This sort of sits with everything I've written so far. It's early days in Molly & Charles' relationship, but for dramatic purposes I'm shipping her out on another short deployment. I doubt anyone would actually be deployed so much in such a short space of time, and this probably isn't the sort of mission someone with Molly's training would be sent on but hey, it's fiction….
The story is inspired by the song of the same title by Simon & Garfunkel, which I've changed ever so slightly below (not to mention leaving out the bit about murdering someone and being on the run)
November, 2014
I can hear the soft breathing
Of the girl that I love,
As she lies here beside me
Asleep with the night,
And her hair, in a fine mist
Floats on my pillow,
Reflecting the glow
Of the winter moonlight.
She is soft, she is warm,
But my heart remains heavy,
And I watch as her breasts
Gently rise, gently fall,
For I know with the first light of dawn
She'll be leaving,
And tonight will be
All I have left to recall.
I saw her from the pub window. She stood at the crossroads waiting for the lights to change, the traffic speeding past her, their lights reflecting in the puddles and shiny wet pavement. The night was drawing in early, sped on its way by the dim gloomy day, moisture hanging heavy in the air. She watched each car as it passed, her eyes darting between the vehicles, judging their speed and the gaps between them. She was impatient to cross the road, shifting from one leg to another, the heavy pack dwarfing her slight frame, her back bowed slightly under its weight. The camouflage and heavy webbing of the pack looked incongruous carried by the petite girl in her short dress. Almost too short, the edge of the pack was caught against the fabric, making it rise up on one side, the static from her tights causing the skirt to cling to her thigh. She shifted again, noticing the the dress riding up her leg; she pulled her mouth into that petulant Molly scowl, tugging the fabric away, her attention dropping from the streams of traffic.
The traffic slowed, crawling to a stop, red brake lights glowed in the twilight. My view was blocked by a van. I could just make out her feet on the kerb under the wheels of the vehicle, she was wearing her boots. Whatever was in that pack it had to be the lighter option than carrying her boots. The line of cars moved, the van creeping far enough forward for me to catch sight of her again. She was still scowling, this time facing the cab of the van, her mouth moving fast, her eyes narrowed into a glare. Whatever was going on she appeared to be giving someone in the vehicle a piece of her mind. One thing you can say for my Molly, she doesn't hold back and this poor bastard looked like he was getting it from both barrels.
The pub was bland and non-descript, like everything around here. It was pretty much empty, its clientele consisted of a bored man behind the bar, his paunch straining against the thin fabric of his shirt, grey bristles poking out from his doughy cheeks, a couple of lads, counting their spare change and debating whether they should gamble it on the fruit machine to raise enough money for a pint each or to split one between them; and me. I nursed the glass of wine in front of me. It was foul stuff, sharp and vinegary, they didn't even have bottles, it came from a tap, it tasted dull and dusty. The man who had served me had seemed surprised when I asked for wine, but I can't sit on my arse all day and sink pints all evening anymore, I'm the wrong side of 25 for that lark and it's going to start showing on my waistline before too long. When I mentioned it to Molly she laughed and pinched my side, telling me I'd better not get fat like all those Ruperts do when they hand in their commissions. I'm not going to end up one of those ex army types, beetroot faced in a pink shirt and wax jacket who think exercise is a sedate walk with the family labrador.
The door of the bar opens, the noise of the traffic suddenly magnified as Molly manoeuvres her way through the narrow gap, her backpack catching on the double doors, pulling them open behind her. Her hair is down, slightly damp from the air outside, a few tendrils cling to her face. She's beautiful. She's always beautiful. Her beauty is like a punch to my gut everytime I see her. She takes in the empty pub, small dark tables and stools litter the room, the walls a deep crimson below a scuffed dado rail, a yellowing used-to-be-magnolia above. The lads halt their debate over the fruit machine and turn their attention to her. I see their eyes travel up and down her body, assessing her, considering their chances. None I'd say. They obviously don't think so. In my gut I feel a kick of jealousy, when I told Molly that she scoffed and said I was a prannet, that lads like that are all talk and no substance and that if anyone ought to be jealous it would be her, leaving me to the clutches of the AWS volunteers. She reckons the wives and girlfriends will be round me 'like flies on shit', especially when they find out I'm ex army myself. She thinks they'll be expecting me to be able to call in all sorts of favours. Little do they know I have nothing to offer. I don't think I know anyone on this operation, humanitarian missions aren't really my bag. Or rather they weren't. I have to stop talking about the army in the present tense, that's what they say. I've got to look to the future, not the past.
The door slams shut behind her, caught by a gust of wind. The noise startles paunchy behind the bar, who's been lost in a world of his own, idly picking at his ears, examining the results of each foray into his own body as it accumulates under his fingernails. He looks up, and makes the slightest move to stand, but his heart isn't in it and he settles back onto the stool, his eyes flickering over Molly as he assesses the likelihood of someone like her stopping in a pub like this. She casts her eyes around the bar, finally seeing me tucked in the corner and she steps further into the room, her face breaking into her wonderful grin.
What if I forget her? What if years from now, when I'm on my own I can't remember the way she moved, or her facial expressions, or the way she held her mug, or spoon, or the sound of her giggle? I have to find a way to commit it all to memory in case that's all that's left. That's why I'm sitting here, in the dark of the flat trying so hard to recall everything from today, to get it all in my brain, not to waste any of it. Because I have to face it, she might not come back. Every time she's deployed there's a chance she won't. I can't pretend otherwise. I know the risks. We both do, but we leave it unsaid; the giant elephant in the room that we both stoically ignore. As if we need any more time not saying what we need to say to each other. Six months in Afghan weren't enough, we've got years of if ahead. Because I can't say it to her, I can't put all that gut churning fear and worry and sleepless nights of uncontrollable panic on her shoulders, it's not fair. She can't bear all that on top of her own. I know how much she takes things to heart, carries them with her as they fester inside her. I saw it with Bashira. I saw it with Smurf. My job should be to share the burden; lighten her load. Support her choices, challenge her if needs be, but be her constant, her champion.
It's horrible being the one left behind. I never really appreciated it before, but then again I was never the one staying. I had my mission, I was responsible for a group of young men you would have doubts about letting out on their own on a Saturday night (completely justifiable doubts given how much time I spent intervening with the MPs on their behalf every weekend they got a late pass). It was head down, eyes on the prize. Missions, objectives, focus. I feel like a monumental shit even thinking it, but sometimes I resented having to call home or find time to write letters. Home was a distraction, something to pull my focus, in the midst of it all it could be a challenge to care about the boiler service or the MOT or the car tax or the TV licence, which must make me seem like a heartless bastard, but it just seems so unnecessary when every day you risk everything just existing in an atmosphere where you are unwelcome, unwanted and nothing more than a target to someone with a grudge and a gun. I don't want to be that to her, but neither do I want her to feel left out. On her last deployment I wrote most days; nothing of consequence, nothing that required her input or response, I wanted it to be just like I was chatting with her while we were doing something mundane like shopping or fixing dinner. I don't know if she even kept them, they'd make for very dull reading if she did.
So here I sit, there's a chill to the flat that I can't get rid of. Normally I'd stick the heating on, but this place has those storage heaters and I can't get the hang of them, roasting hot or freezing cold, never a happy medium. I haven't got around to finding curtains for the lounge so the room is lit by the streetlights from the car park below, shadows of bare branches thrown against the bare walls, a few straggly leaves cling stubbornly to the tree. I haven't even put any pictures up. I had wanted us to do these things together, to make our first home, silly petty arguments over what to put where, disagreeing over pictures or lamps or cushions, the sort of conversations that are relived for years after, that silly in-jokes are built on. But then came the call and she had to go, she couldn't pass it up, even if it came so soon after the last tour. She's been noticed, they can see her potential and she deserves all of their faith in her. I didn't see this coming and had set the wheels in motion to secure this place so I could be closer, but the week I got the keys she got her orders. She got a bit of compassionate leave and spent last night with her family, tonight she's with me before going back to her unit tomorrow and flying out from Brize.
She didn't mention how it had gone with her parents when she arrived at the pub, she smiled her amazing smile and pulled me close, tucking herself against me even without taking off that enormous rucksack. I let myself take in everything, the cold and damp clinging to her like a delicate mist, the smell of her shampoo, fruity with a tang of stale cigarette smoke underneath. I could feel her body soft against mine, her breasts pressing against me as she moved. She never stopped smiling as she turned her face upwards, her eyes seeking out mine. I raised my hand to her face, the pads of my fingers tracing her cheekbones feeling the soft flesh, her cheeks are cold, pink blooming on them from the change in temperature from outside. She takes my breath away. I feel her laugh against my face before I hear it, she's teasing me as usual. I feel proud to be the object of her good natured piss taking. I discovered long ago that this is how she expresses her love and affection. She wants me to kiss her, but I'm lost in the moment, I can only see and feel what's in front of me. She pushes herself up on her toes, pressing her lips against mine. She tastes of cherries.
I must be slow to respond, she breaks away, holding her head to one side, a quizzical look on her face. Probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I snap out of my reverie, I just want to feel her lips against mine again so I pull her close, dropping my head to hers and I kiss her softly. The feeling almost overwhelms me, I want to pull her back down to the seat with me, to have her straddle my lap while I kiss her until we're both breathless. I need to pull myself together. We aren't a floor show for the rest of the bar, I can feel their eyes on us and I make myself stop. Suddenly this is the last place I want to be, some dive of a pub, mid week, mid afternoon. I want to take her home. Our home, even if it's only going to be that for tonight. "Home?" I ask, she nods, her eyes shining, creased at the edges as she smiles. She reaches for my hand as I pick up my jacket from the chair and pulls me across the room towards the doors.
I had planned to take her out tonight. Maybe not wining and dining, but something more salubrious than sitting on the floor and eating take away pizza from the box as we drank wine from mugs. In truth we barely made it through the door of the flat. Her pack was discarded half way down the hallway, our clothes left where they fell, a trail of crumbs that culminated on the scratchy nylon carpet of the living room. She lay against my chest afterwards, her hair spread over me as I held her. She called me a gent for being the one getting the carpet burns. She didn't want to start this tour with everyone taking the piss out of her. I told her she might not want to show them her knees in that case. She laughed and said she could always say she'd tripped over. We lay there for a while enjoying the feeling of skin against skin until the cold really got too much and we had to get up. I tried to ignore the sadness that sat like a brick in my gut, every little thing we did this evening would be the last time for a long time. Perhaps the last time full stop.
As we waited for the pizza to arrive Molly was busy unpacking. I thought she was carrying her kit, but she'd stashed that back at barracks. For a moment I forgot everything that's been worrying me so much, watching her excitement over having a home to make her own. I don't think it's up to much, in fact the married quarters at Catterick were preferable to this place, but once again I've failed to appreciate looking at life through Molly's eyes. She's gone from her parents house, to barracks, to the FOB to barracks again. She was excited to get her own room when she came back from her last tour. She'd never had that before. From single accommodation to a flat, albeit a non-descript soulless 1980s block with a rusty Juliet balcony and a commanding view of the car park was a leap beyond her expectations, and I shouldn't let my preconceptions cloud that. Complaining that it isn't to my taste seems beyond churlish.
Looking at what she had brought with her she seemed hell bent on stamping her mark on the place, never in a million years would I have chosen feathered fairy lights. I couldn't resist playing it up a little, because in reality she could have stuck anything she liked on the walls and I would have agreed to it just to see the joy on her face. We had been bed shopping a few weeks ago and she had insisted on a big iron framed thing, all fussy curls and loops of metal and shiny brass finials, again agreed to by me because I'm a grade A sap. Molly was looping her collection of fairy lights around the bed head when I cracked a joke about realising that we were both soldiers, and that fairy lights weren't very macho. She corrected me. A proper soldier and a 'washed up part time Rupert numpty' apparently. Unfortunately I wasn't very good at hiding the look on my face in response to that one. She realised she'd pushed it too far when I walked out. I didn't want to spend the last few hours raking over the disappointment that I've become, she apologised, I guess we're both still learning each other's tolerance levels for piss taking.
That's when she told me. She'd made me her NOK. Anything happens and it's my door they come knocking on. Maybe outside of our relationship there's more romantic things to do that cement a commitment, but to me this is pretty major. I couldn't say anything in response to that, I could only hold her close to me while the tears fell. Tears of worry, relief, acceptance, I don't even know why I was crying, or why she was crying. We left the conversation about what is at risk and what we mean to each other and everything that's important unsaid. We both know it. We're in this for the long haul, I know this now more than I've ever done and it scares me shitless and sends me soaring with happiness all at the same time. She mumbled something about me not picking holes in her letter should I ever get it. I never want to see that letter. I don't ever want to know what it says. Just knowing that she'd had to sit and write it, to contemplate a future that necessitates its presence is too much to bear right now.
Maybe that's what scares me most about this tour; that it's so different from everything I've ever done and I can't imagine it. The risks are something I can't quantify. A war zone, IEDs, green on blue. All that I understand. I see the reports on the news, anonymous figures in white paper suits, every inch of their bodies wrapped up from the tips of their gloved fingers to their goggled eyes and masked faces, shielding themselves from the invisible killer that surrounds them. No touching they say, people are locked down to their villages and towns, forbidden to travel or gather together. What must that feel like? Those people must think the world has abandoned them, locked them away and left them to their fate. They must feel like they have nothing to lose. And a man with nothing to lose is the most dangerous man of all.
How will Molly fare in a place like that? It's the antithesis of everything she is. All her instincts are to help, to care. 'Queen of the lost cause' Smurf called her, and he was right. She can't help herself. That big heart, that instinct to help and to care is what's going to put her most at risk. I've seen it for myself, her standing in that dusty market holding the hand of a scared little girl. A girl covered in enough explosives to blast us to kingdom come. In that situation I saw the bomb and she saw the girl; that's what makes us different. Beyond my fear of losing her that's when the thought that I couldn't do it any longer started to coalesce in my mind. I'm an infantryman, I see the threat, I judge the risk, I plan the strategy, I execute that plan. I've done it over and over again, so many times that it's not conscious any more, it's all done on instinct. My instincts forgot about the humanity in that situation. Molly's didn't.
And where does that leave us? Molly's 24 hours away from putting herself in danger once more, and I'm here. Here in this little brick box on top of another box, on top of another box. In a town I wouldn't choose to live in, wondering what life has in store for me. I'm almost healthy enough to be discharged, at least physically so. The mental health team at Headley are not so quick to sign me off. They've seen my record and observed my recovery and have asked me to stay on, ostensibly to provide some support to another group going through rehabilitation. They think that if I can offer some peer support to those at the start of transition it will assist in my own recovery. In some ways it's good to feel of use, and this sort of work is something I enjoy, but I feel that I made that break with the army in my head months ago; that I need to find some meaning beyond it. But what to do? I have skills, I know that, but what I could do in the army doesn't necessarily transition to life outside it. I doubt threatening latrine duty would go down well in an office environment, besides I decided to leave exactly because I don't want to be sat in an office every day. Old friends have come out of the woodwork, generously offering me advice, introductions and opportunities that I know I should feel more grateful to have. I'm becoming more conscious of the privileged life I've led and the opportunities it continues to give me. Dad took me aside the last time I was in Bath and gave me a little chat, nothing serious, just a reminder to be mindful of what I want and where I want to be and to work backwards from that. He's becoming rather philosophical as retirement beckons.
I glance at the clock, it's a little after 2am and I can hear car doors slamming in the car park below. The sound of a car moving off and the loud-but-trying-to-be-quiet voices of a couple who sound like they're more than a little drunk. The door to the block slams shut and the noise echoes up the stairwell. I start to clear some of the mess from the living room, the pizza is half eaten and I put it in the fridge, clear away the mugs stacking them beside the sink to be washed in the morning. At the end of the coffee table there's Molly's gift to me. She said I had to open it, it was an early birthday present, seeing as she would miss it this year. It was a bit squashed looking having been in her bag on the trip up to and back from London. It was bittersweet, knowing she was thinking of me, and knowing that we would be apart. The grin on her face as I opened it should have been all the warning I needed, I undid the bow and unwrapped the present as she fidgeted and fought the urge to laugh, and there it was. A tin of cocoa and a pair of slippers. She burst into peals of laughter at what was probably not a very grateful look on my face. I'm only turning 30 for fuck's sake. Between her laughter and tears she told me that she expected all the cocoa to be drunk and the slippers to be nicely worn by the time she came back. She said she was only expecting me to hibernate when she was away, when she got back we were going to make up for it 'big time'. Until then she gave me her permission to 'flash my national trust membership about' and 'spend as many Sunday afternoons as I liked in Homebase'. Cheeky fucking mare. I'm going to miss the hell out of her.
Afterwards she gave me a first hand demonstration of the flattering light given off by fairy lights. I watched her in their soft glow as we took our time to explore and commit each other to memory. We both pretended that we were living in the moment, that this was just about now, but I could tell from her eyes that it was more than that. This was something both of us needed to take from tonight, to hold with us over the coming months. After I held her and tried to stay awake long enough to feel her fall asleep beside me but I must have dropped off before she did. The last thing I remember is her stroking the hair off my forehead.
The light in the hall goes on, and Molly appears in the doorway, her hair a messy halo around her face, her legs bare, drowned by one of my t shirts. She rubs her eyes and catches sight of me. A fleeting weary, almost sad look passes over her face, but it's quickly replaced by her usual smile. I can almost hear the mental pep talk she's giving herself, I know it of old, it's the same one we all give ourselves every time we do this. This isn't it, this won't be the last time, I'll be back before you know it. Holding out her hand she waits for me to cross the room towards her "Come back to bed" she says. I take her hand.
I'm having a few struggles with the stories I'm writing at the moment, so I thought I'd try something different to see if it got me out of the rut. This was a bit of an experiment to not write dialogue and try to focus on things I don't feel I do well; experiment wise I don't think it's entirely worked, but I quite liked the outcome so I thought I'd share it anyway. I hope you enjoyed it. I didn't really have much of a plan about what I wanted to cover, I just wrote for a few nights and saw where it took me. If the tenses are jumbled and it's a bit rambling in places that will be the wine's fault ;)