesitant.

  Grace looked at her watch. It was nearly time for evening stables and the house was still empty. “Billy?”

  “Did you know that Chris was at the Cherry Tree?”

  “No. I haven’t spoken to him all day. When I got back from morning stables he was gone.” She sat up and ran her hand through her hair.

  “He’s pissed as a rat. The landlord says he’s been drinking non-stop since eleven.”

  “Jesus Christ. Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I just stopped in for a quick one before work. I’m bringing him home. He’s too drunk to know who I am and he’s too fucking drunk to walk.” The disapproval in Billy’s tone was like a slap. “He’s one messed-up arsehole, Gracey.”

  She stared at the ceiling. “I know, Billy. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, it’s not your doing. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Harry’s going to help me.” The line went dead and Grace gazed at the phone for a long time before she tossed it to the floor. When the gates clanged open she went to the door and waited.

  Billy hadn’t been kidding when he’d told Grace that Christopher couldn’t walk. She helped them ease him out of the back seat of Billy’s car. He was dead weight, reeking of whiskey and barely conscious. It took all three of them to drag him into the bedroom. He flopped onto the bed, snoring. Grace sat beside him and tried to think. She didn’t recognize this man. His mouth was slack and a thin stream of dribble glistened on his chin. His cheeks were pale and clouded with stubble. She pulled his shoes and socks off and let them drop to the floor. Billy helped her with his coat and his jumper.

  “I’ll take care of the rest,” she told him. She didn’t want anyone to see his leg, even if Christopher was unaware of anything. “I’ll be out in the yard in a few minutes. It’s best that he’s left to sleep this off.”

  “Are you all right, Gracey?”

  “I’ll be okay.” She wondered how she could still live with him.

  Billy squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll see you in a few minutes, then.”

  Grace nodded, absently. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  She waited until she heard the door close and the car pull away. She unfastened Christopher’s jeans and eased them away. His scars were familiar territory to her now and she hated what they had done to him. “I want you back,” she whispered. “I miss you so much. I just want you back. But if you pull this kind of shit again, you’re out on your arse. You stupid prat.” Grace rose and pulled the duvet over him, concealing him, because she could no longer bear to see what she had lost.

  * * * *

  When she finished work, she checked on him. He hadn’t moved. Grace opened the window in an attempt to dispel the reek of stale whiskey. It would be too tempting to elbow him in the ribs in the middle of the night, out of sheer anger. Instead, she slept on the settee and resolved to leave Christopher to his nightmares. He was still asleep when she left for work. The duvet was pushed down to his waist in the morning chill.

  “You can bloody well freeze,” she told him, leaving the covers undisturbed as she closed the door behind her. She drank her coffee in the kitchen and tried not to cry while the morning sun slipped across the grass and touched the dew with gold. April was slipping away and the flat season was about to swing into full gear. Her father still had Allonby penciled in for the Diamond Jubilee Stakes at Royal Ascot. The goal gave Grace something else to think about. The best part of the next few weeks would be spent bringing the colt to full fitness after his long winter hiatus. There were other horses that were ready to be raced and she wondered how Christopher would cope with her absence. She stubbed out her cigarette and dismissed the thought. As long as he had whiskey he would probably cope very well. With that bitter thought, she headed for work. Horses, she reflected, would never break her heart in the same way.

  * * * *

  When she got home, Grace left the bedroom door closed and ate her lunch while she watched the racing channel. There was a horse running at Nottingham who would likely be running in the Diamond Jubilee and she wanted to check him out. She leaned against the cushions and sipped her tea. Something inside did a slow spin as she heard movement from the bedroom.

  Christ, I don’t think I’m ready for this. I’m not saying a bloody word.

  Grace lit a cigarette and stared at the television as Christopher turned on the shower. It all sounded so normal and everyday, and she supposed she should’ve taken comfort in that. She tucked her legs beneath her chin and found herself waiting. She locked her fingers together to stop her hands from shaking.

  The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of soap-scented steam. Grace listened as he returned to the bedroom. The wardrobe door opened with a creak and the hangers clattered together like badly tuned wind chimes. Her stomach rolled and she regretted her lunch. She gazed at the television when Christopher sat down beside her. The scent of shaving gel and cologne made her want to weep. She hated the tantalizing glimpses of happier times that the scent gave her.

  “Grace.” His voice was a whisper.

  Grace bit her lip and said nothing. Her fingers hurt.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She wondered if all of their conversations would be like this—Christopher apologizing for doing something stupid or cruel and her crumbling and forgiving him. Grace closed her eyes. She could feel the warmth of him. “Why did you do it, Chris?”

  “I don’t know. Everything hurt. I hurt you. I just wanted to forget.”

  “Did it work?” She still wouldn’t look at him.

  “No. All I have now is a stinking headache.”

  “Good.” Her eyes burnt and she stared at the ceiling.

  “Grace, please.” His hand was on her shoulder, warm fingers drifting to her ear.

  “Please what? What do you want from me, Chris?”

  “I want you to forgive me.” His voice was small and full of hurt. “I want you to understand that I made a stupid mistake. I should’ve turned to you instead of being an arsehole and getting drunk.”

  Grace braced herself to confront the pain in his eyes. She turned and looked at him, trembling. “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Whiskey doesn’t do anyone any favors. I’ve seen too many people in this town fucked up by alcohol. Hell, just look at Harry. He can’t get through the day without half a bottle of the crap. There’s only so much I can take. I miss you. I miss the man I fell in love with.”

  “Gracey.” His voice shook. “I’m so sorry.”

  She let him hold her, it was the least he could do. He owed her. His arms were tight around her. He cradled her head in his hand.

  “I love you so much.” Christopher’s voice was a sigh. “I hate hurting you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Christopher leaned against the armrest and eased her down beside him. His eyes were moist. The racing was forgotten when he wrapped himself around her until all she could hear was the slow and steady beat of his heart. It took everything she had not to let her hand drift to his jeans, to let her fingers follow familiar trails across his skin.

  It’s enough that he loves you.

  She wound her hands into his hair and tasted his tears. He was so broken and she didn’t know how to fix him.

  “It won’t happen again. The booze doesn’t help.”

  “No, it doesn’t. I don’t think I could take it if you ended up…like Harry.”

  “Next time, I promise I’ll turn to you. I’m just so afraid that I put too much on your shoulders, Gr
acey.”

  “Never think like that.” Grace brushed his cheek with her thumb. “I’m not going back to work today. I’m staying in with you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Grace leaned against the wall and held on to Christopher’s calf. “Come on, Chris, push.”

  “Fuck off.”

  She gritted her teeth and looked at him, lying on his back on the floor. His T-shirt was blotched with perspiration and his eyes full of fury. Physio was a daily nightmare, wrestling with the twin monsters of Christopher’s anger and pain. “It isn’t going to get better if you don’t work at it.”

  “I’m not one of your fucking horses, Grace.”

  “More’s the pity. Just push, will you?”

  “You’re a hard bitch, do you know that?”

  “You’re a soft bastard. A soft, self-pitying bastard and you’ll never be able to walk properly if you won’t work at it.”

  Some days were better than others when it came to the physio. Sometimes, Christopher worked hard and in silence, his jaw set against the pain, and it hurt Grace to see him fighting it. Other days were just brutal.

  “I’ve had enough.” Christopher tried to pull his foot away.

  Grace tightened her grip. “No, you haven’t. Come on, Chris. Don’t give up.” She was tired. She wanted her afternoon nap, not this constant bloody battle.

  “Will you just let go? Just fuck off.”

  She bit her lip and stared past him, to the soft sunlight beyond the window. This wasn’t a day for fighting. “Fine.” She let go. “I’ve had enough. You can fucking deal with it on your own. Let me know when you’ve the bollocks to pull yourself together. I’m your fiancée not your bloody whipping boy.” She swept from the room and slammed the door.

  Grace stood in the kitchen for a moment, shaking. The house was suddenly too small, too full of anger and it didn’t feel like her place anymore. Christopher thumped about in the other room swearing and banging his fist against the wall.

  “Sod this.” She shoved her feet into her shoes then stepped out into the early afternoon silence. There was only one place to go. She walked across the gravel, to the yard. Allonby dozed in his box. He didn’t stir when Grace opened the door and slipped in. She sat in a corner, straw crackling around her. No one would bother her here. Allonby understood. He’d leave her to brood. She pulled her knees up to her chin and closed her eyes.